All American Girl

36034491_10216740756535796_3926671990647160832_n

So you love her hair, eh?
Wild and free
Curls defying gravity
You love how they bounce
When she walks
So full of cuteness
Every ounce
You love her light eyes
And how they pop
Against the backdrop
Of her caramel skin
She’s so beautiful
Your pockets would be so full
You say
If she would model
For Old Navy
Or some agency
Willing to pay
For her variety
Of beauty
You love her hair, eh?
That’s what you say
But can you see
The legacy
Of slavery
Buried in her skin
Can you feel the heat
Of prejudice overcome
To put the pink in her cheeks
Do you touch her curls
With the same fingers
You use to clutch pearls
And vote for nationalists
That see her brown skin
As a threat
As something their country
Should regret
Will you compliment her dress
Then support a leader
Who feels it is ok to undress
Females and strip them
Of their rights and dignity
Don’t you see
She is the fruit
From the trees
From which her ancestors
Were hung
You love her hair, eh?

Notice

Sometimes…

More often than I think…

There is no need to rush.

No people to see

No places to go…

I notice…

The breeze on my cheek

The sunshine in her eyes

The quiet hush of the forest.

 

Sometimes…

I walk with my daughter…

A girl that won’t remain small forever…

And I drink the moment in like water

I quench my thirst for more

With the sweet nectar of now…

 

When I notice,

What lies right here before my  eyes…

Suddenly,

Effortlessly…

I begin to live.

file_003

 

 

Childhood Is

inlet kids

Childhood is fleeting.

The days rush by like subway trains as I stand at the station feeling the rush of air as another one departs.

The hundreds of thousands of inhales and exhales propel me through this life powerless as they grow up before my eyes.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhaleexhaleinhaleexhale…

Sometimes I have the wisdom to slow my breath and take in the moment that I have right now.

Right now with them as they are.

Not the babies they were and not the grown ups I hope they grow to be.

Who they are right now. Where we are right now. Feet in the sand, head turned to the blue expanse of sky.

I inhale their laughter, their sobs, their smell, their bodies in perpetual motion.

I exhale my worry, my doubt, my rush to think about what’s next.

For childhood is precious and meant to be savored one moment at a time.

 

 

Never Grow Up

13151451_10209426202436515_6301974242264454915_n

As they  wheeled my grandmother into surgery, over 15 years ago, she held my hand and squeezed it hard. She, an impossibly strong woman seeming impossibly small, looked up at me and said quite frankly, “Don’t get old. Do you hear me? Just don’t do it.”  There was no sadness to it or rationality even. There was nothing to do but nod and watch her disappear behind the enormous, cold metal doors.

There is nothing more human than mortality. We will die. Those we love will die. It is a knowledge that resides in our bones as we move through our days. Growing up is progress, but it is also a reminder that our days here are numbered. Yet, somehow there is comfort in knowing that all us humans are in it together, riding the ups and downs of life until the ride jerks to an end and we have to get off.

I hear the words of the older and wiser in my life.

” Time flies.”

Yes I know.

“Before you know it they will be in college.”

Yes I know.

“How did I get this old?”

I don’t know.  (Will I blink and be that old too?)

But no matter how hard it is to deal with the reality of today, there is no use holding on to the past with white-knuckled passion.

Might as well open my hands to receive all that these precious moments of childhood have to give.

 

 

 

The Late Evening Sun

13241271_10209525277473329_6288011867672225312_n

She sits on the stoop, head tilted to the sky,

As the late evening sun breaks through the cloudy day,

Before turning in for the night.

The air is crisp,

She pulls her hands neatly into her lap.

Her newly planted seeds beside her,

Buried by her chubby finger carefully poked into the soil.

Left to rest there with her faith in its power to grow.

The seeds down too deep to feel the touch of the sun,

But not too deep to be forgotten by my daughter, who keeps them company.

I am struck by this vision of her and her seeds sitting on the stoop.

Her grandfather, my father, lies like those seeds under soil.

He passed before she was born.

She will never run to him down that path when he pulls up from NY.

When he comes to visit,

He will come like the late evening sun at the end of a long cloudy day.

And  I will be sitting there beside her

With his faith in our power to grow here ,

Without him.

 

 

The Value of Homework

boys cooking

Talk to any parent of a school age child, especially on a weekday (or Sunday night), and the subject of homework is bound to work its way into conversation.

An article recently came out about extensive research that showed clear evidence that elementary students reap nearly no benefit from homework. But for many parents, this was just official confirmation of what they already knew.

The intention of homework is often stated as reinforcement of skills learned in class. That purpose itself is problematic.

Every child in every class does not need the same level of reinforcement assigned across the entire class  after every lesson. Some children do not need to do nightly, monotonous spelling assignments to score 100% on the spelling test, while some children can do spelling homework until they are blue in the face and never score above a 70.

Many children are avid readers and do not need the burden of a reading log or endless comprehension questions slowing them down. Many other children just need someone to read to them and talk to them more to increase their access to positive literacy experiences.

When  I snapped the photo today of my  sons helping me prepare vegetables for a stir fry dinner, the irony of the word “homework” struck me. Perhaps what children need most is less homework in the traditional worksheet or book report sense and more home work or housework. In trying to keep up with the modern obsession with perfection, many parents outsource house work rather than go the traditional route of assigning chores to their children. Too many children have become so disconnected from the concept of work in the home and that leads to the same disconnect when they get out into the world.

A landscaping company comes to upkeep the perfect lawn. A cleaning service comes to upkeep the perfect house. A company comes to open and close the perfect pool. Painters, plumbers, roofers, ….you name it.  All so that parents can free up time to upkeep the perfect body at the salon or gym or to work long enough hours to pay for all of those expenses.

It is more common to buy food or eat out than to grow food in the backyard where kids can be a part of the process that gets food on the table. Heck, so many American families rarely even make it to the table together due to endless activities and sports practices that often start at age 4.

As a result, work becomes something arbitrarily assigned by an authority figure, rather than something integral to daily life. Our children become input/output machines and then the teachers in the upper grades and later employers lament the lack of problem solving skills and work ethic in the younger generations.  Companies have made fortunes on convincing consumers that life was hard and that we needed a plethora of products and services to make it easier. But actually, the answer is easy and cheap.

Bring back home work in the traditional sense. Turn off the website that drills math skills and put down the spelling lists. Take the time to reinforce life skills and a sense of responsibility. Imagine the potential such a simple shift could have on the typical American family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not One Boy

This is a photo of my little boy standing in the snow at age 4.

clarksnow

Four years have already passed since this picture.

In four more he will be the same age, age 12,  as Tamir Rice was when he was shot and killed by a police officer. Tamir was only armed with a pellet gun.

Many might find it weird for me to read an Op-Ed about Tamir Rice, a black  inner city Chicago youth, and connect it to my son.

But why not?

Because my son is only a quarter black?

Because my son doesn’t live in inner city Chicago or an area with similar levels of violence?

Because my son isn’t even allowed to play with guns and won’t be allowed to have even a pellet gun even at age 12?

Because my son is not in danger?

But I still see the the connection.

Because if I can’t read the Op-Ed piece in the New York Times today, and imagine my son laying there bleeding for four minutes after being shot without apparent cause, while two police officers did nothing to help him…then I am part of the problem.

Tamir was a boy.

My son is a boy.

No boy should die like Tamir did.

Forget the hashtags and the debates.

No boy should die like Tamir did.

Not mine, not yours, not Tamir’s mother’s.

Not one.