Category: Personal Narrative

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On Living, or Dying, with Anger

It is dangerous to hold fast to anger toward another.

Perhaps even poisonous.

One may look around one day, only to find herself rotting, dying a slow death from the inside. And yet, aware as I am of this simple point, I catch myself, arms wrapped ‘round my body, one crossed over another, refusing to release it. It’s almost comforting, this anger. Terrifying to think of letting it go, and Goddess forbid, opening my heart again. Where would I be without this cloak ‘round me? Without this veil enclosing my heart? One shudders to think of it. And yet one shudders a great deal more to ponder the alternative.

Praying to expel this poison. Move past the betrayal. Get on with life and the living. Anger, held too long and too deeply, is for the dead.

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Liebster Award

In 2011 I am fearless. That has been my motto since New Year’s eve when I declared it to the world (or at least to those who care to read my tweets now and again).

At the root of this declaration was my determination to write more often and to do so more publicly. I’m still working on both of those things, so it was a sweet affirmation of progress to receive the Liebster Award. Thank you Kizzy.

As a recipient of this award, there are a few things I must do:

  1. Link back to the original blogger who gave me the award. Check.
  2. Share my five picks for the Liebster and let them know via a comment in their blog. Check.
  3. Post the award on my blog. Check.
  4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet. Yay!

Liebster, a German term, seems to mean beloved, friend, dearest, favorite, and other words that relate to something treasured.  What a beautiful sentiment. It’s encouragement to bloggers who have fewer than 200 readers. I’m honored to pay it forward!

Here are some of my favorite blogs. I don’t know how many people subscribe, but I think many more should. These women push and clarify my thinking, inspire me, or just happily share in this journey called life. Please visit them and enjoy!

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Adult Literacy Tutor

The training manual.

It’s official.

After a Saturday workshop with the Hillsborough Literacy Council in partnership with ProLiteracy, I am now an adult literacy tutor.

8 is Not Enough
Eight of us attended the training. Paltry numbers given the frequency of the workshops (this is the last one for the year) and the need. According to the Adult Literacy Coordinator, there are 57 learners waiting for a basic literacy tutor. Because the sessions are one-to-one, 57 tutors are required (or at least there are 57 slots). Meanwhile, there 352 learners in need of an English tutor. These students meet in small groups of 2-6 students at a time. That adds up to a deficit of well over 100 tutors. Our group of eight will help some, but so many more are needed.

About the Learners
In fact, 3 out of 20 adults in Hillsborough County read below a fourth grade level. That’s 15%. Many of them developed coping strategies that have served them, in some cases, for decades. One of the tutors asked if all the learners were older, as he presumed. No. For example, one young man is in his 20s, and simply never learned to read because he dropped out of school to work. Learner biographies vary, and older learners also seek help. One older gentleman is now requesting help as his company recently went bankrupt and he is on the job market. His colleagues were aware of his inability to read, but he won’t be competitive for many jobs available now.

Learners, who request services through their local library, are matched with a tutor based on location and mutual availability. All learners are asked to invest $5 in their reading materials, although no one is turned away for inability to pay. The tutors had to pay a registration fee which includes our training materials, and also helps to defray the costs for learners unable to pay the fee.

Becoming a Tutor
After introductions and statistics, we summarized and synthesized short pieces on learner characteristics (i.e., learning style, culture, etc). We then discussed the implications for us as tutors.

We worked with a partner, then shared whole group.

After lunch, we split up into separate rooms – most of us learning more about the basic literacy tutoring, and the remainder choosing to explore English to Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL).

There was a super quick review of the five components of reading as outlined in the National Reading Panel: phonemic awareness, phonics, fluency, vocabulary development, and comprehension.

A sixth component not discussed, is the role of motivation. Obviously our learners will be motivated to learn. After all, they seek out the assistance and are free to stop at any time.

These are our materials for basic literacy tutoring.

The Laubach Way
We watched a couple of short videos (including one teaching us to read Russian!), then had a practice run at an introductory lesson with the Laubach Way materials. Being a critical pedagogue, I have mixed feelings about the series.

It’s tightly structured and scripted, not unlike Direct Instruction in K-12. Beginning at lesson one, you learn specified letters in a specific order, with cues and hand motions delineated. Since most of the tutors have no background as reading teachers, it leaves little room for error. Unfortunately, it also leaves little room for the learner to co-construct a lesson and/or bring her background knowledge to bear.

But, as we discussed later, in addition to the “structured” time of the lesson, there are plenty of opportunities to engage in creative activities.  I chose to think of it all as a reading class with time allotted for phonics, guided reading, and reader response.

Familiar Tools
The leader showed us many materials she uses with her students. They were all things I used when teaching my fourth graders how to read including: anecdotal records, reading logs, and a variety of texts (topics, length, genre). When I begin tutoring I will also add running records as I think they will provide a lot of good information. And, as we live in the digital age, it will be important to include multimodal, multimedia texts as well.

New Steps
At the end of the session the coordinator asked if I would be open to facilitating workshops in the new year. Definitely! My goal is to move toward more community-based teaching (specifically around literacy) and personal learning communities (in literacy and other areas). I’m happy to increase my literacy bona fides in ways that can ultimately support communities and individuals. I’m very excited to start this new chapter in my life. I plan to document, study and share my experiences in the upcoming year.

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Learning about Autoethnography

I am a novice narratologist. I’m interested in the stories we live and tell, and how we can ultimately learn from them. In my work as an independent scholar, I keep coming across the term autoethnography. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it seems, at first glance, very much in line with my immediate interest in interrogating my own personal narrative. My next step is to co-inquire with others as they do the same.

In March, I wrote this as I was theorizing about my connection to personal narratives and coming to understand life as text:

We have a say. Writing gives voice to thoughts and makes them visible. In their visibility they become tangible: A memory becomes a guiding light. An amorphous thought becomes a pathway, a next step. It becomes something I can touch and do. Through writing, thoughts can become action.

Today I’m reading an essay on autoethnography by Stacey Holman Jones. She says:

These endeavors {performance ethnography, performative writing, and personal performance narratives} point to how personal stories become a means for interpreting the past, translating and transforming contexts, and envisioning a future.

Now, I still can’t say for sure what autoethnography is, but it certainly seems as if I’m on a good track. Stay tuned.

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Letter to My Sister, a Soldier (or) Love is a Revolutionary Act

Note: I wrote this a few months ago – late winter, early spring. I sat on it for weeks and worked it a bit in June. Not sure why I’ve not posted it until now…

For the past several weeks, my flight has departed from or returned to the international terminal of the Atlanta airport. This, despite the fact that I was only traveling to and from Cleveland, of all places. Each week I have been struck – overcome really – by the abundance of soldiers in this terminal, dressed in their telltale camouflage. They’re men and sometimes women of all colors, sizes, ages. Sometimes on phones, sometimes on computers, sometimes deplaning from parts unknown, but oftentimes sitting. Waiting.

Today, however, I was struck by you.

Now for sure you are not the first female soldier I’ve ever seen. You are not the first black soldier I’ve ever seen. You are not the first black woman soldier I’ve ever seen. But today you captured my attention. Or more accurately, my heart.

As soon as I entered the concourse bathroom, I noticed you – slight, brown skin, dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. You looked eerily like me. Not babyishly young like some of the boys seem to look. Not particularly old like a career soldier on the verge of retirement perhaps; but about my age, maybe a little younger, a tad slimmer. You were going through your toiletries. It seemed you were unpacking. Repacking. Shifting. Transferring things from one pouch to another. Organizing perhaps. I don’t know, but I was moved.

She is me, I thought.

I felt my heart bursting with the overwhelming desire to embrace you. It was as if I were a vessel and Goddess wanted to send you a message of love.

I resisted it at first and headed to a stall. Yet I rushed, hoping you’d still be there when I finished, even though I really didn’t know if I had the courage to approach you. When I emerged, I washed my hands slowly, decidedly shy, stalling for time as other women entered the bathroom.

This is so silly, I said to myself, heart racing, belly full of butterflies. It’s just a hug.

You, still arranging. Me, hanging back, primping in the mirror a few paces to your right. Breath, shallow. Feet, cement blocks. I silently hurried the other women along. I didn’t want to sound crazy, I guess, to them or to you. The voice, the feeling, the knowingness – urged me, You have to do this.

I applied more burgundy lip gloss. Retied the matching scarf at my neck. Pulled my black dress straight. Gathering courage. Passing time.

Finally, coast clear, deep inhale, I approached you.

Excuse me?

You turned to me, face and heart open. Curious. My words tumbled out, a hurried explanation, an apology, I just have the urge to give you a hug. The words barely free of my lips, you threw your arms around me. And we shared a moment. Spirit embodied in flesh. Life to life. Heart to heart.

Throats tight, eyes swimming, we echoed words of thanks to each other. And then, you pulled away, barely above a whisper, You’re about to make me cry in this bathroom. You shook your head, eyes down, turned away. More organizing, packing, shifting.

As soon as I saw you, I had the urge to hug you. I couldn’t leave this bathroom without doing it. My parting words a confession, tossed out gracelessly over my shoulder. And I left, plodding down the terminal corridor, choking back tears, heart full, exhale.

I replayed the moment again and again along my walk to the escalator. I hoped you knew that all I felt in that moment was love. All I wanted for you in that moment was love.

Not fear. Not shame. Not worry. Not doubt. None of those things a person normally feels. I just wanted you to know…love.

That moment we shared was a moment of revolution.
Because loving a stranger is a revolutionary act.
Loving a soldier is a revolutionary act.
Loving my sister is a revolutionary act.
Loving myself is a revolutionary act.
I saw me, in you, and I loved us both.

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Wounding. A 20-year lesson.

A thief made off with a prized possession
Me
Snatched from sacred promises of love everlasting
Held hostage
Imprisoned
A cage of my own hand
Tortured
by hurt invisible,
choking out life, love

Twenty years I spent
Captive to that pain
Yet blind
Ignorant of my own walls
Fences

Wondering why you couldn’t reach me
Wouldn’t reach out to me
Feel me
Know me

None had eyes for well-hidden pain
Buried
And I with it
Trapped
Cowering behind a guarded heart
Safe
From you

Wishes escaped on wings of prayers
Floating beyond boundaries
of consciousness
Sneaking through cracks
Disguised as discarded hopes
Rising above barriers
Taking flight
A call
A song
in my key
Imprisoned heart unlocked
Responding
Wishes as balm
As pathway to freedom
Story as star
Illuminating the road home

Love

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No Place Like Home

My cousin got married last fall. Like many weddings, it was an occasion for family and friends to reminisce, reconnect, and bond. The wedding reception found me tucked away in a corner with a few cousins, most notably, the beautiful, often elusive, V.  She inquired about my dissertation defense, mere days away, and my future plans. At that point I only knew I had to move. The sooner the better.

Home, Not Home
Athens had never been home to me, and Atlanta, although a great city in many ways, didn’t feel all that homey to me either. That I was born and raised there was immaterial. It wasn’t “home.”

V, a flight attendant, gushed about her love of NYC. It was her favorite city. She felt like herself there. Despite her world travels, there was no place she’d rather be. I wondered where my NYC would be. I knew it would be some place with a mild climate, near beaches, but that’s as far as I could figure.

Sunrise at Pass-A-Grille Beach

Border Crosser
I finished my Master’s degree 11 years ago. Since then I have moved seven times (four of those between GA and FL). Most of those moves were one and two year stints, and I usually knew they were temporary going in. I realized I was closer to finding home a year ago when I left St. Petersburg to return to Athens, and found myself aching for the luscious green grass, the humid, salty air, and the calming beaches. But even though there were many things I liked, even loved, about St. Pete, I still wasn’t ready to call it home.

A few weeks after the wedding, I graduated and found myself “in between.” I don’t do in between well. Job hunting and city hunting, I felt I had no clarity on next steps. Eventually it all took a toll on me and left me feeling kind of blah. Finally, I made some decisions, and in true form, the universe responded in kind. Within a few days I had a job offer, a clear path, and a new city to try out.

Where the Heart Is
This move was the first one during which I felt I were moving toward a new life. It felt permanent. Real. Settled.

I knew I was on to something when I had to visit my “hometown” (Atlanta) a few days after my move. Traveling to the airport, I was a child being dragged inside from the playground. No! Don’t wanna!

At the end of my three days there, I smiled inside, happy to be back on the plane heading back home, even though home was just a few days old.

Everyone who visits my new digs mentions how I seem poised to start a new life here. To them it feels like home.

To me too.

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What I Want My Words to Do To You

I want my words to move you.
Uplift you, inspire you, free you.
I want you to see things differently.
I want you to cry, to laugh, to be present.

I want you to go tell someone you love them – even a stranger – and mean it.
I want you to realize your divinity.

I want you to recognize yourself. Your struggles, obstacles, your victories. Your truth. Your secrets.

I want you to think, to question, to reconsider all that you knew before.

I want you to say amen.
I want you to nod in silent agreement, and then go do something.
I want to you walk differently in the world because you are different, because of these words.

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Moms and May

A friend’s tweet about his mother’s passing triggered memories of my own. It feels selfish to talk about it, but I’m owning my need to write, so I am writing. I’m also challenging my fear of sharing, so I am sharing.

Mother’s Day does not bother me too much. My mom’s birthday does not either. Even Memorial Day weekend, the anniversary of her passing, doesn’t make me feel any kind of way. Rather it’s random things that make me think about her, feel her, miss her. Sometimes it’s a song, a picture, a saying… today it was a tweet.

Ours was an interesting relationship to say the least. By the time she died we had learned to express our love for each other in productive and traditional ways. We made it through the tumultuous years when I was filled with rage toward her most of the time. Genuine rage, even when I wanted desperately to feel otherwise.

These memories – snapshots of our complicated relationship – these are the things I’m exploring these days. When I mention writing as inquiry, or truth-telling, I’m talking about writing to understand why couldn’t we say I love you to each other. Why did I threaten her with bodily harm? Why did I think horrendous thoughts about her in the dead of night and how did we get past it? Why didn’t I hug or kiss her the times I wanted to? And why did distance, space, time, and indeed my writing, bring us closer?

We had a happy ending, but was it luck? Or the lesson I needed to learn in this lifetime? Or?

When the doctor announced she was brain dead, I was immediately grateful for the healing that had taken place between us. I was elated that rather than “stuff” for Mother’s Day just a couple of weeks earlier, I had given her laughter and time and love.

My mother was pretty fabulous in a million ways, but I can’t act as if our past didn’t exist. All of it – the good, the bad, and the truly ugly. On days like today, I swallow the lump in my throat and write, and think, and feel.  And I miss her, and I love her and I wonder…

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Relocating the Personal*

This is the title of Kamler’s work on critical writing pedagogy, and it’s perfectly applicable to my feelings at the moment, so I borrowed it.

I wrote a personal blog that would have easily been at home here. I’ve spent the past several weeks, months, keeping my personal and professional lives separate, even though I don’t believe they ought to be. Today’s post, about finding my voice and purpose as a writer, is indeed part of my professional growth. I feel such forced choices, imposed boundaries between the personal and professional are unhelpful at best and detrimental at worst.

I chose to write the entry on the “personal” side because the topic is all about me – my life. My work as a writer these days is to break through the barriers that prevent me from actually doing the writing. In order to break through those barriers, I have to recognize them, and name them.  My process, then, is to write about writing and in so doing, dismantle the blocks that have hindered me thus far.

Artificially, because the writing is all about “me,” it is personal rather than professional. But how I view the world, and my experiences in the world all help to form my theories of the world. These theories shape the way I write, teach, and work. Whether they are tacit or explicit, my theories impact my practice. And there’s how the personal and the professional remain so intimately intertwined.

Rather than post the entry both places, I’ll just link to it here. I do expect I’ll do more of this rebellious personal/professional risk taking. My ideal work environment is one in which I am able to be authentically me, and work with others as we push forward and grow together. In that regard, I’m tired of splitting work me from non-work me. It’s all me.

Here’s to bridging gaps. They Will Find You.

*Note: This post and the one to which it links were originally hosted on two separate blogs. One blog was “professional” and the other “personal.” I have since merged all posts into this blog.