Introducing the 2021 Invitational Leadership Institute, CWP-Fairfield. In the tradition, a poem to unite all of us together at the end of our summer of writing. Here's to all of us, an incredible crew who have been more magical than I could ever imagine.FLOODED WITH IMAGINATION
Prelude
F reedom is one way to find the flow. You know,
l etting go of the cleansing, the rinsing, the draining
o f all the things we carry below the surface,
o f those heavier things, those burdens we trap
d eep in the basement, covered, forgotten,
e xisting, & waiting to become blessings that one day might
d ance in a tsunami of our thoughts across the page.
W e are the limitless dream, the
i magination ready to be awakened, wide open with
t antalizing wishes & boundless possibilities we
h arvest within.
I t’s another morning and we walk towards the rising sun,
m adness of emptying the ocean with a fork underneath scattered stars
a nd peace arrives with another inhalation, deep breaths,
g ratitude, crayons, & beach pals to toss tempests as wonder women and men.
i am, because we are, a collective, a solo performance that only
n eeded community, a collaboration,
a nd this collective of open arms, Ubuntu is
t he listening, the spirit, and the charms, where
i ndividuals play leapfrog on a spectrum
o f gifts and & keyboard of perspectives, taking
n otes, every day - with words - in the awe of being alive.
i.
H amlet’s an indecisive weenie-head, no? An
e nder’s game for most readers who were more likely
l icking their lips thinking about dinner (kielbasa?), &
l aughing at the lines from a movie they just saw, Kids are just
e xperiencing the art of being human as
n eophyte thinkers & fledglings for the first time & they are like,
a arrrrrrgh. Captain, we need another hook.
R ace, culture, class, gender - lived experiences on
o utside of school (yo…did you see
d a’ tat Hellena just got, I tell you…
r atched-cool, dad inked her slick). Meanwhile,
i n school Holden will always be such a d$#!)…ah, the
g ames curriculum plays (dreary historical haze) always
u nderestimating the brilliance our students have.
e very kid, talented & gifted, but at risk, with a
z illion possibilities of chapters still waiting to be written.
ii.
L anguage can be a wasp’s nest -
a blow-dart launched from the authoritative tongue that
u nleashing a war of self-doubt, poor perception, harsh
r evelation, shocked reaction all as a result of an
e nding conversation, the troubling interaction…that
e at away at the soul, causing indigestion,
n ausea, fury, the inward retraction.
M ost come of them come to us reluctant, beat-up
u lcerated, lacerated, frustrated, & even un-liberated…
t hey’ve been beat down by the cannot’s, do-nots’,
u h-no’s, nice-try’s, and nada-nopes,
s o they don’t understand the power of
k nowledge they have within & think they’re dopes. That’s why
i carry bug spray & rackets to whack such language away.
iii.
A esthetics intrigue me. Every flavor has
l eague of its own - Brown Sugar Boba
i n Black Sesame Soy Milk,
s alted egg yolk, dried jujube - the taste of
h umanity, the serenity in trying new things
a rare Kuro Kosho, Rousong, & Bawang Goreng.
V at is the art of cooking? asks the French,
i f it ain’t in the colonial recipe of exploitation? Ah,
t he hesitation, a pause, an opportunity for additional exploration…
t he acting of not yucking the other’s yum…
o h, food eaten firsts lasts longest in the stomach. In
r eflection, the recognizability. the palate. the complexion.
a esthetics intrigue, indeed (but only with intentional introspection)
iv.
F elicia Rose Chavez names it, “But
o f course they don’t see me. That’s the point.”
l augh if you want to…”that’s the motherfucking point!” -
a ll their historical othering within their colonial single story.
S upporting the classroom art community, however,
u nderstands a need for creative collectives…where
m ultiple voices are hear, heterogeneous perspectives, &
p articipation of the many becoming pro-active…
t he opportunity to trust imaginative impulses, to be radiocactive -
e ducators who listening, uphold students being interactive,
r ather than capturing creativity as if a competition.
v.
L ittle do we know how enormous little ones
a re. A seed planted in a notebook…a finger
t racing over the roots, the stems, those petals, & each bloom, to
o rchestrate a garden of ideas … the first
y ears are the spaces for imagining the world with Milo
a nd finding the universe’s best parts.
L ittle do they know, then, the enormity of
i t all…what it means to be part of a 1st grade writing
s ociety - where details are visions, ideas become dreams, and
l etters, thoughts, & possibilities
e nter their pages for the first time It is always art at the start.
vi.
M achiavelli noted that everyone sees what we appear to be, but few
e xperience what we really are. Hypatia of Alexandria
g ot it right, too…Reserve the right to think, for even
a s we think wrongly, it’s better than not to think at all.
n ietzsche: There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.
R amanuja - Our end arrives from who we perceive ourselves to be.
u s. you. him. her. they, & we (flooded within the tsunami of langauge)
p laying with Plato & sculpting our lives, cave shadows, the light,
p urpose & drives that exit, enter, oh, how the soul strives
e xistentially philosophizing, philosophically exercising the way to
l ive out each apocalypse with a purpose….just mesmerizing.
vii.
S panky, the Sputum spirit is a moist
l ittle monster, licking & laughing Vygotsky’s carrot
o ver the shoulder of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs -
a ll of us are creatures in need of a mental coat-hook -
n erds nestled in safe spaces who try to find a way
e nter the conversation, to find the path, to
B ecome exactly who we are meant to be…
u biquitously, on this quest for serenity,
e ternally, and harmonically. It’s the
l aughter (perhaps licking - slurp slurp), that
l urks in coat pockets before we hang them up.
viii.
M an, speaking of my road rage voice
i n the kitchen while scrambling eggs, “Damn friggin, oblong
c hicken-headed nest freaks…beak-brained, bird-geeks…
h ow you gonna hog the carton like that? You poor
e xcuses for poultry….smashed-up, rooster-wanna-be
l ugnuted, fart-smelling, soufflé-sorry omelets.
l ook. I’m about to crack you upside the head…it’s
e ternal hell-time for you. Get ready to fry Mother Cluckers.
C uz I can also peel a carrot
a s if it’s just a puppy dog.
r uh-roh. Just look at you, all orange
u nder that wet-wet faucet. Who’s a cutie? You’s a cutie.
s o fwesh, so pwetty. so yummy-chummy…
o h, I’m gonna peel you & wuv you forever. (chomp chomp)
W ait. What about that 20-year old bong-hit boy
a rguing about CWP’s summer institute?
l ike dude, you know what? A leaf is to a ladybug, like whoa,
k eylime pie to to us, for real. It’s their lobster.
e hhhh, our pens, like, taste every page, like a
r abbit does lettuce, Mannn…Writing is so cool.
ix.
C hance, I suppose, has something to do with our
h istory…having faith in the dream, American, &
e migration stories, the opportunities to find hope,
l eaving so many, so much, behind. I hear you, Walt,
s inging, walking barefoot along these leaves of grass,
e ntertaining the possibility of such pastiche
a nd, perhaps, a hard-to-grasp mirage which is freedom for all.
C hance, I suppose, is also the dance along the
r ivers, the creeks, oceans, and lakes…
o h, the places we’ll go (we’ve been)
w hen, for some reason, The Great Whatever
l anded us in this pond over the summer, to
e xperience the National Writing Project way…
y esterday just strangers, but today…so much more.
L aughing, yelling, screaming in silent debates, while
e ntertaining thoughts that somewhere, some-
o ne is responsible to fall this mess…
n uclear bombs, global warming, the spread of
a rms into schools - it’s those fools.. the
r ich & ridiculous…they’re to blame.
d ang. Perhaps not. Maybe we’re all just lame.
x.
E ventually, all of us get caught with our
m ental thought-bubbles,
m ind-scribbles, idea-doodles,
a nd speech spoons floating above our heads.
H i. Hi. Whatcha doin? Nothing. You? Nothing. Why?
e ach of living with a feature film between our ears
a nd a Broadway musical in our hearts. This is how we
l earn…earn a place in this world…find a way to get by…
y es, it’s dialogue (& I wonder what you’re thinking right now…and why?)
xi.
J uly, Julie, becomes August too quickly,
u biquitously, the teachers get somewhat sickly, the
l aughter, love, & sharing disappears quickly, and we feel kind-of
i cky (late summer humidity leaving us wet and rather sticky),
e ach growing anxious, nit-picky, and rather prickly.
R eally, we’re just shook-up sodas on the metro, it’s tricky…
o n a ride with crayons, ideas, notebooks & Milo, biologically,
n euroligcially, matriarchally, philanthropic, serendipitous,
e ecologically & sympathetically encyclopedic & spiritually
s ynergetic, pedagogic, & hypnotically unpathetically persnickety.
o nward cicadas, your clicking wings & horny songs…
n ow comes the curtain call, but our writing, our writing belongs….
xii
C uz there’s no individual
W riter without a community of
P eople writing together.
S earch the acknowledgements, where every one
u nder the sun is thanked and appreciated…
m anuscripts take
m any, and all hands must be on deck.
e veryone. Everybody. Everywhere
r allying one another towards a written goal.
I am, because we are. Ubuntu, and
n ow more than ever we need one another…
s upporting the flight, lending the feather, &
t aking risks by rescuing Reynold’s fish…
i am a nobody if denying another’s wish.
t his is the song we sing every summer
u nited with notebooks with strategies galore,
t eachers teaching teachers, the NWP way
e very seed planted before hitting the door.
2, 021 seedlings in a home needing TLC… &
1 line to end this poem, elephant shoe, from me, BRC
Ribbit Ribbit.
