Friday, August 6, 2021

The End of the @CWPFairfield Institute Tradition - an Acrostic Salute to the Next Generation of Teacher Consultants & Leaders


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.

No comments:

Post a Comment