What Happened After I Left Sixth Grade and Mrs. Saiki

 

A little over a year ago I met part of a family new to our church congregation. After some small talk, we made a connection having both lived in Japan. After I mentioned that my dad had been stationed at Yokota Air Force Base, her jaw dropped, and said, “I have to ask if you had a certain teacher…Mrs. Saiki?”

                At the mention of my 6^th grade social studies and reading teacher, Sylvia Saiki, my eyes involuntarily brimmed with happiness. If you have read any of my previous posts about her, you will know how much this woman influenced me. She piqued my curiosity to discover the unknown (especially regarding Egyptology and geography and different peoples and cultures). She sharpened and honed and my love for learning, my curiosity for the mysterious, and my passion for reading. Her requirement to only read Newbery and Caldecott winners stretched me to read genres I normally wouldn’t have as an eleven-year-old nonfiction nut. Looking back on that year, outside of her classes, where I felt like a minor rock star, I only recall a few things. I lost a computer programming contest because I didn’t save my work, and there was a power glitch ten minutes before the end of the timed programming portion. I lost a nomination to represent Mr. Iwanski’s class in the trivia bowl to a popular kid who was about as sharp as the leading edge of a bowling ball. In the gifted and talented class, my paper mâché puppet collapsed on itself and dried funny, so I had to improvise a new character (B.U.M.—Beat Up Man), which truthfully looked hideous. There are other stories that didn’t really do much for my young self-esteem, but those tales are for another day. 

                My newfound acquaintance soon put in contact with my former teacher, and on a nice fall morning, I had a pleasant half-hour phone conversation with Mrs. Saiki. To me, her voice was the same—loving yet firm. While conversing, I felt that same assurance that I had so many years ago sitting in her class—she knew me and accepted me for who I was; she treated me with respect and believed in me. It felt that after so many years, she still knew me, and in that moment I wished that I could be the half teacher she was.

At the end of our talk, Mrs. Saiki asked me for a favor—one that I have started many times but have failed to deliver. She wanted a brief history of what I did from the time I left 6^th grade until the present. Much has happened in 35 years, and the task seemed daunting; however, here it finally is. The summary of my life from 6^th grade until now.

                I started 7^th grade at Yokota High School (7-12) and hated almost every minute of it. I had most of my classes with upper classmen, and my few friends all had different lunch periods than I did. I became even more of a loner.

Halfway through the year, I moved across the globe when my dad was reassigned to RAF Mildenhall, England. I viewed this move as a fresh start and soon made the most of it. I made friends—a few at first, mostly through church, but then I became emboldened by some of the acquaintances I had made in band and NJHS. At Lakenheath High School, I decided to run for student government and run on the track. So I did. I became involved. I played the trumpet. I ran long distances. I played baseball. I started writing! I started to improve my self image.

After my sophomore year, my family returned to the US, to Scott AFB, east of the St. Louis metro area. I attended Belleville east Township High School my junior year, but refused to become just a number in the 2500 or so students there. When we moved into base housing the next year, I moved schools again, spending my senior year at Mascoutah Community High School. And to be honest, back in 1994, I had no idea where I wanted to go to school, so I followed the recommendations of a couple of close friends from church to attend Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho.

I declared my major at the junior college to be English, and kept up my pursuits of the humanities: writing, reading, art, music, theatre. I rushed through my Associate’s degree in under two years, and felt pretty accomplished, but I knew there were miles to go before I slept.

My religious convictions, as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints influenced my desire to now serve a two-year proselyting mission. I submitted my papers, and was assignment to serve in southern Spain. Over those two years, I learned to love the people and to love the Lord. I learned more about who I was and how I fit into God’s plan for me. Oh, yes, I also acquired a propensity for good food and how to cook it for myself. In short, I learned how to live.

When I returned home in January of 1998 (My parents moved to Utah while I was away.), I knew I had to become more serious about an occupation. So I examined myself and determined what I did well…or at least what I felt I did well. I decided to become an English teacher. I enrolled at nearby Brigham Young University. Shortly thereafter I reconnected with a beautiful young woman I had met at the beginning of my missionary service, Amy Walker; and for brevity’s sake, we were married that July. She was an English teaching major as well, and so we worked together to finally graduate in 2000. Our last semester while I completed my student teaching and Amy completed her year-long teaching internship, we lived on half a teacher’s salary and whatever I scraped together working at a restaurant on the weekends. We were poor but happy.

In February of 2001 Sariah was born with many complications. Zac was born at the end of 2002. Then Ally in 2005, Brooklyn in 2007, and Sam in 2010. All the while I taught English (and a few other things) at Spanish Fork Junior High. After two years of teaching middle school, Amy stayed home to raise the kiddos (and continues to do an amazing job).

While all the teaching happened, I kept busy with professional development, church assignments, and community involvement (to be read “city league coaching”). I earned my M.Ed. in Secondary Education with an emphasis in reading. I picked up a second (almost) full-time job teaching an independent study high school course. After earning my PhD. In Curriculum and Instruction (emphasis in educational leadership), I adjuncted composition courses for Utah Valley University.

Over my 18+ years as a public educator, I worked with 13 student teachers and mentored several other newer educators. While doing this, I realized that even though I loved influencing my students on a daily basis, I might be able to make a bigger difference in the world of education if I shifted careers and became a teacher educator at the university level.

I have now been doing that at Bellevue University since 2018. The kids are older: Sariah is working; Zac is now a missionary; Ally is about to graduate; Brooklyn and Sam won’t stop growing. Amy is now student teaching for her M.A.T. in Elementary Ed in a class of 6^th graders. Life is still good and it keeps getting better.

Some of you know part of this history; some of you played integral part in it. If you read this, you'll know that I love stories, especially personal ones. Among my goals this year, is a pledge to get back to writing snippets of my history--at least one each month. For better or for worse, my stories are going to be shared. If you have any suggestions about holes I need to fill in or adventures that should see the light of day, please leave a comment, and I'll think about it.

Regaining a Bit of My Groove through Painting and Poetry (Inspired by Sunsets)

 Part I:

As you may or may not have noticed, I have not done too much writing lately...at least much that I have shared. And I think that my lack of production, coupled with lack of time dedicated to writing or other creative endeavors, has shaken a little of my confidence...or at least my creative confidence.

Part II:

Over the past two or three weeks I noticed an influx of sunset pictures on social media, too. And then I started noticing them again as I have had to run kids back and forth to rehearsals, to jobs, to the dentist, or to find a COIVD test. And I kept seeing them--all distinct from the previous day. Then the sunrises came, too, as I drove to campus each morning. For several consecutive days I drove blinded by beauty. My mind drifted through all sorts of metaphors regarding life, death, resurrection, the afterlife (and breakfast). It's a wonder I did not crash.

Part III:

Last Tuesday I was in charge of an activity for the 14-15 year old young men and women at church. Since Brooklyn falls into that age group, I asked her. She wanted to paint. Great idea. So I forced myself to create. I admit it was a struggle to come up with an idea at first, especially since I kept running back and forth with supplies for the teenagers (and they blasted the soundtrack to Disney's Encanto louder than should ever be played. Sidenote: (I am sick of Bruno!)

Part IV:

Right before I left the house, I saw an amazing sunset over the rooftops of my neighborhood. That became the inspiration for my amateur painting. After it was finished, I felt that it needed a poem, so I worked on that for the past few days. Now the desire to write and create and play is coming back!

Part V:

"Glory to Come"

Preparing

for His night shift,

the Master daubs the remnants

of today’s palette

over the blue-gray canvas,

sloshing purple and pink;

and with the waning light,

He rinses His brushes

through the clouds,

momentarily

spilling orange gold

around the edges.

 

The slipping sun winks

before sinking to black—

one last promise

of another masterpiece

to come.

Part VI:

As always, critiques and criticisms are welcome.

 

National Day on Writing Self Pep Talk (I Need This More Than You but Bear with Me)

Here are some thoughts I had while writing with my composition students the other day. As today is the National Day on Writing, I thought I would share them on the off chance that it helps someone else, too.

Ten more minutes to write. What would I do with more? A lot.

I’m starting to believe that my reluctance to throw myself into another writing project (and Writing Project) stems from a deep yet faulty belief that I don’t have enough time to do a good job, and like so many of my students continue in the false philosophy that it’s better to not even try than to try and fail. I often voice aloud that I am not afraid to fail (at writing…because that is what revision is for), but I think I really am.

 I claim that my most toxic enemy is time, or the apparent lack thereof. I don’t have enough. At least I don’t have the time I want/need to start and finish projects as I used to. Sure, time adds up, yes, but my inner self struggles to produce writing when I perceive that I don’t have wide-open slots on my schedule. Lately my available “free” time minutes have been relegated to numbers I can count on my fingers and toes.

And I’ll admit that it is true that ten or twenty minutes here and there could make a difference if I made use of said minutes. However, those small chunks don’t permit my mindset to allow flow to happen. (Thank you very much, Mr. Csikszentmihalyi.) It takes me that long to warm up. To be honest, when I have to quilt the piece scraps of time together, the patchwork writing isn’t as pleasurable for me. What’s the fun in turning it off before the engine is heated?

Here’s my thought—probably not new to any who might still be reading—but hang with me. What if I use those small snatches of seconds and the odd handful of minutes I do actually have to become more organized or methodical or strategic about what I write and what I do as a writer. It might seem to be more work—starting and stopping like a new driver on a clutch—but I might actually produce something. As a wise mentor once (or twice or a thousand times) told me, only writing produces text. Using my time this way might allow me to navigate the shallow waters my creative vessel has been treading lately. Yes, I am mixing my metaphors. Judge harshly! It doesn’t matter right now. What does is that I am writing.

It has been too long. I’ve lost my groove, and there is no one to blame and chuck out a window except me. I gotta get back on the bike, as I once told a crowd of English teachers at UCTE. Seriously! In the past three years, I have only presented at a conference once. Pathetic. 

I need to get over the ugly despair that falls when I can’t find a perfect description or if my alliteration is over the top; the writing on the wall (which is not mine, by the way) clearly dictates that I have to get back to work. I just have to write. I might need a stricter taskmaster, though.

 

Stolen Life Lesson: (1) Be There!

I was told at the beginning of my teaching career that an educator is only as good as he or she steals. I like to think of it now as community collaboration. Feel free to collaborate with me any time you want. Just remember to give credit where credit is due. As our class mantra went for my final year in the public classroom, “Own it.” If it’s not yours, cite it. 

Today I am stealing a list from Roxanna Elden’s book See Me After Class: Advice for Teachers by Teachers. It is entitled “Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us.” A long title but worth the read. Last term I shared it with a few sections of composition students as a writing prompt, and the ensuing discussion (not necessarily about composing) was somewhat enlightening for all parties involved. So…I am going to share them here and probably discuss one or two of them over the next little while, adding my own two or three cents worth of insight or hindsight or sight beyond sight for whatever it is worth. 

First, here is the list:

Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

2.       Follow all steps of directions.

3.       Think for yourself, and do the right thing even when no one is watching.

4.       Think about the future and how your present actions affect it.

5.       Take responsibility for your decisions.

6.       Search for solutions instead of complaining about problems.

7.       Show respect and expect respect back.

8.       Present yourself as an intelligent person.

9.       Produce a finished product that won’t need any explaining.

10.   Put more into the world than you take out.

Now that you have the entire list, I think I am going to break these down one point at a time with examples and non-examples of students, colleagues, friends, and many people generally winning (or not) at life.

                Warning: most of this will probably have an educational slant to it, but I guess that’s what I do, right?

                Let’s begin. Somewhat disjointed rant numero uno:

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

Students need to be in class—on time and on task. Attendance breeds opportunities to learn. If not present, the same opportunities are not available. Yes, you can gain information and knowledge through self-study or observation or reading; however, an absent student misses discussions and social connections—critical elements of constructing meaning and learning. (See Dewey, Vygotsky, Bruner, Piaget, etc.) The interaction and application of said acquired knowledge cannot be replicated in the same way when a student is absent either physically or mentally.

                I have a student (at the university) who never attends class. He submits work online, but he is prone to all the pitfalls students who attend class avoid because we work together to succeed at the assignments and the learning. He, unfortunately, has chosen to shun the class and attempt everything on his own. Now, he is smart, but he does not know everything. Besides missing the attendance/participation part of his grade, me misses what we struggle through collectively as a class. He misses the comradery and collaborative community that we construct. He is not present to receive advice or encouragement from me or from his classmates, and it takes longer for him to catch up to where we are.

                Granted, the Fitness for Life class I took my sophomore year at Ricks College was different. The academic environment geared itself toward individual learning and testing. It was not a collaborative environment at all. To earn my grade, I just had to read the textbook and show up at the track when we ran the mile and at the testing center on occasion. The lecture had nothing to do with the grade or the learning. It was simply a lecture. (I got a B+ and only went to class three times that semester.) However, I believe this type of education is on its way out the door, especially in public schools. This is now the exception and not the rule.

Online education has its place, but it is an alternative to meet the needs of self-motivated learners. I have taught online courses both at the high school and the university level, and I will only say that these deliveries are not for everyone. If a student cannot motivate himself in an isolated setting, it will not go well for him. Even in these digital environments, interaction with an instructor and classmates increases and augments the learning. I will say it once more: you can only get so far in educating yourself.

                Showing up physically can only get you so far, though. You must be mentally present as well. Teachers know all too well that a student will never learn how to implement the quadratic equation or correct grammar in her writing if she is thinking about the cure boy sitting in front of her, or the drama call-backs after school, or the zit on her chin, or whether or not her dad will ever come back.

                There are so many possible distractions these days, especially with smartphones in almost every pocket. And I could rant on, but I digress for sake of your time and sanity. I also do not need to air all my laundry regarding student attendance. Regardless of the delivery method, the course, or the peers involved, attendance is mandatory for maximum learning.

Stay tuned for the next installment. It may come sooner than you think.

I Love Technology?

I always find “Touchscreen” by Marshall Davis (Soulful) Jones to be timely, even though technology keeps changing at a rate that leaves me standing on the curb thumbing for a ride. I willingly acknowledge that I am a digital immigrant. Despite my nerdy desire to program computers back in sixth grade, not much tech comes naturally to me. Just ask my own children or my students. However, lately, I am not quite sure if I want anyone speeding down the digital freeway to stop and give me a lift into the future.

(Taken from redbubble.com)

This is not a tech-bashing post. I readily acknowledge the plethora of benefits that come from advancing technology. I enjoy the advances I have seen in my lifetime, but I’m no Kip Dynamite, either.

Over the past few terms, I have noticed more and more how isolated my students have become. Not that they travel as lone wolves or anything; they are just distant—from each other and from the world around them. Before and after class they sit zombified, staring at the small screens in their hands—most of them absent-mindedly scrolling through unfiltered garbage—instead of talking to each other.

On occasion they break out of their self-induced comas when I ask a direct question. But as soon as my initial engagement (be it joke, sports commentary, food experience, or homework reminder) draws to a natural pause, they disengage from me and flee from the faces in front of them, retreating back to their notifications and memes. They snap senseless ceiling shots simply to maintain a streak with someone they haven’t actually spoken to face to face in months or even years.

It reminds me of the mentality of the monster Cy-Bug things from the movie Wreck It Ralph:

(Taken from disney.fandom.com)

when prompted or focused they are almost unstoppable, but when the beacon of brainless light switches on, they relapse into a drone-like state, oblivious to their environment and even to themselves sometimes. These generic, mindless entities all cry out silently, together, “Look at me! I’m part of the crowd.” And the sheep wander down the hall as a pack, bumping and touching one another but not in touch with each other. I’m not even going to get into how many things Ralph’s sequel accurately depicts about our cyber society.

Recently I came across an article called “A Silent Tragedy” written by Dr. Luis Rojas Marcos, which The Educator’s Room posted to their Facebook page on November 11, 2019. I have read several similar studies regarding the effects of a screen-focused culture. You can check it out for yourself.

When I liked their page, I found another piece entitled “The Death of Reflection in English/Language Arts Classrooms,” and I almost cried. It voiced a few of the exact thoughts I had been having as of late, looking at some of the assignments my own children bring home. It also made me reflect on a previous observation of mine during a filed trip I chaperoned many years ago. Happily, the school situation is not as dire as some people think. Creativity has not completely keeled over in schools. I was a personal witness for two decades. We still have great teachers out there who engage students, who actually want them to think for themselves. The trick now seems to be getting them to surrender their portable think-for-me machines for a long enough  period of time to make a difference.

“But that’s what our society is like now” some might argue. “We could never give up our phones or tablets or computers.” And some might agree with that. I fought how to ban or manage or integrate smart phones and other tech in the classroom regularly.

A comment from my cousin Michelle, who teaches middle school in Salt Lake City, gives me some hope:

“This year at our school we have enforced an absolute ban on phones during school hours. The first two weeks were rough. Now, we have zero phones to deal with and the behavior is markedly different. I don't think it's the ONLY factor in the improved behavior at our school, but certainly it's a factor. Bullying is down, fights are down, friendships and positive relationships are up. Kids are having face to face, real time interactions.”

              And I think that’s what I am really concerned about—relationships, real time interaction. As members of the human race, we are not meant to live in isolation; we are here on this planet to be social beings (Yes, even we introverts!), to interact with each other, to teach and learn and experience life. It’s not how many likes to get; rather how many lives you touch.

I’d like to rant a little longer, but I should take my own advice and go do something with real people instead of sitting behind the computer in my office.

I'll check back in a while to see some of your thoughts about technology and learning and relationships or anything else I rambled about in this hurried post.

Back from the Dead (Halloween Hater)

Like a zombie from the crypt, this blog--dead or undead--has new life breathed back into it. It's part of my efforts to get back to writing more frequently. So how should I start it off? With a little personal narrative ramble, of course.

For the record, Halloween has never been my favorite holiday…even as a kid. I didn’t really get into jump scares or monsters. Truthfully, on the whole, the horror/slasher genre of lit and film bores me. Suspense, I like, but for me, horror involves no real fright—just frustration and consternation at how demented people invent such stories. The gross-out factor didn’t even make me gag (much). And yes, I tried haunted houses and corn mazes as a teen and as an adult, but they didn’t do anything for me either. Maybe I’m concerned that people actually enjoy these “scary” things. To me they aren’t scary, just lame.

Dressing up in a costume never did anything for me either. I simply don’t enjoy it much. Sure, I dressed up as the obligatory superhero or clown or vampire (I believe those were the only personas I donned for trick-or-treating or class parties.), but I didn’t really get into it. Too much work for so little return.

                The only payoff for me was the candy. And I only ransacked the neighborhood until I was ten. My parents had a rule that trick-or-treating was done after you turned twelve. I ended early, opting at age eleven to drag my younger siblings around, and by the time I hit twelve, I opted to stay home to answer the door and sugar-load the roaming hordes of diaper-sagging Supermen, pillowcase-toting Princess Leias, and demons nearing diabetic comas.

                My last year of candy retrieval we lived in military housing in Japan. I was a vampire (again): white Sunday shirt, dark Sunday slacks and shoes, a plastic bargain bin cape and false teeth that Mom had grabbed at the base exchange. No makeup. I have no clue what my brothers wore.

Dad escorted us around some familiar blocks, and I grew impatient. My younger brothers lagging behind—Marc stopping to examine his haul after each house and David was just tired. We were coming near the end of the night (Trick-or-treating was only allowed on base from 1800-2000 hours.), and I still wanted more candy. As long as we were out, it needed to be worth my time, right?

The homes were all your standard, military four-plexes, and the blocks consisted of sets of two buildings facing each other with a parking spaces between them. Each set meant eight doors to knock. Eight treats. However, the two four-plexes we approached all looked dark. Dad wanted to move past them and head for home. I wanted candy. I was out here going through the motions, wasn’t I? Maybe David’s fussing wore on his patience, or maybe I was an impertinent little ten-year-old, but somehow I convinced Dad to let me try the darkened complex anyway. The three of them moved on, and I was allowed to continue by myself.

So I ventured to the first door alone.

Nothing.

I went to the next. Again, nothing.

The third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh doors all remained shut.

At the eighth and final stop, frustration started creeping in, and I felt like an idiot for wasting my time with the darkened doors. Despite the blackened windows, my stubbornness knocked anyway. As I stood with my foot tapping, tapping at the concrete floor, I heard but silence, nothing more. Yet once again I started rapping, rapping at the darkened door, wanting candy, nothing more.

When I was about to admit defeat, the porch light flicked on burning my vampire eyes, and the door opened.

“Hey, kid.” A man in a ratty Chicago Bears T-shirt and sweats stood before me, beer in hand.

“Hey,” I responded.

“We haven’t had anyone come by tonight. Probably because the light was off, huh?”

I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, he saved my caught-in-the-porchlight dumbfoundedness by turning, setting down his bottle, and picking up a large Tupperware bowl, hundreds of Tootsie Rolls heaped above the rim.

“So, uh, why don’t you just take the whole thing?” he proffered. “Then I can turn my light off and go to bed.”

Before I could speak, sweet, chewy goodness spilled out of the bowl, into my plastic pumpkin, and onto the ground.

Caught in a trance, I mumbled a thank you, and the door closed. The light went out. I scurried about, collecting as many more Tootsies that I could stuff into my pockets. Persistence paid off that night. But that was the end of the story—no more trick-or-treating for this kid.

I figured that my siblings would always bring home candy. And if I really wanted some cavities that badly, I could buy my own sugar. It always went on sale on November 1^st anyway (as long as it wasn’t candy canes or Chocolate Santas). In high school I even sold Halloween surplus out of my locker for a while, which for me, was much more beneficial than sweating through makeup or a freezing in a cracking plastic suit while hiking from house to house.

 (from http://www.disneyfilmproject.com/2009/06/skeleton-dance.html)

What? This from a guy who enjoys writing zombie haiku? I know. It’s weird. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an absolute hater. Garfield, the Great Pumpkin, and the Headless Horseman all make regular appearances. And I’ve been known to set up a spook alley or design the occasional Viking shield, false bloody knife, or other costume accouterments. One of my favorite cartoons of all time remains Disney’s Silly Symphony “The Skeleton Dance.” When I was younger, I enjoyed helping my younger siblings create homemade decorations. One of our favorites included constructing haunted houses with working windows and doors out of construction paper. Sounds like I might (hypocritically) enjoy Halloween. Nope. I love when others enjoy Halloween. All the effort is for the kids. It does nothing for me. 

 

A Little Rambling and a Little Waiting

This post is mostly for me to reflect upon what I have written recently.

So what have I written over the past month? Obviously nothing on my blog. That's pretty noticeable, but I have been busy. Mostly, I've been writing letters of application, philosophy statements, and scholarly writing samples. Well, I've been tweaking them. For those who don't know, I am looking to break into the ranks of academia on a full-time scale. It's somewhat similar to what I did five years ago when I was asked to apply for a university position and did better than I thought I would not having the PhD yet. However, as of this moment in time, since last March when I began this crazy go-round, I have applied to sixteen different positions across the country, received three online interviews, four rejection emails, one rejection letter, and a whole lot of nothing from everywhere else. Makes a guy wonder what's wrong. Now, I know there are many factors involved, so this isn't a pity party, and to be fair, it hasn't been very long since I've applied to some of them, but in the words of one of my favorite Spanish sword-fighters, "I hate waiting."

This past August, though, I was hired locally as an adjunct professor to teach Intro to Writing, a required freshman level class, two evenings each week. It's been fun, but it has taken up a lot of my time. I've written a few sample papers for that, but nothing of any consequence.

I've started tightening up my to-write lists as well. My list of narratives that need to be told is getting longer, although the production rate has slowed.

My plans to write a teacher education book are starting to poke through the soil as well. Maybe within a few months blossoms will form--or at least some greenery. I also need to go back and break down and put back together some professional articles from my dissertation. I know I need to do it, but other parts of me just want to seal that monster in the dungeon and throw away the key--the only access being a trap door that hapless scholars might succumb to. Who knows?

I did find another draft of a narrative I started a few months ago that might make an appearance soon. I guess we'll (you and I) will have to wait and see.

Searching and Digging for Meaning (Poem in Your Pocket Day 2017)

(borrowed from https://apps.carleton.edu/humanities/events/poem2017/)

It's been a while since I've posted, but I couldn't miss Poem in Your Pocket Day. It's been a nice tradition to start (and perpetuate) here at my school, something that several faculty members look forward to...as long as they remember to do it, that is.

This year, my mind has been all over the place--metaphorically, not literally, as too many of my students overuse. And I've pondered until I was weak and weary, not over forgotten lore but philosophies and core beliefs and deep educational mumbo jumbo like that, a little to do with writing, but more do to with thinking and what I believe, and where my loyalties lie. It might have something to do with completing the doctoral degree and facing new chapters in my life, but it could also have been the enchiladas I had on Tuesday. Regardless of the cause, I've had rumblings.

Regardless, this year, I chose two poems, as I could not settle on one, both with a common strand: small simple details. I've written about the importance of the small and simple before, but it's come back to me again. So, here are two poems by Billy Collins:

“Searching” by Billy Collins

I recall someone once admitting
that all he remembered of Anna Karenina
was something about a picnic basket,

and now, after consuming a book
devoted to the subject of Barcelona--
its people, its history, its complex architecture--

all I remember is the mention
of an albino gorilla, the inhabitant of a park
where the Citadel of the Bourbons once stood.

The sheer paleness of him looms over
all the notable names and dates
as the evening strollers stop before him

and point to show their children.
These locals called him Snowflake,
and here he has been mentioned again in print

in the hope of keeping his pallid flame alive
and helping him, despite his name, to endure
in this poem, where he has found another cage.

Oh, Snowflake,
I had no interest in the capital of Catalonia--
its people, its history, its complex architecture--

no, you were the reason
I kept my light on late into the night,
turning all those pages, searching for you everywhere.


...and here's the second one:

“Digging” by Billy Collins

It seems whenever I dig in the woods

on the slope behind this house

I unearth some object from the past—

a shard of crockery or a bottle with its stopper missing,

sometimes a piece of metal, maybe handled

by the dairy farmer who built this house

over a century and a half ago

as civil war waged unabated to the south.

So it’s never a surprise

when the shovel-tip hits a rusted bolt,

or a glass knob from a drawer—

little hands waving from the past.

And today, it’s a buried toy,

a little car with a dent in the roof

and enough flecks of paint to tell it was blue.

Shrouded in a towel, the body of our cat

lies nearby on the ground where I settled her

in the mottled light of the summer trees,

and I still have to widen the hole

and deepen it for her by at least another foot,

but not before I stop for a moment

with the once-blue car idling in my palm,

to imagine the boy who grew up here

and to see that two of the crusted wheels still spin.

I'm trying to get my students to notice the smaller things, the details, for they are often the overlooked important moments/situations/people in our lives. There is a joy in the small and simple things of life--those moments when you ponder and savor the connections with life, with the world, with ourselves, and with God.

I know this ramble is choppy, but so is my mind right now.

For previous poems that occupied my pocket, check the label on the right-hand side.