The Beauty of Writing

It was unconventional, but it worked.  The 3^rd grade students had traded papers with their neighbors and were correcting their morning work when I heard a paper rip and saw a student crying.  I pulled the girl in pigtails aside and handed her a tissue to wipe the tears beneath her glasses. “What’s the matter?” I asked.  When no words would come, I had her take three deep breaths. I waited patiently until she could confess she ripped her classmate’s paper after her table group teased her for spelling a word wrong. She wiped away more tears as I called over the perpetrator.  “I just told her that she spelled “what” wrong and the others asked me how she spelled it. Then she ripped my paper and started crying.” “Well, you hurt her feelings and need to apologize,” I said.  “I’m sorry,” said the girl. “And you need to say “It’s OK” I told the first student. “It’s OK,” she sniffled. “And, you also need to apologize to the paper for hurting it.”  I tried to be serious but it was so absurd I started laughing. The student’s tears also turned to laughter and she did apologize to the paper then returned to her seat. I got the class’s attention because I saw this as a teachable moment. “The beauty of writing,” I said, “is that you can always edit it.  It is more important to get your ideas on paper first and then worry about the rules of grammar.  In Teacher College, they taught us to encourage students to use ‘invented spelling’ where you write things down the way they sound so you don’t lose your flow of thinking. Then, you can always go back to correct spelling and make other changes.  That is what is so wonderful about writing – that you are able to edit your words.”

Not That Riviera

On Friday the 13th, my phone rang at 7:00 a.m. with a plea from my step-mother, Tina, to please come help her move my 300-pound father from his bed to his wheelchair. I jumped out of bed and into the shower, then packed an overnight bag and drove the 30 miles from Ontario to Montebello, during Friday morning traffic. Upon arriving at their house, Tina was frantic, but Dad was lying on his hospital bed in the living room, like a large lump of bread dough covered with a brown and orange afghan. His right foot was uncovered, revealing a soft cast there to protect his right ankle that was fractured when he fell down the porch stairs three days ago.

Most of the day was spent waiting. First we waited for the case worker to connect with a coordinator. Next we waited for Nurse Monique to come evaluate the situation and make the decision of what action to take to help Dad. In the meantime, the decision was already made that he should go to rehab for physical therapy to strengthen his legs and ankles enough to support himself enough to move around.

Before Monique came, we spent about an hour getting Dad from bed to potty chair. First we swung his bad right ankle over, then his left, until both legs were dangling over the edge of the bed. It took us several attempts to get Dad to stand because he needed to rest between tries. Tina supported one of his arms and I supported the other while Dad tried to help himself up. He winced with the effort because of the pressure on his bruised ribs and the weight on his ankle. Eventually he was standing, supported by the arms of the chair. Step-by-step we worked together to rotate his body around to sit on the potty chair, Tina pulling his shorts down before he sat. It must have been uncomfortable for Dad to have to sit on a hospital chair naked from the waist down with his adult daughter in the same room with him, because he lost the urge. 

We spent some more time turning Dad on the chair in a better position to see the television. The television was Dad's lifeline. He was most secure holding the tv remote, but somehow we lost the it twice. We watched several cooking shows and Perry Mason in black and white. Next up was Ironsides, but we didn't get to watch the back-to-back Raymond Burr shows, because a message came on the tv screen that the company did not receive their bill payment. This led to the photo above when I brought Dad his laptop so he could get online to see if other checks were unpaid. You might think he felt undignified, but he said the situation didn't bother him and the cable company said the they were good payers, so not to worry. 

Monique bounded into the room, took his vitals, and gave us the low down. She said that she had arranged for a bed in the nearest convalescent hospital and that an ambulance was going to transport him to the facility and it was also arranged to pick him up and return him for his orthopedic doctor appointment on Monday morning. She warned us that the facility was understaffed and it was a good idea to be friendly to the nurses and spend as much time as possible next to Dad.

An ambulance was scheduled for 4:45 but when it arrived, the two EMTs wanted to call for backup to hoist Dad onto the gurney. So we waited some more. The second crew arrived  around 6:00 pm.  The four of them rolled Dad onto a crisp white sheet, and with an EMT at each corner and Tina holding his cast, they lifted him onto the gurney 1,2,3. 

We followed the ambulance to the Riviera Convalescent Home, just ten minutes away. There was some confusion about the room. I thought, "We waited all day to get into a bed there and it still wasn't ready?" An old guy in a wheelchair, whom I secretly dubbed Super Vet because of the large American flag sticking up from behind his head, was hovering in the hallway. The ambulance crew wheeled Dad into the room and one of the female EMTs immediately raced out saying, "There's a naked lunatic back there." We could hear constant moaning and the steady beep of an alarm. We followed the bed into its space and were assaulted by the stench. Three nurses filed by carrying towels and plastic bags. They passed our small curtained off area between the naked guy and Super Vet to clean up the mess completely nude man had made on the floor. Nurses continued coming in and out, each with their own explanation of John.  "He's not right in the head," "He's like a baby," "He's a little touched," they explained as the moaning started and stopped and the alarm continued. Finally, one of the nurses turned off the alarm. 

Tina went straight to a supervisor to see about a room change. The supervisor apologized for the mistake. The hospital had put Dad into the nursing home side because he is 86 years old. At his age, they assumed he was senile or had other long term problems. They found him a bed on the convalescent side where he belonged. He was there to gain strength through physical therapy for 2 to 3 weeks, not move in. We asked to see the room first. If it was unacceptable, we were moving hospitals. Thankfully, the other side of the hospital was completely different. There were only two beds in that room; it was clean, had a closet, a television, and most importantly, no lunatic. 

While the hospital staff prepared the room and the paperwork, we waited between the lunatic and the super nosy vet. Super Vet lived in the curtained off section closest to the door. He was obviously long-term and acted like king of the old crazies hallway. His section of the room was decorated with a large American flag behind his bed, personal mementos on the other wall, and big blue butterflies on the outside of the door. As soon as the nurses were done with John, Super Vet rolled his flag-wielding wheelchair into our space to find out what was going on and warn us not to leave anything out because there were thieves in there. He was more annoying than the lunatic because we couldn't ignore him. 

The supervisor quickly took care of the room change and apologized for the misunderstanding. The whole situation was something I never would have imagined. The staff at the facility was very understanding of our panic. They were friendly and helpful. Two nurses arrived to move the bed to the other side of the hospital. They got Dad settled, inventory taken, and brought him toiletries and a welcome bag with a little bear in it. It was now 9:00 pm and I was ordered home with love and appreciation.

I was so glad to have had that experience because it opened my eyes to the issues surrounding old age. I saw how much room all the necessities of age take up. In my parents' small living room sat a hospital bed, a potty chair, a walker, and a wheelchair. Any movement took some rearranging.

I never knew the end of life could be so dramatic; that there were places where there are moaning naked men and people walking their wheelchairs down the hall past others who sat slack-jawed holding onto teddy bears. I saw the difference between where they put the people who lived the rest of their days on county dollars and those who were there to rehabilitate their bodies. 

On this ominous day for bad luck, we felt blessed. My folks were very appreciative of the service provided by CareMore, the emergency technicians, and the Riviera staff. Everyone was extremely helpful. polite and matter of fact. I think they all understood what we were going through and were respectful of our needs.

What Feminists Look Like

 

 

 

Super Man





It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Superman!

My "final" for the Mementos & Metaphors poetry workshop series at the Ovitt Community Library with David A. Romero was a reworking of the Week 1 assignment to write a poem about a family member using an object closely associated with that person. I chose to write about my son Ben and called it Super Man.

My son is a hero.
The boy who idolized Superman in his youth
Now fights for truth, justice and the American way
For the non-Americans in the Inland Empire.

My son is a hero to the latino and latina immigrants.
He flies to the street corners
To hold up his cape-like banners
In peaceful protest of racial profiling.

Faster than a speeding bullet,
My super man will rush to heed the call
Of the disempowered and downtrodden among us.

He will race to the police check points
To protect the rights that we all uphold:

     The right to be treated as human beings
     The right to live in community without violence, and
     The right to have economic justice and no abuse of power.

My son is a hero
Who knows that truth and justice are not the American way,
That capitalism promotes the separation into classes,
That the white patriarchy has caused social and economic imbalance
That has lasted for centuries.

So now, he is a hero to the anarchist way
With x-ray vision to a world that is
More egalitarian, more spiritual, and incorruptible.
Look! It's a bird, it's a plane,
It's Equality for All!

 

Silly Starters

Writing a poem is discovering.

~ Robert Frost

 

 

I bought a book at the teacher store to allow the students to choose a daily journal topic. Last week was the first time I sat down to write with them. Two days in a row the assignment was to write a poem. Here are the two I wrote.

 

Day #1: Write a poem about a puppy that wants to be a person.

I'm a little puppy

Who owns a little girl

I love to run and jump with her

More than anything in the world

 

But what I want the most in life

Is to be just like my friend

Because if I could talk, I'm sure

Our chats would never end

 

We'd speak about the flowers

or what dresses we will wear

We'll sing about most anything

And dance without a care

 

I'm a little puppy

Who wants to be a girl

So I can run and dance and play

And wear my hair in curls

 

Day #2: Write a poem about a monkey that cannot stop laughing.

 

I saw a monkey in a tree

Laughing so hysterically

Ha ha ho ho hee hee hee

 

He chortled and giggled

Until there were tears

I think he had been

Laughing for years

 

That poor monkey

Could not stop his glee

Ha ha ho ho hee hee hee  

 

 

I actually had a hard time writing the second poem and so did the kids, but I shared my strategies. First I brainstormed about the most important elements of the assignment: monkey and laughing. Some of the words I thought of for monkey were: banana, tree, tail, swinging on a vine, and ooh ooh. For laughing I wrote down hysterical, chuckle, giggle, laugh until it hurts, cry, tee hee, ha ha. Then I thought about the words that went together. The students usually have about ten minutes to write and they can be very creative. I'm glad they like to share with the class too. They let me share my poems last week and it was fun to read them.



 



Voice for the Voiceless

Where does discipline end? Where does cruelty begin? Somewhere between these, thousands of children inhabit a voiceless hell.  ~ Francois Muriac

Because of the Coffee House Writer's Group Meetup, I started attending a 4 week poetry workshop at the Ovitt Community Library in Ontario. As I told my fellow CHWGers, my poetry usually runs in the veins of romantic love or children's poetry, but these workshops are expanding my repertoire. I respect the fact that the first presenter advocated poetry with a social conscience. And, although I have written rhyming children's poetry that is meant to be read aloud as a performance piece, David Romero's idea of Spoken Word Poetry is new to me. His concept is for us to write long poems and then memorize them to be performed and judged by an audience.

Monday's workshop was titled "The Voice of the Voiceless." Presenter Matt Sedillo performed his work called "Gerald Ford" that was really a look at the life and wisdom of a homeless man. In his very powerful voice, Sedillo contrasted the sorrow the American people felt over the death of our former president, Gerald Ford, and the lack of compassion and the fear we feel for a homeless man, although at any moment, any one of us could be in the same tattered shoes.

Our assignment was to write a poem for any voiceless person. My partner wrote about an old man whose family put him into a nursing home. I have always tried to give voice to the children. My poem was inspired by the upstairs neighbors I had in Colorado Springs, Colorado, when I lived in some government projects there. It is called:

Mom and Dad on Crack

 

I get to stay up as late as I want and jump on the bed until I collapse from exhaustion.

Mommy and Daddy are busy doing their own thing.

They go into the bedroom and tell be to Stay Out because I am not allowed to

play with lighters, and besides, the smoke is not good for my lungs.

 

In the morning, I get up and make my own cold cereal

And then I wake up Daddy to take me to school.

Sometimes I wish I could have a hot breakfast, like pancakes or eggs.

But at least,

I get to stay up as late as I want,

I get to wear whatever I want,

and

I hardly ever get yelled at because

Mommy and Daddy are in the bedroom

doing their own thing.

So now I have this memorized and plan to present it next week. If you are interested in attending the last two workshops, here is the information from the Ontario Library website.

Poetry Workshop- Mementos & Metaphors

Posted Date: 3/6/2013 7:00 AM

David A. Romero will present his four week workshop "Mementos & Metaphors": Poems of Family and Identity. April 8, 15, 22 and 29 from 7:00 - 8:30pm in the storytime room.

 

And thank-you to my new writing friends at CHWG!

http://www.meetup.com/CoffeeHouseWritersGroup/

 

Nickname Queen

Today’s Quote:

”The harder I work the better my luck seems to be.”

            ~Thomas Jefferson

My number 2 son says I have more names than a rapper.

It all started with my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Elam, at Cleminson School in Temple City. She called me Giggling Gertie and embroidered a smiling Gertie onto my embroidery sampler project. When we moved to Covina, my school nickname became plain Giggles. A lot more kids at Charter Oak Elementary knew me by Giggles than I knew by name.

 

In high school, my mother was constantly rhyming everything, so I became Diana Banana, Banana, Banana-Butt, or plain BN. Alex Kristofka, my neighbor, never shouted anything but Diana Banana at me. Banana-Butt is strictly reserved for Bettina-Butt. Most people called me Banana, because I have a-peel. Get it? Pam’s family always called me Banana Caboose or Caboose because it was close to my maiden name, Cobos. I even utilized my nickname in my sophomore presidential campaign with the slogan, “Vote Diana for Top Banana.” I worked my brand and won!

 

I think you get a lot of nicknames if your given name is three or more syllables. Some people just can’t handle more than one syllable at a time. That means I’ve been called both Di and D. Those got morphed into Big D, Lady D and Lady Di. I like being associated with the good-hearted former Lady Diana Spencer who later became a Princess. I skipped princess status to become Queen of Outer Space. One year, I even wrote down Queen as my occupation on my kids’ Emergency card at Hawthorne Elementary. I didn't think the office ladies would notice, but they did and made mention of it a time or two.

 

People always confuse the names Diane and Diana. This is irritating for both of us. One time it created a problem when I took a temp job working with a Diane at a Colorado Springs cemetery. People would call and ask for the wrong Diane/a, so they suggested I use a nickname. Shorten my name to Di? Clients might be reminded of dying; not a good choice. How about my initials? D.C. didn’t work either. They stand for Death Certificate. Finally, they suggested using my middle name. Well, my middle name is Cleil. You are supposed to enunciate each letter sound in my name, but no one in the office could say that final “L”so they called me Cleo.

 

Because I was a competitive swimmer, I became Diana Dolphin. I used Dolphin as my Camp name and in every situation where I work with kids outside of a regular classroom. At my current job as an after school program leader, I am Miss Dolphin. And because Diana was the goddess of the moon, I chose as both my e-mail name and my brush name dolphinmoon.

 

I had hoped to establish myselfin the teaching profession as an innovative thinker with the name and logo Mrs. Bubbletree. I even wrote a little poem and put it on a profile brochure with the byline, "Grounded in standards & bubbling with ideas." People either love the name and remark on its creativity or they say that is childish and unbecoming of a serious professional.

 

Every time I make a new group of friends, I get a new nickname. Besides my long term names, like Banana and Giggles, I am also part of the Bitchen' Chicks (I'm number four, B4). I am also La Giggles, Flower Girl, Sugar Toes, LL, Thumper, the combo Mama/Sister/Friend, COBOS, and my grandma name, Mimi.

 

 

One time I met a person who felt that nicknames were insulting. I think nicknames are endearing. They mean that someone really understands you in a certain way and makes a pet name for you as an intimate reminder of your bond. What's your favorite nickname?