Holding tongue…
Last Fall I was visiting with three families from the elementary school where I used to work…
An invitation for after school milk and cookies,
quickly morphed into lasagna and watching a novice hockey practice at Planet Ice…
One of my former students and his father have dyslexia…
Despite the fact that I have worked with students who have been suspected to have dyslexia,
with curricular pressure to teach them to read and write fluently,
by the end of grade one,
I don’t know very much about it…
But I learned something that night…
Something I knew but didn’t have the words for…
Something about seeing multi-dimensionally…
Imagine looking at a slice of layer cake and seeing the slice from every angle,
spherically,
all at once…
And then not getting that the rest of your fellow human beings don’t see things the same way that you do,
or with the same velocity…
And imagine seeing that way and then being asked to read and write two dimensional print…
Sounds like yesterdays news to me,
and a six-lane supra-freeway full of way too much information,
trying to funnel it’s way down into the carpool lane,
under duress…
An individual would really have to dumb themselves down in order to process at that rate…
When I watch hockey and I see a player experience an injury I feel from every dimension…
I feel the pain of the person who has been hit…
I feel the pain of the hitter who has blocked his feelings of responsibility and remorse…
I feel the pain of the teammates,
the wife,
the mother,
the child,
and every other family member to whom that injured player is connected…
I feel the father,
the son,
and the holy ghost…
My slice of layer cake is thickly iced with physical and emotional pain…
This is big time hurting,
and it is non-local…
Which leads me to some simple arithmetic…
howmanyconcussions+howmuchbraindamage=animmediatemoratoriumonhittingintheNHLstartingrightNOW
At this very moment I feel like someone on the opposing team took the knob of their stick and rammed it into my occiput,
and then their buddy came up and slammed me across the shoulders crushing me into the boards,
in order to finish me off just for the fun of it…
Little Gem always reminds me,
just in case I’m suffering from memory loss due to a past concussion…
Mama, we live one long life,
moving in and out of different packages…
One day this life will be in the past too…
When she says things like that I don’t ask her to back up her statements,
by quoting a scientist or a philosopher…
And I don’t grill her on where she got her information…
I take her word for it,
because what she says rattles my cage,
with no question…
History repeats itself,
until a warrior and a caregiver meet as one and say,
Come hell or high water,
this time around we are doing things differently…
The only kind contact allowed is a love tap…
The kind of tapping we saw between Luongo and Demitra when they looked at each other in the post-Canada vs. Slovakia game while they were shaking hands…
Love ,
all laced up and earned,
with regard,
respect,
and the sound of character…
Rainy day people always seem to know when it's time to call...
Creative license…
My grandmother’s greatest gift was tolerance…
Now in the old days,
Indians used to be forgiving of any kind of eccentricity…
In fact weird people were often celebrated…
Epileptics were often shamans because people just assumed that God gave seizure-visions,
to the lucky ones…
Gay people were seen as magical too…
I mean,
like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers…
But gay people,
being both male and female,
were seen as both warriors and caregivers…
Gay people could do anything…
They were like Swiss Army knives…
— Arnold Spirit in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
People ask me if the things that I write about really happen…
I tell them that I’m just making shit up…
But they don’t believe me…
I’ve finally accepted that I have no control over what other people think,
or believe…
They’re driving their own ships…
My two closest friends,
from when I was growing up,
came out when we were in our early twenties…
Prior to that,
despite a lot of sleepovers and camping trips,
I never suspected a thing…
Other people,
like my parents,
would make penetrating comments like,
I always knew s/he was THAT way…
I always wondered WHAT way they were referring to,
and how it was that they could be so sure…
My very best friend,
whom I met in Kindergarten,
showed up at my house,
all in love one day…
In love with a woman…
When she told me I said,
That’s great…
I’m happy that you have finally met someone,
who makes your heart skip a beat…
That lipstick and those high laced boots look great on on you…
Now what kind of sandwich can I make you for lunch???
As I watched my friend’s gay relationship develop,
alongside the straight relationship that I was in,
I saw that the issues are all the same…
Issues of power and control don’t care about the gender of the players,
they just want to be in the game,
come hell or high water…
I had two daughters and so did she…
She just had to go about the project in a different way…
Her partner tried,
month after month,
for years,
to conceive with the same donor,
and for some reason or another,
things just didn’t take…
I remember overhearing my mother say to the partner,
at Starshine’s fifth birthday party,
a party that my mother crashed because she wasn’t invited,
Oh well,
I guess you’ll just have to be the man in the relationship…
I always wondered why I didn’t get the mother who was hit by a blueberry truck,
on her way home from the Mylora driving range,
after an afternoon with the Sunshine Ladies…
My family has a tight contract with longevity,
for better or for worse…
In 2007 I saw an Argentinian film about inter-sexuality called XXY…
This film amplifies the poverty of the English language,
to communicate about the difference and diversity,
that is the mandate of a perfect universe…
The first thing parents look for when a baby emerges,
from the womb,
is genitalia…
The first question is
Is it a boy or a girl???
I know,
because I’ve been there,
and done that…
But what if the answer to the question is,
unclear…
What then???
What if the answer is uncertain,
and your child doesn’t know that s/he is a question,
without an easy answer…
Surgery can trim,
and cut away,
at what is on the outside of us…
Pharmaceuticals can mess with what goes on inside…
Culture does both…
EACH inside is a mystery…
A poem which has yet to be written,
in full…
And this reality begs for questioning into our ethical responsibilities,
and considerations,
as we assess and evaluate prospects,
for our Canucks family…
I worked with a little boy who spent all of Kindergarten,
drawing a world that I wanted to live in…
A world in which he saw me,
his teacher,
with big swirls of hair,
wearing fishnet stockings…
In Grade One he made dolls out of twist ties,
string,
and bits and pieces of fabric…
I gave him special permission to go into the top drawer of my teacher’s desk,
where I left secret supplies for doll making…
Each doll was different,
but she always had the same name,
which will remain anonymous,
so as to protect her identity,
and his…
He couldn’t do his schoolwork without holding a doll in his hand…
He dropped them on our walks through subdivisions,
as we searched for toadstools,
and magic…
Little dolls left behind like calling cards…
He told me,
at six years old,
with eyes older than grandfather time,
Making these dolls is the only way I can get all of the things that I see,
feel,
and know,
outside of my head…
She is a part of me,
but she’s also her own girl…
The resource teacher,
with her infinite skills and training,
wanted to know if he liked to play Barbies,
and wear dresses in the house center,
as part of her investigation and classification program…
If we get a diagnosis maybe we can help him…
Help him what???
He already was well on his way to knowing himself…
I had to hide in the paper cupboard,
and lick a shot glass clean,
after that School Based Team meeting,
banging my head against the same old wall…
Thinking about it right now,
gives me a splitting headache,
and a pain in the neck…
Whenever we went to Spokane,
my grandmother would talk to anybody…
even the homeless people…
Even the homeless guys who were talking to invisible people…
My grandmother would start talking to the invisible people too…
Well,
she said,
how can I be sure there aren’t invisible people in the world???
Scientists didn’t believe in the mountain gorilla for hundreds of years…
And now look…
So if scientists can be wrong,
then all of us can be wrong…
I mean,
what if all of those invisible people ARE scientists???
Think about that one…
— Arnold Spirit’s grandmother,
before she was killed by a drunk driver while walking home from a mini powwow…
Three years ago I was in a cranial sacral session…
The practitioner said,
Do you feel like when you’re learning something new,
all of the information goes into one side of your brain,
gets jammed up,
and you can’t get it over to the other side???
I just lay there under the her golden fleece,
rolling my eyes up into my head,
with intense recognition…
Well I’m going to help open up your blocked freeway,
by applying five grams of pressure…
Because now you’re ready for some more information,
and advanced integration…
I’ve driven on the autobahn in Germany,
at high speeds,
many a time…
This requires overcoming a lot of fear,
and finding your buried confidence,
to keep your hands on the wheel,
and steady pressure on the gas pedal…
Trading in your old Golf,
for a Carrera,
is formula one…
Please stay a child somewhere in your heart...
Butter fly…
The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore,
but to be in the lake…
You do not work the lake out…
It is an experience beyond thought…
— John Keats to Fannie Brawne, in Bright Star…
People ask me,
How did you start to write poetry???
I don’t really know,
except that when I chose to begin forgetting,
everything that I had been told about poetry,
and its rules,
or rather the academic rules,
and analysis,
that has been imposed on poetry,
and I set about dissolving,
creative blocks,
one by one,
it was like,
the flood gates,
opened up,
and the flow,
just couldn’t be stopped…
When I was in elementary school I lived in a crisis of confidence,
and perfection…
This continued on until I was thirty-eight and a half,
and I was well on my way down the road of deconstruction,
and individuation…
If poetry does not come as easily as leaves to a tree,
then it had better not come at all…
— John Keats in Bright Star
From the first year that I became a teacher,
in a professional sense,
I knew when I met students who were just like me…
And year after year,
I told parents,
about their six year old boys,
I know him like the back of my hand…
As a teacher I struggled with giving feedback,
especially about visual creations…
We started every morning with drawing,
or building,
so that everyone had time to settle in and work on their own projects,
visit,
and sync up…
One very little boy arrived in Kindergarten reading fluently…
He proved all the theories about broken homes,
and young parents,
oh so wrong…
His very shy father refused to wear pants,
unless he was going to a wedding or a funeral…
And he made it personal policy,
to avoid weddings and funerals,
so’s he could stay in his shorts…
One morning his little boy,
put a small hand up,
as he sat among his classmates,
on the carpet,
and said,
with chagrin,
Today is my dad’s birthday…
He just isn’t twenty-six anymore…
I said,
That’s got to be rough…
He said,
Yeah,
I’m really not sure how he’s going to cope…
Another day,
after he came to me,
to say he had finished his drawing,
I asked him,
Do you feel like you can never get down on paper,
what you see in your head???
He looked right into all of my eyes and said,
How did you know???
I said,
Because I am like that too…
And it makes me not want to draw at all…
In fact I stopped drawing when I was five,
and I didn’t start again until I was a teacher,
because I had to teach art…
Do you mind if I give you some suggestions of what you could add to your work???
He said,
I don’t mind…
Please do…
But I struggled inside with how hard to push,
and when to step back,
and accept a child’s words when he says,
I’m done…
And because this little boy could read my mind,
and he knew what I needed to hear,
right in that very moment,
I heard him say to his neighbour,
on his way back to his desk,
Our teacher always has good ideas for how I can make my work better…
His grandmother told me many stories about her only grandchild…
She said,
I have raised three children,
and my grandson is the smartest person that I have ever met…
He taught himself to read when he was three…
He has spent every day with me since he was two,
and his mom left…
I didn’t teach him letters or anything,
but I guess he saw me reading all of the time,
and I always listened to him,
and his questions…
She told me about how when he was three,
he and his auntie were watching spotlights,
circling in the night sky,
and he told her,
Those are God’s fingers spreading peace around the world…
We don’t need to teach children about poetry,
they already know it,
because poetry is what we are made of…
One afternoon this little boy finished his work,
before everyone else did…
I thought of making suggestions of how he could do more,
but another idea pushed its way into my mind,
and out of my mouth…
I said,
I want you to read a book,
and look for the most beautiful words,
that you would like to share,
with your classmates…
He got the job done,
with a lot of full moons in Capricorn…
When his classmates were finished their own journal writing,
we all gathered on the carpet to hear the littlest boy read,
in the biggest voice I have ever borne witness to…
And this is what he said,
From within the dimly lit barn a sound can be heard…
It is the painful lowing of a cow about to give birth…
When I was a girl I used to pray for God to send me a brother…
He hasn’t yet…
This Sunday morning I had a dream that Kyle Wellwood was in my kitchen,
and we were making scones for breakfast,
like he was the brother I’d been asking for…
I hesitated about putting bittersweet chocolate chips,
in the scones,
due to all the media attention on his girth…
Kyle suggested dried fruit instead,
for extra energy…
Later that afternoon I listened to the Canucks playing the Predators…
Whether you’re playing hockey in Nashville,
Moscow,
Prince George,
or anywhere else,
you really should have chocolate chips in your pre-game scones,
in order to put some pepper in your shot…
Note to Self:
Trust your instincts…
They know better,
than anything else…
Like the gravel that runs from my door to yours… (photo: Starshine)
Canuck'd 