During class, despite the fact that we're nearly completely cut off from the world, we learned that O.J. Simpson was acquitted. The shock wave goes through the group. Nicole, my name is Nicole… said a student. He ought to be behind bars. Someone else said Nicole's parents have custody of the children. Imagine believing that O.J. Simpson murdered your daughter and now he wants the children back?
Tonight my voice begins to fail me; in the business of teaching, it's an occupational hazards. To lose one's voice. A metaphor for the poet attempting to restore authentic voice to her students. I need to protect my throat more. Only two more classes left. It's been an intense week.
The great silk wall nears completion, it is stunning to see so many self-portraits on silk, each one so individualistic. Most of the poetry that the students wrote, was worthless but what to expect with only one session in ninth grade? Developing the poetic voice takes time. I had to let go of my expectations.
I'm having to fight with kids in order to get them to work, but I also need to realize that I don't have a teacher backup, and I'm holding their attention for three hours on and on my own. It's different than teaching at the Luther Burbank Center because kids want to be there. We are all reeling under the verdict. Something has murdered trust. These children I teach, we are one tribe. The poetry of rage over injustice is on their lips.
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