And We Complain About the Shape of Our Children

meditations on my five-month experience in the New York educational system

I

young but tired so

beyond bed

bones stained deep blue weary

wrung of light

The poison cloud hanging over brown children --it is called school. In New York City it is called school--I am passing through and I call it war, call it battle field of adult insanity-- with children and tests thrown in for good measure, call it a business, call it a shame, call it a head shaking low hum like when Grandma was breaking and a wordless song helped mend her, call it like I see it, like hands scrambling to keep jobs they never fully intended to do

And we complain about the shape of our children

I

young but old

eyes old

that’s why I wear the glasses

eyes seen

eyes seeing through

But the children are more tired than I am.  Watch their eyes traveling concrete, see them flinch before they let fly a smile, hear lonely inching up their throats, feel them walk together like falling tears

And I wanted to provide rest: here, sit with your own beauty, you are not wrong here, we are listening listening listening, and do you hear? Do you hear the glimmer in his, in her, in your voice? I wanted to say that. I simply wanted to say it to each and every child so that he or she could walk away owning the sound of their own pricelessness

But this poison--and it is called a school, these toxins where water should come and cleanse.  People, we are a river together.  We are a stream and a sea together, we could be more than evaporating drops of ego.  We are an affirmation together, we are our children’s rallying cry, we could aim our weapons at doubt and fear instead of taking down each other. People.

In the presence of paychecks 

and in the absence of mind…

adults form alliances  the young ones watch

And then we complain about the shape of our children

while our hands are busy

creating the mold.