A Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers,

Rita Mae Brown once remarked onthe power language. She mused:“Language is the road map of aculture. It tells you where its peoplecome from and where they aregoing.” So, it is with great pleasurethat I invite you to rejoice and reflecton the beauty existing in each andevery word of this year’sOhio Teachers Write.

Yours in prose & poetry,Eimile Máiréad Green

Table of Contents

It Smelled of Secrets/ Joanne K. Dowdy...1

Untitled/ Joanne K. Dowdy...3

Learning Happiness/ Patricia Marie Hart...4

The Garden/ Janet E. Irvin...7

The Use of English: A Quasi-­Monologue of an Immigrant in the Third Person/ Hristina Keranova...11

Bare Feet on Hot Asphalt: A Microcosm/ Mick Ó Seasnáin…14

Sestina/ Jenny Petticord…16

The Voyage of Blackened Jim/ Lee Pop...18

About the Authors...20

It Smelled of SecretsJoanne K. Dowdy

This conversation takes place in the kitchen of a family house. The father, Jim, is ill and beingcared for in the family home.

Jim: Where did you come from?

Marlene: I was in dad's room. He got up coughing this morning.

J: I didn't know you were here. When did you come in?

M: I got in last night. You were already in bed. Your door was shut.

J: You could have knocked on the door. I would have slept better if I knew you were here.

M: Well, next time I'll know better. How can you hear him if the door is shut?

J: Believe me, if he needed me I would know.

M: He's 90 years old. Do you think he could shout loud enough to wake you?

J: What makes you think that I sleep during the night? My body is on alert all the time.

M: You sleep on the other side of the house. How long would it take you to get to his bed if hestarted to cramp?

J: Okay, Nurse Pam. Tomorrow I will sleep with the door open. Do you have any otherdirections while you're doing your rounds?

M: Well, if you didn't keep to yourself so much, this nursing gig might go a little easier for both ofus.

J: Well, we all have secrets. You keep your loves to yourself. The house smells of secrets.Theold man is a big secret, if you ask me.

M: Do we need to have that conversation again?

J: Not unless you need to remind me of my duty to a father who I never saw before last month.That conversation, it smelled of secrets!

Enter Janice.1

Jan: Whose secrets? What are we talking about?

M: We aren't talking about anything. How are you?

Jan: Fine. Unless you want to talk about the noise that you two are making first thing in themorning.

J: That was not my fault. I was just getting directions from Nurse Pam, here. Doing my best tokeep our little family happy, healthy, and wise.

M: No need for sarcasm, here. Jan, can you pick up the prescription from the pharmacy on yourway home from work? Dad's running low on that sleeping medicine.

Jan: Not a problem. At some point we all have to talk about food for the coming week. I have runout of ideas for his diet. Mashed potatoes, cream of corn, jello put in the blender… Sigh. There'sonly so much a girl can do.

J: Well, we can always hire a cook. We seem to be doing everything else to ruin our budget.What do you say Nurse P?

M: Okay, you want a fight, let's pick the topic. At least we can agree on that one thing. Howabout you getting a job?

J: Why is that something to fight about? You want me to work and take care of Dad? I thoughtmy job was taking care of the old man? My savings are dwindling and you want me to go out andfind a job so I can pay money to hire a nurse full time. That's what I call a scathingly brilliant idea.Good going!

Jan: If you two don't stop, Dad will be out of his bed crawling on the floor in this kitchen. I don'twant to see that show. The doctor says we have to keep him resting in a quiet environment.

M: Well, that would be easy if some people acted their age. I'm not going to ask them toconvince me that she has a loving bone in her body. That would be pushing my luck!

J: See, Jan. That's all the love I get in this house. You put off your life to help out your long lostparent, you sacrifice your sleep so that you can be at the beck and call of your siblings, andwhat do you get in return? A little sister with a bad attitude because she can't find her husband.No, sorry. Her husband doesn't want to find her. Sorry, I stand corrected, Marlene. I misspokeabout your family life. My bad.

Jan: Enough! I'm calling a truce between you two. I don't have the energy to listen to your sorrystory. We have a job to do. If we can't handle it, we hire a nurse. Nuff said?

2

UntitledJoanne K. Dowdy

Brown boxes, brown boxes.

Little brown boxes.

Full of young boys and girls.

And sometimes we see gold blooms

around those dark holes

and sometimes we hear bells

ringing for them

and now Richie Havens

has gone on to serenade their

meetings.

Brown boxes, brown boxes

little brown boxes

to remind us that

we don't teach lessons

for life

but share survival tips

for the next world.

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Learning Happiness

Patricia Marie Hart

Indubitably, most teachers realize at some point that their students often teach as much as they

learn. So it is that after fifteen years of teaching international students English both here and

abroad, I have learned some key skills for keeping content in life. It all began when I was first

teaching English to a South Korean eight year old girl. I noticed that everyday, she was filled

with genuine joy. Typhoons would strike, the economy would be in trouble, her favourite toy

would break, and she was perpetually happy. So I finally said to her, “Why are you always

happy?” She shrugged and said, “If I feel sad, I just put on music and sing and dance around.”

So it was that simple. You just put on a tune, hum and sing, and prance around. I tried it: It

worked like a charm. Much later, I asked another Korean student, “Why are you so happy all the

time?” He just shrugged and said, “Soccer and drawing. I do everyday” The grammar was off,

but the message clear: A few things (one thing at least) that don’t take much money and are

small doses of joy everyday.

Later, when teaching a gifted English high school class in an American International

school in Guangzhou, China, I had a class with not just gifted, but happy, students. 95% of the

class was intrinsically motivated in everything taught in the class, from Shakespeare to poetry to

the novel, Lord of the Flies. When I was teaching Lord of the Flies, I had the class make afake campfire, just as the stranded group of young boys does in the novel. We would sit around

the fake fire and pass around a conch. Each student would express their views about a theme

from the novel. So we would discuss whether human beings were naturally good or evil, whether

we all desire or need a leader, and so forth. I was cautious not to cover any political concepts,

as all foreign teachers were warned that the students actively participated in the Communist

youth parties, and one student per class was supposed to report any political taboos to their

organization.

But, the learners quickly directed our thematic discussions toward highly political topics.

They would all announce that the evil characters were symbolic of dictators-­ and that this is

often seen in communist governments. They had no qualms about providing examples, freely

talking about this. So finally I said, “I thought you couldn’t talk about stuff like this.” Two

responded simultaneously, “Guangzhou is far from Beijing”, meaning that they were so far South

in the country that the Communist capital city officials held little authority or control over them.

Hong Kong was not part of mainland China yet and was very close to Guangzhou. We could get

the ‘free’ Hong Kong news;; the Chinese firewall was easy to bypass;; and this too enabled the

class to know what they weren’t supposed to think. There was one student in this class who

came from a less fortunate background than the rest. She was one of these forever contented

people. Her mother was a teacher at the school I was teaching in, and so she was able to attend

without paying tuition. She lived right by me, and one day, while walking to a corner fruit market, I

saw her walking along, staring straight up at the sky. I laughed and said, “Grace, what are you

doing?” She just said, “I like to see the world in different ways.”

In Guangzhou, I always went shopping at a rural farmers market. It consisted of one

big tent, and many stalls inside, run by different families. Children would gather in one area,

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and some of the grandmothers and grandfathers would watch them. The first time I went, I wasaccosted by a band of kids from the age of 2 to 6. They started jumping on me and hanging offme, and then dragging me by the hand to different stands, pointing at produce like mangoes,spinach, and so forth, then fish, then eggs. They would just keep asking for the English name.So this started a tradition. I would teach them the English language for produce, counting andgeneral shopping;; they would teach me the Chinese. They were just so happy to learn it.

After a return to North America and teaching here for several years, I went to SouthAfrica through the English Language Fellow program. I was to teach at the University ofLimpopo, a rural university. Historically, it was the only university to train black doctors anddentists throughout apartheid. In fact, Nelson Mandela spoke at a graduation ceremony there in2010, recognizing its part in political activism that led to nationwide human rights.

My duties were to teach Academic English at the university, and then coordinateoutreach to NGOs and missions in impoverished rural communities that helped orphans andvulnerable children, as well as adults with HIV, TB and so forth.

In fact, I now have a happiness journal with entries from various students of variousnationalities throughout the years. Here are some of my favorite entries:

From UAE, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait:I smile because I call my family.I smile everyday (for no particular reason).I smile when I see movies on TV.I smile because I live today.I smile when I listen to music.I smile when I eat chicken.

From China, South Korea and Japan:I smile when I saw my love in the morning.I smile because I call my friend.I smile when I play PC games.I smile when I watch funny TV.I smile when I get good grades on things I work hard on.I smile when I learn something new.I smile when I eat rice/kimchi/hot pot/sushi.I smile at clean air in USA.

From South Africa and the Congo (DRC):I smile at the sunset and sunrise.I smile when I play soccer or win at stick fights.I smile when I eat starfish (canned tuna fish).I smile when I play with friends.I smile when I sing.I smile cuz I can read now.

5

As anyone could see from these entries, we all smile at pretty well the same things-­learning,rewards for hard work, friend, family, our definitions of beautiful weather, great entertainment,loving a hobby. So, to sum up the major causes of contentment among continents and cultures,at least those claimed in my classes, I wrote a little rhyme:

Intercultural ContentednessWhat does a smile mean to you?What picks you up when you feel blue?The Mid-­East smiles contentedlyAt family, friends, and great TVAs simple as a beloved’s sight over tea,Or just a friendly face, like you or me.The Asians smile at clean air,Good food and relaxing free of care,Learning new things, rewards for reaching aims,Friends, family, TV and PC games.South Africa and the DRCHave all these similarities:Children smile when they play with toysLike a soccer ball, just like all girls and boys.Sometimes just a pretty sunset of jacaranda treeBut the biggest smiles come with friends and family.Sometimes some are more alone,No family or friends in their home,But a heartfelt smile from anyone near,Creates a smile and quells silent tears.We all can relate, across the miles,To these simple causes of our smiles.So let us let go and simply grin,To enable more peace to begin.

6

The GardenJanet E. Irvin

When they were nineteen and drunk on life, Delia Frampton and Bonnie Smith decided to liveforever. Then, in case their plan took an unexpected detour, they made a pact. Whoever diedfirst would find a way to contact the other.

Shuffling from the bath to the bedroom, Delia knew her advanced emphysema meant herforever had almost arrived. Searching for her shoes, she noticed her husband’s jacket on thefloor. Out of habit, she checked the pockets and found the newspaper clipping announcingBonnie’s death.

A note included with the article, printed in the precise, crabbed style of one of Bonnie’sexes -­-­ Ned or Ed or Hugo, the signature was indecipherable-­-­ explained that Bonnie had goneout to work on a new flower bed, bent over to reposition one of her flagstones and suffered aheart attack. A neighbor discovered her sprawled among the salmon-­colored geraniums, onehand clutching the stone, the other knotted over her chest.

“She looked,” Ned-­Ed-­Hugo wrote, “surprised.”Delia didn’t believe it. Shocked, maybe. Startled perhaps. But after two facelifts, a tummy

tuck and a boob job, Bonnie knew very well she’d never be in better shape for the open-­casketviewing she planned before her cremation. Panting around the uneven gallop of her heart, Deliaacknowledged that her own departure wasn’t likely to be swift or dramatic, just a slow, steadysuffocation. But she had planned to go first. After all those years on stage, she had earned hergrand exit. She planned it all: a gala fundraiser to aid her fellow thespians. Sterling at her side,the devastated but supportive spouse. A perfect one-­act drama with just enough humor to leavethem teary-­eyed and sobbing. What happened between Bonnie and Sterling afterward didn’tmatter.

Standing in the bedroom closet, tears dripping from her chin, Delia felt a deep, abidingenvy. Bonnie had upstaged her. Damn it.

Tugging at the stretch of serpentine tubing connecting her to the oxygen tank in the hall,Delia puzzled over the last line of the note.

Bonnie wanted you to have the cremains.Stuffing the envelope into the pocket of her sweater, she did an inventory of the boxes

piled in the corner. No Fed Ex label. No UPS stamp. Nothing but the same old plastic bins, filledwith records, receipts and medical forms. She tugged at the accordion folder holding thephotographs. She and Bonnie in the dorm. Yoga class. St. Patrick’s Day, green beer drippingdown their chins. Graduation. The agreement.

They’d cut their wrists, the blood smeared beneath their signatures. I swear whoeverdies first will come back and tell the other all about it. Delia Bonnie 10/13/1969

Delia tucked the contract next to the death announcement. Bonnie’s urn had to be heresomewhere. She crawled back into the tangle of old shoes and Christmas boxes just as Sterlingpadded into the bedroom. He stepped over the oxygen tube, shrugged out of his jeans. Whenthe shower started, she shoved the photos back in the folder and crawled out of the room.

Eating lunch on the balcony overlooking the backyard, Delia listened to the sounds of her7

husband dressing for work. She took small bites of her sandwich, swallowing around the lump inher throat as she practiced asking about Bonnie’s ashes.

“Delia?” Sterling’s clear tenor drifted up from the plot covering the back third oftheir half-­acre. “I’m leaving.”

Delia pushed herself upright to look out at the garden. A stretch of bare earth stared backat her, the plants torn up, discarded. The stakes Sterling had set at the head of each rowremained, but the seed packets nailed there were gone. Shuffling down the hall, she crossed thepolished wood floor to the French doors that opened at ground level. In her nose, oxygen hissed,a reminder of the debt she owed for all those cigarettes. She recognized Bonnie’s voice in thehissing. Those things are gonna kill you, Dee.

Sterling stood at the far edge of the plot he’d put in when she expressed interest insharing Bonnie’s passion for plants. Her request had caught him off guard, but after all, hadn’tthe three of them shared everything for half a century? Freshman orientation. Threemiscarriages. A breast cancer scare. Why not a garden?

In the beginning, Delia watched him work the dirt, while shadows crept like spiders overthe belly of the land. As her lungs failed, he checked moon charts and almanacs, following someancient farmer’s code. Hands blistered from shoveling, he shared his vision for the land, theheady aroma of rebirth mingled with his aftershave. Delia almost believed him.

“I’ve planted seeds,” he said. “We’ll harvest them together.”What we did he imagine? She shrugged off his optimism, crushed by the need to make

amends, shamed by the memory of how they’d all began. The white lies she’d offered when he’dasked to speak to Bonnie. The pale pink of the false pregnancy test she used to catch him. Thepoisoned red apple of her father’s money to bankroll his fledgling real estate firm.

When Bonnie went to Palm Springs in May to have her face lifted, Sterling announced hisintention to attend a realtor’s convention in Atlanta. After his return, she noticed the wrinkles onhis forehead were gone.

“Traveling agrees with you,” Delia said.Sterling smiled. “It’s the garden,” he said. “Makes me feel young again.”June and July slipped by. The rosemary and sage filled out. Cone flowers drooped heavy

on their stalks. The marigolds edging the plot flashed orange and red hearts. Sterling acquired ahorticultural vocabulary, a library of catalogues and a penchant for discussing the weather.Bonnie sent a card, congratulating their endeavor.

Once, unable to sleep, Delia heard him murmuring into the phone in the den, his voicejubilant as he discussed fertilizer and next year’s plantings.

“I’m a patient man.” His words levitated above the transom divider. “What’s onemore winter?”

Hampered by her breathing, Delia used binoculars to inspect the garden. One morning inAugust, she spotted a disturbance among the beans. When she mentioned it to Sterling, heshrugged.

8

“It’s a garden. All kinds of things pass through.”

When she mentioned it to Bonnie, her friend laughed.

“You have a garden snake, silly. It’ll keep the vermin out.”

“It gives me the creeps,” Delia said.

“Life gives you the creeps, Dee.”

It wasn’t the first time Bonnie had accused her of being negative. In botany class, Bonnie

paid attention and got an A. Delia grumbled about the workload, spent class time memorizing

Lady MacBeth’s lines and got a D. Sterling, sandwiched between them, paid equal attention until

they forced him to choose.

“You expect everyone to pick you,” Bonnie had yelled. “Maybe Sterling likes me better.”

“You don’t think I’m good enough for him,” Delia said.

“No,” Bonnie said, “you’re no good for him.”

Sterling called Delia’s name again. In her pocket, Bonnie’s death notice rasped against

the contract they had signed. She shuffled outside. Down by the garden, a thin wind lifted

Sterling’s hair, dusted now with a fine white powder. Ash dotted the shoulders of his suit,

freckled his loafers. More ashes speckled the suitcase on the grass. Foamy green packing

pellets clung to the knees of his trousers.

“What,” she said, “are you doing?”

“Planting.”

“It’s too late for that, Sterling.”

Sterling wiped his lips. “No,” he said, “I think the time is just right.”

Delia crossed her arms over the sudden clutching in her chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You found the note.”

“You should have told me.”

“She sent them to me,” Sterling said.

“I deserved to know.”

“It wasn’t my place to tell you.” Sterling slapped the dirt from his hands.

“Where are you going?”

“Do you care?”

Delia stared at the mound of dying plants. “I tried, Sterling.”

Sterling picked up the suitcase and started up the hill. Something sinuous and scaly

detached itself from the sole of his right shoe and lay like a shadow between them.

“Things don’t always go the way you plan,” he said.

Stumbling after him, Delia slipped and fell. One hand touched the leaf that turned into the

skin of a snake, abandoned and stiff and curled in upon itself. In the garden, something

whispered her name.

Sterling didn’t return. Delia sat in her chair, waiting for the growl of the garage door. In the

foyer, the grandfather clock chimed her concern. If only she had died first. Then Sterling and

Bonnie could be together, the way they were supposed to be. In the garden, white sprouts

beckoned. Above, a fingernail moon.

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Gasping for air, Delia tugged at the oxygen tube, willing it to stretch with her. The tube,

hissing, refused. Unseating the plugs from her nostrils, she crept toward the garden. Moonlight

caressed Bonnie’s urn.

When Delia reached the scattering of ashes, her legs buckled. She fell, clutching at the

dirt that shifted, molding itself to her body. Reaching for the urn, she detected the thin rustle of

grief.

Something sharp poked her stomach. She pushed at the ground. It pushed back. Thin

bone fingers lifted out of the soil, soundless and grasping, uncurling to pull at her blouse. She

cried out. The bones stretched upward, curving around her chest. She inhaled, smelling the

dank compost of the past feeding the seeds of Bonnie’s dead self. The wind picked up. Bonnie’s

fingers tightened around her neck.

Listen. Bonnie’s voice in her ear, Bonnie’s breath on her neck. Listen.The skeletal plants scraped at her arms, her legs. Delia scratched at her skin. Her hand

grew slick, blood from the scratches leaching into the eager earth. The bones tore out the

contract. Exhausted, Delia lay back, waiting for the rustling to stop.

10

The Use of English:A Quasi-­monologue of an Immigrant in the Third Person

Hristina Keranova

Well, in the past it was different… He liked going back there to savor the meaningof the present. How far he’d come and how hard it was! He never liked this country and didnot want to come here! When he came, he was shocked to find nothing worth seeing. Thissouthern state was empty, nothing to see or do, unlike the cozy urban Europe, with the hustleand bustle and all the cafes on the streets! He wanted back, but if he’d returned, he wouldhave been a loser. Weren’t the streets in the U.S. paved with gold? Nobody back home onthe Balkans would have believed it was no use being here. He had to get some of that goldand if he were to stay, he had to imagine it …

He applied to college right away because he was sure college was the way to an easierlife with less work. As a student he’d never been excellent, but always good, which was hardto be and not to be. A bad student back home meant a bad person, bad everything, and then inhis culture, knowledge was something people were simply born with. It did not come from books.He was careful not to admit that he’d been studying to pass his exams, or that he needed helpbecause it meant he didn’t have that knowledge, which was a shame! When teachers called himlazy, it was good because lazy meant smart and careless, with knowledge simply happening tohim, the way it was supposed to.

Of course, college was a must for the good life after, but there were other thingshe was expected to do and to brag about, things more urgent and interesting than learning, likeparties, girls… These made him a man in the eyes of his peers. Oh, he liked that college life!When thinking about that time later, he felt the urge to apologize for it, but he was not alwayssorry because he was learning again. About life. For him, these two had always run together. Iflife was no good, why study? Self-­enhancement? You must be kidding! Still he’d always felt itsundertow, a desire for intelligence and knowledge he was not born with but could learn fromothers.

In his ex-­socialist country, times were real hard after it all ended. There were nojobs and with a college degree, you could end up driving a truck for a living. Why study then?Well, there were subjects he’d always been interested in and that made learning easier, butthe rest? He couldn’t force himself to study anything that did not appeal to him or promised nofuture! When he did, it was like, “Let’s just do it!” Just go through the motions, get rid of it, and goon to something really interesting. If he was interested, everything was easy to learn, likegeography with its maps of distant countries. Maps attracted him to the unknown, and then,strangely, they made it familiar. But English … Well, he loved how it sounded, but it was hishardest subject.

It all started well when his father brought home some tapes with “Mary Had a LittleLamb,” and he spent time trying to repeat and understand. He loved it, but in class it wasdifferent ... He had no freedom: The teachers wanted to hear him repeat what they said. If theteacher said something was grey, well, it had to be … It had to be! Did he fight for his opinions?Yes, he challenged the teachers sometimes, and “Get out!” wouldn’t bother him: He discoveredthat he loved to challenge. 11

His best teachers, though, were the strict ones. He respected their strict requirements

when they went together with his love for the subject, like art and his art teacher. Nobody else

liked that teacher, but he wanted to excel in art, and the teacher sensed his talent and

encouraged him. That teacher treated students like adults. He’d criticize them about the messy

hair, the torn jeans, the high heels, but he wouldn’t bother parents. Because the teacher trusted

him to change on his own, he felt like a man.

The other strict teacher in college was a completely different story. Math was not his

favorite subject, so it was like being in the army. You had to do it! Whatever you were or wanted

to know did not matter. The strictness was a straight jacket, so he cheated on exams, copied

from notes, and felt content when he passed. He wouldn’t have been satisfied if he had cared for

the subject or the teacher, but he didn’t, and part of it was because engineering and math were

not what he wanted to do but what his parents chose for him.

In college here, he felt free because he enjoyed the luxury to disagree and challenge the

opinions of others, and it was shocking and exciting! When he first enrolled, college was hard

because there were other things to attend to. He had to situate himself financially to avoid the

stress of depending on the Friday check. Well, after dropping out three times and working hard,

but discovered it was not enough. He had known that all the time, but first things first, you know.

It was business logistics he wanted to study, but studying and going to college was not

about a good job any more. It was about him and learning how to talk and use perfect English,

like his teachers. That command of English would make people listen and be impressed! “My

God,” he often whispered in admiration. How beautiful it sounded! It did not even matter what

they said. How was more important. Perfect grammar and articulation were what he needed to

communicate better with those below and above him in the social hierarchy. His A’s in grammar

kept him in college this time. They meant he was a good student and “a good everything,” as

they’d say in his culture;; they meant his work was appreciated, and it was wonderful to be

successful.

In class, he tried the ways of learning the teachers suggested, but he knew he was the

only person responsible-­-­ at home, with the book. That way if he failed, he’d know it was his

own fault and nobody else’s. His old habits of reading and summing up the text out loud never

failed him. He’d rather not underline, or outline, or take notes because all these only made

him look smart. Still, he tried in class-­-­ drew tables, graphs, took notes, and everyone thought he

was so well organized! But he knew how to cope on his own and then, how he learned was

nobody’s business! He wouldn’t have to compromise to pass.

Sometimes, when he asked for more specific feedback on errors, the teachers thought

he was aggressive, but he was just eager to get better and feel right. And again, the teachers’

tolerance did not help him learn;; he would forget his assignments and then feel ashamed!

Teachers in America often sounded like friends, but he needed to feel their authority if he was to

put more effort into studying and learning.

Listening and asking questions were his classroom strategies. He also liked discussions

in groups because he got to learn from other students, from their stories. As for writing and

grammar, well, he was the best, much to his surprise. The natives spoke in perfect accents but

didn’t know things like sentence boundaries! He taught his classmates how to write a good

12

sentence, and that gave him confidence that was not about clothes and cars. It brought him

prestige of another kind as talking and writing in English felt less like weight lifting. Now, he not

only knew how to make the budget of the transportation department he managed, but also how

to explain it to others. That made the place he earned comfortable and better fitting;; he would

never be taken for somebody he was not, not like it happened in Cops on TV. His perfectEnglish was yet another guarantee that he belonged to the middle walks of life.

He did not like this country when he came here, but he wanted to become a part of it, and

better English meant professional advancement but also acceptance, approval, and a chance to

make a life he didn’t used to like. How he learned, though, was up to him. His old ways of

learning still worked. They earned him good grades that made him feel appreciated here, secure

and belonging.

13

Bare Feet on Hot Asphalt: A Microcosm

Mick Ó Seasnáin

I hop over the wooden, Lincoln Log fence, waist high and rotting, and think to myself,“Ouch! This asphalt’s too hot, today!”

My face shifts into an unusual mix of smiling grimace – the blacktop path to theneighborhood park has always been the test to see how good the pool is going to feel. Hungrily,my feet reach for a nearby patch of grass, respite, to escape that long black frying pan.

The hotter the path, the longer you stay at the pool, the more rest-­period ball games… Itell myself, pleadingly, and I know it must happen. All my thoughts blur into a sprint past the rustyjungle gym. With mitt, bat, and tennis ball in hand, I am aching to end my grueling journey of thirtyyards or so, but, all the time, I am careful not to scrape my toes on the path (Or else…mom willsting me with the washcloth – “Soap and water stop infections,” she says, as if it matters).

Arriving at the pool, I realize by the deserted sound, the absence of splashes, thatrest-­period is under way. At this time of day, just about everyone is in one of two places, the poolor the small vacant lot to the back of the pool house.

I join my friends and they quickly assign me to the fielding team. I argue, “Hey! I brangthe ball! I should be batting!” After they built the new houses, we couldn’t use the hard balls and Isaved the game with our worn out tennis balls. I’m right! I think.

“We had to wait for you,” they reply, stoically. Ironclad logic. Reluctantly, I agree. I dragmy feet to left field, standing ready with my hands firmly pushing on my knees.

“Here Batta-­batta-­batta!” I yell.“We need a pitch-­yer, not a belly itch-­yer!” Jason adds.“Zip it by ‘em Brandon!” calls Sammy, Brandon’s devoted little brother.Ziegler, from Brahms Circle, steps up. We stop heckling and stand in silent awe, waiting,

tense. He’s most powerful of us all. He knows it. He waits. Brandon pitches. Zigs swings,makes short work of the ball, driving it quickly, quickly on its long journey over the fence, andit’s… lost. That’s another tennis ball that we will never lay our eyes on again, because no one isfond of the rusty cuts that the tall outfield fence leaves on our feet. Ziegler jogs while we watch.All is noise: screams, motions, taunts, bragging, and…

In an instant, time stops. The sharp sound of the whistle momentarily paralyses and thenjerks us from the lot, launching a stampede of testosterone driven studs to the diving board in agroup attempt to strut in front of Ashley, the lifeguard with dishwater blond hair. Chest out,shoulders back, gut sucked in – hold the breath, hoooold it….Puffffffff – Out it comes like afarting dog.

We all try to catch her eye, though we can not see her eyes behind the reflectivesunglasses she wears. No one knew whether her eyes were electric blue or sea foam green orlilac purple (they were brown). We love the thought of her…

“Who can make the biggest splash?!” demands Sammy, oblivious to Ashley.

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“Me,mEEEE,

me-­me-­me-­me,ME!

Meep-­meep…” responds the mass.A waterlogged collage of cannon balls, belly flops, and can openers crudely deters any

feminine allure as our not-­so-­attractive competition accelerates into full force. We quickly tradethe sweet smell of Ashley’s hair for the eye-­watering odor of chlorine in our hair and theaftertaste in our throats. That is the way it is (the way it was);; this fun is far more important thanthe young love that we are not so prompt to jump into.

In time, we will allow the young and competitive ladies who we are not interested in rightnow, on purpose, to join our fun. New games of sharks and minnows, mums the word, and waterwrestling replace the old springboard competitions. In time, we play different games, games we’llnever forget.

The whistle that once signaled a beginning signs the end, for now. The cycle continuesfor a little while. Wet and then dusty, we never once stop to shower off before we jump in orbefore we race to be first at bat or before we walk home over the cool pitch and, rarely, beforewe return… It wasn’t wrong, not for us.

In the years that follow, our park changes. Crab apple-­fighting trees are cut down,replaced by pavilion, grills, and volleyball net. A sign says, NO BIKES! prohibiting us fromracing up the sidewalk and leaving our chariots outside the pool gates. They must be placedNEATLY IN THE BIKE RACK, near the freshly painted jungle gym. Small stones that do notbuild as well into imaginary castles replace sand around the jungle gym. They even cutbranches out of the trees that we first learned to climb. This is our introduction to the word“lawsuits.”

We watch. Sometimes we cry when no one else is paying attention. New kids obey therules, blindly;; young kids forgot or never knew that white sands were there for them, thatbranches reached down to them, that wild berries and choker cherries called to them, yearningto be thrown. These kids circulate around the playground, laughing and jumping and squealing,unaware that the whole park was once alive, playing with us and growing up with us.

We teach the younger kids how to climb on top of the new pavilion, sit on the roof, andjump off. We train them to flip the glossy new benches on their sides, the long way, to reachbranches farther up the old climbing trees.

They think if they break the benches we will be pleased – we are not, although we nevertell them. They think that their unblemished, NASA-­technology tennis shoes will earn praise – weignore them and walk barefoot in the grass where their shoes can’t play. They retreat to theswings – back and forth, back and forth, back and forth – they go nowhere and grow bored.Then, they disappear indoors to video games, and are lost to us. We no longer speak;; they text.

We learn to accept the change, but our world will never be the same. Paradise washacked away with the berry-­fighting bushes, and bartered for with bright yellow, blue, red, andgreen paint for the jungle gyms. But, some things will never change. I still smile when I burn mynaked feet on hot asphalt.

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SestinaJenny Petticord

“How will you include differentiated instruction in your classroom?”

the facilitator asks me. Keep in mind the theories of adolescent

development, pre-­assess to determine readiness, and embrace the students’ concerns.

Recall Gardner’s intelligences and the taxonomy of Bloom,

level activities and resources;; yet maintain the same

curricula. It’s an overwhelming amount of work.

Golden, or another student like him, mumbles “This just doesn’t work

for me.” Year after year, and classroom after classroom,

Golden, or another student like him, struggles to crack the same

assignments that are finished by all of the other adolescents

who surround him. Who is this Bloom

dude, anyway? Fitting in and staying safe are his primary concerns.

Meeting the needs of ESL students and at-­risk learners concerns

me. Like other teachers faced with diversity, I work

on more interventions. I want to see my humbler students flourish and bloom.

And, have I noticed students like Jonathan? Sure, they’ve been in my classroom

all along: the other end of the spectrum of adolescence-­-­

not causing trouble, making good grades, just doing more of the same.

To begin requires admitting that all students will not benefit from the same

lesson plan. (I’m not the only teacher with preparedness concerns,

am I?) Next, map objectives and determine twenty-­some adolescents’

cognitive readiness for the required, sure-­to-­be-­tested work.

Third, assemble varied media-­-­videos, presentations, music, and other grades’ classroom

texts-­-­to engage students’ interests and intelligences before returning to Bloom.

How to challenge some while shoring up others? I must once more turn to Bloom.

Doppelganger activities look alike on the outside;; tiered, they are not the same.

The “with it” kids notice and worry about alliances in the classroom.

They grumble about harder work or misplaced friends. Also, I am concerned

that students will distrust like letter grades for unlike work.

Awareness of self and others is an awkward earmark of adolescence.

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Middle school teachers know what a wonderful, mottled time of life is adolescence!Its physical and emotional range rivals the scope of verbs listed in Bloom’sTaxonomy. Despite their differences, I want each young adult to workto his full promise, and I recognize their targets may not—will not-­-­ look the same.I trust my special attention to sons and daughters will calm certain concernsof parents so that they will support differentiated instruction in my classroom.

Time to work. For me, wait the adolescents,waits the classroom, waits Bloom’sTaxonomy. We are not the same. Throw off concerns.

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The Voyage of Blackened JimLee Pop

Days long dim since I heard of Jim, a wreckage of a man.

Was finally let out of his prison bout, to the creek side he began.

Now Jim did go, though he hungered so, on and on his jaunt progressed.

He forged ahead, through the woods he sped, thinking only of his quest.

‘Twas a winter’s day, all bleak and gray;; it matched Jim’s very soul.

Blackened heart had he, scowled face you see, on and onward toward his goal.

Snarling lips and grin, soiled—eyes to chin, Jim’s face ablaze and mad;;

To the creek side fast, arriving at last, weary from the trek he’d had.

In the creek, ice bobbed, and the owls sobbed, night had fallen on the land.

Freezing snowflakes fell, cold through to hell, but across he went as planned.

In the frigid air and dripping despair, Jim’s hard heart produced an ache.

As the time drew near, it was coming clear, and his resolve began to shake.

For as Jim swam ‘cross the icy dam, he worried how he’d feel

When he reached the end of his journey’s bend, what his true heart would reveal.

I know I’ll swim, reckoned icy Jim, ‘till I reach the other side.What I don’t know now, he furrowed his brow, is whether I’ll be denied.

Having been made hard being locked and barred, became he crude and raw.

But in Jim’s soul, though it gaped with hole, his scorn began to thaw.

Fingertips a stretch, his head a wretch, alas the creek he fully spanned.

Up the bank he clawed, while his sorrow sawed—through and through him, deep demand.

The dark of Jim’s heart crumbled apart as the venom began to fade.

And in its place, the slightest trace, of change was faintly made.

For Jim knew not his daughter’s lot;; would she gladly greet her old man?

After many a year without him near, what became of little Ann?

Now Jim as a dad hadn’t been half bad;; he had loved his daughter so,

But morals he'd lacked and vices he'd packed, and the law had come to know.

So off Jim had gone, locked up like a con. “Goodbye,” eyes brimmed with tears.

And not a day ever came when he didn't feel the shame, such regret of losing years.

The moon overhead, the land frozen dead, Jim journeyed forward more.

All night he traversed, reunion he rehearsed, till at last came he to the store.

Morning had dawned, stretched and yawned, the clerk behind the counter stood.

“Jim!” said he, “you’re out! I’ll be!” and greeted his old friend good.

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“Mate?” Jim asked, “time has passed, but I’m dying to see my sweet Ann.”Jim’s lips made a frown as he wondered way down if she had ever forgot her old man.The clerk’s eyes fell—a momentary tell—but lost on Jim it was not.“Tell me, old pal. Please, where’s my gal?” Jim implored, his voice pulled taut.

Painted with pains, sorrow that stains, the clerk’s head wagged to and fro.In a whisper so still, said he growing ill, “Jim, I thought by now you would know…”And as Jim listened and his green eyes glistened, his new freedom crumpled away.There in his friend’s store, became his heart sore, became his heart achingly gray.

“Afflicted was she,” spoke the clerk dolefully, “Chum, I heard it had gotten real bad.”And Jim was too late, for Ann had met fate, and the hollow air hung, frozen sad.Out stumbled Jim, broken and grim—years of hope, of yearn spent in vain.His Annie was dead, Jim’s heart now a thread, now a fiber wound tightly in pain.

Anguish profound, joy and hope drowned, Jim’s head sagged to his chest.With nowhere to be, with no Ann to see, he grew ever further depressed.And so blackened Jim—what came of him, a man full of awful remorse?Last that I knew, Jim couldn’t make do, he couldn’t continue his course.

His longing alone echoed through bone, he yearned for his daughter so.But finding it vain to pine without gain, he resigned all hope, I know.Collapsed soul had he, and although he was free, could not his heart be mended.So sad over Ann, this wreck of a man, Jim’s voyage indeed had ended.

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About the Authors

Joanne K. DowdyA Professor of Adolescent/ Adult Literacy at Kent State University, Dowdy’s research interestsinclude women and literacy, drama in education, and video technology in qualitative researcheducation. Her book Ph.D. Stories: Conservations with My Sisters received the OutstandingBook Award in 2009 by the American Educational Research Association Narrative andResearch SIG.

Patricia Marie HartPatricia Hart has over fourteen years’ experience teaching in North America, South Africa andAsia. She is currently working at the University of Dayton. She also did community outreachprojects in South Africa. She has an M. Ed. in ELT/ TESOL, a B.S., and two TESL teachingcertificates. She has written articles for publications in Canada, Ireland, South Korea, and China.

Janet E. IrvinAn Adjunct Instructor of Spanish at Wright State University, Irvin does her best creative thinkingwhile paddling a canoe. Her stories have appeared in and won awards from numerous print andonline publications, including Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, the Oyez Review, OASISJournal, SPARK a creative anthology and DARK TALES.Janet may be contacted at janet@janetirvin.com.

Hristina KeranovaHristina Keranova is originally from Bulgaria. She has taught English for 15 years in Ohio andGeorgia. She writes short essays and translates mainly poetry from both English and Bulgarianand has published in several online and print literary journals.

Mick Ó SeasnáinMick Ó Seasnáin teaches and coaches at Wooster High School;; he received a B.A. fromBaldwin Wallace University and an M.A.T. from Miami University. Mick and his lovely wife Amyreside in Wooster with their three children.If you'd like, e-­mail Mick at wstr_msexton@woostercityschools.org.

Jenny PetticordJenny Petticord is an ESL teacher and Wilson Reading System tutor for Westlake City SchoolDistrict. This poem, a first attempt at writing in the sestina form, is the capstone project for acontinuing education class about differentiation in the middle grades.

Lee PopLee Pop is a reader, a writer, a learner, and a teacher. She is a horse and dalmatian lover, anartist, a creator, and a dreamer. Among her passions is teaching seventh grade at the OrangeCity School District in Northeast Ohio. Contact her at leejpop@gmail.com or follow her onTwitter @LeePopBMS. 20