if street intersections were poems Buteau Road and Woodland Lane would be filled with malapropisms creative interpretations of the English language barra-no-no instead of bow and arrow
the imagery a mix of tutus paired with daddy’s size 12 boots popcorn punctuating Murder She Wrote lush mountain laurel and the dank comfort of a canvas tent in summer
the words would swing through the explosive stanzas with very little editing but a whole lot of magic
if street intersections were poems Gilbertville Road and a long dirt driveway would be a quiet poem like Prufrock, the narrator’s life measured out not only in coffee spoons but in
drawings on the cellar walls and Jazzy mix zinnia seeds planted in the garden in summers railroad ties gliding underfoot
the mood would be comforting with new wisdom to glean upon each reading a poem to return to in times of trouble
if street intersections were poems Colquitt Ave NE and Highland Ave would be a poem for two voices filled with exotic words for full-figured like zaftig and Rubenesque [one] imagine if someone asked “What is a funeral?” and you actually answered like Jeopardy:
“Don’t bring chrysanthemums to a happy event in Italy because they are reserved for this solemn occasion.”
[two] I made the exact same joke! a month ago don’t you remember?
[both] we must be mind melding
if street intersections were poems the tapestry of streets like the tapestry of poetic forms Okame cherry trees lining hustling sidewalks in acrostic form juxtaposed with starlit rural epics
my life to read again and again
Essay
A Letter to my Students
For a recent assignment, my World Literature students read excerpts of Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates and “A Letter to My Nephew” by James Baldwin, both examples of epistolary writing intended for a younger family member. I asked my students to create a letter of their own to a younger relative or friend. Since it was a daunting task for many students who were used to more of a rigid writing structure, I decided to craft my own letter to my students as an example.
Dear students,
Growing up in central Massachusetts—and at that, a town with less than 3,000 people—I was what you might call sheltered. My life was, and still is, quite privileged. I grew up with two loving parents, a cozy home, and a home-cooked meal greeting me when I returned home from track practice. I had never been on an airplane, much less to a different country; consequently, books were my only view into other cultures and experiences. I devoured the rich smokey dens that suffused Oscar Wilde’s world of Dorian Gray and his descent into madness. I worried about the parallels I saw between the dystopia in George Orwell’s 1984 and what I was hearing about in the world around me (I worry about this more, now). I puzzled over Toni Morrison's Beloved: how she boldly played with magical realism, crafting loops of time and space.
I wanted to become a teacher because I wanted to continue to interact with these words and ideas. I wanted to share the texts that have stuck with me through the years. I wanted to become an English teacher, specifically, because I think a passion for reading, writing, and discussing will serve you throughout your life.
I am heartened by what I see in all of you. In the student who read The Hobbitand then proceeded to read the entire Lord of the Ring series, the student who hated ELA but then began to write poetry for fun and as an outlet, even submitting poems to be published. I see you parsing the truth through argument: is it okay to send someone to death? Are people who can’t read easier to control? I have watched Turkish students come in with choppy English in 6th grade and rise to native level by the end of 7th. One of the English language learners I teach wrote such a poignant story in creative writing that it made a friend of mine (you may know her as Ms. Outler) tear up. Here is a bit, from a story about a bee:
After I came out on the snow, after I achieved this success, I realized that my real purpose was unwarranted and illusory. It was painful to me that it was impossible to reach the sun. Sun warmed us up to prove that I am unreachable. On the one hand, the sweet smile of the sun and the comfort of success gave me peace of mind. The natural balance, trying to preserve nature and its fine-tuning, was at work. We can say with these facts, we need to talk to you, agree and find a way. Find a way to resume my generation. We need to work for this cycle. To make your honey and for me to defy white snows.
How is all of this curiosity, expression, and improvement going to help you in the future? I think in a few main ways. The first I’ll mention is the reason I usually turn to when I try to make a defense of my discipline: it will help you in any career you choose for your future. My mother is an architect, in fact, she is a president of her firm (this is an unnecessary detail, but I am very proud). She went to a women’s liberal arts college—much like me—and there she learned to convey her thoughts through writing and discussion. Today, in interviews, some of her colleagues rely on written note cards and come across as lacking confidence. They may have a degree from RISD and an ability to design innovative spaces, but they can’t communicate those ideas and talents to others.
But this is actually the reason I like the least and consider the least meaningful and true. Life is not just a treadmill from childhood and school to adulthood and career. I think literature’s value is more for those darker times, the times when nothing else will do. When my grandfather died we held an intimate service. My grandmother, a true stoic Yankee, recited one of my grandfather’s favorite Robert Frost poems. Her eyes stayed dry and her voice did not waver, and she was able to get through the poem, steeling herself with the words as she said them. Although it is permissible, even honorable, to cry, it’s also pretty cool that words can help us carry some of that pain. In my life, right after college, I applied for a Fulbright scholarship. I wanted to help a family I knew found a school to teach the basics of beekeeping. I spent ten months crafting my application and one terse email discarded my dream. Later I turned to the words of Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar, depressing, yet an odd comfort to me in the state I was in then. I related to this feeling of having at once so many options and then so quickly, seemingly, none.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked... I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
The last reason to study literature is perhaps the one that will serve you most invisibly. Through literature, you will become a better person. How can I say this with such aplomb? Because I see it in you every day. When you recognize your own biases, when you empathize with Gregor, when you speak up in class, when you argue civilly about the role of prison, when you learn about the life of a slave, a queer poet, a failed king, a Holocaust survivor.
I see it in you when you write your own story with clarity and pride. Sincerely, Ms. Haley Crockett
flash fiction
This piece was written under time constraint and was inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Mary Ventura and the Ninth Kingdom".
“Darling, deep breaths now. It was your choice to come on this train, so it was the best decision for you,” the woman next to you croons, her hand patting at your knee. “But, wait, no I didn’t choose this! My father and mother made me get on! They told me it would be good for me!” you wail through broken sobs. The train cruises forward. Your eyes jump around. The metal ceiling that once looked sturdy and sleek now mocks you, enclosing you in like a door to a bank vault. The boys ahead of you squabbling over a toy sounds like violent cats sparring through the night. Sipping the drink the woman ordered for you, the taste just starting to settle in your palate, the ginger ale somehow turns fiendish. The sunken red cherry is an animal’s bloody eye, the bubbles from the carbonation suffocating it like dung flies. “I didn’t choose this! There must be something I can do now!” Your arms brace the seat in front of you.
The woman slowly peels open the sides of her purse, pulling out a neatly folded paper. “Well, there might be one last move you can make, if you truly believe this was not a decision of free will.” The woman unfolds the paper, revealing a map. She calmly smoothes the creases. “See, the train is now arriving at the fifth kingdom.” She points to the small x on the map marked “5”. “If you can pull the emergency exit lever-- you see? that one by the door--you might be able to get off before the sixth.” Her finger traces between the “5” and “6” on the map. “After the sixth there are no more stops until the ninth, the final kingdom.” “And, and what do I do after I pull the lever?” you say, not sure whether to trust her no matter the answer. “I think you run, but no one who has chosen to get on the train has ever changed their mind. You’d be the first.” You get up from your seat, legs wobbling, and approach the lever. The train is about to leave the sixth station. This is your shot. “Alllllll ‘board!” Your fingers tremble over the lever, you feel a train attendant’s eyes on you, curious yet unworried. The doors close, the train lurches to a start and you finally understand, frightened by your own realization. It is your choice.