November 02nd, 2015

Crumbs in the Chillest Land--Resurrecting Hope through Writing
Summary for Nanowrimo:
An auspicious start to a collection of crumbs scattered for hope. In Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Hope is a Thing with Feathers,” the little metaphoric bird is buffeted by storms but asks nothing from the speaker—not a crumb. Hope is that brave, sometimes miniscule creature perched in the soul—refusing to give up to despair. Asking nothing and persevering despite the storm. Watchful of the thing hiding in the closet.
This collection of crumbs will be nonfiction accounts taken from life. Teaching in an urban public school during the day feeds the dramatic side of the novel. The artistic part of the process is recording my observations. During the last week in October alone, I said goodbye to a student who was moving to Baltimore, grieved for a teacher who succumbed to cancer at 51, hugged a student who told me he was entering residential rehab for alcoholism, calmed students after a two brutal fights that became a small riot, and cautioned yet comforted a co-teacher who made a decision that may cost her career. I also took part in a nonsensical Halloween celebration with my department to raise funds for another co-teacher who is undergoing chemotherapy. There have been births, deaths (one of a seventeen-year old), arguments and soothing conversations. These are the crumbs that the little hope in Dickinson's poem did not demand but that I will. 
 

1
Two events in the last week rise to the rim of memory:  the request to write a character reference and the announcement of the death of a colleague.
I knew my co-worker was terminally ill with cancer, that she had gone into hospice and that her daughters (one a former student and Facebook friend) were at her side. The announcement and moment of silence that followed during Friday morning homeroom routines tilted an already sliding planet. Cancer is a blight that strikes down the best, the blasé and the worst with equal measure. The disease sneaks into the back door, takes its time wandering through the contents of a life and then chooses which room to announce its presence. When it arrives, we rush to contain it, and then it hides in the closet and we forget it for a while. If we’re lucky.
 
The character reference was for a young man whom I’ve known for most of his life. In one defining afternoon, he and his younger cousins sat in my living room and waited for the police to arrive. His father had hit him the previous night which resulted in a black eye that had spread onto his cheekbone and run like lumpy fingers into his buzz-cut hair. It hurt to look at him. The violence in their family had festered into outbursts that resulted in ex-parte orders, slow-burning grudges, but weird, abiding love that clashed with the senseless arguments.
 
The boy who would grow into a man who needed help this week was destined to disappointment with his parents, three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, the near deaths of his wife and first child, and the pressures of being the father of a child with cerebral palsy. During the interview with the police in my living room when he was twelve and marked by standing up to an adult bully, I remember wanting to shake all of them. Couldn’t anyone see the pattern of violence that would reverberate and touch everyone? Couldn’t they see that saving them started with this moment with the boy, his father and mother? But we did nothing. We followed the law and the will of those intimately involved. We allowed the violence to fester and grow in the closet.
 
An auspicious start to a collection of crumbs scattered for hope. In Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Hope is a Thing with Feathers,” the little metaphoric bird is buffeted by storms but asks nothing from the speaker—not a crumb. Hope is that brave, sometimes miniscule creature perched in the soul—refusing to give up to despair. Asking nothing and persevering despite the storm. Watchful of the thing hiding in the closet.
Guided by economy and a yen for the sun, I walked the boardwalk in Ocean City yesterday. I had a three o’clock rendezvous at the Dunes for tea, but Becca had a party on 81st at one-thirty. Instead of wasting gas and patience, I drove into the outskirts of town and began a ramble down the boards toward the Ferris wheel at the inlet. After a week of chafing against the demands of other people, it was a relief to be alone for an hour.
The sun shone directly in my eyes and made it impossible to see people, dogs and bikes coming in my direction, so I looked out to the beach. The breakers were stacked in series of threes, about four foot high and tossing themselves directly onto a beach shortened by recent storms. The stretches of hilly beach were sparsely populated, a smattering of diehard surfers paddled out and rode back and a few sunbathers lay in sweats asleep. Only the year-round shops opened their doors with merchandise and signs spewed out to attract the off-season strollers. Conversations from balconies and storefronts were whisked away in the strong breeze. I walked as far as 4th Street and then turned around worried that I needed time to walk back to the car.
 
I felt good—warm from the sun, muscles stretched and limber, invisible among the other walking people. It is good to slough away the layers and walk without purpose. It is good to watch the grey ocean roll and froth itself into the madness of hurling to shore. I pick up the crumbs and continue my walk into the distance. I know my path though I cannot be sure the way will be lighted. ​