I’ve only heard the story once.
It came straight from the source
but was parceled out through shot glasses.
Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts.
Back then and over there, their high school
segregated genders, which meant
it was harder to pass notes during math class,
harder to schedule study dates that were
glorified excuses for accidental contact.
It also meant their love was more destined.

They grew up in the same building.
His family, being only slightly richer,
lived on the ground floor
while hers took the 3rd.
They had a better view
but were less likely to survive in a fire.
Even though it wasn’t color,
he still had a television
and she, the daughter of war survivors,
feigned envy and walked down
the 2 flights every night
to pretend to watch movies.
She was really watching him.

They came from Hong Kong,
the largest town in China,
and took separate flights
halfway around the Earth’s circumference
only to both land in Chinatown
and move into apartments
just blocks from each other.
In the shuffle, she found another suitor
and to hear Dad tell it,
40 years later and swayed by hard liquor,
he was fat and mean
and ugly.

She went to his uncle’s store
every afternoon and talked Dad’s ear off
while he wiped down tables.
She’d whimper like a coyote
caught in a bear trap
but was careful to cover her face.
She could fake the sounds but not the tears;
Dad always makes Mom’s eyes shine.

She technically didn’t propose.
All she’d do was stand real close
and suppose her only escape
was if she were already married
to someone funny, caring, and strong.
At this point, she’d cross her arms,
study the corners of her eyes,
sigh, and count the seconds
it took Dad to take the hint
by tapping her finger on her Chin.
Notice, she never said she wanted someone intelligent,
just someone smart enough to be good to her.

If God and goodness reside
in the laughter of children
then Dad’s been good to Mom
exactly 4 times in his life:
a daughter twice
and a pair of sons who hold
brightness in their hearts and in their minds.
If Love were a light
then my parents’ marriage would be its house
and it would guide all the wayward ships
back home at night.
Watching Dad passed out
and listening to him snore
while Mom stands in the doorway
shaking her head,
I realized I could never outshine their love;
a matchstick can’t go toe to toe
with a bonfire. But I know
if I could just be a mirror
to their 40 year old lime light
then I wouldn’t have to worry
cause I’d be doing pretty alright.

so this year might have been my first serious attempt at doing a 30 in 30. I vaguely recall trying to do it before, but whatever. my experience was … failure. but failure in the sense that I didn’t write 30 poems in 30 days. /but that’s the whole point, right?/ I can hear you titter. well, I did /think/ about poetry 30 times in 30 days. that’s more of in the spirit of what this whole charade. though, to be honest, I thought about poetry more like 20 times in 30 days.

I did write some poems. most of them are … menial. I did come out with 1 decent mic-and-stage presentable poem, which I am happy about. I haven’t had the opportunity to post most of them up, but I’ll try to in the next couple of days.

it’s fairly common for poets and writers to take sub prime jobs. because of a lack of funding and interest, a lot of my peers lead workshops with at risk youth or incarcerated individuals. the first few times are awkward and curious. I imagine the poet would walk in, expecting the kids or inmates to bite. but, after a while of opening up, they become just regular students. the poet then gets lost in this illusion (or, depending on how you look at it, this reality) and forgets he’s why he’s working with these people. there develops a gnawing temptation to ask why this boy is in the program (is his mother passed? has he been held back 2 years?) or how this guy landed in prison (did he steal money? did he put someone in the hospital?). there are totally legitimate rationalizations to finding these things out and to not to. it happened to a close friend of my poetry professor in college. it’s happening to me now.

we went on a trip today. I spent a significant amount of time around some of our kids. we’re 1 of those attendance retaining programs, so if someone is a part of us, there’s a reason. there was this guy who was talking about his situation. his girlfriend’s 4 months pregnant. I just sat there trying to piece this reality together. he’s still in high school, isn’t old enough to order alcohol at a restaurant, not mature enough to even know that water is free in a restaurant, and someone’s going to call him Daddy. it makes me sad because his child will start with a serious disadvantage, which will only spiral down from there. it’s a self replicating dilemma. I … we, my coworkers and me, are there to try and break that cycle. but I feel powerless. I’m there to teach things like scansion and meditation; how the hell is that going to do anything for this kid? I could dedicate myself to helping him out (something I don’t mind doing) but there’s only 1 of me and probably half a dozen more like him. at times, I feel it’s a losing proposition.

and I look toward my other kids. the students who respect and listen to me, who try to emulate me. on more than 1 occasion, they’ve attempted to ditch their classes and spend more time with me. I hope it’s not because of the content of what I teach (say, how to defend against a knife slash) but the manner in which I teach (forgiving, relentless, intense personal attention, humor, directness … love). I get lost in the euphoria of being a good teacher that sometimes it hits me; they’re a part of my program for a reason. I’ve been tempted to ask about their situations but so far have refrained myself.

I worry actually knowing will depress me even more.

I was with my TKD demo team yesterday, doing sort of an end of year production. most of them don’t have much TKD experience, let alone performance or kyukpa (board breaking) experience. I worked with 1 guy and we did some fantastic breaks. these were the sort of techniques I remember from back in my white collar days, watching the bodans test for black belt. anyhow, things were winding down and he had torn himself away from writing a paper just to humor me and do some breaks. but after doing so many awesome breaks, adrenaline was pumping in his system and he wanted to do more, do bigger, do better. I wanted him to go home, take care of academics.

so I pulled him aside and gave him a … an anti pep talk. I challenged him to do a 3rd dan black belt level break. I was straight with him, said, I actually want you to go home. this break should scare the shit out of you. Do you still want to do it? he straightened up, gave me a solemn look, and said, yes sir. although I outrank him by a lot and although we were doing Tae Kwon Do, there was really no reason for him to treat me with that level or even that kind of respect. we were not having an official class, I was nowhere near in uniform, I am not his teacher. but just the way I conducted myself paired with the way I was treating him fostered this student-teacher relationship to organically grow.

it makes me smile to think about that. it’s not so much an ego thing — I don’t really care too much how people react to me (although I strive to gain everyone’s respect, trust, and admiration). but to whip up that kind of mind set in someone else and make them receptive to being taught … that makes me feel like I accomplished something.

it’s times like this when I’m confident I deserve my black belt.

On Fatherhood

it’s funny: 1 of those inane Facebook quizzes got me thinking. is it unnatural for me to be thinking about fatherhood so much? on 1 hand, I’m not even moderately employed, have no sense of a career, cannot even start a romantic relationship, still live with my parents, and am, in certain ways, still a boy myself. then again, I work exceptionally well with children, am an outstanding role model, and am 100% love, care, and dedication.

yesterday, a boy, couldn’t have been more than 3 years old, played Peek a Boo with me on the bus. it was spontaneous. I was lost in my iPod and mulling and suddenly realized what was happening. it, in subtle ways, changed me. later that day, 1 of my high school students came to me and presented 2 of his poems. he talked to me and told me how his family moved to a new house the day before and after all the requisite labor of packing and unpacking, he shut himself in his room and, to relax, wrote poetry. the sentiment moved me — he saw this work as pleasure / escape and, moreso, stepped outside of his comfort zone. he was certainly not a writer or poet when I met him in October 2008.

in some ways, his writing style reminds me of my own. he has an incredibly innate sense of rhyme and rhythm that comes through unconciously. I encourage him at every turn but also admonish him when needed — when he doesn’t have an assignment I asked of him, he avoids me, afeared of my wrath. in a way, he doesn’t want to disappoint me. I told him to share his work with other people, to gather different opinions and reactions other than my own. he told me, in so many words, that he felt most comfortable sharing with me because I am different from everyone else. I’m moulding him.

there’s another student of mine, a few weeks ago, who was eating apple slices and spitting the seeds straight on the floor. I happened to be walking by and, out of reaction, said, what the hell? the disrespect, the act just caught me by surprise. he apparently took it as a hint and starting spitting them into a garbage can. it’s a small gesture, for sure, but perhaps meaningful.

there are other teaching artists working at my school. back when I was only there 2 days a week, the kids would talk about me to the other artists; when I took days off of work, they would ask after me. the lunch room staff has observed this also and have let me know — the kids really are looking forward to my class and make it a point to come to school for it.

I’m generally exceptionally humble (the over the top bravado I often put on is a device to put others at ease) but I’d like to think I’m accomplishing exactly what my job description says I should be: improving students’ attendance and providing an upstanding role model. it’s not just martial arts or even just physical fitness. once I’ve gotten their trust through Tae Kwon Do, I start talking to them about classes and family and girls and college. I connect with them, at first because I didn’t want my supervisor to think I was slacking off for lack of students, but now because I’m generally interested and somewhat invested in their lives.

I met with my little brother last weekend. it was our 4th outing and we, again, went to the park. I don’t personally interact with him as much as I used to, playing games with just the 2 of us. part of the time (about 25%) he plays with the other kids at the park and I supervise. it’s mostly because I don’t have the space nor equipment to really play with him 1-on-1. next time, I’ll have a basketball and we’ll shoot some hoops. on a side note, it’s inutterably refreshing to have a relationship with a 9 year old who doesn’t expect me to do martial arts with him. anyhow, he got me an Easter present. just some chocolate and a card, but Easter was already a week old. it meant that he was thinking about me (fondly) when I wasn’t there. that means a lot. also, when I was leaving, he ran up and hugged me. I hadn’t realized I was making such a positive impact on him. it puts me in a small dilemma because I don’t really feal an emotional connection with him. it’s kind of a 1 way street right now but I … honestly … feign it.

These were my father’s mornings:
the only reason you can see your breath in the air
is because it’s so early.
The cold will disappear
with the crowding of teenagers and teachers
before the first bell. Thursday –
now that the street is empty,
its width seems ridiculous
like the hips of a virgin,
unused and of no purpose.

It’s twilight out — day without sun.
His days were spent without his 2 sons.
The brightness of his life
only a memory he left at home.
His hunt for fare is self defeating;
every block he rolls past
eats another drop of gas he’ll have to
make up for later.

Today, I tip the cabbie extra
partly because I don’t have change,
partly because I like the way his ears
frame his face, and partly because
I know the price of cigarettes has gone up
since then.

There is so much beauty in this world
and I am lucky enough to witness a fraction of it
but I am not luck enough to have someone to share it with.
It’s tragic that these eyes and this brain
and these thoughts are trapped inside 1 person.
Art is the purest translation of experience
into something tangible; it is our best
method of communication but it is no substitute
for the thing itself. That I am a poet,
a storyteller, I am also a hack.
I am a witch doctor because everything I do
is second rate, is fake.
Love is our best imitation of the merging
of souls — it is largely symbolic,
like the diamond, but some lucky few
truly experience this fusing.
My inability to love, or to find love,
then handicaps my ability of expression.
I drink from a sieve; fatally,
and fundamentally, flawed.
Without truly sharing experience,
it is a wonder that I write.
Without true writing, it is a wonder
that I live.

I used to be a needle
floating in the tincture of my mother,
outlaw of gravity,
rooted through my belly.
Instead of falling, I spun
like a soap bubble.
I hadn’t known the sky
or the towering height of adults.
No one told me all the things
I’m supposed to trust and love
are up.
I could twitch (an ear or a toe)
and trust that she would push back.
I was weightless in love.

the setup:
you know, they come to this country
and there’s no punchline
but they both laugh anyhow
and share an inside smile.
I continue hiding my birthmark eyes
behind my novel because I have to face
this bus driver every day
and hell if I’m gonna start sitting in the back
out of shame.

Once she mentioned it,
I haven’t been able to stop
seeing Far Rockaway high school
in only red and blue.
Everyone is either a Blood or a Crip.
The only constants are failing marks and security guards.
I see eyes blood shot from crying
and arms covered to hid fresh bruises.
But sometimes, I see the sun setting over the bay.
I see essays on Redcoats and Yankees.
And some day, I’ll see roses clutched to graduation gowns.