Posts Tagged ‘growth’

students

March 27th, 2010

I’ve got 2 problem students. not in the sense that they create
problems but moreso that they /are/ problems.

I took a bunch of kids on a field trip last year to a prestigious
college, both as a campus visit and to see a Tae Kwon Do tournament.
lately, this girl who we brought has been asking me questions about
the college. today, she cinched it and asked, “what kind of grades do
you need to get in? 75′s? 80′s” I took the easy way out and told her I
don’t know; that she’d have to talk with a recruiter. I pushed the
hard work off on to someone else. how was I supposed to tell her that
80′s wouldn’t cut it? that, considering the neighborhood, she was
lucky enough to go to any college, let alone a prestigious 1. or that
even if she did get in, she has no idea of the /scope/ or /magnitude/
of the tuition. we’re talking $50,000 a year. she’s a good kid though,
always has been. maybe I’ll hand her a brochure anyway …

the other kid, we have this established silence. we greet each other
but I stopped asking why he stopped coming to my program. usually, I
hound students about attendance to show them at least 1 teacher cares
and also to instill discipline, responsibility, and pride in them. I
stopped hounding this kid. I know he has trouble at home, almost got
arrested and had to go to court, was about to get transferred out, and
is failing. his primary guardian is his grandfather, no mention of mom
or dad, and he has what looks like a healed over burn scar on 1 hand.
large and unmistakable; on black people, the skin comes back a lot
lighter; he sometimes wears gloves in class. he wants to come to my
class — sometimes would ditch the entire day of school but come in to
do the activities (martial arts and photography). he’s actually on a
watch list to prevent exactly that. so instead of hounding him, we
both just say hi; probably say a little more in the silence that
follows.

like I said, problem students.

Gumji

February 18th, 2010

Gumji

I never spoke Cantonese.
I knew the words for rice,
bath, homework, hurry, go, late;
for give, thanks, big and little brother;
for masturbation and porn and salt
(they’re all the same)
but I only mapped the shapes of their sounds.
I couldn’t produce them with my New Yorker tongue.
Damn, dad must have been the same
except reversed. Somehow, our babble worked.

But then, in parts, we grew apart.
I pretended to forget our code.
We didn’t talk, didn’t leave notes,
walked the same hallways in silence,
and soon, with college abroad,
I forgot his language whole hog.

These days, he’s lost it all.
We watch the news the 2 Saturdays
a month I visit. There are only bombs,
new strains of flu, angry parents
complaining about the sorry state of our schools.
He asks for the … …
I can see his hand form the mold,
his thumb jab at his palm for imaginary buttons.
“Remote?” I ask but really tell.
I wish I remember Cantonese
so I could say “gumji”;
that instead of giving him what he can’t find,
I could restore what once was there
but now is gone.

The Chopstick Paradigm

January 30th, 2010

The Chopstick Paradigm

We channeled dancers in our dialogue.
We developed a playbill of token talk,
a flow chart keying what we heard
to what we knew. Our antonymic
views grew a sustained ecology on the tips
of our tongues: the gatheredness
of a veteran of fatherhood wars
with the smelting heat of youth.
Then like ant marches we spiraled apart
and lost our secret shorthand
how we lost Phoenician that once
was on that market place stone
that once was whole and unfractioned.
Worse, his mind is addered with age;
he often forgets the Chinese word
for things. So we talk
how dancers talk: none at all
or only into each other’s shoulders.

I am

January 21st, 2010

I am not a monster. I am intelligent, attractive, athletic, ambitious, sincere, well spoken, accomplished, good with children, cats, and dogs, charismatic, attentive, devoted, compassionate, inspiring, empathetic, sexy, and a damn good teacher. I am attending a graduate program in a nationally top ranked college and I have my own Tae Kwon Do team.

you are really stupid. especially since I had to do all the hard work to win back your trust and all you had to do was give me a chance.

that being said, I make mistakes. I am imperfect. sometimes, I am less than human. sometimes I am a monster.

punctual as the stars

January 8th, 2010

the most influential poet in my life, especially in my formative years, is Agha Shahid Ali. I was lucky enough to encounter him early, as little as 2 or 3 months after I started. he is responsible for my tone and texture as well as my love of forms and reverent attitude toward other poets.

a few years ago, I was pleasently surprised to find Ali quoting James Merrill in a poem. Merrill is also another poet that I modeled myself after. it was like God (or fate or the Holy Spirit etc etc) had conspired to give me this brotherhood of mentors, coalesced before my birth and coming to me discretely yet in coordination.

I was very surprised to come across the metaphor “punctual as stars” when reading Ali the other day. a scant month before, I had written those same exact words (I lie; I had written “punctual as /the/ stars”) while describing a chessboard and how its armies are always reset at the start of a match (Ali was describing something else). to find these words, from a hero of mine, replicated was revelating. I felt touched by the godhead through ink and paper. it may have been a coincidence, a mere play of statistics, but I haven’t come across those words before. it is a sign that perhaps poetry was a good decision and that, perhaps (perhaps!), I’m coming into my own in poetry.

2010 Resolutions

December 31st, 2009
  1. Be a good person
  2. Never be late for anything
  3. Continue trusting people
  4. Have as much fun working with kids as I used to have
  5. Be better to girls
  6. Be an outstanding teacher
  7. Be a great poet
  8. Get in tip top shape
  9. Dedicate to Brooklyn College Tae Kwon Do
  10. Fill each hour with something meaningful
  11. Stop relying on parents
    1. Start giving back to parents
  12. DON’T give money to charity
  13. Read more
  14. Connect and keep in touch with old friends
  15. Be a good person
  16. Simplify
    1. Simplify
    2. Simplify

cookbook

December 28th, 2009

Frank McCourt once taught a creative writing class using recipes from cookbooks. he stumbled on the idea, on a lark, not know what to do with it initially.

a year ago, I was preparing to teach a slam poetry class and came upon the idea of using recipes to explore adjectives and description. (are recipes that commonplace in creative writing classes?). anyhow, the lesson flopped. partly because I wasn’t so prepared, didn’t have the experience (in teaching a writing class) how to commandeer the lesson and minds, but also because my students (all 2 of them) were not really poets and certainly not Stuyvesant students.

7 Mutations of Jon Chin

December 14th, 2009

7 Mutations of Jon Chin

1. My bones remember yesterday.
They burn from their weakened state.
Each step is a memory aid
so this is a passive act in learning.
The skeleton does all the work;
it even self corrects, heals over
stronger where it’s done been cracked.
The tongue sculpts language
while the skull whispers to itself
protect, protect, protect.

2. I saw dad at the bottom
of every glass of milk.
Mom had misunderstood this
to be only a journey of height and width
as if the heart and brain
grew to fit their cages.

3. and God I miss my ex. The space
between her hips could fit
a universe atomic; to be
designed hollow like bird bones.
She told me once in our afterglow
that women’s veins were closer to the skin
and that all my girlfriends’ hands will be cold.

4. Isn’t this just sitting in ash,
praying for rain, waiting for the sun
again and again and again?
Who gives my cells their names,
my bones their staging?

5. Why do firetrucks run
in the rain? Won’t the clouds throw down
their whole weight and melt
that care away?

6. My arm fell asleep
and I woke terrified
by the absent feeling.
Shoulder, elbow, and wrist
formed a chain of evidence
which proved I more
than half existed.
Then the blood returned
first warm then blinding.
The pain of remembering.

7. This is to forget
and be forgotten.

Naked Except for her Heart

November 29th, 2009

Naked Except for her Heart

Inside a corrugated box that once contained
a classroom set of Math is a Journey! there is:
a spitball bazooka made from straws and Scotch tape
and really strong lungs, someone’s grandmother’s cross

strung through a part of paracord, a handball
whose Sky Bounce logo has been long lost,
a figure of Chris Benoit, the Rabid Wolverine,
his kung fu grip, who developed dementia

and strangled his wife and his boy and himself,
an issue of Maxim from June with Jenna Jameson
all naked except for her heart breaker tattoo
and a fireman’s hat on the cover, its paper soft

like a torah from being folded and guarded, folded
and guarded, and chocolate in thin tin foil
painted to look like monsters.

For a Moment

November 25th, 2009

For a Moment

There are days at my desk
when everything is articulated neatly
patient in its own plot of table top.
Black pens, an open faced journal,
his grandmother’s ring.
I’m supposed to take them up,
these things, and create
something larger than myself
like art or an act
of love. Instead, it’s
digging through a shallow mountain
for a photo of someone else –
Poetry was someone. Marriage,
someone else. Even breakfast
needs my hands to make it.