Tag Archives: Feminism

#343: Dudes, Step Aside. Let Women Steer This Ship. It’s Their Turn.

female-presidential-candidates-and-the-media-2020-4x3.png

When I think about the
most effective principals
I have ever known: women.
When I think about my
most effective, most respected
colleagues: women.
When I think about my
most influential mentors,
college professors, coaches,
teachers, and facilitators:
mostly women.

So, I’m thinking, when it comes to
the 2020 elections: dudes, step aside.
You’ve had this whole show in your
greedy little hands, in this country,
for about 244 years, in history,
more than 2,000, perhaps thousands
more than that, with an exceptional
matriarchal bubble here and there.
And you’ve mostly
made a mess of everything.
I look at the faces of those 25
senators in Alabama, all white,
all male, and I am just devastatingly
embarrassed by my gender
and my ethnicity. Fuck you guys.
Let women steer this ship.
It’s their turn.
It’s their fucking turn.

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Filed under Poetry, Politics

#228: On the Day After the Election

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Having wept myself to sleep the night before,
I got up and went to work in the school house
where we met in small teams in the library
to plan or do curriculum work or talk about
assessments, where instead I chose to color
with crayons at the table our new librarian
set up for art. It was the only thing I could do.
I colored inside the lines with several different
shades of blue and some pink here and there
while I tried to keep myself together.
Talking to anyone, to any friendly face,
I had to work hard not to break down.

I was thankful when students arrived inside
my room. They gave me a focus, a place to
channel my energies, an opportunity to make
some kind of difference. My 9th graders,
unusually subdued and cooperative, dove with
some enthusiasm into a Sherman Alexie novel,
a novel about race, culture, and class divide,
but a novel, too, about hope. Arnold Spirit Jr.
realizes it feels good to help others, and I could
feel that thought resonating inside the room.
Later, my seniors came in for a study of
A Room of One’s Own, and rather than talk and
have to face the reality of this particular irony
head on, I asked my students to make art,
to talk about what was going on in Virginia
Woolf’s head by drawing it on the page.
Students must have paused for a long time
at the passage about the cat without a tail,
the cat pausing, “as if it too questioned the
universe,” as Woolf realizes that, suddenly,

“Everything was
different”
and
“Nothing was changed”
and yet, “the change was there”
not in substance but in sound.
What did men hum before the election?
What did women hum before the election?
And now what, after?
We carry on. We cling to hope.
We agitate and advocate for what we know is good.
We color, and we do what I found today
to be most healthful, finding comfort in
kindness from others and the kind attention
I could give, a hug I received from my son,
and solace in the words on the page.

 

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