Butterflies in Anacostia

Didn't know hands could do that...
Lightly walk up and down an arm
and cause explosions...elsewhere
everywhere...
anxious to see where hands will land,
if kisses will be good and what will...grow...


He surprised me,
laid on my lap and let me rub his head,
even that made my stomach flutter.

He's not playing fair...
He's not playing...
looking at me between long blinks,
watching the the ice melt,
only one of us wet,
the other one enjoying the breeze of Monarch wings,
teasing the situation with dissecting eyes.

If I had said all I wanted, 
he wouldn't have believed me,
Anything in that moment would have been cliche,
blamed on the amorous feeling brought on by touch.
So I stayed in that moment with him...

And wondered if he really saw what there is to see in me.

Selfies

I want to look like this to him..

retouched, but untouched,

perfect nose, subtle smile,

hair, neatly all over the place,

not noticing him memorizing me...

I want him to mentally crop and filter a stupid selfie I sent to him 

(because he was on my mind)

And think of me during the night shift,

perfectly "noir" and natural (smile)

And I want to look at him like this...

sleepy-eyed and tired after a long day,

right before I lay my head on his chest 

and he makes a corny joke about my little nose.

I want to giggle my way to sleep.

Happy.

Even for a moment...

I want to believe in it again.

...had a great fall!

“Are you the one who is supposed to put me back together when the pieces are all over the place…? All the king’s horses and all the king’s men?”

It was 3:00 a.m. She skipped the hello; he didn’t notice.

“Come over. Bring your pieces,” he responded. Their back-and-forth was back again.

She held the phone, crying. 

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said. Same line as always. Not even a tone change.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know, but you don’t have to be ‘fine’ alone.”

“That’s just it. I do…”

The finally-finished feeling hung heavy between them.

Bruce vs. The Board of Education

Dear New CEO of Prince George's County Public Schools,

Greetings and congratulations on your appointment! I look forward to your work to lead our students into true college and career readiness in the age of common core. I began my career in P.G. County 11 years ago and saw quite a few of you come through and leave no significant mark on the hearts of the children who walked halls, sat in classes, and let doors close behind them with no plan after four years. I hope you're ready! Not that the opinion of a teacher matters to you, but I thinks it's time for true change; MSDE isn't giving us much of a choice in the matter anyway, so let me cut to the chase. I would like to put something else on your mind to help prepare our students for life in the real world, while making school relevant.

I understand you're familiar with the area, so I'm sure you've noticed  there are a few Black people in P.G. County (...just a few...). In light of the outcome of the Trayvon Martin murder case, I think we should include a class to prepare our young, Black men and women to defend their lives. I'm don't mean physically; I mean using communication, explaining their social existence, and preparing them for the perception that they will be subjected to, whether in a hoodie or cap and gown. Because let's face it, history keeps repeating itself, so perhaps our education system should be honest and admit that common core is only the tip of the iceberg for preparing our students for what they really need. They need to be prepared to explain their experience in their own skin and that they are NOT what the media and our history has spoon-fed Americans (Black, White, and others) for centuries.

I realize you may be feeling a little uncomfortable right now. If possible, I ask that you endure it for the sake of the children and residents of P.G. County (and Baltimore and D.C., for that matter, because your jurisdiction is located between these two major cities, so P.G. County gets students from them...and they are often Black). I am Black, Mr. CEO; I'm sure you probably figured that out by now. I've been places that people told me wasn't for me because I am. I assure you, it has been an uncomfortable existence at times, so please indulge me. After hearing the verdict, I cried for my kids, many of whom fit the profile of Trayvon Martin and Rachel Jeantel - young, Black, affected by media, distracted by technology, and coping with the history of racism in this country by evolving terms like "nigger" (nigga) and "cracker" (cracker). I get that, and I welcome the opportunity to help them become more informed and assist them in expressing themselves and their ideas about the state of the world - where it is, where it has been, and where it is going - effectively. It is my privilege to do this; only a select few are granted the gift of insight into young minds because only a few are willing to take the pulse of the best and worst of our country by asking those honest enough to answer questions. The least I could do for them is return the honesty.

Contrary to popular belief, this isn't post racial America. I'm not even sure what that term means. When we reside in a country stolen from one race of people already here and built on the backs of those stolen from another continent, shipped here like cargo, mentally manipulated to internalize inferiority, made to work for free under threats of hangings and beatings, and dehumanized and regarded as chattel, I'm not sure if race relations will ever be completely "square." (There I go being honest again, but I digress...) I am prepared to offer my services on Saturdays for free to start the dialogue and the healing of centuries of mental hurt.

I was motivated to write this letter to you because I believe in progress, Mr. CEO. I was an "urban" youth. I live among "urban" youth. I understand the cycle and fear that comes with the territory, but I was not able to understand the effects of that word and its connotation until I left my community seeking the knowledge that  the world outside my comfort zone could offer me. If there was someone who had experienced my life (or something similar), left the situation, and returned to tell me how to navigate the intricacies of embracing my experience and it integrating it with what I was learning, I would have jumped at the chance. I would have been IMMEDIATELY ready for the world after leaving high school. I would like to pay the favor forward by giving back! The ruling on behalf of justice for Trayvon Martin affords the opportunity to talk to our kids about who they think they are versus who others might think they are (and these "others" may or may not have a face that looks just like theirs, a stark truth about which they should be informed).

One only has to look at Rachel Jeantel to see this truth. Her testimony was criticized by many people who look like her because they felt embarrassed by her, even though she had a valuable vantage point from which to testify. She was not an eloquent speaker. Many people are not, but many are not made to testify in front of the nation about an emotionally wrenching case in which they were on the phone the night their friend was killed. To add insult to injury, a juror, who didn't want to be identified, admitted to reporter Anderson Cooper that she felt that Rachel Jeantel "felt inadequate because of her education and communication skills" and that the juror "just felt sorry for her." These words speak volumes. What speaks loudest is that Rachel was evaluated as "not credible" because she was more honest than eloquent, which in the juror's eyes was a reflection of "the type of life that they [her word] live and how they [her word] are living in the environment they [her word] are living." If you don't believe she actually said this, Google it. The way she intends the word "they" is debatable, but what isn't is that she clearly didn't find Rachel Jeantel relate-able.

Mr. CEO, I can help our students articulate the complexities of their opinions and their experience. I can help offer them an outlet for their emotions and encourage them to construct solid arguments based on evidence, history, and thorough analysis. I can help them heal the wounds of prior education failures and the holistic education disparities of our country. I can help them constructively deal with the anger that smolders and makes them reject the possibilities in their personalities. I can help them be one form of true justice for Trayvon Martin - successful, confident, thriving adults who can stand their ground by enlightening those foolish enough to challenge their aptitude for greatness.

Please give it some thought or pass it along to whomever will give it serious consideration. We are losing our children. We have a responsibility to scale this mountain of a mess for our them. If I could, I would protect them from being murdered by the hands of the ignorant. What I can do is give them one form of protection  - I can help strengthen their minds to deal with all the troubling "isms" that murder them everyday.

If you need to reach me, don't worry. This won't be my last letter and people in your school system know just where I am.

Sincerely and optimistically,


T. Bruce

The "F" Phase

I had been bothered for a day and some change. Then on Tuesday, I went to Best Buy...

I picked up my purchase, headed to checkout, and there behind the counter to ring me up was one of the smartest students I'd taught in 10 years. When he saw me, he looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Oh my God! Ms Bruce is that you?"

I smiled. Hugged him. Asked about his life. 

Things weren't going as well for him as I had hoped. So we talked, and I was me, passion and all. Aggressive and unapologetic. Helpful. Understanding...his teacher again. And he was grateful. He paid me one of the best compliments I have received from a student. 

"I didn't realize how smart I was until your class..."

This is what I do well. I help students realize their muchness. 

I lost about 85% of my muchness a few years ago. Many people watched; not many seemed to care, and that's fine. I'm a heavy lift when I'm not collapsing, so me - falling down - had to be a spectator sport. Recently, I have been feeling the falling again, and though I know that, as an adult, no one has to care, or help, or even notice, I kind of wish someone would. Like I notice it in others.

Eric Roberson said, "If they can't hear you over your music, they'll never hear your song." I dig the metaphor.  But I wonder just how many people are listening to anyone's song, really. Who listens for lyrics any more? Or have I just been singing to the wrong crowd?

I must admit, I have been afraid to even confront that question because the answer demands action. It was easier for me to admit that I don't fit the crowd. In many ways, it's a compliment to stand out. The difficult step is finding a crowd that fits and feeds me, so the London bridge inside can be preserved. I believe I'm done being a teacher, in the traditional sense (one crowd down). And I've never been one to dream of reproduction and domesticity by 35 (another crowd bypassed). I'm actually not sure what I want right now, a huge problem since I will be unemployed after five more days of work. The scary part about that is that I'm not scared enough. It's 3 am, and I'm spilling out randomness on my iPad like I don't have work in four hours because I hate my job and am tired of feeling this way.

And I'm sadder than I have been in months right now...and all I can do to keep the tears away is to think back to the concert I went to almost a month ago and remember how good and alive I felt to be listening to someone who took a chance at singing his song and became the him I will pay to listen to every time he comes to town.

I hope to be there soon...out of the "F" phase...standing strong.

(Below: Eric Roberson doing his thing. May 25, 2013)

Haddock and Sweet Potato Fries

My Ketchup did this all on its own...

Does this mean anything really is possible?

Punctuation Rules (Part 1) - The Way We Choose to Live....

How one punctuates a group of words is telling. We punctuate sentences with what we know about reading, writing, and thinking. In a similar way, we punctuate our lives with decisions and live with the results thereof. "The Way We Choose to Live."

Each "slice of life" is titled with a punctuation mark, but the punctuation mark is pronounced in the subtitle beneath. The subtitles are the ideas the marks represent to me, either in form or feeling.

(  ) 

(pronounced "Embrace")

It amazes me how easily she slides into my hands in the middle of the night...like she knows exactly when I'm wondering where she is. And my hand touches my sex...and she's there, where she's always been. Held in my hands, between my pride and my shame.

And without opening my eyes, I slide her up...down...stop. Up...down...up...down. Stop. Up. Down. Up. Down. Soon the directions blur together. Never mattered anyway. She can do whatever she wants to me then. I'm clay in her hands.

And she ends up a mess in mine...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

(pronounced "End")

When it begins, I can't help feeling finished. I suddenly remember my age. Ponder my marital and parental status. I'm an emotional little girl on the inside; an undeniable woman on the outside. There is no lady in sight.

I remember Adam. Wonder if he doesn't love me because of this...if he feels more sinful because my body is out of order but looks operational and enticing. I want to cry, but the Eve in me is strong...and knows the truth.

So I sleep instead, contorting my body throughout the night to relax the pain I'm too exhausted to address. My mind flashes scenes of life many moons ago and tries to predict many moons ahead. When I wake up, I'm still in the middle of my own mess. I pull myself up and attempt to wash it all away. It only works temporarily before the flood returns, the pain crashing through me like tidal waves, yielding only temporarily to pharmaceuticals.

When it goes, I am relieved. I eat and sleep better. My purse is lighter and often smaller. Eve has disappeared, I'm left to deal with me, her distant ancestor, shaking strange fruit from our family tree. My caverns don't swell and flood. They are dark and empty. I am bit sad for it. Like it or not, it was the only reminder of my femininity, which dwells deep in my heart, but is held captive by my pride. And when it never returns, I know I will struggle with what it means to have an impact on the world if I have not made a significant dent in those prison bars.

It makes me eloquent when others deem it a curse. It is what could have been, thrown away so I can live healthily. It is the first half of an "us" that isn't likely...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture by Andraya Arrington

,

(pronounced "Pause")

You forget for a minute...

You forget why you're on the wrong side of the bed,

facing the window instead of the closet.

And then you hear breathing in the dark that isn't yours.

The bed dips beneath him.

For a second everything is as you imagine.
Quiet,
comfortable,
frozen in the moment of sheer happiness,
but the alarm breaks his sleep and your dream.

He rises,

no shine,

no kiss,

no idea that for a split second, he had it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-

(pronounced "Attached")

As I stand here in "virgin-white," I think I'm being gypped. Hyphenation with minimal representation. 

But...this, indeed, may be my last chance at that power move so important to that piece of the pie Willona sang about in the opening of "The Jeffersons." The agreement that makes me honest while swallowing my bloodline in a goulash of uncertain ancestry. I mean...he doesn't even really know his father, yet he clings to the surname as if there is any honor in blind bastard-naming. (And this pomp and circumstance is supposed to be making me honest.) 

I blame his mother as she sits there weeping in the front row because she's losing her son - the instant ally made so, in utero, as a then-lover turned his back her and their tummy bug. They outnumber me and my logic, using King James' version of God's proclamation to make me feel Eve all over again. (She was coerced too, ya know!) I'm not judging his family; I'm a bastard in my own right, last-named because my mother couldn't stand the alliteration of my first name and her last name together. Daddy's name was the only suitable option (even though he wasn't suitable for anything else). All that aside, it's still MY name...

In my Adam's pursuit to offer his name to this single gal, he offered it with a ring...and I accepted. Now I'm wondering if that was just bribery - a shiny bauble in exchange for a lifetime of memories as someone else. And though my birth certificate, diploma, and degrees boast my bloodline, every accomplishment henceforth will include his.

My successes are now ours, and his success is...me...

I do?