So there we were, standing at the entrance of a place where people had buried their loved ones. Grandpa was the bravest, the first to walk around. He called out, “Wow! This one’s from 1832. You can barely see the date!” In his excitement, I forgot all about the creepiness of being around dead people and ran over to him. He pulled a paper and pencil out of his pack and let me take a rubbing of the headstone.
For a while, we all read the names and dates as well as we could, and when we were done, we sat just outside the wall to have our lunch.
When we felt a quick breeze, I saw everyone look up, like they were all thinking the same thing, that the breeze was like a gift from the spirit of this very old place.
“Oooooh!” Kyla says, but closes her lips when we all shush her. Mrs. Parkman keeps writing.
Looking back on that day, I realized I learned something pretty important. That even if something seems boring and pointless at first, if you just go with the flow, you might be surprised by an exciting adventure!
We all clap like it’s the end of a major production. Mrs. Parkman stands up and takes a bow.
“So what kind of ending did I use?” she asks. We all look back at the poster.
“The lesson-you-learned ending!” Erin blurts out.
“You got it! Now, turn to your partner and tell them how you might like to end your story!”
Denzel’s closest to me, so we both pick something random off the poster and say it. He’ll probably do a good job with his ending.
“Okay,” Mrs. Parkman sings rather than says, “go write!”
I fish my lame story out of my writing folder and find a corner to sit in. Facing the wall so no one can see the one line on my paper, I look at it for the first time since I wrote it. In purple marker, Mrs. Parkman has written at the top, “Nice start! What happened next?” I know she’s just being kind; this isn’t a nice anything.
After my attempt of melting into the wall fails, I start to peel the paint off my pencil. In no time at all, there’s a pile of yellow chips in my lap and my story still doesn’t have an ending. When Mrs. Parkman gives her five-minute warning, I scribble What’s your favorite FiestaLand ride? and put my paper back in the folder.
Like she’s planned it, Mrs. Parkman reads the end of Hugo today. I’m not going to spoil it for you, but let’s just say things turn out pretty well for the kid who at the beginning of the book was stealing food and living alone.
I’ve only been alive fourteen years, but by now I know that happy endings rarely happen. Especially to people like me. Happy endings aren’t realistic, unless you’ve got tons of money and a perfect family and maybe a boat to sail away in.
But I guess that’s why I like Hugo so much. He started off with nothing and ended up with everything. It might not be realistic, but it was fun to hear about anyway.
I write this thought down on the 3x5 card Mrs. Parkman hands me, asking us all to write a short reflection of the book. When I turn it in, she reads it quickly, and her eyes fill up.
“This is very good, Dragon. I love that about Hugo, too.”
I look away before the tears in her eyes actually fall down her face.
That would just be awkward.
So much depends
upon
* * *
memories of that
night
* * *
one where everything
changed
* * *
only sadness stayed
behind
13
My Color Poem
A couple weeks before Christmas break, Mrs. Parkman has us put away our stories. She says it’s good to walk away from your writing every once in a while, so when you come back to it, you will see it with “fresh eyes.” Whatever that means.
I can’t hide my grin when she announces that we’re going to do a poetry unit. I kind of love poetry. There aren’t that many words and usually poems only take about five seconds to read. But the hard part about reading other people’s poems is that they never make any sense. All the poems I’ve ever read are all flowery and use big words I don’t understand. Teachers always ask, “but what does it mean?” and usually the whole class stares until the teacher breaks down and tells us what it’s supposed to mean.
Of course, Mrs. Parkman is different.
She puts a poem up on the board. It’s super short, but I don’t even bother to read it because I know I’m not going to get it. Millie volunteers to read it aloud. She stands up, clears her throat, and smooths down her skirt, like this is some big performance. Here’s what the poem looks like and here’s what she reads:
so much depends
upon
* * *
a red wheel
barrow
* * *
glazed with rain
water
* * *
beside the white
chickens
My head snaps up. Wait, what? That’s a poem? It didn’t make any sense, but in a different way than other poems I’ve heard before.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Parkman asks hopefully.
Jason says, “Umm… did a four-year-old write that? I mean, it’s not even about anything.”
“Actually, a man named William Carlos Williams wrote it. And it’s really famous.”
“Famous?” Gavin shouts rather than says. “That?”
Mrs. Parkman smiles. “I know it’s a little bit different.”
Marisa speaks up. “But Mrs. Parkman, all he’s doing is writing what he sees. A wheelbarrow, some chickens.”
“Yes, Marisa…” Mrs. Parkman says, but now Kyla’s talking. “But what does he mean ‘so much depends upon’? What depends on that?”
Jason groans and then says exactly what I’ve been thinking this whole time. “Why do poems have to mean anything? Why can’t they just be what they are?”
Mrs. Parkman is practically glowing now. “Yes, Jason. For some of us, this poem might just be a delightful little scene after a rainstorm at some kind of farm. And that’s okay. For others, there might be a deeper meaning or a personal connection to the images. A red wheelbarrow might bring back childhood memories or chickens might remind you of your favorite uncle’s house.”
There she goes again with that personal connection business.
Kyla’s not willing to let it go. “But what could depend on that?”
Mrs. Parkman says, “Let’s brainstorm!”
She hands a sticky note to each of us and tells us to ask a question or make a guess. I scribble down a practical question, one that’s been bugging me. Why aren’t the chickens muddy if it just rained? It might not have a thing to do with the poem, but since I can see the wheelbarrow and the chickens so clearly in my mind, I’m wondering why they’re still white.
We attach our sticky notes to the whiteboard. Mrs. Parkman never asks us to write our names because she wants us to be honest and open and not worry about getting graded on these. And she doesn’t allow kids to make rude comments about someone else’s idea. At the beginning of the year, I didn’t believe her about the being nice part, so I used to just crunch up my sticky note and throw it away. But so far, she’s shut down anyone who even sounded like they were about to say something nasty. So I do them now, most of the time.
Mrs. Parkman reads a few aloud:
maybe the dude’s a servant and the wheelbarrow’s
stuck in the mud so he can’t work
* * *
is the wheelbarrow full of rain water?
* * *
maybe the rain was the first one in a long time
and the crops on the farm depended on it
* * *
are the chickens alive?
* * *
it didn’t say what’s IN the wheelbarrow? seeds? soil? cement?
* * *
maybe the farmer’s last hope of a harvest is in that wheelbarrow
and he’s scared to see if it’s been ruined
She reads each one slowly,
like she’s savoring our thoughts. In between each sticky note, she gives us one minute to turn to a neighbor and discuss. No one’s noses are brave enough to sit super close to me, even though the water’s been back on for a bit. I guess smell memory is, indeed, a powerful thing. So I look around for a partner.
Duke’s the only one without one, and he slides over to me. He talks about poetry using words like “structure” and “stanza” and “free verse,” like he’s something of a poetry expert. Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed that. I hardly get in a word. He’s excited about a poem, of all things, and his excitement makes me feel sort of happy, like it’s contagious or something.
Then Mrs. Parkman gets to mine.
People turn to their partners and I hear things like “yeah, they’d be dirty for sure” and “maybe the rain washed them off” and “maybe they’re on a road or concrete” and “wait, doesn’t that change the whole setting of the poem?”
I don’t know if Mrs. Parkman recognizes my handwriting or if she saw my entire neck and face turn the color of that wheelbarrow, but she looks right at me and says, “Well! That was an excellent question!”
I’m embarrassed to say that her words make me feel all warm inside, like I did something important.
The next day, Mrs. Parkman hands everyone a packet of photocopied poems. The poems are all pretty short. At first glance it looks like I can read most of the words and all the titles are only one word each. And those words are all colors.
Mrs. Parkman asks our groups to choose one of the color poems and read it aloud more than once to get the “full experience.”
“Poetry is just so special,” she says, “it needs to be read aloud to be felt and experienced.”
I look down at my hands. Suddenly they’re the most interesting things in all the world. Marisa opens her mouth to volunteer, but Caden says, “I’ll do it.”
He reads the first one, “Purple,” slow but confidently and clear. We can tell now that the poem rhymes, and I kind of like it.
Marisa reads the purple poem again, quicker than Caden because she’s already heard it. Then they both stare at me like it’s my turn.
“Nope,” I say. “I don’t read aloud.”
Marisa gives Caden a look, and he nods, encouraging her to say something. “Hey, Dragon?” she says.
“Yeah?” my voice is hard, challenging. But I don’t know why.
Marisa’s cheeks turn pink, then she continues.
“So you are dyslexic, right?” I stiffen, but something in her tone softens me. She’s not accusing, just curious.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “So?”
“So…” she starts.
Caden finishes for her: “So are we.”
I look up. “Both of you?”
“Yup!” Marisa says this like dyslexia is a badge of honor or something.
“But, you guys are smart.”
“Being dyslexic doesn’t mean you aren’t smart, Dragon,” Marisa says, a soft smile on her lips.
Caden adds, “Yeah, in fact, people with dyslexia are typically smart, we just have a harder time with reading.”
No one’s ever told me this before. I’m sure the unbelief is written all over my face.
“No, seriously. My doctor even said so. We have high IQs, we just have something going on in the reading parts of our brains. The best part is, though, that most of us are smart enough to figure out how to work around it,” Caden adds.
I sit up a little straighter. I’d never considered that I could actually be smart.
“Uh… thanks for telling me that,” I manage.
“Sure thing, but now we have to get back to the poem. We need something to tell Mrs. Parkman,” Marisa says, keeping us on track.
“The poem sounds like a list,” Caden points out. He’s right. It is like a list, of things that remind the writer of the color purple.
I say, “Pssshhh, that’s easy. Anyone could write a list.”
Mrs. Parkman walks over just then. “I’m so glad you think so, Dragon, because that’s exactly what we’re going to do!”
She dismisses our groups for independent reading time and asks me to join her for my reading conference. Oh, right. A conference where I have to tell her I still haven’t read a single book this year. I just can never find one I want to read, or can read, from start to finish.
Mrs. Parkman must know this, because she doesn’t even ask about what I’m reading. Instead, she hands me a slim paperback with a yellow cover.
“Love that Dog?” I ask.
“Yes! Dragon, I think you’ll really like this one.”
“But I don’t even have a dog.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “I bet you find you can still understand the main character just fine.”
The woman has some lofty goals.
I flip through the pages. This isn’t like a regular book. There is more white space than words. It almost looks like poetry. I think I even spot the wheelbarrow poem from earlier. I point this out.
“You’re right. This type of book is called a novel written in verse.” She lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “I secretly love these because in verse, the writer can leave out a lot of the boring stuff and just get right to the point.”
I grin. It’s like we’re sharing a secret.
“I guess I could try it.” To be honest, it looks a lot easier to read than some of the other books in the classroom. But also, for some reason, I don’t feel like this is a babyish book. And since Mrs. Parkman specifically picked it out for me, I know I’ll at least try to read it.
I’m about to go back to my desk when she pulls something else out and holds it out to me. It’s my secret notebook of poems. My hand flies to my empty pocket. How does she have it? I feel the heat rise to my face, and I’m already planning an exit strategy.
Mrs. Parkman must see that I’m about to freak out, because she says, “It’s okay. I didn’t read any of it besides the first page to try and figure out who it belonged to.”
I let out a long breath.
“Uh… thanks,” I mumble as I take the notebook and shove it as deep into my pocket as I can get it.
Before I walk away, Mrs. Parkman says, “Hey Dragon? The page I did read was amazing. I believe you’re a true poet.”
A true poet.
I’ve never thought of myself that way. The words ring over and over in my head. All I can do is nod. My mouth feels thick. I can’t get out any words.
After lunch during writing workshop, Mrs. Parkman lays down these little paper cards with different colors on them. She calls them “paint chips” and says she picked them up at a hardware store.
“Oh yeah!” Kyla nudges me and says, “We got some of those when we painted my room turquoise last summer! It took me forever to decide which exact one I wanted.”
I wonder what it’d be like to have a room with painted walls.
“Everyone, come pick a color that speaks to you,” Mrs. Parkman says. I think this is an odd thing to say because paint colors don’t exactly talk. Denzel looks at me and twirls his pointer finger around his ear. It makes me laugh.
But then it’s my turn to choose, and a deep red color catches my eye. It’s called Smoldering Red. I take it, but not too eagerly in case Mrs. Parkman’s watching, and go back to my desk. When I stare into the color, the whole classroom melts away and all I’m left with are words and more words. Before I know it, I’ve scribbled down a list.
As I’m dotting the last i, Mrs. Parkman says time’s up. I feel weird, like I just spent a few minutes outside my body, like someone else wrote down the words using my hand. I stare at the page in my journal and the red paint chip lying on my desk. The words in a different arrangement would spell out a story, one I didn’t ever want to tell, one I would like to forget. I don’t know how the words, now unfamiliar to me, even got there. It freaks me out.
I slam the journal shut and line up for lunch.
On the bus ride home, I take out Love That Dog. I can tell it’s a favo
rite because the pages have been dog-eared, and there are thin crinkles along the spine that tell of a reader who wanted to lay it flat and gaze at certain pages.
When I spot Mrs. Parkman’s name written neatly in the top corner of the cover, I realize that I’ve never seen this book in our classroom library. And trust me, I’ve seen them all. I do a lot of “book shopping” to avoid actual reading. It’s a skill I’ve perfected over the years.
That this book hasn’t been in the library tells me that it is from Mrs. Parkman’s super special secret stash of personal books. She must really love it. And she’s letting me borrow it. I decide immediately to hide it somewhere safe at home where De-vine’s literal sticky fingers can’t destroy it and Maya’s figurative ones can’t take it.
I sigh and open up the first page. I find that I can read every word, and before I know it, I’ve read ten, then fifteen pages. All I know so far is that the kid writing this book, in verse, does not like poetry. I hope he changes his mind.
That night, I write the words Smoldering Red on a blue sticky note and add it to the wall next to the others.
14
My (First) Act Of Bravery
I get about halfway through Love That Dog during silent reading time the next day. It turns out the kid in the book doesn’t hate poetry at all. He just doesn’t think he’s going to be any good at it. I get that. But the thing is, this kid keeps trying. It makes me think of that Roosevelt quote from morning meeting. The kid is definitely better off for having tried to write some poems. I can already tell he’s happier than he was before. And one day, he even lets his teacher hang one of his poems on the wall.
My Storied Year Page 7