Thank you for checking out our blog. We'll be posting news of what we've been kicking up in our rodeo, including our writing programs and working with multi-generational writers. Our co-founder Margo Perin is excited to post her experience of working with fourth graders in her residency through California Poets in the Schools at a San Francisco elementary school, during which children experiencing trauma begin to find their voice through poetry.
Last week I taught poetry to fourth graders in what is euphemistically called an "urban environment." The topic was “Wishes”, based on Kenneth Koch’s wonderful Wishes, Lies and Dreams. After a few of the children volunteered to read out lines from a sample of poems from the book, I asked them to call out what they wished for this year. The prompt was not just wishes for themselves, but also their families, their community or neighborhood, and the country and world.
The kids began with personal wishes, which I wrote on the board:
I wish I had lots of money
I wish it was my birthday everyday so I could get presents
I wish I didn’t have homework
I wish I was in a professional soccer team
I wish I was as fast as a cheetah
I reminded the kids to think what they wished for their families, community or neighborhood, and the world.
I wish the next door neighbors would stop banging on the wall and shouting
I wish people wouldn’t get shot
I wish the police would stop shooting black people
I wish ISIS would stop going to other countries
I wish guns weren’t invented
A little boy with bright eyes called out, “I wish I could see my brother.”
Where is he?” I asked.
“Honduras.”
“What would you bring him?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled shyly, uncertain.
“How about a big smile?”
He nodded vigorously, and I added that to his line on the board.
The children went to their seats and began writing. A girl with an intense stare folded her arms angrily, upset that the last poem read aloud ran out after she’d read only two lines. I sat with her and tried to coax her to write, but she refused. Sleep encrusted her eyelashes and around her mouth; it looked like her face hadn’t been washed for several days.
I handed her the Koch book and she read a couple more poems on wishes.
“Do you feel inspired yet?” I asked.
She shook her head sullenly.
“I’ve been telling everyone what an incredible reader you are,” I said. “I remember from the first day I came to teach here I was so impressed as I’m not used to seeing kids read as well as you do. You’re also a terrific writer.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
I put my face close to hers. “Do I look like the kind of person who would lie?”
She glanced away, unsure.
“Who did you tell?” she asked.
“My partner, my friends, and even teachers.”
She said, “What are their names?”
I thought fast. “Marci, Carmen, Sally …”
“Sally?” she interrupted. “Is she tall and skinny?”
“No,” I answered, forgetting to check my what’s-okay-to-say-o-meter. “She’s short and fat.”
She looked surprised, like I had sworn.
“I told you I don’t lie,” I said. I paused, then said reflectively, “You’re a fighter, aren’t you. Are you a fighter?”
She looked surprised, recognized, and nodded.
“I am, too,” I said.
Her eyebrows raised. “How are you a fighter?”
I told her I’d just been to a music jam and how the men there acted mean, and they always did that to women musicians. I taught her the word sexism that even in a progressive school she hadn’t heard yet. Again forgetting to check my meter, I told her one of the men tried to stop me playing.
“I told him he had no right to say that,” I said, “and I said it in an angry way.” I told her that he had walked off the stage in a huff and so I played and ended up having a good time.
We were both silent for a moment, then I said, “You only have to write two lines.”
I walked away to help other kids. When I came back she had cast her paper aside. There were two lines of poetry on it.
“Great,” I said. “Can you add some more?’
“You said I only had to write two lines,” she argued.
“Well, I’m going to push you,” I said. “That’s my job as a teacher.” I looked again at the lines.
I wish I didn’t have to go to school
I wish I was with my sister
“Where’s your sister?”
She looked over at me. “School,” she said disdainfully, like I should already know.
“What’s she doing at school?”
“Drama.”
“What’s she doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Drama.”
“What’s she doing in her drama class?” I insisted.
“Making costumes,” she said.
“Okay, add that.” Then I said, “Okay, now write some more wishes.”
I went off again and when I came back she had filled half a page. I didn’t have time to look at it but said well done. It was time for the kids to come back together to share their poems.
“Do you want to read your poem aloud?”
“No,” she said vehemently.
But when the kids began to share, she asked one of the girls to read hers out.
Her lines had been crossed out and replaced with:
I wish I was with
my sister in heaven and was
able to come back down
Last week I taught poetry to fourth graders in what is euphemistically called an "urban environment." The topic was “Wishes”, based on Kenneth Koch’s wonderful Wishes, Lies and Dreams. After a few of the children volunteered to read out lines from a sample of poems from the book, I asked them to call out what they wished for this year. The prompt was not just wishes for themselves, but also their families, their community or neighborhood, and the country and world.
The kids began with personal wishes, which I wrote on the board:
I wish I had lots of money
I wish it was my birthday everyday so I could get presents
I wish I didn’t have homework
I wish I was in a professional soccer team
I wish I was as fast as a cheetah
I reminded the kids to think what they wished for their families, community or neighborhood, and the world.
I wish the next door neighbors would stop banging on the wall and shouting
I wish people wouldn’t get shot
I wish the police would stop shooting black people
I wish ISIS would stop going to other countries
I wish guns weren’t invented
A little boy with bright eyes called out, “I wish I could see my brother.”
Where is he?” I asked.
“Honduras.”
“What would you bring him?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled shyly, uncertain.
“How about a big smile?”
He nodded vigorously, and I added that to his line on the board.
The children went to their seats and began writing. A girl with an intense stare folded her arms angrily, upset that the last poem read aloud ran out after she’d read only two lines. I sat with her and tried to coax her to write, but she refused. Sleep encrusted her eyelashes and around her mouth; it looked like her face hadn’t been washed for several days.
I handed her the Koch book and she read a couple more poems on wishes.
“Do you feel inspired yet?” I asked.
She shook her head sullenly.
“I’ve been telling everyone what an incredible reader you are,” I said. “I remember from the first day I came to teach here I was so impressed as I’m not used to seeing kids read as well as you do. You’re also a terrific writer.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
I put my face close to hers. “Do I look like the kind of person who would lie?”
She glanced away, unsure.
“Who did you tell?” she asked.
“My partner, my friends, and even teachers.”
She said, “What are their names?”
I thought fast. “Marci, Carmen, Sally …”
“Sally?” she interrupted. “Is she tall and skinny?”
“No,” I answered, forgetting to check my what’s-okay-to-say-o-meter. “She’s short and fat.”
She looked surprised, like I had sworn.
“I told you I don’t lie,” I said. I paused, then said reflectively, “You’re a fighter, aren’t you. Are you a fighter?”
She looked surprised, recognized, and nodded.
“I am, too,” I said.
Her eyebrows raised. “How are you a fighter?”
I told her I’d just been to a music jam and how the men there acted mean, and they always did that to women musicians. I taught her the word sexism that even in a progressive school she hadn’t heard yet. Again forgetting to check my meter, I told her one of the men tried to stop me playing.
“I told him he had no right to say that,” I said, “and I said it in an angry way.” I told her that he had walked off the stage in a huff and so I played and ended up having a good time.
We were both silent for a moment, then I said, “You only have to write two lines.”
I walked away to help other kids. When I came back she had cast her paper aside. There were two lines of poetry on it.
“Great,” I said. “Can you add some more?’
“You said I only had to write two lines,” she argued.
“Well, I’m going to push you,” I said. “That’s my job as a teacher.” I looked again at the lines.
I wish I didn’t have to go to school
I wish I was with my sister
“Where’s your sister?”
She looked over at me. “School,” she said disdainfully, like I should already know.
“What’s she doing at school?”
“Drama.”
“What’s she doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Drama.”
“What’s she doing in her drama class?” I insisted.
“Making costumes,” she said.
“Okay, add that.” Then I said, “Okay, now write some more wishes.”
I went off again and when I came back she had filled half a page. I didn’t have time to look at it but said well done. It was time for the kids to come back together to share their poems.
“Do you want to read your poem aloud?”
“No,” she said vehemently.
But when the kids began to share, she asked one of the girls to read hers out.
Her lines had been crossed out and replaced with:
I wish I was with
my sister in heaven and was
able to come back down