revolution

this week we started reading ray bradbury. last week was midwinter break. the week before, we wrote a little:

fifteen years ago mr. gil scott heron broke my heart and shook my hand all in one evening. he promised me the revolution would not be televised. he was right about that. 


but that may be partly because there's not a working television in any public school in brooklyn. the revolution will put you in the driver's seat, he said. the revolution, he insisted, will be live. and it was. it will be. it is. i had the good fortune to see the first glittering sparks of revolution today and can tell you all you've heard and all you've thought about the shiftlessness of teenagers, all you've heard about how they don't know how to work together or think or act is probably about as far from what i saw today as possible.


it turns out when you give kids some time to think and ask them a tough question or give them a deep statement, they'll ask you what it means first, but when you tell them you don't know,  they'll try pretty hard to figure it out for themselves. and even if they're not sure, even if they don't get it quite right, they'll get pretty riled up if they think someone is listening. and i will tell you, right here and right now, that if you are a grown up person and you say to them i am listening they will say something. and even if it isn't what you want to hear, even if it sounds silly to your own grown up ears and even if it isn't as articulate as you think your fancy self could be in the same situation, you will hear something impressive if you listen.

we give the kids a slice of a poet's brain: if they give you ruled paper, write the other way. the poet is a man named juan and we ask what they think he means. we ask the tenth grade. the whole tenth grade. five classes of thirty. and we say it like this: what do you think? they do not like this because they think it is disingenuous. they believe that when someone asks them, tenth graders, teenagers, what they think, what those people really mean is what do i want you to say? and i suppose most of the time that is true. but we press on. no, really. what do you think? and they think maybe it means a person should be a little more rebellious. they think it means a person probably doesn't have to let other people determine his or her limits. they think. it is a struggle, but they do it.

and we talk some more. about the occupy wall street protests, which they see as a colossal flop. why, they want to know, with all the world watching, didn't those people say something? as people who are adept at being ignored and discounted and dismissed by those in power, they know a missed opportunity. they know exactly what they would do with an audience. they know what they would do if someone shoved microphones in front of their faces.

and we figure, a handful of teachers who are always looking around for a way to get a kid to read or write or think, we don't exactly have a microphone but we know they know how to get attention. so we scheme. and each class schemes a little differently but everyone has the same message. we're going to write the other way. and they write it down. on post-its and posters. it should not be missed here that every time they write their message they write it the right way. every time. they arm themselves with paper, with words. they are ready to go out into the world with a message. but we've got more than paper in mind. we know how they communicate.

in each class, all five, we ask them to take out those precious phones. it is against the rules. it is so against the rules. they begin to glow, the children. one child says he is confused. a girl giggles nervously. slowly, agonizingly slowly, they type the quote about the paper into their little phones. and then, in each class, thirty kids and two teachers, more or less, send out a text to at least five, and in many cases all, of the people they have listed in their phones. if they give you lined paper, write the other way. hundreds of texts like electronic confetti flying through the air. they cheer. they change their facebook statuses. i do not even know what this looks like, but they do it. status: writing the other way. status: disturbing the universe. status: participating in the revolution. they step out into the halls with their fists full of words, their stomachs fluttering wild butterflies. we could get in trouble for this. all of us. this is real. this is the revolution. they stick the words onto doors and walls. they put them on the time clock in the office. they fold words and cram them into grates and wrap them around door handles. they cover the school with their demand. if they give you lined paper, write the other way. do it, the little papers insist. look at things differently. do not let anyone ever limit you.

and nobody is really sure what to do. students are whispering in the halls. some teachers glare out doors as swarms of thirty tenth graders blankets the halls with a call to action they are still not quite sure they understand. but some teachers open their doors, stand there in the doorway with smiles that reach way back into their eyes. some teachers encourage their students to look at us. one teacher has tears in her eyes, good tears, she says. she is proud of what she sees.

late in the day, the very last period before the bell rings and the doors open and the wildness pours into the streets, the last class of the day steps out into the hall, walking three or four abreast, carrying the words on big slabs of poster paper. they chant, they say the words loud, all together, insistent. their voices echo through four floors of the old building and just like with each class before, with every step they take, a little of the fear and nervousness dissipates. they are surrounded by each other and they feel the strength of their numbers. i see them on the last leg of their journey. they are marching toward an administrator who steps out into the hall at the corner where they will turn. he watches them. he is a good man and he understands what they are doing but it is his job to keep the peace. he stares at them. they do not waver. they march right up to him, chanting, and turn the corner. he nods at them. they understand what he has done. they understand the impression they have made. they are down the stairs and gone.

it is not clear, however, that all of them understand what they are doing. it is not clear that all of them will be able to explain what has happened. but it has happened. it is happening. and they are planning what to say next. because they know something. they know people hear their voices. they know people in this school know they have something to say. they are starting to believe it, too.

field survey

some days after breakfast the sweetie and i walk down the steps of the caboose and we head up the railroad tracks a little, walk the right-of-way through the trees and around the curve, past the field with that one cow on the east side of the rails and the wrung out land where the river came up to the west. but today i am restless and want to walk the other way, over the two lane road we call highway 28 and down behind the post office, toward the depot at the edge of town.

i know what is there, know there are trains on those tracks, art deco passenger cars, boarded up cabooses, steam engines and coal engines and all sorts of monstrous beasts smelling of oil and metal. we walk down the tracks past the bbq and the auction. we  cross over the highway and find ourselves very quickly among little yellow rail repair vehicles. there's an old handcart sitting low and still. behind the post office are the first big cars, covered over with dark strapped-down tarps.

we roam around. i tightrope walk along a rail while the sweetie tries to pace himself with the ties. they do not match his stride and he kicks around the outside of track closest to the water, right where the bush kill crept up during the flood.

the sweetie finds a few bones along the track, shining white ribs and slices of spine, an animal dissolving into the dirt. we look at them a while, but they are nothing big. small pieces of a deer, probably hit by a car at night there on the dark curve just above the rails. the sweetie abandons the bones, slides down the bank a little more recklessly than a man with so far to fall really ought to and is out at the edge of the water, skipping fat rocks across the ice.

i am not the sweetie, barreling headlong down a steep slope like a madman. i pick my way through the piles of leaves and loose stones to where the ground levels out and small trees huddle in clumps. i watch where i put my feet, try to avoid thorny vines that snag at my legs anyway. generally this cautiousness simply leaves me behind the sweetie on hikes, trailing him, being always not the first to see anything.

but today because i look down to be sure my shoe doesn't slide into the soft, sandy mud near the water there is a gift. because of the storm, because of the flood and the meanness of water, there are things strewn all along the valley up nearly as high as the banked tracks some places. propane tanks. a mug handle. the sole of one shoe. and because we walk along the water from time to time i'm learning to ignore the bits of bright things caught around the bottoms of trees. there is a layer of the unnatural over the rocks, the plants, the broken branches that will be there a while.

but this is different. a white triangle bigger than all the smashed pieces of things and brighter than any twisted, tree-snagged plastic bag. i lean down and think back to when i was pining for a deer skeleton we saw by the side of the road. it stayed where it was on the side of the road but this new skull is there, loosed from the rest of its bones, waiting for me to pick it up and take it home. waiting for a place with the rest of the ridiculousness we drag in.