Some Free-Verse Poetry for You High Brows

Photo courtesy of Jonathan Alcorn.
jonathanalcorn.blogspot.com

I am Himmelhoch's Son

I was Werner Himmelhoch’s illegitimate son,

and I also loved a woman in a housing project in Pacoima.

Decades later, I remember one hot and smoggy

afternoon: We lay coated in a sheen, smoking Marlboros, exhaling clouds

that drifted across her peace sign poster before

getting sucked out the window by the

traffic on Interstate 5.

Even then, in 1979, it roared.

She, Weewish, told me that day,

“You’re not illegitimate. Your last

name is Himmelhoch.”

“Whatever I do is not

good enough for him,”

I replied.  Simultaneously

a pack of Hells Angels thundered

south toward Gardena.

Eventually Weewish dumped me,

moving back to the Morongo Reservation

two hours east on the San Bernardino Fwy.

Secretly I was relieved, as was, of course, my Father.

Oh, I missed the steady supply of sex,

but seldom thought about her three sons

who’d cry or scowl when I'd enter.

“You are better off without her,” my father noted.

Words erupting from his core, carrying all the Germany

he had left. Pop never spoke much,

but he spent hours teaching me how

to swing a golf club

before I disappointed him

and he walked back into the only house I knew, shaking

his head. The wanted man, who with

slide ruler and T-square routed 8-lane freeways across

mountains, marshes and a million razed bungalows

while I was flunking schoolboy math

and earning the name

Hamhead.

Today Weewish lives in a mansion paid for by money lost.

One son is a pit boss, another a Council Man.

The oldest fell asleep behind the wheel

New Years Day 2000.

Someone had to chisel

W E R N E R

O T T O

H I M M E L H O C H

1 9 1 5  -  1 9 9 2

across a marble slab.

I teach your children how to write if I’m not breaking

par at Chester Washington County Golf Course.

Mark J. Blocker

Kid Says the Dictionary is Racist

Friday in a central LA classroom. Lessons of the week introduced, practiced and learned. Tests administered, graded and returned. The students were acknowledging their grades and filing the results into their folders. With no completed assignments to file, Kevin Johnson (not his real name), grew bored.  So the shark of the class made his move.

Standing up Johnson announced to all, "These muthafucking English classes are racist." He locked his eyes on mine as he strutted the center aisle. Grading a pile of papers at my desk I responded, "How's that, Johnson?" Then I warned, "before you proceed,  I remind you this is a classroom; not the corner of Vermont and Manchester. Your language should reflect as such."
He leaned forward, palms down on my desk. "Mr Blocker, why is the dictionary racist?" He turned to the class, grinned and raised his arms.
"I see. The dictionary is racist?"
He waved off my ignorance. "C'mon, Blocker, you know it is," he challenged. "You read it all the time!"
I briefly wondered how this kid thinks I spend my free time. He tossed a worn-out graffiti-marred  dictionary on my desk. It landed with a loud, FLOP! The torn hard cover slid cock-eyed to the thick spine. Johnson pointed at it suggesting, "Look up 'black' and 'white'."
The whole class was interested now. I took the dictionary to the device that projects a page onto the screen. Even though "white" is further down the alphabet than "black," I arrived there first. Here's what the Merriam Webster's School Dictionary, 1994, contains:

white (adj) 1a: free from color b: of the color of new snow or milk c: light or pale in color (white wine) (lips white with fear) d: lustrous pale gray : SILVERY also: made of silver 2a: of, relating to, or being a member of a group or race characterized by light pigmentation b: slang: fair 5a HONEST 3a: free from spot or blemish as a : free from moral impurity : INNOCENT" . . . "c: not intended to cause harm (a white lie) (white magic) d: FAVORABLE, FORTUNATE (a white day in my life) . . .

After I finished reading the entry, I uttered, "Yeah? Well, Johnson, pretty sugary stuff. So what?" I lifted his prohibited, gang-affiliated baseball cap and pointed at his naked head. "You've got a lot of white coursing around through your veins. . ."
"My grandma call me 'high yella'," he nodded. "Now, look up black."

black (adj) 1a of the color black b: very dark (a face black with rage) 2a: having dark skin, hair, and eyes : SWARTHY b: (often cap) (1) : of or relating to the Negro race (black Africans)  2: of or relating to black Afro-Americans or their culture (black literature) 3: characterized by the absence of light (a black night) 4: thoroughly sinister or evil : WICKED (a black deed) 5: invoking evil supernatural powers (a black curse) 6a: very sad or gloomy (black despair) b: marked by disaster (black Friday) 7: characterized by hostility or discontent : SULLEN (black resentment). . .

My voice trailed off. Finally I stopped. Two dozen black and brown adolescents were frowning.
Johnson broke the silence. "Mr. Blocker.  I, we," he gestured to the class, "we are not evil!"
Affirmations followed. "Yeah." "That's right." "Amen" "What the fuck!"
"Hey! Remember it's a classroom." I launched the discussion, "What did you think about the dictionary's definitions of those two words?"
They unanimously preferred how white was defined. Again I reminded them to check the cussing.
"You cuss too!"
"Only when I'm really pissed."
"We're really pissed."
"It's the connotations of the words," I noted.
Johnson's observation turned into a lesson on denotation and connotation. It was going to be that or some vapid whine session about the ubiquitous, evil white man.
"Denotation is what a word means by its definition. Connotation is the emotional baggage a word offers. Take the difference between calling someone thrifty or cheap, fat or voluptuous, skinny or slim. Both describe the same thing, but no one wants to be called fat, skinny or cheap, because of the connotation of those words. We'd rather be called thrifty, voluptuous or slim. It's how we feel when we hear the words."
I then posed the obvious question, "Should the dictionary have used different words?"
I weakly opined that people writing those definitions didn't mean any harm. They didn't know any better. I pointed at the class, "Besides, you guys are partly to blame."
Here honked a chorus of "Huh?" "What?"
Johnson furrowed his brow and listened like the rest of the class.
I hollered for effect, "Hardly anybody is passing this class!" I paused. "How many of you want to be pro athletes or dancers and singers when you grow up?"
Most raised their hands.
"What's wrong with getting to be a pro writer? Maybe working at a newspaper, TV studio, a radio station that doesn't just play the same stupid songs over and over? How about a dictionary company?" I held up the 15-year-old worn out dictionary and eyed them all. Each one returned my gaze.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this crap will continue until we have people of color occupying the executive offices of America--not just the athletic fields and stages! Games are fun, but until you guys get an education and get jobs writing web sites, movies and TV shows--and dictionaries--nothing is going to change. You're only going to see your people defined as criminals, failures and evil. It's whites writing this stuff! So it's all going to be from a white perspective, unless you write about it."
There was contemplative silence.
"You, Johnson, you talk a lot, but I can't get you to pass one stinking test. Instead of looking up our assigned vocabulary words you look up any friggin' word you want!"
"It's better than nothing," he shrugged.
"Nothing ain't good enough anymore, son. You just can't go around pointing out how screwed society is. You gotta give some answers." They were snickering at Johnson as my target now. But Johnson is my favorite student even though he is the least productive on paper. "Don't give Johnson any crap," I warned the class, "if it wasn't for him you wouldn't even be thinking about this. Looks to me like you fools are under attack and playing right into the Man's hands." (The 'Man' being every adult white male except me and David Lindley. Maybe you too.)
Now pumped like a coach I urged, "Pass your classes! There's more college-aged minority kids in jail than there are in college!" (I didn't know if I was right, but I've heard that statistic more than once.)
The bell rang. The kids looked at each other still sitting in their seats. Then they looked at me. I motioned  toward the door, and they silently joined the cacophony in the hall.
I don't know if they'll remember that day Johnson discovered gold--or two old turds--in the dictionary. I never revisited the lesson. How Webster's staff defines what's black and white is Webster's business. For under achieving kids in competitive America, life is tough enough growing up in a poor part of town. There's a lot of negative forces pulling you down. Stay upbeat and positive. That goes for everybody. No matter who fell in love with whom--inspiring the Lord to punch your ticket into this colorful and challenging life.

The New Kid is Tough

Keven Johnson (not his real name) entered my class last October--about a month after school started. In a ghetto school it's usually a bad sign when a kid enrolls late. It often means he is an "opportunity transfer"--kicked out of his previous school. He could have been tossed from one separated parent to the other. Perhaps he recently arrived at a local foster home.
At first Johnson sat sullenly a few days, then he began engaging his neighbors with whispered threats and demands for money or property. He progressed from littering the floor with torn shreds and gum wrappers to actually spitting gum on the floor--and just plain spitting.
I took him outside and explained how our school had a bad reputation. "It is dirty," I said. "The kids score low on tests and tend to beat each other up to establish a pecking order where the tough stand tall on top while the studious cower below."
He shrugged.
I asked if he was part of the problem or the solution.
After a while he muttered, "Solution, I guess."
"That's great, Kevin." Then I gave him a pep talk. I told him people often let us down, but the best revenge is living well.
The next day he asked if he could clean my room and rearrange the furniture.
I answered, "sure," knowing full well I had to teach him English; not facility maintenance. This was no time to tell the kid "no." He was actually talking to me, reaching out.
Johnson swept the floor and pushed and pulled the desks out of rigid rows and into a horse-shoe pattern. That was last December. As of late February, I still have the desks in Johnson's preferred pattern because it feels conducive for a less teacher-centered environment. I can also circulate better while the students interact more during academic discussions.
I still have a lot of challenges teaching Johnson. For one, he doesn't show up for school very often. He says his Grandma in Las Vegas is sick so he and mom must go there often. Whether he's telling the truth, only God and Johnson know. When he does attend class, he cusses all the time and calls everyone the n-word. Even me. All I can do is constantly remind him that harsh language wrecks the intellectual atmosphere of a classroom. Then I return to the topic at hand, hoping the other students don't suddenly find Johnson's antics more interesting than the lesson. I'm often S-O-L on that.
Citizens in Johnson's world--including his teachers--are seldom celebrated in mainstream American society. Yet Johnson is very American and ought to be celebrated. He is a child struggling to live an honorable life in a ruthless society he apparently perceives as hostile toward his identity and dreams. My trick is to teach him the pointless frivolity of beating up acquaintances and strangers. He'd do well to toss a few dictionary words into his lengthy streams of profanity, too.
If I stand any chance of connecting with Johnson, I have to stand on his side of the line while helping him cross over to be a functioning member of society--not fodder for some judge in a courtroom later on.
"Besides, Johnson, you don't like people watching you all the time, right?"
Instead of quoting him directly, let me just say he agreed that independence and freedom is what makes life worth living.
"Then you need to take care of business, Johnson. The stuff I'm trying to teach you to do will come in handy. Trust me."
Until he sees some value in what education may offer, standardized test will remain nothing more than a Scantron card with circles to be filled into a pattern--a pattern like the desks in a classroom run by a teacher who is desperately looking for the portal to every student.

Ups & Downs of "Value-Added" Test Scores

The Los Angeles Times has been blowing smoke about what a big deal it is publishing LA Unified teachers' "value-added" test scores. They say it's an accurate way of measuring a teacher's effectiveness. The LA teacher's union, UTLA, answers that these statistics are a private personnel matter between the teacher and LAUSD.
The "value-added" statistics are arrived at by comparing a student's score earned the previous year on the annual State-mandated test with the score the kid earned after 8 months studying the subject under you. Or me. Or the teacher down the hall. A couple of months ago I was apprised of my "value-added" scores. Out of 120 or so kids, 22 went up, 37 went down, and the remainder stayed the same. I guess that means last year I produced a net loss of 15 kids. Maybe those 15 kids hated my guts. Maybe they decided to take a year off in English and I couldn't inspire them to change their plan. I do know that if they didn't try to make dominoes on the Scantron card they would've at least gotten a "basic," because these tests aren't difficult if you apply yourself beforehand. That also means a large percentage of radio talk show hosts, school board reps and politicians couldn't score basic, either--even after applying themselves.
Students often ask me before class,"Mr. Blocker, what are we gonna do today?" September through October I tell them to do their dispatch and write down the agenda. After that, I tell the boys, "I'm going to teach you how to drink whiskey and play poker." That momentarily perks them up until they go inside and read the agenda. (I never get them to write it down.) When the girls ask, I tell them they're going to learn how to balance trays loaded with drinks and carry them without spilling. Some are enthused; others want to learn poker. I give those girls an automatic A, just like how I reward the girls who want to be doctors instead of nurses.
I often survey the students about what they think about my classes and instruction. They often complain that we do too much writing and reading and not enough movie watching.
"Why do we have to do all this reading and writing anyway?"
"Because it''s an English class."
"When are we gonna watch a movie?"
"Today." The entire class invariably erupts in cheers until I continue, "It's called, Mr. Blocker, Great American Teacher." Before I finish they drown me in boos. Adding, "In fact, it's going to be a live, staged event," offers fetid consolation.
Every September nature and the counseling office deliver a new crop of kids to face this cerebral routine. I wonder how a decade's worth of value-added scores will look: flat, peaks 'n' valleys, a steady rise or decline? When do we know enough to enroll more kids in my class or pull-the plug on a dead career?
I don't care who sees my scores. In fact, I don't care who walks into my room as long as they are unarmed and sane. The way I see it, it's public property so the public ought to have access as long as they're cleared by the principal and security.
In 9 years of teaching I've only experienced two bad encounters with parents. One told the vice principal, my supervisor, that I was a "white man intent on bringing down young black males." That was during my first year. She was mad I got her kid suspended for throwing a pencil back at me while storming out of the room after I accused him of cheating on a test. I understand her anger. Nowadays I'm mum about about catching students cheating. It means they give a turd whether they pass. It could even mean a high score, in turn maybe pulling up my "value-added" score.
The other parent? She complained, "Muthafuckah, you used a profanity in front of my child." She was right, too. One morning the kid pissed me off by sprinkling Jolly Rancher candy wrappers on an otherwise reasonably clean floor. So I barked, "pick that shit up."
"Fuck you, bitch. I ain't yo slave," she quickly noted.
It was about 10 minutes past the opening 8 a.m. bell. A lot of day still ahead. What that kid told me makes more sense than what I hear from 99% of the adults who want to comment about how well I teach.