Students walked into my classroom again today. They do this every year — I haven’t yet found a way to keep them out! We’ll be encountering all manner of good literature together, and we’ll be writing together too. Writers teach writing. Writing exists to be read. Really, we just cannot have one without the other. A virtual impossibility. By the time I encounter my students they all have years of reading and writing experience. Those years past matter today. It’s where we’re from…
Where I’m From
I’m from the end of war. Hope in the American
Winds of change.
Television. Muscle Cars. A trip to the moon.
Hippies. Kent State. Viet Nam. Born in the
I’m from the end of the line.
‘Baby of the family,’ ‘spoiled rotten,’ ‘princess.’
But I’m first in the line of college degrees.
Learner, teacher, mother, wife.
I’m from going for a ride to check the crops.
Green growing promises. Deep roots.
I’m from sky-watchers. Wind. Hail.
Farmers’ land. Farmer’s daughter.
I’m from wheat fields tended.
Enduring beyond our lifetimes.
From the high plains. Wind-swept,
I’m from dependence and worry
Bus rides, playgrounds, afternoon milk.
Pom-poms, chemistry, driving around
Looking for possibilities.