And Jack Powers Does It Again. The Poet Makes Me Think...Connect With History...Capture a Moment in Time with Those I Love Most.

We're going to let this one be about Abu. Human Resources called me today as they were entering his paperwork and wanted me to know that he has the coolest email on campus: ability@. I caught onto that early - knowing the ability behind the young man (before he even knew who he was to become). 

This is year 11 with the sage. Yesterday, he and I were interviewed for a local podcast, simply to name Ubuntu and to describe the importance of community spaces to gather and to communicate. The Westport Public Library, which opened last month, is a State-of-the-Art library for our times. We recorded our thoughts in their new podcast studio. It was awesome.

I couldn't help but look over at him during the recording recognizing, too, that he was my choice for a focus-poem during a Jack Powers workshop on campus. Teachers deconstructed a poem, analyzed it and tried to replicate it. I chose the date 2008, when I first met Abu in a high school library. 11 years later, he is a lead teacher for me and a co-presenter at National conferences. He is family. I'll let the words share the rest.

Danańe

It’s 2008. Abu 

is swallowed in an oversized flannel

and too-big-for his head 

knitted winter toboggan.

We are being introduced.

Nottingham Bulldogs are barking

in the hallway, adolescence,

overjoyed in cologne, Grippos,

and bottled sodas.

Because I’m 37 & graying

I notice his hands, brown, 

chapped by winter’s callousness,

as they fidget with a ballpoint pen.

He tells a war story,

bullets, scars on the inside of his leg.

His playful smile retreating behind 

the puckering of his lips.

I think about teaching. history. His story..

15 years of Kentucky bluegrass,

portfolios, there is no learning

without a relationship - wisdom from 

a mentoring friend. 

His flannel is grey and blue,

and sneakers are torn, but important,

from donations his family received.

The Syracuse sky is chalk.

When Abu tells me of his mother,

Makagbeh, and how she helped

the family stay alive, I retreat to 

shadows, privileges, guilt

of Western life…

a Saturday morning cartoon.

At home, behind a keyboard

I write his memories as if they’re

my own, tapping truth into 

esoteric language others have never known.

But today, a decade later,

with a poet at the board,

the July breeze chases humidity, and I watch

a room of teachers scribble their worlds.

Horizons stretch forever,

painting history beyond this room. 

He is another way I came alive.