Food for thought...

A poem we studied in class...A sad reflection on some students' experience in school. To my teacher friends who read this, remember how influential we can be in our students' lives.

FIRST PERIOD (Kevin M. Derrig)

half way through first period

dust accumulated on the sweaty palm of my

            raised hand

must be a centimeter thick by now

as the chicken-legged teacher goes around the

            room

defacing students’ homework from last night

with red pen graffiti

that focuses more on missed commas than the

            content of the sentences

he finally decides to acknowledge me

“Mr. Derrig, why do I have a feeling that this is

            another one of your dumb

comments.  You constantly waste my time. Why

            don’t you just drop out or something?”

why don’t I just drop out

why don’t I just drop out!

and it was at that moment that all statistics

            began to make sense to me

statistics of children whose mouths water more

for the many taste of

society corner slanged penicillins

than the cardboard textures of diplomas

with pipes more important to fill

than class requirements

statistics of classes cut

to avoid battlefields full of aggravated shrapnel

from teachers with exploding tempers

teachers with magnifying glasses at the end

            pointers

who feed off the brightness of surrounding

            students

to singe holes in the esteems of those who need

            just a little more help

than

others

I wanted to turn my shot-down hand into a fist

I wanted to hit him ‘til he was incapable of

            speaking anymore

but I didn’t want to become another number in

            overflowing manila folders

of children arrested in school

and we wonder why a gun seems to fit perfectly

            in the hands of this generation’s adolescents

ladies and gentlemen

I’m writing this poem to highlight that which has

            been stuck like gum

underneath wobbly desks

free from parental eyes

only to mess the hand of those who have to sit

there

I’m writing this poem to speak for all the rows of

            children before me

who remained voiceless in the cracks of school

            and its soundproof textbooks

I’m writing this poem for all the children who

            have not yet been named

the ones that will one day have to fill these rows

            I’ve been struggling in

only to enter classrooms where they’ll be shot

            down for what they feel

ladies and gentlemen

the future of America is being crushed between

            the molars

of power-hungry tyrants who think class rooms

            are boot camps

and if we have any teachers in the audience

I urge you to understand that the hand you grab

            the chalk with

the hand you grab those red pens with

the voices you speak with

are oversized chisels

and you must proceed to teach with caution

for what you say and what you do is written in

            stone

and if you chisel too hard these minds can crack

“So what don’t you understand now, Mr. Derrig?”

I just wanted to know if I could go to the bathroom