Narration of Blog can be found here:
This is a love letter that somehow transforms into a grief letter. This is a grief letter that still hopes to be a love letter to you, dear reader. This is a poem disguised as a call to action and a call to action that makes space for your joy and sorrow as a conversation between the two.
I bear witness to the complicated emotions that we are grappling with as we approach the end of an unprecedented academic year like no other.
I have a desire to reach towards you in…
There are two quotes that I keep close to my heart and revisit before I begin teaching a math lesson. I don’t always say them, sometimes I recite them in my head less than perfectly, but they are always present in my actions and choices.
The first: “I have never encountered any children in any group who are not geniuses. There is no mystery on how to teach them. The first thing you do is treat them like human beings and the second thing you do is love them.” — Asa G. Hilliard III
The second: ““The teacher is of…
You were hearing voices. They speak to you. In these between times. What are they saying to you? I would like to know as well. But maybe, just like everything else in this relationship, the voices are fleeting, they are ephemeral.
What did it take for you to come here?
What act of bravery compelled you to leave a world you knew to one where you had no one and no language?
Was it the flinty gaze of your father‘s eyes?
The memory of your mother, birdlike flying through the air, pushed back into a vortex from the fists of…
by: Sara Rezvi
There is something ascendant inside of me
And in all the beautiful women in my life
Who tend to broken things with kindness ~
The shoreline that I have been walking has been rocky, full of wounds and debris.
The stars are coming out tonight
They reflect the dark and powerful wave rising inside of all of us
Blood moon, powerful spirit, ancestors. I see all of you
It is time to meet these waves
It is time to embrace my own glory
We are magic//blood and bond//We are centuries in the making
We are thunder and…
what is a scent but a memory trapped in chemicals?
A molecular mapping from nose to brain to heart
It doesn’t always have to be in that order
time is not linear
I think it is possibly a spiral
one of those old slinkies from the nineties —
Time compresses and expands
One minute you’ll be cutting a ripe fruit and
you’re transported to a thrift store couch
that you can’t quite remember the color of
laughter that you want to forget
Do you remember the watermelon?
How you made us pretend that we were…
(I have Complex PTSD due to years of anxiety, trauma, and abuse. Here is a guidebook that can help folks who are trying to help me right now due to my father’s recent passing. Thank you for bearing witness and for loving me. Half the time, I do not know what I need. Other times, I struggle with internalized toxic notions of not wanting to be a burden and feeling shame for asking for help. I am trying to do better, but I recognize that I cannot and should not do this alone. Hence, this guidebook. ❤)
I gave birth to grief last night
A raw and leathery thing
Scaly claws emerging
from a womb
that has never held life
Where does all this grief go?
How much more
Will continue sliding out of me?
I must count out enough rags
To wipe up all this mess
The grief undulates
a moving living creature
it is monstrous
My throat makes
A keening choking noise
are you lost?
where did you go?
What is fear?
Fear is this snake in my stomach
A roiling, writhing mess
A measured watching and waiting
The coiled viper waiting to strike
I am exhausted and so worn
I am waiting for the clamor of bells
A hope that the house I have built
Extends beyond these four walls
This rectangular screen
Something to strike back at this pit
That is moving inside the core of me
Home is not country
Home is not built
From violently constructed borders
Home is not protected
By weapons that keep Others away
Hope is a discipline ~ Mariame Kaba
When I think of the word ‘discipline’, two meanings come to mind. The first — a practice, a commitment, a promise to keep at it even in spite of precarity and austerity. Not the gimmicky kind, the one that has a veneer of something more but turns out to be disappointingly superficial. No. That is not the discipline I think of, but I ascribe to a definition of practice, a promise that I make daily. To myself, to the students I serve, to the world I envision.
The second definition — a function…
I have words but I don’t know where to put them
I have silence but don’t know how to stay still
I have rage but only these smoky ruins remain
Shall I wrap them softly?
Swaddled in burnt ember?
Somewhere in the crawl space of my heart
I keep these words
I keep them quiet, I keep them safe
I fear their lighting
— a burnt match
A pathway winking into existence
To a smoldering anger undying, to worlds that I would end
with just one glance
Eternal, unvanquished, immortal
They say to women, find your voice
They say to women…