The Children are Watching

 

The children are watching

And they will remember—

That is if this nation doesn’t fall apart first.

At least  they’ll be forewarned of the worst-

thanks to our screens the tyranny is being viewed in real time.

Sublime.

They are seeing the  irrational chases, handcuffs, disappearings,

The single mother being shot in the face for no reason

Except that it is once again the killing season.

Innocents of all colors and sizes being hunted—

Noobs to be pwned--

By grown gamer boys cosplaying as soldiers—

Never taught the difference between fantasy and reality. 

They must think this is the best game ever.

Whatever.

The children are watching

And they will remember. 

This is Our Country Now

  

This is our country now.

Put away the “I can’t believe it”, retire the “good ole days”.

Believe your eyes and your ears, for these are the only ways

To find the truth.

To hold the facts.

Step back.

Read the Diary of Anne Frank, read 1984, read Maus.

Dystopian fiction and past true horrors now live in our house.

I feel the generations of my military family, uniformed ancestors, quaking,

Fists tight, heads shaking.

Whatever they believed they were fighting for

This was not it.  

The vicious ICE cosplayers play at being soldiers—

Video games come to life for men who...what?

Want to act out fantasies?

Prove their grit?

Use bullets as catharsis for their pain?

I rack my brain

To figure out if this is all a blip of history,

Or if it is the logical next step for a country

Born from indigenous genocide and stolen lands.

The blood was always on our hands.

Maybe all of us have been costumed, cosplaying at democracy

Just as the ICE agents are cosplaying at being agents of justice.

I guess this is our country now. 

Whisper time

 Now is the whisper time.

The hiding time.

Stand behind me little one,

Wrap yourself in the folds of my jacket,

In the swirl of my skirt.

Cover your eyes so the sting

Of pepper spray doesn’t cloud your rainbows.

We used to teach 

That laws were for all

That rules were to follow.

We used to hum tunes

Of equality and democracy,

Of justice, empathy, sympathy

One nation.

Stand behind me little one.

Now is the time of unfairness.

Now we know that the path of time

Is a loop that history walks and walks again.

Stand behind me little one.

Hang on tight.

Now again it is time to fight.

A War

 A War

My messages ping
30, 40 times a day-
ICE agents spotted.

In store parking lots
outside schools, among tourists
riverside downtown.

Eyeballing, taking anyone brown.

Middle of the night
family sleep shattered as a
helicopter lands.

Kids don't understand
the zip ties around shaking hands,
their parents vanished.

the working folks who
spend money, pay bills, dream, hope -
painted as monsters.

Painted as monsters
while masked invaders point guns
in a war of their own creation.

Choice

 

The choice is easy.

 You are living your one life. 

...and while I leave the door of "maybe" wide open to the possibilities of reincarnation, 

for now, on this earth, in this nation,

all I know for sure is we have

One shot at the experimentation

of choosing kindness or "number one" blinders,

empathy or  antipathy

toward my fellow living creatures.

I've been a teacher too long not to offer you reminders

that choosing to only care for yourself

might gain you power and wealth

but at the price of dying alone,

in your palace or expensive care home.

So can you honestly say you'd choose this

before your soul drops below or soars above,

instead of ending your one life surrounded by love?

Be Ready

 

"Be ready my child" the queen bee said

"for the very sight of you will inspire great dread.

Your dark stripes and light will make them cower in fear

or else they'll try to destroy you so you can't get too near."

The little bee frowned. None of this seemed quite right.

"But all I want is the freedom to fly and alight

on flowers to gather nectar, golden and sweet,

and to carry it hiveward on my small clever feet..

Why should they run?  Why should they want to kill me?"

The queen bee shook her head in great sorrow

"That is the question, and it's not at all silly.

They think you're a danger, my child, my sweet.

They only see your stinger, not your clever small feet,

not your sunshine gold stripes, nor those midnight dark.

They fear you in their gardens, as you fly through the park.

All they believe is their fear, and fear makes them mad."

The little bee hung its head. "That makes me so sad.

Without bees  there's no flowers, 

no fruits, no sweet honey.

What is there but these?"  

The queen bee sighed,  "They want power and  money.

more than our sweet honey,

more than the flowers that bloom

to brighten their rooms,

more than fruit, more than life,

more than sky, more than earth."

The little bee wept a small tear,

"then what are we worth?"

Now is the time

 Now is the time to decide

the breadth and length,

the depth and strength of your heart,

your soul.

Are you a part of vast and imperfect humanity,

or is your love sequestered and sealed against all

except for those who have your approval?

Do you have the vision and strength to

step forward into the glowing discomfort of 

love for all,

or will you hide in the shadows of

your own isolated denial?

Now is the time to to decide

because the questions are being asked,

and you must reply.

In a world where we are all afraid,

look at he choices you make, have made

and tell me

what is the depth and strength of your heart,

your soul?

I Grieve

  

For this country of mine

I feel  GRIEF.

We’re a nation built on the razed ruins

Of those to whom this land once belonged,

Should still belong.

We began oh so wrong.

And now the karma is terrifyingly  strong.

I grieve.

Our founders were imperfect, 

Racist,

Sexist,

ego-puffed, wig-stuffed

white men,

but our leader now would horrify even them.

I grieve.

Our system of checks and balances-

Designed to squash the power that is being flaunted

On every screen,

Has been disempowered, distracted, destroyed, demeaned.

I grieve.

Bamboozled, uninformed, foggy minded hopefuls,

Thinking their red MAGA caps and Trump flags

Make them honorable patriots—scandal.

Don't they know they will feel the sting along with the rest of us, or more?

I grieve. 

For our children,

For my children,

For people from other lands only wanting a safe place to land,

For people just trying to find a loving place to stand, 

For students and teachers, librarians and professors,

For tender-hearted doctors, scientists, nurses 

For minimum wage, 3 job holding, hard-working folks who seem 

To bear all the curses,

I grieve.

And I grieve

The loss of our national heart,

The loss of our civic kindness,

The right mindedness to hold up those who are low.

I grieve.

And I grieve.

And I grieve that even when

The smoke of his fires has cleared,

There will be nothing to save,

No global apologies accepted.

He will have thrown us all into a grave

Another grand experiment ended.

I grieve. 

Ground

There are painted words on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER.
Yellow on black.

There are injured people on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
Red on black.

There are desperate people marching,
screaming along the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
They read the names of those killed
even as they are shoved
sprayed
pelted
knocked off bicycles and off their feet
by officers of the law.

My kindergarten, first grade teacher's voices
ring in my memory "Police officers are the helpers".
I whitely believed.
Naive.

Now I see video clip memes
of officers  shaking hands, patting shoulders,
being the neighbors and friends
but never clearly denouncing
what their battle-armored enforcement brethren are doing.

Brethren.

Red on black
old people with canes knocked to the ground,
passersby on bikes swarmed and beaten,
peaceful protesters with billy clubbed cracked jaws, missing teeth,
rubber bullets ricocheting off the bodies of reporters,
collateral damage of
pepper sprayed children--
all and more the victims of  battle frenzied police officers
that school children are still
supposed to believe
are the helpers.

Lies.

Lies.

And the proof is in the blood on the ground
all around.

Outsider

In Japan 

my gaijin face branded me an outsider

every second of every minute of every hour of  every day

and yet it was there

I felt the embrace of home

and wanted to stay.

Instead  I flew away

back to this place of my birth.

I am unremarkable here, forgettable here,

another face in the crowd here,

but I do not feel at home here.

Here the willful hatred  of so many erodes me more each day

And I wonder how hollow my soul will be

by the time I can 

return  to Japan

with  my gaijin face. 

In Loving Memory

 

March 15th, 2025

In loving memory of

American democracy.

A 248 year imperfect experiment

demolished in two months

by a supremely damaged man.

This democracy fueled by dreams,

now murdered by greed,

had undeniable flaws

that needed repair to be sure.

However this democracy also

had hope.

Hope now dimmed

at our own hand.

The supremely damaged man

was given the power of destruction

by us--all of us.

Those who despised him stayed silent

with each stab of the knife.

Those who adored him screamed their joy

to the heavens

with each vile illegal, immoral action he took.

Now we are remorseful individuals

for we are no longer a nation.

All of us accomplices

to the murder

of American democracy. 

Broken Toys

 

Young boy, you have

all the toys,

ALL THE TOYS

you could ever need or want.

And all day, every day

you break them,

BREAK THEM

just because you can.

With each broken toy

you howl

until you receive

a new toy to replace the broken.

And you break that new toy

and so it goes. 

AND SO IT GOES.

You grow into a man.

A man who has ALL THE THINGS

you could want,

and yet you want more.

More power,

More money.

More things.

More shiny friends to show off.

But like the child you were,

like the child you are,

you break these too,

believing you need--

no, worse, that you DESERVE more.

But people are not toys,

and power and money are as fickle as  

life,

and in one fleeting moment

you may find yourself

broken.

3.1.25 

CHM

Karma

 

This is karma you see.

How could it not be?

A country built on stolen land and slaughtered people,

cities constructed on sacred sites and burial grounds.

How could it not be karma?

Pale  male immigrants wanting the freedom to worship and live

as they wished

now, 248 years later

pale male  immigrants want to deny others the freedom to worship and live

as they wish.

Now, 248 years later

the descendants of these pale male  immigrants 

want to burn away the constitution,

outlaw science,

bind and gag women,

annihilate anyone different.

Maybe the natural human state 

is one of hatred and war,

a giant trading game  of fleeting power and riches

for a  quick and pointless death.

I'd say the joke was on them

for all the power and wealth

cannot be taken past the grave.

But the joke is on all of us.

This too, is karma.

CHM

2.28.25

Math

 Math

 

 

I woke up this New Year’s Eve morning and realized

I hadn’t seen my father’s’ face in 30 years.

 

I hadn’t heard my brother’s laugh in 28 years.

 

I hadn’t felt my mother’s arms around me in 6 years.

 

It seems I am now measuring time with a new mathematical formula.

 

Each day, week, month, year now demands to be calculated in

Losses

Misses

Silent voices

Phantom hugs and kisses.

 

This new math uses ephemeral numbers made up of

Memories

Regrets

And irreversible changes. 

 

I could get lost in these calculations, 

Subtracting and dividing out the rest of my life. 

 

But I won’t.

 

I have, after all, always been more of words than numbers-

more imagination than calculation.

 

Instead of counting my losses,

I will weave the stories of and within my life,

Letting my words breathe warmth

Into the cold, cold tallies of time.

 

12/31/2023

Down to the Wire for 2022

 2022 was a year of

barely. Writing. Anything. At. All.

Odd for me.

The lack of pen to paper

(or more often, fingers to keyboard) 

wasn't due to a lack of imagination.

My tales never stopped flowing.

Blips of news, half-petaled flowers,

odd human glances from squirrels outside my window

continued to inspire me to open up a Word doc

and type in sentences,

a paragraph,

a page.

But this was all.

Fragments.

Maybe I was too busy

with jobs

that fed me a steady stream of

beautiful words to read,

beautiful books to share.

Maybe I was devouring more stories than I could create.

Maybe it was simmering pandemic mania

that continued, continues, to pit us against each other.

Maybe it was bone-crushing shudders

that stopped me cold

every time an angry person with a gun

exercised their misinterpreted rights

to siphon unhappiness

into random killing.

Maybe it was the  smashing down,

hammering down,

of anyone

everyone

who wasn't 

a straight rich white guy

a straight political white guy

a straight powerful white guy

an straight old white guy

a straight young white guy

a straight stupid white guy

an straight ignorant white guy

any straight  white guy.

Like possession of

estrogen 

glowed from  foreheads

in red skull and crossbones

warnings.

Like possession of

melanin

was a poisonous elixir

demanding to be poured out

onto bloody ground.

Like loving who

we were meant to love

was its own plague.

Like being who

we were meant to be

was a raw, seething, curse.

Maybe I simply didn't have

enough words

the right words

to make sense of it all.

But a new year is peeking at me over the horizon,

tempting me once again to

throw my words into the void.

Maybe I will.

Box

 

On the floor

of the reddish room

sits a smallish box

where forgets are kept.

Where regrets are swept.

Where the last crumbs

of "what ifs" are shoved.

Rumors fly

that the box must stay hidden,

the insides under a tight lid

to hide our shame.

We embrace the lie that 

a perfect life means 

the box stays emptyish.

Which is incorrectish.

This life

cannot be lived

unless we fill the box,

fill the box,

fill the box,

unless we sometimes spill the box

to run trembling fingers

through the painful treasures inside.

Leave the room open wide.

Among Us

There is no surprise here.

Hate has always walked among us.

It cosplays as 

that business owner, this teacher,

that shopper deciding between wheat bread and white

(they buy the white). 

Hate wears the mask of respectability,

often adding a veil of 

"I attend church every Sunday and sing in the choir".

And like the good actor it is,

Hate whispers itself into children's ears

so it can dance among our generations.

Hate is the neighbor who makes no noise

the one who never has barking dogs or loud parties.

"They seemed so nice." 

Hate puts words into mouths:

"Well, I'd never do what THEY did.  

I'm not a TERRORIST. 

I never wanted a COUP."

And perhaps THEY wouldn't break out windows

in the literal and philosophical heart of our democracy.

Perhaps THEY wouldn't illegally crawl through those broken windows,

break into offices,

steal podiums,

smear THEIR own feces on the walls holding up democracy,

live streaming and

taking selfies all the while.

Perhaps in the dark of the night

THEY wouldn't be crawling on their bellies

through the sewers of the internet,

through the Fox-news sludge,

sipping on  conspiracy-laced 

cocktails

believing

every

vile

lie.

But for almost 4 years they believed everything else

their President told them.

Everything else.

How many of them are now unmoored from their foundations,

unsure what to believe

their social media feeds oddly empty

of their defensive posts?

But even more dangerous,

how many of them were energized,

invigorated

by the power and chaos hate can muster,

 emboldened by the 74 million

fellow Trump supporters

who voted themselves into giving

passive permission?

It does no good to change sides now.

The damage has been done,

the wounds gaping open.

All any of us can do

is hold tight to 

hope

love

truth

and wonder

how many of them are 

among us

eagerly awaiting

their next chance?

Pandemic Ponderings 1

The longer this pandemic lasts the more my brain gathers the wool of disbelief and anger at those who pooh-pooh science and history and caution, determined to bulldoze their clumsy way past a virus that --and I say this with  a lot of empathy and in some cases no small part of disbelief--couldn't care less about their jobs, their age, their politics, their wants vs their needs, or, in the case of  the protesters, about their camouflage costumes and angrily brandished guns. 

So for awhile I shall be begging your patience as I resist the  urge to rant on social media, and instead drop my rantings here. 

I am, after all, human.

 Just a Viral Springtime Dance

Humans always have been and always will be threatened most by their own tendency to succumb to their impulses. To buckle when temptation comes calling. Here in Chicagoland the weather is bright and beautiful, everything is growing green, blooming, and waving in warm breezes--spring temptation at its best.

I walked our dog Miso around the neighborhood late yesterday afternoon and in more than one backyard I saw large groups of people--far more than the house could hold-- having cookouts, playing games, sipping beers. Having the kind of springtime fun that in almost any other scenario would've made me smile. But all I could think about was the risk they were taking with their lives. The risk they were taking with the lives of those who may be waiting for them at their own houses. Or the lives of strangers in stores they may visit.

The temptation to walk out into that sunshine and resume our celebrations, jobs, studies, shopping--lives--as we yearn and need to live them is mighty compelling. It is the same temptation that wafted in the air during the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1918 when everyone thought the worst must be over...and it wasn't. There is so much we can learn from that painful history, but not enough of us willing to embrace the lessons that are there for the taking.

I can only hope that we can all resist fleeing into that spring sunshine, and come together politically, economically, and personally to support those who are facing the choice now between going to work and risking their lives, vs staying home and having no way to pay bills, buy food, etc...

Remember--the virus takes no sides, has no political agenda, no sense of time or need or privilege or entitlement. It's a mindless opportunist and it WILL take advantage of every avenue we leave open for it to grow and spread.

Ambivalence

Viruses don't care about us AT ALL.

They. Don't. Care.

Their one existential objective is to THRIVE.

In their trillions they take the paths of least resistance

into our moist, vulnerable,  living bodies,

reproduce,

and then try to leave

in order to do it all again.

They don't pick and choose which body to enter.

They. Don't. Care.

And luckily for the viruses, many of us

Don't. Care. Either.

But we still have a choice.

We can battle against this together,

survive together,

care, and support, and rebuild together...

or we can hide in our factions,

cooing over our illusions of money and power,

shaking our tiny, useless fists of independence into the ambivalent sky

and succumb.

Doesn't matter to the viruses.

They.  Don't.  Care. 

Christina Has a Plan

I have been a teacher for nearly 30 years.  In those 30 years I have taught A LOT of different curricula:

Montessori
Reggio Emilia
Early Childhood
Primary Elementary
Public school
Private School
International school (Japan)
Accelerated curricula
Thematic curricula
Hands-on Science programs
ESL/EFL


In addition, in my role of bing MOM, I was the home "Learning Coach" for over 4 years for my two children who attended  an online California Public School junior high and senior high programs.

So I know the teacher side of what teachers are going through right now as they try to navigate the murky waters of matching their suddenly online curricula to everything that students and parents are going through in adapting to social isolation in a pandemic. 

I also understand  the parent side, trying to work jobs that are now in various states of disarray, confusion and online adjustments, trying to support their child's learning while they  maintain some semblance of a healthy life amid a sea of stress and fear, or simply just TRYING.

For what it is worth, I have a plan.
It would require schools to step back with empathy, patience and most of all flexibility.
And it would still require parents to step in to support their children's learning.

So.

Here is my plan.

Grade Level         Teacher implemented Online Time       Teacher Guided Parent Time 

Kindergarten                     2 thirty minute "meetings"                       As needed/possible at home
                                          2-3x per week

Kindergarteners need ample time to move--and they need to do so frequently.  Online time would be limited to 2 thirty minute meetings  2 or 3 times per week.  These online meetings--which could be transformed into smart phone friendly emailed letters/videos to the student or even snail mail letters for those communities that may not have easy technological resources--  would  enable the teacher to still be a part of the kindergartener's lives, to let them know they are still being guided by their teacher, still a part of their class.  The meetings could be a class chat and then later that day or week a class meeting.  Or a class sing along and a class game.

The teachers would also provide parents of Kindergarteners with weekly activities that include a kind of "unschooling" approach--at home activities that reinforce math concepts, reading, art, science, etc.   Parents would be able to chose what  works for them in the way that works for them.

First Grade                  2-3 1 hour meetings per week                   As needed/possible at home

First graders also need ample activity time. But they also have slightly larger attention spans and would be able to attend to slightly longer online meetings.

Same accessibility caveats as Kindergarten

Second Grade            3 1 hour meetings per week                      Reading journals/writing journals
                                                                                                     
Third Grade                2 1.5 hour meetings per week                 Reading journals/writing journals
                                                                                                   
As the ages, attention spans, and self motivation of the students increases, the duration of the online meetings can go up slightly--but they must never go longer than a 1.5 hour session.   With older students teachers can start to incorporate staggered lessons targeting specific skills  in subjects that may be harder for some parents to cover at home--math, social sciences, physical sciences, etc...
The online meetings must always incorporate a check in component so the teacher can assess if anyone may need time offline due to stress, worries, or challenges they are working through themselves, or indirectly via their family.

Also, as the grades go up, students can engage in more self-directed, project or thematic based learning that would put the power of contact in their hands--perhaps delving into learning to cook a special dish and then sharing the process with their teacher/classmates.  Or reading a book and then contacting the author to discuss how that book affected them.  Or perhaps planting a butterfly garden in some plant pots and tracking how many flowers bloom vs how many butterflies visit. 

Once the students reach junior high age, online learning programs are better suited to their attention spans, but teachers need to not take advantage of this fact to load on a regular term's worth of work.  The same  caution that is taken with younger students needs to be taken for older students as well, who are  likely have more family stresses placed upon them.

And for all students, no matter how many times they can attend online class meetings or do home activities, all students must be given a pass for this school year, and have the start of fall classes incorporate ample time for emotional adjustment and academic review.

Is this perfect?  Of course not.  I'm not a school or district administrator.  I can only imagine what would go into making a sweeping change like this. But I'm keeping my eye on the Facebook posts and tweets coming from incredibly stressed out parents, I've read the articles about the low numbers of students logging onto what are turning into HOURS and HOURS of online time that for many children is ending with tears and frustration.

And  as for the teachers?  They will be doing what they joined this profession to do:  opening young eyes to the magic of learning.  Guiding students to see that reading is a source of comfort and guidance, that numbers are a source of knowledge and reassurance.  Teaching is so much more than curriculum and is FAR more than tests and assessments.  Requiring teachers to manhandle in-person curricula into an online environment is a recipe for failure and burnout.  Freeing the teachers to be a source of guidance and strength at this time for parents and students is a recipe for success all around.

The bottom line is that no matter how hard educational theorists and hopeful administrators try to  create an automatic, online, fully digitized educational system (and they do keep trying), they will never succeed.  Why?  I'm surprised you have to ask.  The answer is all around us--now more than ever.    A fully online educational system lacks the very thing we are all missing right now-- human touch and interaction.   Hopefully we will be smart enough to remember this whenever we are out of pandemic danger.