So much potential to smile, but so much strife

BUT rampant Strife


Are we all going mad with trying to be good upright citizens, serious teachers, responsible for safety?
At Windsor Secondary School, there was a student who has been suspended for violence 20 months ago. He is still without a regular school to go to. I have no words to condemn our system. I suggest his violence was caused by bullying and taunting peers, but because bullying leaves no physical trace, those students were left off the hook. A disgrace. The student I am writing about was never heard; his parents were never heard; obviously his tutor was never heard.
At Blueridge School, a student was made in grade 4 to do push-ups in front of the class each time his ruler clattered to the ground. Did he ever complain? No. Did his parents know? No. His parents learned this via other parents who had heard the story from their children quite a few years later.
Both these videos may not be the exaggeration they seem to be. We are knowledgeable humans. We are capable of the best. We are born with the potential to smile and be happy. I suggest that as educators we make sure that our righteousness does not get in the way of common sense and decency. Zero tolerance of x, y and z is stopping fair judgement in school.

Poem: “Deer Hit” by Jon Loomis

A student came by with a poem today by Jon Loomis, Deer Hit – and it made me remember all the silly accidents I had as a teenager, and those that made a dent in my very being and left a different person. Whoever the teacher (West Vancouver Secondary School) is, he/she made a great choice! It got my student really thinking on those things that go wrong through bad luck, and those things that go wrong when a person eggs on destiny through silly choices. It’s a poem that leads a youngster to Critical Thinking, what makes the accident worthy of a poem? Additionally and not least, for once the parent, who is pretty upset, doesn’t rant and rave. He just deals with the problem. He cusses and swears for sure – who wouldn’t – but he lets the teenager deal with what he’s feeling whilst dealing with the current practical problems. Enjoy.

deer headlights 2_0

Deer Hit

You’re seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk,
swerving your father’s Fairlane wagon home

at 3:00 a.m. Two-lane road, all curves
and dips—dark woods, a stream, a patchy acre

of teazle and grass. You don’t see the deer
till they turn their heads—road full of eyeballs,

small moons glowing. You crank the wheel,
stamp both feet on the brake, skid and jolt

into the ditch. Glitter and crunch of broken glass
in your lap, deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin

and shirt are soaked—one eye half-obscured
by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car

still running, its lights angled up at the trees.
You get out. The deer lies on its side.

A doe, spinning itself around
in a frantic circle, front legs scrambling,

back legs paralyzed, dead. Making a sound—
again and again this terrible bleat.

You watch for a while. It tires, lies still.
And here’s what you do: pick the deer up

like a bride. Wrestle it into the back of the car—
the seat folded down. Somehow, you steer

the wagon out of the ditch and head home,
night rushing in through the broken window,

headlight dangling, side-mirror gone.
Your nose throbs, something stabs

in your side. The deer breathing behind you,
shallow and fast. A stoplight, you’re almost home

and the deer scrambles to life, its long head
appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror

and bites you, its teeth clamp down on your shoulder
and maybe you scream, you struggle and flail

till the deer, exhausted, lets go and lies down.

Your father’s waiting up, watching tv.
He’s had a few drinks and he’s angry.

Christ, he says, when you let yourself in.
It’s Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

some of what happened: the dark road,
the deer you couldn’t avoid. Outside, he circles

the car. Jesus, he says. A long silence.
Son of a bitch, looking in. He opens the tailgate,

drags the quivering deer out by a leg.
What can you tell him—you weren’t thinking,

you’d injured your head? You wanted to fix
what you’d broken—restore the beautiful body,

color of wet straw, color of oak leaves in winter?
The deer shudders and bleats in the driveway.

Your father walks to the toolshed,
comes back lugging a concrete block.

Some things stay with you. Dumping the body
deep in the woods, like a gangster. The dent

in your nose. All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.

I found this poem on a wonderful Website called Please go visit them! There are hundreds of poems made available to all!