Poetry on Palestine and Israel: Check out Sunday, 10/25 in D.C.

"We need authentic, honest discourse in the American Jewish community. It must start today and it must be about Palestine and Israel.

" - Kevin Coval, excerpted from the Huffington Post, 10/24.

I'm posting the following as an act of support for the poet activists speaking out on behalf of dialogue on a complex issue of our time. How to address Israel? How to understand the US's role? How to unpack the many narratives told by Palestinians, Israelis, World Leaders, Military and Peace figures? I received a letter earlier in the week describing a truly sad and unfortunate censoring of these poet activists, Kevin Coval and Josh Healey, who were originally invited to come and speak at JStreet. I know Josh through his work at Madison's First Wave Spoken Word program, as well as meeting him at Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam. I encourage any and all who are able to tune in to this important dialogue, and participate on Sunday.

Peace,
Melissa
***
WE WILL NOT BE SILENT: POETRY ON PALESTINE AND ISRAEL

with Kevin Coval and Josh Healey

Sunday, October 25
4:00-5:30pm
Busboys and Poets, Langston Room
2021 14th St, NW (near U Street Metro station)
Washington, DC

This past week, Kevin Coval and Josh Healey were censored and un-invited from this weekend's J Street conference in D.C. as a result of attacks in various right-wing blogs and online magazines. In defiance of these McCarthyist attacks, and J Street's subsequent accommodation, Coval and Healey have decided to proceed with the original event.

They will share their poems and dialogue about Israel/Palestine, identity and justice, and (especially now) free speech. No longer part of the J Street gathering, this event is open to the whole community: conference attendees, artists, activists, youth, elders, Jews, Palestinians, gentiles, and anyone down to build.

Free event. All-ages, all are welcome.

For background on the situation, see:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kevin-coval/searching-for-a-minyan-ou_b_327597.html
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1122325.html

For more info, contact jewsthatareleft@gmail.com

* * * * *

"Ancestors:" A Meditation

It's my grandmother Borgmann's 95th birthday next week. Our family is gathering from all over the Midwest - and beyond - to celebrate this matriarch of our clan who resides in Osmond, Nebraska. Ninety five years. What has someone seen in 95 years? Whew. What have they lived through? Makes my head spin trying to imagine.

Grandma Adeline's youngest child, my aunt Marian, has been compiling memories of Grandma B. As the last in the brood of 11, Marian is sort of the family historian. She began a book project for her mother - that includes a chapter devoted to each of her eleven children. These pages swirl in my mind this morning. I can see the pictures and bios of all my aunts and uncles, each of my cousins making an attempt to document their lives. It's an act of deep regard, reverence, I think. The book is a way to honor Julia Adeline Schilling Borgmann's time on the planet. It's a way for each and everyone of us to take stock of where we come from. In the same vein, I think it is also an equal invitation to consider where we are going.

Where will we be at age 95? How many of us will be around? What will we have witnessed? What will we have created? What will we have let go? What will our homes and hearts, families, careers look like? Where will we reside?

Enter: Today's poem. Harvey Ellis' work, "ancestors," shared this day on "The Writer's Almanac," thrusts me smack dab into the middle of all these questions. I am surrounded by contemplations of not only Julia Adeline, but of her spouse, Johnny. I can see the sapia-hued photographs and skin tones of Edna Bell Arduser, Great Grandpa Liewer, the scads of boxed images of my mixed-German-ancestry. I wonder if a picture of Clara or Matthias is contained anywhere - as the original owners of my engagement diamond? I know Great Grandpa Henry is there -- the boxer who rode the train from Cincinnati. I return to Grandma B, and recall her own train ride tales over the US landscape. I can hear her deep, baritone voice, tell me about traveling from Reno and back, with a divorcee, (whose name was Rose?). I recall my own awe-struck silence listening to her first hand account of meeting Amelia Earhart at a Chicago Luncheon while visiting a cousin. I see her sewing and making sandwiches for a Jewish family she nannied for on the east coast, prior to her own married and mothering days. I try to fathom my own life, with her alongside me. Her blood and marrow in my own bones. Her parents - and all of my other Borgmann/ Schilling/ Liewer/ Arduser ancestors - filling out the sinews of my body. Their lives informing mine. Their steps, tracks, train rides, boat-rides, guiding mine.

It's something to consider, you know?

I invite you to read Ellis' poem copied below. Drink it in. Meditate on your own ancestry. Who is beside you? Who is breathing within? How are you moving and stretching and making things happen today? What parent, aunt, uncle, great-great, do you want to draw on in your journey at this moment? You know they are close by.

Happy Contemplating!

Melissa

ancestors

by Harvey Ellis

my ancestors surround me
like walls of a canyon
quiet
stone hard
their ideas drift over me
like breezes at sunset

we gather sticks
and make settlements
what we do is only partly
our own
and partly continuation
down through the chromosomes

my son
my baby sleeps behind me
stirring in the night
for the touch
that lets him continue

he is arranging
in his small form the furniture
and windows of his home

it will be a lot like mine
it will be a lot like theirs

"ancestors" by Harvey Ellis from Sleep Not Sleep. © Wolf Ridge Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

"ONE:" The Fight Against Global Poverty

This website inspires me. I got turned onto this work when my friend Ibe Kaba posted a link to the "ONE" organization during the G20 Summit in Pittsburgh, on his facebook page. The idea of this summit being hosted somewhere on the continent of Africa is being proposed. This notion excites me. Check out the mural. Check out the website. Sit with these basic questions:

What is the fight against global poverty?
What does this mean for me?
What does it require of you?
What must each of us get conscious of?
How is each and everyone of us an agent of change?

Peace, Love, Contemplation, ACTION!
Melissa

On "An Invitation to be Heard": Tuning into the Truth of Poetry. Story. Experience.

What does it mean to share stories? To read them aloud to one another? To record them, write them down in the first place? What does it mean to speak a personal narrative into the air? Why do people share tales? What experiences inspire reflection and acts of private and public disclosure? Love, heartache, loss, betrayal, birth, death, faith, miracles, desire? What happens when we share our tales, and really hear ourselves and one another speak?

In the coming weeks, I will have the privilege of helping facilitate "Listening Sessions" at the Church of St. Philip in North Minneapolis. As part of our Social Justice committee work, we have discerned a call to hold two evening sessions inviting people who have left the church to return and share their stories. We are creating space for former parishioners to gather and reflect. We are asking those who choose to come to respond to three simple questions:

• What called you to the St. Philip Community initially?
• Where are you now and what do you like about it?
• What would you like to share with us about the circumstances that have caused you to change churches or stay away?

As I prepare for these evenings, I'm tuning my heart, mind, spirit to these questions. I'm meditating on this action of being deeply attentive, validating, and acknowledging of all that I hear. I'm listening to my own inner voice, and how I react to circumstances and people throughout the day. I'm practicing the hard work it is to defer judgment, and simply receive information. I'm reading poetry.

Our goal in having these sessions is to do the work of story-telling: of truth-telling, sharing, hearing, acknowledging, and reconciling. Our goal is to tune in, not unlike the poet, to the heart of matters, to details, to the Divine at work and in our midst. As I ready myself, I'm re-reading poems. I'm struck time and again by Mary Oliver, Rainer Maria Rilke, William Stafford. Today, I tune to an old favorite by William Stafford, and realize that his poem holds lessons around why I am called to do any of this work of listening, sharing stories, responding. I invite each and everyone of you into this poem - into reading it as an act of prayer and meditation. And I ask that you please keep these "Listening Sessions" in your heart.

Thank you.
Enjoy!
Happy Contemplating!
Melissa

****

A Ritual to Read to Each Other
by William Stafford (1960)

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park.
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give --yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

On "Particle Physics" - Posting a Poem for Quantum Love?

From Today's Writer's Almanac, a poem that perplexes and pleases me. A Quantum physics poem, to be sure. Or is it a baseball poem? Or lost love poem? Hmmmm.....
Critical response questions follow. Read on.

Particle Physics
by Julie Kane

They say two photons fired through a slit
stay paired together to the end of time;
if one is polarized to change its spin,
the other does a U-turn on a dime,
although they fly apart at speeds of light
and never cross each other's paths again,
like us, a couple in the seventies,
divorced for almost thirty years since then.
Tonight a Red Sox batter homered twice
to beat the Yankees in their playoff match,
and, sure as I was born in Boston, when
that second ball deflected off the bat,
I knew your thoughts were flying back to me,
though your location was a mystery.

"Particle Physics" by Julie Kane from Jazzy Funeral. © Story Line Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. Information about the WCU Poetry Center.
(buy now)

Questions:
What would it mean to be fired through a slit together?
You and me?
Have you ever wondered what makes one polarized?
What gives you a charge?
Know anyone to turn on a dime?
Can you fathom the speed of light?
How would it feel to never lay eyes on her again? Or him?
Would you ache?
How are baseball and physics and love all connected?
(Have you seen "Bull Durham"? I wonder if Susan Sarandon reads such poems or blogs?) What is your location?
Who do you love?
What have you lost?
How can we win home runs in love?
What do particles do when they divorce?
What do particles do when they love?
What are you and I made up of?
What does our matter say to these queries?
To this poem?
Can we ever put our finger on mystery?


Happy Questions and Contemplation!
Love,
Melissa

On the Murder of Chris Dozier: Reflecting on the Lives of Former Students

Marcus White. Toua Xiong. Quincy DeShawn Smith. And now Christopher Dozier. All former North High Students I had the privilege of knowing and teaching. All killed in North Minneapolis.

***

I woke up Friday morning to an email from the Peace Foundation. A "Peace e-lert" is what the message was entitled, sent to inform those on the list-serve of recent news, events in and around North Minneapolis. In this case, the email contained information about an upcoming Vigil, sponsored by MADDADS and the Peace Foundation organizations, to honor the life of Christopher Dozier, who was murdered Monday, August 31st in North Minneapolis. The message states that Chris "was found shot to death in a car." It includes a photo of him holding a small child. It relays information about his life. It reads:

Chris, the father of two sons, Christopher Jr. (3) and Sincere (1), was an active member of St. Nebo Missionary Baptist Church and a graduate of North High School (2004). He also attended Dicker College in Louisville, Kentucky & Barber College (2006-2007). His family says that he was a loving son and brother—a true family man—who will be remembered for his big smile and his creative designs.

It offers details about the vigil itself, which is held in the location the violence occurred:

The PEACE Vigil will be held on Sunday, September 6th at 2:00 p.m. next to 1416 11th Ave North.

I read. I take a deep breathe. I sigh. I look closer at the picture. I scan my memory. I know this young man. I knew him as a teenager. I re-read the bio and process information: Class of 2004. I do the math. I place Mr. Dozier in my sophomore English Class at North High in 2001/ 2002. I see his broad smile, his lanky frame at 16. I scan my class list, and look for his attendance records. I imagine my clip chart with student data, and try to see his grades. I ask myself, "Was he a good student?"

And then I stop. And I take note of what I've just done, subconsciously. WAS HE A GOOD STUDENT?

I ask myself, "What does it matter if he was a good student or not?" As I pause, I wonder what else is really trying to get constructed in my brain.

If Chris was a good student, then he was a good kid.

If he was a good kid, then he was a good human being.

If he was a good human being, then he would not have died.

He would not have deserved to die.

This is what happens in my brain -- in a split second! I am sick as I do this simple interrogation of my own psyche, begging to know what is behind my question, "Was he a good student?" What if he was a rotten student? What if I kicked him out of class for being disruptive? What if he skipped sophomore English on a daily basis? What if he bombed out on assignments? What if I gleaned gang graffiti on his notebook? Who cares? Would that have one little bit of bearing on whether or not his death was tragic, and whether or not mourning him was an important action? Would it change the fact that he was a human being who was loved by and loved others?

Whew. It makes me sort of ill writing this. Who deserves to die? Who deserves to be shot to death in their car? Who deserves to live? Who gets to decide any of this? Who gets to judge?

***

I see Chris. I recall his jovial demeanor, and replay scenes of him poking his head into my room between class periods. He smiles. He goofs. He comes into the classroom corner where the props for drama activities are held. He grabs a sword. I see him pretending to be Bottom, in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and prancing around with this plastic prop that makes silly sound effects with each wielding gesture. I remember being annoyed with that sword and the ongoing pranking of Chris and his peers. I see this former student performing his assigned scene from the Shakespeare comedy before his classmates. We laugh. We are entertained. In the scene, Chris' character fakes his own death. I am stopped again replaying this scene in my mind's eye.

***

In Julie Landsman's book, "Growing Up White: A Veteran Teacher Reflects on Racism" she addresses her own inherently held racist tendencies. In the book, she takes an inventory of moments when she's realized her white privilege is at work, and how her own responses to students of color as "victims" has played a possible part in perpetuating the disparities in education. She describes a moment in class at Sheridan Middle School in Northeast Minneapolis when she's doing a residency and asks the students to write a letter. When one little girl with brown skin submits what she has written to her mother in jail, Julie is aghast. She records her deep sorrow and dismay over the situation of the little girl. She holds the circumstances of the child's incarcerated parent as the largest factor determining her success. Julie reflects on how her notions of the little girl are shaped by this single fact, and notes how later, she realizes she overlooked the child's present and loving grandmother, the girl's vocabulary and well-constructed prose. Julie recognizes she has reduced this child to a single detail and that this is part of the problem we all have as humans who seem to focus on reductionary facts that perpetuate inequity and victimhood. As the author of the book, she models the work we are all called to do: getting conscious of how our thoughts and attitudes shape our interactions and subsequent relational outcomes.

***

I think about Chris. I see Marcus White. I recall the last time Toua Xiong and I had an interaction. And I hold Quincy DeShawn Smith's death in my mind. Each of these young men were once my students. Each of them had families and home lives and work lives that shaped who they were, and spoke volumes about their characters. Each of them were loved by someone - many - and in turn loved beyond themselves. Each of them were North Side residents at one point, whose lives also came to a brief halt in North Minneapolis.

What is the sum of each of their lives? How do we hold and measure the hearts and minds and spirits of young men murdered in North MInneapolis? How do we hold and measure our own hearts and minds and spirits? What value do we place on life? Those of our children here, and those of our children there? How do I reflect honestly about the violence in North Minneapolis? How does it relate to violence anywhere in the world? How do I celebrate fully the life and love and potential there, as well as in my own St. Paul home? What is my job as a former teacher from North High, who still prays and volunteers and works in and around the homes and streets, businesses and schools of North Minneapolis? What am I called to pay attention to? What are you called to stop and take note of?

***

As I mark this fourth tragic death, I consciously work, like my friend Julie Landsman, to mark the fullness of these young men's four lives. I invite you to do the same.

In peace,

Melissa

From Henri Nouwen: Speaking Words of Love

This was in my inbox. I post it as a way to remind myself of this simple truth uttered below by Dutch Priest and Psychologist, Fr. Henri Nouwen: "words have the power to create life."

This makes me ask, "What do I want to create? What do you? What do you want to speak into existence? What do you want to let go of? What role do our words play in the creation of love, life, peace? What role do they play in forgiving another?"

Questions that inform my prayer today. Here's Nouwen's pithy reflection. I hope it finds you well.
Love,
Melissa

Speaking Words of Love

Often we remain silent when we need to speak. Without words, it is hard to love well. When we say to our parents, children, lovers, or friends: "I love you very much" or "I care for you" or "I think of you often" or "You are my greatest gift," we choose to give life. It is not always easy to express our love directly in words. But whenever we do, we discover we have offered a blessing that will be long remembered. When a son can say to his father, "Dad, I love you," and when a mother can say to her daughter, "Child, I love you," a whole new blessed place can be opened up, a space where it is good to dwell. Indeed, words have the power to create life.

-Fr. Henri Nouwen