By the way, I didn’t know my last blog was blocked from comments, but that’s fine. It was a post I just needed to exhale. Thanks for your concerns again, though.

On my way back from Florida, I had to think of what poems I wanted to perform for the Tavern of Creativity (presented by Cathy Delaleu and hosted by Rob Bless). I was invited by Cathy, so for that I was grateful. I was a little nervous; I just got back from seeing my father in a hospital bed, and I didn’t know if I was even up for it. Little did I know that the performance was exactly what I needed to relieve my stress.

Besides the great atmosphere, the food, and the performances, I also felt I had grown so much since the last time I performed in front of people. With all the teaching, speeches, and blogs, I felt I got a better sense of what it means to reach a wide audience. So I got up there and did “I’m Full,” “Whoops,” and “Armaggedon is Upon Us.” (I can’t put those online, but if you want them by e-mail, I can provide that.) I even did a little “I Wonder” by Kanye West. I can’t speak on everyone else’s experiences there, but with a packed house receptive to a crazy middle school teacher’s rantings, I felt anything was possible.

What’s more is that many of the artists up there were already published, and had works up for sale at the event, and I couldn’t provide that at the moment. It was interesting to see how they responded to me. Sometimes you’ll get the snide comments, but the artists there were so open about things and genuine, so it was cool.

Anyways, school’s still cool. I’m still optimistic, but I’m already starting to see where I’m going to have issues, and that goes for everything and one in the school. So far so good, though, and I’ve been dressed professionally every day, which is a result of and has helped cause my rather optimistic and positive attitude. I don’t feel the pressure I did before, and it’s helped a lot. Tomorrow, I’m teaching the Fundamental Theorem of Arithmetic (basically, every number greater than 1 has a unique set of primes, etc. etc.). I’ve already taught the sieve of Eratosthenes, so that’s exciting. I’m sure JD2718 appreciates that, especially since I’m teaching 6th graders this.

Anyways, week 3 is upon us NYC teachers. Holla back …

jose, who has an education rant just waiting to come out of him …

“Find your dreams come true
And I wonder if you know
What it means
To find your dreams …”

I’ve been forced to do a lot of reflection as far as my father’s terrible health right now. The growth I’ve gone through since I’ve seen him has been tremendous. I don’t think I’ve gone through this much growth in such a short period of time since adolescence, and it’s been more inner growth than anything. I’ve come to a bunch of realizations:

- I can’t stand when kids keep getting switched from class to class; it’s bad enough they don’t have stable situations at home. Now we have to switch them constantly in school too? Everything’s in flux for them and school should be more stable than that. I’m going to write a letter to the principal about that. Just when we were starting to gel as a class, and getting things in order, this abrupt change happens. Kinda like a father who comes and goes as he pleases, we have to wonder how the student will react to that constant change.

- I’m completely not ready for children. As much as I’m excited about the prospect of having a child someday, I also realize it’s hard work, and it takes a certain mentality to be a good parent. I’m not ready for that responsibility, and I’m not willing to bend my definition of what it means to be a father for my own selfish purposes. I’d like to be there through and through, but that’s the whole thing about being my age: much more mature than most people in my age group, yet not mature enough to just shut down all that comes with this youth. I’ve resisted becoming so much like my father that it scares me when I even get an inkling that I might be following his path.

- I’m over it. That visit to him in February really helped me grow as a person. I thought I’d swear him off forever, but I made my peace with that man. For those who’ve just met me, check the next poem.

“Original of the Species” by JLV 2007 ©

He’s got this raspy bass about his voice
A French accent to accompany the vocals, too
His dark, rough, weathered, and brown skin
Glistened against the reflected light from the dashboard
His frames tinted, as any Miami resident should have
I envisioned this rather handsome gentleman seducing the women
Who soon became my brothers’ and sisters’ mothers
And mine as well
The ID hanging from his rear view mirror took me aback
For it felt that the ID had some sort of mirror
I started to scan his face for the manly features in my own frame
My lips were certainly fuller than his
And my eyes bulged while his just barely opened
Yet his head and mine were almost identical
His mind and mine worked similarly
And his squint reminded me of mine
I felt like that kid again
The one who admired the other half of his DNA
His intonations through some of his questions yielding a sense of promise
As if the past was too quickly gone and
The future was ours
His charm only enhanced by the fact that I knew who he passed it onto
I came to this city seeking some sort of completeness from seeing him
And showing him that I am a man now
Despite his own faults
Instead, I am a man because of his faults
I inherit all from him
And as I grew, I had to filter out that which was not me about him
Become someone
Become that man
Become me
I am now the original of my species …

jose, who flies out on Thursday …

The G_d around me and not the G_d I am
tapped twice on my shoulder before the storm hit
In rumbles calling for home sanctuary
You must rest, that G_d said
I laughed, for the tempest brewed up
Free merriment
Mid-Manhattan debauchery with workers of the same
Taxing
Grey
And promising
Edifice of scholarly promise for young bilingual students
But the G_d around me called harder
Shook my stomach
Twisted my intestines
Yet I mistook it for a bad sandwich in my system
The storm approached quietly
But so fast I ran from it
When I finally stopped in the crowd
The rain came in the form of
Heart-wretched misunderstandings
Siblings deeper in lechery than literature
And somewhere on an American peninsula
A father lays helpless
An artificial lung attached to his natural one
Even his begotten son visits him
And reports it to the G_d within
But alas, on the third day after the G_d around called
I was left with water up to my ankles
Ducts dug deep into my facial crevices
And a fire and a blanket to send out this flash flood warning …

© Jose Vilson 2007

jose, who still has no idea how to start his award-winning book (HA!)

p.s. - The invitation is still open …

Yesterday, I had the wonderful opportunity to be part of my friend AnnMary’s baby shower. I wish I took pictures, but I swear to you, there are enough picture takers at that party that those pictures will suffice. Now I would love to tell you all the details, but really it was just a time for me to reflect on the experience.

There I was, sitting next to someone I’ve grown so close to as a friend over the last 3 years, and now I was witness to her present and future stage of her life. I was so in awe; I don’t know how anyone can fake that type of thing. She seemed so nervous, but secure in her motherhood, as if she hadn’t toiled and stressed over these weeks and months, working while taking care of classes and her home. Not that I haven’t told her this, but ever since she was a kindergarten teacher (and here’s hoping she returns to that occupation), I knew she’d be a great mother.

This one’s for her.

“Peanuts Have To Shower, Too” by Jose Vilson 2007 ©

She is a waddling big belly penguin
Hair flowing straight to the wells
Of her expected child’s food resources
She is now more width than height
Her worries circle the world entire
Yet her confidence creates a spiritual
Womb around her son’s shelter
He wakes her to remind her of his coming
The baby’s father looks on curiously
Just like I do
She’s a woman now
So secure in her womanhood
G_d won’t wrestle that away from her
Strangers, friends, and family alike shower
The queen with gifts from the designer to the handwoven
We are equal parts jesters and audience to her reign
We rain the baby with love
Our hands spread around and about her
Blessing her and the person she lives with
And the person she lives with, too
The water not fully broken
Rich with the material provided
And the life we injected for just one day
I ask her to remind me a week before it’s supposed to happen
She laughs
As if she knows only one person has control over that meter …

jose

p.s. - I watched The Godfather for the first time yesterday, and I get all the references now. Wow.

p.p.s. - Don Vilson? I think I like the sound of that …

Much of my effort for the last 3 weeks or so has been geared towards my blogging, an extension of my article writing / column writing ambitions. That’s also means my poetry, my one true love, has been neglected for some time. I wrote a couple of pieces here and there on this blog, but otherwise, most of my poetry has just appeared to me in the form of scrolling thoughts and not much more.

I wouldn’t call it writer’s block; more like writer’s diversion.

However, I am working on things here and there. I’ve submitted my older poetry to a couple of literary magazines and competitions, so I’m crossing my fingers here and there. What’s hardest about the “getting published” business is seeking the right opportunity. The problem with self-publishing or other ventures is that the right opportunities don’t often come through.

For instance, a lot of people opt to go through vanity publishing (you pay the publisher to put our your stuff). That’s fine for them, but why would I do that if I can find a better deal where I don’t have to pay a dime and I get a better percentage off sales?

So it’s weird, but I’m being aggressively patient. I’ve been a featured poet in an online mag thus far, and someone asked me to perform at a bar here in NYC in September, so things are definitely picking up. Soon, I’ll be working on my manuscript, but I won’t go too deep into it. Sharing too much of one’s life online leads to some people trying too hard to mimic it, as I’ve witnessed first-hand. Until everything comes to fruition, then, I’ll hold off on the rest of my big ideas.

In the meantime, feel free to scroll through my last blog about New Orleans, or even further about my Blacktino background. Have a good weekend, my people …

jose

I’m surprised by the serendipity of this August 1st. A few quick notes:

1) I’m the featured artist on RainTiger’s Poetry Site for August 2007. Thanks, mi gente.

2) As I said before, I’m a BlogCritic, and my latest article about the recent Rock the Bells concert featuring Rage Against the Machine, Wu Tang, and Public Enemy is officially published. An excerpt:

“What changed everything, however, was when a 6′3″ chubby-looking Canadian gentleman came up to my friend and I and had a discussion about his inebriation. It was fine until he said, “You know, you’re like the 11th Black person I’ve seen at this event.” It didn’t bother me; to the contrary, it made me conscious of what I was witnessing. He continued, “You know, it’s funny how at an event like this, where there are Black performers performing Black music, almost the whole audience is White.”

3) And now I’m done with my summer class. I’m turning in my paper in approximately 2 hours. Liberation!

Now, off to eat some Honey Combs and such. Tomorrow, I’ll have a review of Common’s latest album, Finding Forever, up here.

jose

Every morning for a good 3 weeks or so, I’d been reading Teaching With Fire: Poetry That Sustains the Courage to Teach, a poetry compilation compiled and edited by Sam Intrator and Megan Schribner. Even though I haven’t finished it just yet, it’s already one of my favorite books of the year, and will probably stay somewhere near me at all times. It’s inspired me to continue reflecting on my profession with my most cherished hobby, (poetry for those of you who just know me as a teacher).

I’ll keep it short this time around. Check the latest poem. It’s my gift to some new teachers.

“Courage to Teach” by Jose Vilson 2007 ©

Read all the jargon you can get your hands on.
Rely heavily on Dewey, Delpit, and Piaget
Ask your initialism-titled mentors, heads, bosses, and busy-bodies
About their experiences in the classroom
Their classroom management
Their subject matter, reader levels, best advice, and worst
Dream optimistically about the ideal classroom
And wax poetic about the wonderful changes you’ll make in
these children’s lives
Take notes in those fancy workshops and network with older heads
Using them as resources in case any issues of race, religion, and sex come up
Take advantage of the crazy sales at Staples, the TC Bookstore, and Bank Street
Shop till your newly inherited teacher look drops
I can just as readily write this advice on sand as on paper
For
Nothing
Can prepare you for when you step into that classroom
Not even Montessori will rise from the dead to rescue you from your almost secured failure
Forget everything I’ve said and do remember the three things you absolutely
Definitely
Inevitably need to pass the 180 days successfully:
Focus to discipline
Love to inspire
And courage to teach
To NOT change them, but help them grow in who they are
To have a vision and adapt it constantly to the ever-changing environment around you
To cherish the sweet and spare moments when the successes of your mentees lifts you above the masses
To pace around the classroom knowing your heels might fall from right under you
Your face will peel off and slide onto the floor
Your knees will lock in tightly
You will be stripped naked
To the point where you will need to grow you a new skin
Start from birth
It’s only in the moment when you discover how you learn that you can teach
Fear is your only anchor
You have been set out to sail with your soul as captain
Let courage crack a bottle on your ass
And it will do so when you’re not afraid to fail …

jose

This is what I was feeling last week. Before you judge, ask from whence it came. Hope y’all like …

“N-Word Reverie” by Jose Vilson © 2007

They buried the n-word yesterday
The National Association for the Advancement of People Who Are Often Defined As and Often Call Themselves The N-Word
gave the last rites and buried the n-word
With n-words praising the move and others dismaying it
IT made me wonder if the n-word that came up with the idea
Sent out a memo to its constituents
Held a forum on it
Had a jury of the n-word’s own peers to decide
Whether to execute or execute it
If not, then, what is the procedure for impeachment and disarmament
of those who’ve lost such a touch with their people
It does whatever it wants like
Wage wars,
Distribute tax monies improperly
Represent the interests of the rich, white, Protestant minority
Who really has the authority?
And how do we expect to descent upon the power of this small collective’s oppression
When we mirror the oppressors?
And what will NYC do to me for using the n-word that Bloomiani hasn’t tried already?
Use it against me?
Libel me?
Lower my wages as a city employee?
Ticket me?
Support assassins who shoot me up after I dropped my wallet?
Push me into a black van with the rest of the disobedient?
Maybe I can release my Cheneys,
And get a Libby
By Scooting and commuting to the nearest
Deposit box and writing a BIG ASS CHECK
For the entire teacher salary I make to educate kids to empower themselves as more than second-class citizens
Dust off doors for them that they hadn’t seen
Hadn’t dreamed
That a racial epithet would define who they will be
Is beyond me
The root is not the rappers, R&B artists, and comedians constantly using it in their shuffle-feet records
It’s not even Imus and Michael Richards using it in public view than blaming it on aforementioned musicians
Not Paris Hilton using it in her greenlit videos published all over YouTube
And it’s not even the common underrepresented youth
The poor Latinos, Asians, or Black kids
Or that one poor White kid who listens to Wu-Tang and hangs out with the rest of us
It’s the conditions that still exist that gave birth to the word
It’s not I don’t think it’s a powerful word
It’s that the web of power and deceit continues to exist
Whether we use the word or not
So let the n-word die off
Not from martyrdom but from sheer powerlessness
True advancement instead of this foolishness
Let this Bush burn and call it a liar
Dancing to its cackles,
Come around the bonfire
Celebrate the incineration of an idea much more powerful
Culminating in a word I’d be more prepared to fight for
And die for
Freedom …

peace

p.s. - Bam’s got a good perspective on this as well. These minds definitely think alike.

This is just another one of those stream-of-consciousness poems. I’m at a point in my writing where I can just write well without thinking too much of the consequences … if that makes any sense. Check the rhyme …
“They Reminisce Over You”

What will they say when I’m gone?
Will they look back to my electronic words as testimony
To everything I believed
Or everything I could have been?
Will they reminisce on conversations we had
And silent yet powerful moments we shared
via instant messaging?
Will they research on the small instances of my gratitude?
Crossing old ladies through the snow
And passing along his dinner to perfect strangers in the frigid cold
With no audience but the people in his mind?
Will they look up my file at the Board of Ed, SU’s records, and the CIA to inform them of my own, sometimes subversive, activities?
My teaching as well as my learning have certainly broken the effervescent barriers
between people such as myself and the mainstream idea
Of what a Black / Latino man’s supposed to be
Will they do those cool personal interviews with my mom, father, stepfather, brothers, sisters, cousins, ex-lovers, friends, co-workers, passerbys, and comparable visionaries of our time to explore my essence like they do in those VH1 specials?
Or will they simply look back in the words I laid out as the prophecy and the history of one man’s journey to understand his own surroundings
By expounding on the little that he really knows?
Who knows?
You do, because when my time has come,
Certainly my legacy will precede me through my words
Not just in the rhyme scheme and structure
But that this poet brought every word he put on page
Off the ink and into existence …

© jose vilson 2007

“Season’s Change” (first draft, so don’t bite me) © Jose Vilson 2007

The buds blossom on trees still covered with frost
The calendar tells us to switch modalities
To warm weather and less layers on our person
Yet, she lays there in her puffy coat
In the middle of the world’s great metropolis
With her eyes to the sky
Her fingers on her left hand caressing a little black book
The other hand held tightly onto a plastic, ivory-colored rosary
Her woolen black hair mops up her stress-wrinkled face
She collapses on the grass next to dying leaves
Rolling her eyes back as mental images of her childhood illuminate the screen behind her eyelids
Eating Apple Jacks while her mother fixed her school uniform or
Fernando Villalona playing on those Saturday afternoons with the smell of salchichones and platanos
Her brother running around with his Transformer and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys
Singing the theme songs in tune with how a 5-year old should sound
In a little apartment building on Sherman and Vermilyea
She’s now restless on her patch of grass when reminiscing about her own past
She yearns for the true love she once felt outside of that apartment building with the man
The seed-bearer that would transform her body for 3 months
Her uterus now a uninhabited vessel
She was christened as an adult once she made that decision
Now she beckons her that child back
Not the one she once carried in her womb
But the one she once carried in her heart
In one false act of sincerity, she’s a season removed from a beautiful growth,
and a part of a season ill-conceived …