Riding in the First Car

I teach poetry at this alternative school on the lower east side. Actually they call it a “transfer school” a place that houses students that have been kicked out of other schools or students who have dropped out. The students there are anywhere between the ages of 16-21 and with a paltry amount of high school credits.

I love this school. The class sizes are small so the students get a lot of attention. They’re separated into groups called families and they have an advisor. They are really working to bring the arts into their curriculum, which is why I’ve been hired to teach poetry there for 13 weeks.

It’s been a wonderful experience so far. I’m going into my fourth week. (Or is it the fifth?) These students are sweethearts. They are tender with tough exteriors. They have the edge that I like in students and it’s clear that they’ve experienced much more than say the high school students at the college I teach at, who are like little bunnies.

I have a really good vibe with these students, and from the first day. This week I wanted to talk with them about the narrative poem. So among the examples that I was going to present to them, I decided to perform the most intimate and vulnerable poem I possess. It’s a narrative poem about the abortion that I had back when I was 17. I couldn’t believe that I was so ready to open up to my students in this way. What is it about them?

I went in there and I did it. I performed my heart out too. I held nothing back and surprised myself by my own intensity. When I finished, there was a big gasp and then applause. Some of the girls were wiping their eyes. They were so shocked. They loved the poem so much. They kept saying it over and over and over like they couldn’t believe it, “that was so good Ms. Oh my God. That was soo good. Oh my God.”

And then the questions came, as I knew they would: “Was that true Ms?” "Do you regret it?" We ended up having a fantastic conversation about abortion and regret and the difference between safe sex and smart sex. Safe sex=using protection. Smart sex=not having sex with losers.

I love watching students write. Some dive into the page like it’s a swimming pool on a hot Florida day. Others approach it tentatively, like something they don’t altogether trust. Some court their pages like lovers. Others discard their pages like lovers.

One young lady, Ashley was stuck, said, “I don’t know what to write about Miss.” I said, think of a scar on your body and tell me how it got there. Someone came home and turned the light on in her head. She put pen to page and wrote furiously. We put on some music and they wrote to the bobbing of their heads. As I watched them, I thought of how much joy it brings me to see young people engage in the act of writing, and knowing that they're writing poems. Some knit their brows together in concentration while others remain placid with their peaceful swan-water faces. Either way, there's an inexplicable look urgency in the face of a writing poet. It's a different look from someone writing an essay or solving a math equation.

Time was up. Time to share. Ashley was ready. She said, “ok, this is very personal, so whatever goes on in the room stays in the room.” The whole room made a pact. We made sure the door was completely closed. She read this poem about her boyfriend last year who also happened to be her best friend. They were looking for something in his mom’s room—her credit card I think—and they accidentally found his adoption papers in one of her drawers. The problem is, he didn’t know he was adopted. Later that night he got the story. His natural mother died while giving birth to him and his father died on the way to the hospital— an accident.

The next day, Ashley found out that her boyfriend/best friend shot himself in the head. The dramatic situation in the poem was of her slicing her wrists with razor blades after receiving the news. One of her opening lines was: “my grief is a roller coaster, and I’m riding in the first car.”

After she finished the poem, the whole room sighed with respect for this young woman still standing. I knew I was asking for a narrative poem but I had no idea what I was really asking for...we never do. We talked about her story for a while and she was open and strong and answered all of our questions, like I did just minutes before.

After class, I walked through the windy leaf-strewn streets, in awe of all our losses—the ones we inflict on ourselves and the ones bestowed onto us. I thought of the seven year old child ghosting at my side. And the wind—the dead’s greatest excuse to touch us.