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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1690dySEGVbMwu8b7wEwnkqjgdsj4aB12/edit

An Ode to Writers

By Ms. Strauss

Teenage writers

Spinning stories out of heartache, joy, courage, and love

Developing an important event

Turning on a light in a dark closet

Shaping real life

Exploding moments

Panning for gold with sensory language.

Revising stories

Searching for turning points

Making nouns specific

Making verbs active and colorful

Adding rich dialogue

Seeing our words in print

Hearing our voices

Skateboarding across the white page

Writing like crazy

Writing like crazy

Writing like crazy.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-u26k88r4BRu2vOW20wrRooRgCyOszdb/edit#heading=h.gjdgxs

I Dream A World

I dream a world where man
No other man will scorn,
Where love will bless the earth
And peace its paths adorn
I dream a world where all
Will know sweet freedom's way,
Where greed no longer saps the soul
Nor avarice blights our day.
A world I dream where black or white,
Whatever race you be,
Will share the bounties of the earth
And every man is free,
Where wretchedness will hang its head
And joy, like a pearl,
Attends the needs of all mankind-
Of such I dream, my world!

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1W3MNFnFjbKilyTDM-vvCoDJ6NRFlD6yA/edit

Mating Season

Adapted from Fire In My Hands

By Gary Soto

She said, “Autumn is when you hold hands.”

He said, “It’s the start of football season.”

She said, “Is that burning leaves I smell?”

He said, “I think it’s a hot dog.”

She said, “I like movies that make me sad.”

He said, “I get sad when Coach sits me on the bench.”

She said, “Christmas is my favorite season.”

He said, “Me too—that’s when I get money from my grandma.”

(The girl looked skyward, winced.

The boy scraped something yellow from the corner

Of his mouth—mustard.)

She said, “My dog died rescuing a baby from a burning house.”

He said, “I had a dog who could juggle tennis balls—really!”

She said, “I would like to know French.”

He said, “Isn’t France where they like really old cheese?”

She said, “I’m a Capricorn.”

He said, “Is that like being a vegan?”

They smiled, certain of each other,

And started walking down the street,

Hands almost touching,

Each saying in her heart, his heart:

“You’ll do.”

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiPrkp2HdCR5g8jL8lJh_X6iXxzk_ZUT/edit?rtpof=true

Abuelito Who

By Sandra Cisneros

Abuelito who throws coins like rain
and asks who loves him
who is dough and feathers
who is a watch and glass of water
whose hair is made of fur
is too sad to come downstairs today
who tells me in Spanish you are my diamond
who tells me in English you are my sky
whose little eyes are string
can't come out to play
sleeps in his little room all night and day
who used to laugh and like the letter k
is sick
is a doorknob tied to a sour stick
is tired shut the door
doesn't live here anymore
is hiding underneath the bed
who talks to me inside my head
is blankets and spoons and big brown shoes
who snores up and down up and down up and down again
is the rain on the room that falls like coins
asking who loves him
who loves him who?

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The Important Thing Excerpt with Visuals

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The Important Thing Excerpt with Visuals

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kRClg7YAP8DHDBFKcHI_7WzbGrjT1Vq9/edit

The Important Book

By Margaret Wise Brown

The important thing about a spoon is that you eat with it.

It's like a little shovel,

You hold it in your hand,

You can put it in your mouth,

It isn't flat,

It's hollow,

And it spoons things up.

But the important thing about a spoon is that you eat with it.

The important thing about rain is that it is wet.

It falls out of the sky,

And it sounds like rain,

And makes things shiny,

And it does not taste like anything,

And it is the color of air.

But the important thing about rain is that it is wet.

The important thing about a shoe is that you put your foot in it.

You walk in it,

And you take it off at night,

And it's warm when you take it off.

But the important thing about a shoe is that you put your foot in it.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JqhIbN2eo2cYkxJP9LB49jUyy6z0OItu/edit

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The Important Thing - Write Alikes about Writing and Social Justice

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The Important Thing - Write Alikes about Writing and Social Justice

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/16LIy8ZvggKTZ29uyKHKN8jMAr5JNBxq0/edit

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The Important Thing Write Alikes (Helen Keller and Others)

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The Important Thing Write Alikes (Helen Keller and Others)

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YRllrDAFHbJ0zzAbM8N5GZIbyyNEOINh/edit

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The Important Thing (as summary & other applications)

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The Important Thing (as summary & other applications)

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1L-oCDhpzPjvIKopfLgPWQDQNxNl_GahP/edit

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Where I'm From and Write Alike Applications

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Where I'm From and Write Alike Applications

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1w2Gmfj5YvpYNvNJBJkoCkBC5pRDgh0kq/edit

Where I'm From

By George Ella Lyons

I am from clothespins,

From Clorox and carbon -tetrachloride,

I am from the dirt under the back porch.

(Black, glistening, it tasted like beets.)

I am from the forsythia bush

The Dutch elm

Whose long-gone limbs I remember

As if they were my own.

I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,

From Imogene and Alafair

I'm from the know-it-alls

And pass-it-ons,

From Perk up! And Pipe down!

I'm from He restoreth my soul

With a cottonball lamb

And ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch

Fried corn and strong coffee,

From the finger my grandfather lost

To the auger,

The eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box

Spilling old pictures,

A sift of lost faces

To drift beneath my dreams.

I am from those moments--

Snapped before I budded--

Leaf-fall from the family tree.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1M_EbKC3lX0N35_2AnPxXZ0EvJwX9ztQi/edit

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Honeybees: Two-Voice Poem by Paul Fleishman

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Honeybees: Two-Voice Poem by Paul Fleishman

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eS8qiMbNs_qCyDeeO20fvbAofdIO9qf1/edit

# data[].attributes.headline
Bars of Soap: Two-Voice Poem Write Alike

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Bars of Soap: Two-Voice Poem Write Alike

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/14R2fRAJgs5nRylOmHd4AZcrkbhPib8S4/edit#heading=h.gjdgxs

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QxIJrCn5UYWi9-6L17rgllDljNHGICCI/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1slUZDP02ZsZsK5bTSQVqDliBYy_0fzPT/edit

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Romeo & Juliet, True Diary of a Part-Time Indian: Two-Voice Poem

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Romeo & Juliet, True Diary of a Part-Time Indian: Two-Voice Poem

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mpNToYwEpDjl7s9-TFBoWyTq39RMQL3K/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/folders/12xat2r2eOL3g0fkDUi4Sa0cd23pB0tnr

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CkFkSUgqIzzCoO-XZ_VEZrTVaiW4YCVi/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BUKyshQWcmb0TEP5ilpLsZI8G0UHDvDX/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1R7P9jbkJ22BcHowZZKR6FOmjdhJGSrIm/edit

# data[].attributes.headline
Fortunately, Unfortunately by Remy Charlip

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Fortunately, Unfortunately by Remy Charlip

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SqCV3QvOTo4mFI-_BYybjaikCIo9zQdT/edit

Fortunately, Unfortunately

By Remy Charlip

Fortunately, Ned was invited to a surprise party.
Unfortunately, the party was a thousand miles away.
Fortunately, a friend loaned Ned an airplane.
Unfortunately, the motor exploded.
Fortunately, there was a parachute in the airplane.
Unfortunately, there was a hole in the parachute.

Fortunately, there was a haystack on the ground.

Unfortunately, there was a pitchfork in the haystack.

Fortunately, he missed the pitchfork.

Unfortunately, he missed the haystack.

Fortunately, he landed in water.

Unfortunately, there were sharks in the water.

Fortunately, he could swim.

Unfortunately, there were tigers on the land.

Fortunately, he could run.

Unfortunately, he ran into a deep dark cave.

Fortunately, he could dig.

Unfortunately, he dug himself into a fancy ballroom.

Fortunately, there was a surprise part going on.

And fortunately, the party was for him,

Because fortunately,

It was his birthday!

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1y97eYNLFeUYtrkH4HWG9q11rgih7-iel/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Wx_tBwXNnGBWdXd8xqLG8KaMJ8fKVOtH/edit

This I Believe Essay

By Raelene Ramirez, Venice High School

I believe that no one is illegal. That one person should not be kicked out of a

country, they moved into because they wanted a better life.

I believe that there should be no borders.

God made this earth without them and he intended it

to stay that way. The government deprives many people of they’re rights to live here.

I believe it’s wrong we use most of these people as cheap labor.

People think that it’s alright to use these people then send them back to they’re

country. They came here because they thought they would be treated better and have a

better life, but because they can’t afford it we want to kick them out? It’s not right.

I think they deserve to live here as much as any other native does.

I believe that we as people should not judge these people for coming here “illegally”. No one should be judged. Period.

I think they deserve to come here and live that better life they hoped for. Still people pay them less and use them. In they’re eyes it’s still better then where they came from. They want to be able to

support they’re families and give them a better life. These hard working people deserve to

live better and we need to give them the right to.

I believe we as the native people of the United States need to accept them.

I think we should stop all the prejudice towards these people. I have

family who’ve strive to get into this country. They’ve went through so much just to give

their family a good home. To take them away from the poverty in their country. Just

because they came from a foreign land we treat them different. IT’S NOT RIGHT!

Most people who’ve come to this country are undocumented immigrants. These

people are not wrong for what they’ve done. They don’t deserve to go to jail and be treated like

a criminal. Criminals are the type of people who sell drugs and kill people. They have not done anything wrong, to have come to this country without papers. They go through so much we should

appreciate them. We should treat them as fair as anyone else.

I will stand and defend the rights of these people. These people are my family, friends and peers. They deserve to be treated like an American citizen. I am Raeleen Ramirez. I believe no one is illegal. That one person should not be kicked out of a country, they moved into because they wanted a

better life.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bO28SPoe1h2QZJsniTEFJAb3G8EQGzHF/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1R_r_R2oI80sjU3_O5Ow9VplTmtXJuuDJ/edit

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By Edwin Hooey
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ugVTAWzPAO8ET3OtzSCR2CW7QV6A4nKI/edit

FOUL SHOT

By Edwin A. Hoey

With two 60’s stuck on the scoreboard

And two seconds hanging on the clock,

The solemn boy in the center of eyes,

Squeezed by silence,

Seeks out the line with his feet,

Soothes his hands along his uniform,

Gently drums the ball against the floor,

Then measures the waiting net,

Raises the ball on his right hand,

Balances it with his left,

Calms it with fingertips,

Breathes,

Crouches,

Waits,

And then through a stretching of stillness,

Nudges it upward.

The ball

Slides up and out,

Lands,

Leans,

Wobbles,

Wavers,

Hesitates,

Exasperates,

Plays it coy,

Until every face begs with unsounding screams—

And then

And then

And then,

Right before ROAR-UP

Dives down and through.

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By S. Strauss
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jyXwZdaaPlr2MuA8D0C_Ccc62GbcbFVz/edit

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Possible Scoring Guide
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ySH3i98ZOifP8tmEjGunr_5rVMn9pBU0/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UqYSM9YFSYmTi4AsVwR2qH827L0f4-HM/edit

# data[].attributes.headline
Harlem: A Dream Deferred Poem with Application

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Harlem: A Dream Deferred Poem with Application

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PS-ahPDCUNq0-vamaqrAgg21oCJC-pda/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VQGh7st87wjX-KOblErdMI_SGXnWXOZh/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KFHfQzRRPBcWnw28KsyNSAZxO7ob4kBM/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RXO6HZ0bnhK8tBaAV-Dd6SdqisfVn3ga/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DkLwnLIN8_P-x3DSRxhwz4nNdtc7RuNy/edit

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By Gary Soto
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bhuef_qlBzGzX4PhY74soRjsNrStJqKA/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bhuef_qlBzGzX4PhY74soRjsNrStJqKA/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1W3MNFnFjbKilyTDM-vvCoDJ6NRFlD6yA/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/15aTEKzG5_EGRAVn8Zx7Smf82PZ8j1zwg/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1yjb7KSoBrhUdhIZv6es92sKe-1DJIARt/edit

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1f8o0yHTZVgE3aByaisevYjzmnwAjmouK/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/12SuIT4kJGpfgaFCk0fvp-fqe8SuYP73Y/edit

# data[].attributes.headline
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Xht9-RkRLOQSyneXwRPvVXdgI3SfbnLA/edit?rtpof=true

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/14G_Q4w4p-8gemb3yK0yXYAWoDxOAAygv/edit

Twelve Facts About the Immigrants: A Prose Poem

by Carmine Sarracino, from The Idea of the Ordinary (Orchises).

They were not Italiani, but rather Calabresi, Siciliani,

Napolitani, Abruzzesi and would remain so until they died in

places like Providence, Rhode Island and Hershey, Pennsylvania.

They thought that "Italia" was the name of the King of Piedmont's daughter.

They did not believe that they'd find the streets of America fullof money,

but enjoyed saying so to those staying behind.

The men knew how to cut stone, how to lay bricks, how to fish,

how to coax fruits and vegetables from rocky soil, how to strike

fear into the hearts of oppressors.

The women knew how to cook, how to keep house, how to raise children,

how to coax fruits and vegetables from rockysoil, how to strike fear

into the hearts of husbands.

Their name for Ellis Island was La isla d'lacrime, "The island of tears."

They began life in the new world shunted through chutes from holding pens

to processing stations on the modern model of efficiently slaughtering livestock.

Their coats were pinned with tags, they were given papers, asked for the papers,

the papers were stamped, they were asked for the stamped papers,  the stamped papers

were exchanged for new papers, they were asked for the new papers, the new papers

were stamped and the tags on their coats  were exchanged for new tags.

Some with bad eyesight, pinkeye, or glaucoma were chalked

with an "X" and shunted to a pen to be shipped back.

Others, baffled by the question "Are you an anarchist?" went

with the more agreeable answer, and then wondered why they

were marked with an "X" and shunted to a pen with the blind.

They believed with all their hearts in the pursuit of happiness,

and had pursued it all the way to this maze of chutes.

On the boats with kerchiefs around their faces and caps with the earflaps

pulled down waving tiny American flags and smiling with slightly bewildered eyes,

they all looked just like children.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Q2Rv0-Ecfg5-SznSYdRcS1pddWnOFI70/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1OdSAPcGG9CBcIa9oK7la9dfb34y8qi16/edit?rtpof=true

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cVLwSQi7GDqiCxOBl-gwFOElrDws8GJ4/edit

Still I Rise

By Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

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Like a King, I'll Rise                  By Ben Harper    

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Like a King, I'll Rise                  By Ben Harper    

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cVLwSQi7GDqiCxOBl-gwFOElrDws8GJ4/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kQBsPmT6I_BNAIn3Msjaxi3o1QNFyQ59/edit

Love That Boy

By Walter Dean Myers

Love that boy,

like a rabbit loves to run

I said I love that boy

like a rabbit loves to run

Love to call him in the morning

love to call him

“Hey there, son!”

He walks like his Grandpa,

Grins like his Uncle Ben.

I said he walks like his Grandpa,

And grins like his Uncle Ben.

Grins when he’s happy,

When he sad, he grins again.

His mama like to hold him,

Like to feed him cherry pie.

I said his mama like to hold him,

Like to feed him that cherry pie.

She can have him now,

I’ll get him by and by.

He got long road to walk down

Before the setting sun.

I said he got a long, long road to walk down

Before the setting sun.

He’ll be a long stride walker,

And a good man before he done.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wvM4XENe62r_tVxcXedfipJUxpXJ3wBi/edit?rtpof=true

# data[].attributes.headline
My Wicked Wicked Ways and Photograph 1936

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My Wicked Wicked Ways and Photograph 1936

# data[].attributes.body
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ubcG6z48htCVaPk2XEJXRVwqT3YBvZ1n/edit

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ....

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ....

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I think.....
I wonder.....

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If you don't know _______, then you wouldn't know ....

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If you don't know _______, then you wouldn't know ....

# data[].attributes.body
By Kwame Alexander

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13jM05wrN6vFu0pcM3imfRoYpIJHThkN1/edit#

The Undefeated

By Kwame Alexander

This is for the unforgettable.

The swift and sweet ones

who hurdled history

and opened a world of possible.

The ones who survived America

By any means necessary.

And the ones who didn’t.

This is for the undeniable.

The ones who scored

with chains

on one hand

and faith in the other.

This is for the unflappable.

The sophisticated ones

who box adversity

and tackle vision

who shine their light for the world to see

and don’t stop

‘til the break of dawn.

This is for the unafraid.

The audacious ones

who carried the red, white, and Weary Blues

on the battlefield

to save an imperfect Union.

The righteous marching ones

who sang we shall not be moved

because black lives matter.

This is for the unspeakable.

This is for the unspeakable.

This is for the unspeakable.

This is for the unlimited,

unstoppable ones.

The dreamers

and doers

who swim

across The Big Sea

of our imagination

and show us

the majestic shores

of the promised land:

The Wilma Rudolphs

The Muhammad Alis

The Althea Gibsons

The Jessie Owens

The Jordans and The LeBrons

The Serenas and The Sheryls

The Reece Whitleys

and the Undiscovered.

This is for the unbelievable.

The We Real Cool ones.

This is for the unbending.

The black as the night is beautiful ones.

This is for the underdogs

and the uncertain,

the Unspoken

but no longer untitled.

This is for the undefeated,

This is for you.

And you.

And you.

This

Is

for

us.

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Synopsis:
"Rekindles the sense of wonder we were born with. True poetry about perceiving the world around us."*
Margaret Wise Brown, the New York Times bestselling author of the perennial classics Goodnight Moon and Runaway Bunny, asks children to think deeply about the importance of everyday objects, from apples to spoons. With lyrical words and vivid illustrations by Caldecott winner Leonard Weisgard, The Important Book shows children just how important everyday objects can be.

What is the most important thing about a spoon? The fact that you can eat with it? What about an apple? Or a shoe? This bookhelps curious preschoolers notice important details about their everyday surroundings, like daisies are white, rain is wet, and a spoon is used for eating.

For the important thing about The Important Book is that the book resonates long after it's closed. What's most important about many familiar things-like rain and wind, apples and daisies-is suggested in rhythmic words and vivid pictures. "A perfect book. The text establishes a word game which tiny children will accept with glee," said Kirkus.

Chosen as a "Teachers' Top 100 Books for Children" by the American National Education Association.
(*Mark Frauenfelder, BoingBoing magazine)
Review&colon;

"The important thing about rain is/ that it is wet./ It falls out of the sky,/ and it sounds like rain,/ and makes things shiny,/ and it does not taste like anything,/ and is the color of air./ But the important thing about rain is that it is wet."
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
Goodnight Moon creator Margaret Wise Brown's The Important Book is a deceptively simple exercise--taking familiar things like an apple, spoon, or shoe, and finding the most basic association with those things. The most important thing about an apple? It is round. A spoon? You eat with it. A shoe? You put your foot in it. But why, according to Brown, is the most important thing about grass "that it is green," while the most important thing about an apple is "that it is round"? Why is "that it is white" the most important thing about snow and a daisy? Whether or not you'd distill these things in the same way that the author does, Brown makes us think about the essence of everyday entities in new ways. The illustrations, by Caldecott Medal winner Leonard Weisgard ( The Little Island), perform the same function--capturing the spoonness of spoons, the roundness of an apple, the motion of wind.

Happily, Brown went on to create the companion Another Important Book, about the importance of being one, two, three, four, five, and six years old--published for the first time in 1999 with fabulous artwork by Caldecott Honor artist Chris Raschka ( Yo! Yes?). Both of Brown's "important books" will endure the test of time as fresh, thought-provoking ways to examine the world around us. (Click to see a sample spread. Text copyright renewed 1977 by Roberta Brown Rauch. Illustrations copyright renewed 1977 by Leonard Weisgard. Permission from HarperCollins Publishers.) (Preschool and older) --Karin Snelson

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AbeBooks.com: The Important Book: Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included.

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juvenile fiction / action & adventure / general

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juvenile fiction / social themes / friendship

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juvenile nonfiction / holidays & celebrations / birthdays

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juvenile fiction/action & adventure - general

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ages 5-8; adventure picture book; luck; fortune; unfortunately; surprise party; florida

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new york; birthday; humor; funny picture books; handtalk; action; airplane; parachute; tigers; good and bad; silver lining; sharks

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juvenile fiction / action & adventure / general

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juvenile fiction / social themes / friendship

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juvenile nonfiction / holidays & celebrations / birthdays

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juvenile fiction/action & adventure - general

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Fortunately [Charlip, Remy, Charlip, Remy] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Fortunately

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Px3iFKLGXYHdmm60EFE21JuWKx3TYB5_/edit

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Where I'm From

By Henry Sedeno

I am from red, white, and green.

From where I could scream.

I am from the brown bean.

I am from red and green sauce.

And if I was from there

Then I would be an immigrant.

I am proud to be a citizen.

I come from Inglewood.

From where I know all my neighborhood.

I am from good food.

And I am thankful with God.

From my mom I came.

And my father gave me my name.

And my name has a lot of fame.

My Dad Calls Me ‘Piojo’

By Karen Rojas

I come from L.A.

I come from Culver City

I come from theme parks

I come from the projects

I come from Manzania te

I come still smell my mom’s enchiladas

I can still feel my hair in knots

I can still see my brother combing my hair

I can still taste the mole

I can still hear the oil jumping around

I can still see my mom getting burned

I come as a child to the new world

I know that I can move on

I come from the river

I come from the streets

I come from food

I come from a Mexican family

I come from San Diego

I come from a circus

I come from a funny family

I come from school

Where kids pretend to be cool

I come from McDonald’s

Where I could eat all I want

I come from daisies

I am crazy

You can say I’m crazy

But you’re just hating.

Where I Come From

By Jasmin Vargas

I am from pozole y enchiladas.

Pescado frito y camarone a la diabla,

From monarch butterflies in the spring,

And midnight dancing by the beach . . . .

My house is located on the corners of Chaos and Mayhem.

It is the big house with the large yard and towering grapefruit tree.

The one with glass windows and rusty pipe drains

Perfect paint job on the outside with crumbling walls on the inside.

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I come from Bradley, a school where student learning is important.

I see students reading, writing, speaking, and listening.

I hear students saying, “If I can talk, I can write.”

I smell sharpened pencils writing on fresh new paper.

I taste my water during recess.

My desk feels firm and smooth.

The thing I love the most about Bradley is when students read their writing out loud.

S. Strauss 2021

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By Sandra Cisneros

Salvador with eyes the color of a caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth,  Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and corn flakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning.

Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again.

Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.

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Gracie Dancing or Jumping Gracie with eyes the color of fresh grass, Gracie of the blond curly hair and crooked teeth, Gracie whose name her mother cannot forget, is a girl who is everyone’s friend, runs along somewhere in that too-close neighborhood of narrow streets where homes are the color of the earth and sky, lives behind a bright red doorway, shakes her younger sister to hurry, pulls on Jessie’s skirt, combs her tangled hair into braids with a wet comb, feeds her Cheerios and bananas and warm milk from a Peter Rabbit cup in the barely lit corner of the early morning kitchen.	Gracie, dancing or jumping, sooner or later arrives with the bows for Jessie’s hair and dress and ties them in double knots. Helps her mother, who is busy with the business of the house. Tugs the arms of her little sister and her too slow mother, makes them run after her, because today, like yesterday, her mother has dropped the keys to the too small car, has let go the hundred little pens and pencils of Gracie’s backpack, blue, red, black, green, and yellow pencils that tumble and spill over and beyond and onto the sidewalk where Gracie holds back the stream of mothers and children desperate to beat the first bell at the twelve-room school around the corner while her mother once again stoops to collect everything in the cement gutter.	     Gracie inside that tie-dyed t-shirt above the purple cotton leggings that peaks out from under her flowered skirt to apologize each time she scales the climbing bars with her forty-one pound body of constant excitement with its geography of bruised knees and elbows, its history of jumping rope over and over, socks and feet stuffed into plastic rain boots and canvas sneakers, in what part of the schoolyard, in what part of the kindergarten classroom, in that bubble of the human heart where something bursts when both feet jump in the air and knows only what Gracie knows, inside that body too thin to contain the hundred heartbeats of uncontained joy, the single swirl of dancing legs and twirling arms, is a girl like any other disappearing behind the stairs leading up the slide just inside the schoolyard fence, where she has told Jessie, her three new friends, and their anxious mothers they must wait. Collects the hands of her sister, scuttles off dodging the many screaming boys, their elbows and wrists behind handballs, the several untied sneakers running behind her trying to catch up. Grows smaller and smaller to her mother’s eyes, dissolves into the bright rainbows of unknown t-shirts, flutters in the air before disappearing like a cloud of fairy dust into her own classroom.

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Gracie Dancing or Jumping Gracie with eyes the color of fresh grass, Gracie of the blond curly hair and crooked teeth, Gracie whose name her mother cannot forget, is a girl who is everyone’s friend, runs along somewhere in that too-close neighborhood of narrow streets where homes are the color of the earth and sky, lives behind a bright red doorway, shakes her younger sister to hurry, pulls on Jessie’s skirt, combs her tangled hair into braids with a wet comb, feeds her Cheerios and bananas and warm milk from a Peter Rabbit cup in the barely lit corner of the early morning kitchen.	Gracie, dancing or jumping, sooner or later arrives with the bows for Jessie’s hair and dress and ties them in double knots. Helps her mother, who is busy with the business of the house. Tugs the arms of her little sister and her too slow mother, makes them run after her, because today, like yesterday, her mother has dropped the keys to the too small car, has let go the hundred little pens and pencils of Gracie’s backpack, blue, red, black, green, and yellow pencils that tumble and spill over and beyond and onto the sidewalk where Gracie holds back the stream of mothers and children desperate to beat the first bell at the twelve-room school around the corner while her mother once again stoops to collect everything in the cement gutter.	     Gracie inside that tie-dyed t-shirt above the purple cotton leggings that peaks out from under her flowered skirt to apologize each time she scales the climbing bars with her forty-one pound body of constant excitement with its geography of bruised knees and elbows, its history of jumping rope over and over, socks and feet stuffed into plastic rain boots and canvas sneakers, in what part of the schoolyard, in what part of the kindergarten classroom, in that bubble of the human heart where something bursts when both feet jump in the air and knows only what Gracie knows, inside that body too thin to contain the hundred heartbeats of uncontained joy, the single swirl of dancing legs and twirling arms, is a girl like any other disappearing behind the stairs leading up the slide just inside the schoolyard fence, where she has told Jessie, her three new friends, and their anxious mothers they must wait. Collects the hands of her sister, scuttles off dodging the many screaming boys, their elbows and wrists behind handballs, the several untied sneakers running behind her trying to catch up. Grows smaller and smaller to her mother’s eyes, dissolves into the bright rainbows of unknown t-shirts, flutters in the air before disappearing like a cloud of fairy dust into her own classroom.

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-S. Strauss 2012

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Marina del Rey:                        A Thank-You Poem                               

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Marina del Rey:                        A Thank-You Poem                               

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Marina’s Readers and Writers

Read like writers

Write like readers

Sing, dance, draw

Recite, reflect, respond

Persuade, perform.

Secondary Literacy

Cadre

Community of Learners

Content Leaders

Content Literacy

LD3 Conferences

UCLA Conferences

Content Coaches

Coaching Collaboration

Capacity Building

PD Forum

Lesson Study

Critical Friends

Building Community

Transfer of Learning

Summer Institutes

Words on the P. A.

Poems

Quotes

Weekly Words

Words for Lunch

Reading scripts

Eating PBJs

Ways of Looking

Library for lunch

Poetry Cafe

Roundtable scripts

Words in a box

Open mic

Poem in Pockets

California Stories Anthology

Dos Mundos

Where I Come From

Songbirds at UCLA

The Important Thing

Authors’ Nights

Family Literacy

Open Mic

ESL Orientations

ESL Awards Night

Mar Vista Center

California Stories

Sandscript

Authors’ Nights

Professional Development

Buy-Backs

Genre Study

Literature Circles

Writing Workshop

Six Traits of Revision

Music Literacy

Civil Rights Events in Literature

Say-Mean-Matter

Cornell Notes

Basket-Making as Rigor

Pearson Workgroups

Sadako Lessons

The 3Cs

Adaptive Schools

Dialogue

Discussion

Consensus

Plus/Delta

Protocols

Interactive agendas

Polarity Management

Agents of Change

Meeting Student Needs

Language Learners

SDAIE

Special Ed.

Resource Collaboration

Differentiated Instruction

Differentiated PD

Learning Styles

Multiple Intelligences

ZPD, TPR, DRWC

Library Events

California Readers

Ed Pert Award

Gold Mountain 1

Gold Mountain 2

Mysteries in March

Black History

The Triathlon Track

Literature Circles

Book Talks

Writing Workshop

Halloween Haiku

Genre Studies

Narratives

Feature Articles

I-Search Reports

Response to Lit

Persuasion

Writing Opportunities

UCLA Open Mic

Young Writers Anthology

Language Arts Cadre

Author’s Visits

CWP Anthology

Matters of Race

Mayor’s Writing Contest Winners (2004-2008)

by Susan Strauss   2002-2008

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from Locomotion
By Jacqueline Woodson

Whenever that song came on that goes

Come on, baby, do the Locomotion, Mama

Would make us dance with her.

We’d do this dance called the Locomotion

When we’d bend our elbows and move

Our arms in circles at our sides

Like our arms were train wheels.

I can see us doing it now—in slow motion.

Mama grinning and singing along

Saying all proud “My kids got rhythm!”

Sometimes Lili got behind me and we’d do the Locomotion around our little living room. Till

The song ended.

And we fell out on the couch

Laughing. Mama would say

You see why I love that song so much, Lonnie?

See why I had to make it your name?

Lonnie Collins Motion, Mama would say.

Lo Co Motion

Yeah.

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From Locomotion

By Jacqueline Woodson

Blue kicks—Pumas

Blue-and-white Mets shirt

Mets hat

A watch my daddy gave me

Black pants but not dressy—they got side pockets

Ten cornrows with zigzag parts like Sprewell’s

A gold chain with a cross on it from Mama—under

my shirt

White socks clean

One white undershirt clean

White underwear clean

A dollar seventy-five left pocket

Two black pens

A little notebook right pocket

All my teeth inside my mouth

One little bit crooked front one

Brown eyes

A little mole by my lip

Lotion on so I don’t look ashy

Three keys to Miss Edna’s house back pocket

Some words I wanted to remember

written on my right hand

Leftie

Lonnie

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List Poem:                              The Things I Carried                                       Mi ninha Jessie said              Rio com solo backpack         So, what did I carry?            Side pouch: Havaianas Easy access front pocket: Journal with faux jungle print coverMain part of bag: My Kingdom Is Not of This World Travel bag with brushes, toothpaste, deodorant,Shampoo and conditioner samples from past hotels,Prescription, Tylenol, and Banana Boat sunscreen no. 45Bug repellant spray and Cortaid, to reduce swelling if bug repellant didn’t work.Undies, rolled up1 linen blouse, 3 cotton t-shirts, 1 pair of khaki pants and shorts, each rolled up1 parea de Ihla Grande, folded and rolled (wore every day)1 dress, folded and rolled (wore to Rio Scenarium)Dressy sandals and Jack Purcell’s (wore each once)1 sea-green bathing suit, purchased the first day in Ipanema, wore dailyArtifacts: Christo statues, magnets, bracelets, Missa from Nossa Sehnora de PaxPalm leaves, dried and woven into backpack strapsExtra set of glassesWater bottle, new ones each dayShoulder wallet:California Driver’s LicenseATM Master Card Real and copy of U. S. PassportPilot Pen and no. 2 pencilAunt Mary’s Portuguese-English dictionary, size of a 2-inch cubeAunt Mary’s Conversational Portuguese pamphlet Guardian angel prayerOne backpack, still zips.								S. Strauss ‘06                       

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List Poem:                              The Things I Carried                                       Mi ninha Jessie said              Rio com solo backpack         So, what did I carry?            Side pouch: Havaianas Easy access front pocket: Journal with faux jungle print coverMain part of bag: My Kingdom Is Not of This World Travel bag with brushes, toothpaste, deodorant,Shampoo and conditioner samples from past hotels,Prescription, Tylenol, and Banana Boat sunscreen no. 45Bug repellant spray and Cortaid, to reduce swelling if bug repellant didn’t work.Undies, rolled up1 linen blouse, 3 cotton t-shirts, 1 pair of khaki pants and shorts, each rolled up1 parea de Ihla Grande, folded and rolled (wore every day)1 dress, folded and rolled (wore to Rio Scenarium)Dressy sandals and Jack Purcell’s (wore each once)1 sea-green bathing suit, purchased the first day in Ipanema, wore dailyArtifacts: Christo statues, magnets, bracelets, Missa from Nossa Sehnora de PaxPalm leaves, dried and woven into backpack strapsExtra set of glassesWater bottle, new ones each dayShoulder wallet:California Driver’s LicenseATM Master Card Real and copy of U. S. PassportPilot Pen and no. 2 pencilAunt Mary’s Portuguese-English dictionary, size of a 2-inch cubeAunt Mary’s Conversational Portuguese pamphlet Guardian angel prayerOne backpack, still zips.								S. Strauss ‘06                       

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The Things I Carried: A List Poem

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Create a new document and edit with others at the same time -- from your computer, phone or tablet. Get stuff done with or without an internet connection. Use Docs to edit Word files. Free from Google.

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Things to Do When You’re Suddenly Indoors for Who Knows How Long

♥ Write a gratitude list about people, places, and things you wish to give thanks; in my case, here's a thank-you a thousand times over, to my family, which continues to grow thanks to my lovely daughters.

♥ Write a question poem about the wonderings you have, especially when there is so much uncertainty in the world.

♥ Write a haiku celebrating people, places, and things you love, perhaps the Great Outdoors, including the Pacific Ocean and the sun still coming up in the sky above us.

♥ Write an ode, a celebration poem, especially about people who deserve it and ordinary objects, like the mailperson who delivers no matter the weather, a ripe lemon on your tree, or your suddenly clean hands.

♥ Call your loved ones, which at the moment, might mean everyone you know.

♥ Play your favorite music, especially if you are able to dance, even if only from the waist up or in your head.

♥ Create a play list and play it forward so that everyone turns up the volume in their head.

♥ Create a book list, remembering that the public library has many books online, and share it with others so that everyone can enjoy the gift of words.

♥ Read a favorite book, maybe twice a day, especially anything by Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Mary Oliver, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and Burt Prelutsky.

♥ Read the Bible or whatever book provides inspiration, then read it again.

♥ Read a favorite quotation like the one we hear when we’re about to take off on an airplane, “Remember to put your oxygen mask on first.”

♥ If you have an opportunity to spread kindness, love, and joy, do so.

♥ Pray, especially for people who are most vulnerable and their health care providers.

♥ Pray for our leaders, especially those who are putting themselves and their own welfare on the line right now.

♥ Pray for the people who might not have anyone to pray for them.

♥ Revisit your photo albums or other memory books; if you don’t have them or they’re not very together, this might be a good time to take care of that.

♥ If you are able, donate money to the people or organizations that are keeping others safe and healthy, especially if they are addressing basic needs.

♥ Thank God for every single person, place, or thing in your life.

♥ Start your own poem or song and encourage others to do the same.

♥ Remember that the gift of words, like all gifts from God, is meant to be shared.

♥ Write a list poem, like this one, and send it to people you love, even if you’re not sure.

--Susan Strauss

March 14, 2020

Thank you to Jane Hancock who years ago inspired "The Gift of Words" with our UCLA Writing Project community and continues to share hers with her devoted friends, family, and writing buddies.

May God bless you and keep you safe and healthy.

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If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you wouldn’t know that

After she just learned to print her own name

At the age of four,

She immediately changed it to ‘Clara’,

Wanting to have the same name

As the lead character in “The Nutcracker.”

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know that

At her preschool picnic,

She took me by the hand and

Introduced me to parents, saying,

“Have them over for dinner, Mom.

You need friends.”

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know that

She wrote plays about a princess

With a magic sword

When she was in second grade

And performed them for friends

On the limbs of our magnolia tree.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know that

She wore tap shoes

While she played the piano

And played the flute

While standing in a plie

Up on her toes.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know

She leaped up onto the stage

When she ran for president of her fifth grade,

And won by a landslide.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you wouldn’t know about the time

She tried out for her volleyball team

And earned a position as a middle blocker

Even though she didn’t know

How to play the game.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know that

Even though she is five foot ten

She wore platform shoes

To her first high school dance.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you wouldn’t know

That she worked as

A camp counselor

At Rustic Canyon Park

For six years in a row.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know

She’s studying to earn

Her master’s degree in Marriage

And Family Therapy at USC,

Works at the disability center,

And interns as a counselor

At a downtown elementary school.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know what it’s like

To have her honk at you

As she drives up along side your car

On the Santa Monica Freeway

To yell out “Call me later, okay?”

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know

That she might be

Text messaging you right now

And asking Wassup, Mama?

Making you feel like her BFF

Even though she already has

At least fifteen people

Lined up for that honor.

If you don’t know Gracie,

Then you don’t know how glad I am

Just to be waiting in line.

--S. Strauss

October 07

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The Story of My Name         The story goes that my name, Susie, comes from my mother, Helen. My mother tells her version of the story like this:The Sousa sisters each had one doll. Mariana, the oldest, liked to call her doll Susie. Unfortunately, Virginia and Helena, the youngest, wanted to call their dolls, Susie, too.It started when Mariana named her Beautiful Betty doll ‘Susie.‘ “After our last name,” she told all her friends. “Sousa. Susie. Get it?” Virginia immediately named her Miss Maggie doll Susie, and Helen did the same with her Lady Luck doll. “I’m next oldest,” Virginia declared. “So I have a right to name my doll Susie, too.” “But I look like a Susie,” said Helen. “The name fits me perfect.”“That’s silly,” said Virginia. “What does a Susie look like?”“A real Susie,” Helen explained, looking in the mirror. “wears her hair in tight little curls with a pony tail on the top, polka dot dresses and long plaid tights even on hot sunny days. But, mosty, she looks like she’s never stopped laughing her whole life.”“What kind of person never stops laughing?” asked Virginia, pulling her hair into a tight pony tail. “I’ll tell you what kind. A bubble-headed ding-dong, that’s who. Some things are not funny. And, if she laughs anyway, she’s not a true Susie because a true blue real Susie knows when to open her mouth and when to keep it closed as tight as a big fat drum.”“Maybe,” continued Helen, “But a true blue Susie knows how to laugh on the inside. She only laughs on the outside on special occasions. Like when babies cry at baptisms.”“That’s a special occasion?” snapped Virginia. “Susies laugh at babies crying?” asked Mariana.“And Sunday’s awards night for Goldfish Bingo at St. Luciano’s,” Helen said.  “Not funny,” Virginia shook her head. “Some goldfish don’t live past Sunday night.”“Sometimes true blue real Susies can’t help it, and they just laugh for no reason.” Helen pressed her hands to her mouth and swallowing hard. “Sometimes the laugh bubbles go up and sometimes they go down. True blue real Susies know when to let it out and when to hold it in. Even if it hurts.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute then opened them slowly. ”Virginia, if you were the true blue real Susie, you would know all about the bubbles.”“Bubbles?” Virginia asked. “Is that why you kept laughing in the middle of church on Sunday and had to be taken for a long walk by Uncle Tony?” She stood on a box of canned peas trying to stretch her height. “Sounded to me like your ‘true blue” button broke. Or did your laugh bubbles slip out at the wrong time?”“I’m not going to answer thata,” Helen said. “Because true blue Susies never answer silly questions.”“You’re not a Susie,” said Virginia. “I am. I’m older than you are, and if I want to be a Susie. then I’m a Susie.”“We’ll see,” said Helen.	The next day was the first day of school at St. Luciano’s Academy. 	When Helen’s first grade teacher Miss Milagro called out, “Helen Sousa?” Helen answered “Please, call me Susie.”	“Susie?” Ms. Milagro scanned her roll book looking for the name.	“My last name is Sousa,” Helen said, as if she’d been telling this story her whole life. “Susie is short for Sousa. So please call me by my new first name.  Susie. Everybody does.”	During recess, Helen’s new first grade friends called her “Susie’ immediately, which would be fine except that same day Virginia’s fourth grade friends came by to say hello. “Hi, Helen!” they called out.“Call me Susie,” she replied.“You’re Susie?” Virginia’s best friend Annie asked as they stood in line for four-square. “Wait a minute. Your sister Virgie said her name was Susie.”Virginia stopped bouncing her ball to glare at her sister, Helen.  “What?” Virginia cried. “Ai! Horse feathers! My name is Susie, Helen, and you know it. Everyone calls me Susie. Always have. Always will. Susie Sousa. That’s me. And that’s my name.”“One moment,” Helen grabbed the ball from her sister. “My name is Susie.” She stood nose to nose with her sister. “Let’s just ask your mother?” Annie suggested. “She’ll know what to do, right?”“Yes, she’ll have something to say about my name all right,” said Helen. “But, in the meantime, please come to my doll’s party on Saturday. Her name is Susie, too.” “What’s the occasion?” They asked.“Her baptism,” Helen says. “Father Keane says Susie Sousa sounds like a very good saint’s name. So, please come to her baptism at St. Luciano’s this Sunday. And try to wear something white.” Helen turned to her Lady Luck doll. “Right, Susie?” she said, nodding the doll’s head. “That’s right.” She looked at her sister and her new friends. “Don’t forget. See you Sunday!”Years later, after Helen and her sisters were all grown up, I was born, the only daughter between them. “We’ve decided,” Virginia said as she and Mariana took turns holding me. “She’s a Susie, all right.“Wait,” Mariana, her ear close to my tummy. “Listen. I think I just heard some bubbles. And they’re on their way up.”          

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The Story of My Name         The story goes that my name, Susie, comes from my mother, Helen. My mother tells her version of the story like this:The Sousa sisters each had one doll. Mariana, the oldest, liked to call her doll Susie. Unfortunately, Virginia and Helena, the youngest, wanted to call their dolls, Susie, too.It started when Mariana named her Beautiful Betty doll ‘Susie.‘ “After our last name,” she told all her friends. “Sousa. Susie. Get it?” Virginia immediately named her Miss Maggie doll Susie, and Helen did the same with her Lady Luck doll. “I’m next oldest,” Virginia declared. “So I have a right to name my doll Susie, too.” “But I look like a Susie,” said Helen. “The name fits me perfect.”“That’s silly,” said Virginia. “What does a Susie look like?”“A real Susie,” Helen explained, looking in the mirror. “wears her hair in tight little curls with a pony tail on the top, polka dot dresses and long plaid tights even on hot sunny days. But, mosty, she looks like she’s never stopped laughing her whole life.”“What kind of person never stops laughing?” asked Virginia, pulling her hair into a tight pony tail. “I’ll tell you what kind. A bubble-headed ding-dong, that’s who. Some things are not funny. And, if she laughs anyway, she’s not a true Susie because a true blue real Susie knows when to open her mouth and when to keep it closed as tight as a big fat drum.”“Maybe,” continued Helen, “But a true blue Susie knows how to laugh on the inside. She only laughs on the outside on special occasions. Like when babies cry at baptisms.”“That’s a special occasion?” snapped Virginia. “Susies laugh at babies crying?” asked Mariana.“And Sunday’s awards night for Goldfish Bingo at St. Luciano’s,” Helen said.  “Not funny,” Virginia shook her head. “Some goldfish don’t live past Sunday night.”“Sometimes true blue real Susies can’t help it, and they just laugh for no reason.” Helen pressed her hands to her mouth and swallowing hard. “Sometimes the laugh bubbles go up and sometimes they go down. True blue real Susies know when to let it out and when to hold it in. Even if it hurts.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute then opened them slowly. ”Virginia, if you were the true blue real Susie, you would know all about the bubbles.”“Bubbles?” Virginia asked. “Is that why you kept laughing in the middle of church on Sunday and had to be taken for a long walk by Uncle Tony?” She stood on a box of canned peas trying to stretch her height. “Sounded to me like your ‘true blue” button broke. Or did your laugh bubbles slip out at the wrong time?”“I’m not going to answer thata,” Helen said. “Because true blue Susies never answer silly questions.”“You’re not a Susie,” said Virginia. “I am. I’m older than you are, and if I want to be a Susie. then I’m a Susie.”“We’ll see,” said Helen.	The next day was the first day of school at St. Luciano’s Academy. 	When Helen’s first grade teacher Miss Milagro called out, “Helen Sousa?” Helen answered “Please, call me Susie.”	“Susie?” Ms. Milagro scanned her roll book looking for the name.	“My last name is Sousa,” Helen said, as if she’d been telling this story her whole life. “Susie is short for Sousa. So please call me by my new first name.  Susie. Everybody does.”	During recess, Helen’s new first grade friends called her “Susie’ immediately, which would be fine except that same day Virginia’s fourth grade friends came by to say hello. “Hi, Helen!” they called out.“Call me Susie,” she replied.“You’re Susie?” Virginia’s best friend Annie asked as they stood in line for four-square. “Wait a minute. Your sister Virgie said her name was Susie.”Virginia stopped bouncing her ball to glare at her sister, Helen.  “What?” Virginia cried. “Ai! Horse feathers! My name is Susie, Helen, and you know it. Everyone calls me Susie. Always have. Always will. Susie Sousa. That’s me. And that’s my name.”“One moment,” Helen grabbed the ball from her sister. “My name is Susie.” She stood nose to nose with her sister. “Let’s just ask your mother?” Annie suggested. “She’ll know what to do, right?”“Yes, she’ll have something to say about my name all right,” said Helen. “But, in the meantime, please come to my doll’s party on Saturday. Her name is Susie, too.” “What’s the occasion?” They asked.“Her baptism,” Helen says. “Father Keane says Susie Sousa sounds like a very good saint’s name. So, please come to her baptism at St. Luciano’s this Sunday. And try to wear something white.” Helen turned to her Lady Luck doll. “Right, Susie?” she said, nodding the doll’s head. “That’s right.” She looked at her sister and her new friends. “Don’t forget. See you Sunday!”Years later, after Helen and her sisters were all grown up, I was born, the only daughter between them. “We’ve decided,” Virginia said as she and Mariana took turns holding me. “She’s a Susie, all right.“Wait,” Mariana, her ear close to my tummy. “Listen. I think I just heard some bubbles. And they’re on their way up.”          

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By Jacqueline Woodson

Some days I’ll be out walking the Chihuahua

And I’ll smell sawdust from a construction site down the street

And I’m suddenly back in my dad’s driveway,

Watching him spin a table leg on the lathe,

Cut a seat for the chair with his jigsaw,

Mold the contours of the seat so it matches the whole set.

Some days, usually late summer early fall,

I’m assaulted by the scent of orange blossoms

And I have to wonder why passing by groves of oranges

Never made my eyes water before

Only now my breath catches and

My heart races as I shudder with sneezes.

These days oranges spill on the ground before their time

Exploding, pulp open to the sun, dried and broken

Littering the dirt like sea of forgotten ornaments

Like rose petals discarded after a parade.

It’s like the trees know nobody’s paying attention

So they just drop their baubles anywhere anytime.

Nobody’s home now so who cares?

Some days I sit in his chair, first one, then another,

Remembering rocking a baby,

First one, then another

Seeing his face in all of his grandchildren

Hearing his Midwestern name on one

His plain-spoken voice on another

His lanky walk, always in a hurry,

Rushing out into the yard

Down the street

Racing against time,

Cutting, sanding, spinning, staining

Rubbing, edging, polishing, but hardly ever sitting.

He crafted thousands of chairs but rarely sat still.

The scent of sawdust and orange blossoms

Hit me with such a force

That I sit on the edge of the sidewalk,

Dog leaping in my lap,

Wondering why people allow oranges to drop

In the middle of untended groves.

Some days I have to wonder

When the changing of the guard happened.

And who exactly is in charge now.

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This is for my mother, the most important woman in my life.

This is for her teaching me how to draw on the sides of cardboard boxes, like making magic with a number two pencil was easy.

This is for being honest like returning coins to a blind lady selling the newspaper who gave us too much change.

This is for working hard like a basketball player shooting three-pointers, always trying to earn more money for the family.

This is for inviting my friends over like our house was a neighborhood playground.

Finally, this is for always being there like a welcome party whenever I came home.

S. Strauss, 2021

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The Question Book                  By Pablo Neruda                       Is 4 the same 4 for everybody?Are all sevens equal?  What color is the scent of the blue weeping of violets? Why doesn’t Thursday talk itself into coming after Friday? If I have died and don’t know it, of whom do I ask the time?          

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The Question Book                  By Pablo Neruda                       Is 4 the same 4 for everybody?Are all sevens equal?  What color is the scent of the blue weeping of violets? Why doesn’t Thursday talk itself into coming after Friday? If I have died and don’t know it, of whom do I ask the time?          

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The Frostbite Ball:                         A Question Poem               When I think about tonight’s Frostbite Ball, I wonder:How will I ever step out from behind the wheel of dad’s Chevy Nomad wagon And into the headlights of everyone I’ve ever known in my lifePulling into the Del Dios High parking lot at 8:01?Will anyone recognize I’m wearing Tia Blina’s wedding dress,With its thirty-year-old organdy and satin, still white as snow?Does the frothy skirt swirl around my ankles?Are the embroidered rosebuds waiting to open?Do the ivory satin pumps beg for a dance?When I think about my face, I wonder:Will my cow eyes ever stop blurring?Will I be able to dance without pulling my glassesOut of my pearl-studded evening bag?Will my petal pink lipstick, glossed to last for hours, andMy dark hair swept up in an avalanche of curls,Melt some time short of midnightTurning my look into a frozen cakeLeft out in the rain?When I think about the girl in the mirrorRehearsing how to speak, walk, and dance the part of a queen,How will I know when the rehearsal endsAnd my life, the one I’ve been hoping for, Actually begins?          S. Strauss, 2012       

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The Frostbite Ball:                         A Question Poem               When I think about tonight’s Frostbite Ball, I wonder:How will I ever step out from behind the wheel of dad’s Chevy Nomad wagon And into the headlights of everyone I’ve ever known in my lifePulling into the Del Dios High parking lot at 8:01?Will anyone recognize I’m wearing Tia Blina’s wedding dress,With its thirty-year-old organdy and satin, still white as snow?Does the frothy skirt swirl around my ankles?Are the embroidered rosebuds waiting to open?Do the ivory satin pumps beg for a dance?When I think about my face, I wonder:Will my cow eyes ever stop blurring?Will I be able to dance without pulling my glassesOut of my pearl-studded evening bag?Will my petal pink lipstick, glossed to last for hours, andMy dark hair swept up in an avalanche of curls,Melt some time short of midnightTurning my look into a frozen cakeLeft out in the rain?When I think about the girl in the mirrorRehearsing how to speak, walk, and dance the part of a queen,How will I know when the rehearsal endsAnd my life, the one I’ve been hoping for, Actually begins?          S. Strauss, 2012       

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Flying Kites                               By Quincy Troupe                   We used to fly rainbow kites across skull-caps of hours holes on blue wings of the canvas of the sinking suns running winged eyes locked to wind we’d unwind the kite string up & away then run them down blue tapestry up the sky again, then down until a sinking sun rolled down into a swallowing sky                   Today, we fly words as kites across pages of winds, through skies as poems we shape from holy, bloody adjectives & nouns we loop into sound circles, ringing like eclipse, the sun’s tongue                             

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Flying Kites                               By Quincy Troupe                   We used to fly rainbow kites across skull-caps of hours holes on blue wings of the canvas of the sinking suns running winged eyes locked to wind we’d unwind the kite string up & away then run them down blue tapestry up the sky again, then down until a sinking sun rolled down into a swallowing sky                   Today, we fly words as kites across pages of winds, through skies as poems we shape from holy, bloody adjectives & nouns we loop into sound circles, ringing like eclipse, the sun’s tongue                             

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An Introduction to Poetry     Billy Collins                                  I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive.I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch.I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.      

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An Introduction to Poetry     Billy Collins                                  I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive.I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch.I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.      

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REVISION                              Jane Hancock                             I want them to take a verb And put it on stage with a bevy of other verbs Like a chorus line And have it audition for a part in the sentence And win the role because it fits the mood. I want them to take the nouns And put them in two piles Blah and specific And toss the generic ones into the trash Never to escape Because they are all alike And keep the ones that are most unique And perfect for the part.   I want them to take the images And add something to make the nose twitch And the mouth water And the ears tingle And the body quiver So that every sense swims in the ink on the page I want them to take the story And change all the past tense verbs to present So that yesterday becomes today And we are living in the moment And then change them all back again if it doesn’t work. I want them to switch roles, point of view So the personal becomes fiction And the fiction is believable And first person is third And third is first Just to see which sounds better. I want them to take a microscope And search for moments To explode, to slow down, To show not tell To brighten with figurative language Until their readers feel the passion of the writer. I want them to start strong Captivating their audience With wondrous words and compelling ideas Holding them hostage until the last line And after.                                 But they just want                             to get it done                                   and turn it in.                     March 2005                             My thanks to Billy Collins for the inspiration: “Introduction to Poetry.”                                           

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REVISION                              Jane Hancock                             I want them to take a verb And put it on stage with a bevy of other verbs Like a chorus line And have it audition for a part in the sentence And win the role because it fits the mood. I want them to take the nouns And put them in two piles Blah and specific And toss the generic ones into the trash Never to escape Because they are all alike And keep the ones that are most unique And perfect for the part.   I want them to take the images And add something to make the nose twitch And the mouth water And the ears tingle And the body quiver So that every sense swims in the ink on the page I want them to take the story And change all the past tense verbs to present So that yesterday becomes today And we are living in the moment And then change them all back again if it doesn’t work. I want them to switch roles, point of view So the personal becomes fiction And the fiction is believable And first person is third And third is first Just to see which sounds better. I want them to take a microscope And search for moments To explode, to slow down, To show not tell To brighten with figurative language Until their readers feel the passion of the writer. I want them to start strong Captivating their audience With wondrous words and compelling ideas Holding them hostage until the last line And after.                                 But they just want                             to get it done                                   and turn it in.                     March 2005                             My thanks to Billy Collins for the inspiration: “Introduction to Poetry.”                                           

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/162eo_A2_fTcLSAd99xFEw2i-5NseAXs_/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Q2Rv0-Ecfg5-SznSYdRcS1pddWnOFI70/edit

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DiRIm0_vIfodrV1l5oYG1l9AYcgpJFx0/edit

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Letter to a Father Working in Tulare, California

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Letter to a Father Working in Tulare, California

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1IGI-GyLEtPkkvYrJpRJ6lKyoSEBagcAQ/edit

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Letter to a Father Working in Tulare, California

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Letter to a Father Working in Tulare, California

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By Gary Soto

Father, I spent my first hours of school

Lifting a pencil. Pencils

Can be heavy if you have a lot to say.

I wrote, My giraffe is my favorite animal.

I wrote, My best friend Marta broke her arm.

I wrote and wrote.

And then played soccer while eating an orange.

Father, I know you're working in the fields.

Is it grapes right now? I know it's not cotton or beets.

You chop those in March and April.

Now it's August. Maybe you're pouring sand

From your boots.

And your hands are sticky from the blood of grapes.

Maybe you're sitting under a tree, peeling an apple

With a small tiny knife.

Father, I miss you.

I've grown tall in four months.

Mama must raise her eyes up when she speaks to me.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/110WrbP4ZicyRdKBW5vIS59n6MV-y9r4p/edit