Ode to Pov
Lilah Weiss
Pov, who leaps across the front of the classroom to illustrate his point
Pov, whose effusive energy lights up any room
Pov, who built planes back in college and flew them
Pov, who turns a subject as daunting as physics into an adventure
Pov, who is animated and passionate in all he does
Pov, who asks at the end of every class: Questions? Comments? Songs? Poems? Lyrics? Anecdotes? Rhymes? Soliloquies? Limericks? Jokes? Haikus? Critisms? Concerns? Metaphors? Parables? Anyone? Bueller? Okay… until tomorrow!
Pov, who returns to the res every summer to teach Lakota Sioux children their dying native language so their culture carries on
Pov, who signs his initials for Theodore Povinelli in the form of a tepee
Pov, who makes me feel just fine about not being Catholic in Catholic school
Pov, who attends liturgy every Friday morning out of respect for this community and culture
Pov, who sits on the lab table to share our discoveries with eyes that reveal his sense of wonder, legs dangling like a 5 year old
Pov, who shares pictures of the beloved particle accelerator and the research team he got the opportunity to work with in New Mexico
Pov, who has a giant poster of Einstein hanging over his desk, riding a bike in delight
Pov, who believes in earnest that each of these young ladies before him has the potential to be great physicists
Pov, who attempts to speak this belief into existence every day by prefacing so many statements with, “So – when you’re taking advanced physics in college and your professor delves into quantum mechanics, you’ll remember…”
Pov, who exclaims, “Fraulein! You’re off my ten orders of magnitude!” yet still has faith that I can get this
Pov, who listens when I confide in him about home
Pov, who shows genuine hurt in his eyes at my sadness and offers good, solid advice
Pov, who understands
Pov, who provides a sense of stability in my life when everything else feels so unstable
Pov, who confides about accidentally killing his grandpa’s prize-winning dogs at the age of ten after building and detonating his first and last homemade bomb
Pov, who shed tears when he relived how he buried each piece of their remains as he cried in hysterics in horrid fear of disappointing his grandpa
Pov, who listened to his grandpa calling for those dogs off the porch and lived in guilt in fear for three long days until he finally confessed
Pov, who bet me a hundred dollars I couldn’t translate his Lakota Sioux writing
Pov, who lost the bet because he did not yet know how much I love I challenge
Pov, who kept to his word but also kept his money as I refused to accept it from him
Pov, who stands with Mr. Rapaglia and I on the front stoop after school, debating passionately about trees falling in forests, euthanasia, politics, and Schrodinger’s cat
Pov, who leaves a note taped to my locker the very next morning: Fraulein Veis – if a cat lived in your locker in a forest in a parallel universe and no one was there to feed it, would it live?
Pov, who is sketching an intricate picture of Galileo Galilee at his desk, deep in thought as I enter the room for some early morning homework help
Pov, who relays the story of “Eppur si muove” – “And still it moves”
Pov, whose sketching hangs on my bedroom wall in a frame to this day with his tepee inscribed at the bottom right,
Pov, who I should have gone down to visit after Mr. Rapaglia passed on a few years back
Pov, who I knew must have been hurt to lose a dear friend
Pov, who probably couldn’t possibly know what an impact he had on me
Pov, who Carla tells me has two young children now
I wonder if they already know how blessed they are to have a father like Pov.
Names Hold The Key
Lilah Weiss
I’ve dimmed the lights and am washing down the bar. The last customers pay their tab and the door slams behind them. It’s 4 a.m. The place has been packed all night. I am relieved to be done straining to hear drink orders over the band. The food tickets flooded the boys in the kitchen all evening but we made it through. We had more jumpers land at sunset than I’ve ever seen since I’ve been working here. I caught glimpses of them all in flight as my octopus arms doled out plates of food, poured beers from the taps, and swiped credit cards. They flooded in an already packed bar, pumped with adrenaline, and eager to take the edge off.
A blanket of silence rests over the airport now. I pour myself a glass of wine, put on some jazz, and turn it all the way up. I step outside for a brief moment in hopes of a passing breeze before I begin my nightly ritual of scrubbing down the counters, sorting the bottles, closing out the register, mopping the floors, counting my tips, and calling it a night. No such luck.
The boys come in from the kitchen looking spent. It must have been scorching in there tonight. I lower the music and fix them all a drink. We commiserate over the screw-ups in the kitchen and how slammed we got out of nowhere as I continue my chores. Walt begins a typical rant over art and activism. Teddy smirks and sips his beer, listening in earnest. Jay talks to me about his love for Ginger. Whenever he gets a buzz on, he loves to talk about his queen.
They look so weary for young men.
Walt perks up his ears at my choice of tunes and turns to me to express his deep love of Thelonius. He looks to me suddenly.
“You do know about Morphine, right?” He pauses. “You have to know about Morphine!”
I stare at him blankly. Their eyes all meet and widen.
“Oh man… you don’t know about the Morphine song – Lilah?”
Aha. Morphine is a band, I gather.
Jay looks to me in astonishment. “Oh girl – you’ve got a song about you that’s going to blow your mind! Walt – grab your IPOD from the car!”
Teddy steals the mop from my hand, grabs my arm and pulls me gently over to the other side of the bar. Jay takes my drink and plops it in front of me.
“You’ve got to just sit here, close your eyes, and experience this song. I can’t believe you’ve never heard this.”
Teddy continues, “This was a band we all worshipped in high school but the lead singer, Sandman, died tragically. I think the story goes that he died on stage playing this song in Rome. He was a musical genius.”
Walt runs in, dims the lights further and turns the volume all the way back up. The saxophone fills the bar and resonates through my bones. We are all silent. We close our eyes and listen.
You’re the night, Lilah. A little girl lost in the woods.
You’re a folk tale, the unexplainable
A warm tingle runs down my spine upon being addressed so directly by such a deep, sultry voice from an invisible source.
You’re a bedtime story. The one that keeps the curtains closed.
I hope you’re waiting for me cause I can’t make it on my own.
I can’t make it on my own.
Teddy interjects in a soft whisper, “This is quite possibly the most beautiful set of lyrics ever written coming up right here…”
It’s too dark to see the landmarks and I don’t want your good luck charms.
I hope you’re waiting for me across your carpet of stars.
Teddy slowly fans his outstretched hand as if he sees the lyrics unfold before him. He chimes softly in on the last line.
You’re the night, Lilah. You’re everything that we can’t see.
Lilah…you’re the possibility.
You’re the bedtime story. The one that keeps the curtains closed.
And I hope you’re waiting for me cause I can make it on my own.
I can make it on my own.
Unknown the unlit world of old. You’re the sounds I never heard before.
Off the map where the wild things grow. Another world outside my door.
Here I stand. I’m all alone. Driving down the pitch, black road.
Lilah, you’re my only home and I can’t make it on my own.
You’re a bedtime story. The one that keeps the curtains closed.
And I hope you’re waiting for me cause I can make it on my own.
I can make it on my own.
Sandman’s voice trails off as the saxophone picks up again…
You’re the paint can falling off the wall at the door that slams at the end of the hall where the kid rings sounds of basketball.
I sit and wonder how I found myself on this airport, in this bar, with these friends, on a dark, quiet night, contemplating the origin of my name. But I resolve not to question it. I just sip my wine and gratefully soak it in.
Trial by Fire
Lilah Weiss
I’m in the midst of conducting morning meeting. It is the third day of school. Just last week I turned the ripe old age of twenty-one. Before me is my very first class of students. I feel myself bubbling over with excitement. Attempting to set the tone for an inviting classroom culture, I have just finished sharing a piece of writing with my fourth graders from my writer’s notebook. I had been filling it up all summer with poems, lists, stories, wonderings, photos, memoirs, sketches, song lyrics and observations. Reading aloud with enthusiasm, I was eager to spark my fourth graders’ interests about filling their new notebooks with all of their own writing. I sensed a healthy, engaged level of energy in the room. The twenty five of us had just reconvened after a morning quick write and were arranged in a circle on the rug, notebooks on laps, and wide-eyed.
For months, as all new teachers do, I had been mulling over the best ways
to start off my school year. We’ve all heard it said that no matter how great your college education has been, there is nothing to prepare you for when you really get into that classroom and start teaching. “It’s trial by fire,” they all say. This is not just any building in any city. This is my old elementary school in my old neighborhood and moreover the very room I was taught fourth grade in. I want… I need to do this right. My head was overflowing with ideas from the workshops I’d been attending, my student teaching experiences, and piles of professional texts. I wanted to invite my learners into a safe, risk-taking community all the while inspiring and challenging them. Here was the moment of truth.
“Can I grab you a minute, Lilah?”
I am pulled from my moment by his question. I raise my head to see Joe
standing in the doorway. He’s just been hired yesterday as the new gym
coach. It had been years since I’d seen him. He’d dated my friend Amanda
back in high school. We swapped a hug and a few reminiscent stories the
day before. Here he was now, standing in my doorway during a critical
morning meeting. I recall thinking, This better be really important. I
hope he’s not thinking he can just stop by and chat. He was awfully friendly yesterday. I’m in teaching mode for crying out loud. I rise from my cross-legged position and pardon myself, thinking
“I’d better set a precedent here. What could possibly be more important
than writing share?” I turn before stepping out and say, “Writers – take
a look through your own notebooks now to find a line, a word or maybe a
whole piece that you’d like to share.”
“Will you step outside with me?” he asks. Now I’m perturbed. I wrinkle
that space between my eyebrows and yet I concede. I step outside and
attempt to leave the door ajar but Joe takes the knob and closes it. My
one eye is peering through the narrow glass window in the door and the
other – evil eye – is focused crisply on him. I see my writers getting
antsy and beginning to rustle.
“You know the ancient PA system in the building hasn’t worked since you were a kid
here, so the principal is having me come around and tell each teacher
confidentially. She told me to start downstairs and make my
rounds but I came to you first, Lilah. I don’t know much. All I know is a plane has hit one of the Twin Towers.” His eyes reveal a sense of urgency. “The school’s on lockdown. No one may enter or leave the building until further notice – under NO
circumstances. Try to stay calm. Keep the kids as calm as possible.” He
hugs me abruptly and awkwardly and then turns to walk away. “Wait!” I
stand there dumbfounded. My mind is racing. I can’t even begin to wrap
my mind around the gravity of his words. I can’t think of what to ask
first. “Did…did a lot of people die?” He speaks sternly now, “Yes, Lilah. Yes. I LOT of people died. This is huge. Just…just keep the kids calm.” He races down the hallway. What…what kind of plane? A plane from another country? Are we at war? Images of the film Red Dawn, a movie I’d watched over and over again with my brother in our childhood were flooding my min: soldiers parachuting from planes, shooting up a school building with AK-47s. Breathe Lilah.
I see my hand turning the knob of my classroom door but have no foresight past that simple act. All eyes are fixated on me when I step in the room. I regain a look of composure. “Okay…mmmm… where were we? Who’d like to share next?” I make my way back to the rug, join the cross-legged circle, and call on Carlos who’s about to burst at the seams to share. I feel my student teacher’s eyes piercing through me. I know she can sense something is wrong by how slow I must be moving and speaking. I avert her eyes. Joe’s words are echoing in my mind, “Just keep the kids calm.”
I put on some soothing music as we find comfortable spots around the room to do some good thinking and writing. Why didn’t I get a little radio with AM/FM? This one only boasts a tape deck. Just keep the kids calm. Bach, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky gently float through the room.
Suddenly Malcolm’s father bursts into our quiet haven, shouting at full volume, “Malcolm! Get ova here!” He grabs his son by the collar and begins to drag him across the room toward the door. Malcolm, clinging to his notebook in shock, pleads, “What I do, Dad? What I do!” I sprint to the door. His eyes are wild. “Don’t you know what’s goin’ on? Jeeesus!” He turns to face me. “I’m takin’ him,” he barks. “Yes, sir” is all that comes out of my mouth. I am now confronted with a much bigger issue as all eyes are back on me; fixated now. As I begin my tap dance, parent after parent barges in and seizes their child. “They’re all going to an important meeting,” I tell the others as I explain quietly to Bhavna, my student teacher, the limited information I have and scramble to get a list of which aunt or uncle or cousin picked up whom. I position her at the door to calm the incoming storm of parents and furthermore, to attempt to discretely get some more information from them about what is happening outside our doors. I peek through the narrow door window and see a mother sliding down the opposite wall. Her hands are over her eyes and she is screaming aloud in horror. Reality sets in. Images of Red Dawn are now in full effect. Parents are racing by her with their children. Utter chaos. I can hear planes overhead. Are they ours? Are the kamikaze planes? Keep the kids calm.
It is now about 10:30 a.m. and I slowly turn my rain stick over to signal my nine remaining students to gather on the rug in a circle. Are we still following the lunch schedule? Should I be bringing my kids to the basement for bomb shelter? Breathe. “My friends – I have some sad news to share with you. I found out that a plane has crashed into one of the Twin Towers this morning. There are many people who are very, very upset around us. They flood me with questions, “Is that why everybody’s leaving? Did people get hurt?” I answer as best I can. Then… quiet little Alex asks softly, “Is the building going to fall down?”
“Oh…honey.” I shake my head from side to side in earnest. “No…Of course not. The building won’t fall down.” And there it is. The moment of truth. Great job, Teach. Your first notch on the teaching post. “But we’re going to make our way down to the cafeteria together in just a few moments and we need to be really brave. We are going to see a lot of people in the hallways that are very sad. I bet we’ll see some younger kids in the cafeteria who may be feeling really scared. Since we’re fourth graders, it’s going to be our job to help them feel safer, okay? We can sit by them and try to make them feel better. What else could we do? Any other ideas?”
“We could hug them!” offers Tantanea. “Or help them eat their food or…or open their juice box?”
“Good ideas, hon.”
We chat a few more moments and agree to stick together like glue… like a family, as we head downstairs. The hallways and staircases are pandemonium. Teachers and parents are sharing stories, screaming, crying, and clinging to their kids. Lockdown? No one may enter or leave the building until further notice! Right.
As we enter the cafeteria it is nothing short of what we had prepped ourselves for. We pick a table of Kindergartners and join them. Their teacher is standing the helm of the lunch table sobbing. I realize that I’ve been in a bit of a sedated fog of calm at this point and really need to get some details NOW. I spot Joe. He heads straight for me and stands beside me panning the cafeteria with frantic eyes. “Have you heard?” I shake my head.
“They’re gone. They’re gone, Lilah.”
“Who’s gone, Joe? Who?”
“The towers. They crumbled. They just crumbled. And the Pentagon. They hit that too. They’re everywhere.”
I giant sheet of white noise covers me. Everything is muted. I cool tingle rushes through me from scalp to toes. Things begin to move in slow motion. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is taking flight in the recesses of my mind. Joe continues talking but I cannot hear him. I am staring at my students putting their arms around sobbing, shaky little bodies. Alex is sitting alone at the far end of the table. He is staring at his tray of food. Oh God. Give me strength. Our national security headquarters? We’re at war. How could this have happened? I chuckle at my naïve lifelong belief that we lived in this safe little bubble. Look at the rest of the world! Did I think we had a force field around us? What a fool.
What’s next? The Empire State Building is only blocks away. This could get exponentially worse any moment. Again, Red Dawn images flood me. This may be the day I die.
I return to Joe’s words. Now I’m listening attentively to his explanation that these were our planes – not enemy planes. Who is the enemy, anyway? Or better yet – who isn’t?
He is spewing. “Who the HELL do they think they are? This is America! They can’t do this to us! I’m joining the Marines as soon as we’re outta here today. I’m not messing-”
“Joe. Joe!” I stop him mid-stream.
I look right at him. “Right now we’re in charge of the well-being of all these little bodies and keeping them calm. That’s the only thing we’re thinking about right now. You hear me?”
He nods in full compliance.
I sound like his commander in chief now: “Let’s see how everybody’s doing.” He takes off immediately towards another teacher to carry out his mission.
I’ve been staring at those towers everyday of my life for 21 years from my parents’ living room window. Every day.
I young teacher rushes over to me. “Watch my kids for just a few minutes? I want to see if my phone works from the street. Please!”
“Of course. Go!” I shoo her encouragingly.
I begin assessing the scene through the lens of the person who just put Joe in line. I approach fellow teachers and ask if they need to do the same. “I’ll keep an eye on your kids.” Perhaps I should’ve succumbed to the world of cell phones. I’ve felt like the last of the Mohicans, holding on to the remnants of good old-fashioned means of communication all this while. Where’s mom right now? Danny must be at his wit’s end with all his recent anxiety attacks.
We manage our way back up to our classroom with a number of extra little bodies in tow. “We’re all going to Lilah’s room for Choice Time!” As we make our way down the third floor hallway, I spot the teacher next door slouched in her chair in front of her students. They are staring up at her from their spots on the alphabet rug in silence. Her face is in her hands and she is shaking uncontrollably. They simply watch her.
“Hey guys! We’re having Choice Time next door! Wanna come play?” They leap to their feet with excitement. I whisper to her, “Go take a break, hon. Take as long as you need.” I gather her ducklings and continue on to our cocoon of soothing classical music still filling the room. We decide on different stations: some for Shoots and Ladders, others for checkers and puzzles. The room is soon in a happy flowing buzz of forty-some odd children of all ages. I move about the room with an eerie sense of calm. Yuuki and I share a warm smile. His eyes reveal wisdom far beyond his years. I rub his back as he helps a first grader place a puzzle piece. This won’t be such a bad way to die, I suppose. I’m happy here. I’ve led a good life.
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