
That's what the teacher asked for. The kids obliged, and while they wrote their poems, she gave them this one. The kids really liked it, and so did I. I hope you like it too:
Baller
by Abigail E. Myers
Saturday morning. Dark. Another basketball
game, another day with conceited
wealthy prep-school stars
walking on the court like they own it, red
uniforms clashing with the blue, the silent angel
point guard rolls out of bed.
He looks towards his unmade bed,
sighing, his limbs sore from basketball
practice last night. He thinks of the angel
who hangs around practices--some say she's conceited
but to him, she's a red
rose behind the chain-link fence, a star
under the fluorescent lights under the stars
in the sky. His Jordans are under the bed,
paired together with the red
shorts and jersey his mother still washes for his basketball
games. He tries not to be conceited,
but his colors haven't faded, the white as white as the robe of an angel,
his Jordans without a scuff. "Ma, you an angel,"
he murmurs, dragging them out. Today he has to be a star,
a tough game, their center a conceited
punk he had words with last week. He puts his bag on his bed
to pack it, the name of his basketball
team printed on it in red.
The girl--she said she'd come to the game and wear red.
In red, she looks like a twisted angel.
He didn't know she liked basketball
(or maybe it's just him--he wishes)--she makes him want to be a star.
He's ready to be free of the bed.
He's ready, maybe a little cocky, maybe a little conceited.
But you have to be conceited,
have to wear the team's red
with pride, with swagger. No time to make that bed--
time to get clean and sharp for that angel,
time to be a star,
a warrior, a knight of basketball.
The sky turns red, yellow finally pale blue with the angel of dawn.
He leaves the bed, the stars of night behind. It's okay to bounce
down that stoop, to be conceited if you got game, if you're all about the basketball.
I still feel that way, but I started thinking a lot about the concept of a "unifying mission." Unifying mission or no, I'd probably manage my classes very similarly. But as I walk down the halls of our crammed to the rafters building, I often observe the deans telling kids to take their hats off, turn off their radios, and straighten up and fly right. The kids, walking right in front of me, move about ten feet before putting their hats back on, turning on their radios, unstraightening themselves and flying incorrectly.
Now I'm rushing to class, and I honestly have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with these kids, none of whom I remotely know. My experience in hall patrol has taught me that what the AP Security's office most desires is to be left alone, and that they're unlikely to issue even a slap on the wrist to anyone I bring in. So honestly, why should I bother?
If the administration were willing to strongly enforce its rules, and back up teachers who help, it would be one thing. But in the real world, I'll deal with the kids in my class, all of whom know their problems in my class will follow them home, due to my efforts (and those of a loose team of translators I've assembled through the years).
Personally, I like teaching in a regular public school. But while the chancellor cries that all incidents must be reported, merit-pay for principals hinges on as few of them seeing the light of day as possible.
And while I may control things in my saloon, once the customers step outside those swinging doors, it's the Wild West all over again.