I Was A Teacher That Didn’t Teach
I am not a strong woman.
I am not a rock.
I am the sulfur flower that grows between them
the one that dares to bloom among biceps and triceps
that shaped my stumbles.
Today, I am that flower, blossoming beneath the weight.
The real pandemic was never just viral
it was a syllabus steeped in systemic sensationalism,
a curriculum that rewarded cowardice.
Every time I tried to speak,
what came out were murmurs
echoes of a mother of four
trying to feed her children.
So I muttered words. Things.
Handed out faded gold stars
from behind a fading smile.
The children scored A’s and B’s
the world clapped.
Because the world loves faded gold stars
and faded smiles it can tame.
The spirited, smiling children
global in accent, but shallow in intent.
Parents stared.
At me.
The dwarf conifer that couldn’t grow.
I was a teacher who didn’t teach.
My mind had locked down
long before the world did.
And then
the axis tilted.
THE. WORLD. LOCKED. DOWN.
They finally felt it
the motionless movement I had lived.
And as the world stood still,
this dwarf conifer began to rise from the rocks.
Can you see her?
That dweller of the crevice
that flicker of color under the weight?
I am that hue.
The dwarf that grew.
I am a Teacher now.
And I begin by teaching myself.
I’ve learned that flowers do grow among stones.
I’ve learned to endure drought.
I’ve learned that the worst kind of lockdown
is the one inside the mind.
And that pandemics can be internal.
I am a Teacher
crafting a curriculum of courage,
writing syllabi from dreams and destiny,
opening minds, young and old
to grow where others barely survive.
We are not strong women.
We are the sulfur flowers
among the rocks.
