No Barking in the Hallways: Poems from the Classroom

I’m pleased to announce that my second poetry collection, No Barking in the Hallways: Poems from the Classroom, is now available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and New Academia Publishing.  I’ve spent nearly all of my career as a teacher and have met many memorable students over the years. Each one came to me with their own story–sometimes funny, sometimes sad, often heartbreaking. But it was learning their stories that helped me to connect with them in more meaningful ways as a teacher.

Children's faces

Praise for No Barking in the Hallways

“This is poetry in its finest hour. Bracken does what a great poet does best: reveal, provoke, wound and heal readers, all in such a fashion that one cannot be left unchanged. With poignant and sometimes painful imagery, Bracken creates moments in which we could easily be standing alongside her in the classroom, bearing witness to each moment as it unfolds. Collectively, the poems are a window into a system that is more damaged than the circumstances faced by of some of the children the system claims to serve. Yet the language is always equally as beautiful as the children for whom these poems are written. This is exemplified in one poem in which Bracken observes,

We can’t stop the line. But when you peek under the hood— like the car with the wrong bolts, Ben will need repairs.

For anyone who has ever worked in schools and with children, or for those who appreciate how language can transform lives, this collection of poems is for you.”

Morna McDermott McNulty, Associate Professor, College of Education, Towson University

Here’s the poem that Prof. McNulty referenced which was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2016 by Robert Giron of Gival Press.  The poem is based on the story of a young man I taught in a high school a few years ago. I hope you’ll enjoy meeting him and find truth in what Fred Rogers had to say when he talked about learning people’s stories: “Frankly, there isn’t anyone you couldn’t learn to love once you’ve heard their story.”

THE AUTOWORKER AND THE FACTORY MODEL

We never stopped the line,
no matter what mistakes we saw.
We worked a lot of overtime fixing mistakes
but we never stopped the line. ~ This American Life

And I feel the same way about Ben
my student determined to graduate from high school
still reading at the 3rd or 4th grade level.

The administrators say
“Ben needs credits to graduate,”
but reading class doesn’t count
if he takes it more than once.

So administrators find ways
for us to push him along
like the auto factory grinding out
a Ford Focus with Fiesta doors
held on by Explorer bolts

nothing fits, and you can’t drive the car
but we don’t stop the line.
for Ben who understands a lot about history
but doesn’t read well enough to pass the test.

So we give him an accommodation—special help—
and someone reads him the test
which worked well when he was seven
but seems foolish when he is seventeen—

and hoping to get a job, hoping to graduate
So I ask, Will someone read to Ben at work?
the answer echoes back We can’t stop the line

But when you peek under the hood
like the car with the wrong bolts
Ben will need repairs.

The cover art is an original painting by my daughter, Christella Potts, an art teacher in Baltimore County, and Deb Dulin of Dulin Designs did the layout.

Failing More and Loving It!

Because so many readers enjoyed this blog, I am reposting it. Happy reading!

When I was growing up, the worst thing that could happen to me was to fail, especially in school. My parents prized good grades, and I dutifully complied, racking up lots of 100s, gold stars, and honors commendations on my report cards. Until I got to the 7th grade. I hit a wall with math that year–must have been the “new math” that was in vogue at the time. I remember the strange terminology about sets and confusing word problems. One day when I got a test back, the was a big red “D” at the top of the page. I can still remember the sick feeling that spread over my body. I remember feeling like my cheeks were on fire. I dreaded going home. How would I explain that failure?  What would my parents say? Would I be punished?

Ann in 1st grade

I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I do remember the awful feelings I carried and the angry self-talk chattering away in my head about failure. Thankfully, my teacher helped me to understand the concepts, and I moved on. I think that was the last “D” I ever got. But no one ever told me that failure was really part of learning and mistakes were a necessary part of moving forward. No one ever got honors for mistakes. And no one talked about the value of failure until I found the creativity people.

The Florida Creativity Conference in Sarasota, Florida, has offered a rich array of workshops and presentations over the course of a March weekend  every year for the past 13 years. I started attending in 2008 with the encouragement of Anthony Hyatt, a wonderful violinist who uses his talents to bring joy through music in retirement communities and hospitals.  Anthony and I met in 2008 at a networking event for creative entrepreneurs, and he spoke so positively about the conference that I decided to go–in 2008 and every year since.

I remember telling a friend, “It’s really a shame that I had to be an adult in my 50s before I could experience learning in such a playful environment.”  And because learning is actually experimental to a large degree, there is always the possibility of failure. But the creativity folks don’t shy away from failure–they embrace it. In fact, one of my first experiences at the conference involved an improv game where we formed a big circle in a large classroom and played “Celebrate Failure.” As soon as the leader named a brand of car, the person he pointed to had to name three models of that car–three two-syllable models and we had to snap with each syllable.

What happened next was the big surprise. As soon as someone had a turn–and could’t snap and name the cars, we all cheered and said, “Congratulations!  You failed.”  It probably sounds silly when I say it to you, but the lesson resonated with each one of us who played the game. After we had all “failed,” we discussed the power of reframing our experiences and asking what we learned from something that didn’t work out.

Celebrate!
Celebrate!

“Did you learn anything?” became my new mantra whenever I tried an experimental  lesson  in my writing classes, especially when I didn’t get the results I had hoped for. No more sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. No more cheeks flaming with shame. Now I think about the “Failure Game” and remember the fun of everyone cheering together.

I’d like to leave you with a thought from one of my favorite poets, David Whyte. In one of his talks about being authentic and being willing to take risks, he talks about the tasks of the soul. David says something like, “The soul doesn’t care if you failed or you succeeded. All the soul cares about is did you learn something?  If you did, then the soul celebrates.”

Failing More, and Loving It!: Lessons from Creativity

When I was growing up, the worst thing that could happen to me was to fail, especially in school. My parents prized good grades, and I dutifully complied, racking up lots of 100s, gold stars, and honors commendations on my report cards. Until I got to the 7th grade. I hit a wall with math that year–must have been the “new math” that was in vogue at the time. I remember the strange terminology about sets and confusing word problems. One day when I got a test back, the was a big red “D” at the top of the page. I can still remember the sick feeling that spread over my body. I remember feeling like my cheeks were on fire. I dreaded going home. How would I explain that failure?  What would my parents say? Would I be punished?

Ann in 1st grade

I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I do remember the awful feelings I carried and the angry self-talk chattering away in my head about failure. Thankfully, my teacher helped me to understand the concepts, and I moved on. I think that was the last “D” I ever got. But no one ever told me that failure was really part of learning and mistakes were a necessary part of moving forward. No one ever got honors for mistakes. And no one talked about the value of failure until I found the creativity people.

The Florida Creativity Conference in Sarasota, Florida, has offered a rich array of workshops and presentations over the course of a March weekend  every year for the past 13 years. I started attending in 2008 with the encouragement of Anthony Hyatt, a wonderful violinist who uses his talents to bring joy through music in retirement communities and hospitals.  Anthony and I met in 2008 at a networking event for creative entrepreneurs, and he spoke so positively about the conference that I decided to go–in 2008 and every year since.

I remember telling a friend, “It’s really a shame that I had to be an adult in my 50s before I could experience learning in such a playful environment.”  And because learning is actually experimental to a large degree, there is always the possibility of failure. But the creativity folks don’t shy away from failure–they embrace it. In fact, one of my first experiences at the conference involved an improv game where we formed a big circle in a large classroom and played “Celebrate Failure.” As soon as the leader named a brand of car, the person he pointed to had to name three models of that car–three two-syllable models and we had to snap with each syllable.

What happened next was the big surprise. As soon as someone had a turn–and could’t snap and name the cars, we all cheered and said, “Congratulations!  You failed.”  It probably sounds silly when I say it to you, but the lesson resonated with each one of us who played the game. After we had all “failed,” we discussed the power of reframing our experiences and asking what we learned from something that didn’t work out.

Celebrate!
Celebrate!

“Did you learn anything?” became my new mantra whenever I tried an experimental  lesson  in my writing classes, especially when I didn’t get the results I had hoped for. No more sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. No more cheeks flaming with shame. Now I think about the “Failure Game” and remember the fun of everyone cheering together.

I’d like to leave you with a thought from one of my favorite poets, David Whyte. In one of his talks about being authentic and being willing to take risks, he talks about the tasks of the soul. David says something like, “The soul doesn’t care if you failed or you succeeded. All the soul cares about is did you learn something?  If you did, then the soul celebrates.”