July 2023 Monthly Roundup
Well fancy meeting you here, Waywards reader. I’m back with another monthly roundup, though there admittedly was not much from this month to roundup.
Here’s one piece I wrote that was published in July:
California ICE detainees’ hunger strike is part of a long fight for freedom / The Real News Network / 7-6-23
A few stories I submitted a while back have yet to be published. I just submitted a piece over the weekend that ought to be up before too long, and I have two pieces I got commissioned that are coming due in mid-August. Somewhat surprisingly, given how notorious folks in California have become as regards fulfilling public records requests, today I did receive jail policy-related documents I requested from a county upstate, which I’ll likely draw from for one of those two aforementioned articles.
I also devoted a little less time during July to freelance work and a little more time and energy to preparing for the classes I’ll be teaching that start in late August.
In addition, I’ve been writing poetry, if I may be so bold as to refer to it as that. Since I didn’t give you much to read with the roundup this month, I suppose I’ll share a few poems, along with brief introductions to each. You can find all that below, beneath this image of me reciting a poem at a Back to the Grind coffee shop open mic earlier in July.
This one represents a working out, as well as a release and sublimation of, frustrations, to put it frankly. When I sat down for the first time in more than a decade to pen something akin to a poem, this is what came out. It’s acerbic, I understand. I should note that I exercised some artistic liberties with this one; it’s not wholly based on or inspired by one person, and a few lines are pure fiction that conveys a mood or characteristic as opposed to veritable verse. After initially sharing this post, I removed the poem because I feared it conveyed too much scorn. I’m restoring a version of it here, as I think sometimes the expression of scorn, especially when it’s intended to capture honest, authentic sentiment and doesn’t castigate any particular individual, can be conducive to understanding and moving past difficult emotions, for the writer and the reader.
We Don’t Talk Anymore Subtitle: I should maybe be more mature, but damn… Seemingly sophisticated, but untrustworthy and entitled Her exuberance and caring, the finest and unbridled But how much a farce, a facade an act Of a woman self-centered as a child? She prides herself on wit and congeniality Niceties concealing the shitty reality Deceit and arrogance at root Peppered with a bit of banality A faux friendliness I once adored And a pretend tenderness; my heart soared Until finally, all was unmasked at last Selfishness and dishonesty I abhorred Interpreting Paulo Freire with a bourgie lens Through charitable acts she aimed to make amends Provided she still got all she wanted Needs and agency of others, forsaken gems Beneath the virtue-signaling and efforts to seem progressive and cool Past the flirting and affluent community of friends at an expensive school You encounter a lot of lies along with haughty indifference She’ll low-key treat you disposable then bathe by the pool We don’t talk anymore.
Since I’m partially resuming the #AdjunctLife and teaching classes again this coming semester, I wanted to write a poem about what contingent faculty endure. I also wanted to pay tribute to the late Prof. Paul Baltimore, who ended his life when the low pay and difficult working conditions associated with his job became too much to bear. After reading about him in an article published by EdSource, I interviewed his mother for two related pieces I worked on a while — “Suicide Risk Factors and Warning Signs” and “Suicide Prevention and Intervention” — that were published by the outlet Giddy. I exchanged emails with the late professor’s mother again recently and shared the poem with her. She appreciated it, I gather, and gave me the green light to post it here. The poem that commemorates her son also forms an acrostic.
Professor Baltimore, In Memoriam
Pedagogically, he held himself to the highest of standards, against the odds
Rising above, he helped students search for answers on campus quads
Often the man must’ve wondered why it had to be this way
Feeling like a failure, despite a PhD, conditions led to dismay
Empowering students with history, he truly transformed lives
Strong but in misery, tiered academia induced silent cries
Stressed and depressed by the treatment of contingent faculty
On a mission to improve working conditions, so persistent indeed
Ravaged by higher ed’s cruel divisions, he now rests eternally
But his grieving mother and other exploited part-time instructors
All still decry arrangements benefiting some at the expense of others,
Let people know about the low wages and contracts lasting just one semester
That take a toll on an adjunct underclass, the underpaid mass of college professors
Incensed by an institution in which great educators are regarded as disposable and cheap
More and more advocate, organize and strike, affirming humanity while wanting to weep
Over at Sacramento City College and elsewhere in the Los Rios District
Recall, many will, the part-time faculty person who’d brighten a classroom & bring history alive
Even though he’s gone, the late Professor Baltimore’s memory? It endures; it survives!
I also wanted to write a poem that could articulate the experience of mental-emotional anguish that kept me up at nights several months ago, and I wanted to show how that personal strife connects to and in part stems from social and cultural conditions. In attempting that, I came up with what follows; it features a few allusions folks might appreciate.
The Darkest Hour The Stanley Brothers, The Mamas & The Papas, Dylan & Emmylou Harris weren’t wrong When they put that old adage in song and sang the darkest hour is just before the dawn Cuz those nights seem so long when your ego’s unrelenting and hope is gone You can seek the salvific, a substance to help quell the pain, some palliative balm Single malt scotch, dry red wine, prescription ambien, THC tabs and some hit the bong Ephemeral relief, inserting brief rest into otherwise sleepless nights of misery that drag on Job suggested as much, as he tossed and turned, wondering before day breaks, how long? Loneliness, estrangement and ever-plummeting self-worth; spirals you’d wish upon no one Mental and emotional distress, yes, but don’t downplay the conditions all that rests upon Witness widespread alienating social and person relations that make us feel less human Ideological notions of the self, bereft of what gives individuality meaning and makes it fun Circumscribed, superficial and possessive self-interest more torturous hell than heaven Reinforced by a lack of participatory community, institutions as husks, hiding a beacon Of light, that as Leonard Cohen informed us, gets in through the cracks, supernal liaison And if in spite of or because of our anguish, we see some of its shared by everyone Our suffering and a once insufferable night begins to give way, a welcome remission We’re reminded of who we are and what we can be, and it’s all right, per George Harrison To borrow again from him, Michelle Phillips, Bob Dylan and other workers in song They say the darkest hour is right before dawn, and babe, maybe you would know it by me When a smile returns to your comely face, effacing the cold and lonely; ah, here comes the sun With that and for now, I’m out; I’m done.
And finally, I got the idea to write a poem about coffee. I wrote some of what follows in coffee shops or while otherwise drinking the stuff.
On Coffee Stimulating new working classes in Europe, enabling ever-grueling labor without much nutrition With other stimulants extracted from colonies abroad, it brought industrial imperialism to fruition As documented by Sidney Mintz, Avi Chomsky and others who’ve studied the world system Some no doubt fueled by it, as are students who must work and caffeinate to pay their tuition I enjoyed some working on this because the beans smell so good & give the brain ammunition Some shops that sell it also offer a nice vibe and serve the community in impressive fashion Social impact, sustainability & living wages at one in Back of the Yards on Chicago’s South Side Paint parties, open mics, science nights and jazz jams at Back to the Grind out here in Riverside Nearby, the employee-owned Slow Bloom came after Augie’s closed, following a union drive Laid off workers brewed up a barista-owned co-op; union-busting they could not abide And across the country, Starbucks Workers United empowered labor at a popular franchise We can grab a cup when needed at those shops on every corner but consider how it’s made There are Equal Exchange medium, full city, Vienna & French roasts available via fair trade And note, autonomous Zapatista communities grow it cooperatively in the Chiapas shade Buying a caffeinated commodity isn’t exactly mutual aid, but in this economy you gotta get paid Also of note, taking triple venti no foam caramel drizzle half-caff latte orders is rough Indeed, dealing with affluent, entitled and pretentious customers can be rather tough So with our shots of espresso we can appreciate those who grow, roast and brew the stuff Yet, cafe hopping and intimate Americano-enhanced conversations are still awesome Remember, though, those beverages often come piping hot; please drink with caution. But oh, wow, to savor that smell, sooner or later if you will, when having your coffee you can read poems like this and recall me; now go, enjoy some joe then!
I’m slowly and steadily (but mostly slowly) working on another poem about prisons I might be able to share in the next monthly roundup. For now, I’ll leave you with an image of me shooting hoops this past weekend at Nichols Park in Riverside.
Editors note: After first publishing this post, I removed one of the poems, fearing it expressed an unwarranted excess of scorn. I’m restoring a version of it here, in the interest of honesty and authenticity — and because I think it can be helpful to share and work through difficult emotions.