Seeing Ourselves in the World

I. Identity: What Do You Want Me to Know about You?

          Life Harbor

          what you get
          is a beginning
          middle and
          time on earth
          a kind of story
          but the simplicity
          of that description
          won’t wash
          because the box
          the life gets put in
          has a top and bottom
          but no sides
          and so all the things
          that happen to you
          keep spilling out
          so much of
          who I am
          connecting to who you are
          that my story
          has you in it
          and I’m in yours
          watching out for so many
          rhythms
          the drums that keep
          insisting
          I know their language
          when all I really know
          is their sound
               —Mark Statman

I read my own poetry to try to understand myself. I look at what I’ve said, thought, and done, and try to figure out how and why I did those things. I try to figure out what effect—with all the “spilling” and “connecting”—my language and actions have had on others.

When I work with students, I often ask them to do the same kind of thing. I ask them to talk and write about who they are, about how they understand themselves and how connected or disconnected they feel with or from the world. Their ability to do this takes some time to develop because often the complications of their identities aren’t clear to them. Finding that clarity requires time for reflection, which their lives usually don't provide. Allowing writing time in their lives creates space for that kind of thinking.

When I begin working with a group of students, I try to learn as much about them as possible. I want them to learn about me, too. I introduce myself as Mark, and I write that one word on the chalkboard. Then I walk around the room asking each student to tell me his or her first name. As each does, I repeat the name, then repeat the names of some of those who have already introduced themselves. This goes on until everyone has spoken, a lot of fun because it gets a little crazy as I swing through the classroom, sometimes making mistakes as the number of names increases, sometimes needing someone to say his or her name several times. Occasionally the students have name tags that they bring out for visitors. But fortunately I have the ability to learn a lot of names quickly, so I say to them, “No, no, no, I don’t want to read your names, I want to meet you.”

Having done this, I point out that although I’ve learned their names, I don’t really know them as people. And they know my name, but they don't know anything about me. They don’t know where I live, what I like, what I don't, my favorite sports, my favorite teams. They don’t know about my family or friends. In fact, I ask them, does a name tell us anything at all?

Of course not, they reply, although occasionally a student might point out that a name can indicate gender, but even that’s something we realize we can’t be certain of.

I then point out to them that many names do have specific meanings, that there are name dictionaries. I talk about how before my son’s birth, I got interested in those meanings. I tell them how we found out that my son Jesse’s name means one who is blessed. I note that my wife Katherine’s name means pure. Then I tell them of a friend named Alex who told me his name means brave. Another friend’s name, Michael, means gift of God. Finally, I tell them about Raymond, whose name, from the Spanish rey and mundo, means king of the world. As I talk, I write these names and their meanings on the board.

The students are often excited about all this. And what, they ask, since my name is also on the board but with no meaning next to it, does Mark mean?

With this question, I sigh. I ask them what they know about the Romans. Sometimes they can tell me quite a bit. If they know nothing, I talk about the powerful empire that existed centuries ago. I mention how even to this day we feel the influence of the Romans in our lives. For example, I point out, they affected how astronomers named the planets in our solar system. Many of the students are familiar with the Roman gods and goddesses.
          “And what's the biggest planet in the solar system?” I ask.
          “Jupiter.”
          “And who was the chief god?”
          “Jupiter.”
          “That's right,” I respond, “because, after all, where else would the chief god live, but on the biggest planet?”

We go through some more planets: the oceanic-looking planet would be the perfect place for the god of the oceans, Neptune. The fastest planet around the sun would be named for the fast messenger god, Mercury. The planet that shines so beautifully in the sky that it is often confused for a star would be named for Venus, the goddess of love. Distant Pluto gets its name for the god of the underworld.
          “And then,” I say, “there’s the red planet in the sky. Red, which is like blood, which comes from killing, from war.”
          “Mars!” they shout out.

I write the words blood, killing, war under my name. I circle the Mar of Mark. The chalkboard now looks like this:
                    Mark                                                            Jesse—blessed
                    blood                                                           Katherine—pure
                    killing                                                           Alex—brave
                    war                                                               Michael—beloved of God
                                                                                          Raymond—king of the world

There's some giggling now, some talking. What, I ask, do you think my problem is? I get many answers.
          “You don't like your name.”
          “Those names are good, your name isn’t.”
          “Your name isn’t you.”
          “So what,” I ask, “should I do?”
          “Change your name,” is the inevitable reply.
          “Oh, come on,” I say, “I can’t change my name. I’ve had this name for too long. It’s how people know me. It’s what my parents named me. But if I don’t like the meaning of my name and I can’t change my name, what can I change?”
          “The meaning,” someone guesses.
          “Exactly,” I say.
But many of the students are unsure. How can we change meanings of words?
          “I’m a poet,” I say, smiling, “I can do anything.”
And with that I hand out the following poem. Obviously, I've built this lesson around the unsavory derivation of my name, but even if you don't know the meaning of your name, or if your name means something terrific, you can still do a lesson like this. The point here is to give kids a sense of the authority of what they know about themselves. When the kids read their poems, I always ask the listeners if they've learned anything new on hearing a classmate's work. Usually, they (and their teachers) have, much to the delight, and sometime surprise, of the poet.

          My Name

          In the dictionary
          it says
          Mark means
          the Roman god of war
          someone who likes to fight
          except
          I hate to fight

          The dictionary is wrong
          Mark means
          someone who likes to write
          It means
          I like the color blue
          beautiful blue skies
          and blue oceans
          
          Mark means
          the one who likes to sleep late
          the one who likes to dream
          the one who rides his mountain bike
          in the green cool woods
          Mark means
          I have a son named Jesse
          I have thousands of books
          I hate when it gets too cold
          and I want to go to Mexico
          Mark means
          let's have fun
          let's tell jokes
          let's pretend the world is crazy

          And those are only some of the things 
          I know Mark means
               —Mark Statman

We read the poem. Now, I ask, what do you really know about me? The students respond with all the details of the poem. Do you know a lot more than before? I ask.
          Yes.

I tell them to do for me what I've done for them. I ask them to write a poem that talks about who they really are, that isn't what someone else might necessarily say—not their parents, teachers, friends, or a name book—but how they understand themselves. “Tell me what you like,” I say, “what you hate. Tell me what makes you happy, what makes you mad, scared, sad. Tell me what you think I ought to know about who you are, things I’d never guess just by hearing your name or seeing your face.”

When they write, some of the students do this by using the name model I’ve offered. Others just describe themselves, sometimes by telling about significant moments in their lives. 

          My Name

          My name means good
          not bad it means
          someone who likes to play I don’t like
          the
                  cold
          so to Dominican
          Republic I want to
          go I could not like the
                  cold
          but I do like
          the
                  snow
          My favorite color
          is white because it is
          part of the
                  sky
          I like to pretend
          that I am the queen
          that I fly on the
          sky with beautiful
                 wings
               —Veranda Sanchez, fourth grade 
 

          Corey

          My name is a
          feeling 
          A feeling of hope
          love happiness and
          laughter
          My name is a
          paper and pencil
          just waiting to be used
          My name is a gallant horse
          Striding freely across a
          meadow
          My name can be lonely
          Sad and blue
          It can change like night
          and day
          It loves to talk and sing
          and be the star of the
          show
          There is more though
          So much more
          but all other things
          I have yet to explore
               —Corey Bindler, fifth grade
 

          I like bumblebees
          I like sunny days
          I like pepperoni pizza
          I like playing baseball
          My favorite team is the Mets
          I like my house
          because it has my bed
          and something to eat and
          a refrigerator
          I like wood on a tree
          because if it's cold you
          get fire
               —Stephen Luczaj, kindergarten
 

          I like my house
          I like the tulip with pollen in it
          I like the way I have green bushes
          around my door
          I do not like the worm
          I like McDonald's
          I don't like a bird on the window
          I like a balloon
          and I like a rainbow
               —Robbie Torosian, kindergarten

          When I Was Born

          When
          I was
          born
          I entered
          a world
          where I
          could
          do
          anything
          I want
          When
          I was
          born
          I thought
          to
          myself
          God
          has given
          me
          a gift
          to see
          to hear
          to touch
          to taste
          and
          to feel
          anything
          I want
          When
          I was
          born
          I
          looked around
          and
          I saw
          stuff
          I
          never
          saw before
          I heard
          stuff
          I
          never
          heard before
          I touched
          stuff
          I never
          tasted before
          when
          I was
          born
          I
          looked up
          and
          I
          saw
          an angel
          waving
          hello
          to me
          then
          waving good-bye
          because
          I was
          leaving
          the place
          I’d been
          before
          and
          entering
          a whole
          new place
          because
          I was born
               —Samrah Naseem, fifth grade

          
          Me

          Me, who laughs at the clouds
          who smiles at the sky
          who adores books
          has theories
          Nature is a gift
          Loves being wild, zany
          absolutely insane
          tries new things
          spreads my wings
          explores the unlimited world
          of possibilities
          Freckles run across my face
          my blue eyes dance and twinkle
          Cats are soft; I like them
          Frogs are slimy; I like them
          light blue flowers tucked in hair
          sweet, like me
               —Lexi Merwin, fifth grade

II. Identification: Finding Yourself Elsewhere

          The Negro Speaks of Rivers

          I’ve known rivers:
          I’ve seen rivers ancient as the world and older than the
                    flow of human blood in human veins.

          My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

          I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. 
          I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. 
          I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. 
          I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
                    went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
                    bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

          I’ve known rivers: 
          Ancient, dusky rivers.

          My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
               —Langston Hughes

In “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” Langston Hughes gives us a powerful sense of what happens when you move from thinking about your identity (who you are) and begin to think about identification (how you see yourself in relation to others). In a session that might follow the name lesson, I ask the kids to think about this. Sometimes I’ll start with Hughes: Who do the students think he is? Why does he speak of rivers? We talk about how his identification with others like him has deepened his soul, allowed him to see the power that comes from seeing oneself with others.

I ask the kids how they understand their own identities and whom they might identify with. We talk about different people we might identify with because of what we do, what we like or don’t like, and how, by making identifications, we’re able to see how we’re like others and how we are different.

One way I do this is to ask everyone to raise his or her hand. I raise mine as well. I ask all those who are human beings to keep a hand up (all stay). “Okay,” I say, “we all can identify with each other as human beings.” Then I continue: “All human beings who like pizza, keep your hands up.” Most stay up. I note then for the students that most of us can still identify with each other. The students look around, nodding.

“Now,” I go on, “all human beings who like pizza and think the color blue is one of their top three colors, keep your hand up.” Many remain. I add, “Who also like baseball.” Fewer now. “Who are also male.” Now it’s just the boys and me. “Who speak Spanish.” At this point, depending on the school and its population, there might be five or six hands up, there might be one or two. I’m still one of them. Then I say, “Who are also fathers.” At that point, I’m left alone.

What we’ve done, I explain, is to show how identity and identification show what we have in common but also what we don’t. I note how most of us could connect as pizza-lovers, but there was no one with whom I could connect as a father.

This leads to a final question for them: Are our identities and identifications always conscious and freely chosen? The clear answer is no. There’s little free choice in being human, or in our race or gender. We might choose to like pizza, although even that’s tricky—do we train our own taste buds? Sports and colors seem a little bit more conscious. That I speak Spanish is a choice, but, as many students easily note, it would not be if I lived in a country where Spanish is the primary language.

There are also varied ways of understanding one’s identity and identification. Identity can be described by gender, by class, or by race, for example. And these do often get named by the students and discussions emerge around what it means to be male or female, white, African American, Latino, rich, poor, and so on. It seems essential to me that we talk about these things with the students, at least with older ones for whom these categories are becoming issues.

In talking about identity with the students, I hope that they’ll think about their own individuality. The question, again, is not simply how others might label you, but how you label yourself. And what does it mean that you have chosen to describe yourself this way, and what then does that say about your own sense of identification with others?

In a simple way, for example, as a baseball fan, I can easily identify with other baseball fans, but more so with fans who are fans of my favorite team, and less so with fans of the opposition. I identify with other parents, but usually I have more in common with the fathers than the mothers. I identify with other poets, but not so much with performance poets as with poets who work on the page. The more I attempt to describe myself, the more the complexities, complications, and limitations of different identities and identifications arise. I am a white male who lives in New York City: it would be ridiculous for me to think that this fact has no effect on how I understand the world. It would be ridiculous for me to think that, being who I am, I could easily understand the point of view, needs, and wants of someone who is quite different from me. Which isn’t to say that I can’t do it. In fact, it’s one of the things that being imaginative and writing creatively allows us to try. But the fact is, it isn't easily done, and requires a lot of serious thinking.

Having talked about identity and identification, I tell the students the story of Gabriela Mistral, the Chilean poet who was the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, and whose work we’re going to look at (right away, I point out all the different “identities” we've established—woman, Chilean, poet, Latin American winner of the Nobel, object of study). I tell them how, in fact, Gabriela Mistral is not the poet’s given name, that she was born Lucila Godoy y Alcayaga. I tell them how when Lucila was growing up, nobody thought much of her. Her teachers thought she was slow, uninterested, and uninteresting. They told Lucila’s mother that school wasn't the place for her (it wasn’t mandatory) and they predicted that her future would be that of a house servant. But Lucila badly wanted to be a teacher. After she was asked to leave a number of different schools, her mother and stepsister, who were both teachers, decided that they’d teach her at home. By the time she was fifteen, she was working as a teacher’s assistant; at twenty-one, she was a high school teacher. Lucila became such a wonderful teacher and such an innovator in progressive teaching that the president of Chile named her “Teacher of the Nation.” She became an international figure in educational reform, consulting in the United States, Mexico, Brazil, Italy, France, and England.

But that isn’t the whole Lucila story, I tell the students. In her mid-teens, Lucila began writing poetry. She published her poems in local newspapers and magazines, signing them “A Friend” and “Someone.” However, in 1914, when she was twenty-five, she decided to enter her country's national poetry contest. To do so, she had to give a name, but since it wouldn’t seem proper for a young schoolteacher to be writing such passionate poems, Lucila realized she needed a pen name, one that would go along with her identity as a poet.

She chose Gabriela Mistral. Gabriela came from the archangel Gabriel, the opponent of evil. The mistral is a cold north wind that blows over the Mediterranean coast of France and nearby regions. So here was her identity: Gabriela Mistral, the poet. And her identification: her poetry would be a fierce wind against evil.

Mistral, I tell the students, actually did go on to win the poetry contest. It was the beginning of one of the great poetic careers of this century. The lesson? I ask. Hands come up.
          “Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re stupid, or that you can’t do something if you really want to.”
          “Why?”
          “Because if it is what you want, you have to try.”
          “What if it’s someone who’s supposed to know better, I respond, a grown-up, a teacher?”
          “That doesn’t make that person right.”
          “Exactly, I say. Imagine what would have happened to Gabriela Mistral if Lucila had listened to all those other people and not herself.”
          “There wouldn't have been a Gabriela Mistral.”
Exactly. Then I hand out the following poem.

 

          Ayudadores

          Mientras el niño se me duerme,
          sin que lo sepa ni la tierra,
          por ayudarme en acabarlo
          sus cabellos hace la hierba,
          sus deditos la palma-dátil
          y las uñas la buena cera.
          Los caracoles dan su oído
          y la fresa roja su lengua,
          el arroyo le trae risas
          y el monte le manda paciencias.

          (Cosas dejé sin acabar
          y estoy confusa y con vergüenza:
          apenas sienes, apenas habla,
          apenas bulto que le vean.)

          Los que acarrean van y vienen,
          entran y salen por la puerta
          trayendo orejitas de cuye
          y unos dientes de concha-perla.

          Tres Navidades y será otro,
          de los tobillos a la cabeza:
          será talludo, será recto
          como los pinos de la cuesta.

          Y yo, iré entonces voceándolo
          como una loca por los pueblos,
          con un pregón que van a oírme
          las praderías y los cerros.
               —Gabriela Mistral

 

          The Helpers

          While my baby sleeps
          neither he nor the earth knows
          how the earth helps me complete him.
          The grass makes his hair,
          his fingers, the date palm
          and his fingernails come from beeswax.
          Seashells give him his hearing,
          and the red strawberry his tongue,
          the stream carries his laughter
          and the mountain sends him patience.

           (I’ve left so much undone 
          and I am confused, ashamed: 
          almost no forehead, almost no voice, 
          almost too small to see.)

          Those that carry these go and come, 
          enter and leave through the door 
          bringing little guinea pig ears 
          and teeth of mother-of-pearl.

          Three Christmases and he'll be another
          from head to toe:
          He'll be grown, grown straight
          like the pines on the slope.

          And I will go then, through the towns 
          a crazy woman, proclaiming him 
          with a cry heard 
          by the meadows and hills.

         

          “What’s going on?” I ask. 
          “Her baby isn't done.”
          “What does that mean?”
          “When babies are born, the students answer, they’re not whole people yet. They’re all squished up. They have to be finished.”
          “So how does the baby in this poem get finished?
          “By nature,” they reply. “By the earth.”

We talk about how this happens. Date palm leaves look like fingers, baby fingernails are soft, like beeswax, seashells have ear shapes and the sound of the ocean in them. Our tongues look like strawberies, both in color and shape. One fourth grader noted, too, that strawberries are sweet and that’s the best taste for the tongue.
     “Why,” I ask, “in the second verse, is she confused and ashamed?” A hard question, but some students have ideas.
     “Because it’s her baby. It isn’t finished, but she feels like it’s her responsibility. She needs to do her job and she isn’t sure she has.”
     “And what about the three Christmases?” I continue. This is a tough question, too, but soon the answers come. Sometimes from the students, sometimes from the teacher.
     “In three Christmases, the baby is three, almost four years old. The baby isn’t a baby anymore. It will keep growing, but already a lot of who the child will be is clear.”
     I ask the students about younger brothers, sisters, or cousins: “does any of this seem true for children they know?” It does.

Identity: who you are. Identification: how you are in connection or relation to others. Mistral identifies her baby with gifts from nature. Write poems, I say, about your identity and identification. Some students decide to do it the way Mistral does, focusing on how nature completes them. For others, the focus is like Hughes's: the identification is not so much how the world is part of them, but more how they see themselves in connection—and disconnection—to it.

          I’m the Lake

          I am the lake 
          I am the one 
          that splashes in 
          the night, I am
           the one that moves 
          smooth in the 
          morning, I am 
          the one that 
          makes the swan 
          move, I am the 
          one that makes 
          big waves in the 
          rain. When it is
          nice and calm I make 
          soft waves. I can 
          see the trees in 
          my reflection
               —Krystal Cummins, third grade

 

          Mi Inspiración

          El sol es mi inspiración
               para seguir adelante 
          Dos bolítas cafes hacen mis ojos

          Mi alegría viene del aíre puro
          La palma de mi mano
          es como una hoja nueva
          Mis lagrimas son como un pétalo
          de rosa que se cae

          The sun is my inspiration
          to go forward
          Two little brown balls are my eyes
          My happiness comes from the pure air
          The palm of my hand
          is like a new leaf
          My tears are like
          a falling rose petal
               —Carmen Santos, fifth grade

 

          If my eyes are the stars that stare 
          down at earth

          Then my hands are the soil, how 
          much am I worth?

          If my hairs are the feathers 
          that catch the cool breeze,

          Is my tongue so sharp, that 
          I sting like a bee?

          How much can you pay for 
          a glimpse of a free butterfly?

          It’s priceless, you see, like 
          the sea and the sky.

          My skin is mud, gentle and
          smooth

          And my fingers use dirt in
          a gentle groove.
               —Allison Sepe, sixth grade

 

          One day
          I was in the grass
          The sun came out
          I felt happy
          I felt like a princess
               —Anne Palmiotto, first grade

 

          I am …

          I am a turquoise star shimmering
          in the dark night
          I am a dolphin leaping
          out of the blue Florida ocean
          I am a bird singing
          my favorite song in a dogwood tree
          I am thunder talking
          to the wild animals in the forest
          I am a rocking chair rocking
          a baby back and forth
          I am happiness hiding
          nervously behind a dark desolate eye
          I am
               —Jenna M. Schmidt, sixth grade

 

          The Days before the Grave

          When I do nothing, the trees will grow
          Life will go on outside my world
          People will die and flowers will wilt
          Dark thoughts will be thought and I will still sit
          Days will die and nights will begin
          People will cry and I will still sit
          People will laugh and people will sing
          and I will still have thoughts that I cannot think
          People will wallow in their own selves, despise
          Pure red hatred will burn through their eyes
          People will laugh and I will still sit
               —Sari Zeidler, sixth grade

 

          Chilled but Free

          As I am at my window, sitting chilled and cold.
          An eagle.
          A bird.
          Wings.
          Flying away on his problems.
          Never ending the beginnings.
          Like the wind.
          As I am at my window I look and compare.
          A carefree bird.
          Free.
          The whole way through.
          As a chill comes through my window
          —evidence of the free bird’s fall—
          an enchanting free feather.
          Give me wings.
          Give me wings.
          I will go on.
               —Caitlin Gallagher, fifth grade

 

          I like the way apples taste
          and the way butterflies fly
          My best friend is Abigail
          because she’s nice
          Strawberry ice cream is my favorite
          Adam is nice and kind
          That’s why he’s my friend
               —Theresa Groves, kindergarten

 

          I Would Like To

          I would like to know
          what nothing is
          To understand how dying feels
          without really trying
          I would like to find
          what I can do
          What I can do to fight
          without really fighting
          I would like to see
          a fairy in her garden
          And to know
          what to do to become
          who I am
          I would like to be
          a raindrop
          for one moment
          To feel millions of
          years old
          to feel water
          being who I am
          For just a moment
          I would like to be able
          to go back in time
          do something over
          Make things better
          I would like to
          see the rain
          fall below me
          I would like to
          live a life
               —Helen Staab, fifth grade

 

III. Biography: Writing out of History

          Power

          Living    in the earth-deposits     of our history

          Today a backhoe divulged    out of a crumbling flank of earth
           one bottle    amber    perfect    a hundred-year-old
          cure for fever    or melancholy    a tonic
          for living on this earth    in the winters of this climate

          Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
          she must have known she suffered    from radiation sickness
          her body bombarded for years    by the element
          she had purified
          It seems she denied to the end
          the source of the cataracts on her eyes
          the cracked and suppurating skin    of her finger-ends
          till she could no longer hold    a test-tube or a pencil

          She died    a famous woman    denying
          her wounds
          denying
          her wounds    came    from the same source as her power
               —Adrienne Rich

Adrienne Rich’s “Power” is a poem I often teach to older elementary school students who have been looking at the lives of important historical figures. It can help broaden the process of connecting with things and places they started with their identification poems.

When we read “Power,” I ask the kids about the Marie Curie they see in the poem. I ask them to think about what power is and what the poet means by it, and to think about the meaning of what Curie does, how her power as a scientist and a thinker also requires that she ignore the wounds caused by the radium even as she purifies the substance. In talking about what radium is and what it has meant to our world—it has had significant use in cancer therapies—we often move to a broader, more general discussion of radioactive materials. I ask them to think about the positives and the negatives: uses of radiation in war, in medicine, as a “clean” energy source versus polluting energy sources, the problems of nuclear waste. I ask them to think about the relationship of the second verse to the “tonic” of the first. We talk about tonics as fake cures, the idea of the snake-oil salesman trying to sell you something worthless. Certainly the radium Curie purifies is not fake, and Curie’s work clearly benefits others, but it also kills her. I ask the students to think again, what do they think of what Marie Curie did? Was the exercise of her power worth the result?

Rich’s poem also has a way of making a historical figure more human. Often students will know that Marie Curie was A Great Woman Scientist (as they’ll know that George Washington was The Father of Our Country and Abraham Lincoln was The President Who Freed the Slaves). But the idea that these Great People were more than that—that they were people with real lives, who were happy and sad, who fell in love, and ate dinner—isn’t usually a part of a young person’s historical thinking. It should be, though, because by making historical figures more personal, students are able to understand them better. The students can see similarities between themselves and those figures, and thus see themselves as part of history. In this way, history doesn’t seem remote and irrelevant.

When I ask the kids to use the personal lives of historic figures in their writing, I urge them to internalize those lives, to become those figures so they can write from that point of view. I ask them to think about moments in the biography of the person that stand out as different or unusual or surprising. I suggest that they write about a private moment, one that might be connected with our knowledge of the figure’s fame but doesn’t have to be. I remind them that even though they are writing these poems from the point of view of a famous person, they can write them just as they would write about their own lives. Such an approach allows fifth grader Joe Covelli to wonder about the loneliness of Alexander Graham Bell, to examine his famous experiments in the context of his private sadness. It allows Brittany Fiorino to explain what drove Dickens to write as much as he did.

          Alexander Graham Bell at Night

          I am lonely
          I am wondering
          I am thinking
          I wonder if/or not to wed
          I am thinking about my experiment
          What will it be?
          How will people react?
          At night, I am all bottled up
          I am sad
          because I have no one to talk to
          At night I think and wonder
          about tomorrow, its reactions and its sorrows
          At night I am worried because I may not awaken
          When day comes, I will still wonder,
          think and be lonely
          For when night comes, I will feel the same lonely
          thinking, wondering self I
          was the night before
               —Joe Covelli, fifth grade
 

          Charles Dickens: 
          I Do It All for Maria

          Maria
          I do it all for Maria
          I’m cold for Maria
          I live for Maria
          I lived with Maria
          I’m poor but not for Maria
          I published books not for the money
          for Maria
          I became wealthy and well known
          because of and for Maria
          I had children with Maria
          Maria died
          My heart died with Maria
          I can’t live without Maria
          I do it all for Maria
          Maria
               —Brittany Fiorino, fifth grade