Dear Ask Boz – Periodic Table

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If you could be any element on the periodic table, which one and why?

Claudia

OK let me take a look at the chart. Mmmm. Let’s see. I’ll let you know my thinking about it and make a choice about which one I will be.

  • Well, there’s Krypton, and I coulda used it in the 90’s, but Clark stopped bullying me a while back so I don’t really need that. 
  • Ohh! Fermium!! Reminds me of Fermi High School, which was the cross-town rival of Enfield High where I went. And this one time in a 5K race this kid wanted to beat me so badly that I kept pushing him until he ran off the track and got sick! It’s terrible how good that made me feel! So Fermium has a chance. 
  • I like Tantalum. It sounds like an element needed to make every Greek tragedy.  
  • No, you’re a Boron! 
  • Not Aluminum, of course, but why do the British pronounce it “AL- You – Mini-Umm” Like, blokes, there’s no “I”. Don’t Over-British, please.  
  • Scandium sounds like a show where all the scandals are happening live in a stadium. “Tonight, on Scandium: The Kardashians vs the Duggars.”
  • I pretty sure Yttriam is a really obscure Tolkien character. His besty was Ytterbium. Tolkien references always stand a chance.
  • Whelp, Moscovium didn’t age well, did it?
  • Americium? Really? EWWW 
  • I could be a bro that says “What’s up Bromine?” I like that, being an aficionado of the double entendre. Like it’s “bro” and “bro of mine”.
  • That had a chance until I saw:
  • DUBNIUM  
  • It’s gotta be Dubnium! Sounds like a place people are dubbing music and doing the dub step and getting W’s for wins. And you know I’m all about getting those dubs! And I can be Dub of Dubnium!

Thanks for asking

Boz

Teaching Tuesday – The Outsiders

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How does the book The Outsiders, published in the 1960’s, still work for students all these years later? 

I think teen culture is essentially the same. Listening to music, hanging out with friends, dealing with the stresses of family and school are similar experiences today.  

Even more, it is a story about fitting in and rebelling. I remember the tension I felt as a teen, wanting to fit in on one level, but then feeling rejected by mainstream society. My rebellion, admittedly, was based as a response to my sense of being an outsider. But it became part of my young identity, and the attitudes of being an “outcast” still are with me today, for the good or the bad. 

But being honest, I think it’s the violence that puts it over the top. The crisis faced by Ponyboy and Johnny, the gang rivalry, even the sibling infighting all contribute to the drama of this story. 

As a teacher, I’m just happy it still works. And it’s fun to hear stories about kids who tell their parents about what they’re reading, and the response is “I read that when I was your age!”  

Autumn Glory

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Leaves! 
I celebrate your splash of color 
Your delicate yellows 
Citrus orange 
Majestic Red 

I honor you, 
Because your changing hue 
Is the glory 
Of leaves dying. 

I will not forget your  
Verdant green 
Your spring and summer 
Wind dances 
Hushing and shushing together 
The brief glimpse of your 
Light underside. 

And trees 
I don’t blame you if  
You already shed your leaves. 

I’m tired too.

High Meadow Lane

/ boz bozeman / 1 Comment 
 

I throw the empty drawers 
Onto the pile in the dumpster. 

I turn away from the refuse, 
And look up at the family home. 
Somehow, still, my house. 

With the “Sale Pending” sign in the yard. 

I have a key for the Realtor's lock.
I enter through the back deck door 
Like I always did. 
Into the family room that I visited 
So many times 

Dad’s been gone awhile.  
But the ghost of his recliner 
Still fills its emptiness. 

I say hi to mom 
Because she’s only been gone a month. 
Her recliner is still there, 
So I can picture her better 
I say “Hi” again, and then I say, 
“But you’re not here.” 

 I walk through the kitchen 
Into the dining room. 
We have emptied the house so totally, 
That the few drapes 
And the one cabinet hanging in its corner 
Glare out against blank walls 

I turn to the stairway. 
The stair treads that mom hooked 
With her children’s profiles on them 
Are still there 
Secured with my father’s nails. 

I step on the silhouettes of my siblings, 
Myself. 

Up on the landing, I lean through the door  
Of my sister's room. 
Cable cords are in a snake bundle under the windows 
Hemmed back by hollow space. 

Still my sister’s room 
All these years later. 

I turn to  
Still my room. 
It is for a little while longer. 
And always 

The persistent bed and desk 
Hold their space in the past. 
The dresser with the record player. 
Ghosts of my clothes sloppying the floor. 

For a moment I am him. 
Or me.  
The me back then. 
Slipping out of my sneakers 
Without untying them. 

Dreaming my way out of a hated 
Cage. 
Scribbling high school poems 
Laments 
Eulogies. 

Records spinning 
On the stereo 
Over and over so the grooves deepened.  

Typing poems, 
to be given 
to scattershot loves. 

Hours long phone calls with 
scattershot lovers.  
Tangling my fingers in the coiled cord. 

Even the great escape to college 
Was followed by the return  
at each break 
Head hung like a parole breaker  
returning to a cell. 

I come back to now. 
I shake my head. 
Those small turmoils 
Were so huge. 

It was hard, sure, 
But it was so easy. 

Dreams I’m still dreaming 
Bloomed in this room. 
Achievements I only glimpsed here 
Have been accomplished. 

Talking to me back then 
I say: 
“I made you proud. 
A lot of your dreams came true. 
I haven’t done all you wanted, 
but you know: 
I’m starting to believe that’s part of the point.” 

I’m back on the stairs    
Descending through emptiness. 
At the bottom, 
I cry enough to feel like 
I got that part done. 

I pause in the family room. 
It is already changing. 
Becoming not mine. 
Not my families. 

Always ours. 
Not yet the new families’ always. 

For them 
A space awaits.