It' All Good

I have had a great week!
Makes me happy!
Not grinning like an idiot happy, but grinning on the inside like an idiot happy.
There is a difference. One's sexier somehow. My week was full of words. From the insanity of my class to opening for Peaches at the 14th St. Playhouse. The show was amazing. The singing soulful and the dialogue pure poetry. This was an opportunity to perform infront of a whole new kind of crowd. I edited my poetry. At first, I thought,"Hell, fucking no I will not censor myself! I'm a fucking artist and I'm sensitive 'bout my shit!" Then I thought about how cool it would be to be able to open up my audience to young people in a way that right now I can only do with college folk. The response....amazing. I perform mostly to the choir. Know what I mean your at a reading and 90% of the audience are poets. These were normal people. Yes, I know the implication and don't be offended. I don't mean normal in the way we all eat and poop and put our shoes on one foot at a time. In that way we are all normal. I mean normal in the sense that they may not feel naked without a pen. They may not have a cacophony of words bombarding their every waking moment. They possibly don't recite poetry in their dreams. They don't dream in subtitles.
They were all about Rainbows and Butterflies.
Some said it was a hopeful poem for them.
Three folks want me to come and speak at their schools and churches. Weary of the church gig, last time I did one of those someone took all my merchandise (stole is the right word but I want to prolong my damnation as long as I possibly can).
Tonight when I stepped out on stage my name was shouted back at me and it threw me just a little bit.
I wondered the entire time,"Who the hell was that?"
I have been a teacher for coming up on 16 years.
My name being shouted by the parent of a child I taught in 2nd and 3rd grade, shrank my universe just a bit and they wore faces of pride. I recognized it. It was the same face I wore when their young man got an A on a spelling test or rocked my world with a science project. They kept saying to folks walking by the " This is my son's teacher", present tense. Although the young man is 19 years old now. We all want to feel like we accomplish things. Doesn't have to be big. Watching them, listening to them they were saying I was a good teacher in and out of the classroom. Took my breath away. It's not validation I'm looking for it's recognition. Not a billboard, or a parade in recognition. But a word. "You are passionate about everything you do, Patrick was lucky to have you for a teacher." I welled up gave them both a hug and excused myself. Pushed to tears that I wouldn't let flow there. Ruin a perfect teacher moment. We don't get them all the time. 14 years after the fact, to be remembered. Still full on it. I couldn't go to Java. All of a sudden my sails went slack. Cleaning the house, listening to Shark Boy and Lava Girl on the television as my son struggles for consciousness. He'll be out in no time. Inhaling the sent of fried hair, my daughter and he flat iron. Tomorrow I'll pretend not to see the place where she burned her forehead. A glass of wine. I won the poetry slam on Saturday. I wore a skirt. Went to a party. Made out with a couple folks. Mom left for Venezuela today. Tia returns from Baltimore tonight. Life is good.