because we all like to raise our hands to something we love.
What I loved best about my grandpa was this:he would buy cases of clementines near Christmas,little wooden boxes,and he called them Jap orangeswhich wasn't politically correctbut it's what he called them.The clementines, when it was winterseemed little little suns,the brightest thing aroundand it seemed like those were all he could seein those white-out months.He blocked the months from his memory and would have been a snowbird if he could'veflown down to Florida.He'd sit and read his novels and National Geographiceven though the winter made him blind;I didn't understand why he couldn't see anything else.But he couldn't. So he'd sayfetch me my cane young boy,orgive me a shoulderand I didn't mind when he leaned on mewith his war-ridden hands,old flesh and blue blood vesselshis finger tips hugged my shoulder as we went into dinner.And afterwards Mum would make teaand being British, Grandpa would take it with milkand I would sit with him, looking at the National Geographics,with my tea tooand we'd look at the pictures of koalas and Russiansand then he'd give me a clementineand make me peel one for him too.I didn't mind when the summer scent got under my nails.and I'd hand him pieces and sometimes we'd eat more than a clementine eachand he'd say,well, I can't fly down to Florida, but I've got a sun in my mouthand he'd sayhow's that for a compromise?
She built piles out of cardboard boxes and called them castles.I spread my boxes far and wide and called it an empire.She conquered my empire with a balloon hat, armed with a floppy pool noodle.I surrendered and we played hopscotch instead.She sat in my lap and said I was her throne.It was weird.
Come here, young manAnd tell me what you seeYoung man, I’m curious to what you believe Sir, that’s a goose playing hopscotch, sirSir, that’s a hopscotch playing goose, sirI see no problem here sirIs hopscotch not a mallard’s sport to you, young manDo you not recall that being a duck’s sport, young manYoung man, are you not taken back by the gander of geese mocking our traditionSir, you’re a quack, sirSir, you’re species-ism isn’t appreciated here, sirSir, I know my history, sirYoung man, what do you know of historyYoung man, I demand to know what I don’tYoung man, I’ve been hear longer thanSir, with no disrespect, sirThey taught us about seasonal blindness, sirHow duck and goose are hunted like one in the same sir.Young man, does that mean we accept them in our ranksNo sir, it merely means we can peacefully coexist~~~On a non prompt note, I was given an oppourtunity to teach two sophmore English classes about Slam poetry and I wanted to publically thank Eric, Gerald, and Aaron to let me use excerpts of their poems as examples.~~~
That's awesome, Mikkel! I hope it goes really well!
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