Humanitarian callings, featuring work by James McGrath, Dian Seidel and Terry S. Johnson.
8 minutes
TRANSCRIPT
On March 1, 1961, President Kennedy signed an executive order that authorized creation of the Peace Corps—I guess that demonstrates that not ALL executive orders are bad. The Peace Corps is a US government program that sends volunteers to developing countries to help with community development, health, education, and more. 64 years later, it’s still around, still doing good work around the world. According to their website, over 240,000 people have marched forth to serve in the Peace Corps. So as we march forth on this March 4th episode of Burning Bright, three pieces by Passager writers who have worked in other countries.
James McGrath has lived and worked around the world. He said, “A poem may come at a stoplight, on the Hopi Reservation, with a group of artists at the Congo River, or in a classroom of children in Seoul, Korea. Each time, place, thing, or person is sacred.” Here, from the 2021 Winter issue of Passager, James McGrath’s poem “Who Do I Ask?”
Who do I ask the final question:
“Where is my grave?”
Once, lately,
I thought it was my shadow
who followed me home.
I asked, “Where is my grave?”
The answer was an indecipherable hum
as if they could not decide
what to tell me.
Later, briefly,
in yesterday’s dream,
someone in a passing crowd
stopped, held out a hand,
asked for my hand
to read my palm.
I asked, “Where is my grave?”
I am listening.
Why does the line in my palm
become so long?
Now, when the cat comes in
from watching birds,
she looks at me
with secrets in her eyes.
I ask, “Cat, you have listened
to birds. You have wandered
my garden and read the lines
of lizards in the dust.
You have wisdom.
Cat, where is my grave?”
Cat looks at me, tail erect.
Cat walks to her chair.
Jumps.
Circles three times.
Lies down.
Curls.
Closes her eyes.
Jame’s McGrath’s “Who Do I Ask?”
In 2019, Dian Seidel and her husband went to Pathumthani, Thailand to teach English. In this next piece, Dian’s interviewing the young Chinese teacher at her school to help determine whether she can teach Chinese in the United States.
First question: What is your greatest strength as a teacher?”
Ling beams and explains her core philosophy. “Children learn best, and behave better, when they are having fun.” Singing, with hand signs and dance steps, she shows how she teaches the Chinese version of “It’s a Small World.” She goes on to demonstrate teaching kids how to count in Chinese by playing hide and seek, and how to greet people by playing with puppets. If her interviewer gives points for exuberance, Ling will get full credit next week.
“Last question. What challenges do you expect to face in America?” Ling looks at me shyly, not wanting to offend. “Don’t worry,” I say. “Just answer honestly.”
“OK,” she begins. “I am so excited to go to America . . . But I worry about my mother. She was so sad and worried when I left home to come to Thailand. It will be worse when I go to America.”
. . . I switch to mentor mode, smile, and motion for her to sit beside me on the sofa. She kicks off her heels and sighs.
“How do you think that went?” I ask.
“I think you asked hard questions.”
“Which ones?”
“Well, I hope I won’t have to talk about my mother.”
Trying to sound encouraging, I say, “Mothers worry. But when you are ready to go to America, she’ll support you, I’m sure.” But am I? I add, “Though I can’t really put myself in her shoes.”
Ling’s gaze goes to her tiny black pumps on the floor, then to my bare feet. “Teacher Dian, I don’t think you can wear my mother’s shoes.”
I switch roles again, to ESOL teacher, and explain the idiom. “Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes means experiencing the world the way they do.”
Ling considers this, then wraps her arms around me and says, “I think you wear a mother’s shoes very well.”
“Your mother is a lucky lady,” I say, pulling Ling close, hoping someday my own daughter will share her opinion.
Excerpts from Dian Seidel’s memoir “Pathumthani Tales,” also from the Winter 2021 issue of Passager.
Terry S. Johnson spent part of her career as a volunteer teacher for USAID in the first children’s summer English program in Tblisi, Georgia. About her poem “Late Winter, Early Spring,” she said, “While my beloved began fading away due to end stage kidney failure, I tried to practice grief through writing which is, of course, impossible. You have to live it.”
I’m keeping a window open, hoping the crisp
evening air will cleanse our home ‒ phantom whiffs
of leftover stews, sour sweaters, sad conversations.
Birds are returning or perhaps they’ve never left.
I’m only now hearing their celebrations, their laments.
I notice the huge oaks, their budding branches
rise like hands in supplication. Their coarse bark
brushed in bright rose from the sunset’s reflection.
I’m ready for spring as my beloved prepares
for dying, and so I am preparing, too.
We can’t believe we’re at the end of our cycle,
our last season together. We’re turning a bit
cranky, sniping for the first time. It is not
beautiful, not forsythia blooming, but we understand.
Why does it take impending
death to teach the final lesson?
Our life together has been a feast.
One of us will live on in famine.
He’s finished his shower. In swoon of aftershave,
I kiss his smooth face, revel in his flesh.
Terry S. Johnson’s poem “Late Winter, Early Spring,” from Passager’s 2023 Poetry Contest issue.
To subscribe to or learn more about Passager and its commitment to writers over 50, go to passagerbooks.com.
Passager’s offering a five-session poetry writing workshop beginning March 23 for writers in the Baltimore area. If you’d like more information, go to the Events page on our website, passagerbooks.com. We hope that in the not-too-distant future, we’ll be offering online workshops, as well. We’ll let you know as those develop.
You can download Burning Bright from Spotify, Apple and Google Podcasts, and various other podcast apps. Passager offers a 25% discount on the books and journal issues featured here on Burning Bright. Visit our website to see what’s on sale this week.
For Kendra, Mary, Christine, Rosanne, and the rest of the Passager staff, I’m Jon Shorr.
Due to the limitations of online publishing, poems may not appear in their original formatting.
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