My Cardboard Balcony

Wow. Um. Okay. I did not expect that Thanksgiving break would wind up kicking my ass. So this week was rough. Not mentally and emotionally, mind you: My classes went well. I had a lovely evaluation meeting with one of my assistant principals. I felt productive and level-headed as a teacher for the most part. I got to get some students inspired about poetry, and a few of them actually asked me if I would be willing to start a poetry slam team on our campus. Another assistant principal asked if I could be his teacher sponsor for No Place For Hate, and I said yes. So hey - not a bad haul. Oh, and tonight, two of my former high school students who have recently graduated came over for hot cocoa and good conversation. So that was pretty sweet. But physically...holy shit, dudes. I mean, I was a hot mess sleep-wise. I think my sleep deficit plus my commute is finally starting to catch up with me after almost four months at my new school. Not only that, but I had two panic attacks in two...

Last Christmas by Belinda Roddie I survived five days of Whamageddon. Remember me, dear friends.

A Brode To José by Belinda Roddie This is the ode I've always wanted to write for one of my bros, because the last time I did something like this, it was in high school, and my romance-addled friends all insisted it was due to a laboring crush pressed into my veins like stardust. Infatuation is irrelevant here, but honestly, I feel like, since some countries have phased out their pennies, there's room for a new term to be coined: The ever artful and articulate brode: Shorthand for bro ode . So. This is the brode to my best bro, a broship nearly eleven years sailing. Aboard are a short and stout teapot of a dyke and a sloppy bearded Valhallan who taught me how to fight with a sword and also how to handle both my mead and my tequila. This is the brode to all the times we've improvised songs, scaled walls, and forgotten what it meant to grow old. This is the brode to classic video game consoles, to bathroom jokes, to grainy black pepper and tapatío ...

A Note To My Latest Panic Attack by Belinda Roddie A note to my latest panic attack that was meant to be brief, but if brevity is the soul of wit, then I sold every piece of it to the Devil for deep breathing exercises and cognitive behavioral therapy: Dear P.A. (can I call you P.A. for short? I'm calling you P.A. for short) - Damn, dude, where did you come from? You think you could give me a little more notice next time, maybe alert me during an open hour so I can pencil you in? Or is the scratch and sniff of graphite more triggers for you? Or does the mere thought of a text reminder set your teeth on edge, make the hairs on your arms stand up ready for orders, twists your spine into a Tesla coil, sending alternating currents of dread and irrational sadness signals through every taut and trembling nerve? I didn't think you'd show up here: Uninvited, as usual, sitting cross-legged on my chest, unable or unwilling to take a seat beside me and squ...