In the afternoon I learned my middle/high school teacher Cara Esquivel died.

In 7th grade she made us all run around the block when we were being rowdy. In 8th grade I went to Oaxaca with the program she started: “Chapulin.” This is what inspired me to start my first job when I was 14 – since I was too young to be hired anywhere I made and sold burritos from a basket to office workers downtown.

In 9th grade I took Cara’s literature class and reading Night by Ellie Weisell ruined my year in an important way. Cara emphasized Native American literature and started an inter-school program with Santa Fe Indian School. High school wouldn’t have had such a multicultural perspective without her influence.

Khadija wrote on Cara’s timeline about the time our class had to memorize poetry. Cara said that we would remember our poems for the rest of our lives, that this was some kind of sacred-lineage passed from one English teacher to the next. I forgot that I remembered mine.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Falcon cannot hear the falconer
Things fall apart, the center cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
The blood dimmed tide is loosed
And everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned
The best lack all conviction
While the worst are filled with passionate intensity…

On the darker side of twilight I looked at the blossoms emerging on the lower half of a neighbouring tree, thinking: “I’ve got April sadness, and it’s only March.” What is April sadness? Right in the middle between hopeless and hopeful. Malegria

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