In Solidarity with Students Who March in March

Although this poem was not written with school shootings in mind, both its form and content certainly resonate today, March 24, 2018, which marks the first, national, March for Our Lives protests. One could certainly read the chaos and legacy of gun violence in these lines; one could certainly interpret the repetition in its lines as empty political promises that lead nowhere; one could indeed see optimism here too, for despite the visible terror embodied by the textual deformations, there is an even stronger, underlying POWER. Aspects of the essay that accompany this poem are even more poignant today: “We cannot afford to let them fall” bears an even darker significance today, and the analysis of the number 17 will no doubt remind anyone familiar with the tragedy at Stoneman Douglas High School that 17 lives were lost on 2/14/2018. Just how many more students need to fall before politicians protect them? It was almost six years ago this week when we marched on Sacramento to fight for our classes and our futures, but the situation is even more dire today: students and teachers will soon face another round of budget cuts, a consequence of a deaficit (sic) budget that doesn’t hear students’ voices nor value their lives. Today we face a more dire consequence in our schools: death.

Estudiante !
f i s t s
Th y are
the first
doeino.
arms
They ar
e the firs
t domino
. solidarity
They ar
the firse
dominot
POWER.
Somos fuertes!
Somos inteligentes!
Somos estudiantes!

This is a poem I wrote during spring 2012 shortly before a March in March protest in Sacramento, California. I was driving back to College of Alameda from the Peralta Community College District Office with Rich Copenhagen (who would come to be a Peralta District Student Trustee and then President of the Student Senate for California Community Colleges) when he expressed concern that the budget cuts triggered by the 2008 recession could lead to even more cuts than we’d already experienced—over 500 district-wide. Even worse, there was speculation that an entire Peralta campus could shutter its doors to students, which he proclaimed, would be devastating. Copenhagen said, “Can you imagine the impact on the community—the domino effect!?” That image stuck with me and inspired this poem and the explanation that follows. Many of the consequences I discuss below have been ameliorated, but others still persist; I’ll leave it to the reader to discern which analytical passages are outmoded. The poem’s form (tilting stanzas and letters on precipices) and its content interact in symbolic fashion to embody the negative ways budget cuts to public education have misshapen our institutions and harmed our students. But while it recognizes these brutal consequences, its peculiar form also delivers an empowering message of unity and a call to action.

“Estudiantes” is a poem about the vulnerability of public school students, whose lives are portrayed as the first and most important domino; like the letters in the stanzas convey, students are squeezed (tight little block-sized stanzas), bounced around from campus to campus (displaced letters), and they are dropped (letters from one line drop into lines below). As the letters fall on top of one another, displacing letters after them, they embody the reality our students face every semester as they vie for seats in over-crowded classrooms. The poem emphasizes cause/effect and consequences: too much pressure here and something falls over there. The first three stanzas attempt to say the same thing, “They are / the first / domino,” but the words experience deformities, underscoring the inadequacy of form in properly conveying the content. The deformities in content symbolically recreate the inadequacy of the educational system that is responsible for supporting our students. The deformities suggest that students are not abusing the system; the system is abusing students with its pretenses of adequacy and with its draconian unwillingness to change form.

At first glance, “Estudiante[s]” looks like a poem, but when readers get into the third line, they are met with resistance; they perhaps encounter frustration. Since the content of the first three stanzas say the same thing, readers find themselves looking at three different stanzas to get the same message; what could have been one simple line becomes multiple complicated lines, reflective of the numerous lines students must wait in to either enroll, get financial aid, or see a counselor, etc. At first glance, though, “Estudiante[s]” sure looks like a poem, and at first glance our public schools and colleges look like schools and colleges, but when one tries reading the poem’s lines, when one tries enrolling in public schools and colleges and procuring classes from one semester to the next, what happens? They are met with resistance; they experience frustration. Until we reform the inadequate form—the system—we will frustratingly reproduce inadequacies in our students.

The tone of the poem, despite the adversity it portrays, is still a message of hope and empowerment: notice that the final stanza—the foundation upon which the other stanzas rest—is not moving or breaking apart; it is solid. The strength, formally portrayed by the normalcy of the last stanza’s lines, is a consequence of its content: the titular “estudiante” (alone and singular) has become “Somos estudiantes!” (united, strong, intelligent, and plural); the message of strength, intelligence, and unity gives the final stanza the power to resist deformation, suggesting that if students raise their voices (“!”) in unity, they have the power to right the wavering domino; they have the power to change the form and make it fit them! They are not broken; the system is broken, though many pretend it is poetry.

How did we get to this point? How do we keep our first domino from falling? The poem’s font tells us how. The entire poem is written in Constantia font, which could be read as a sign of hope and stability—constancy. But in the age of Democratic and Republican budget cuts, that reading of the font is illogical; there is no stability in public education when publicly elected representatives choose to polish army boots instead of minds, when publicly elected representatives of the public choose to represent private interests over public school systems. The irony of our publicly elected representatives not representing the public that elected them is what the Constantia font sardonically salutes: thank you for the constant instability; thank you for the constant frustration; thank you for all the dreams deferred, and thank you for constantly underfunding a system of education that looks like a system of education.

Like the poem’s unified form, which evokes and provokes a connectivity among every letter, word and line, the number of lines more subtly instantiates that message of unity. There are 17 connected (no line breaks) lines in this poem. The number 17 is a prime number. Prime numbers are divisible only by themselves and the number 1. This linear algebra of sorts symbolizes a broader collective consciousness among activist students from around the world, but it also serves as a caution. If estudiantes stand united, they can achieve their goals; only they can metaphorically break themselves down, so look out if you try to stand in their way. My attention on numbers here reflects another phenomenon in our school systems though: we number our students; we number their units; we number the available seats in our classrooms; we number scholarships too, and financial aid, and certificates and completion rates, and really, there’s no other way but to make more and more numbers. There are some numbers we need to work on, seriously work on, because dreams shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, cannot be numbered, and the more we number, the number we become.

If you look at the poem as a whole, perhaps from a distance, and you just focus on the form, what do you see? Can you see the silhouette of protest emerge? Do you see the clenched fist? The poem’s shape (punningly) limns an upheld fist and arm—a timeless and tireless image of resistance and protest. What may have first appeared to be a jumble of misspelled letters is actually another formal sign of unity and protest—a call to action. If you’re reading the original electronic version of this, drag your mouse over the poem and change the font color to black to see I wasn’t making this up. There is not merely one symbolic fist in the air; there are many, many more.

The Spanish in the poem infuses its activist content with the spirit of Latin American student protest. I had recently seen a PBS Frontline short documentary titled, “Chile Rising,” which influenced the poem’s last three lines. The student protesters in this short documentary demonstrate such inspirational grit in the face of severe adversity. They face off against government officials and paramilitarized police when they take to the streets to demand free public education. They occupy. They write music. They create art. They unite. They resist. It’s beautiful. Though the oro-eyed politicians and their militarized henchmen may tackle, shackle or break students’ limbs, these armed forces can’t cage students’ minds.

Will the first domino fall, or will it stand? If it falls, what policies will fall into place? By presenting readers with a moment of precariousness and possibility, by evoking the fork in the road, “Estudiante[s]” is, above all else, a call to action. “They are / the first / domino”; we cannot afford to merely let them fall.

Sincerely,

Anonymous

Estudiante !

f i s t s

Th y are

the first

doeino.

arms

They ar

e the firs

t domino

. solidarity

They ar

the firse

dominot

POWER.

Somos fuertes!

Somos inteligentes!

Somos estudiantes!