“Navigating a Moment"

 

Destruction on a daily basis

Leaves me shell-shocked

But that’s the goal

 

Rip and tear families apart

By screaming, “Other!”  

Over and over and over again

 

Demonize educators and scientists

By screaming, “Other!”

Over and over and over again

 

Stifle art, silence music, and dictate words

By screaming, “Other!”

Over and over and over again

 

Battered and bruised

I retreat

And feel shame

I take on blame for their abuse

My stilted words dying on the page

 

How do I navigate this moment?

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"His Way"

 

pseudo intellectualism     

demanding attention with parasitic tenacity   

irrational and illogical   

he vomits     

anger   

spewing intolerance and injustice under the guise of patriotism   

he infects and incites   

taking pleasure in belittling   

priding himself on accomplishments borne by breaking others   

he kills   

hope   

in the hearts of those he can’t love   

demeaning those who need because he cannot give   

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Positive Energy"

                Technology brings us possibilities. I sit at a keyboard, blank page before me, and write down my thoughts and beliefs knowing that I will transmit my ideas around the world with one click. What will I say? Who will I reach? What impact will I have?

                The wall technology builds between us allows invisibility. Through this anonymous distance, I can wound. I can easily divide humanity into otherness. Will I denigrate? Put down and pull apart? Can I spew out cruelty? Chip away and minimize the hopes and dreams of another?     

                Or will I stay true to my inner core? Can I thrive by crafting kindness? Can I blossom because I grow towards gentleness and grace? Every day I deliberately decide to nurture and nourish. I hone down my words to a spiritual force of positive

energy.

 Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

                 

“When You’re Not in a Cult”

            Yesterday I woke up wrapped in defeat. My stomach ached. My head ached. My heart ached. My belief in American voters lay bludgeoned and bloody at my feet. I had no desire to triage my world. Let it bleed out.

            My writing sharpened down to eight lines of poetry predicting regrets that I realized today won’t happen. These people want to add heat to boiling wrath. They feed their outrage with a volatile fuel of racism and misogamy. Their deity’s failings purify him and absolve him. They expect nothing from him but chaos and destruction.

            He empowers them because he is them.

          Those of us not in the cult can only step aside right now to keep from burning up in the initial explosions. When you’re not in a cult, you know that there is more than one person or one way to put out a fire.

 Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

             

 

           

“Order of Destruction”

David Chapman-artist

 

            Who will cry the loudest when denied coverage for your pre-existing condition?

           Who will weep and wail when your air quality index nudges to red day after day?

            Who will stand in shock when tariffs rob your wallets with relentless brutality?

           Who will stupidly mutter, “I didn’t know?” when funding vanishes for public education?

            Who will lament the women in your life bleeding to death?

            Who will regret your neighbor ICE-d into deportations?

            Who will mourn for your LGBTQ teenager choosing death?

            Who will protect you when they brand you “Other”?

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

     

"My Vote"

 

         As political leaders play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own incomes.

         My brother stands alone.

         So as the political pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.

         My brother has learning disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words. He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes. His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and became a teacher for Head Start.

         His low salary at Head Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He represents the working poor in this country.

         My brother lives a modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.

         If my brother carries the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes won’t bare the weight of a second household.

         When I hear and see mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much, don’t want to understand that Life isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb to Huntington’s downward spiral.

         I am not a statistic.

         My sister is not a statistic.

         My brother is not a statistic.

         So when I cast my vote in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“July 21, 2024”

 

one letter at 1:45 PM

became another personal “Where were you?” moment

soft tears of acceptance slid down my cheeks

one courageous act rekindled hope

“Ready or not, here we come!”

my new mantra reverberated

texts, emails, and phone calls late at night

words binding us with destiny

one letter at 1:45 PM

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Endangered”

 

behemoth fossil fuel guzzlers
pitted against efficiency
threatened by diversity
weakened by equality
petrified by inclusion
they worship their perfect world
white males, subservient females
power through intimidation
power through manipulation
power through deceit
their lies pile upon each other
thicken their hides with false security
they are terrified rhinos
dangerous in their fears
excluded by a changing world
endangered

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

"A Teachable Moment"

Art from Reader's Digest Feb. 10, 2023 article by Leandra Beabout

 I wrote this post in 2018 to capture the importance of an educator embracing the impact of students making connections. With what's happening in various Republican controlled states, I wanted to repost this example of what teaching really means for most of us. 

            I enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.

            A few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”. Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected variety to my day.

            When I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight years old.

            And the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.

            “What do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”

             “No. She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”

            “But she was little. Like us.”

            My eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”

            The same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back then to protect her?”

            “Things?”

            “Those things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”

            “Laws? You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.

            Every educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time. The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum. We refer to this as a teachable moment.

            “Our laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”

            Another student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”

            Another boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar sign in the air, “Money!”

            The classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.

            I glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Banned Books 2023

“Teaching Nirvana”

 

• 

  1990's Me!

            I am a Psychologist certified in the state of Texas to teach Psychology and English. When I began my career in 1980, no other teacher in Bexar County had my credentials. For my first six years in the classroom, I taught seventh, eighth, and ninth grade English. In 1986, the principal from our campus shifted to the high school and took along some of the best and brightest teachers within our district. He wanted me on his campus to design and implement the first course in Psychology offered at the high school level within our Region. I had one stipulation to making this move—that my classroom would be open to all topics initiated by students with his support.

            That first year, I experimented freely with my curriculum utilizing a couple of old textbooks, my own personal library, and the professional journals available through the APA. During the next decade, my principal sent me to training on Critical Thinking, Cooperative Learning, and Multiple Intelligences with David Lazear. My education included Gifted and Talented certification and Advanced Placement training. Within all of that, I also continued refining my skills as an educator for teaching writing, which I integrated into my Psychology curriculum. The course I developed became one our district offered to other campuses throughout Texas with my availability for in-services and workshops. Because few high schools offered Psychology at their schools, I became the main teacher for student teacher training. Over a few years, I trained seven student teachers from Trinity University, UTSA, and Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State University). My reputation within not just our District and Region, but throughout the state was impeccable.

            You can imagine my surprise when one October morning, one of our counselor’s tapped on my classroom door and said I needed to report to the principal’s office immediately, and that she’d be taking my classes for the remainder of the day. My students did their “Oh, Miss, what you do now?” quarry as I grabbed my purse and headed to the administration building. As they knew earlier in the week a very frank and open discussion on masturbation had been brought up by a student, we all figured we knew why I was heading to the office. Mentally, I began my reminder to the principal that he’d agreed that my classroom was open to ALL topics brought up by students.

            When I entered his office, he waved me to a chair as he finished a phone conversation. His expression stern, he leaned forward and stated, “I’ve been running interference with District Office over a parental complaint. That was the parent. Apparently, you are ‘endangering the students and faculty of this campus by opening the door to Satan.’”

            My jaw dropped. “What?”

            “She says you have your classes sit in the dark and open their minds and thoughts which allow Satan to enter. When I told her that her son’s enrolled in an elective, and we’d change him to a different course today, she refused because it’s her duty as a Christian to make certain evil doesn’t get an opening at this school. Her son’s not the only one at risk. So . . . what have you done that would trigger this woman?”

            “I have no idea!” I began. “Last week I did the heart rate activity. Could that be it?”

            This multipronged lesson integrated demonstrating gathering data (heart rates) after students first entered the classroom, walked the stairs 3 or 4 times, took a second pulse reading, and then did a guided relaxation activity with a taking their pulse rate a third time. I’d done it for several years to teach mean, mode and median with the data derived along with giving my high anxiety students fairly fast method of relaxation that they could do easily at home.

            I explained that the final step to lower student pulses involved multiple steps once students stretched out on the floor, sat at desks with arms and feet uncrossed, or lay across a few desks. With lights off and Pachelbel (usually) playing softly, students tensed every muscle in their bodies. Then I’d instruct them to relax and focus on breathing in a steady, even rhythm with me repeating softly, “In through the nose. Out through the mouth.” Next, I’d have them think of a favorite place and “see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. A warm sun, feathery breeze.” After about fifteen minutes, more heart rate data would be collected.    

            He asked a few questions, jotted notes onto a legal pad, and said he’d take care of the problem. By the end of the day, someone from the main office scheduled an appointment for the next day to observe the activity with one of my classes. Obviously, no gateway to Satan opened through this lesson. I don’t know the details for how the parent backed down, but I never heard another complaint.

            Educators today often ask how I survived for thirty years in education. My years really were different than what the classroom teacher faces today. That one rare incident of a parent challenging my instruction occurs constantly now. The support I received from my principal and the district office personnel doesn’t exist for the teacher today. They face out of control parents threating their safety. They combat dick-less men who fear anything that doesn’t teach that white, Christian males are superior to women and minorities. Their censored bookshelves sit bare in some states.

            The war against public education started while I still worked in the classroom, but the conflict grows daily into open hostilities against every teacher who enters a school. I don’t have any answers to my friends currently teaching except to chant “in through the nose, out through the mouth” as they prepare for a long, hard battle.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                              

             

"Greedy Little Men"

"Goblin" by David Chapman

pencil/Photoshop

Greedy Little Men

            Like slithering serpents in the Garden of Eden

                        twisting the world with their lines

                        constricting around our minds

                        sucking us dry of laughter, warmth, desire, love

                        biting with the sharpened fangs of need

                        poisoning the world with their avarice

                                    Greedy Little Men

Copyright 1997 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

The more things change, the more they stay the same. This poem, written in response to the political climate twenty-three years ago, still applies to today's world.

“Coping in Trumpland?”

         I didn’t plan this journey into Trumpland. I didn’t put this nightmare adventure park on my Bucket List of places that I must travel to before I die. Instead, the people around me abducted me. With hands cuffed, feet bound, and mouth duct taped, they forced me to join them.

         I kick and scream and struggle. I resist.

         I don’t want to be here.

        Trumpland feeds fears.

        Trumpland belittles kindness.

         Trumpland strips dignity from its citizens.

         Trumpland operates as a for profit business.

         Trumpland makes up its own rules.

         If I complain, insults thunder over me and drown out my protests.

“Libtard.”

“Stupid Snowflake.”

“Delusional.”

“Communist.”

“Socialist.”

“Mouthy Bitch.”

“Worthless Cunt.”

I respond with phone calls and emails, petitions and protest rallies.

I focus on the one thing I know best—educating those who do not understand. That means I spend hours each day reading, fact checking, and sharing.

I do this because I want to go home.

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman