I find myself slipping in my accent sometimes. This has happened since I was a child. We have moved so many times, and I have always been identified by the where of my previous place. Until it slowly leaked away and bled into the new place, just in time for the shove off to the next new place.

“Oh, you’re from that other place. Don’t you sound funny?” Yes. I suppose.

But now, I like my voice. I like that people can’t quite place me. Because I can’t quite place me. I have places that I claim, to be sure. Places I feel I belong to, I yearn for, I remember in a certain way. The places in my mind. And sometimes here. All those places shape my voice, and sometimes I feel it slipping. Someone will catch it and say “oh, didn’t you just sound like one of us there. Isn’t that funny?” No. Not really. Don’t get me wrong. I like your voices. I like your voices on you. But they are not my voice. I don’t want to lose my voice again. It’s all I have left of my home.

Which is funny. For, I am not sure where that is. Is it where I was born, where I’ve lived, where my family hails from, Mum’s side or Dad’s? Is it where I felt most comfortable, yet left anyway,  or is it here, where I live?

I believe this is a universal “need to know.” It is one of the things I prize highly about the school where I teach. We try very hard to make everyone feel like they belong. And I do mean “we.” The admin, teachers, parents, staff, and students alike. We don’t always hit our mark, and we get taken off track when discussing the finer points of what and who we are, but we do a pretty great overall job of encouraging belonging. And at what better time to share this sense of belonging, then during the developmental age of identity: the teenage years.

I think back now to myself as a teenager. Moved by the Navy every 2-4 years. Sometimes by plane and sometimes by family van. I remember vividly being in the back of the van, laying across the seat, listening to music and watching the clouds go by out the back window. Alternatively, sitting next to Dad in the passenger seat while, Mum and my brother slept behind us. A song would come on the radio and I’d say, “ooh I love this song, turn it up.” And, Dad would until there was no more “up” to turn to, or someone would yell to turn it down. I also remember finding a swing set near the house of a new neighborhood, putting on my walkman and just listening and swinging into the night. Music and motion. Maybe that’s it, maybe that’s home.

So this week I am trying out a “Cento,” and when the Summer is done, I look forward to seeing what my students make of it. A cento is poem that takes the lines from other poems and creates a new poem out of those lines. It can also be a  “Pastiche,” according to Turco’s Book of Forms, where the poet writes in the style of said poets. It can be from one single author’s poems or multiple authors. I have chosen to take and mix lines from one single author. Many nights and journeys I spent listening to this author. And I tell you still; nothing beats a journey to nowhere with the music up and singing out loud to make me feel home. Perhaps, music, singing, and voice are intricately tied up with this notion of belonging.

Anyway, here is my cento created from Peter Gabriel’s songs. This was a fun one!
Peter and Me

I don’t really hate you.
The tension will not ease
digging in the dirt.

I don’t care what you do,
I hear my voice again
like a sledgehammer
shouting out rude names.

We were made for each other,
seeing those kisses in dim lit bars.
Don’t give up –

Me and you.
Slipping the clippers
Through the telephone wire.
I got no papers show identification.
I wanna be somebody!
Hug my knees; scratch my back,
Shock the monkey.

You were like that too.
Hans plays with Lottie;
Lottie plays with Jane.
In your Daddy’s arms again.

If you don’t get even
you learn to take
the family
and the fishing net.
To find the places we got hurt.

And, I will take you.

Your Turn!

Right so, this one is a much looser form.  Find your muse or muses and play with their words and styles.