20160714 (fail)

Perhaps the biggest drug dealers are Frito-Lay, et alii.

When I subbed briefly (five years)

In the Cleveland Municipal School

District as it was then know, not 

Metropolitan as it would be upgraded,

I tried to engage the middle-scholars

In discussions about two things very

Much currently in the news in 2001

Before the events of September 11:

Findings of rampant childhood 

Obesity and horrendous waste

Of food in almost every aspect of

Our society. The problems could 

Be studied very easily within 

Their school itself. I tried to get 

Them to think of indices—gym

And cafeteria observations. That

I was an unskilled child leader

Became painfully obvious. I got

Nowhere. Science for them was

Rockets and computers, not pads

Of paper and pencils, chemical

Transformations not tedious and

Rigorous observations. Way too 

Much work on the front end; way

Too little payoff on the other. It

Confirmed the didactic truism one

Must begin with where they are

Not where you want them to be.

Perhaps there were other factors:

Nobody wanted to be identified 

Among their friends as “this or that

Degree of  overweight,” nor were

They willing to give up part of 

Their lunch period to record 

What kinds and how much food

Was scraped off trays or dumped

Into the waste cans by whom 

(if it appeared there were regular

"Wasters.” “It's too dumb,” they 

Agreed to a child, “just really

Dumb, Mr. M.” Despite my name

Being relatively simple, they refused

To pronounce it. Now, years later 

Those same topics are still very 

Much with us. My own circumstance

Of admitting that my inner child

Weighs something close to sixty-

Five pounds also bears out how

Knowing about a problem is not

Coincident with doing anything

About it. I am to this day at least

As bad as my students were then.

Just as I am about to purchase

Pseudo=food to assuage my need

For sweet or savory my glance

Will fall on someone morbidly

Obese (I should talk, I am damn 

Close to the limit)—cellulite

Thighs, broad beams, gut 

Ponderously hanging over 

A belt, those jiggling bowls

Of extra flesh that dangle on

The underside of biceps, triple

Chins, whatever violates the 

Dream image of Americans--

Thin but robust, muscular but

Not dense, and I hesitate, maybe

Even stop in my steps toward 

The snack aisle. Occasionally I

Don’t sin against my diet now

That at least three physicians

Are tracking it. The failure though

Is so regular I don’t even look

Around anymore to see if any 

Of my former students are 

Watching.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016