A Piece of the Acropolis

When I was a teacher, I’d often have parents or students reach out to me for the work that they would need to make up when they went on a family vacation during school. A lot of the time, these were once in a lifetime types of vacation. Other times, it was just what the family did. While it ideal for students to be in class every day, it is also important for them to experience the world, even if it is going to Disneyland for the third time that year.

I used to give them a list of things to do when I was a younger teacher. After a bit, I realized that 95% of the time they didn’t get done or, if they were done, they were done poorly. I also realized that, if they were worried about getting work done, they weren’t able to fully experience the life and adventure (hopefully good) that was going on around them.

I started telling them (in a joking way) that my homework was to bring me something from their trip that didn’t cost anything, like a stick or a rock or a cool picture that they took while they were there. We would figure out what they needed to do when they came back. I was lucky to teach English, so most of my curriculum in high school was review and reteach the skills they already had with more difficult texts, especially when I had senior classes. If I was teaching another subject, I might not have been able to do this. You miss a week of math and you’ve missed instruction on variable and, when you return, math has turned into a strange, alien language. You miss a week of science and you don’t know that the earth is round. That type of thing.

A few students would do my “homework” and bring me a rock or show me a picture. It gave the student and I a cool way to connect. It also gave them practice “presenting” to an authority figure because I’d have them tell me why they chose what they chose to bring (ooooh! citing evidence! explaining the evidence! ooooh!). It was fun and I never expected anything from them.

One student, however, did something that broke my brain. He was a senior in my IB English class. If you don’t know anything about IB, it is an intense program that focuses on critical thinking, global awareness, and academic curiosity. It is amazing and also incredibly stressful. This young man was a math/science guy; he didn’t really like my class. He was never rude about it– in fact, he worked hard and did well. It wasn’t me that he disliked, just the subject matter.

His family was going on a trip to Europe, visiting a variety of places and doing touristy things. When he asked me for his work for the week, I laughed and gave him my “homework” assignment. I emphasized to him, though, that he should try to relax and enjoy the world as much as possible. It was at a point in the year where I was truly worried about my IB students. They had so many hardcore assignments due. They were so stressed.

When he came back, he walked up to me and gave me a stick. A stick! I laughed and thanked him for it. I had never had anyone bring me a stick. It was a cool looking stick. I will add a picture if I can remember where I put it. I know I have it somewhere. The stick was a strange and cool surprise. The best souvenir, though, is the story of how he got it.

He and his family were waiting to get into the Acropolis in Greece. He saw this stick behind a fenced in area (it may have just been rails and not a full on fence). When he saw it, he said that he knew that he had to get it for me because it was such a cool stick. This child (young man, actually– he was 17 at the time) climbed through or over or around the fence, went into an area that he wasn’t supposed to, and grabbed this stick for me. I don’t know if there were people around or if it was isolated; I was a little bit afraid to ask.

This is not a young person known for taking risks like this (at least as far as I knew). He was quiet and very much a rule follower in class. He was definitely not the one who I thought would risk getting in trouble in order to get a cool stick. To be honest, I really didn’t think that I was one of the teachers that he really connected with. I loved the heck out of him as a human being, though.

Greece was not the last stop on their trip, so he wrapped it up and put it somewhere safe in his suitcase. This stick has traveled more of the world than I have.

The best thing about it is that he brought it to me and told his story on a day when I was ready to give everything up. My last years of being a teacher were so difficult for me. I was starting to feel like I wasn’t helping anyone, that I was fighting a losing battle, that I couldn’t reach students anymore. I was able to go forward for a bit more.

Sometimes I really miss teaching. I miss learning about students and their lives. I miss watching a student “get” it. Most of all, I miss those days when we would get to laughing so hard that I would start crying and couldn’t breathe. I haven’t found a place where I can do that yet.

Maybe I will use this blog to tell those stories– the ones that made me laugh and the ones that made me cry. I’m going to need to think about that.

A picture of a small stick with two prongs at the end. The text says "My Piece of the Acropolis."

Creative Challenge for the Creatively Blocked

Context

A few months ago, my niece and I were talking about how we felt creatively blocked. The inspiration was sort of there, but the will to create art was blocked. We couldn’t get anything out. We decided to create a group on Discord (OMG I KNOW! I’m so tech savvy) and set up a loose timeline with prompts that would hopefully help us do some creating.

The first topic was love letters. We had a couple of weeks to work on our art and then we would share it with each other. I had the first three lines figured out, but the rest wouldn’t come. I was thinking I would write it about reading or writing or something.

Then it hit me. I could write it about my husband Jason. He’s kind of amazing, but I don’t typically write about people (especially not romantic, sappy stuff, which I knew it would turn out to be). My brain liked this idea and started running with it.

a "selfie" of a man on the left and a woman on the right, posing at a wedding
Jason and I at my nephew’s wedding

When I write poetry, I generally do it by hand. I don’t know why it flows better that way, but it does. It started out as poetry and then started turning into an actual letter to him.

I almost gave up. I couldn’t make the poetry come out.

Then, I just decided to write the letter and make it into poetry later. This is what I ended up with. Hope you enjoy it!


Love Letter

for Jason

I never meant to fall in love,
but the shape of your letters
embraced me. The words
you create, though few,
helped untwist the spell
I was under. They teased
at the knots that kept me
in smallness,
in insignificance.

I was your angel (and sometimes
your angle— acute, of course).
I have seen your struggle
to arrange the letters
into precise words,
and then
to put those words
into the perfect order
that fit what you mean.

Words have always been hard
for you, but you try,
and try, and try,
and you don’t give up,
even when you feel
you will never get it right.

I know it would be easier
for you to build me something
that shows me how much
you love me.

What I’ve never told you
is that the way
you persevere
has built me a safe world.

Your words remind me
that I am divine
that I am worthy
that I am significant
and loved,
so very loved.

Elizabeth Francois 2026

Moving On

Content Warning: Implied Sexual Assault

Moving On

I sit on a stool in the D Bar J,
sucking on a $2.00 soda, the smell
of stale beer drifting through
the door that separates me
from the cottonwood mist outside. I hear
the pool balls smack, Chapin’s
maudlin in syncopation to my pulse. Smoke
from a cigar catches my refrain,
carries it to the elk head’s seven point
rack that plays cat-in-the-cradle with strands
of dreams abandoned. The mirror’s
gold etchings frame me; I see clutching
hands, sour-milk smile. I can feel
his smooth cheek, hot breath, dirty nails
streaking my face, his reeking weight. I want
to grasp a pool cue between my thighs
and rip out what he left behind, to probe
until I find the part of me that laughed
at jokes nobody else understood. But instead
I close my eyes, open my diamond smile, slip
my lips to that shape, and say Yes
to the next bearded cowboy that asks.

© Elizabeth Francois 2025


The Story of the Poem

This summer, I had the opportunity to go back to where I grew up in Colorado. I have so many memories (and feelings) about where I grew up, so revisiting the places where I experienced so much sadness and joy was really hard. I will probably write a post about that one of these days. Today is not that day, though.

This was a poem that I wrote when I was in college in my creative writing classes that I recently pulled out of my pile of things. I did a little bit of reworking it, with some help with from my brother and sister-in-law. I am pretty proud of how it turned out. This poem is dark and not based on a single experience that I had. It is mostly fictional, but the elements of reality are definitely there.

I am not sure what the prompt was for this poem, but I based it off of a little cafe on the Grand Mesa in Colorado called the D Bar J Cafe. It was one of the only restaurants in the area and, on very very special occasions, my dad would take us there to eat. When we went back to visit last summer, the cafe was still there, but it had a different name.

Here is a picture of the bar, looking pretty much like I remember it looking. I know the picture is crooked, but it is what it is.

A well-stocked bar with various bottles of liquor displayed on shelves, a clock on the wall, and a colorful countertop made from bottle caps.

Eleven Years, but Who’s Counting?

I can’t believe that it has been almost 11 years since my last post. So much has happened since then. The world is a vastly different place now. I haven’t gone back and looked at my previous posts because, honestly, I am afraid to. Not because of what I wrote, but because it might make me yearn for the times when I didn’t want to cry every time I found out what was going on in the world.

My child was only 8 years old back then. Now, they are living on their own and going to college. They are studying theater and ASL and discovering how hard things can be when you only work part time and go to school full time. I am so very proud of them.

Part of me wonders why I want to try this again, especially in the age of AI. I know that whatever I write will be scraped and monetized. Any images that I post will be utilized for input to create media. I wanted to get back to writing poetry and maybe publishing it here. If I do that, I run the risk of it being stolen. Then there is another part of me that thinks, screw it. It’s not like anything matters right now anyway.

Don’t worry. I’m fine. Really. I am. Just a little bit of existential dread poking through.

And maybe that is why I am going to start posting again. I need to do something to fight that feeling. I need to be putting some more art into the world, even if the only “person” who reads it is an AI scrubber. I have to share what I love, what makes me happy, what makes me sad, and all that.

Here’s to an attempt to make some meaning, to find some connection, to bring joy to others, and (hopefully) to recover some of the hope that I used to have.

Blog Reading

I’ve been remiss in reading the blogs that I follow. Things have been so crazy that I haven’t had a chance to visit my reader and see what my favorite bloggers wrote. Last week, I went through and set it so that  I receive updates whenever something new is posted.

I didn’t get any emails. Did you know that there is a box that, if you click it, blocks all emails, even emails that you’ve requested?

I do now.

I can’t wait to read what you’re writing, my wonderful bloggers. I’m sorry I was lost for a while.