Tuesday, December 27, 2016


Kyle Schwartz is a third grade teacher at a public school in Denver, CO.  She loves to teach poetry to her students, and her life itself is a poem for them because of the ways she cares for them.  Last year she wanted to get to know them on the first days of school so she gave each of them a yellow Sticky Noteand asked them to complete the sentence I wish my teacher knew…” The answers that came back to her were sometimes humorous, sometimes heartbreaking, and always honest. 

Schwartz shared their responses on Twitter with #iwishmyteacherknew and the Internet was filled with wonder at the simplicity and complexity of their words. Her project helped us remember that our children are more than grades, more than reading levels, and more than numbers on standardized tests.  They are human beings with feet not of iron but of clay, with hearts not of stone but of flesh, and with minds not of computer chips but of hope and imagination. They are not gang bangers to be arrested, illegal aliens to be deported, problems to be solved, diseases to be cured, or trash to be thrown away. They are human beings.

I loved her project and decided to follow in her footsteps.  So at the beginning of this school year I gave my 4th graders a sheet of copy paper with #iwishmyteacherknew across the top and said, “Write and draw something about yourselves that you want me to know about you.”  And my students showed me their humanity.

Here are some of their responseand my comments to them:

I wish my teacher knew that he is the best teacher.
Ha ha. I hope you feel the same way about me on day one hundred eighty of school as on day one!

“I wish my teacher knew that I have to do chores from the time I get home until I go to bed.”
Nice try pal. You still have to do your math homework and read for twenty minutes each day.

“I wish my teacher knew that my Dad he is in jail and he got in jail when I haved 3 years and now I have not seen him in 7 years.”
Sweet child, as a part of your drawing you made a poster of MLK’s “I Have A Dream” speech. How can I help keep your dreams alive while you’re carrying this sadness inside of you? I’ll try my best!

“I wish my teacher knew that I can’t have a fish because a cat gets in the house and eats the fish! That happened when I lived at my old house.  So because of that I can’t have a fish!
You have such an honest voice. Remember when you were sleepy yesterday and I asked you if you went to bed early enough and you answered me that your Mom is sick and you have to wake up through the night to take care of her?  Thanks for being real.

It’s all about being real.

I wonder…

What if I as a teacher finish the statement “I wish my students knew…”?

Let me try.

“I wish my students knew that my favorite Latin phrase is “esse quam videri,” which means “to be, rather than to seem.” To be is more important than to appear to be, the essence is more important than the video, the voice is more important than the auto tune, and you are more important than anyone’s opinion of you. I see youI believe in you. I care about you.

What about you?

If you use Twitter, would you do a favor for me? Mention me @teachandwrite and use #iwishmystudentsknew and finish the sentence “I wish my students knew…” Maybe you are a teacher with students in your classroom. Maybe you are a Mom who sends your children to school each day to be students. Maybe you are a Grandpa who listens to the stories of your grandchildren/students when they get home from school. Maybe you are someone who hopes to say something to our studentswho wake up each morning and go courageously to school to learn to make a better world for themselves and for all of us. 

What would you like to say to them? How would you like to be a poem for them?
I’d like to know.

I think they’d like to know, too. 


Other People's Shoes

Idra Novey is one of my favorite writers. She is a teacher in the Bard Prison Initiative. She is a poet and a translator. Her debut novel, “Ways to Disappear,” is about a 60-something Brazilian author named Beatriz Yagoda who climbs a tree and mysteriously disappears. Yogoda’s young American translator, Emma Nuefeld, comes to Brazil from Pittsburgh and tries to find her. This theme of trying to translate the words of another person, of trying to understand another person, of trying to put yourself into the shoes of another person, is imbued in the work Novey does and in the translations, poems and stories she writes. As Dostoyevsky once said, “Beauty will save the world,” and this kind of work and writing is that kind of beauty.
I have been thinking about what it means for me to try to put myself into the shoes of other people, too. When I see someone who is different from me – a transgender person, a Muslim person, a politically conservative person or an “any kind of different” person – I am tempted to look at that person through eyes of fear. I either fight against or flee from that person. But what if I look at that person through eyes of empathy? What if I put myself in that person’s shoes and walk around? What might happen if I do that?
I carried that question into a story I am writing about a boy during the Cuban Revolution. “What do you do?” you might ask him. “I’m a farmer,” he would answer. But if you asked him, “Who are you?” then he would answer, “I'm a boxer.” He has a gift. He can see through people’s eyes and feel through their hearts when he holds their hands. 

In this passage, he is with his mom after a boxing match:

He reached out his hand, battered and bruised from the fight, and found his mother’s hand to hold. He tried to bend his fingers around hers, but they were too stiff and sore to move. She turned her hand around and opened it so he could rest his palm on hers.
He took a slow, deep breath through his mouth into his tired lungs. He couldn’t breathe in through his nose. His opponent had broken it in the second round with a left hook and it was stuffed with packing gauze. “Oh well,” he thought, “I’m just a farm kid and a boxer. My face doesn’t matter. Only my heart and my hands do.” He breathed out through his swollen, cracked lips and sighed.
Something happened then that had never happened to him before and that would change his life forever afterwards. As he held his Mother’s hand there in the simple room beside the boxing ring, his eyes became her eyes, his ears her ears, and his heart her heart.
He saw the world as she saw it, heard the world as she heard it, and felt the world as she felt it when she was his age, when she was a girl of 10.
She held her Papa’s hand and they walked together by a large window of a hotel restaurant on the main street of the town. Her Papa stepped off of the sidewalk, took his threadbare, tattered hat into his hand, held it to his chest, and bowed his head in silence as the owner of a large sugar plantation passed by and opened the door to the hotel.
The powerful man sat down with his wife and daughter at a table by the glass window looking out onto the street. The girl appeared to be Maria’s age. She was wearing the most beautiful dress Maria had ever seen. She held a silver fork in her right hand, and on the fork was a piece of steak cooked to perfection by the finest chef in the town.
That morning, Maria had eaten a single corn tortilla and a spoonful of refried beans. That would be the same thing she would eat that evening, for her family was in the time between the harvest of the previous year and the harvest of the present year, and her already poor family was now desperately poor and hungry.
For a moment, the girl’s eyes behind the glass met her eyes, but the girl quickly looked away. Maria felt the pain of her hunger. It was deep and aching in her empty stomach and moved out as weakness into her arms and legs, moved out as despair into her mind and heart. A lump formed in her throat.
She closed her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek and onto the dust and dirt of the sidewalk.
Tomás, her son holding her hand, felt that pain of her hunger, felt the emptiness so deeply in his own stomach and heart that a tear formed in his own eye and rolled down his cheek and onto the dust and dirt of the floor of their dark, quiet room.
He knew then so clearly why his Mother worked the fields in bare feet, why she wore the same dress day after day and year after year. He knew why she took so little of the food she prepared for them. She did these things because she never wanted him to be hungry as she had been hungry then.
In that moment he realized how much his Mother loved him and how much he loved her.
He realized his Mother was beautiful.

What kind of beauty could we see, what kind of beauty could we create, if we looked at the world with empathy, if we walked around in each other’s shoes, if we held one another’s hands?
Let’s try.

Monday, December 26, 2016

My Heart Is An Immigrant

"It's a hard time to be human. We know too much and too little." - Ellen Bass, The World Has Need Of You
My heart is an immigrant.
It loves its home.
Snow like a blanket in winter,
flowers on the mountain in spring,
salt in the sea in summer,
leaves on the trees in fall,
are life for my heart.
Its memories are here.
Its family is here.
Its home is here.
Yet one too many guns have been pointed at it at checkpoints in the street.
One too many clouds have disappointed it by banking up on the horizon but not bringing rain.
One too many childrens coughs have broken it when there was no medicine to give.
So my heart is tired,
and tempest-tost.
It loves its home,
But it is time for it to go.
It pulls on its brown, tattered coat,
its black, holey shoes,
and its red, wool scarf.
With tears in its eyes
it says, "Goodbye," to its home.
It picks up its battered suitcase,
the one with tape around its ends,
lest it break open and spill out
my fathers favorite shirt,
a love letter,
and a picture of my children,
all I have in the world,
onto the ground.
It takes its first step toward a new world.
Now it sits silently
back to back
knee to knee
with poor women
and little children
who also have immigrant hearts.
It is deep in the hull of a ship
tossing in a storm on the sea.
It is high on the roof of a train 
winding down a long, steep hill.
It is walking barefoot on a dusty road.
With each step it whispers, "Thank you."
With each mile it longs to hear, "I care."
With each thousandth mile it hopes for kindness.
My heart,
an immigrant
- Trevor Scott Barton, Ordinary Time, 2016

Small Things

"These tomatoes are like your Grandpa," said the old woman with weathered skin, earthy eyes, and raspy voice. "Small in stature, big in heart." He was small in stature. I used to sit in the wooden slat backed swing under the ancient oak tree between his house and the garden and watch him work his way down a row of tomatoes. When he reached the far end of the row I thought to myself, "He looks so small and vulnerable against the South Carolina clay and the cloudless sky." But then as he worked his way back up the next row he grew bigger and bigger until he was standing beside me, the smell of two cycle tractor oil on his clothes, sweat dripping off of his nose, a gallon bucket filled with red ripe tomatoes in his hands, and a big bright smile filled with wonder and love on his face. He was big in heart.

It is because of my Grandpa that I search for wonder in small things.

One early spring day, I had this conversation with my Grandpa over the telephone. He called me.

- Hello?

- Hey Trev. How you doin'? Listen, a friend of mine called and wants to give us some extra tomato plants that he doesn't have room for in his garden. So I told him we would take them.

- Oh yeah? That's kind. How many is he gonna give us?

You need to know that the week before this phone call my Grandpa and I had planted 500 tomato plants in the garden. We were already going to have enough fruit to put a tomato on every plate of every person in Greenville County. But I figured a few more plants would be okay. Boy, was my figuring off.

- 250.

- 250? Did you just say 200 plus 50 extra tomato plants?

- Yep! There is kindness in the world.

I could see his grin through the phone line.

- Kindness in the world?! Well let me tell you, if we plant 250 more tomato plants in the garden, there's gonna be more than kindness in the world. There's gonna be tomatoes! And 'lots and 'lots of them!

- Yep.

- Listen, if we plant 750 tomato plants and each one produced 40 pounds of tomatoes as they're supposed to do, we'll have 30,000 pounds of tomatoes. That's 15 tons of tomatoes! What are we gonna do with that many tomatoes?!

We often began our conversations with the word 'listen.' It was our word. When I spoke to him, my words were the most important words in the world. And when he spoke to me, his words were the most important words in the world. We never spoke past each other, only with each other.We never formulated what we were going to say next when the other was speaking. We listened to each other. Really listened, as listening should be done.

- Well, we're gonna have to buy 'lots of Bunny Bread and 'lots of Duke Mayonnaise because we're gonna have to eat 'lots of tomato sandwiches.

I could see the twinkle of his sky blue eyes through the phone line, too.

Late in the spring, when all 750 tomato plants were planted, and the garden took on a light shade of green because of all of the green tomatoes growing on the vines, and it gave out a soft glow in certain corners because some of those green tomatoes were ripening to red, my Grandpa and I walked down and up the rows to check our handiwork.

- Hey, you know it's the Lord's handiwork, don't you? All we have to give is our work. We didn't make the soil, and we didn't make the rain, and we didn't make the sunlight. So don't forget, okay? This is the Lord's handiwork.

For my Grandpa, working in the garden was an act of prayer. I can still see him kneeling in the dirt, his back bent, his face and hands close to the tomatoes, his breath on the plants, and his sweat on the ground. His work was prayer. His prayer was work. Prayer seems like such a small thing in our world. Yet Gustavo Gutierrez, the liberation theologian, reminds us that prayer is the first act in our life with God, that listening to God and to the world is the first thing we do, and that our work in the world that God wants us to do is the second act. My Grandpa didn't know of Gustavo Gutierrez and hadn't studied liberation theology, but as a farmer he understood God with the understanding of the poor, that we live in the hope that as we give our feet, our hands, and our hearts to our work and to the world, God will create something good out of it, even when the work and the world are mean and hard.

You do your handiwork - plow the ground, plant the seeds in containers and put them in a greenhouse, place the 750 plants into the soil, irrigate the garden, stake the plants, protect the plants from insects and disease, hoe the weeds, tend the fruit - and remember you are a co-worker with God.

Our handiwork is the Lord's handiwork, and the Lord's handiwork is our handiwork. This is what he wanted to teach me.

Early in summer, when more and more tomatoes were changing from shades of green to shades of red, we set out first thing one morning to check on the ripening fruit. When you are a farmer, there is a thankfulness deep inside of you when the growing is almost done and the harvesting is about to begin. You yourself are in the crop, and the crop is in you.

I came across a tomato that was developing a dark, soft spot on it's skin. This tomato was much smaller than the other tomatoes on the vine. It was at the bottom of the vine and very nearly touched the ground.

- I'm gonna pick this one and throw it out. It has the blight on it.

- No, don't pick it. Listen, I want to teach you something about the world. Follow me.

I followed him. We walked out of the garden and into the work shed at the back of the yard. That place was a place of wonder to me. Inside of it were mason jars filled with nuts, bolts, screws and nails. There were all sorts and varieties of tools hanging on the walls. And at the center of it all were the things I will always remember him by - Duck Tape, baling wire, WD 40 and aloe. Not only could these things fix the stalled engine of a tractor, a sputtering faucet in a sink, or a dangling clothes line on a pole, but they could also create a basketball rim (he wove one out of baling wire and hung it above the door of the shed for me), assuage arthritic knees (he used to spray WD 40 on his knees in the early morning to help him get around), and cure the common cold (he would drop a mixture of aloe and water into my nose to sooth my scratchy throat). If you are looking for a miracle, find a farmer with those things and you will find one.

- Hey, that tomato is small, broken and at the bottom. But you know what? It could grow into something beautiful if we care for it. Who knows, it might become the best tomato we've ever grown. So let's be the ones who don't throw it out. Let's be the ones who take it in. Let's be the ones who care.

He carefully cut out a square and two rectangles from some old plastic pieces he stored in the corner of the building. He bound them together with some Duck Tape. He sprayed the edges with WD 40. We made our way back to the garden and to the small, broken lowly tomato.

He tenderly held the tomato in his calloused hands and ever so gently spread aloe over the blighted part.

He skillfully attached the hand made shelter around the tomato with baling wire.

- This will protect it from the heat of the sun and keep it off of the ground. This will give it a chance.

I learned something about the world that day. The small, the broken and the lowly have intrinsic worth and beauty and great potential to make the world a more human place for all of us. We can throw them away. Or we can care for them. And that kind of care could mend a broken world.

For the tomato.

For the small things.

Monday, June 20, 2016

A flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk

We walked on the concrete sidewalk
I was looking
to the side of the path,
teaching you the life cycle of a butterfly,
and photosynthesis,
because I wanted you to know
the way the world works.
You were running
"Stop! Look!" I said.

"Listen!" you answered as you slowed and stopped beside
a flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk.

I stood amazed at the little flower
and you.

I found
a flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk,
and I knew
the amazing little flower
was you.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

Listening to Faces

On my best days, I am quiet. "You have two ears and one mouth," said my Grandpa one day as we walked together down a row of tomatoes, "So you should listen twice as much as you speak. You might learn something if you listen." I looked into his watery blue eyes, watery with memories from his childhood on a dairy farm and service in World War II and work in heating and air conditioning, watery with tenderness from raising five children and caring for my Grandma and tending gardens, and I grinned at him with a twinkle in my own watery blue eyes. I didn't say a word. I was quiet. I was listening.

One evening, I was sitting on a bench on Main Street reading my worn copy of Cry The Beloved Country, marveling at the way Alan Paton listened to life, writing in my notebook, wondering at the life around me, when I looked up and saw an old man shuffling by. He wore a tattered, holey raincoat, a baggy pair of pants splattered with mud from a thunderstorm from earlier in the week, and a pair of leather shoes with the sides split out of them revealing sockless, bruised feet that were battered by hot, hard streets. I watched him quietly, without speaking, only listening as he passed by.

I was listening to something without words, because he wasn't speaking to me or to anyone around him. Or was he? "You should listen twice as much as you speak," I remembered.

"Maybe," I thought, "Just maybe that's because the most important things in life are quiet and speak to us twice as much without words as with words." I listened in a way I had never listened before. I listened to the old man's face.

Yes, I listened to the old man's face. I listened to each wrinkle along his forehead and around his eyes. "What made that wrinkle?" I asked myself. "Was it laughter...or tears? Is it natural old age...or deep suffering? Was it carefree living...or a heavy, heavy heart?" I listened to the sadness in his watery blue eyes. "Why are you looking down as you shuffle by?" I asked myself. "Are you holding back tears? What have you seen with those eyes?" And I listened to his dirty, unshaven cheeks. "Do you have anyone to take care of you?" I thought. "Are you lonely...are you alone?"

Listening to faces is hard work and has to be developed slowly over time. We live in a world that teaches us to speak twice as much as we listen, or to speak without listening at all. Yet, over time, listening to faces will grow the most important thing we can have in our hearts - deep empathy for each person we encounter every day. And, over time, listening to faces will grow the most important thing we can have in our hands and feet and, indeed, our words - simple kindness that guides us to put our arms around the shoulder of a shuffling old man and say, "Would you like to sit down and have coffee with me? Would you like to be my friend?"

I found a friend because I listened to his face.

As a public school teacher, I work hard to listen to the faces of my students. Just this week I was talking with Geraldine about a wonderful book she is reading, Ophelia and the Marvelous Boy by Karen Foxlee. "Oh Mr. Barton," she said with a giggle, "I'm just like Ophelia in the story because she's a curious kind of kid and I'm a curious kind of kid because I want to know everything about everything." Then she became serious. "But she's a nervous kind of kid, too, because she's had a hard life and I've kind of had a hard life, too."  I looked into her earthy brown eyes and thought about the ground and soil from which she came, for she came here from the farms and fields of Mexico with her family. For the first time I noticed the faintest of dark circles around her eyes, the slightest of a downward turn at the corners of her mouth, and a hint of tiredness and sadness that should not often be on a ten-year-olds face.

"Geraldine," I asked, "What's your life like?" And she told me her story. "I share a room with my Mom, my Aunt, my sister, and my two younger cousins," she began, "And my family works really hard."

As she talked with me about the book and about her life, a tiny tear appeared in the corner of her eye. I wondered if it came from giggles or from sadness. I caught the tear in my hand as it rolled off of her cheek.

"See how I caught your teardrop?" I asked. "As your teacher, I'm here to catch your happiness and your sadness, Geraldine. I'm here to help you learn everything about everything so you can be anything you want to be. I am here."

I was there because I listened to her face.

What are the stories of the people around us? What are their faces saying? With our two ears, and with the ears of our hearts, let's listen.

Saturday, February 20, 2016


The sun rose on the horizon, half way over the land, half way under the land, reddening the island the color of revolution. Tomás laid on his side and looked out the single window of the gardener's hut. He felt Gabby's body against his, her chest on his back, her leg over his hip, her arm around his shoulder, holding him, holding him. "Gabby's body isn't against mine," he realized in the silence, "Her body is with my body, her hands are with my hands, her feet with my feet, her heart with my heart, her life with my life. She is my friend. I am not alone, not alone."

Tomás feared loneliness with a fear both ever present and absolute, a fear he sometimes stood against nose to nose and fought against with bare knuckles and raging heart, yet a fear he sometimes fled unequivocally with weeping eyes and pounding heart, a fear that grew out of the dry, broken ground of his parents deaths, deaths he could neither fathom nor give voice to because one moment they were there with him, with him, holding his hand, running their fingers through his hair as he drifted off to sleep, holding him in their arms, and the next moment they were gone, crushed by the landlord and the land until they disappeared into dust and memory, a bitter root of loneliness that grew on a plant of fear.

Once, the priest had told him, "Do not fear loneliness, Tomás. You are never alone. God promises that. God is with you. You are never alone."

Tomás loved the old priest and respected his life and work. He didn't have much use for his metaphysics, though. There was much more comfort in the priest's friendship and Gabby's presence than in words and ideas about God.

"Words and ideas, ideas and words," thought Tomás. "They are worth so little...yet are so much of my own life." They were. He remembered his childhood, when he was a boy in his first years of primary school. His mother held his tiny hand and led him over the threshold of the door of their small house toward his first day of school. He stopped suddenly, grabbed the door frame and exclaimed, "I'm only going to go to school so I can learn now to write!"

After he learned to write, he wrote and thought and thought and wrote. His Mother, on the way to the garden to pick fruits and vegetables from the plants and vines and trees of the land, would find him beneath the apple tree beside the fence of the garden, writing, writing, his bony shoulders hunched over his notebook as if he were a human question mark, his long fingers gripped around his pencil as if he were a human exclamation mark, writing, writing the things that he saw and heard and smelled and tasted and thought and felt. His Father, on the way back from the sugar cane fields, would find him on top of the giant rock in their yard, thinking, thinking, his eyes to the sky as if he were seeing something others barely missed seeing, his ears to the ground as if he were hearing something others barely missed hearing.

Both his Mother and his Father saw that in these moments of writing and thinking, a soft light encircled his body, the mark of a saint, a faint halo that lost his parents in wonder, for, even though they did not believe in the god of the church, they did  look for evidence of god around them, hoping against hope that god was real, was with them, would help them. "Perhaps god will be in the words of our son," they thought as they drifted off to sleep each night, worn down from the hard work of planting, gathering, tending, and hoping, holding each other with calloused hands in stick thin arms with full hearts hoping, hoping.

Sometimes as he wrote, and the light glowed around him at his bare work desk, he used words to fight the loneliness - the loneliness of the farmers, giving their hearts, souls, minds, and bodies to the land day after day, year after year, until they became the dust from which they were made; the loneliness of the workers, giving their hearts, souls, minds, and bodies to the factories, day after day, year after year, until they became gears and grease themselves; and the loneliness of the servants, giving their hearts, souls, minds, and bodies to their patróns day after day, year after year, until they became the rags and the basins from which they served - all working, the farmers, the workers, and the servants, for subsistence, enough food to stay alive, barely; for shelter, enough wood and tin to stay alive, barely; and for song, enough music to stay alive, barely, for nothing and yet for everything.

Sometimes he used words to flee the loneliness - his own loneliness, his fear of losing Gabby, his fear of losing the priest, his fear of losing the doctor, so he used words as colors and his pen as a brush and painted their human faces, in hope that these faces would live beyond his years, in faith that these faces would be with him, be with him, always, always, and as he painted these pictures he wept, a weeping from a place deep within him, a place of which the old priest had spoken, "See with the eyes of your heart," he had pleaded, "For it is then, only then, that you will see to build a new humanity, to build a new world," and he painted Gabby, her brown eyes filled with life and kindness, her black hair hanging down to her shoulders, her dark skin in nakedness beautiful, beautiful, her hands and feet calloused and compassionate, her smile for him, for him; and he painted the priest, his tattered clothes from so much giving, his tarnished crucifix, the first gift he was given after his ordination, his reminder that Christ is in each and every person he sees each and every day, his hunched shoulders from so much praying, his face, his face so full of love, love; and he painted the doctor, the sparkle in his clear, blue eyes, the deep wrinkles of concern on his forehead, the broken hands that heal, heal...and he turned to Gabby in the morning light and held her closely to him, held her, held her and whispered, "I love you," and the loneliness went away, for a while.

Monday, February 15, 2016





3 billion

miles away from Earth

a small, cold forgotten planet

that a group decided is no longer a planet

"Pluto is not a planet because of its size and location in space," they agreed

When I was a little boy at my desk in my classroom, Pluto was my favorite planet because it was so small and far, far away

Pluto had no gravity, no pull on the Earth, but it had gravity on my heart

I loved Pluto, felt it in the deep space of my heart

New Horizons just journeyed there

found it had a heart





Sunday, February 14, 2016

Particles of Light

Did you know that one particle of light (called a photon for those of you who aren't science nerds like me) can be in one place and another particle of light can be in another place and yet they can be so intimately linked that if you changed one then it would affect the other? It's true! Elizabeth Landau, who works for NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory, wrote about it in an article titled "Particles in Love: Quantum Mechanics Explored in New Study." That article works through entanglement, an idea published by John Bell in 1964 that said that even though information cannot travel faster than the speed of light (Albert Einstein proved this), particles can still affect each other when they are far apart.

Here is a cartoon from NASA/JPL-Caltech that explains entanglement.

Even though there are two photons, they behave as if they are one. What you do to one affects the other, even if they are separated in space and time.

In 2015, three separate studies were published on entanglement, and all three studies were consistent with Bell's idea. Those studies showed that any model of the world that contains variables that are hidden (as the world of the tiniest things does within the branch of physics called quantum mechanics) "must also allow for entangled particles to influence one another at a distance," said Francesco Marsili of NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory who collaborated with colleagues on a paper published in the journal Physical Review Letters titled "Strong Loophole - Free Test of Local Realism."

Bell's idea makes me wonder - are we as human beings like entangled photons?

When I was a boy, I walked down the newly plowed row with my grandpa, feeling the warm, red clay on the soles of my bare feet, listening to his stories. I held a tomato plant in my hands, the rich, black potting soil falling off of the small, vulnerable roots, as he knelt and dug a place for it in the garden. Hey, he said, here's something my daddy told me when I was little. God gave you two ears and one mouth because He wants you to listen twice as much as you speak. If you do that, you'll learn something. If you don't, you won't.’”

I especially remember his stories about his childhood on the family dairy farm in Greenville, S.C. in the 1920s. I liked to hear stories about the black folks who came and worked with him and his family. I heard hard work in his voice and saw struggle in his face when he talked about those times.

He was a son of the South Carolina soil, a soil that had produced slavery and Jim Crow. His stories reflected his philosophical shift from the idea of white supremacy to the idea of equality. He described the black folks hed grown up with in words both simple and stark.

 I guess I looked around our farm and saw the black folks as tools, he told me once. "But there was a teenager, about my age, who worked on our place. His name was Billy, and he helped me with my work."

"One day," he continued, "We were in the barn together, cleaning up the milking area, when he cut his hand on a piece of metal. Daddy wrapped it up in a rag soaked in kerosene, as was the remedy for most farm accidents at that time, and asked me to drive him home. As we headed toward the black folks part of our town, I thought to myself, Billy must get up very early in the morning, earlier than me, to make it to our house on time. As we drove up to his house, which was what we called a shack, I thought, I wonder if Billy can stay warm in there. As I saw him holding his injured hand and watched his momma hold him up and lead him up the creaking steps and through the rickety door, well, it seemed to be one of the first times I knew that black folks had hands and feet and needs just like me. They weren't tools. They were people.

In that moment, my Grandpa learned that we as human beings cannot be separate and equal. As a matter of fact, we cannot really be separate. What happens to one person affects another - no matter what separates us. We are like photons. Good begets good. Bad begets bad. If we're good to each other then we'll be like photons in another way, too. We'll be particles of light.