My students have found my blog. I feel my literary world and professional world obliterate each other and the line that existed forever gone. These perfect bubbles I have lived in are destroyed as the worry of parental complaints and protest. As a teacher you feel the weight of responsibility for those you teach as if they belong to you. My literary works are personal and not gossip. Will they recognize that in their tabula rasa state? some will while others will not and I am forced to confront a truth. My writing is public and I have chosen this stage. I must write with pride as I come out of the wings and stand center stage. I will not be silenced.
His suitcase a rainbow interior as he inspected his clothes with a fastidiousness reserved for the Mona Lisa.
Mom tried to hide his flaws with stories of bravado
I saw a vain, flirtatious and angry man
Her stories never compensated for the truth
I have watched commercials of starving children and wished for a more beautiful face
I have watched men beheaded and wanted new shoes
I can’t rectify the images I see with the mundane of my life
I hear of abused children and go on a new diet
My heart breaks with every image until I am splitting apart
The cracks fractured like a mosaic
I split into pieces with every horror-filled story
My empathy runs like a cut artery showering the room red
It leaves me washed on the shore exhausted from the swim
I watch a school shooting and try to find the confidence to dwell in this skin
How do I navigate this world of horror and beauty
How do I find joy without being swallowed by the cracks
I watched her as she looked down and kept staring at her toe. She was talking herself into something, and suddenly she went to the woman so cleanly pressed and asked if she would buy the various items of junk in her hands, a curling iron, an old jewelry box, a wrench, and a screwdriver. I recognized the look on the woman’s face instantly, it was pure disgust at being confronted with poverty first hand. She firmly said no with a quick I am sorry and clenched smile. The poor woman said she needed the money for her daughter’s medicine. It was then that I noticed the rusted out car with a broken window. A little girl sat watching. Poverty destroys our worth. It devalues as human beings. Little girl, you don’t even deserve to get better. That little girl was me.
I have been considering what should be written on my urn. I don’t want a boring, ugly urn but a fabulous vase with something mildly witty written on it. Ideas so far are:
“She was bound to end up here.”
“Don’t confuse with potpourri.”
“Rub three times, and a genie will pop out.”
“Smoke only if you want to trip for four days.”
“She arrived against her better judgment.”
“Let me out”
Maybe I can have an etch-a-sketch urn so you can write what you want or ohhh, perhaps some harry potter-esque one that changes automatically every few weeks. So many fun ways to traumatize my family when I am gone – good times.