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.
You are critical because I am critical. I will be criticized as I hear your thoughts with so few follows. We all have so much to tell that our stories often feel tedious and mundane. Nothing original going on in our head. Is originality truly possible? Hasn’t it all been said before so perhaps we look for new ways to describe the original. Make it seem new again. Hold it up to the light to see a new fascet that illuminates our mind for a brief moment. Reminding us of essential truths. We matter even if we walk alone.
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.