“A lot can happen to a person in a night. In the age of the social network, it can even happen when you’re sleeping. While you’re rosy cheeked and dreaming about Ryan Gosling rescuing you from a flash flood (you do have that dream, right?), a torrential dialogue can play itself out in a comment thread on a post about Jesus and tax law. Or maybe, like me, you awake to discover that during the night, a friend request has been accepted by someone from your past. It’s nothing to blink at; it happens all the time. But…I’m stalling. I’m stalling because I’m terrified that I shouldn’t write what I want to write, that somebody will be hurt or offended or express that I have, once again, breached the boundaries of good taste and common sense. Or maybe I’m just nervous because tragic stories make people uncomfortable, especially the kinds that involve near death, physical disfigurement and a brutal occupation that masquerades as a war. All I know is that when I woke up this morning…”
This is an excerpt from a larger work; please continue reading here.
I see a teenage boy
sitting across from me
mind and soul
trapped in a broken body;
multiple strokes have left him
a prisoner
using art and technology
we communicate
silently
sometimes I wonder
if I had never asked this question,
would he have ever shared his thoughts
would there be someone to listen–
to draw him out of himself?
his knuckles are gnarled
with the scars of anger
the righteous rage
of a life unjust
of being a prisoner of his own flesh
of being overlooked
ignored
made fun of
all while still possessing a sound mind
a rogue tear trickles down his cheek
as he types out his story, one key at a time and I cry*:
Oh-oh-Child, ho-old on
I see your tears
I hear your voice
Oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see a young woman
at the check-out counter
her eyes lined in black
tracing the place
where her soul used to shine
she barely looks up
as she scans my things
I notice the
pinstripe pattern of pain
running up her arms—
the swollen red-purple remnants
an echo of her emptiness
our eyes meet briefly
as she hands me my bag,
I can almost
taste the hurt that as no where else to go–
she says, “have a nice day” and I cry:
Oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see your scars
I feel your ache
oh-oh, Child, hold on
I see a man
placing flowers by a stone
his wrinkled hands
shaking as he tenderly
clears the leaves and grass
from where her name is carved,
he waters the earth with his tears
yet in vain do they fall
for they cannot coax life
back into she whom he adores
their love was epic
of almost mythical proportions
no child could they bear
so they nurtured all they met
and hundreds called their house, home
she went too early
they couldn’t make her better;
he shuffles about an empty house
and memories—
of the life they lived
and the love they gave
doing both with reckless abandon—
echo through now vacant rooms
his chest heaves a sigh
that seems to weigh a thousand pounds and I cry:
Oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see your sorrow
I know your grief
oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see a mother
on the bus
a threadbare sweater
covers a faded uniform
hung on a withered frame
her shift is done
but her day is hardly over
there’s homework to be checked
and laundry to be folded
hungry mouths to feed
and a toilet to repair
the baby has been coughing
and her brother needs new shoes
the landlord is impatient
and her paycheck runs out too soon
the roaches are her roommates
and the Whiskey is her lover
she’s all alone
and wondering just how
she got to where she is
she remembers a girl
who once had a plan
who was gonna make it out someday
then she found
her one true love
and they dreamed new dreams together
but stray bullets flew
and blew him away
and with him went all dreams—
now only nightmares remain
her lips tremble
as they hold a cigarette
her eyes flutter shut and
she takes a slow drag and I cry:
Oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see you’re weary
I hear your prayers
oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see a man
sitting in a cell
contemplating the life he lives
and the life he will never know
one mistake–
so foolish
so fatal
made as a drunken teen
cost him his freedom
for life.
without the possibility of parole.
he writes to make sense
he writes to redeem
he writes to teach others
he writes to remember
he writes to stay alive
he does what he can
to bring hope and healing
to his 6 x 8 foot world–and beyond
he helped bring honor to the yard,
a new standard of doing time
he thinks of his wife and daughter
and how they’re serving his sentence too
a life without husband
a life without father
without the possibility of parole
he sighs as he stretches
massaging too-quickly aged joints and I cry
oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see you there
I hear your plea
oh-oh Child, ho-old on!
I see myself
in this looking glass
a hundred year old soul
gazing back at me
I wonder if I’ll make it through
if all these dreams I have
will flourish
I wonder if the joy
will someday
outweigh the pain
and if my heart
will find its kindred
while it still has love to lavish
I wonder if the poems I birth
will be consumed by thirsty ears–
will move a mind to create
will stir a wound to heal
will awaken a soul to dance
will ignite a passion to thrive
And I wonder if the dues I’ve paid
will yield a bountiful harvest,
will the tears I’ve shed
nurture a tender seedling,
or will the field lay fallow—
a toilsome effort all in vain
I look upon my countenance
and see a flickering resilience
I cling to it for dear life and I hear You cry: Oh-oh Child, ho-old on
I see your hope
I hold your heart
oh-oh Child, ho-old on
oh-oh Child, ho-old on.
I hurried into a religious bookstore one day anxious to pick up a book previously ordered. Old-time church hymns played on overhead speakers. As I waited in line a nearby magazine caught my eye, the caption reading, “Woman of the Year.”
My eyes traveling upwards saw a blond woman with long softly curled hair, pictured in a white skirt and blouse. The blouse buttoned to the neck with a long bow draping over a pink brocaded vest. Continuing further up the page I saw the title: VIRTUE.
The choir hymns droned on, their words echoing in my mind like indigestion repeating. The walls seemed to narrow, the air diminished as the room for self-expression evaporated. I choked attempting to swallow this standard of womanhood for myself. Each breath became progressively more suffocating, evoking memories of agonizing contortions in appearance and belief to gain acceptance into this fellowship of women, thus pronouncing me valid for relationship with men.
I handed my money to the woman at the register as she smiled warmly yet seemingly vacantly of any inkling that womanhood could be anything more that what she had been told. I groped for the door and gasped fresh air as oxygen once again filled my lungs.
Sitting inside my car I gazed out through the window trying to name my sadness. Noticing a nearby tree I got lost in its configuration of branches. Each branch was different from another. Some branches were thick and sturdy, some thin and willowy, each were free to grow in its own direction, unique and distinct, yet still very much a branch.
When realizing women have shared this same freedom I understood my grief. As I drove away I thought, nothing is more stultifying to genuine feminine expression and growth than a superimposed standard of womanliness.
A year ago, my brother Seth and Ali, his girlfriend of 2 years, visited my parents in Oklahoma. While Ali appreciated the family-centric culture of our hometown, she commented on the emphasis on getting married young. Girls remarked she had the “patience of Job” at not receiving a ring by this point in the relationship. When she went to our high school’s homecoming festivities, the queen candidates expressed future goals of finding the men of their dreams and getting married. Though most of my brother’s friends are in their early twenties, most are either married or hope to be soon.
The positive side of this is that family is given such high value, but as someone who’s 30 and single, I have also seen the great benefits of having time to grow and develop on my own. I’m not writing this to knock people who marry young. I know plenty of couples that married right out of high school, during college, or soon after, that have had long-lasting, successful marriages. But I do want to encourage people who’ve chosen or found themselves on a different route.
I’ve had a myriad of experiences over the last several years that I probably wouldn’t have had if I’d been married. I studied art and Medieval spirituality in Italy, taught American group dances and English in Poland, auditioned for American Gladiators and met Hulk Hogan, competed in 6 triathlons, moved cross-country to attend grad school, danced on the stage of Dancing with the Stars, and I’m currently training for my first marathon.
All that to say I’m not sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for someone to come and “complete” me. It’s very empowering to find your first job or place to live, to set up a retirement account, to travel on your own, and to do these and many other things without the safety net of a spouse. So while you may have days of something-less-than-enthusiasm over your single state, I’m going to suggest you do something radical…embrace it.
Say “table for one” with confidence.
Go to that movie you’ve been dying to see…by yourself.
Buy something you’ve been eyeing and don’t worry about having to tell anyone about it!
Flirt!
Spend a day/week/month experiencing a new neighborhood/city/country on your own.
Enjoy your own company.
The poet Mary Oliver states it beautifully:
“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When its over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”
Here’s to amazement, taking the world in our arms, and doing more than simply visiting!
I parked behind a flashy car
out of which a woman stepped
I noticed her license plate
around which these words proclaimed:
I’M BAD…because the men like it
and I thought about
all the decades
and
all the centuries
throughout
all of history
during which womyn
have been taught
to bend
and
to twist
and
to contort
ourselves into some more
“palatable” version of womyn
only
in the end
we are not womyn
but women
and for those who resisted
and still do resist
there awaits her
certain chastisement
and
shaming
and
sentencing to solitary singleness
for life.
without the possibility of parole.
we’ve learned that
if we like men
and
if we hope to be liked
by men
we need to be
what the men like
so we
pushed things up
and we
cinched things in
and we
stuck things out
“because…the men like it”
and we
gave things up
and we
kept things in
and we
went with out
“because…the men like it”
but now here I am
having worked
into exhaustion
to become
what is not me
by striving toward
some standard
in which I
do not believe
all because…the men like it?
Now, I cannot lie
I do love a good man
but I gotta love myself more
because a man?
well, he may stay
or he may go
but
for better
or
for worse
’til death do us part
I’m bound to my self
authentically ever after
so here is how I plea
sentence as you will:
I’m me…because I like it