My baby girl is eight months old

She is too big. And too tiny. 

Babies are weird, because time with them is both long and short and they seem both young and old and mysterious and familiar.

Because my children are such a strange phenomenon to me, I think one of the best things I can do is write poems for them. I want to remember how surreal this time is, how fleeting, how surprising. 

For my daughter
You aren't real.
You're from a dream of mine,
a memory of a future that used to be 
unattainable,
far-off and ever-changing
like the many professions I aspired to.
My visions of adulthood,
as real to me as the costume jewelry in our dress-up box,
never included the words "my daughter."
A daughter was somehow
a strange thing,
an impossible thing.
How could I muster dreams of a you
that would inevitably be
so like me?
I'd have to know you,
really know you,
nose-to-nose.

It makes sense now
how you seemed not to fit then
before I knew your shape existed.
Discovering you was like
finding a Delorean in a parking lot.

I say the words
"my daughter" now
and they're shaped like you--
just the thought of your smiling cheeks,
so jolly, so soft
like tiny flans
and I could cry about the you
that is somehow both real
and everything I ever wanted
without knowing what I wanted was
you. 

Babies are My Favorite People

Babies really are just the best. 

Pre-motherhood me did not understand how some people seemed to be enamored of every baby they met. Don't get me wrong, I'd known some cool babies before having my own, but I was never very impressed by babies in general until becoming a mother. Now I know the truth: that babies embody many of the good things we adults strive for, or feel we've lost. And they are the purest of us all. 

Our culture is way behind on this. Women nowadays fear fertility. Young people find babies gross, needy, demanding, and inconvenient. Which they are. 

But as adults, it's so easy to forget we were all babies at one point. Our society is full of evil Headmistress Trunchbulls, expounding on the toxicity of the festering pustules that are children while denying they were once, not really so long ago, a little pustule of screams, snot and tears. And in reality, we should all be grateful that someone chose to put up with us in the pustule stage, because for parents it ain't always easy.

Parents have to put up with their children. Parents have to allow their children safe harbor in their home, make food for children to throw on the floor, and find their list of favorite hobbies reduced to a single word: silence. 

Why? you may ask. Why should a fully developed, functioning adult be reduced to a servitor of someone else's needs--particularly a someone who will probably never thank them, even once they learn how to say phrases with more than one syllable?

There are a few good reasons, but all of them pretty much boil down to this: babies are innocent.

Babies have never done anything wrong. On their own, they have no concept of evil. They haven't reached the point where malice becomes interesting to them. No baby will ever want to hurt you.

They're also incredibly self-assured. My toddler waddles around like a tiny drunk, convinced that the entire world loves him. And why shouldn't they? He's a baby, not a pimply teenager or a cynical coworker. 

A baby is the least cynical of all people. They live life ready to be pleased with everything, and when something bad happens to them it's an incredible surprise. We find it odd when a baby cries inconsolably over a tiny scrape on their knee or a dropped sippy cup--but imagine if you had lived the entirety of your life without a single thing going wrong (that you were aware of), and then one day you arrived in a place where things go wrong at least once a day, maybe more. That's quite the adjustment for a little pustule brain.

And that's the other really cool thing about babies. They are dang smart.

Oh, I know, they can't pronounce the letter Q and they think lint rollers are hairbrushes. But they are absolute shamwows when it comes to learning new information. They observe and pick up on everything, then next thing you know they're showing you where they hid their shoe when you've been driving yourself crazy for half an hour looking for it. Who's smarter than who now? 

Not to mention, teaching babies stuff makes you feel smarter. My toddler can't quite get the last of the yogurt off a spoon, but I can do that without even batting an eye. Take that, babies. 

I mean it, babies are awesome. Most of us are just in denial.

Maybe one reason why we tend to be annoyed by children is because a small part of us resents them for their lack of encumbrances. A baby has no problem crying in a public space. You, on the other hand, can't even let yourself have a good cry in the mirror when you're all alone in your apartment--let alone allow another human being to witness your splotchy-faced, tearstained glory. Maybe we all wish someone would just hold us close and feed us, be responsible for our well-being so we wouldn't have to, let us sleep on them and smile at us even when we accidentally yank the hair out of their skull.

We're jealous of babies because we ourselves have lost our baby-ness as we age, and we've become aware of how messed up the world is. In adulthood we stay just as self-centered and entitled as babies, but without the impeccable purity that allows for such indulgences. When I pull your hair now, it's because I wanted to regardless of how it made you feel. When I make unreasonable demands of the cashier at a McDonald's now, it's because I don't care enough to moderate my frustration. The main difference between me and a baby is that I choose to do bad things; a baby may do bad things without knowing what he's choosing. 

In that way, the openness and dependency of babies is humanity in its ideal form. And I think the reason we become worse over time is because, for whatever reasons, our sense of security gets stolen as we age. People disappoint us and hurt us. Life makes us uncomfortable, unfulfilled. The world loses its sheen of newness and becomes bland like a plain pita chip. 

But what if we could rediscover that sense of security? Then maybe our innocence would find its way back to us. We wouldn't unlearn our knowledge of the world's brokenness, but it would be neutralized by our trust in the One taking care of us, who loves and holds us through all our human nonsense. That's why Jesus told us to become like children. 

To overcome ourselves, we have to realize that not only are we dependent on God, but we can depend on Him. And with that confidence we can begin to throw off the burdens of adulthood and become the grown-up babies we were always meant to be. 

  

My ultimate book re-read list

Hello, you wonderful person.

Do you ever just sit and think about books? I do it often. More often, perhaps, than I actually read them (something I've excused myself from since having a baby, but need to work on).

I love books. Of the many things in my life that I feel strongly about, books are probably number 4 after Jesus, my precious family, and human rights for preborn babies. Passionate though I am about books, I suffer, as do many of my fellow bibliophiles, from the curse of forever desiring to purchase new books while also refusing to read them, instead returning to beloved titles from my formative years. In my home there are over 400 books, about 40 of which I've never read. That number keeps pretty stable, because every time I do miraculously read a new book, I consider that an achievement worthy of celebrating with (you guessed it) a new book. 

I do not, and will never understand those people who choose to never re-read books. I'm of the philosophy that a good story, the kind that goes beyond entertainment to actually enhance your shape as a person, is like a favorite meal--it should make you want to experience it again. Perhaps readers who refuse to re-read have simply never known a connection like that with a story and its characters, in which case they need to keep searching. 

I don't re-read all of my books, but I feel very blessed to have many I'm happy to greet as old friends every now and again.

So, if you haven't found your re-reads yet, this list might be a good place to start your journey of discovery.

1. Harry Potter. All of them. 

I re-read this epic saga every year and it never gets old. In fact, every time I re-enter Harry's world it feels new again. And it's especially exciting this year, as I've had the joy of reading it out loud to my husband and son.

2. The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

J.R.R. Tolkien's word-smithing is the stuff of magic. Reading his intricately woven masterpiece is like stepping back in time, both fascinating and bittersweet. No one writes like that anymore.

3. The Wind on Fire trilogy by William Nicholson.

These beautiful books are alien and inviting, heart-wrenching and humorous. They will make you feel courageous.

4. The Noble Warriors trilogy by the same.

I can't even put into words what I feel about these books. I read them at a crucial and difficult time in my life, and they helped me center myself and ironically (for Nicholson is an atheist), helped deepen my faith in a surprising way. 

5. The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo.

One of those amazing books of which I have memories as vivid as any real-life experience. It's a tale of fear-conquering love, soup, and overcoming grief.

6. Wildwood Dancing and its companion, Cybele's Secret, by Juliet Marallier.

I discovered these beautiful fairy tales by accident at a library book sale. I love to re-read them in the fall, when the chilly air outside helps transport me to the Transylvanian forest where the first book is set. 

7. Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians by Brandon Sanderson.

I read (most of) these in 8th grade, at the recommendation of a scurrilous knave I had the misfortune of having a crush on. The books are so good they can't be tainted even by the memory of me making a fool of my 13-year-old self. And I have never laughed so hard at something I've read, ever, in my life. 

8. Attachments by Rainbow Rowell.

What can I say but that I love this book? I find myself in the characters. In my experience it's best re-read around the New Year, when everyone is hoping to turn over a new leaf after feeling, perhaps, a little stale for some time.

9. Wishing Moon by Michael O. Tunnel.

An Arabian Cinderella. What more could you ask for? I've re-read this on several occasions when my life was feeling distinctly un-magical. 

10. Watership Down by Richard Adams.

I have never been as surprised by a book as I was by this one. My mother and sister admonished me for years to read it, and I finally did in the week or so after giving birth to my son. It is beautiful and powerful and strange and my goal is to re-read it at Christmas every year. 

These are by no means the only books I could've added to this list, but for sanity I'll stop there. Happy Re-reading!

What I've learned about my son

I keep waking up feeling like my brain has been left on all night.

A lot of people will say that as a new mom, my increased concern for the state of the world was pretty predictable. Thinking about the world your children will inherit and all that.

That may be true. I've found myself shot through with reckless bravery in some ways lately, the result of looking outside my living room bubble and constantly asking, "what am I supposed to do with these moments?" I don't want to live in a world where hope hides itself and the people of God are resigned to mediocrity. I want my son to live under the power of God, bold and steadfast. Maybe motherhood has actually shifted that into clearer focus for me.

There are a lot of things I've been told about motherhood that haven't fit my experience--like the horror stories of sleep deprivation and utter exhaustion--and some that have been spot on accurate. 

Like how normal it feels. Pregnancy and childbirth are two of the weirdest things we think are normal as humans. Those nine months carrying my little guy around inside me feel almost like a dream now, but the transition from having a preborn baby incubating in my womb to holding my newborn was like stepping through a tiny waterfall. The experience of giving birth was the event. Everything after that just makes sense in the most bizarre way. 

We stepped through the waterfall and now we're on the other side of it. Nothing else could possibly be true.

And so here we are. About five months of life this side of the womb, and Salem is almost unrecognizable--but somehow there's a glimmer inside of the same something that was there from the beginning. His soul is like a marble I found in the dirt behind my house, and time is slowly washing off the dust so I can begin to make out all the tiny details inside the glass. 

Just like I know that marble is the same one that I picked up outside, I know my son is the same little boy who inhabited the space below my ribs for the better part of a year. Only now I'm getting a clearer picture of who he is than I did from the fuzzy black-and-white sonogram screen. 

He emerges more and more each day. Eyes that were once deep blue, like the waters of Lake Superior, sparkle now with ripples of hazel. The smile that once crept across his face unknowingly as he dreamed now comes into the light when he sees the faces of people he loves. Tiny hands that used to flail like two confused birds now reach out for new adventures, like the soft fur of a curled-up cat, or the shiny rim of my glasses, or the clickety-clacking joysticks of my husband's Gamecube controller. 

The boy is curious and critical. He's generous with his smile, eager in laughter, always searching and studying and sucking his thumb, reminding me of photos of his dad. He bounces back from tears easily, as if he'd rather be happy than anything else. Like me, he always seems to have something to say.

As I watch him grow, Salem is experiencing everything for the first time. In a way I am too. 

"Babies really are amazing creatures. You can learn all there is to know about their ways in two weeks, and then after another week, they can still surprise you." -adapted from Gandalf

Things adults wonder about

If you've ever found a balloon with a message tied to it in your front yard, it might've been from my siblings and me. 

What happened to all those balloons we set free?

Balloons were a thing of childhood.
A treat from the dentist,
restitution for an hour of torment.
A stretchy-soft trophy,
tied with a ribbon on its rubbery stub tail
that squeaked when you caught it
between your freshly cleaned teeth.
It made you forget the taste of fluoride,
made your wrist feel floaty and free

It was tradition to let them go
before they turned to ethereal raisins, tied to our bedposts,
drooping sadly in the horizontal light of the morning

We'd scavenge a slip of paper
and etch a few words--
just a few, lest they add too much weight.
We'd roll them tightly so they couldn't escape
on the way to their accidental recipients.

Standing in the driveway we'd send the balloon messengers off,
watching them take to the clouds like buoys
and with them our imaginations.

All the bad things

Fear does interesting things to people.

I don’t think I have to elaborate for you to know exactly what I’m talking about. Our lives are filled with reasons to be afraid–not just right now, but always. Though we seem, at this moment in history, to be in a season when fear is taking hold in bigger sweeps.

I am, and have always been, a fearful person. My imagination tends to run away with my thoughts and hold them hostage in the dark aloneness of night. As a child, I struggled some nights to sleep, because the shadows conjured thoughts of lurking beasts, abduction and abandonment, and what small traumas I had experienced at that point in my small life. Fear would take hold of me. I would awake with sobs from nightmares whose realness crossed the border from dreams to waking.

Many times after such night terrors I would turn on the light in my room. Familiar colors and shapes comforted me. Sometimes I would creep into my parents’ bedroom, just to hear their breathing and know they were still alive, their presence a protective force around me. My mother would come and sing me the words to Psalm 23 when I called out from my bed in panic. I slept with the blanket she’d made me as a baby until I moved away to college–and whenever it was in the laundry I couldn’t force myself to sleep.

I’d read stories that would anchor me to reality–stories so fantastical they could never be real, like The BFG, or so real they brought me out of the imaginary darkness, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Stories that brought me hope, that even those seemingly small and powerless could overcome darkness. And, many times, a book of Garfield comics–in fact, I perused its pages so often I could recite each comic from memory.

Strange to think how I spend so many of my formative hours huddled in my blankets, surrounded by loving teddy bears, warding off the evil I feared so much with the words of people I had never met. Maybe that is partly the reason why, for so many years, I’ve found comfort and delight in being surrounded by books, why every surface in our apartment is laden with stories, why it feels wrong to me when I enter someone else’s home and there’s not a book in sight. It’s certainly at least part of the reason why I now feel compelled to share my own words, my own stories, with the world.

As I got older, my fears turned to other things, things more real and sometimes scarier. In high school I began to hunt through the Bible for words of comfort, courage, and peace, and I stuck them on sticky notes to my door. In the middle of the night I would recite these verses to myself. Something in me understood the power of words, without being able to explain it–that these words, these truths, when uttered into the darkness, bring light and life and hope.

Since that time, have I experienced fear? Definitely. Many times. But all the while I knew that God had me, that He was and is bigger than any of my fears, and He never leaves His children. That assurance is my strength, my courage. It shields me from the lie of darkness. I call on Him in my fear, and He holds me in His arms, singing words of comfort to me.

This past weekend was Easter weekend, and to some that didn’t really matter and never has, but for those of us who call Jesus our Savior, the weeks leading up to this joyous day have been filled with the unfamiliar and uncomfortable–change, and certainly loneliness. And fear. The fear is real right now, for many of us.

But I am not afraid–with Christ as my assurance, fear can’t hold me anymore. Because on Easter morning, Jesus defeated fear. He defeated evil, and darkness, and death. He rose from the grave in glorious triumph, and we can be risen alongside Him, never again to be conquered–instead, through Him, made conquerers of all the bad things.

Psalm 91:

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
    will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
    my God, in whom I trust.”

Surely he will save you
    from the fowler’s snare
    and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
    nor the plague that destroys at midday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
    ten thousand at your right hand,
    but it will not come near you.
You will only observe with your eyes
    and see the punishment of the wicked.

If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
    and you make the Most High your dwelling,
no harm will overtake you,
    no disaster will come near your tent.
For he will command his angels concerning you
    to guard you in all your ways;
they will lift you up in their hands,
    so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
    you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;
    I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
He will call on me, and I will answer him;
    I will be with him in trouble,
    I will deliver him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him
    and show him my salvation.”

When the music gets you

Poetry has been a bit thin on the ground for me lately. Which is weird, because after high school, before I graduated from college, it used to be all the writing that I was most proud of in my life.

And before that I was afraid to write anything–mainly because I didn’t want people reading it. I’m too much of a perfectionist. I didn’t like to think of people judging my heart like that. I didn’t like to think of trying to write something just so that people would applaud me.

Learning to write poetry changed my perspective on a lot of that. I found a lot of freedom in it, in the loose chain-linking of words. My favorite poems I ever wrote–or read–came from nowhere and ended up somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t look too hard at them, lest they disappear.

Poetry is a way of thinking around oneself–that’s why I think everyone should write it.

At the time I wrote this poem (around the end of my first year of college) I was stuck in a bit of melancholy. Writing it felt like a tiny rebellion.

Yellow Coat

The music is a story

to her.

Its bright, deliberate vibrations bounce

off her yellow coat,

singing of the sunset she wears.

Buckled black shoes,

step lightly, circling puddles

and leaves that lie downtrodden,

pressed into pavement

by the weight of persistent raindrops.

A good pain

“Good” pain? Those two words hardly seem to fit together in one sentence.

To me, though, the phrase means a pain that moves you toward something good. Pain itself may be unpleasant, but sometimes it lets you know: Hey, you’re alive. The knots are being worked out. You’re outgrowing your old wardrobe—in a good way.

You can never really understand the idea of “good pain” until you experience it.

That’s what I think nostalgia really is—when you remember something that made you happy once, and maybe you’re not less happy now, but you can’t help but feel a pang of loss for the past anyway. I’m not old enough to be full of bitter “back in my day”s, but I do get nostalgic about some things.

Like the old Spyro: the Dragon video games.

Pillow forts and sibling sleepovers.

Falling asleep (or pretending to) on the couch while The Two Towers played in the background, so my dad would carry me upstairs.

Lockers with combinations, and new binder dividers.

Winning show choir competitions.

DDR.

Losing a tooth during a school day, like a boss.

The timid footfalls of my dog Robbie, coming up the stairs to warm his tiny self under my blankets.

Fifth grade, when I thought all poetry writing had to be some seriously melancholy venture, and thoroughly hated the experience.

I laugh at my past self a lot—even at the version of me from this morning, who slept a full two and a half hours later than I usually do, just because I didn’t want to climb off of my loft bed. There are some things I might say to me, if I ever went back.

But I wouldn’t ask to go back, I don’t think. I’ve never been big on the time travel thing, unless we’re talking Back to the Future (I remember a time before I owned the DVDs when I would drop everything to watch all three movies every time there was a marathon on TV). And I would never trade my memories for the ability not to miss them.

It’s enough sometimes to just remember, even if it hurts a little. It’s a good pain.

Wipeout (part 2)

If you’re one of the 2 people that faithfully follow this blog, you may recall a poem I posted millennia ago, titled Wipeout (see that post here). At the time I mysteriously hinted that the poem was loosely based on a traumatic bicycle-related incident from my own past and that I would, in time, share the story of that trauma with you. I know you must have been eagerly anticipating it ever since that day… and the wait is finally over.

The time has come.

Fasten your helmet straps securely, kids. I have a story for you.

…

The day was bright and hot. The sun was high in the sky.

The bike was indubitably badass.

At my request, no frilly tassels graced the handlebars of this bike, for it was no girl bike. I didn’t want my enemies to be showered in glitter; I wanted them to feast on my dust.

I received the bike as a gift on my eighth birthday, and as I beheld it in all its red-and-black, lightning-slashed glory, I knew in my rebel heart that this was a vehicle with a single purpose: speed. And speed it did.

Looking back, the outcome of this story should have been entirely predictable. The bike itself was emblazoned with the word “Wipeout” along the frame, like a chilling prognostication of the doom it brought. I should have, literally, read the signs.

But of course, I was then a short, far less pragmatic version of myself, unconcerned with the Doom of Man. I was Hercules, Conqueror of Monkey-bars, Numenorian, invulnerable. My best friend had recently taught me, with a wooden sword and some plastic armor, how to lop off the heads of my opponents in battle.

I didn’t fear the bike. Not then. When I first met it the bike feared me, and I knew the pavement would soon quake beneath my tires.

Fast-forward a few days to the aforementioned hot, sunny day.

This day was a special day, set apart from all other equally stifling Nebraska summer days, because not only was I eight years old, I had a new bike. And not only did I have a new bike, but my mom had agreed to let me ride it down our street to the playground. All by myself. My time had arrived.

I shuffled my vehicle of two-wheeled awesomeness to the edge of our driveway, outlining the route through my glasses. The playground beckoned from the bottom of the hill, its lurid green and purple equipment radiating heat like a moth-drawing porch light. I could see the chains on the swing set glinting in the sun.

I took off.

The stars had aligned on that perfect day, for no cars jutted out of out of their respective driveways to impede my flight. I had been granted a clear shot straight down to the playground.

The bike was fast, but I wanted faster. I pedaled. My hair snapped behind me like a flag of triumph, and the wind tasted like the sweet freedom I had only ever dreamed of in my entire eight years of personhood.

At the bottom of the hill, the sidewalk turned sharply to the left.

If you remember, eight-year-old me was no stranger to feats of daredevilry like sharp turns. I had climbed the rock wall at the sporting goods store once; this bit of curving concrete just ahead wasn’t about to stop me. And so, thinking myself utterly capable, I rounded the turn, squeezing hard on the brakes–new, grown-up handlebar brakes–in what I surely thought to be a controlled manner.

My momentum met its kryptonite. Or, more precisely, my bike’s momentum met its kryptonite. Consequently my body, being made of tangible matter and not shimmering light particles, was carried forward by that pesky inertia Bill Nye had warned all us kids about. I launched over my front tire like an armless penguin.

My face smacked the ground, hard. Needless to say, it felt like someone had thrown a brick at my mouth. Someone with really good aim.

I tasted blood and screamed, my invincibility shattered. The mom I’d left behind in our driveway came running to my rescue, driving home the fact of my actual helplessness.

My bike had betrayed me. It would be over a year before I’d ride again, rolling timidly down a new (and steeper) driveway, pumping my brakes in cautious paranoia.

I don’t know what it was that hit me so hard (other than the sidewalk), but something heavy kept me from getting back on that bike sooner. For a kid with a resume full of daring exploits, I had always been remarkably prone to nightmares. Darkness brought with it a creeping chill, and over that next year I spent many late nights feverishly suppressing bicycle-related panic. I felt unstable. Looking back I think maybe I left behind a bit of myself at the bottom of that hill, a piece of the innocence that let me believe I could trust my own judgement.

Now, on this side of a decade, I can chuckle at my younger self’s foolish bravado. As a poet, the irony of a bike named Wipeout strikes me. I love telling this story and showing people the gnarly scar where the sidewalk sucker-punched my lip almost twelve years ago. I have, as they say, moved on.

But on summer days, as I cruise down the road on my new adult-sized bike, high-fiving trees, at the crest of every hill I still feel the ghost of a past self pull back on my handlebar brakes.

Just Say No

 Drug-Free Day

A woman from the hospital

brought in two lungs-

one pink and healthy,

one blackened and shriveled, an ironic bezoar-

and showed a score of grade-schoolers

how to reanimate them at will

with the push of a pedal.

She spoke of mortality in terms of

cigarette smoke

and they listened with morbid curiosity.

 

When it came to be their turn,

a score of grade-schoolers

pulled latex gloves over their own life-filled fingers,

one by one, approached the displaced organs

and unflinching, pedaled bursts

of room-temperature air,

inflating, deflating,

in grim determination to make them breathe again.

A poem

Childhood inspires me.

 

Portrait of a Girl With a Basketball

There was a gym with a tile floor

and two doors

and the noisy collisions of sneaker-clad firecrackers,

attitude bouncing off tired walls

louder than its air-filled counterparts.

 

There was a girl with a pink shirt

and two braids trying to reach it

and a basketball bouncing

suffused with determination

up and down

up and

down

towards her sneakers.

 

There were shadows lengthening on tired walls,

and the two doors kept getting closer

like the girl’s two braids

reaching past her pink-shirted shoulders

and there was a basketball

wishing for yesterday,

when her sneakers didn’t seem

so far away. 

What we can learn from Kindergarteners

 Observing an elementary class for my education degree was not something I thought I’d find enjoyable, but surprisingly, it’s been a major source of inspiration and general musings for me the past few months. And my takeaway from that is…

…we should all try a little harder to find that inner child.

I mean, little kids are so funny and obnoxious and honest. They always tell it like they see it. They only lie when it amuses them. Like little imps of compressed bluntness and mischief.

And they make great subjects for poetry.

 

Cell-mates

This little boy’s hair

is spiky,

like his personality.

He swaggers past,

returning a scoff

for my smile.

I’m just another motivational poster

on the wall.

But two minutes later,

his sass banishes him

to the red chair in my corner.

 

I feel a grudging kinship

to this boy

and the isolated corner we share,

both watching through a screen,

present, but not participating.

 

Once, many report cards ago,

I was the obnoxious one,

frequenter of that dreaded seat

in the corner.

The evil eye was

my weapon of choice, then,

but by now,

I’ve learned to wear my solitude

like a well-loved sweater,

as a quiet observer,

content in my banishment.

 

He,

on the other hand,

wears gel-spiked hair

full of frustrations.

And having no pen

with which to graffiti the surface

of his desk,

lets fly his stinging arrows aloud.

Shoutout to childhood

 As an education major, I’m required to attend music classes at one of the local elementary schools and observe classroom procedures. Generally, the experience is about as awkward as it sounds; I sit on a chair toward the back of the room, notebook in hand, and just watch as the teacher tries to corral a bunch of kindergarteners who keep glancing furtively at me, like they never knew college students were a thing. The only time I get to directly interact with them (usually by just waving and smiling) is when they all arrange themselves in “line order” and wait to be released.

Last week, some of the kids were brave enough to actually say words to me! Our conversation went something like this:

“Why are you here?” asked the two-foot-tall boy who’d insisted on giving me a hug the first time he saw me.

I made my reply as provocative as I could without sounding too creepy.

“To watch you guys,” I said. The kids chittered.

“Why?” one of the girls asked.

“Because you’re interesting.” I raised my eyebrows as they all laughed, apparently delighted at the outrageous notion that someone found them worth watching.

Ah, childhood. Sometimes I forget what bizarre, amusing creatures kids are–and, more importantly, what it’s like to be one of them.

Which brings me to this poem.

 

Easy to Please

What brings a flock

of bright-eyed elementary schoolers

to a college campus for a field trip?

Ask their teacher

and the answer will be something like:

“Your science department

with its planetarium

and instrumental chemistry labs

is such a fine establishment.

These children

came here to hear about Pluto

and to engage in that age-old discussion:

‘Is it a planet?’

A learning experience.”

She’ll nudge forward

one of her brightest

to inform you

what he liked best about his journey

into this realm of research

and higher education.

He’ll say something about how

interesting it is-

the thing about Pluto.

But later on

he and his friends will still be exclaiming

about how cool it was

to eat in the university cafeteria

surrounded by all of those prestigious college kids

and how-

get this-

in the cafeteria,

they serve ice cream

every day.