He stood there, bright eyed and tow headed
singing boldly and beaming with pride.
He tried his best to sing all the words,
keeping time with the kids who knew,
the kids who fit.
He couldn't see that anything was wrong.
He clutched that book, shouted that song,
and connected with the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You sat there, angry and pig-headed,
blinded by your baggage and drowning in your damage.
You tried your best to form the words
inflicting pain and causing hurt,
a hurt you just won't own.
You couldn't see that you were wrong.
You shut your heart, and closed your mind,
And refused to see him meet the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You missed another opportunity.
You missed another milestone.
You missed another smile, another joy, another day.
You missed it all.
But I,
I was there.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Should
I should have known better
than to trust you with my heart.
I should have known better
than to give you the truth.
I should have known better
than to hope you'd know what to do.
I should have known better
than to make you so important.
I should have known better,
but I didn't.
I trusted you with my heart,
and you broke it.
I gave you the truth,
and you made it a weapon.
I hoped you'd know what to do,
and you failed to do it.
I made you important,
and you made me invisible.
I didn't know better when I should have,
but I do now.
than to trust you with my heart.
I should have known better
than to give you the truth.
I should have known better
than to hope you'd know what to do.
I should have known better
than to make you so important.
I should have known better,
but I didn't.
I trusted you with my heart,
and you broke it.
I gave you the truth,
and you made it a weapon.
I hoped you'd know what to do,
and you failed to do it.
I made you important,
and you made me invisible.
I didn't know better when I should have,
but I do now.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Where I Come From*
I come from many streets that all lead nowhere,
and houses that were never ours, from moving boxes and strange places and customs not my own.
I come from babies crying and mama singing,
the smell of cakes in the oven and the sound of her sewing machine.
I come from Loretta and Raymond,
Soldiers, each in their own way.
I come from Legos, monster trucks, and Franken-Barbies,
wrestling, sand boxes, swings, and dancing to the music in our heads.
I come from salsa, beans and rice, tortillas on the comal,
and my mother's lasagna too big for the pan, but only on holidays.
I come from "You can, and you will", "They don't know you", and "Don't let them win."
I come from a place where knowledge is power, the best things come from nothing, and everything is earned.
I come from Pride and Tenacity.
I come from a place rooted in love and family
a place that is constantly changing and growing
a place that thrives on togetherness and accomplishment.
That, is where I come from.
*This was a writing exercise in a seminar I attended last weekend. It's based on the poem "Where I Come From" by F. Isabel Campoy seen in the Second Creative Activity found here. I liked it so thought I'd share.
and houses that were never ours, from moving boxes and strange places and customs not my own.
I come from babies crying and mama singing,
the smell of cakes in the oven and the sound of her sewing machine.
I come from Loretta and Raymond,
Soldiers, each in their own way.
I come from Legos, monster trucks, and Franken-Barbies,
wrestling, sand boxes, swings, and dancing to the music in our heads.
I come from salsa, beans and rice, tortillas on the comal,
and my mother's lasagna too big for the pan, but only on holidays.
I come from "You can, and you will", "They don't know you", and "Don't let them win."
I come from a place where knowledge is power, the best things come from nothing, and everything is earned.
I come from Pride and Tenacity.
I come from a place rooted in love and family
a place that is constantly changing and growing
a place that thrives on togetherness and accomplishment.
That, is where I come from.
*This was a writing exercise in a seminar I attended last weekend. It's based on the poem "Where I Come From" by F. Isabel Campoy seen in the Second Creative Activity found here. I liked it so thought I'd share.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Hold Me
Hold me down
to drown them out
Kill me in the process
Hold me tight
to hide the light
Blind me with that kindness
Hold me up
to keep me dry
Lose me in the blandness
Hold me close
to keep me safe
Hurt me in that harness
But hold me close
to simply hold me
Find me in the caress
to drown them out
Kill me in the process
Hold me tight
to hide the light
Blind me with that kindness
Hold me up
to keep me dry
Lose me in the blandness
Hold me close
to keep me safe
Hurt me in that harness
But hold me close
to simply hold me
Find me in the caress
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Baby Blues
To my Victor and my Oscar
Little fingers
Little toes
Big blue eyes
And button nose
I've spent a lifetime
Making do
But nine short months
On making you
My little boy
My heart and soul
You brought me back
And made me whole
Now I live
To see you through
To give you more
Than making do
Little fingers
Little toes
Big blue eyes
And button nose
I've spent a lifetime
Making do
But nine short months
On making you
My little boy
My heart and soul
You brought me back
And made me whole
Now I live
To see you through
To give you more
Than making do
Lunch With A Republican
A tempest brews in the sanctuary of my thoughts
behind the smile that feeds you, masking my contempt for you, encourages you to continue sharing your venom.
You've found an ally, a believer, a right thinker, maybe even a friend, or so you think.
I fill my mouth with food rather than bite my tongue or unleash the truth.
The Gods forbid I speak too soon.
Bleeding heart liberals, immigrants, and welfare trash will destroy the country your (our) ancestors fought so hard to build.
Suddenly I am full.
I wipe away the residue of lunch clinging to my face and with it the facade.
The sanctuary can no longer contain the tempest.
You are drenched in the fury of a heart that bleeds for the innocent, incapable, and the absent minded.
Awash in the horror of dissent,
you take your lunch to go.
behind the smile that feeds you, masking my contempt for you, encourages you to continue sharing your venom.
You've found an ally, a believer, a right thinker, maybe even a friend, or so you think.
I fill my mouth with food rather than bite my tongue or unleash the truth.
The Gods forbid I speak too soon.
Bleeding heart liberals, immigrants, and welfare trash will destroy the country your (our) ancestors fought so hard to build.
Suddenly I am full.
I wipe away the residue of lunch clinging to my face and with it the facade.
The sanctuary can no longer contain the tempest.
You are drenched in the fury of a heart that bleeds for the innocent, incapable, and the absent minded.
Awash in the horror of dissent,
you take your lunch to go.
For Lack of a Penis
Failed faery tales and disembodied dreams
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
The men in my family,
Proud Mexican men
Have first born sons.
They have daughters too.
But not first,
Never first.
What then, was he to do with me.
The audacity with which I entered the world,
first in line, potentially the only one in line.
What was I thinking,
leaving my womb without my penis?
A mistake that would earn me a lifetime
of reminders of my inadequacies.
An affront to his masculinity, his machismo.
He blamed my mother,
said she didn't eat enough meat
to make a boy.
In seventh grade,
we learned about sex,
the kind you have and the kind you are.
Funny how one little stroke is all that separates
an X from a Y.
I told my father that he was to blame
for my lack of a penis.
That I hadn't forgotten it at all.
There was never a penis to forget.
Again with the audacity,
the affront,
and this time, it was me who didn't eat enough meat
to keep me sane.
God is punishing me he said, but I was the one who got the spanking.
He left.
Reproductive disappointment overwhelmed him.
Three sons could not make amends for
the usurper,
for me.
His failed faery tales and disembodied dreams,
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
At least not by me.
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
The men in my family,
Proud Mexican men
Have first born sons.
They have daughters too.
But not first,
Never first.
What then, was he to do with me.
The audacity with which I entered the world,
first in line, potentially the only one in line.
What was I thinking,
leaving my womb without my penis?
A mistake that would earn me a lifetime
of reminders of my inadequacies.
An affront to his masculinity, his machismo.
He blamed my mother,
said she didn't eat enough meat
to make a boy.
In seventh grade,
we learned about sex,
the kind you have and the kind you are.
Funny how one little stroke is all that separates
an X from a Y.
I told my father that he was to blame
for my lack of a penis.
That I hadn't forgotten it at all.
There was never a penis to forget.
Again with the audacity,
the affront,
and this time, it was me who didn't eat enough meat
to keep me sane.
God is punishing me he said, but I was the one who got the spanking.
He left.
Reproductive disappointment overwhelmed him.
Three sons could not make amends for
the usurper,
for me.
His failed faery tales and disembodied dreams,
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
At least not by me.
Birth Day
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, stroking his face, wiping away the single tear that managed to wrest itself free and trickle down her cheek. “I did my best. It wasn’t enough. I’m sorry little one. I’m so very sorry.” Barely breathing, she clutched the baby closer to her chest and planted a whisper of a kiss on her newborn’s cheek before the nurse whisked him away. She watched as the nurse lifted him from her chest, held him securely in her steady arms, tucked in his blanket, craftily hiding the giant bruise and burgeoning lump on the top of his head, and brushed his nose with her fingertip playfully before holding him up to say goodbye to his mama. “So cute,” the nurse beamed as she looked back and forth between the swaddled dumpling of a baby and his mother, who stared after them even as her vision blurred and her head swam. Muffled voices reassured her that he was healthy, everything would be fine. The trip to the nursery was routine and he’d be back in no time they said. “Relax,” said the clearest voice. “You need some stitches and some rest. Relax your knees and let us help you.”
She closed her eyes against the nausea, against the voices, against it all for just a second, and they were gone.
When she awoke, everyone was gone. All that remained with her of her son was a blood soaked sheet, crumpled and unceremoniously shoved into the bio hazard bin, and an ache in her pelvis. Light seeped into her room through the cracks around the door and under the inept privacy curtain. Without lifting her head, she searched for the call button to let the nurses know she was awake. Her mouth was painfully dry and her breasts were throbbing with an unfamiliar fullness. Her fingers found a button and greedily pressed it, launching her feet into the air. She found another and lowered them back down again. This time, she turned her head and squinted her eyes to find the call button, careful not to contort herself any further. She found the nurses button, pressed it, and waited for her savior in scrubs to come and vanquish the desert-like dryness in her throat and give her an update on the little man that had wreaked such havoc on her body.
The nurse arrived, pushing a clear, plastic bassinet before her. Inside the bassinet lay her little baby burrito, bruised, swollen, and asleep, but otherwise perfect. The nurse leaned over the sleeping baby and picked him up, careful not to wake him as she moved him from the cold plastic box to the warm, waiting arms of his very tired mother. "Hello little one. Happy birthday, my sweet prince" she said, drawing him close and kissing the skid mark her pelvis had left on his forehead. The nurse smiled and turned to fill the too-little-used water pitcher that sat on the bedside table. In her absence, the nervous mother touched every inch of her son. Gently, she ran her hands all over his tiny form, assuring herself that the doctor and nurses had been right. He was fine, healthy, and hers. He was.
The nurse returned with the water and a busy little machine, that looked like a box on a stick, to take her vitals. The water was enough to nearly make her weep for joy. She gulped it down greedily, dispensing with the formality of a cup and drinking straight from the pitcher, careful not to spill any on the tiny, stirring bundle in her lap. The nurse laughed softly, and lifted the baby so his mother could drink her fill and be examined. She placed him safely in his bassinet, then turned back to his mother. After a quick conversation about pain and comfort levels, she unceremoniously lifted the sheets to check the giant pad wedged between her legs for signs of hemorrhage. There were none, so she replaced the sheet and moved on to the less revealing parts of the exam. Temperature, blood pressure, abdominal massage. All fine. Pushing the bassinet up to the edge of the bed, the nurse left, taking her cold hands and machinery with her, and leaving the mother alone with her son for the first time.
A delicate silence settled in the room. The boy lay in his swaddling blankets, quietly wriggling his feet and hands in an attempt to free himself and see the world outside the plastic box. The woman lay in her bed, wrapped in sheets and warming blankets, shifting uneasily from one hip to the other, trying to find a position of comfort and safety against the cold and glaring lights of the world outside her room.
She closed her eyes against the nausea, against the voices, against it all for just a second, and they were gone.
When she awoke, everyone was gone. All that remained with her of her son was a blood soaked sheet, crumpled and unceremoniously shoved into the bio hazard bin, and an ache in her pelvis. Light seeped into her room through the cracks around the door and under the inept privacy curtain. Without lifting her head, she searched for the call button to let the nurses know she was awake. Her mouth was painfully dry and her breasts were throbbing with an unfamiliar fullness. Her fingers found a button and greedily pressed it, launching her feet into the air. She found another and lowered them back down again. This time, she turned her head and squinted her eyes to find the call button, careful not to contort herself any further. She found the nurses button, pressed it, and waited for her savior in scrubs to come and vanquish the desert-like dryness in her throat and give her an update on the little man that had wreaked such havoc on her body.
The nurse arrived, pushing a clear, plastic bassinet before her. Inside the bassinet lay her little baby burrito, bruised, swollen, and asleep, but otherwise perfect. The nurse leaned over the sleeping baby and picked him up, careful not to wake him as she moved him from the cold plastic box to the warm, waiting arms of his very tired mother. "Hello little one. Happy birthday, my sweet prince" she said, drawing him close and kissing the skid mark her pelvis had left on his forehead. The nurse smiled and turned to fill the too-little-used water pitcher that sat on the bedside table. In her absence, the nervous mother touched every inch of her son. Gently, she ran her hands all over his tiny form, assuring herself that the doctor and nurses had been right. He was fine, healthy, and hers. He was.
The nurse returned with the water and a busy little machine, that looked like a box on a stick, to take her vitals. The water was enough to nearly make her weep for joy. She gulped it down greedily, dispensing with the formality of a cup and drinking straight from the pitcher, careful not to spill any on the tiny, stirring bundle in her lap. The nurse laughed softly, and lifted the baby so his mother could drink her fill and be examined. She placed him safely in his bassinet, then turned back to his mother. After a quick conversation about pain and comfort levels, she unceremoniously lifted the sheets to check the giant pad wedged between her legs for signs of hemorrhage. There were none, so she replaced the sheet and moved on to the less revealing parts of the exam. Temperature, blood pressure, abdominal massage. All fine. Pushing the bassinet up to the edge of the bed, the nurse left, taking her cold hands and machinery with her, and leaving the mother alone with her son for the first time.
A delicate silence settled in the room. The boy lay in his swaddling blankets, quietly wriggling his feet and hands in an attempt to free himself and see the world outside the plastic box. The woman lay in her bed, wrapped in sheets and warming blankets, shifting uneasily from one hip to the other, trying to find a position of comfort and safety against the cold and glaring lights of the world outside her room.
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