Look at that girl, fifteen and full of hope
slash anticipation slash anxiety slash bizarre dreams.
Her dreams are always unusual
like she learns it is not normal
to remember multiple dreams throughout the night
she takes pride in her dream recall.
Her mother blames the Stephen King novels
on her antique nightstand the flashlight under covers.
But in September 1995 a different sort of dream,
a boy and an upcoming night a school dance.
Paul Keller a senior to her sophomore, tall and gangly
prone to tripping over his white Converse All Stars.
He was cool in that he had a lot of friends
he didn’t just hang out with the surfers and the Mormons,
though he did attend the local LDS chapter and
his bleached hair always stuck up in the ocean breeze.
Mormons were dangerous to her
(she was a good little Christian girl, after all)
which no doubt added to the appeal
(What about a wedding? Would he convert?
She wouldn’t be allowed in the temple, right?
And what about their kids? Surely he would permit her
to raise their children in the church?)
But why was that little girl so anxious?
(she thought she was so mature back then
so wise beyond her years
but her purple lipstick gave her away)
So fraught with thoughts of what ifs and what thens
and will he, or rather when will he—
always the optimist and the planner
and she just wanted to know
if he would be a good kisser and
if he would be a good boyfriend.
Was it normal to daydream about luring him
over to her house to her bedroom covered
in posters of STP and Pearl Jam
so that she could plant one on him
while they “practiced dancing” before the magical night?
Look at that pretty girl, flat on her quilted bed
staring up at Scott Weiland and actually believing
a school dance would be magical
just because it was called “Homecoming”,
even though it was held in the crummy school gym
garnished with gaudy streamers
and blue and white balloons.
Look at that girl, fifteen and full of hope
Aurora, has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful?
You’re right, that’s too cliché
and demeaning to group you with everyday beauty.
Hot damn girl you know how to bring it.
The undulating curves and caresses
the flashes followed by coy addresses
the teasing the tickling the beckoning
you enthrall like no other.
I have never seen anything like you
and I fear that I never will again
but at least I can die tomorrow
knowing that I witnessed the incomparable glory
of the one and only
Welcome to Spring in the Northwest
but like the way north Northwest
Like the where are we on the map Northwest
Alaska, the Last Frontier
the Big Dipper on a navy blue flag
where there are more men than vaginas
“where the odds are good
but the goods are odd”
where you drive past moose crossings
and the Chena River at every turn.
Snow piled upon snow piled upon ice
and gosh darn it if you don’t slip
every fourth step.
I see green fighting through barren brown
and I know it seems impossible
but I swear we have seen the forest multiply
in just five days.
Don’t peel the birch off the birch trees
(but who would do such a thing?)
and ignore the bedraggled hitchhikers
boring their eyes into your sunglasses
flicking their thumbs at your breasts
and whatever you do
keep your gas tank full and your truck
at the ready.
Cesar Chavez, Cesar Chavez
A man, Mexican American,
Lacy Telles, not Tell-us
Biking down the streets of San Francisco
Crossing Cesar Chavez Street
Not paying attention at first
Until I biked by Cesar Chavez Elementary
Until I got a day off of school
Until I took a picture of the mural
in the Mission District, rainbow eyes
inside the weathered face.
I didn’t know that Cesar Chavez
was a pioneer, a leader, a man
willing to stand
up for human rights, Chicano rights
(And do you know what Chicano means?)
And not just Chicanos, but workers.
Workers exploited, abused,
you know the story
but just because you’ve heard it all before
does not mean you know.
The parade that parades down the streets
of the Mission does not tell the tale
of the man who fasted
does not tell the tale
of the man who prayed
does not tell the tale
of the man who fought
for the freedom of others,
not just his children, but yours too.
And if you are a farm worker
March 31st isn’t just another day
on your calendar
and if you are a union worker
you know that these things are never easy,
have never been easy
And if you, like me, find yourself
riding a bicycle down the spine
of the San Francisco history book,
past the produce markets and
taquerias of Valencia Street,
remember the man
Si, se puede.
Two a.m. and no-one is home
Turn off the lights, put down the phone
Crawl into bed with only a book
Pages of words to fill every nook
No work, no school, no paycheck worries
Only space for vibrant stories
Solitude a New York fight
In darkness do I see the light
Look in the fruit basket, pushing aside
the uneven orbs of citrus until you find
the dark and malleable egg,
the fruit posing as a vegetable,
bright green enveloped by dark green.
Where do you come from, avocado?
I make nachos, and I think
“Make sure to invite ol’ A to this fiesta”.
I stir fry peppers and green beans
in soy sauce and lemon;
we all know it wouldn’t taste the same
without you, Avocado.
Pasta and panzanella salad?
Bellissimo! Buon appetito!
It just doesn’t make sense, Avocado.
You’re that actor they cast
as the villain in that one movie,
the father in the next,
Santa Claus in the holiday feature,
and then as the bumbling genius who gets
the pretty lady and saves the world.
How can you be so many things to
so many people?
And do you know what??
I saw you in a smoothie the other day.
What the hell, Avocado?
Someone needs to put you in your place,
before you spread yourself too thin.
Pick a cuisine, already, quit showing up
on every menu in every type of restaurant.
It’s flashy, and frankly, kind of
Ok, ok, ok, I take it back.
Dear A, I love you.
There are the simple things, like boot versus trunk
or toe-mah-toe sauce versus ketchup.
(Catsup? Does anyone spell it that way, anymore?)
That first time you told me you had the shits,
and I was alarmed.
When my sister killed her interview,
you were alarmed,
then turned around and murdered your burger.
Who sings that song, “I Got You Babe”?
Sonny and … Sure.
Sure. That’s not how you spell it.
Sure! Sure! You say. It’s Sure.
And then your dad offered me a rissole,
which sounded like rizzle,
at the Ari, which sounded like aria,
but was really the RSL,
which is kind of like an Elk’s Lodge,
except I don’t really know what Elk’s Lodges are
but basically families go there for affordable food and space.
Remember we played the pokeys at the Ari?
At first I thought you were inviting me
to engage in illicit acts at the family gathering
(I wouldn’t put it past you, you dirty girl)
but the pokeys are what we call slot machines, slots,
which, come to think of it, do not
sound so innocent, either.
Howyadoon? Four syllables shrunk to two,
your favorite trick.
Reckon it will rain? Grab the brollie.
I feel like bogan is a slang I shouldn’t use,
just like you should maybe stay away
from calling anyone white trash.
(It isn’t very nice.)
We both dislike pikers, except I didn’t know
I disliked pikers, I just knew I hated flakes.
We look into each other’s eyes, and you say,
“Sometimes I think you don’t understand me!”
and I stare back at you and reply
“I don’t understand you.”
How can a scone be a skahn,
and a cone be a witch’s hat?
How can someone wear a pair of carkeys?
You no longer say “Djal-ah-pee-no”,
but Carlos becomes the loss of a car
and Spanish will always be my thing,
not yours, leave the translating up to me, babe.
Do we need a translator?
Nah. It’s better this way.
A couple of months ago I joined hundreds of New Yorkers in celebration of Margaret Atwood’s birthday. I sat in the audience, by myself, as Margaret Atwood and Neil Gaiman engaged in witty conversation, running the gamut from books to politics to film to America. Something Ms. Atwood said resounded so poignantly, it moved me. Mr. Gaiman told her that he counted her as one of the few role models he could look up to, for she was a poet, a screenwriter, an inventor, and an author of speculative fiction as well as historical fiction. He proclaimed this an anomaly, since most writers stick to one genre or one medium, and he found himself to be more like her, unwilling to be boxed in to just one category. Ms. Atwood replied that she was one of the lucky ones, because “back when she went to college”, there was no one who sat you down and made you decide between fiction or poetry; they just let you write. This spoke to me, since I have always been able to move from prose to poetry to screenwriting with fluidity, yet have also faced barriers because of this unorthodox approach. It was even more time appropriate because just one week prior to this event, I was informed that even though I am a Creative Writing major at Brooklyn College, I actually needed to choose an emphasis between fiction, poetry, or plays. This was news to me, and frustrating news, indeed. I am primarily a fiction writer, but I really want to take a poetry class in Spring, and yet this is not recommended unless I want to choose poetry as my emphasis.
And so I sat alone in the audience, for once thankful that no-one was able to accompany me that night because I might have been more self conscious over my emotion. Margaret Atwood is my hero, and she has given me the encouragement I need to refuse a stifling label.
Tonight my sister leaves for Israel. She will be flying into Tel Aviv and then trekking over to Jaffa to start a 5 week program with UCLA. (http://www.nelc.ucla.edu/jaffa/site.html)
When I tell people that my kid sister is going on an archaeological dig in Israel for over a month, usually I am faced with wide eyes, exclamations of awe, and tinges of fear or jealousy sprinkled in the commentary. While Indiana Jones might be a stretch, she will be digging and working with stuff from 1400-1200 B.C., which is pretty awesome.
She will be thrown into a foreign environment, staying with a band of students from various cities, laboring in the heat, and learning in an environment so very far from her home. She has a stack of massively heavy textbooks stashed in her luggage, in addition to the studying she has already completed in advance. She is going to rock it.
Basically I am brimming with pride for my kid sister who is following a dream and barreling through her limitations. This is not an easy adventure, and no doubt she will be faced with surprises each week and unforeseen challenges that inevitably occur when you are on your own in a completely different environment. For those of us that know her, we can see the strength she has been building and accumulating.
She is one smartypants that will no doubt succeed, but I still sometimes look at her as my shy little sister who needs assistance talking to strangers. So proud of the little baby.
Sitting in a coffee shop, snow on the streets outside the window and glasses fogging up. Seriously, my glasses keep fogging up. I presume it means I wear them too flush against my face, but I like it this way, less times during the day of me pushing them back off the tip of my nose.
And it is cold outside, but colder than that, and I think about the girl I met yesterday who asked me if I missed California.
The girl who confessed that she hated it here, loathed living in New York, but was sticking it out a little longer because of her boyfriend. They had tried living together in LA, but he hated it, so he dragged her back to New York, and now look where they were. She wanted me to agree, to laud the warmth of the west coast and shake my head at the cold of the east coast (the wind, the stares, the lack of “hello’s” from strangers in line) but I didn’t.
How could I tell her about my friends and my book club and my work and my writing and my bike rides without sounding like a braggart? Like her year and a half of giving it a go just couldn’t compare to my success in fitting in. I thought about inviting her out but then saw the futility in my gesture because it was obvious to both of us she was going to move back to the land of sunshine.
And the sun is shining here, right now, I can see it over my misty glasses and the fogged up window and it is almost possible to forget the chill that awaits because that hopeful sun is shining so brightly.
(P.S. The photo is one I took in Australia. I am dreaming of those sunny days on the water.)