Hey @fraey, thanks so much for your kind words. This was my first try at a narrative autobiographical poem for NaPo, so I'm glad you enjoyed it. I've never tackled this issue before but for some reason socioeconomic classes seems to be a big issue I'm tackling this year in my NaPo.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
God I relate so hard to this. Hyperbole/overdramatic phrasing is just so good.
"I've got dreams like you--no really!--just much less, touchy-feeley. They mainly happen somewhere warm and sunny on an island that I own, tanned and rested and alone surrounded by enormous piles of money." -Flynn Rider, Tangled
My grandmother believed in many things: reading the Bible every night, attending church every Sunday, serving guests dinner on fine China, and always putting up a real Christmas Tree.
She also believed in looking good for her man; she never left the house without her hair curled to perfection, lips painted red like Elizabeth Taylor, cheeks dusted pink with a soft feminine blush.
She even believed in looking good when her husband came home to the dinner she made for him. These were the things she taught her daughters the same way she’d been taught, parceling up her ideals and passing them down like genes for survival.
Why don’t you put on some mascara? she’d say when my mom would leave the house to see her boyfriend. You’re pretty, but you’d be prettier if you lost some weight, she’d suggest once my mom started dating my dad. My mom didn’t believe in wearing makeup to make Dad happy, but she did wear make-up on her wedding day, more for her mother’s sake than her own. Her family loved it; they called her beautiful, perfect, a porcelain doll.
Mom’s been married twenty-five years now, and she hasn’t worn make-up ever since then. She doesn’t believe in looking extra good for her man, and she doesn’t put up a real Christmas tree or put out the fine China when company comes for dinner.
She might not believe in red lipstick or fine China, but she does believe every woman who should shave. It’s more sanitary, she tells me, when I try to argue that no, studies show it actually creates microtears, portals for bacteria, I explain, much to her displeasure. This earns me a scowl as she calls me a smart ass. It’s unfeminine, she says. And when I point out that men don’t shave, so why should women have to? she shakes her head and tells me Fine, look like Big Foot, I don’t care. She doesn’t want to hear about social constructs either.
She might not believe in having to look good for her man, but feminism is a dirty word in our household. Her face tightens whenever it slips free from my lips, and she tells me that it is nothing but an agenda and that women aren’t oppressed. She still believes in equality, she explains, when I try to say that that is indeed the definition of feminism, and we go in circles like a dog chasing its tail. There have been many dinners that have ended in silence over the F word; rather than unite it only divided us, like a shoji screen.
My grandmother might have believed in beauty, but my mom believes in silence and obedience, She believes religiously in disciplining her children, keeping them in line before me or my sister ever could stick one toe out of formation.
She tells me that if she was constantly on our asses It was so wouldn’t be like the other kids: rude and obnoxious and loud. The irony is hilarious because she is the most outspoken woman I know with a firecracker temper ready to explode, but I guess outspokenness was a recessive gene that skipped me which is why
I hope, that if one day, I should have a daughter of my own, that she inherits what I didn’t, but I won’t try to raise her the way my grandmother raised my mom or the way she raised me. I will raise and teach, as a mother does, but I will not tame her thoughts or her curls. They will be allowed, encouraged to grow unruly.
If I should have a daughter, I will not encourage her to wear make-up, but I won’t discourage it either. I won’t tell her the red lipstick she may pick out at the mall when she’s 13 is a color that only hookers and whores wear as I was told.
I will teach her how to shave her legs when she is 11 and the last of her bunch of friends to pick up a razor blade, but I won’t call her Big Foot if she decides smooth legs aren’t worth all the mountains of angry red welts she will have on her skin.
I won’t tell her that she is pretty but she’ll be just a little prettier if she loses weight, and I definitely won’t hold onto her “fat jeans” to show her how much weight she’s gained four years after her first diet.
I won’t read her the fairytales I was read as a child. Instead, I’ll read her biographies of Susan B. Anthony and Marie Curie and Malala. Feminism will not be the F-word in this household; it will be a lesson of empowerment and one of the first words she learns once she can master the alphabet.
If I should ever have a daughter, I will teach her to be like Prometheus so she will learn not to flinch from the fire inside of her. I will teach her to trust her instinct and rely on that fire; It will guide her as the sacred flame of Olympus guided the mortals out of their darkness. I won’t be there for her forever, but one day when I am gone, know she will be okay and she Won’t be stumbling around in some dark cave like I was because she will let that small flame guide her and she, along with Hestia, will accomplish what Prometheus and even I couldn’t: She will bring Olympus to its knees.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
Love is a mountain of Christmas gifts purchased by parents who don’t know when their next meal will be or if the lights will stay on.
Dad’s out of work again; he’s washing cars and mowing lawns for extra cash. It’s still not enough. Last year, Mom’s sister had to save them.
She gave her nieces the best Christmas they could ask for. Those kids got more gifts that one morning than they had in a lifetime. But now they’re greedy, hungry for more. But what kid isn’t?
Christmas morning arrives, like The cousin that comes to town And never calls. The children run To the den, expecting Santa's toy shop. They see more floor space this year.
It takes five minutes to shred through the Dollar Tree wrapping paper. The youngest daughter only gets One Barbie and some knock-off Disney Princess movies. This makes her mad.
She watches them with her sister, and at 9 and 10, they marvel at how incredibly low budget the animation is.
She imagines what their friends got: Malibu Barbie dream house, A shiny new Nintendo DS, or a brand new Wii, at least real Disney movies. Her friends are the lucky ones.
This is your fault, she tells her parents. Thanks to you, we had the worst Christmas Ever. She expects to be spanked, but as she stands, legs splayed wide apart, hands curled into fists, she doesn’t care.
She wants a fight. A time-out. Something. Anything, she doesn’t expect numbing silence as her mom turns and retreats to her bedroom, shadowed by her father.
She doesn’t expect to hear muffled sobs She doesn’t expect They’ll understand When they’re older to slice through her like a knife.
She hates Christmas now because she’s older and she finally understands Why her mama’s knuckles are worn like brillo pads from scrubbing Other people’s toilets and floors
She’s seen the canyons carved by sleepless nights under her Dad’s eyes; she’s seen the fridge stocked full And her Dad’s wallet (and belly) empty.
She’s seen the scratch marks poverty Clawed into her parents’ skin With the vengeance of a street-cat. They took each blow like a whip, But somehow, their spines are straight.
That Christmas was a lifetime ago, but Memory is a ghost that still haunts The hallways of her mind. She remembers the devastation that rippled across their face like a hurricane.
She still sees the debris in their eyes: Poverty clings to them like a tick, belly swollen with blood, always screaming for more.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
she returns with blue-tossed waves in her smile, lips as expansive as the ocean glowing with happiness that you hope you can absorb if you just stand in her sun for long enough but you've been warned not to stare at the sun directly or bask in sunlight without the protection of sunscreen (you'll only get burned)
but like waves rolling in at high tide, you're pulled in, into the stories and you can just picture yourself stepping into her life for one sunkissed moment
you're happy for her but you wonder what it would be like to live a life tinged with more brightness and if there's some secret supply of happiness scorching you with you even being aware of it or maybe if there's some lottery she's lucked out on and if she can teach you just some of the winning numbers
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
Ooh, I really like that last poem, and especially the final lines - what an excellent illustration of the way other people seem so effortlessly confident and in charge sometimes - and the way you end up holding your breath without even meaning to when you don't feel confident and in charge.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
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