Three students mad at other students:
in stream-of-conscious essay one
tells me,
“I want to punch ___T____ and ___J_____ in the face.”
Two others allude, avoid the overt.
I must “fix” this for them.
Senioritis.
Three students mad at other students:
in stream-of-conscious essay one
tells me,
“I want to punch ___T____ and ___J_____ in the face.”
Two others allude, avoid the overt.
I must “fix” this for them.
Senioritis.
At first, I planned to simply post a poem by this title, a response to the bombing in Boston and the young men who orchestrated it. Then I decided that a few comments seemed more appropriate. These comments come from a realization and conversations with a couple of colleagues at work noticing that all the perpetrators of the bombings and mass killings have been young males. These young men cite various causes from the anger of being disenfranchised and bullied to religious fervor of a certain type to insanity. All acknowledged anger over something, a rage so profound they felt driven to act, at least for those to whom authorities could talk. Most appeared to be alienated from their culture, friends, or family, young men who failed to fit in. Although we must condemn their horrific acts, perhaps it would also prove more productive to ask, “Why?” Unless we know why and address the causes, these events will be repeated somewhere at some totally unforeseen time. And many innocents will die again and again. Perhaps equally disturbing is the fact that we are not alone. These types of events repeat themselves in one way or another in many other countries in the world. Additionally, I realize that many people feel the solution lies in revenge, punishment, justice as they see it. For those, many of the sentiments I express in this poem may seem too simplistic, too kind, too naive. I teach high school. I work with all types of young men daily. I see their fear, anger, loneliness even if fleeting and only momentarily. We can make a difference; we can reach out.
Look at yourselves
filled with
fear,
anger,
hatred.
This world may not embody
the perfect place
of which you dream;
do not despair.
We care.
Do not shoot me.
I care.
Do not throw bombs at the innocent;
They care.
Do not hate the different.
They care.
Do not despair.
I was afraid of revealing me, the essence of me. Who even, indeed, was I? My mother told me, when I started dating, to hide the essence of me, boys wouldn’t like it. Too smart; too aggressive; too full of myself; too intense; too serious; too burning inside strong; too adventuresome; too nasty a temper; too full of desire to feel, taste, see, learn; too much in love with a world of possibility. I took her advice, married a genius scientist, safe, timid, disadventurous. He liked me because I could shoot a bird off a wire hundreds of feet away. I time, we all died, him, me, the bird.
This piece was a finalist in a flash memoir contest.
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