the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 468, Feb. 23, 2004
George William Russell (1867-1935)
“Monarchy is ranked in
scripture as one of the sins of the Jews, for which a curse in reserve is denounced
against them. The history of that transaction is worth attending to.”
—Thomas Paine (1737-1809), Common
Sense
It’s odd how the growing maturity of my
12-year-old daughter demands the increase, if I’m to be honest, in my own. I,
the parent, am supposed to be the mature one, the one who renders the wisdom to
the next generation, demonstrates how relationships are founded, built, and
tended.
But it doesn’t work that way. In fact,
the child, being needful of all things, shows me what little I know, what a
child I am. I have to find ways to grow up, not because I have to become adult,
but because this kid needs an answer from a parent—not an excuse from another child.
As a child, oddly, I also need the answer. For instance, another girl at school kept taking my daughter’s pens and personal things, and my daughter came to me wanting to know what to do about it. She looked to me for an answer, a reasoned, level-headed, mature, wise answer, and all I had was this:
At Christ the King Grade School, Angelo
Fernandez used to eat my lunch and take my stuff, made fun of me on the
playground and at baseball practice. Really, Angelo was not a bad guy. He had
moments when he was kind, generous, and open. I just wanted him off my back
other times.
I went to my dad, asking for advice. He
showed me how to ball up my fist so I wouldn’t break my fingers when I hit
Angelo in the nose! It was that, he said, or run up and tell the teacher.
My dad offered me a hot or cold approach,
both of which would have gotten my fat-kid ass kicked. So, I did nothing.
Angelo kept eating my lunch, taking my stuff, and making fun of me. But I
didn’t get my ass kicked. I was miserable as hell.
What was I supposed to say when all I
know how to do is avoid getting my ass kicked? I synthesized, tried to figure
out why a kid would bug my daughter and made it sound plausible. Then, I
advocated for her to approach the kid like a human being and ask her to stop.
If that didn’t keep her pens in her possession, then she would have to tell the
teacher.
Approaching the kid ended the problem and
made a friend.
As my daughter grows, our mutual maturity
grows—by necessity I have to stay ahead of her and keep learning. I think she
realizes I am the first to admit I don’t have all the answers, but I’m willing
to go looking for them.
These interactions between my daughter
and me have begun demonstrate that I have no parent/child-teen relationship
experience upon which to draw. My father—a hard-working guy—and I never really
had a connection. We never had the back-and-forth learning experience and
mutual vulnerability that a relationship entails. I don’t blame him (it could
have been my issue), and I’m no longer angry about it. It’s just something I
miss, and something I think I would have liked to have had.
But in a way, zero is a nice place to
start. Having a clean slate means my daughter and I get to draw just about
anything on it. Things are all right between us, at least I hope so. I’m sure
she’ll come to hate me some day. But she’ll get over it.
And maybe she won’t hate me. Maybe I’ll
just be an embarrassment for a long time, and then…
Well, I was going to say, “she’ll drop
the kids off on Sundays.” But she has a lot of life ahead of her still. What I
know is this: I’m an embarrassment she doesn’t want to live without today.
That’s good enough.
Hot Ash Wednesday
By Larry Racunas
Pale, repentant churchgoers
abiding burned-in rite and ritual;
haggard days in search of oneness,
high priests reaching to low souls
humbly hoping to meet in the middle.
One darling woman knows
where to find peace:
After the ash-blackened thumb
swipes her forehead—though before
her gray disgrace gets wiped away—
she'll receive her firelit lover's
flowering idea, as with the Egyptians
before her Christianity, to celebrate
the lips, to celebrate the lotus.
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