As I learn more about this saucy little world we call blogging, I feel free to post even my most draft-est of works. Thanks to the members of the audiobiographical blogring, I am inspired to do just that.

The following poem was a flourish of words that emerged after an outing with my mentee (I mentor at a local community organization). The experince was so painful and sad that I couldn’t formulate complete sentences, or construct a essay or narrative form that is more typical of my writing.

So, you must understand, I am not a poet. All the more reason for me to post and get the feedback of my indulgent readers. So, please, critique your heart out, spare me nothing, and most importantly reader, enjoy yourself.

Two girls waiting

This is a poem
For all the never-there-fathers
And the stupid mothers
who somehow,
always come back
to belive in them.

Together, in a tangle
of late night growling fights,
afternoon rampages
divorces and
yet still…

SHOCKED
when daddy fucks up again.

Together–
they make the “eager-to-please”
girls, the
girls who wait in the dark
uncomfortable, hungry, tired,
cold
waiting for a ride
from their daddy
who never arrives.
“Twenty minutes”
grows into hours
Two
Please-Love-Me
Never-Complain girls
wait
as the night stretches on without his presence
as the dark sky rumbles
and rain falls
down past tall city buildings
and onto the faces of
Two
Always-Patient Girls

The world hinges on us
Never-Expect-Much girls
us
Please-And-Thank-You girls
us
girls
who say
“It’s no big deal,”
when they stand worried,
finally calling someone else for a ride.

A man with bugging eyes
and coifed hair like a plaster Jesus
stands close.
He tells us that a man named Freddy and him
were sodimized by Satan himself.
He and Freddy used to speak english
but they’ve been talkin’ in tounges ever since.

Two frightened girls watch him as
the last bus rolls by
They wonder
what kind of judgement they have
that would get them here
waiting on a man called dad.

“Nobody loves me,”
the younger Forgive-And-Forget girl says.
I am quiet when I hug her.

Why can’t I just tell her,
“He might not. And that ass hole is missing out!”
What is that hole in your heart
feeling
that comes from such a brutal truth?

What is that powerr of patriarchy,
that need to be help up by Him–
that makes us wait, stone faced and afraid
as jittery junkies and
pretty prostitutes
pass our expectant gaze,
towards every car that passes,

hoping each set of headlights
belongs to you.

So this is blogging! Glorious. To say this is my first time would be a lie, abut a tiny one. You see, I had posted a stupid, smarmy, silly little jingle of an entry yesterday. That was the true loss of my blogging virginity. Embarressed, as those who loose their actual virginity in an embarressing way (hymen breaking via the tragically misguided use of mom’s jumbo tampon to remedy one’s first period), I am using the ever-so-beloved “edit” function to re-create my “first time.” Lets just sweep the former entry/hymen perforation under the rug in favor of a more pleasant, honest, and real experince, shall we?

First off, I’m not always the best at making new friends, or revealing myself (A breif note on the term “revealing myself.” I don’t mean “revealing myself” in a trench-coat-flasher type of way. I’m actually quite good at that. In this context I’m referring to intimacy. *Dear reader, moving forward, please beware of my stunning use of sarcasm and wit*). Sometimes this inability to confidently befriend causes me to tell stupid lies. Although, when I tell these mistruths, I am knawed apart by the guilt of it, and tell the person that I’ve lied to that I’ve done so moments later. This causes me to either be loved for being so human, or shunned for being weird. I hope, as a blog reader, you will choose the former.

I guess it would be helpfull for you to know the kind of lies I tell. People always like to hear the dirty bits of people’s lives (myself included), so I’ll indulge you.

Lie #1: I am 23

I’m actually 22. I’ll be 23 in March. I like to round my age up. I attribute this lie to my constant involvement with things that I am “too young for,” as this age lie started when I was 19, in college, and married. Yes, ladies and gents, MARRIED! >Gasp!<

Let me explain. I am not married in the “insitution-conventional-unfeminist-trapped” kind of way that we are all too framilliar with from growing up with parents in such relationship nightmares, but rather the mind-opening, free, supportive, reinventing-the-doomed-convention, full of acceptance and grace kind of way (please don’t confuse this with being a swinger–I haven’t the balls or coping mechanisms for such things). I like the term “life-partner” better than husband (yick). Marraige was an afterthought for me–spending my life with this person is as natural as breathing.

Of course, public outrage was emense. I was host to my own personal shock and awe campaign that forced people to drop any knowledge of social ediquite and blurt out such insults as, “ARE YOU PREGNANT?” Other favorites included, “HOW OLD ARE YOU?!?!” and, “Are you like, religious?” 

Reactions such as these from new aquaintences brought out my sassy side. Classic responses from me included, “Well, the baby turned 3, and we thought it was about time,” and, “How else do you expect me to keep my greencard?,” or a nonshalont, “Oh, don’t worry, he’ll be dead soon!” While hillarious (hillarious to me and to you, indulgent reader), these lies were mean and diddn’t help my social standing. 

As you can see, it was easer for me to be 21 when I was 19. Upon the disclosure of my significant other, the reactions tended to be much less suvere when I was “21.” Thus, when I was “21,” I told less grossly crewel and endlessly sassy lies, which was important to me as my new husband and I had just moved to Chicago and I was trying to make friends at my new college.

When I actually did turn 21, the lie stopped.While I sometimes have to remind myself not to lie about this, I am confident enough to just be my shocking-old self. Besides, people who were close to me were getting confused. My own mother-in-law had to ask her son, “She’s how old this year?”

Lie #2: I am Shy, Quiet, and “Sweet”

Sometimes, social situation make me nervous. This is a new development since I started college. Even since graduating college, my social insecurity has clung to me with its gross sweaty palms. I’m doing my damndest to get rid of it, but at times, it causes me to act like someone other than who I am. Lately, the charachter I become in uncomforatble social situations seems to be a quiet, shy charachter or a smart/dryly intellectual girl. Due to the 1950′s-Apple Pie composition of my face, many people make the mistake of assuming that I am “sweet.” As defining factors, all of these things are lies.  

I am completely off the wall, with a loud, disturbing, sexual, and disgusting sense of humor. I like to laugh and I have a big smile. I am always craving to listen to other people’s stories and it is emensly gratifying for me to help people, as they tend to open up and tell you these stories. I am a total dreamer. I am a chronic story gatherer. I am in love with those I love, for better or worse (hi dad). My heart is stubbornly sewn onto my sleve, and no matter how hard I try to unstich it, my subconcious always comes along with a staple gun to make sure it is irremovably in place. My face betrays me with its sincerity.   

Well, it looks like I’ve got to get back to work. Thank you, my endearing reader. I feel lucky for you to have read. Don’t feel too shy to comment. It would be my pleasure to read your thoughts.