a draft. more like brainstorm, really.

work in progress

They tell me I steal from children who have nothing,

use their trauma as a prop to win sympathy and admiration:

“Look at me. I spend all day with children who’ve been put in group homes,

the ones nobody else can handle. I dole out love from

my palms like birdseed I, I, I…”

have been face-smacked and scorched

for putting my work days on a stage.

Don’t think for a minute I don’t deserve it.

9 years old, after my 8^th piano recital

in half as many years, and I walk out

to a slush-filled church parking lot, firing questions

at my parents, who, in all fairness, have just heard

six renditions of minuet in G

and mine was probably the most memorable

for the way I cracked my knuckles

for fifteen seconds before hitting the first

chord. My mother tells me I was great,

and squeezes me like the juiciest orange.

This does not make me smile.

Instead, I turn to my dad,

face guarded with hope,

and he takes his turn,

“yeah! you were great,”

he says.

My stomach flutters like a last heartbeat,

and I don’t say much on the way home.

Nine years later,

his voice like a scream caught in the reigns,

his accusations sear my cheeks, and

nestle in my ears. I will

take them home and let them echo for weeks,

“Listen, rich girl. Put you and me on a scale

to weigh our privilege and you’ll sink

like your pockets are filled with stones.

Jewish means nothing against my skin color, and queer

is nothing they can read on your face, and

your body has seen mountaintops.

Shut up, and let me speak.”

The shame curls like jewelry around my neck,

and I sit with open palms, open heart,

burning and trying to listen through the

ever blasting radio of guilt.

I am learning to embody the listener.

“You’re just another white girl

working social services,

which means you bear witness

to silenced people, but don’t

mistake yourself

for their scribe.

You want to make a difference?

Give them notebooks for Christmas,

and listen with an ocean’s patience,

listen without an ear to how it will sound later.

Practice holding other people’s stories

like a conch learns to hold the ocean.”

I don’t take circumstance well.

Tell me it’s not my fault and I’ll find a reason it is.

My fault means my chance to fix it,

my wrongs are my chance to right it;

take that away, and you leave me helpless.

Anorexia, oppression and self-defense class taught me

there’s nothing a white girl fears more

than relinquishing control.

I don’t want your kindness or your patience,

but tell me I don’t deserve either

and I’ll start working to earn them that second,

practice listening like a second language,

sift through my guilt and discard everything but compassion.

Tell me I’m doing well and I will run

until I find someone who is willing to tell me otherwise.

To be good enough means complacency,

and my people have enough sitting,

I want to be kinetic. Listening is the hardest thing I do,

I look still, but inside, I am a thrumming beehive,

reminding myself not to speak.

Your criticism means you’re paying attention.

Your criticism means I am not invisible.

As long as there are still more blankets to hand out, and more feet to wash,

I will not take ‘good job’ for an answer.

She says I need to be gentle
because a broken activist
is a useless activist,
and I am careening towards burnout, and
since I have given the same advice
only a thousand a half times,
I hear her.
I take months off, maybe a year,
maybe two.
I come back rested, truth be told,
it’s damaging, this work,
it’s hard, like scar tissue is hard,
and she teaches me to work it below the surface
until things are loose with tears and shouting again.
Take a minute to see how hard you’re learning,
she says. There are more ways to break down barriers
than with your forehead.

Go back to the ocean. Sit with it,
smell its rancid breath, see what it offers you.
Learn its patience, unlearn the hamster wheel.
Bring it back with you,
and get ready
to make waves.