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teenage zine
my daughter orders a zine in the mail, smoky teenage art featuring liquor bottles. i was excellent at that genre: collages and stories that featured absolut, and razor blades, and witch lesbians. i was epic in high school, so much so i only finished sophomore year. this girl i love starts 10th grade in a couple months, and i am the parent now, paging through this photocopied offering, reminding her she can come talk to me about anything. i hand her back this testament letters swimming in high proof alcohol, practically ripping the paper: 14 is a lot of truth. my girl i welcome you into the world a second time, with equal struggle, this universe of words that cut and defy and end. you are the child of language that panicked all the grown ups: grown now yourself curled in your tiny back bedroom with pencils and notebooks and plenty to say. i’m listening.
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the favorite child
my daughter is obsessed with being The Favorite Child. she brought it up in my Mother’s Day card, then again at the dinner table. this has gone on for years. my son has gotten touchy about it, fights back, no I’M the favorite child. their papa tells whichever one he’s with they’re the best, then, shhhhh don’t tell the other. i’ll tell you the truth, which i don’t dare tell them: i could not possibly pick one, but i do love that they both fight for it. each one knows that they’re worthy of being the favorite. both day dreamers imagining a better world in the leaf shadows outside their windows, both certain of their own genius, confident in their ingenuity, both not too shy to declare themselves the center of my spinning universe. freeways: pandemic poem #10
for amy i made it through oakland in minutes racing the freeway arcing the lake looping back past the bay pulling the reins in hard to halt at my corner. traffic is a thing of the past back when i wore slacks and went to lunch and had more to do than just pick up my medicine and hurry home. i don’t see anyone on my street either: usually the high school kids would be tossing wrappers in my bushes jaywalking extravagantly away from my disapproval. it’s quiet here in the after. but then unexpectedly you call, and even more unexpectedly i call back. there might be space here in this great sudden emptiness for conversations about losing and what comes after: wouldn’t we all like to know what comes after? i think it might be the truest thing i ever said: which was i love you. that’s what’s left here at the end of all the empty roads, the coiling freeways that sped us back home. four more weeks sheltering: pandemic poem #7
the strings of emails the tasks accomplished the drafts the submissions the hours billed: none of it adds up to one room full of laughter, one walk grazing shoulders, one knee to knee strategy session. can i talk to you through the fence i asked thinking it might keep me from breaking. i now have weeks of lists and jokes, terrors and dreams and things i had wanted to ask backed up behind a polite fine: this dam threatening cracks. i can’t wait til it breaks: beware the obsessive love notes and messages marked question a giant earnest wave wrestling the mud and rocks all the way to the ocean. pandemic poem #5
for the Molotov Mouths this molotov cocktail is loaded with a love poem: hot sharp devastating. it’s sailing over their chain link their barbed wire over their massive concrete: it’s leaping every barrier. it’s exploding windows splintering doors warping steel this burning love. i am standing in the middle of this smoking apocalypse launching the one thing i have left to say: i love you like a riot like an avalanche like a hand that just won’t let go. pandemic poem #4
for jonah i can’t think of anything better this morning than telling you the way you glance at the floor and half smile when i say i love you is devastating, the way you carry the weight of waking: make your lunch, zip your bag, grab your keys, convinces me to start with coffee, the way you place your hand on my shoulder blade is just enough to make me believe i might make it through the day. turns out when we get to the end of the world all i have left is love poems and the memory of your 5 am kiss as you headed out into the tangle of danger and fog. love poem on a monday morning: pandemic poem #3
Praise be to the leftover night and to the sun itching to rise. Praise be to the ones who woke up tired sitting here with coffee about to rise. Praise be to the babies and youth coiled in their blankets dreaming with their fists raised. Praise be to the ones zipped in tents layers upon layers upon layers to raise the heat. Praise be to the gloved hands that heal at all hours and praise be to the thermometer that’s numbers do not rise. Praise be to all those who didn’t sleep terrified of the mistakes they made worried the cost may rise. Praise be to genius tapped out on keyboards sung out in songs written out in documents praise be to the people organizing the people who will rise. staying dry
the tents on the side of the road sag under the rain. my friend says we’re staying dry. i say that’s good to hear. meanwhile i’m reading a lot about the markets and banks and businesses. bailouts. priorities. i’d like to see a trillion dollars or even just a billion (hell a million) distributed down here by the tracks. loosen those hundred dollar bills like butterfly wings, land them in every palm. lent poem #3
the day has not yet peeked over the horizon. the children sleep. his truck has quietly drifted from the driveway. i’ve been up for hours scheming already about things that seem important: planning that next event, getting documents signed, a very ambitious book proposal. and then this poem said stop listen to the cars and the kitchen timer, that one unbelievably loud bird, the hoarse wind. this poem whispered a story about the children when they were smaller and i used to watch them nap full of gratitude for every small breath. this poem cancelled my plans for the day: you will find me at that little cafe on stockton drinking my third latte and drawing on napkins. we’re not getting anywhere. not you, not me, not the rich in their castles. today i’m going to recklessly call people just to say i love you even if it’s awkward, even if i should have another agenda. the possibilities are so much greater than the volume of my inbox. the children are still resting their heads on their forearms and my breakfast is getting cold because this poem is rioting all over the page ripping holes in the paper just to say stop. this poem draws my eyes to the lightening sky reminding me that just this instant everything changed. Love, Dare, Grow: El Cerrito Families Part 2
For part two of my series of interviews with El Cerrito families, I interviewed a mom with children who are grown about her ideas of family. Nancy Donovan is an event planner at Berkeley Law, a mom and a writer. She loves to cook, read, travel and think about & discuss social justice issues. Her mottos are: "Let Art Help You" and "Do Some Good, Have Some Fun." Say three things about yourself and one about each other family member. I am creative, curious and engaged with life. My oldest daughter is currently a college student majoring in community studies. My younger daughter is a seeker. Who is family? Family is anyone I invite into my inner circle to love, know and be in meaningful relationship with. Family is also a refuge, a place to be completely myself. Family is my ancestors, my siblings, my aunties, my daughters, my girlfriends and everyone in my tribe. How do you know? I know who my family is because I have made a practice of creating a family of choice. The requirements to be family include a willingness to be truly seen and the discipline to do the work of relationship. What is unique about your family? We are a family in transition. We are literally moving house soon. Claire is in college, Tala just graduated high school. We are all on our way to our “next” while being in the “present” as much as we can. We are a bi-racial family. We have privilege and we have work to do. What do you think is the same about your family and other families? Struggle. The current climate in our world has many people on edge. We are struggling and also offering support to ourselves and each other. Why is family important to you? Family is the place where I feel safe, supported and loved. Love is the complicated bliss of shared space & shared lives. It’s not without effort. Parents are not saints, nor are children; we are all trying to do our best. Most of the time. Family is an important place of rest, when done well. What does your family support you to do that you might not otherwise be able to do? Be creative, be honest, have fun. What does home mean to you? Home is the place where I can cook, relax, dance and make art. Home is a place of beauty and sanctuary. Home means that I am safe. Home is a place to do the laundry, to dream and to rest. Home is a place to have dinner parties, tea parties, long conversations with teenagers and elders and children. To play with the new kitty, Bean. What does home look like to you? Colorful and clean(ish.) Comfy pillows and blankets and places to sit and dream. Art supplies, paper, colored pencils, pens, paint. An active kitchen. Art on the walls. Pictures of us on the refrigerator. What is it like for a family making a home in this place? El Cerrito is a welcoming place for families, in my experience. Our block has a block party every year, we know each other and help each other. We have built community together. And, although the east bay has lots of diversity, we don’t have a lot of racial diversity on our block. What are your dreams for your family? Freedom, safety and the ability to always have a home base. I dream that my family can accomplish goals, be loving & be of service to the community. I dream that my family will ‘do some good, and have some fun’ every day. What about your fears for your family? Climate change, economic inequality and racism all concern me relative to my family, and for the global family. Will children born today have good prospects for long and healthy lives? Life is fraught and fragile and also magical. How to live in the world amidst fear and peril is a challenge. What kind of support do families here need? Families need education, parks, clean water, libraries, grocery stores, places of worship. Families need to feel safe and welcomed into schools and other public spaces. What’s your best family story? Tala was about 4 years old and she was hiding. She thought it was a game, and she didn’t come out when we shouted for her to please come out. We thought she had run off. A police car happened to be driving down the block and we got the police involved in the search. It didn’t take long to find her. Fortunately. A small moment of terror turned to great relief. |
Authordani gabriel Archives
June 2020
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