I’m so excited to see my poem “Dive” in today’s issue of Oysters & Chocolate! Click here to view my poem, and be sure to check out the rest of the site for erotic poems, sexy stories, articles, and more!!
Monthly Archives: January 2012
Watering the Plant
My father hit me only once
in a rage across my leg
drawing a hand printed stain
puffy and red on my skin
In the dark room
where my sister and I slept
while my parents fought
their endless fight
my sister said shut up
I can’t sleep with you crying
I awoke in the blackness
my father sitting on the edge
of my bed, crying, fully
dressed for work as the early
morning light etched his shadow
I awoke to my father crying
looking at his daughter asleep
fearing the fragile part of him
that could bruise so easily
and had so much growing to do.
rushing to the side of my mother’s bed
when I was nine years old
of the dark
of long dreamless sleep,
I would sit up in bed
eyes open wide
trying to see through
as my heart pounded so loud
I wanted to scream
any sound to make sure I was still
these nights I would go to her
wake her with the knowledge
that I was going to die
and she would turn to me, in her
half-asleep voice, she would
talk to me, and tell me stories
until I felt well enough
to face the darkness again
when I got older
I stopped myself from rushing
to the side of my mother’s bed
and learned to face the darkness
I find her voice inside me
her tone rising and falling
like the ocean tide, calming
my tumultuous soul.
when I was a child and tried
to sleep under the stars in rockaway
beach, the surf rolling in like thunder
wondering if it would
wash me away while I slept
the bars on the boardwalk were noisy
into the night, music and voices
drowning in the distance
At first light, the sand machines
advanced and we woke, scrambling
in the early soberness of morning
we went somewhere, either to my mother’s
boyfriend’s apartment or his sister’s
house, left alone to watch television
with her scarred and angry son
I wanted to go home.
I thought home was with my mother
I didn’t like it there, I wanted to be alone
in my room reading or drawing
without this new feeling, a nagging fear
not knowing what would happen next
I no longer place blame.
I look at the turns my life has taken
and I am able to see with preciseness
where things went wrong –
I can’t go back and say Stop.
What you are doing will change me,
the course of my life. I can only
hope to look at my life now and see,
with that same preciseness,
where things went right.
It’s nearly the end of January! This post will complete the first cycle of my weekly series, which carried the theme of “Lost Children”. Next month, I will focus on a different theme. Because it will be February, I imagine the theme will have something to do with Love. Hearts abound in February and already every supermarket and drugstore around me has at least one aisle that has exploded into pink and red. I already have some ideas of what I would like to share, and it is going to be a lot of fun.
In the first post of this series, I shared a short story I had written – it was a story about lost children, a contemporary revisiting of the Hansel and Gretel fairytale. In my story, the children are lost through parental abuse and neglect. In a departure from the original tale, my characters enter the woods as an act of empowerment. The danger is not the unknown forest where wolves and witches lurk; the danger is in the home.
This is an unfortunate reality for many, many children today. As a teacher, a parent, and a member of society, it seriously concerns me how children are raised, educated, and valued. Millions of children suffer at the hands of their parents, those people who brought them into the world.
I think when most people think of “lost children”, they imagine a child on milk carton – and that is another terrible reality, how some children are taken by the sickest members of society and mistreated, raped, abused, and killed, never to be seen again. There are children who are abandoned by their parents, sent to live with relatives, in foster homes, only to receive similar or worse maltreatment. However, in my research on violence against children, I found that children are most at danger in their own homes.
On my teaching resume, I have stubbornly put my role as a mother as part of my experience and skills. The reaction to this has varied, and I have been told by some that while it is nice that I’m a mother, it doesn’t count as valid experience in working with children. I am always a little angry to hear that, because I feel that being a parent is among the most important work that I will ever do, and I do it on a daily basis. But it does not surprise me. Over the years I have realized how little we value the act of parenting and caring for children.
The “stay at home mother” is a rapidly declining position in this society; it is unpaid and not ecomomically viable for many women. For others, being a mother is often seen as a low goal for a modern educated woman. I cannot speak for fathers – but I do know that there are more “stay at home dads” than ever before. Nevertheless, the number of children living in divorced families with custody to the mother is astounding. While the role of father is very important, it seems much more shadowy to me – the predominant father in society is absent, distant, and removed from the care of children.
We have generations of children being raised in daycare centers. One can see the value of raising and caring for children when centers typically pay their workers between $8 and $10 per hour, which is just above minimum wage. Besides a childcare certificate, no further education is required.
I’ve thought that when people have children, there should be some mandatory education on parenting. There are many different parenting books, magazines, articles – but sometimes I think that they fail to reach those who most need these resources. As a society, we approach the task of parenting, having no real education on how to parent, having no choice but to rely on our own experiences as a child for guidance. Consciously or unconsciously, our first education in parenting is the parenting we received as children. We then are faced with either rejecting or emulating the methods of child rearing that have been passed on.
I believe that I am a good mother. I am not flawless. There are many things that happen in the course of parenting where I am faced with challenges and decisions, and I do not know if all of my actions and words are the “right” ones. Being a single parent causes this to fall on me with an extra weight, because I do not have a partner with which to talk and brainstorm and share the awesome responsibility of parenting.
Relatively recently, a friend of mine asked, “What are you going to do when your children are old enough to read your writing?” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but then it was clear that he was speaking about my erotica. I told him that I had no fear of them reading anything I write, including erotica, because I think by that point they will know me. I also think that, if I accomplish what I hope, that my children will not have society’s fear of sex and sexuality, and will see it as a natural, interesting, extremely close interaction between conscious and consenting adults.
Now, we haven’t quite gotten there yet. My older daughter is a recent 13 year old. But we talk, and communicate very well. Most of our discussions right now center more on body image, peer relationships, friendships, and the changes and complications of a girl slowly turning into a young woman. We talk about boys, fathers, the particular difficulties that men have growing in this society as well.
That is where my daughter is, and I feel that it is essential that she understand her self and her body, and be confident in who she is. Relationships will come. Sex will come. But it is my hope that this foundation will find her in safe and healthy relationships – starting with the most important one – her self.
This is a good example for me to use because it is in this area that I have had to deviate from my own experiences and my parent’s example. My parents divorced when I was about 11 years old. The time that followed was very tumultuous, and there were many years in which I did not see my father, years in which I lived with my mother and her alcoholic husband.
When I was going through puberty, I was mortified. I did not want to change. I did not like the way I saw teenage girls acting. I did not like the way I saw men beginning to look at me. To increase my discomfort, my mother’s boyfriend teased me constantly about my arms always crossed over my chest and my bad posture (shoulders forward in a feeble attempt at hiding my body). There was no conversation with my mother.
At that juncture, I feel that my mother was going through many of her own life changes. The transition between parenting a child and parenting a young woman did not come easily to her, and I feel that she thought I would grow, as she did, into womanhood on my own. And I did. I did, but it was done painfully, awkwardly, and finally, through the help of books.
I think that this was a crucial difference. My love of books began when I was a young child and has continued to this very day. By the time I was 12, I had literally gone through all of the interesting children’s and YA books and series. It was around this age that I ventured into the adult section of the library and stumbled upon psychology and philosophy. I began reading Freud and learned how to self-analyze, to think, to understand who I was. I believe that this is what allowed me to live through some of my experiences and to emerge with very little harm done to my essential self.
My daughter does not have to go through it alone. No one does. I feel that a parent/child relationship is in constant flux. As a little child, she needed me to “mother” her, to nurture her, to take care of nearly all of her needs. As an older child, she needs me to guide her, to show her how to communicate, to be her example. It is not easy work at times, and I am not perfect. But I love my children. I enjoy them and value who they are, as distinct persons from me, the person who brought them into this world.
Parenting is a responsibility as well as a gift, and a singular experience that should never be taken lightly. My parents made mistakes, sometimes grave ones, and my relationship with them has changed and evolved as we have all grown.
There is an idea that we are all constantly changing, and it is essential to look at each other anew every day. It doesn’t matter who you were yesterday, or who you will be tomorrow – what matters is who you are right now, at this moment. And this moment demands always that you give the best you have to offer – as a parent, a child, a person in the world.
In closing this cycle on “Lost Children”, I wish to offer a few poems I wrote about my experiences as a child. And further, hope. This moment is constantly changing. We are all given opportunities to grow and expand and evolve. “If you’re not lost, you’re never found.”
Click here to read a few more poems from my unpublished manuscript, My Mother’s Daughter.
The morning grey extended time, day
reversed itself and became closer to night
Solemn and enclosing, the rain
hit the windows and ran rivulets down the glass
it pounded against the house, sending the cats
to take cover underneath the beds
By mid-afternoon, the sky turned misty
and the sun pressed against the opaque sky
casting an ethereal light on everything
Waiting outside for my daughter, it was impossible
not to notice, even the grass had never been
quite that shade of green
She came home tired and cranky
I kissed her forehead and told her she was missed
at school all day, on this long day
She hugged me, and as I held her in my arms
I looked into her face and followed her back
to the beginning, when the world was raw and new
Nothing could touch us then, nothing.
And now, life, it is too much sometimes, or else
a pit of nothingness and despair. Would if I could
have lived as Dickinson or Rich, Atwood or Bukowski
not Plath, never Plath, perfection has no children
yet; the children would survive her
I don’t know how to rebuild pieces of a dream
I cannot catch them with my hands, I cannot be sure
which piece fits where. Everything hangs in the balance
and I am shaken, so much depends upon …
Did you really believe, Williams, upon
a red wheelbarrow?
The children are sleeping, in a wave
of exhaustion, the scent of sickness
still upon them, the baby
cried and cried until held her
against my breast and she
finally gave into sleep, rosebud mouth
open, cries still sobbing through her
as if it were involuntary
I laid her in bed and held her tiny body
against the length of my torso
I put my ear to her chest and listened
to her heartbeat, so close to me
through the small frame
of bone, the soft surface of skin.
I heard her heart beat loud and strong
and remembered our doctor’s visits
when she was still in the womb, we
would always begin by baring my
stomach and rubbing the cool, clear gel
white noise of the machine and then
the microphone making its way across
my body, looking for that unmistakable
noise, the faint sound of her fetal heart
and how it never failed
to bring tears to my eyes, each time
I was overcome with it
now she sleeps, nearing one year
outside the womb, she is still becoming
and I hope she can grow strong
in this fragile space, my life.
It is cold and grey and misty
outside; winter rain isn’t kind
I just finished the dishes
and am sitting at the kichen table
watching my daughter dance
wildly across the living room
she’s dressed like a flamenco dancer
twirling and leaping, ponytail flying
my other child is napping
it’s late to nap, but she’s so content
cradled in the warmth of slumber
against the harsh winter cold
I am sitting here, counting these
stolen moments upon one hand,
each finger slightly dimpled from
dishwater and soap
I know soon one child will wake
and the other will run into the kichen
there are needs to be met, and my
mother’s daugther has work to do.
I’m tired, but its a good tired
this is the most important work I’ll
ever do, my role is complex.
I need to be the change I wish to see
the children look at the world
through my eyes, and I want them
to see something beautiful, something
wonderful. I am changing, growing
stronger, I am evolving.
But for now, I need to linger here
listening to my life resonate
each path has led me to this moment
and I embrace it, finding my life
a wellspring of love and laughter
I want to hold this feeling,
hold it in my fragile hands
as if it were a tangible thing
I would never let go.
Salvador Dali, “The Persistence of Memory”
This is the second post in my weekly series. I should have probably mentioned that my concept of time is a bit, um, different than the standard units of measuring time. When I first thought of this idea, I initially thought that I would like to choose one day a week, preferably the same day each week, in which to carry out a “weekly series.” However, my schedule varies and changes daily. Thanks for bearing with me while I try to carve a weekly space for this writing!
Yesterday, I had time, but I did not come online much because of the internet strike against SOPA and PIPA. I was very happy that WordPress chose to participate in the strike, and blacked out the content on the main page. On the whole, I was impressed by the efforts across the internet to take a strong stance against these bills and to raise general awareness to the public.
Many sites offered reasons why they opposed these bills, and offered links to take further direct action. Google gave a statement and an online petition that would be sent directly to Congress. Wikipedia gave a redirect in which you could enter your zipcode to receive contact information on your district representatives.
I am against both SOPA and PIPA because I believe in a free exchange of information and ideas across the world via the internet. And while I understand the concerns about copyright and piracy and intellectual property – governmental control of the internet is not the answer. I wonder if people who are not opposed to these bills understand the full implications of such.
The first thing that came to my mind is the Occupy Movement. On my local television and radio stations in New York, the Occupy Wall Street movement was given the thinnest of coverage, and what was covered was filtered through bias and propoganda. All of my information about what was really going on came from the internet. In a government controlled internet, it would be possible to block ANY information that the government decides upon. SOPA and PIPA are not just about copyright and piracy and intellectual property. It is a challenge to our concept of Democracy.
Recently I was thinking about the time in my life shortly after I gave birth to my first daughter. I remember that I was watching the news on the television, and as I watched story after terrible story, a pit of despair grew within me until I was in tears. All I could think about was, What kind of world did I bring my child into?
And though I have never been a person to stand by and watch in silence, it was that moment that rooted me in this world. And however naive this may sound, I still believe that it is possible to make the world a better place.
I feel that it is essential to participate in whichever way I can; there is too much at stake. The strongest reason that I became a teacher is because I believe that education is key to helping future generations become more active and aware of the world and their place in it. This is how I raise my children and this is how I live my life.
Continuing with the theme of “Lost Children”, I feel that we are a society of lost children, trying to find our way, hoping that this time we may find the right path. Today, I want to share some old poems. I don’t write very much about my children, but when they were young it was the only way I could process the experience. These poems are about my own children and my experience as being a young mother, a single parent, and a struggling writer.
Click here to view three poems from my unpublished collection of poetry, My Mother’s Daughter.
It’s now 2012 … happy new year! I always love the turning of the calendar into January, as we close the door on the past year and open the door to the future. I feel like January gives the world a safe place to end, then a reminder; begin again. We celebrate the previous year, think about where we are, where we’ve been, where we’re going. We create, or renew, our resolutions. We celebrate another year of life, another chance to try, another opportunity to begin our worlds anew.
I’ve been doing some work on this website, updating links and categories and pages, trying to organize and expand. I’ve been planning to submit my poetry manuscript for publication sometime in the spring. I’ve got some poems and stories coming out in the next several months, and I’ll be excited to see them in print! I also began a series on this website, where I will share unpublished poems and stories on a weekly basis. I’m really excited about the series, and though I’m still working it out conceptually, I love the potential of this project!
I know that the year 2012 will bring about many changes. Both of my children will graduate this year; my older child will start her first year of high school, my younger one will begin middle school. I am hopeful that the economy may turn around, and that 2012 will see me in a better working and financial situation. If all goes well, I may see the publication of my first poetry book by next year! January finds me on a shifting precipice, not sure where my path will lead next. But I am hopeful, as I look to the future, and cast my dreams and wishes into the new year. Wish me luck! xo
When thinking of what to share in the first post of this series, I immediately thought of my story, “Into the woods.”
I had come across a submission call for contemporary re-tellings of fairy tales, but with a specific theme – Lost Children. It is rare for me to write something for a call, but in this case I did. The more I thought about “lost children” in the modern day, and in the conceptual world of fairy tales, the more this story unfolded.
These characters revealed their story to me, and it’s difficult to explain this process when I can barely understand it myself. It was a hard story to write, because I had to let the story happen without trying to gloss over difficult subject matter or manipulate the outcome. But I feel that the story ends on a hopeful note – there are many dead ends and dark paths before them, but there also paths which will open towards being found.
Needless to say, I submitted this story to the call, and months later, I received a rejection letter. However, it was one of the strangest rejection letters I had ever received. The editor went to great lengths to express how much she loved my story, how powerful it was, how she wished to see it in print, how it deserves to be in print, etc, etc, and that she wanted this particular collection to be light and beautiful so she wouldn’t be able to include my story.
I do not take rejections personally, but this time I did. I would have preferred a standard, formatted response over the response I did receive, knowing that the editor was trying to explain herself, that she felt compelled to, by expressing over and over again that I wrote a really great story that should be published, but she couldn’t find a place for it.
Over the past year, I’ve put a really strong effort towards publishing my work. I’ve read hundreds of different poetry and story journals and magazines, and although I have come across some interesting writers, the whole of what is being published in contemporary literature is very safe, repeating what we already know works in terms of language and genre.
For a writer like me, who is interested in really exploring language and storytelling, I forget that my work goes where some people aren’t used to going, because I am trying to go places that haven’t been fully explored.
I thought of creating this weekly series so that I could share my work directly with an audience, without having to depend upon the subjectivity of the submission process. I don’t want my lost children to be sent into a world where their dreams are dusty pages in a book snapped shut. I feel like I don’t have time to wait anymore. I just don’t have time to lose anymore.
I think that the heart of what it is to be a writer is to dare to dream and explore and discover new worlds, new terrains of language and communication and storytelling. But what is different is often looked upon negatively. People generally like what they are used to. However, all writers carry a responsibility, and the potential to develop their own, unique voice and specific way of communicating their inner-visions, their ways of looking at the world.
And in spite of the rejections, I’ve also received a great reception to some of my work, much of which has been published or will be in places that are seeking similar things in art and in life. I’m also aware that sometimes a writer’s audience lies in the future.
I don’t know what lies ahead for me. I can only follow what I feel are signs, and hope that my own breadcrumb trail leads me down the right path, to the one that finds me found, lost.