September Golden Shovel #15

I’ve never been old before. This new old body could be floating

Through ether in another universe, but it is not so far away.

Does it tether me or loosen ties? Does it rely on

Gravity or defy it? What is the name of an internal pinch, an

Ache in my back, my leg, my foot? Does rain age as it flows from island

Sea to cloud to stream? I test each body part in a ferment of

Anxiety, try to return to the time when all I would do is dance.

 

source: Floating Away on an Island of Dance

Poems for Before I Die, 4

Your doctor says, “Do not go outside.”

Alarms clang, “Incoming!”

The virus aims right at the target

on your chest,

Until this moment,

you matched a couple of

risk categories,

but theoretical.

Now it’s personal.

Now fear threads through your body.

You learn new habits,

Washing your hands after the toilet,

even though you don't pee on your hands.

Washing your hands before starting to cook,

even though every cooking show’s chef

has always modeled that.

You are alone with your risk categories

wondering

Is covid-19 the name of your death?

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It's National Poetry Month! Poetry is hard, but I keep trying. The pandemic has set my theme for this month. You can sign up for Poem-a-Day and find out about all sorts of online poetry celebrations at the Academy of American Poets website.

 

Poems for Before I Die 1

I am not going to die soon

I have not been diagnosed

with anything

specific

I have been diagnosed with

Being old,

over 70,

The virus takes aim at my lungs

which saw an invasion years ago

when I wasn’t paying attention,

when there wasn’t anything

to pay attention to.

It's called MAI.

It has a name, but it 

won't kill me. 

So I am afraid.

I am fearful of droplets

In the air

On surfaces

On the surface of my newspaper?

Not likely, but

not impossible.

I wash my hands

I wash my hands

I wash my hands

I wash my hands.

And I wash my hands again.

Essay #5: Cockroaches, 1

            Okay, it’s week 28, and I’ve not written anything in this essay challenge since January. It’s time to get going.

            Why start with cockroaches, you may wonder. Maybe it’s because I saw one of the big ones, the American cockroach (brown, about an inch and a half long), in my bathroom, huddled by the toilet. Naturally, since it’s July, I was barefoot. When I returned, sandaled, it was no longer visible, but was it still in the room? I walked in slowly, eyeing the area around the toilet, nudged the basket of magazines next to the toilet—and it came slithering out. I tried to stomp on it, but it zigged and zagged too quickly for my slowing reflexes, and dashed back behind the toilet. I needed a weapon.

            All I had, though, was a sponge mop. I got it from the cleaning closet and went back to the bathroom. It was still in hiding. I pushed at the basket with the mop, out raced the cockroach. I bashed at it with the mop, but again, it escaped. The mop was no good.

            Now I remembered a folk roachacide I’d read about: rubbing alcohol. So I filled my little sprayer bottle and returned to the bathroom. This time the cockroach was nowhere. I nudged the basket; nothing. Looked all around the white floor; nothing. Got into the bathtub so I could peer behind the toilet; nothing. It had either squeezed into whatever hole it had sneaked out of, or it was roaming the apartment.

            I gingerly used the toilet and went to bed—and put my slippers at bedside for when I’d have to get up in the middle of the night.

            Cockroach memories to come...

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This year there is another essay a week challenge, 52EssaysNextWave. If you’d like to try it, go to the Facebook page for 52EssaysNextWave and sign up. Or just read some of the essays that will be linked to there.  

Big Words: Backsliding

(I want to acknowledge Tanya Shirley, a Jamaican poet, whose “A Chant Against Fear” inspired part of this.)

            Backsliding – should I be afraid of it or look forward to it? Mainstream culture says backsliding is bad. We must always be moving forward. Like sharks, if we don’t keep moving (forward, of course), we die. If we take one step forward and two steps back, that’s a tragedy.             What if there’s a time for backsliding.

            Jack died. Did I tell you that? I’m supposed to be moving forward, finding closure, healing. But I’m not backsliding into grief. Grief is beside the point.

            We met when we were 21, married at 22. We were children. I know, some of you may be 21 or 22 and think you’re adults. We thought we were adults, thought we knew who we were and what we were doing.

            We were lucky, together for the next 52 years. At the beginning, I was a shy, reserved person afraid to speak up because I knew no one would listen to me. I’ve becomw confident, outspoken, standing up in front of classes, sometimes crowds, like this, becoming a boss, hiring and firing, traveling to many countries with strange languages. Women’s liberation had a lot to do with this transformation, but Jack supported it, too. Without him, I’m afraid I’m backsliding to that earlier me.

            When we met, I was on my own and supporting myself, but I was still unformed, malleable. Going from family to roommates, I’d only ever lived alone for two weeks of my life. The first time I was completely on my own, in my own place, I sat on my sofa/bed and cried, for half an hour. I retreated home, to my parents. Then I was afraid, of the silence (no radio), no one to talk to (on the pay phone out in the hall).

Fear of loneliness.

Fear of not knowing who I was.

            A few months after Jack died, fear came roaring back. Now I was home, and my fears were different:

Fear of losing the person I’d become via loving Jack and he loving me.

Fear of being old as a single person, as a single woman, as a woman who’s 75.

Fear of forgetting Jack if I’m successful in learning to live without him.

Fear of the open-endedness of freedom, with no one to share it with.

Fear that having a daily plan will constrain me, but

Fear that having no plan will leave me unmoored.

Fear of dying.

Fear of being a person who is afraid of dying.

            The fear ebbs, but never disappears. I remember what the great Negro Leagues xpitcher Satchel Paige said, “Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.”  But if I look back, if I backslide into that fear, perhaps I’ll learn something I need to know.

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I read this at the July 24 Big Words series, which had the theme word "Backslide."

Essay #3: Fear of fear of fear...

            I got lunch at the Great Northern Food Hall at Grand Central today. After buying a curried herring on rye smorebrod, I wandered around looking for a place to sit. A whole section of tables had been cut off “for a charity event” and all the seats on the north side of the food area were taken. On the opposite side, I saw a l ong banquette that was empty, so I sat down, took off hat and scarf, put backpack and purse on the floor, and took a bite from my sandwich (which was delicious, BTW).

            A young woman in uniform came over to inform me that this seatting was only for full-service customers, and I would have to move. Well, where was I supposed to move to? There were no free seats. She was polite but insistent that I had to move. I refused. If you find me a seat, I’ll move, I said. She stared at me, clearly angry, and repeated that I had to move. I said, I can’t move if there’s no place to move to. She strode away, and I wondered if she was going to call security.

            I felt like a cranky old lady. I wondered if there would be a scene. I wondered if I would be arrested. I was a bit frightened, but also a tiny bit exhilarated.

            The young woman returned to say she’d found me a seat. Fine. I picked up all my stuff and followed her to a row of high stools at a bar, which I had thought was only for people ordering at that food station. I thanked the young woman and finished the excellent smorebrod.

            Was I so daring today because of what I started writing for this essay yesterday? By  writing about fear, Girl Griot had sparked the following.

            Fear is one of the topics on my essay list. I too suffer from fear and probably have most of my life. I was going to start with the poem "A Chant Against Fear" by Jamaican poet Tanya Shirley. “A Chant Against Fear” lists 32 of Shirley’s fears. Here is a small list of mine.

Fear of new schools.

Fear of calling someone in school by the wrong name.

Fear of pronouncing words wrong (my mother's sister is my ant in Brooklyn, my aunt in Connecticut, my ant in Pennsylvania).

Fear of being stupid, and fear of being too smart.

Fear of riding a bike.

Fear of the horses I love in the fields across the road.

Fear of never having a boyfriend.

Fear of what would happen if I had a boyfriend.

Fear that no one would ever ask me to marry him.

Fear that I would marry the wrong person.

Fear of becoming a mother.

Fear of never having a child.

Fear of making the wrong decisions.

Fear of speaking up in public.

Fear of swimming.

Fear of being a woman alone.

            Just as Girl Griot relates, I too have been called “brave” for writing about my personal life and feelings, and reading that writing aloud to strangers. I didn’t feel brave. Yes, I was nervous about reading aloud. Would my stories connect to anyone else? Was I the only one who felt this way?

            In elementary school I’d be afraid to raise my hand when the teacher asked a question because I’d have to speak aloud, even from my seat. But I was more afraid of the teacher thinking I didn’t know the answer, so I’d  sometimes dare to raise my hand. In high school I was afraid of going to the Friday night dance party at school, but I went anyway. Maybe this time someone would ask me to dance, but that rarely happened, and no one asked me twice. I was overcoming one fear and encountering another.

            In college speech was a required class. I was afraid to stand in front of a class of 10 and give a talk on a subject of my choosing. If I looked at my notes and didn’t look at the faces staring up at me, I could manage it. Almost twenty years later I was standing in front of a class of 18 undergraduates as a professor, terrified of whether I could teach, but by now confident that I knew what I was talking about.

            When I hit 50, it felt like several layers of fear were sloughed off. For a while, at least, I ceased worrying about what other people thought of me. How did this happen? I don’t really know. Perhaps I’d learned that those people whose opinions I worried about were just as worried themselves. Were we all in a feedback loop of fear?

            As I’ve gotten older yet, fears of aging have crept in. Fear of losing my memory. Fear of dementia (which neither of my parents had, and they lived into their 90s). Fear of infirmity. Fear of losing friends to death, as I’ve already lost Jack, my husband. Fear of illness as I live alone. Fear of dying. All quite normal fears, I suppose.

            I think I’ve lost my fear of speaking personally in public because I now feel I have to speak up. How else can I connect to others if not by raising my voice. And listening to others as well. And reading their words, as I hope they will read mine.
             And did I lose my fear of confrontation because my leg hurts when I stand for more than a couple of minutes? I had to sit down, no matter what. And I didn't have to justify to Jack whatever bad consequences occurred. I was on my own. I am on my own. For a few minutes at least, I was not afraid to be a woman alone.
 #52essays2017

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In 2017, I'm trying to write an essay a week. You can join in. 

Check out Vanessa Mártir’s blog to find out how!