Build-A-Boy

I haven't had to drown anything out lately. I guess that means life has been good to me. But then again, I haven't been out much lately. When I say out- yes I leave my house. I go to work, and then I go to school, and then I come home. And then I go to work, and then I go to school- you get the drift. I'm at the point where I look around and I'm like- oh, people. Where did you come from?

I occasionally see my friend's on Shabbos, I seldom see my family, I mostly wrap myself up in school work, TV shows to destress, exercise when I have time, laundry when I get desperate, and food, well, when the fridge is running on empty.

I recently went through my posts in my draft folder, and there was one moaning about how when I was a kid I couldn't wait to be grow up so I could do whatever I wanted without anyone telling me what to do, and now that I am grown up I just want someone to tell me what to do, like go to bed, wake up, do your homework, go to class. But then I realized, that post will never see the light of day because what's the point of complaining about reality? Ya, this is life, I got used to it. You know, it does seem funny because there are so many coming-of-age novels and movies, and it's like, what's the big deal, so you grew up, yay you! Hey man, we all gotta grow up someday. But truly, some people make the transition easily, and there are others who cannot fathom growing up and would like to be 'forever young'. Personally, I was never the most responsible person. I used to say I hate responsibility and I hate commitments. So I should get an award for all of my accomplishments.

Every time I post online how well I'm doing in school (Straight A's, Spring semester) people get so excited for me. Good job! they tell me. That? I want to say. That was nothing. I was taking 4 classes. Just wait until next semester when I get 5 straight A's. Then you can congratulate me. And I'm not trying to be boastful. I know I'm smart, and still I surprise myself every time when I do well. I say I'm lazy. My father says that can't possibly be true, what with all that I do in my life.

I had an idea for a poem, but I realized it is a bit painful to write. Because it deals with memories, and sometimes I'd rather not remember things. I have met many guys who were wrong for me. And it was okay, and I made peace with it and I moved on. Over time I realized, if only I could take the best part from each one of them, I could build myself the perfect man. One was intelligent, one had a great smile, one was funny, one was kind, one taught me things about myself. Did you know you could miss parts of someone without missing the whole person? I discovered that. When you go through a painful relationship, once the pain clears and you don't miss them anymore, sometimes you find yourself thinking about them at the most random times. It is hard to put it into words. But if you meet someone that makes you want to be a better person, even if they are no longer in your life, they have influenced you forever. And I wish they knew how thankful I am for that.

Shomer High Five

Haven't seen him
in a few days.
He says he died
and came back to life.

It's good to see
his smiling face.
His hand approaches mine
in the universal 'High Five' gesture.

In that second
I want to be cool.
I want to be his friend.
I want to be 'just a guy'.

I want to hear the sound
of his hand
reverberating
against mine.

I shrug awkwardly
and smile.
Would explaining make it worse?
I simply back away; he takes the hint.

Later I apologize.
Tell him 'It's not you, it's me'.
I can't have physical contact
with guys.

He says "I know.
I'm not offended...
I just keep forgetting that.
I'll try to remember."

I tell him
that it's okay.
That sometimes...
I forget too.

Yes I Can

Sweat dripping down,
jaw clenched in concentration
determination
1, 2, 3, yes, you, can.

Aiming higher
reaching within for all you have
arms straining
training you mind: yes, you, can.

It doesn't seem worth it today
Tired and weak and hungry
The scale staring back mockingly
Haha. No you couldn't.

BUT

Today is a new day
a new week.
I will keep trying
keep eying the prize.

Yes. I.Can.

Xenophobia

I hate Russians.
And French.
And Canadians.
And Israelies.

I used to have a list, of nationalities I would never consider marrying.

I, like every other pompous American, hear a foreign accent and assume that they are stupid.

Oh, your from Russia? Do they like, have toilets there? I heard they only have outhouses and use leaves as toilet paper.

I know Russian:
"я хочу домой, пожалуйста." 

Ya, that's like the only sentence I can say.

Oh, you're from Ukraine. Isn't that like, part of Russia?

Why would you live there if you could just live in America? Oh, we don't want you... Too bad you weren't born here.

Let me impress you with the--limited-- amount of knowledge I have of your culture. It's not much. We're in America now.

Madrid airport. No English. "I have no idea what you're saying. I don't speak Spanish". Why don't they speak English? Just why. Everyone speaks a little English. In Israel they try to impress you with it. In Spain they get impatient with you. Um, hello, isn't English like a universal language? 

no necesito español.
"Life can be bright in America...
If you're all white in America."

There's a big world out there. America is not the only way.

The Unsaid

Mind abuzz with thoughts, waiting to spill out
he says
who wants to share
your hand shoots up
he says
please relate it to the text
your hand slinks down
lower
timidly
till it rests on the desk
he says
who wants to share
your hands lies flat now, palm down
mind abuzz with thoughts, waiting to spill out
he says
anybody?
as a question
but your voice is silent now
all those words left unsaid. 

Six-Pointed-Star

Fingers closing around the hard points,
her eyes shift to stare at me.
Look! I silently shout. Look at me.

She wears a cross around her neck,
and I a Jewish star.
We discuss antisemitism and she glances at me furtively.

What is she expecting?
Should I raise my voice forcefully
and proclaim my undying faith?

In my heart I know it,
on my neck I show it,
must I say it?


We discuss the passages in the book.
The "white Jew" is a paradox, it says.
The kids were wrong to pick on the Jew, I state.

The one with the cross, she smiles
in that way that says she thinks your wrong.
"What about the Jew who yelled at the little girl, she just wanted to buy a pickle".

I stand firm.
Antisemitism was rampant,
the Jews merely reacted to the abuse they received.

She shakes her head,
tries to find the words to say
the Jews were doing the "opposite of antisemitism".

I wonder if that's true.
But they are my people
and I will always side with them.

The word Jew comes up many times,
I feel eyes on me
as I finger my star.

I don't know quite what I am expected to say,
I don't feel like saying much at all
in response to their stares.

I'm not insulted,
this is merely a conversation
in a classroom.

I was brought up as a "white Jew" as they say,
and I was lucky not to feel the cruel arm
of antisemitism.

I am proud to be a Jew
to be the example that they can stare at
as we discuss literature culture and diversity.

I sit silently,
nodding my head as the discussion goes on,
and let the star do the talking.

I'm glad you came

He never called me by my nickname.
I thought that was weird.
But now it feels special.

We never talk.
I hate the silence.
I can't carry a conversation alone.

I tried, oh I tried.
I thought he didn't care.
So I stopped trying.

There was that summer, long ago.
Bike riding, colliding,
crashing through the undergrowth in the woods.

Skinned knees, and bee stings,
root beer popsicles,
and pacts not to tell.

He taught me to read.
Morris the Moose goes to school.
My first book.

He knew I was smart before I did.
We were pals.
For a time.

Suddenly I'm that little girl again,
yearning for his affection.
Why don't you like me, I silently scream.

I try to make conversation.
He barely responds,
staring at me like I'm insane.

Why won't you talk to me.
Tell me about yourself.
What's going on in your life.

They are buddies now.
They snicker at me when I talk.
Whatever I said must be mighty funny.

I tag along to the pool,
the third wheel.
Oh, to think I once filled that coveted spot.

Anger seethes inside of me,
the unfairness of life.
My only fault was growing up.

They sing me happy birthday,
and he says my name.
My real name.

We may not talk
but here he is
on my birthday.

We may not talk
but there he was
in the ambulance after my car accident.

We may not talk
and I hate that
and I wish it weren't so.

But isn't that what family does?
They show up.
And that's as good as saying I love you.