poem!
disturbed
I live in metaphors
BEEP BEEP BEEP
at maybe 5am
waking me
the three smoke detectors upstairs screaming to one another
while I lay burrowed in blankets after too little sleep
from one thing or another having gone wrong the night before
The screaming ceases almost as soon as it begins
I close my eyes
think maybe that was a fluke
realize in two shakes of a lamb’s tail that
it’s more than a fluke because
they speak again
but then
blessed silence and
I snuggle back in ahhhh
and minutes until the next screaming bursts
two three do I need to get up then
silence
and hope and warmth nestled in and
again THE SCREAMING
THE SCREAMING SO LOUD
do I need to get up will it
stop will it just
stop do I have to
move and
silence
there’s no fire,
no one affected by the noise but me.
but I eventually give in to the situation,
venture from warm bed into cold house
pull a chair from one bedroom
into another bedroom
climb up pull the battery
out put it in again because
it’s a new battery so that’s
not the problem and grab
another chair for the hallway
detector do the same and
eventually crawl back
into bed where I
think about my tendency to
operate on hope for
a good long while when
I’m comfortable and would really
prefer not to give up that place of
comfort when no one else is
affected by the intermittent
SCREAMING that is not
comfortable at all.
How long does it take for me to believe
a problem will not go away on its own
to get up
to deal with it
to make the screaming stop
And how long will it take
for me to feel good again
when this morning feels terrible
Even though I slept well from 11:30 to 5:00
and overall
have an amazingly wonderful life
How long
***
I wrote that yesterday morning. I was SO cranky yesterday morning! But I felt better by the time lunch came around. So that’s how long it took to feel good again! lol
When I wrote the poem I was thinking about how I have a great capacity for ignoring the things that are problematic in dating relationships because it’s so inconvenient. It’s much easier to let them blow over and enjoy the good parts of the relationship, and I tend to operate too much on hope, as in, “I hope things will eventually get better” or “I hope the other person follows through on what we’ve talked about.” I’m trying to retrain my brain to pay attention to what’s actually happening instead of ignoring issues and relying on hope.
And then as I wrote it, or maybe when I was done, I was also thinking that the metaphor can be for all kinds of things that any of us can ignore because they’re inconvenient to think about. Maybe signs that we need to visit the doctor or make better choices for our physical health, or signs of climate change, or repeated instances of injustice. How long until we rouse ourselves to action? and, when we act, how long will we be in a state of discomfort before feeling good again?
Last note. I first wrote the poem on my phone yesterday morning, and then I removed all the line breaks before copying and pasting here last night (because copying and pasting into the WordPress format with line breaks is a Bad Idea–everything gets wonky). I added in the line breaks last night and fell asleep. This morning I adjusted a little but don’t feel wholly satisfied with the writing. It’s feeling pretty drafty. But I’m sharing anyway. Blog posts are for fairly informal writing, yes? Yes.
Oh! I lied. One more note. In a recent office conversation, my team was talking about the roles each of us plays. One person noted that when I see problems, I head into them instead of avoiding them. Sometimes my problem-solving ways are inappropriate, so I’m working on listening to people vent without trying to problem solve, and I’m also not trying to solve problems that are not mine to solve. But in general, my tendency to address problems is a good thing. And I tend to be good at stuff in the workplace before I’m good at it in my personal life. I won’t put up with screaming smoke detectors going off at work because that’s a terrible work environment for everyone.
I gotta value myself in similar ways, yes? Yes.
crocus
gray rainy day
meetings pull me from my screen from my clamoring inbox
move me from one indoor office space
outdoors
across concrete walkways and down chained sidewalks
head bent beneath my hood
beneath my exclamatory blue umbrella smattered with brilliant owls
to a conference room space
inside the administration building
horrid it all sounds horrid except that umbrella
horrid gray rainy meetings screen clamoring inbox indoor office concrete chained bent conference administration building horrid meetings meetings screen inbox meetings administration ugh ugh horrid ugh meetings screen horrid ugh
EXCEPT IT’S NOT
the balmy air
the connections the help the hard things with a gentle note the rallying the laughter the dark times the dark times together the stretching reaching the connecting the connecting
the bouncing between doorways in the sweet suite
the navigating
the firm path the guidelines the care of one another the crosswalks the clusters
THE CROCUSES
building as verb
meeting as verb
people around a table
a gray rainy day
pathways
bursts of yellow
something blooms
we take note
we return to the growing business at hand
the moment before a crisis
Part One
What is that moment before the crisis?
that liminal space when all things are still possible
that moment when the cartoon character is not yet suspended in mid-air,
feet moving, expecting against the laws of physics to gain traction,
that moment when the inevitability of the fall is still
still
still
a footstep away?
That moment when staying on the cliff is scary,
when stopping running means facing whatever is chasing.
Part Two
The moment when the glass of milk is on the brink of falling from the counter
but my hand reacts before my mind does.
I grab it, perhaps more forcefully than what’s necessary, but it was on the brink.
It was! It was going to fall. I was so afraid it was going to fall.
You look at me, and we both look at the drops sloshed onto my hand,
the miniature pools of white on the counter,
the streaks still running down the glass,
the two tiny streams winding down the front of the cabinet and dripping
dripping
dripping
onto the floor.
My eyes meet yours. They scream for you to see what isn’t there
no sticky residue splattered in places we miss cleaning up
no encountering the mess gradually, over and over, in the next days and weeks
no milk soaked into the kitchen mat to sour and smell–almost imperceptibly at first–over time
no glass shattered and splintered where slivers would lodge in our food and our feet
cutting
cutting
cutting
our flesh inside-out and outside-in
slivers of glass too small, too numerous, too sharp to see or extract or prevent
No one dying of thirst because the glass of milk is gone, emptied, shattered, no longer here
Part Three
That’s all I’m talking about.
A glass of milk.
The edge of a counter.
The moment before the fall.
The hesitation, the action.
The small sloshing inconvenience and your accusing eyes.
The small sloshing inconvenience and the openness of the next moment
and the next
and the next
and the next
and the next
Or the other outcome:
the spilled milk
the shattered glass
the crying
the closing of possibility
what she was doing in the early morning forest
she was thinking “walking”
she typed “waking”
she hit “return” with her thumb
silently read what she had shared with the world
she looked up from her screen
inhaled ||| exhaled
and woke again
***
poem inspiration from Twitter:
Confessions
Confessions
of a former Catholic
a current Unitarian Universalist
of an aspiring feminist
an Irish-Scottish-Portuguese American
of a former babysitter-cleaner-waitress-elementary school teacher-English professor
a current university administrator
of a left-leaning voter
a single divorcée
a daughter-sister-niece-aunt-mom-friend-colleague-neighbor:
I continue to center my own narrative.
A therapist once reminded me: “You are an adult. A professor.”
She asked: “What are you afraid of?”
I just learned what Juneteenth is.
I once called “Macedonia” “Mesopotamia.”
Every time I spell “principal” or “principle” I remind myself “the principal is your pal.”
I intentionally lost my Boston accent so people wouldn’t make fun of me.
I miss my Boston accent and love faking it on occasion.
I let the man at the storage rental facility take off his pandemic mask when filling out paperwork in close quarters and reassured him it was all right even though it was not.
I live as if I would rather be a nail than a hammer.
I am probably a hammer anyhow.
I am always doing too much for others.
I am never doing enough for others.
I appreciate my work hours because they set boundaries on when I am available to my family.
I appreciate my work hours because they set boundaries on when I am supposed to be working.
I constantly worry what people think of me.
I cry every time someone says to me: “You deserve to be happy.”
I cry every time I tell myself: “You deserve to be happy.”
I am 51 years old and still care about pleasing my parents.
I haven’t made any effort to learn about possible solutions for immigration tensions, but I know putting children into detention centers is never part of the answer, and I should probably take time to do the former if I actually care about the latter.
I know immigration experiences of people from Europe and Asia are not the same as immigration experiences of people from Central and South America but I almost never say so when hearing the former complain about the lawlessness of the latter.
I don’t point out the difference because I forget in the moment.
I am good at forgetting anything that is hard to say.
I am good at averting my eyes.
I am too hard on myself.
I am frustrated with myself.
I let myself get away with things for years or decades at a time.
I see myself through other people’s eyes constantly.
I’m embarrassed that I don’t eat seafood because someone told me it was a sign I’m provincial.
My 20-year old daughter recently taught me that “dry” is the opposite of “sweet” when used to describe wine.
I find myself using Zoom like a mirror instead of looking at the person speaking.
I remembered the date of my wedding anniversary just before my divorce.
I am glad I got divorced.
I am mad at myself.
I think I’m an amazing mom.
I worry I may have damaged my kids by being so unwilling to address the poor communication patterns in our household for so long.
I often don’t know how to talk with my kids about our pre-divorce family or our post-divorce family.
I don’t want to be silent when people say fucked-up things.
I don’t want to speak when people say fucked-up things because I don’t think they’ll hear me and their fucked-up beliefs will become even more entrenched.
I think some people aren’t worth wasting my time on but I sometimes waste time on them anyhow. Both parts of that sentence seem terrible.
I want to be the boss of everything and set it aright.
I want no responsibility or the burden and blame and stress that comes with it.
I want much more money than I have.
I want a simple life.
I’m biased against people with a lot of money.
I’m biased against people without enough money.
I’m drawn to beautiful people. I want to mean something deeper than physical beauty but that’s not what I mean, though I’m also drawn to people whose goodness radiates in ways they talk and move through the world. That last part is not a confession. I’m good at answering my self-confessions with fuller ways of seeing myself.
I hydroplaned on the highway in the most recent storm and could’ve crashed and killed myself or someone else. My tires were bald. Before divorce that was something my husband paid attention to. It was luck that I didn’t kill someone with my carelessness.
I almost never notice the price of gas.
I still feel like a child.
I’m mad at myself for behaving like a child.
I have farted many times in public and in private without admitting it.
I hate paperwork, especially doing my taxes, even though my dad is an accountant.
I occasionally drink too much. I’m a sloppy drunk, and I cry a lot, and I also flirt.
I was never good at smoking pot but sometimes think I should try it again and figure it out.
Sometimes when people are talking for too long I grow impatient and just wait for them to wind down. Sometimes I’m less internally polite and wait for them to shut up.
I suck at sports.
I don’t know how to throw.
I eat a lot of sweets.
I dislike my fat and my wrinkled neck even though I keep telling myself to love my body and my age.
I love falling asleep on the couch.
I think I must be a good person because I have so many good people in my life who love me.
I want my therapist to think highly of me.
I want to please people too much.
I cry constantly.
I’ve had a pretty easy life.
I’ve had men touch me without my consent and I haven’t stopped them. And they are fucking assholes. And I hate them.
When my black college classmates organized a boycott of the Brandeis bookstore because they had been followed around as if they were thieves, I thought I shouldn’t believe their accusations against the bookstore employees until it was proven.
I had white friends who stole sweatshirts and textbooks from the Brandeis bookstore and were not caught. I stole ramekins and salt shakers from restaurants for fun.
I’m proud to have graduated from the same college as Angela Davis.
I don’t trust my own judgments.
I was pro-life as a Catholic teenager.
I use social media for validation.
I use social media to distract myself.
I procrastinate.
I love myself way more than you’d think from reading my confessions.
I’ve had sex dreams that I will never tell anyone about and that I would not ever act on.
I have this weird hope that my confessions will help other people feel less alone.
I want to be the hero of my own story.
I want to be the hero of your story, too, but I also don’t want that, and I know the desire to have value by rescuing others is one of my unhealthy patterns.
I’ve never read Moby Dick and probably never will and I don’t think I’m missing out.
I sometimes imagine my funeral as if I’m Tom Sawyer and feel reassured that people would care if I died.
I have memories of being a complete asshole that I’ve never apologized for.
One time I said, “I make soup from a can” with defensiveness about my poor cooking skills when I was being served delicious home-made chicken soup that a good and generous person had labored over.
Many times I’ve been grumpy and short with students for no reason except something was off with me. Students never deserve that.
The time I called the 12-year old girl I was babysitting a “chicken” when she wouldn’t go to her neighbors’ doors to sell Girl Scout cookies. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was seeing my own shyness and fear reflected in her, and I translated those emotions into cruel words.
The many times I yelled and screamed at my kids. The overly harsh punishments.
I let my African American neighbor move a big box on his own because I was hurrying to join my white friends at a #BlackLivesMatter protest.
The time I read in my driveway in the sunshine with my dog—while my next-door neighbor got in his car with his family to go to his dad’s funeral. I really should’ve been going to that funeral, too.
When I was a kid, we used to say:
Chinese, Japanese [while using our index fingers to make our eyes slant up and down]
Dirty knees [we would bend down to put our hands on our knees]
Money please [we would hold out a hand for money]
To look at these [we would use both hands to pinch our t-shirts and pull them out to look like we had breasts].
I was probably in my 40s when I recalled this “childhood rhyme” and understood how sick and horrifying it was.
I didn’t include enough writers of color in the textbook I wrote.
I compare myself to other women.
I feel relieved when other women have bits of fat.
I hope people think I’m pretty.
I’m ashamed of my tiny apartment.
I think I’m good at decorating.
I think I’m good at teaching.
I think I’m good to people.
I think I’m fucking amazing really.
I don’t know what I think.
I believe I’m not alone and that my confessions are human, not particular to me, but I don’t really know that. I don’t know it at all.
I drove by a woman standing in driving sheets of rain without shelter and thought about stopping and offering her a ride or at least giving her an umbrella. But I didn’t. I thought about circling around to help her, but I didn’t.
I’ve driven by many hitch hikers even though it would take so little to help them out.
I saw a small rabbit stuck in the fence at a dog park, unable to go anywhere, and all I did was distract my dog and leave the park because I was afraid the rabbit would bite me if I tried to help. That rabbit may always be with me.
I think grades are mostly unhelpful. I think schools are mostly mediocre.
I feel pride in my work as a teacher.
I still buy bottled water sometimes.
I wonder: If I were a character from The Hunger Games, would I be someone from The Capitol? I hope not, but I think about it every time I paint my toenails, and I don’t do much about it except wonder.
I hate preachy people.
I hate being corrected.
I want to retire.
My favorite Disney princesses are Belle because of all the reading and Sleeping Beauty because of all the sleeping. I should want to be Mulan or Pocahontas—active political leaders rather than princesses with a lot of leisure time.
I drove drunk at least twice.
I don’t know how many times I’ve had unprotected sex.
I never had an abortion but I probably would have if I had gotten pregnant in the wrong circumstances.
I’ve tapped bumpers of cars in front of me and behind me when pulling out.
I may have dinged some cars with my car door. I don’t know. I’m not even sure if I care a lot though I probably should.
I’ve lost my temper more times than I can remember.
I’ve quoted parts of MLK’s “I have a dream” speech using an approximation of MLK’s voice even though I know that’s racist; and I justify it in my head because I love MLK’s cadence and voice that brings the words to life. And even while writing about this habit, I started doing it again.
I text and email during work meetings.
I tell students not to text or email during class.
This is the edited list of confessions.
I have omitted the confessions that would unnecessarily hurt others.
I have omitted the confessions that I have not yet been able to admit to myself.
I have omitted most of my answering voices, my reassurances to myself, my acceptance that I am human, my self-compassion, my belief that if we stop growing we stop living.
I wonder how self-indulgent my confessions are.
I want to submit this for publication.
I’m too lazy to submit this for publication.
I want to be recognized.
I don’t want to put in the effort to create something finer that is worthy of recognition.
My confessions keep on going.
I will never be enough of anything.
And yet I will pause
and breathe
here.
And maybe even
act—
***
PS I’m going to do a bit of contextualization here. If you don’t want to read on, the short version is: My emotional health is pretty good, so don’t let my confessions make you worry! A few details follow.
I started writing this poem in my head on a long drive yesterday when I was doing some reflection. I woke up in the wee hours of this morning with more to add, and once I put my initial thoughts on the screen I kept coming back to it, adding to the confession as the day has progressed. I didn’t make an ending for the poem until very late.
Also, I use the word “poem” loosely, though I’ve been thinking of Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg styles as my chronicle of confessions has grown. The length of this poem, and the feeling of it being overwhelming and a bit random—that seemed fitting to me. That dash at the close of the poem is 100% Emily Dickinson. Do I have great hubris to put myself in conversation with big time poets? Whatever. All three of them inspire so I’m crediting them.
It may seem like I’m overly harsh with myself in some of these lines, but it’s part of a process I’ve been trying to engage in: Instead of running and hiding from things that are uncomfortable, I’ve been allowing myself space to articulate the difficult feelings. Once I articulate stuff that’s piled up inside me, I can deal with it better, considering when I’m being unfair to myself, where ethical choices are tricky to figure out, why I care so much about others’ perceptions of me.
It may also seem like the opposite—it may seem like I think it’s enough to admit to instances when I’ve exhibited poor judgment, carelessness, selfishness, casual racism or sexism or classism. But that’s another part of articulating moments I’m ashamed of. Instead of being stuck in these moments of shame, having it lie inside of me like sludge holding me back, I hope to learn from these moments and let them go as I correct my own behavior and do better in the future.
The funny thing is that I keep thinking of more confessions. But, as I said at the end of the poem, I’ll pause here to breathe. And maybe even act.
Mourning has broken
Mourning has broken
like the first mourning
Our tears have spoken
like the first tear
Praise for salt flowing
Praise for our mourning
Praise for grief slowing for us to bear.
[a rewriting of “Morning Has Broken” by Eleanor Farjeon]
***
breaking
tearing
ripping
This morning, before I get into the work of the day, I’m thinking about grief and how it can be a healing force. How breaking-tearing-ripping can refer to brutal acts of violence but can also refer to movements that rupture whatever it is that holds us back. Like when I buy a product all wrapped in plastic and cardboard and I need to find my way in, get through the packaging, release the product in order to use it.
I’m thinking about how grief
-responds to tears and wounds
-manifests itself through tears
-tears down some of the defenses we so easily erect, tears open some of the plastic packaging we wrap ourselves in
Morning: a poem
December 29, 2018
Nine days after holding my dog’s head and reassuring her with comforting words as the vet sedated and euthanized her
I have my list of Things-To-Do
Ways-to-Ignore-Things-To-Think-About
first thing in the morning,
but my laptop’s 44-minute restart compels me to change my plan.
I let the morning lead me.
An audio book on Libby, free from the Mid-Hudson Library System:
The Perfect Couple.
Three quarters of a chocolate chip muffin, a mug of maple brown sugar coffee,
children death marriage travel money college hope—
all in Chapter One
And seeking more activity so I can continue listening to the Nantucket-to-New York-to-Pennsylvania story
continue ignoring.
Ah: Sit-ups on the family room floor.
That will be healthy.
I face the glass doors to the back deck
so on each upward movement I can see the cloudy climes,
reward myself with sunrise-infused skies
as I welcome the ache of focused tension in my—
I first see the marks on the bottom of the glass door as a random design,
imagine the spray of glass cleaner, the swipe of paper towels,
and then. I know I am not ready to erase it,
these signs of Lilly’s dog nose, dog paws, seeking something,
relentless,
a pattern that compelled me to stop and open doors for this girl,
over and over,
no matter what else I was trying to accomplish,
even when she didn’t want to go out but really just wanted a treat.
The glass blurs more as goodbye tears—
at last—
arrive.
I still don’t know how to think, what or whom I mourn.
But I am compelled to honor Lilly’s life and my morning
(The Perfect Couple must pause)
with my own seeking marks,
my occasionally relentless nose and paws,
not knowing what I want,
but still hoping for a treat.
Nice and mean: Getting beyond what people think of me
I often fault myself for being too nice—for avoiding conflict and staying safe rather than calling people out when they’ve been inappropriate.
So I was a little taken aback when I received an email from a professional colleague whom I don’t know in person (I will call him “S.”) saying that I had made him cry when he read my “incredibly hurtful and mean spirited public attack” on another professional colleague (whom I will call “P.”).
Wow. I had been so harsh in my response to P. that I had made S. cry. Wow. And I had been that harsh in public. Wow. And I had done it in a professional setting—on a listserv populated by people I respect, people whose work has helped me and inspired me. Oh, wow. Oh, no.
***
What led to this moment? I participate in a professional listserv, the WPA-L, populated by college professors and grad students who teach and research and lead in the field of writing studies. You can check out the long initial thread if you want, but here’s my synopsis of my initial role in the listserv conversation.
- Three men mansplained a female colleague who requested sample rubrics. One of these men was P.
- That woman called them out on mansplaining, and 2 of the 3 men apologized. It clearly wasn’t intentional, so that should’ve been the end of the story.
- Then, P. mansplained again. After he had apologized. It was horrifying.
- I was angry. I answered that post-apology instance of mansplaining by using P.’s email to create a parody poem, using his words as a kind of template in case anyone had trouble identifying the mansplaining dynamics.
Many people responded to this found poem in positive ways. I’m childish enough and honest enough to admit that I found the positive responses gratifying. I had been a good feminist! I had been clever! I had stood up to the patriarchy! People I respect seemed impressed! Colleagues in my department seemed proud of me rather than embarrassed by me! What more could I ever hope for?!
But then, the thread about mansplaining went on and on, and in addition to S. emailing me privately to say he had cried in response to my mean spirited poem, several listserv posts referenced inappropriate / unprofessional / overly harsh responses to the mansplaining emails (and to P. in particular). I should note that P. is a very nice retired man who publicly and privately wrote that my parody poem did not offend him because he tries not to take himself too seriously.
Still, every time I read a claim that the responses to mansplaining were contributing to negative dynamics rather than addressing the problem productively, I thought,
I messed up the argument for all the other feminists. They are all writing these smart, coherent, well-reasoned arguments about mansplaining dynamics. But, because I wrote an angry parody, people are dismissing the entire conversation.
Ha! You can see that I sometimes believe I am the center of the universe, just like I sometimes believe I don’t matter at all.
Still, in the midst of ongoing listserv messages that spilled into multiple threads and simultaneous conversations on Twitter and Facebook, I didn’t have enough perspective to reflect in useful ways. I felt both pride and shame in that parody poem. I was used to being a not-good-enough feminist and a sneak-under-the-radar-where-people-might-be-more-likely-to-hear-me feminist by being too “nice.” I wasn’t used to being both a stand-out feminist and a ruin-it-for-all-the-more-rational-feminists feminist by being too “mean.”
I was uncomfortable.
***
Part of me wants to stop right here and say that a feminist may respond in a host of ways to moments or patterns of injustice, and no response is ideal. Any response may be read as “too nice” or “too mean” or “too blah blah blah.”
I could go on about that, or I could end with that point, but I have something more to interrogate regarding my discomfort. Until now, when anyone has brought up that parody poem, my response has been to answer with an expression of mixed feelings and a desire to spend more time thinking about it.
I’ll give myself a little bit of a break for claiming mixed emotions. I tend to measure the effectiveness of communication based on the fruits: Is the purpose met? is the job getting done? But any communication with multiple audiences becomes more complicated because the purpose may be met and not-met all at once. People who tend to be frustrated by mansplaining felt validated by my poem, and many laughed at a time when laughter was sorely needed.
Yet it seemed like people who didn’t recognize mansplaining prior to my poem were probably not suddenly enlightened but instead more resistant to noting such dynamics, so that’s a fail.
My mixed feelings are also based partly on my belief that it’s easy to rationalize being a jerk if I position myself as a kind of victim who’s reacting to a situation. I’m not interested in being a jerk.
***
But mostly I think my ongoing claim of “mixed feelings” is due to the uncomfortable feeling of being perceived as “mean” on the one hand and, on the other hand, feeling kinda smug about the positive responses I received.
Do you see how both responses—shame and pride—are rooted in others’ perceptions of me?
Of COURSE I would have mixed feelings when I care so much not just about the effect of the poem but also what others think of me. And, again, I find that I’ve positioned myself at the center of the universe. Egads.
So maybe I can see if I can make this not all about me?
***
When I think about the parody poem without caring so much about what people think of me, I get a little mad about some of the reactions.
Why did S. contact me with so much concern about P. but no concern over the woman whom P. had mansplained—in a public forum, where her colleagues and students could witness the demeaning way she was spoken to, not once but twice? Why did others on the listserv call out uncivil behavior in the responses to mansplaining without recognizing that the mansplaining at the root of the conversation was itself rude and inappropriate?
So this is where I’m ending up. Once I let go of concerns about what people think of me, I feel really good about that parody poem. Yes, it was written in anger, but it did what it was meant to do: It used P.’s own words to expose the incivility and condescension in his message. And it did it in a way that was not so much about P. as it was about a speech pattern that negatively affects too many people (mostly women and others in vulnerable positions) all too often.
Those who didn’t (couldn’t? wouldn’t?) hear the message are invested in a worldview that protects P. (all men? certain men with secure professional standing? P. in particular?) and his reputation. These folks are thus not able to hear any message that calls P. (or men in general?) to account for writing in disrespectful ways to others. If these folks were open to hearing rational arguments, they could’ve heard the rational arguments and ignored my angry parody.
Yes, they will say that P.’s intentions are good. I believe that. And if the situation had ended with the apology, there wouldn’t have been a parody poem and a public reckoning. But intentions, hell, etc. If P. (or anyone, because we are talking about patterns…) is not willing to learn and adjust communication even immediately after apologizing, well, let’s spend time worrying about the people victimized by good intentions.
So that poem isn’t about me being a cool feminist or me being a mean jerk. That poem is about a problematic dynamic—mansplaining in professional spaces—that we need to recognize and change.
I’m owning it. I wrote that parody poem. I posted it to the listserv. It made some people uncomfortable, including me.
The question is, what do we do with our discomfort?
If you’re at all like me, you’ll look at your discomfort, see where it’s coming from, and decide how to move forward.
(Or if you’re at all like the less mature side of me, you’ll either run and hide from your discomfort or lash out at whatever seems to be the immediate cause of the discomfort. But let’s try not to be like that less mature Laurie!)
In my case, seeing my tendency to care too much about how others perceive me allows me to shift my focus so that the poem I posted is not about me but instead is about a communication dynamic. I can use my discomfort as an opportunity for growth. I need to decenter myself.
I’m actually laughing now because I’ve written an entire blog post about my perspective in order to reach the conclusion that I need to decenter myself. Ah, the irony. But I’m going to share this anyhow because even this story is not so much about me as it is about patterns. Maybe in the future I’ll be quicker to recognize my tendency to care too much about others’ perceptions of me. Maybe others will see similar tendencies in themselves.
Maybe we will be quicker to acknowledge our feelings of shame and pride and then let those feelings go as we turn our attention back to the good fight.
proofs
the strange satisfaction in cataloguing changes
moving through pages with purpose
cleaning deleting inserting trans-
posing moving toward geometric clarity
and perhaps once adding a phrase
because a sly joke was necessary
with apologies to the typesetters whose
lovely pages I’ve probably thrown off—
please understand, there’s no point making pretty pages, joining
orphans with parents and widows with spouses, unless
we find a bit of joy, a touch of connec-
tion, as we spend time immersed not just in the marks on the page
but in the trees and people and hardware software circuitry
crackling electricity bringing
the book to life
Laurie Mac Reads 