The Black Shoe

Disclaimer: This is a FICTIONAL kenya story, which became my major story for my fiction wrting class. Like a lot of fiction, it is based on different experiences I've had and different people I've known, and it's been interesting to integrate reality with the make-believe. And yes, the last scene is something from a prior story- let's just say I recycle. For your benefit, a swahili glossery is prvided at the end. And without further adeiu.

“Praise him! Pra-aise him! Praise him in the morning! Praise him in the noontime! Praise him! Pra-aise him! Praise him when the sun goes down!” About fifty Kenyan children, all dressed in ragged uniforms greeted the Americans in exuberant squeals, singing in nasally broken English. The rays of light from the equatorial sun beamed down on the dusty grey pavement they called their playground, reflecting off their beautiful black faces. Hannah felt such delight and pride in being there with them and sung along with the children. The sisters sat Tamera and Hannah down in two school desktops right above everyone and a boy who looked no more than ten pounded on his djembe. And the children began their dance. Tamera felt uncomfortable sitting above them like that, as if they were the wezungu Queens of the playground.
After the entertainment concluded, the girls took their turn to introduce themselves to the children. With an enthusiastic step up her rickety desk, the evangelist went first:
“Bwana asifiwe!” Gales of giggles erupted from the children. They were clearly not used to white people trying to speak their tongue. The sisters reprimanded them, probably asking in Kiswahili “And how should we respond?”
“Amen!” the little ones chirped. A lower-toned more skeptical “Amen” came from the older kids.
“Jina langu ni Hannah na nimeokoka!” she pronounced proudly, as though she were at a beauty pageant.
“Habari, Hannah!” they responded, not quite in unison.
“Mzuri sana!” Hannah cried delightfully. She curtsied in her pink floral dress with a wide, toothy smile. The kids ooed and awed at the whiteness of her teeth and the long length of her gleaming hair. She sat back down in her desktop, her pink cheeks basking in the sun.
Tamera looked at her as to say, “That’s it?” All Hannah had to do was smile. It was the activist’s turn to improve upon that. “Salama wetatu!” They once again laughed. Tamera’s long, gangly legs stood awkwardly before she realized her introduction was not complete:
“Jina langu ni Tamera na...” she hesistated, “nimeokoka!” She went on allowing no stop for them to greet her: “We are so happy to be with you, to play with you, and to teach you. And we’re hoping we can learn from you as well!” When the teacher translated her final thought a group of older students burst out in rampant giggles, hiding their little heads, for awe of the rich American girls. Tamera sank back into her chair; with her cropped hair and crooked teeth, she was not as admired as her ministry partner.
Teacher then asked the girls to “sing song”. Hannah and Tamera only knew one song very well in Kiswahili, and they didn’t even know the whole song. They decided to sing it even though the kids were probably expecting an American song:
“Ni wewe! Ni wewe Bwana! Ni wewe, ni wewe Bwana!” They repeated this line possibly 10 times before we got worn by the repetition. A batch of 5-6 year olds smacked their hands, dancing on the dirt in utter delight. The older students did not seem to care much. Tamera was sure they had their share of traveling wezungu. “This is it.” Tamera whispered inwardly. These people were the people she was placed here to help — them and the Njines, their host family who lived a kilometer down the road from the slum school. This was her first step towards changing the world.
---
Tamera knew the moment they settled on board the plane from Dubai to Nairobi that something was wrong. All the bags Hannah had with her- did she really need them? The activist tried to push that and Hannah’s perfectly styled hair out of her mind- after all, the two of them went back – were best friends in middle school. Tamera and Hannah always dreamed about Africa together. Now, fresh out of college, they both made it there. But presently, Tamera couldn’t help but feel that her mission had been intruded upon. She did not have high expectations for Hannah, who was raised in an upper class American bubble.
Today was the first time the sisters took them to their school. Tamera was about to get her Masters in Teaching and was hoping to teach secondary students; instead, the girls were placed at a school of over 200 primary students. As the youngest of her family, Tamera had never been around little children enough to relate with them. Hannah, on the other hand, loved playing games with children. She squealed as soon as she found a group of girls playing jump rope and immediately jumped in. “Tammy, jump in!” she beckoned. Tamera refused; her long legs always got her tangled in the rope. After getting out of breath, the little girls swarmed around Hannah, braiding and playing with her soft hair. Tamera watched as Hannah engaged them in one of her gospel outlines from a track she always carried in her pocket. Tamera wanted to play with the kids too, but she couldn’t keep from scrunching her face as Hannah went through concepts the children could only perceive in their own language. The little girls did look confused, but the track had pictures, so they all huddled closely around Hannah, pressing against her, touching her hands, her feet, her face, her dress and her hair. Tamera had nothing to show. She only had class time to make a deep impression, but that was even worse than recess.
Hannah beamed at Tamera on the way home. “Wasn’t that fun?” the cheerful evangelist said lightly, overcoming her cohort with giggly energy.
“It would be better if we taught in the same classroom everyday.” Tamera qualified.“There’s no way we can form relationships with 200 kids. We can’t learn all their names.”
“I know some names!” Hannah chirped. “Ruth, Naomi, Deborah, Serona, Joy...”
Tamera hurried Hannah home, knowing the Njines were waiting for them. After cold showers and a change into clean clothes, everyone piled into Baba Esther’s Land Rover- Tamera, Hannah, Mama and Baba Esther, their twin girls, Esther and Charity, and their friends Ruth and Paul. Tamera was pressed against Hannah’s sweaty elbow the entire ride. She kept nudging Hannah to move over a few inches, but Hannah was too busy letting the twins climb over her to notice. After two towns, they drove through bumpy hills and valleys filled with African trees. Hannah kept craning her neck over Tamera to see if she could spot any wild life anywhere. There was none to be found- only cows and goats led by Masai in their red plaid and vibrant jewelry. Tamera sighed as Hannah kept crying for her stupid giraffe. Excited for their new friend, the twins started yelling as well.
The scene grew more beautiful as the roads became narrower and drifted around what the Njines told them was the southern part of the Rift Valley. “THIS is Africa!” Hannah squealed in a voice which made Tamera wince. But even she had to admit that this was also her “romantic” view of Africa before they came here; now Tamera really did hope to see a giraffe. Instead, the car took a turn into the “Rift Valley Country Club.” The girls both hid a gasp when they saw the sign. Hannah was excited - she never thought she’d go to a country club in Kenya. As they got out of the car, she chattered about her childhood- The Essex Country Club with her family and everything she did there. Her tennis lessons, swim team, dance, fencing. Esther and Charity were enthused- they were starting golf lessons soon. The Njines asked Tamera what she had done and she welcomed the interruption when a group of Masai people danced for their table, which would’ve been great, Tamera thought, if they had seen them in their actual home. Hannah squealed in laughter, like she already forgot where they were just hours before. Throughout dinner, Tamera interrupted her laughter, whenever possible, to tell the Njines about the impoverished conditions of the slum the family lived down the road from, but never entered.
---
They squeezed into the bright orange frame of matatu 34. The aisle was narrow and the ceiling was low, making Tamera hit her head almost every time she tried to crawl on board. She had no problem letting Hannah take care of the money. She did not feel the need to deal with the matatu conductors- they always tried to charge them double, associating their skin color with their wealth. Hannah knew to handle them- “Hapana!” she barked. “We give you thirty shillings, like everyone else!” Out of her huge, embarrassingly sequined bag she presented two coins. .
The girls nearly ran down the dirt roads to get to the Otiende compound where the sisters were waiting. They started down the trail, through a garland of flowers where men without jobs were hired to tend. The sisters greeted the men with a cheerful “habari zenu,” to which they replied, “mzuri sana!” The girls emulated the sisters in sing song vocals. Sr. Marie Rose engaged the men in dialogue neither of the girls’ Kiswahili was proficient enough to understand. However, one man was friendly enough to soon break out in English:
“Why are you Americans here?” His stern eyes looked Hannah in the face. “You so rich, you just touring through! This is where we live.” With a fearful zealousness, Hannah reached in her bag for a track, but Tamera interrupted before she could grab one.
“We’re here because we do care.” Tamera quipped. He turned towards the plainer girl.
“Ah, but you don’t care,” his chalky teeth spat. “You pass through and go on home.” The activist cast her eyes down to the dirt with nothing to say. Hannah looked at the man and noticed that his face was nothing but honest. “Jina nani?” she inquired, with the best smile she could force.
“My name is Peter!” the man exclaimed, surprised at Hannah’s attempt. “Na wewe?”
“Jina langu ni Hannah and this is Tamera.” The girls smiled angelically.
“We are not like all Americans,” the activist started again, enunciating her words articulately, so he could understand. “We want to help Kenyans like you and that is why we are here!”
“You want to help? Me?” His mustache curled up with his yellow teeth.
“Sure we do! That’s why we’re here!” Tamera said, starting to sound enthusiastic as Hannah, who nudged her, silently trying to communicate.
“I better get your contact info!” Before the girls had time to say anything, Peter dropped his tools and ran quickly to his tin house, searching for a scrap of paper. His house was swamped by sewage. He wondered what it’d be like if he ever made it to America.
Hannah looked at Tamera as if to say “Look what you did.” They were told many times not to give their contacts random Kenyans they met. Tamera looked back as the sisters and the girls started moving down the path. Peter sprinted to catch up. His hands flung excitedly in the breeze, gripping a dirty piece of paper. “Do you have a pen? Do you have a pen?” he cried. America was no longer so far away. Tamera looked at him anxiously, not knowing how to respond.
“No, I do not have a pen on me,” she lied. She carried one in her small journal and pen in her dress pocket.
“Oh. I should get back to work,” The man’s sleeve-torn shoulders hunched over, his disappointment not covert.
“So sorry.” Tamera really was. It was out of her hands- she did not even have any available shillings or food to loan out. The man hung his head down as the girls moved on. Hannah wanted to talk to him about the gospel but as she was reaching for a track, the sisters crooned to him in Kiswahili something she couldn’t understand. The man gazed at the girls and left. They moved down a steep red hill, hiking up their skirts to keep from falling flat on their faces.
-----
After a tiring hike, the girls grumpily arrived through the bright blue gates. Hannah wanted to throw up; Tamera wanted to go home. The evangelist and the activist. There for different reasons, now feeling similar tension. While the real school lessons went on, they were led into their own quarters and fed cookies and quencher, which none of the school children had to consume – the privileged wezungu planned their English lesson and sat in silence, while voices of children rung out in song. They were in recess. Hannah did not join them for jump rope. She looked up at her partner, who was busy focusing on the corner of the room. With a deep breath, she tapped Tamera’s shoulder.
“Do you have something against me?” She wanted to ask that for so long. Tamera glanced at her and didn’t say anything. She couldn’t think of how much she disliked Hannah at this point. Everything she disliked her for, she proved to be - another lousy tourist American. The girls were silent. Tamera blew her grainy wispies out of her face as she tried to digest the cough syrupy cherry flavor of the quencher. Hannah did not touch hers. Her graceful hands tucked in her head to say a prayer. The sisters ducked into the room. “Huruma,” they called Hannah by the new name they had given her. “Don’t you want to go play with the kids?” They didn’t have a name for Tamera. Hannah declined and the girls sat in silence until the sisters came back, retrieving them to teach their lesson.
----
They didn’t spend any superfluous time at the school; the sisters ushered them in and out. As they left the bright blue gates, the girls walked in between the two sisters- the barrier between them and the world of Kibera. The curious activist asked her ministry partner what she was praying about at the school. She said she realized she was ashamed to be an American. She had good intentions, Tamera recognized as she herself did not think of good things. Her head sulked as her foot sank deep in the soggy ground.
“Sorry!” chirped Sister Marie Clarence as Tamera picked herself up from the sticky mire she meant to cross over. Her long, khaki skirt did not have enough give for her to fully extend her legs over that awaiting pit. One of her black Reeboks was drenched in sewage, but only the fringe ends of her skirt got the rest. She managed to kick some of the slime off her shoe so she could carefully step down the boulder without slipping. “No wonder David asked God to give him straight paths,” Hannah sang light-heartedly. “Not a bad thing to say,” Tamera reflected. The evangelist spoke of Psalms where crooked and narrow paths with pits and muddy mires were often referenced.
Tamera had to watch every single step as they treaded boulders and crossed over hollow (or filled up) sewage creeks where the dogs and the hens made their home. Some of these “creeks” had footbridges, which were hubcaps, sticks, broken banisters, thin sheets of metal. Every step she took mattered, and because of this, she seldom looked up to observe the hot tin-roofed homes or the local life. Nor did she notice anyone who begged for food or money. She only saw what her feet saw.
Hannah made observations about everything. Her head looked forward, not stooping down. All Tamera could do was glance quickly at a person, nod and say “habari yako” and look back down before they had the chance to say “mzuri!” Hannah played with the children, greeting each little one with a “Sasa” to which they replied “Fite!” A dozen children stormed the girls in a “How are YOU!” chorus. Hannah laughed heartily, swinging their hands and ruffling their hair. The sisters smiled warmly at “Huruma.”
Closer to the outskirts of the housing developments, Tamera saw a little girl scolding her friends. Moved to reach a troubled child, she cried “SASA!” as friendly and enthusiastically as she could muster. In a deep, womanly voice, the girl hollered back “SOME ARE POOR!” Tamera’s face turned crimson as she realized the girl’s “friends” were her children.
Tamera’s head hung further down, knowing she wasn’t lovable as her cohort. Flies swarmed around her and did not swat them off. Part of her wanted to fall on her face, emerging the rest of her body with he sewage mud. Her tall and strong frame cringed low, and presently she felt small and weak. Hannah’s hearty laughs ruptured through her brain and Tamera nearly fell in a ditch- but Hannah and Sr. Rose Marie grabbed the back of her shirt, pulling her back. Hannah noticed her partner’s eyes swelling with tears and held her hand.
They were just about to leave the tin houses, ducking under wet laundry, which dripped incessantly on their heads. Tamera’s heart hung heavy as she thought back to Peter. A lady, doing her laundry, observed her wet foot. She said something, but Tamera kept walking, looking straight ahead. Then she did a double take; “Did she say something to me?” she asked Sister Marie Clarence.
“Yes. She asked if she could wash your shoe off.”
“Sho-should I say yes?”
“Ndiyo.” Tamera smiled, a little flustered, and shyly approached the lady to accept her offer. The lady, with her decorous changa wrapped around her head and her knees bent, dunked her own, slightly clean rag into the soapy water and meticulously washed all of the mud off Tamera’s shoe. She used the same water for her family’s clothing to wash the girl’s foot. The girls stood wondering how much water she actually had available for use. Hannah wondered where her clean water came from. She washed the shoe until the blackness of it shined, and then she went on to her other shoe, which was just a little dusty. Tamera looked at her, into her black shining eyes, and saw God. Her eyes lit up, her feet felt the rhythm of African drums. A new sensation warmed Tamera from head to toe. She thanked the lady- the usually low tone of Tamera’s voice was raised to a shout:
“Asante Sana! Mungu akubariki!” Her lips stuttered over this last word. The Kenyans roared in laughter. The lady cried in exuberant glee, “something something Kiswahili!?” Tamera shook her head, grinning at the lady.
“I know only kidogo Kiswahili!”
“Kidogo!!” The sisters and the lady had a good laugh over that one.
They were all laughing as the girls, armed with their English lessons and inadequacy, attempted to hike back up the steep, mountainous hill. Tamera could hear the echoes of children singing in loud, nasally English in her head. She started to sing to herself as she tripped over the hill. Hannah and the sisters joined her- each voice, uniquely different, all joined into one.


Glossary
Wezungu: white people
Bwana Asifiwe: praise the Lord
Jina langu ni: My name is
Na nimeokoka: And I am saved.
Salama: peace
Wetatu- children
Habari: How are you? (general use)
Habari yako: How are you? (directed from one individual to another)
Habari zenu: How are you? (directed at a group of people)
Mzuri (sana): I am (very) good
Ni wewe Bwana: It is only you Lord.
Matatu: a passenger van used as a bus
Chai: Does not refer to spiced chai tea, but Kenyan tea is called chai
Na wewe: and you?
Sasa: slang greeting to a child
Fite: child’s response to sasa, literally means “fit”
Huruma: Mercy
Ndiyo: yes
Asante sana: Thank you very much
Mungu akubariki: God bless you
Kidogo: a little

This Garden

This is one of my only poems that rhyme and is written in some sort of form.


This garden is rooted in love,
The planter, with laughter
Sows a seed undreamed of

The planter, in all his deeds
was, is, will always be
Knowingly sowing his seeds

This seed- the youngest of all
is sought with devoted attention
He doesn't care it's small

He tends, he waters the leaves
He guards it from the thieves

Hands delved deep in the soil
Dirt caught deep down his fingernails.
The sun's hot heat is his only toil

No longer works in progress
The tomatoes ripe, he seeps
his teeth into thick freshness

People come from all around
To see, to taste, to smell
fruits of the harvest abound

saturday ride

i wrote this in poetry class, last semester. it's not yet to my satisfaction.

I mount my green Raleigh
Whose life purpose not often
fulfilled, in rides
far too short
except this
instant of relocation

Mr. Green and I speed along
the lanes of swing sets, soccer balls
the acute smells of cut grass and wet dogs
I follow only intuit, detour signs-
the orange flashing more attention
than the green 5 mile bike post
to point a destination

I run into a hill - long and steep
I've tried it before, it's no use-
not then when I forgone bike rides-
fearing a tremulous fall
Not now, with college-girl sized hips
Can I work through it.
I leap off and I trudge Mr Green,
heavy in my arms, up the hill
Three cars speed by at once-
Dirty. Cool. Laughing like the gym
elite when they overlapped my mile.
Those sneering cars wonder why that
lazy wimpass is too small and weak
to keep up,
with their tough, flashy rims.

At last at the top, I jump back on
to reach my final stop.
Passing two flat-iron squirrels
I turn into the parking lot,
take off my helmet, lock Mr. Green
and pull the coffee shop door -
it's shut- who closes at 3?

I ride back past the kids
sing-songing joking taunts
to a slow, stuttering girl.
I find another retreat
in my escape to
the plastic trees.

The Slum Savior - creative non-fiction piece

“Sorry!” chirped Sister Marie Clementine as I picked myself up from the sticky mire I meant to cross over. My long, khaki skirt did not have enough give for me to fully extend my legs over that awaiting pit. One of my shoes was drenched in sewage, and only the fringe ends of my skirt got the rest of it. It’s almost needless to say that the sewage smelled like a gas stop bathroom multiplied by a hundred.

Sarah and I walked in between the two sisters. They were the barrier, the safe guard, between us and the world of Kibera- the largest slum in Africa and the second largest slum in the world. Impassioned by social justice and disgusted by poverty, I only dreamed of this day, when I could make one more step to save the world.

I managed to kick some of the slime off my shoe so I could carefully step down the boulder without slipping. I couldn’t believe such a path existed in a city in this contemporary world. It seemed very similar to the depiction I’ve seen in movies of Joseph leading Mary on a donkey, down a path, into Bethlehem. I was reminded of the Psalms where crooked and narrow paths with pits and muddy mires are often referenced. Now I had a slight idea what David was talking about. No wonder he asked God to make his paths straight.

I had to watch every single step as I treaded boulders, and crossed over hollow (or filled up) sewage creeks where the dogs and the hens made their home. Some of these “creeks” did have footbridges, which were hubcaps, sticks, broken banisters, thin sheets of metal. Every step I made mattered, and because of this, I seldom looked up around to observe the hot tin-roofed homes or the people. I didn’t take note of any advertising signs or activities. Nor did I notice anyone who begged for food or money. I only saw what my feet saw. As I passed by many people, I wanted to look up and acknowledge each person with my eyes. All I could do was glance quickly at a person, nod and say “habari yako[1]” and look back down before they had the chance to say “mzuri[2]!” I greeted children with an affectionate “Sasa[3]!” Sometimes they’d reply “Fite[4]!” Sometimes they’d run away. Sometimes, a child would spot us from down hill and cry “Wezungu[5]! Wezungu!” The other children playing around him, would share in his enthusiasm and join together in a “How are YOU!” chorus. We got about 100 How are YOU’s a day. Sarah and I would cry back, “Fine! I am Fine!” or “Good! How are you?” The sisters would laugh.

The sisters had absolutely no problem in their blue and white gowns to make it through our path. They had been completing this 30-minute hike (from the Missionaries of Charity compound) twice a day, everyday, with the exceptions of Thursdays and Sundays (those were their Rest days). They never seemed to grow tired or thirsty and had no problem looking up as they walked. Sr. Rose Marie looked each person in the eye as she greeted with a “Habari Yako!” and would hold that look until she got a reply. She would extend further into the initiated conversation in Kiswahili. I couldn’t follow the conversations having only etiquette knowledge of the East African language, but I imagined her to be asking them how their family was doing, how work was going for the day, etc. I loved watching the sisters interact with these people. There was nothing phony or pretentious about their interactions. I felt like such a fraud. But, no matter, they didn’t expect much of me. I wasn’t the only triumphing mzungu[6] they have brought through the slum.

We were just about to enter the bright blue gates of the school. A lady, doing her laundry, observed my wet foot. She said something, but I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Then I did a double take.

"Did she say something to me?" I asked Sister Marie Clementine.
“Yes. She asked if she could wash your shoe off.”
“Sho-should I say yes?”
“Ndiyo[7].”

I smiled, a little flustered. I knew we were late getting to the school. I shyly approached the lady and accepted her offer. She dunked her own, slightly clean rag into the soapy water and meticulously got all the mud off my shoe. She used her own water which was for her family’s clothes to wash my foot. I wondered how much water she actually had available for use. I wondered where her clean water came from. Most people don’t have running water in Kibera. She washed my shoe until the blackness of it shined, and then she went on to my other shoe, which was just a little dusty. I looked at her, into her black shining eyes and saw God. I thanked her.

“Asante Sana[8]! Mungu akubariki[9]!” My lips stuttered over this last word.

The Kenyans laughed. They get a kick out of Americans who learn their language.
She cried in excitement, “something something Kiswahili!?” I shook my head and laughed.

“I know only kidogo[10] Kiswahili!”
“Kidogo!!” The sisters and the lady had a good laugh over that one.

We were all laughing, as Sarah and I, armed with art supplies and our own inadequacy, marched through the gates of the school, to a hundred and something children playing jump rope, soccer, and the Kenyan “Down By the Banks” in their dusty, dirt-paved school yard.




[1]How are you?
[2] Good!
[3] Greeting to a child, less formal than “How are you?”
[4] Child’s response to "sasa", literally means “fit”
[5] White people
[6] White person
[7] Yes
[8] Thank you very much!
[9] God bless you!
[10] A little

my take on Mark 5

A large crowd followed the man to Jairus' house, pressing around him. And a young woman was there who had been bleeding for 12 years. In a large crowd, she was isolated and deserted from everyone around her. She tried everything to heal her bleeding, but continued to suffer a great deal under the care of an assortment of churches, Christian literature, friends with good intentions, and attention to boys and the arts. She tried all these antidotes and instead of getting better, she grew worse. She knew about the man with her awareness of him and his scripture grew in each bible study she attended. She did not know him. She realized that even her pride in knowing things would not heal her.

And she traveled from a far-off place to find him and when she heard the man was in town she was resting in, she knew she found her chance to go see him. Anything to try to get to know him more intimately. But when she reached him, a large crowd was there- herds of people all pressing toward the same man. People from towns across the interstate and even different countries, people from all directions, swarmed the man, making it impossible for him to get to where he needed to go. Making it impossible for the girl, small and weak, and overwhelmed by the masses to even get a glimpse of this great man. Her bleeding began to grow worse in this foreign place. She knew about this man her entire life and now, it was life or death. She had to see him. She had to get to him.

The crowd was too dense for her to walk through. She got down on fours and started to crawl between peoples' legs, coughing up dust and collecting the dirt from the soles of peoples' feet which jabbed her in her face. People were too busy pressing forward to see her or help her. But she kept at it- towards her goal- to the feet of this man. Some people were merciless and had no heart. But the man had many disciples there, at least 48. Although they were strangers from her life back home, they could understand the pain of the place she left. Many were crawling on the dusty ground, just as she. In this vast crowd however, it was hard for this girl, who relied so much on herself to grow close to anyone. But a few stood alongside her, helping her get through the crows. And to her surprise, she was able to muster up some strength to help others forward. But with each foot she climbed, she could not avoid being kicked in the face, or coughing up dust, or sliding through puddles of mud. And she never saw herself bleed so much.

Then he was there. Right in front of her stood the back of the man. She knew she was unworthy to rise up and look into his face. From her low place, her eyes focused on the trim of his torn-up trench coat. "Even his dirtiest scrubs are clean enough to heal me," she thought. And she lunged forward, stretching her arm, to the best of her capability, with care not to get too close (out of fear of being seen). Her bleeding stopped and in her whole body she felt freed from her suffering.

But then the man turned around and asked who touched him. Everyone who heard exploded in laughter, or confusion as there were herds of people swarming the man, touching every part of his body. But the woman cringed and sunk back, knowing the curse she bared was upon him. She hoped he would give up. But he kept looking. When she glanced up, she saw his eyes. They were filled with compassion. With a deep breath, she came before him and fell at his feet, her head buried in the mud. She trembled with fear as she told him the complete truth. The dirty secret of her life: she was bleeding. He stepped down and joined her on the muddy pavement. He looked softly into her eyes and called her by her name. He spoke tenderly in the softest but strongest voice she ever heard:

"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."

blue dress

Furbished in a full blue dress,
according to scattered friends— radiantly
transformed from my tattered blue dress,
which did not cover my legs.
As though I did not matter then.

And by a whirl of some force, a boy
of curly hair, pulled my hand. Looking at me.
We weren’t friends. Why is he here,
looking at my with those eyes?
Why me, this mess?

I told him who I was.
Nonsense he replied.
It was when flowers sprung
from the laden snow
he told me I was beautiful.

I shook my head and picked up
my dress, revealing
whipped calves and feet –
Bruises, welts and wounds.
Oozing puss --
Purple and green.
Bleeding from my pencil-thin legs
I turned my face from his perfection.

It wasn’t so unexpected when he turned into another boy.
This one with a soothing stare.
who washed my feet. Tendering each
Bruise. Welt. Wound.

I thought he’d kiss them and I cringed;
On my bed I had nothing to offer.


another note: i have a few "lost" poems right now, meaning that the most updated versions have not been saved on my computer but are locked up in my house in Newport News. These poems are my newest creations and I am sad that they will not be posted until August.

crossing the bridge

In a high school lane
Aligned with yellow buses
The chosen bus was all wrong
The trip home ends in a glimpse
I am caught in a wide, green field
Reaching far as the clouds
Are to the ground

A chorus disrupts
Arriving, loud and bright
Girls and boys –
everyone I know
Beautifully adorned
In white gowns and tuxes
Crowned in jewels

And me—
My clothes dingy and unwashed
My pearls blackened by mud
Their splendor blinds me

They march with army vigor
Advancing, to assault me with
Their shiny, glowing smiles

I want to be one of them
Isolation keeps me stagnant
As a creek-like river
with Atlantic dimensions
blocks me off

The river uproots me
I shake violently on
The thin, black bridge
Gripping the rails tightly
It shakes. It cracks.
Breaking. Falling.
Caught on it.
Hanging loose by one twig
Here am I-
Kicking violently,
Grappling, losing my grip
Strenuously fighting
Can’t make it alone

The brides motion me.
A scrape of bridge
Cuts deep
I cry-
Remove! Remove! Remove!

the living bypass

I loom my arms, long and bark
Over the breezy bypass
Spectating
colors race by, with
Use of my green eyes

I cough up dust, it
Darkens my flesh, but
All I can do is gawk, at
These creatures,
whatever you are –
A constant flow of color –
Gliding across
smooth black path
In an instant, gone
While I am who I am
Only moved
By winds and rain,
Confined to my home

Forever the colors bleed together
my lazy eyes start to drift
until I hear screeching cries,
a sudden smack startles me
You are revealed, and
Dent my brother Spruce,
He keels over at the punch
In focus, more distinct –
Not just a color—
You are a machine,
Unnatural, now unmoving
And fatal to my kin.

Your relatives slow down,
And stare. Then speed on.


Note: I have quite a number of poems to post here and apologize for my lack of attention to this blog. Now that my poetry class is over, this blog will help encourage me to continue to go back and revise my poetry as well as encourage new material. Always feel free to leave constructive criticism. That's what this blog is all about.

Villanelle exercise- "To a girl of 12"

Don’t wound it with crying, hush-a-bye little girl
Your walk of shame through hallway solitaire
You will survive and surpass it as a pearl

Your coat drapes your head, I can’t see your curl
It covers the blowpop they stuck in your long hair
Don’t wound it with crying, hush-a-bye little girl

She says you linger in the girls room to hurl
Everyday, you’re actually hiding in your lair
You will survive and surpass her as a pearl

For laughter’s sake, they throw you in a whirl
Relish what drips down your cheek, a sea-salt tear
Don’t wound it with crying, hush-a-bye little girl

The children roast your dignity in sulphur
But take heed, my daughter, in that day of no fear
You will survive and surpass them as a pearl

At your tender age, I’d rather see you twirl
In delight, though, life is cruelly unfair
Don’t wound it with crying, hush-a-bye little girl
You will survive and surpass life as a pearl

Drink your coffee (It'll all be OK)

Off the topic of poetry, but still on creative writing.

Here is the 10 minute one-act play I wrote for playwriting last semester.
I've put it aside for quite some time and almost forgot about it.
I hope to make some revisions soon. Please read it and express any reaction you may have.

Here it is!

I will be quite relieved and happy if you enjoy it at all.

P.S.- You might notice it's actually on a different blog. This is because blogger does not allow uploading non-image documents. Gah. And I did not feel like switching to a new blog just to make this post.

I do not want to be Mrs. Dalloway

I was reading Woolf

When fear crawled down my neck

I thought of Kenya

And the passport

Misplaced at Heathrow –

An international mishap.

I’ll go down to the Hampton

P.O, reclaim myself.

I filled out the missing paper

And saw the scene unfold ahead.

Oh, what a larceny!

Someone took it,

Assumed my identity,

Is now wanted for acts of

Terrorism – jihad

On the Ethiopian state

Next door

Could have been

A Somalian extremist

Behind me

in the boarding line.

Kenya will not be safe

I will not be safe

I’ll go.

Unless I’m arrested.

I picture two men in black

Suits and glasses, slyly

Pulling me aside.

“Ms. Esposito,

come with us.”

When my name is cleared

They’ll warn me,

“You’re never to leave America

especially to go to Africa.”

That would kill me.

I’d settle after a time

And marry that rich conservative

Forget all the reasons for anything,

Everything.

The Pilgrim at 39th and Powell

To: Lindsey Seipp, whose revision suggestions have helped me immensely thus far.

He came accompanied

by a tweed briefcase,

worn and weathered

as he

and paused at this mess.

He gathered up

the moldy newspaper,

cups, cigarette butts

and the collapsed

grocery cart.

I could help,

should help him.

But I watched.

He joined me on the bench,

said he hates seeing trash.

He took out a rusted key

to open his Hartmann –

battered Epistles,

a beaten up Hamlet,

and copper coins

lay within the leather trim.

Holding up each coin,

he retold histories and

one-liners.

I had no stories for him.

Still, he presented,

from a faded

compartment,

a rose.

Tiny, pink, perfect.

And gave it to me.

Then our bus came,

he sat somewhere else.

And I sat and gazed

at the beauty

a small seed

to cover me

1/07

An introduction

This blog. What is it? I mean, I already have, like, 2 blogs, 5 if you count my inactive ones. So why another? This is a blog specifically for my poetry.

What this is not:
A chance for me to claim my brilliance. Most of my poems are barely scraps. They can use to be reworked, over and over again. I'm not putting up my work to "showcase" it even though, by means of blogging them, they will have a tiny amount of exposure.

What this is:
A chance for me to sort out what I've done. And more importantly, a chance to get constructive feedback. Whether you think you know poetry or not, I want to hear your reactions, whether they are positive, negative or neutral.

Another thing, I will post on here, are findings on poetry I've found fascinating. I am currently in a poetry writing class and we've been required to do findings by other writers about topics such as imagination, work habits and revision. I might even post up other peoples' poems which have inspired or influenced me.

So not to overwhelm you all with my full collection of mediocre to crap poems, I will post one a week, or every few days.

I think I've said all that's needed here. Here we go...