Today’s inspiration comes from Stacey Joy. Stacey is National Board Certified Teacher, Google Certified Educator, L.A. County and LAUSD Teacher of the Year with 35 years of elementary classroom teaching experience. She currently teaches 4th grade at Baldwin Hills Pilot & Gifted Magnet School. Stacey has served as a partner and guiding teacher for graduate students in the U.C.L.A. Teacher Education Program. Teaching her Joyteam students the power of knowledge, self-advocacy and justice are the core of her practice. Stacey is a poet at heart with one self-published book and several poems published in Savant Poetry Anthologies. Stacey is mom to her grown son, daughter and a Himalayan cat. Follow Stacey on Twitter @joyteamstars.
Inspiration
In the vignette “Hairs” from House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros reveals many interesting details about the narrator’s family, especially her mother, through a discussion of one physical trait: hair. Her first paragraph describes the hair of the narrator’s father and the hair of her siblings, and she uses those descriptions to give the reader insight into each of their personalities. Cisneros also reveals the narrator’s feelings towards her mother in the passage, using a variety of language features.
If you teach upper elementary and higher levels, this is easy to use with your students. I’ve enjoyed using it to explore our differences because hair is always a great entry point.
Read the vignette “Hairs” here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19elf5mLz0azYsm6fg7uA7LzIgWDRjakoe4dKNZq0PHs/edit?usp=sharing
Process
Think about the people in your own family, the characteristics you share with them and those that make them and you special and unique.
- Decide which physical trait you would like to write about. It might be hair, skin, eyes, lips, face, height, or talents.
- Is this a trait that you share with your family, this person’s alone, or only yours?
- How might you craft your poem with language features (metaphors, similes, personification, repetition and sensory details) that capture the essence of the trait and who has it?
- You may want to write a vignette and then split it into lines to craft the poem.
Stacey’s Poem
Black and Proud
By Stacey L. Joy
When I was little
I wanted my hair to bounce and sway
Like the blonde girl on the Simplicity Sewing Patterns
It needed to move
The way Mommie’s wigs teased her lashes
And tickled her shoulders
My hair stood stiff and still
Like a sentinel
Guarding my mind
From the toxic waste I fed it
Through media
My dolls
That bitch Malibu Barbie
Poisoning me against the natural curl pattern
Of my people
Then came Black Power
Angela Davis… The Afro Pick… The Black Fist
Silver steel Cake Cutter in my back pocket
I wanted to groove like Soul Train dancers
Afros dipping and dancing
With a life of their own
I craved that freedom to flow
Now I keep my hair twisted or braided
Intertwined with packaged hair
That costs $4.00 and only lasts 2 months
But underneath all the brown and red hues
Is a mass of ornery gray
Wise new sentinels guarding my mind
From wasting my time
On “What should I do with my hair?”
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
We look alike
She’s the oldest, I’m the youngest
It’s not only the brown wavy hair
The beautiful full lip mouth
The not so perfect teeth
The perfect pointy nose
It’s so much more
It’s the expressions
It’s the way we talk
It’s the way we have a strong presence
It’s the way we act
Hey Monica,
I enjoyed your perspective as the younger sister, especially because I am the oldest of four.
My teeth aren’t perfect either so I fully immerse myself in this descriptor.
Your final stanza carries quite a bit of meaning in its simplicity. Although you don’t have specific descriptors to define the ways you’ve mentioned, this lends these aspects of you and your sister to be most relatable.
From My Father
Since I was only young,
I’ve been reminded of the resemblance
My few favorite qualities
Can be seen in my father within an instance
Among the qualities
That can be easily traced
You would have to meet us
Face to face.
Two light blue eyes
containing shades for all the days
protected by dark curled lashes
leading to a small nose
rounded to perfection
surrounded by faint freckles
who look forward to the sun
light brings their moments to shine
Our Eyes
Grey, wolf-like, patient
My mother’s eyes and my own
A sea of questions
Ashley,
What a short poem that says so much. You have provided the reader a chance to see you and your mother within few words.
Thanks for your share,
Jess
Thank you! I wanted to capture our intense focus and curiosity!
For as long as I can remember
People have told me I look like him
The dark brown hair,
The brown eyes,
The brown complexion
There is no denying I am my father’s daughter
But I am more than that
I am my madre’s hands
I am my abuelita’s hair and nails
I am my abuelito’s humor
I am my tia’s mouth
I am my tio’s stubbornness
I am brown pride
I come from a long line of Trujillos
Birthed with the will to fight for our brown pride
Because things like that don’t come easy
I am my peoples daughter
and there is no denying that
I love how you used repetition to show how our entire family helps shape who we are! When you wrote “I am my peoples daughter” it made me think about how biological parents or guardians who raise us do not completely shape us, but instead we are shaped by all of the encounters we experience with family. This is lovely!!
Naydeen, I can see so much love, family, and culture in this piece.
Thank you for this share,
Jess
I wrote this poem about HAIR during the February
5-day challenge and wanted to share it again
today.
As a child, I was told my hair was glorious
it’s always been thick, course, and black
When I turned 4, my mom pulled out the
hot comb every Saturday night.
She would blow and I would pull-away
cringing, hoping she wouldn’t burn my ear.
We engaged in that dance a good 6 months
then she took me to the beauty shop.
Every 2 weeks, I did the blow pull-away dance
with a professional named Mrs. Juanita.
She always said, “I want it straight, not kinky.”
In high school, my mom and Mrs. J
introduced me to “creamy crack”
otherwise known as a Lye relaxer
and I was in hair heaven.
No more dancing, burnt ears, or kinky kitchens.
My hair was straight, smooth, and silky.
It looked like Claire Huxtable’s and I was elated.
I was sold on the relaxer by my mom who used it,
by the women at church, and by the girls at school.
For thirty years, the Lye was my hair’s savior.
My kinks were smoothed out
and amazingly, my hair flourished.
I brainwashed my daughters to be slaves
to the hot comb, curling iron, kitchen stove,
rollers and blue Bergamot hair oil.
It smoothed our hair and we knew
not to let rain touch our mane.
Then one day about 5 decades in, I realized
I craved kinky hair and wanted to dance in the rain.
My daughters and I slowly let go of the Lye and
embraced locks, twists, cornrows, and braids.
Now, we play with color and are addicted to
homemade and natural hair products.
The blessing is that my hair is still glorious,
thick, course, and mostly black.
Oh, Seana! I love this so much and am glad you reposted to celebrate locks and the blessing of your gloriousness!
I love how you used this as a platform to express your journey of identity, and when you wrote “I brainwashed my daughters to be slaves/to the hot comb, curling iron, kitchen stove”, I felt convicted of how I have somewhat brainwashed myself that my natural hair is not acceptable. This gave me a lot to think about, and I feel blessed to have read this! Thank you for sharing.
Brain Power by Seana
Daddy was analytical
Mommy was emotional
He knew people
and she saw intention
They both could see BS
coming ‘a mile away
They taught me to think first
and use your mouth second.
Didn’t always do that
especially when I was
younger but time, being a teacher
and becoming a mother has
taught me
to “shut up” sometimes.
Daddy said to surround
yourself with like-minded people
those who are as smart or
smarter than you.
Mommy sat with those who laughed,
cried, analyzed, danced and cussed.
I enjoyed being the only child during my
younger years surrounded by scholars, educated fools
and souls in search of love and meaning.
I watch people now sometimes and wonder
why they’re angry, ugly, thrilled or peaceful
What narrative is running through
their head and heart?
What narrative is running through mine?
I just want to make sure I stay
centered and always at peace.
Hi Seana,
Isn’t it incredible how the vast differences in our parents can create this unbelievably balanced human being? LOL. I love your poem. This was really powerful and said with so few words:
“He knew people
and she saw intention”
I really love: “souls in search of love and meaning.”
Aren’t we all searching? Wondering if it ever stops.
Beautiful tribute to your foundations!
BLACK HAIR LEGACY
by
MAli
AFRICAN LEGACY
Regal
Crown
Glory
Dreadlocked
Braided
Twisted
Dhuku
Gele
Hijab
AMERICAN LEGACY
Covered
Scarfed
Burned
Permed
Hatted
Wigged
Weaved
Altered
Always a source of contention
Bald headed
Nappy headed
Chicken headed
Snap back
Peasy
All over the place
Looking like straw
Looking like you been in a fight
Looking a hot mess
LEGACY
The 1960’s changed the narrative for many
Afros
Blowouts
Cornrows
Braids
Dreadlocks
Twists
Naturals
MY HAIR LEGACY
Both my grandmothers
Maternal and paternal were biracial
Not because their mothers were in love with white men
But because Black women are always the collateral damage of American society
Both wore their hair natural
Long
Wavey
Thick
What is known as “Good Hair”
Both my grandmothers said they married the darkest man they could find
so they could have
“Brown nappy headed babies”
My mother’s hair
The opposite of her mother’s
Short
Crunchy
Thin
But most of the time it was natural
And how I love her sandy, pink sponge roller laden hair
It was the late 80’s when I became conscious,
Or what is now called WOKE
One part, foundation (that is how I was raised)
Another part, Afros classes in college
But mostly becoming the mother of a chocolaty, curly haired baby girl.
A baby girl that needed to see her reflection not only in my eyes,
But also in my appearance.
So I excised the colonizer’s deeply rooted indoctrination that blonde straight hair is the golden standard of beauty.
GONE are the blonde highlights I’d worn in my hair since high school
Tryin’ to look like Miss Clairol
Gone is the over processed burnt up lifeless hair
Tryin’ to look like Gwyneth Paltrow
Gone was the mindset that my hair needed to be tamed, controlled, and seasoned
Like an enslaved African in the 1600.
My hair
My crown
My glory
Big
Puffy
Coiled
Tangled
Wild
My daughters, now two
Their hair
Their crowns
Their glory
Devoid of chemicals, heat, weaves and dyes
Full of self love,
Hair love
Woke
A new
BLACK HAIR LEGACY
What a grand entrance my friend! Truly worth the wait.
The upper-cased headings made a statement of their own. The American legacy section breaks my heart because it’s all about controlling and altering to assimilate into something never meant for us.
Love your own hair legacy. This line is pure ?:
“Black women are always the collateral damage of American society… “ damn.
Then you shut it all the way down with:
“Gone was the mindset that my hair needed to be tamed, controlled, and seasoned
Like an enslaved African in the 1600.“
Beautiful and empowering poem of the hair journey so many take.
Thank you my sister! Please keep writing. Breathe in between and watch your spirit speak on the page.
??
Wow! Powerful, every word. The single word per line at the beginning made my eyes move slowly through each time and place pondering the implications, and then your story situated in and against “colonizer’s deeply rooted indoctrination.” The My to the Their in hair, crown, glory shows the legacy shift you are making in your family. Wow. Thank you.
I didn’t much care for the way I looked when I was younger.
My stringy brown hair that never turned out the way I wanted to,
My pale complexion that always made me look, “sick,”
My small hands, and the red bumps on my arms
And all the times I thought I was too thin or too big.
How I wished I didn’t have to wear glasses or how I wish my glasses at least wouldn’t be too big for my face.
But then one day my friend’s mother told me how much I looked my sister,
Did I think my sister was ugly as I thought of myself?
No.
My sister was absolutely gorgeous to me.
The way her brown hair, the same as mine, fell over her face when she was laughing, how her freckles sprinkled her face during the hot months of the summer, how her complexion as white as snow was beautiful and nothing to be ashamed of.
And I see these same physical features in all of my family members in whom I love. I have my grandmother’s dimples (and her love for mint chocolate chip icecream) and I have my mother’s big teeth and I have my father’s red-head skin and freckles, and my grandfathers eyes.
And I’m proud of these physical traits that I have,
To carry on these traits given to me by the family members who came before me, both physical and personality traits that make me, me.
And now I smile at myself as I looked in the mirror, proud to be who I am.
Kaitlin, I love how you tell a story in these few stanzas of coming to understand beauty and how to see it in others and yourself. The imagery is gorgeous “freckles sprinkled” and “complexion as white as snow” and “dimples” and “mint chocolate chips icecream” (love that, too). Thank you.
Kaitlyn, I love your discovery for self beauty in this poem.
Thanks for your share,
Jess
Family Trait
It is a pleasure to see you coming
and a delight to see you leaving
my, how you have grown
your lobster tail
takes a while to curve that lane
It was only yesterday
you were just a girl
but I knew that time would
reveal your voluptuous silhouette
There is no running from this
Slim thick
Hourglass
Figure eight
Wire waist
Size 34, 29, 47
Perfection
one would say
How your image lingers in my mind
A beauty to behold
You, your family trait
Melissa, you used powerful imagery in your poem to describe this family trait. Interesting perspective that we don’t get to hear from the possessor of the family trait, which is a very powerful device used here. I imagine that perfection is not easy to possess when you are just growing into it and hearing too much of this sort of appreciation. Beautifully written.
Melissa, I so appreciate the specific details that reveal the family trait. I really enjoy the opening. I can just imagine this voice saying the lines delivered. The line “A beauty to behold” is so powerful!
Hey Melissa,
The first line I read was slim thick. Maybe it jumped out because I’ve heard that description applied to describe my physique or maybe because I just like how those words example a great juxtaposition.
Then I saw wire waist and questioned where you were from as I’ve only known that to be a description used in the Caribbean.
Back to your poem… it seems this is a compilation of all the descriptions you may have heard to describe yourself and other women in your family. They vary with their intensity and sensuality while transcending a few decades as well.
I appreciate how the speaker embraces these descriptors and the family trait as a marker of beauty.
In church
I met the slow
turtle of time.
I tilted my head
against the oaken pew
and counted
stained panes
rimming the dome
above the united
methodists.
When I could no longer
bear the stillness,
I crawled out of my skin,
wriggling against
boredom’s heavy shell.
My father held out his
closed turtle fist.
Our silent game began
as I pried each finger
open.
One
two
three
four–
My victory was at hand.
Then his
fist snapped shut.
I began again
to force
his fingers
from his fist.
In this way
I learned
the topography
of my father’s
hands:
the map
of my own.
Allison,
Through your words I returned to church to revisit my own struggle against “the slow / turtle of time” and the ways I entertained myself. The pace of this nostalgic poem slows me down as I read each word and visualize the outstretched fist and you struggling to open closed fingers. It’s a lovely image. I love the final lines most. I think about how knowing my father has helped me see myself.
I absolutely love your piece. This is something that I have known to understand sitting in the pews. I appreciate the imagery you created in stanzas 4, 5, & 6!
Allison – Just like fingers slowly pried open, your poem has that careful pace…”turtle of time” …you set us down in the “ oaken pew.” I was there in that pew, feeling that young “wiggle” and the sort of mesmerizing gaze at the varied “ stained glass.” The hands of your father that pull you to him, the most important part of church, it seems to me, that connection…hand to hand, finger by finger and through all these years. Quite spiritual to go to church with you today. Thank you for the beauty of this poem. Susie
Allison, what a beautiful description of the game you played with your father in church as a little girl. This. Is. Poetry. Something I have not figured out, but I am longing to keep learning from mentors like you surrounding me this month. It is such an amazing way to describe how your own hands are now mirroring your father’s. This is so lovely.
Allison, I so enjoy the physical details of the church and can relate to feeling restless as a child during worship time. The end has such an impact and the love for your father resonates so powerfully in this poem.
Blue Eyes
You have blue eyes
clearly from your mother
since my eyes are brown.
And I always thought
everyone in my family
had brown eyes
until you were born
and my mom pointed out
my dad’s eyes are bright blue too.
Sometimes in the mornings
you look at me from your crib
with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow.
You look so grumpy to be waking up
but it’s like,
kid,
it’s not even 6am
and your mama and I have
no problem with you staying
asleep for another hour.
But those blue eyes are piercing.
They remind me of my dad
in old black and white photos
from the ‘60s
when he was relatively new too.
When your eyes laugh
it is your mama’s laughter
echoing across a canyon of time.
I don’t see me yet
but I don’t need to.
You are everyone I love.
What a breath of fresh air! I remember looking at my infant son and seeing my mom in him. He is grown, and she is gone now, but he is her spit and image.
I really enjoyed the comparison of your baby to your wife. Like Katrina mentioned, it was a breath of fresh air! I specifically liked when you say, “When your eyes laugh/ it is your mama’s laughter/ echoing across a canyon of time.”
Alex this is so precious. I love “It’s your mama’s laughter echoing across a canyon of time.” The deep emotions that come from our babies’ eyes. Doesn’t it make you wonder if they’re seeing the same when they look into ours?
Beautiful.
What a beautiful love letter! I laughed at this: “You look so grumpy to be waking up
but it’s like,
kid,
it’s not even 6am”
Ah, Alex. What a beautiful poem about your blue-eyed beautiful baby who is “everyone I love.” This is so touching and precious. I love how Stacey’s prompt got you thinking about traits and it led to this charming piece. Amazing.
I looked your description of your beautiful baby! The comparison to other family members was also a great touch! Thank you!
This is so special! I felt like you were in a nursery and I was intruding when I read this, but I am so grateful to have walked in!
“Let me show you,”
she’d say,
then sit on the bench beside me
so I could watch her hands.
Long and graceful as ballet dancers,
her fingers worked independently from each other,
each one ready
(as if with a mind of its own)
to jump in at the right moment
and perform a perfect pirouette.
Her knuckles were rounded like tree knots
strengthened
from years and years of adversity,
able to stretch and bend and press
the keys with just the right amount of pressure
to create a masterpiece.
“Now you try.”
She’d move aside
and allow my small, stubby fingers
to fumble across the keys
like newborn foals,
trying to stand—
I wanted so desperately
to gallop and run
across the ivory,
free and unrestrained.
Maybe one day, I thought,
if I practice enough,
my fingers will change,
learn, lengthen
and effortlessly create melodies
like my teacher’s hands do.
Rachel, that’s a lovely photograph. Love the comparison of fingers to wobbly legged foals. Precious, precious time as you learned the keys!
Where to begin? I love so much about this poem:
“Her knuckles were rounded like tree knots” <3 <3
Then this:
my small, stubby fingers
to fumble across the keys
like newborn foals
You have crafted vivid, personal images that touched my head/heart tonight. Thank you.
I already posted, today, but thought I would give the “hair” theme a try. I even tried not to rhyme! But, oh, well!?
My Hair
By Donna Russ 4/4/2020
My hair has always been very important to me.
I would comb it and brush it and wear it in interesting styles.
All my friends thought I was vain for giving it so much care.
But they didn’t know the story behind my beautiful head of hair.
As a toddler I wandered away one day and was burned from head to hand.
The doctor said I would always be bald and that made my mother sad.
But she didn’t accept this gloom and doom, in fact it made her mad!
So, everyday, she brushed and greased my scarred and skincapped head;
until one day there emerged hair that was fuzzy white.
She was so elated, though on a little Black girl it was not a pretty sight.
Over the years my hair grew out white, red to sandy brown.
The doctor thought I was a miracle and stared each time we met.
But I know it was a mother’s love and determination. Am I grateful; you bet!
Oh, wow. What a story you have told here! No wonder your hair is such an elemental part of your identity!
Donna,
What a great story in rhyme (even though you tried not to! I have the opposite problem — I don’t think I can write a poem in rhyme) Anyway, you put in so many great details about this lifelong hair experience. I love this line where she “brushed and greased my scarred and skincapped head.” I can only imagine her delight when the fuzzy white hair came. I pictured it like downy feathers on a little bird. Thanks for sharing your story.
backyard trees
The fruit tree is solitary yet surrounded. She bears fleeting breezes scented like the creamed butter, sugar and vanilla of future butter cookies mixed on turquoise-tiled countertops. Mostly unassuming, yet impossible to oversee due to proximity. The mimosa tree finds potential in every nook and cranny of the yard. She appears delicate, whispy, and whimsical; yet, her agenda is “get shit done” and she is an executor. The oak shows eternal resilience. Half of the trunk dies; the other half lives on: stretching limbs to balance the loss. The knobby roots may occasionally trip you but never with intentionality and always with the reminder: “Stumbler, stop taking things so seriously, you’re not as important as you may sometimes feel.” And it feels good to hear that because it’s soothing to be reminded of our smallness inside this vastness. The pine’s psychedelic whorls and scales create a dynamic strength and stature. That quintessential incense of the crisp early spring evening air infused with a fire in your neighbor’s home. Mattresses of needles like a bed of nails; softness to the eye, prickles to the bare foot, and a gentleness to that which falls upon it.
Hey Laura,
This backyard feels like a treasure, where your senses get lost in wonder. There are varied sights, smells, and even lessons one can glean from the trees.
You’ve captured sincere appreciation for the nature that populates the yard. Thank you for this unexpected perspective.
My brothers sing like nightingales.
They do so effortlessly.
Mom said I came out of the chute singing.
But that reality I just could not believe!
My brothers’ voices could make you swoon
They needed no lessons or plan.
I had to study for years just to feel confident enough before an audience to stand!
My brothers did not pursue a singing career.
They followed other endeavors.
I did gave it a shot, but, life let me know that I couldn’t do that, forever!
So, here we are in our twilight years enjoying the voices GOD gave us.
Singing in church and at family reunions. Singing from dawn to dusk.
Loving and caring for each other
while singing, together; me, and my brothers.
I love the image you create in the last stanza – singing with your brothers, so confident and strong and supporting each other! I also love: “Mom said I came out of the chute singing.” I feel like this line gives me a glimpse into your mother’s personality. So fun!
Hair Love
When I was little
I hated my hair
I wanted long, flowing hair
Like the angels Charlie had
So I tied bath towels around my ugly head
Striped, polka-dotted, multi-colored
Towels swinging and swaying to give
The illusion of a head full of hair
My hair?
Short, kinky, curly (nappy),
Natural hair
Vexing my very existence
Cruel people reminding me
Of the beauty I lacked
Too many years
Spent thinking about my hair
The hair I wanted
The hair I could never have
Thinking, ‘What should I do with my hair?”
Skinny braids and colorful beads
Pig-tails and fuzzy ribbons
“Creamy Crack” to relax it straight
Bob it, weave it, wrap it up
Now I wear my hair
Powerfully natural and oh, so short
Fade so tight, so close to my brown skin
Round, but fierce lined-up edges
With just enough hair to not be bald
Spending my days loving myself and my hair
Love, love, love! Your description of using a towel to pretend you had long, straight hair is a memory right out of my childhood as well as every Black little girl I knew! I am glad we finally learned to appreciate the beauty of our naturally kinky hair! Thanks
Beautiful! “Vexing my very existence” “The hair I wanted / The hair I could never have” “Powerfully natural” – hair can be such a sensitive thing. I love how you described the conflict – wanting, wishing, but then learning to be content and love yourself and your hair!
Donnetta, powerful images of your feelings before and after. This ending:
“Now I wear my hair
Powerfully natural and oh, so short
Fade so tight, so close to my brown skin
Round, but fierce lined-up edges
With just enough hair to not be bald
Spending my days loving myself and my hair”
I love it so much. “so close to my brown skin” Your word choice in this last stanza–powerful, natural, fade so tight, fierce, loving myself and my hair. It says so much about you and this powerful chapter you are in. I’m so glad you teach second graders, so you can help some of them who need it come into a new chapter, as well.
This poem, like Stacey’s, is very powerful about befores and afters regarding hair. Thanks for sharing.
Smooth, perfect, porcelain skin
But it wasn’t mine.
Mine was freckled with red dots
Varying in size and space.
I stared at the large picture on Vogue’s cover;
I glared in the overwhelming mirror in my bathroom.
I compared the two images.
Even though there isn’t a book on what beauty is or means,
I always knew that wasn’t me.
My mom tells me not to worry,
“You’ll grow out of it,” she says.
But what usually only happens to teens
Still happens to me as an adult.
My family all share olive tones and even textures.
My skin is scarred and cracking under the pressure,
but somehow increasingly oily at the same time.
Medicine bottles and ointments crowd my bathroom counter.
Still full from weeks without use.
They never work anyways.
Tears fall rapidly into my large oval pores.
If only those were a magical serum;
My skin would be flawless and glowing.
Weeping for the child in you that is still hoping for a cure! So, descriptive emotionally. All kids go through that, “I’ m ugly”, phase, but it is more painful when we carry it into adulthood. You captured that emotion, dare I say, beautifully.
So hard to read, yet so relatable and touching. As a child (and adult of course) with freckles, I very much relate to those observations and conversations. Your last three lines are vibrant and heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing.
Freckles brown eyes
the eyes my momma gave me
two freckles in the left, and one in the right
I use to say I wanted “cool eyes” like my
dads green eyes ringed with brown.
I wanted the kind of eyes that stopped
people in their tracks.
Then one day I realized my
freckled brown eyes
the eyes my momma gave me.
I see the long life lived thus far
the pounds lost to be more like her sister
I see the words of “you’re a great friend, Liesl”
puffs of smoke from cigarettes smoked by
the brown eyes before her.
i see a city girl in love with those green eyes ringed
with brown.
sacrificing her life for two little ones
not just two little ones, but 25 more
as she sits at her desk with her name on her desk and loves on those who aren’t hers.
I see a woman who loves freely
a woman who braves heartache as her
husband sinks in addiction
but she makes sure
her two little ones stay afloat
and sees through to her family’s redemption.
You see those freckles brown eyes
carry a lot of burdens, pain, & love.
She carries the hurt of others,
the laughs of her children,
kindness in her heart.
To be half the woman she is
I love my freckled brown eyes.
What a beautiful tribute to your mother. I can see the eyes in your family through your words, but more than that, I can see your mother—her strength and her love.
Well, here you go. Now you know the real me!
Mom
Chris
Carey
Melissa
Angie
Ann
Me
Sassy, smart, fiery.
We wear our Celtic heritage proudly.
Don’t even think about calling us gingers.
We are passionate in our beliefs; some may say to a fault.
We get what we want, usually when we want it.
You do not want to mess with the red heads, trust me!
We are known for our fierceness and tenacity.
We outlive the men by decades.
Our crimson locks empower us
and motivate us
to pay $120 a month
to create the myth.
Ah, MO, this is so fun! I loved the strong voice roaring tight along, and then WHAM , that terrific final line! So marvelous! Thanks, Susie
Mo—the last two lines were such a welcome surprise! I laughed out loud. Having numerous red-heads in my family, I recognize the breed.
Mo, I was hiding ‘round the corner waiting for you red heads to pass by. Then you dropped your handbag and the red hair dye rolled out. It stopped right by the toe of my sandals!
Our eyes met. I shook my head and you nodded yours. You knew I would keep your secret till you were ready to tell it.
What fun I’m having reading these TRUE CONFESSIONS today.
Mo, what an unexpected surprise! That’s priceless. Fun today learning so much about you!
Mo! This could be a commercial! Not for the red hair dye but for powerful women standing in their strength. I love it.
“We get what we want, usually when we want it.
You do not want to mess with the red heads, trust me!
We are known for our fierceness and tenacity.”
This should be every single one of us, getting what we want, being fierce and tenacious!
Powerful piece, glad to meet the real you! ???
At eight years old, dad whisked me off
To the hairdresser, granting permission
To add angles and layers through my golden
Sheet of waves and ringlets that never did
As they were told. I was grown now, and
When I came home, mom bit back tears.
You see, when she rounded with me
At nineteen, she prayed for her holy trifecta:
A girl, blue eyes, curly blond hair.
As I grew, her prayers came to truth.
Curly blond hair was to be my crown:
Golden with family history weighed in each ringlet.
Each morning, I stood at her vanity while
She combed, brushed, creamed and bowed
Each tendril. She commanded them with
Fingers, hair spray, gel and bobby pins.
She’d curse when a wild curl got away,
Or when she thought I’d fallen asleep.
A golden sheet she could brush and braid
For hours, mom mused when remembering
Me, at 8, coming home with the butchered
Remains of her care. “I wanted it,” I’d tell
Her while dad shrugged. After all, young
Daughters do not often do as they are told.
This describes the dream haircut I hoped for as a pre-teen, but was shot down by the hairdresser because my “hair wasn’t the right texture for” how I wanted it to look. To read that final stanza gave me such pride and excitement for you as you experienced agency and satisfaction with your body and your desire. Way to go dad, too!
“Buzzcut”
Hair so short
I might as well be bald
Mom would grab the old clippers
To the back porch, she called
I wished to grow my hair long
Money was tight as I recall
Haircuts not necessary
When you could save money looking like a cue ball
Now I make my own money
Never to cut my hair short again, that’s the goal
Kole, I grew up with six brothers who had to endure this. We girls just had to deal with getting our bangs trimmed. Hairstyling was definitely not a priority in our house. Thanks for bringing back the memories.
You don’t want to cut your hair and I’m dying because I can’t go the barbershop and get a haircut. I totally resonate with the line, “Hair so short”. That’s the way I like to wear mine.
That crew cut was the style for little boys and still is from
Time to time – and truth be told there are times in my life I envy the maintenance it doesn’t require. Inexpensive, easy, and classic.
Kole, I love that your piece tells a story. It has form like a poem but it’s easy to see the imagery of your haircut on the back porch as something I have seen plenty times before with my brother.
Stacey — Your mentor poem just rocked me. I read it first thing this morning, and thought oh wow! Hair…and your remarkable detail of the hair… it is just beautiful. The “mass of ornery grey” just really made this more than hair…it was a gorgeous identity. The strength of that grey… oooo, yeah! The images that you grew up with… like many of my own (those Simplicity women…OMG… always that same plastic look of skinny white women with their non-curves and vacant gazes. Geez. And I laughed out loud at “bitch Malibu Barbie” LOL! Priceless! These images warped all of us… but particularly sold short the very existence of beautiful, curvy, black, big-haired women… dang. Your voice in this is power-house marvelous. And I love the notion of your hair “guarding” your mind… no “wasting time on “what should I do with my hair?” Indeed! This is a terrific poem! Really rockin’ good! Thanks for such a meaty inspiration for today’s writing. Love, Susie
A Peculiar Gift
And who do we have to thank for these?
Dr. Podiatt snarked,
prodding the sweeping arch of my foot.
Hmmm, that would be my dad
with feet, like dogs barking, talking trash to him.
He paid me a nickel on Sundays
if I would scratch his ankle.
I saved nickel after nickel.
The albino whiteness of his boney skin,
ankles oddly lumpy from injuries before my time,
he hurt and itched.
The gentle scratching
eased him into the familiar sag of the couch,
an instant nap taking him away,
the nickel in his aye-aye lemur fingers.
Jarred back to the moment,
I stared at my own too-white bony feet,
Dr. P. yammering the biology —
tarsi, ligaments, inflammation – a foot
gone rogue with plantar fasciitis,
a gift from dad he only maybe knew he’d given.
And I remembered all the nickels.
by Susie Morice©
Oh, those nickels! What a great story and tribute to your dad and his exhausted feet. I love the image of the aye-aye lemur fingers! FYI- I inherited my grandmother’s feet. My boys have, too, only in really large sizes!
Heredity is a b****, but what a lovely memory. Even if you did it for the nickels, those were precious moments you can’t buy!
Susie—loved your description of his feet-albino whiteness, boneyards skin, lumpy ankles. It reminds me of my dad’s feet, though I never scratched them—mostly avoided them 🙂 The story you tell made me smile.
Susie, what great memories knowing that you brought such comfort to your dad! The nickels probably meant more to you as a child, but the peace of mind knowing you swept away discomfort and took it to sleep is worth so, so much more! I love your story but sorry you got the trait…..
Hi Susie,
This is such a great story of the tragedies we receive in our genetic coding. LOL. Mine would be moles. Yuck. Yours would be:
“a gift from dad he only maybe knew he’d given.
And I remembered all the nickels.”
It’s beautiful and true, something that is taking me some time to come to agreement with. I love it!
And lastly, those doctors! They make me so mad when they casually ask us who had what we have. What the heck does it matter? I guess if we said we were the only ones in our families with the conditions they see, they’d be completely thrown off.
Hugs!
This:
“The gentle scratching
eased him into the familiar sag of the couch”
I specifically hit “Command+F” to find your poem tonight.
I’m so glad I did. This is a beauty.
Stacey, thank you for this inspiration, this poem challenge. It really was a challenge for me…I jotted down so many draft notes, trying to pick a feature other than hair…but hair won out.
Thank you, too, for your poem and it’s powerful message of Black beauty. Beauty is so innate and diverse, and yet for far too long, women, in particular, have been held to a very narrow definition – at real personal cost. Love the image of gray hair as “wise new sentinels guarding my mind/from wasting my time.”
Here’s my poem:
Mother and Daughter
Come to think of it,
hair was a thing between us,
keeping us together,
pushing us apart.
“Oh, look at you two,
mother and daughter,
such beautiful hair,
thick, black, and wavy.”
I heard this over and over.
In those early years,
she’d preen and primp us both,
I’d cry and protest and wriggle away,
I never cared about my hair, and
her eyes said ‘shame on you.’
“It needs to be combed,
it needs to be untangled,
you can’t go out looking like that.”
I wanted the choice of a simple buzz cut,
like my brothers,
just let me be –
free to climb, run and hide,
work up a sweat.
Exasperated, she styled mine a ‘pixie,’
making it conform.
I resented being told to be pretty.
Her eyes said “you don’t get a say.”
When I look at the family photo,
me, with that soft, perfect curl
in the center of my forehead,
I only see the hour I sat still
beforehand
so that she could create it, and
I see
her manicured hair, and
her sophisticated smile,
projecting
we are a model family.
Her eyes are distant.
By the time I was in high school,
she stayed longer in her bed,
weighed down by mental illness, and
neither I nor my hair was
clipped,
boxed in,
confined.
Mom tried to tame both me and my hair,
and then gave up.
I missed having her wash my hair at the sink,
I missed her playing with my hair,
I missed her eyes noticing me.
So many, many years have gone by,
my hair is now gray,
though thick and playful.
It refuses to grow past my shoulders,
I guess stubborn like me.
Once it hits the nape of my neck,
it decides to be a bush, growing bolder, wide, and wild,
as if still yelling ‘let me be!’.
It submits to workweeks with gels and a brush,
but weekends and pandemics
are another thing entirely.
Sometimes my hair covers my eyes.
Maureen — I, too, loved your wild hair! I want to see it and I can because your words take me there. It “submits to workweeks with gels…” ha…great. I love thinking of your hair wild with pandemic frenzy! The upside of this rotten scourge. Wanting the “buzz cut” so you could get on with more important things… “let me be.” Hair between a mom and daughter … you pulled out those phrases we all recall “you can’t go out looking like that.” Made me chuckle, but a very real battle as we grew up. You touched on several really important themes…the tie to a parent, the identity we strike when we own our own look, the inevitable changes with time, and all the debates that ensue around this one silly thing – hair. Very wonderful. Thanks, Susie
Maureen,
Your mother’s voice emphasizes the strong-willed females in your hair battles. I’m fascinated by the personification of your hair, as though it’s not part of you but a separate, willful being w/ a mind of its own. I love the way hair brought you together w/ your mother in a utilitarian fashion while simultaneously pushing you apart. As I read I anticipated your missing the hair rituals. Maybe because I have absolutely no memory of my mother ever brushing or styling my hair. The repetition of “I missed” has a grieving tone. Now that your hair is gray, it still has that childlike quality in its weekend rebellions. Maybe parts of us never grow up.
—Glenda
Your story is about so much more than hair—I feel as if you introduced me to your mother and let me into your family. And I am glad you let your hair win on the weekends!
Hi Maureen,
I fell deep into your poem! This part made me tense:
Exasperated, she styled mine a ‘pixie,’
making it conform.
I resented being told to be pretty.
Why can’t we let our girls be the way they want to be? And how do we TELL girls to BE pretty? Isn’t that something.
Then you hit me hard with this:
Mom tried to tame both me and my hair,
and then gave up.
I missed having her wash my hair at the sink,
I missed her playing with my hair,
I missed her eyes noticing me.
Hurts like hell.
Then the hair sometimes covers your eyes. You have left me hanging because I know there’s more and a deeper reason it covers your eyes besides growth or wildness. Wow.
Thank you!
Maureen, what a powerful example of the complexity of relationships. You used hair as a metaphor for mother-daughter joy and angst; connection and fragmentation. (The Latin word for complicated means “folded together”, which is so true of our closest relationships.) Though you fought your mom’s over-attention to your hair, you also missed her attention, as she grew sicker.
I love the personification of your hair in the last stanza, how it grows bolder, wide and wild, yelling at you to ‘let it be’. Sounds familiar. It used to give the admonition to your mom, now to you.
I think the last line leaves me with such a smile, actually laughter as I read it again. I guess the wild hair wins after all. Especially in pandemics.
Mom, I cant spell it
Even when I try!
Really, its too long
Can you spell it again?
M-E-R-C-E-D-E-S
Every day, I practice
Dyslexia wont sever the link
Each time it gets easier
Slowly, I cement the link
***
A name that is a the link
Between a grandmother
and granddaughter
that share
a passion
for education
a love
for music
an enthusiasm
for hard work.
One is here
and one is passed
But the name connects us
beyond the divide.
This poem is so beautiful. I love the connections you make besides just the name.
Kate,
Lovely image of a trait that connects two special people in generations on either side of you. You are the bridge. Your beautiful poem is giving me ideas for name poems in my family. have a couple of special names that have passed down skipping a generation. You get to be the one to share the grandmother’s missing love and presence to the new Mercedes. (It is a beautiful name, by the way. I had a friend with the name who was nicknamed Mercy. I always loved her name. )
Thank you for the inspiration today.
When I was little
my fingers grabbed at my
thick, black hair
wishing, willing, wanting
it to be light and airy
any shade of gold will do
anything but what I had
heavy, sulking, boring
When I was older
I joined the diving team
My locks could hide there
But even my ponytail yearned
to be like Connie’s
Delicate when wet
the blonde hues melting together
into greys – the way only
white girl hair does
When I was fed up
I saved every penny
braced to meet my distraught mother
5 hours is all it took
a lot of bleach, some color
Mirror, mirror on the wall
even the girl in the reflection was speechless
An Asian blonde?!
Who woulda thunk
Now I wear my hair
the way I got it
long, black, thick
It dances down my back
frames my face just right
No shades of gold
But one
fierce
shine
One fierce shine.
A strong ending for a strong poem. Love the image of it dancing down your back. (Wish mine did!!)
Your cascade of verbs and adjectives from the beginning of the poem to the final three lines and those last two words (“fierce shine”) creates a dynamic and powerful visual both on the page and for your reader. Thanks for sharing!
Emily, so many of the poems today have the same melody line…I didn’t like me the way I was born, but the harmonies of different pitches show we’re singing the same song, just variations on the theme.
Thanks for adding yours.
Emily, your poem reminds me of a “Sleeping Beauty” picture book I had as a kid. I used to trace her tumbling, golden locks with my finger and daydream of having her hair…the “blond hues ,” “light and airy,” “shade of gold” and “mirror, mirror” conjured up those memories for me (although I am mixing princess allusions). I like how you invert the description of your hair from the beginning of your poem–“thick, black hair”– to how you describe it at the end–“long, black, thick.” Your shift in tone demonstrates how you go from loathing your hair to owning your hair. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Emily,
I love the struggles you share with identity, hair, motherhood, being YOU! This one is especially appreciated because like I told Sarah, I never really thought other people who didn’t have nappy hair ever had hair issues. I’m happy to learn so much today. But I am even happier that you are wearing your hair “the way I got it/long, black, thick…” because that’s the beauty of being YOU!
Emily, I am loving reading all the beautiful stories of hair power. It is a testimony to your mom to let you spend your money to learn the lesson in the last stanza. I love this: “It dances down my back, frames my face just right, no shades of gold, but one fierce shine” Beautiful.
There was a little girl,
My mama always said she special ordered me:
“I asked God for a brown-eyed, curly-haired girl.”
And that’s what she got
Brown eyes
Brown hair
Curls
More wavy than kinky
Spirals around my ears and temples
Thicker and straighter at the nape of my neck
Who had a little curl,
Tearful exchanges between
tender-headed daughter and butter-fingered mother
“I would have killed for your hair!”
Wooden brush, plastic comb, detangler, leave-in conditioner
Daily fights with knots, tangles, and “rat’s nests”
A ponytail or pigtails
One braid or two (American, never French)
A constant battle of fly-ways and lumps
Bumpy ballet buns wrestled into submission
Under a helmet of hairspray and merciless bobby pins
Right in the middle of her forehead.
My adolescent attempts to wrangle my own hair
And imitate in vogue styles yielded mixed results
“People pay big money for hair like yours.”
Hair dryers and curling irons = mushroom-shaped blob
Scrunchies and chop-sticks = weak, messy buns
Hot-sticks and hot-rollers = tight, doll-like coils
Bangs, no bangs, never-good-bangs
Blunt summer bobs
Frizzy and limp
Curl under and flip out
When she was good,
Summer before high school,
People magazine in hand–
Meg Ryan’s City of Angels curls,
Sweet and sassy, framing her face on the cover–
I took the risk at the salon.
Short. Curly. Go.
First day of ninth grade, Mrs. Harrell’s homeroom:
“Betsy got a new haircut!”
“No, Stephen, I bought a new shampoo and my hair shrunk.”
She was very, very good.
Twenty-two years of naturally curly, short hair
An alchemy of products to accentuate the curl
Combat the frizz
Lift the roots
Not too crunchy, not too soft
This cream when it’s damp
This paste at half-dry
Shelves and drawers of discarded mooses, gels, and sprays
Hoarded reserves of discontinued potions
Sighs and eye-rolls from hair stylists : “Too much product!”
Attempts to straighten or blow-out with magic round brushes
And high-heat dryers
Transform me into a sleek, modern, sophisticated woman
For a few hours or maybe a day
Then the heat and humidity and inherited butter-fingers
Create wrinkles and waves and curves
Better to air dry
Scrunch and go
Let it do it’s thing
But when she was bad, she was horrid.
Wow, Betsy! I love how the nursery rhyme is woven through your poem, juxtaposed with the story of the ‘work’ of your hair. Oh, my, goodness – the work women put into their hair! The dance of hair products, followed by “sighs and eye-rolls from hair stylists: ‘Too much product!” ” – loved this line. There’s a sense of exhaustion, ending appropriately – But when she was bad, she was horrid. Loved this!
This is great! I was saying the nursery rhyme with you all the way through! I love your phrases—an alchemy of products, and the fact that you have the same butter-fingers as your mom. The ending is perfection.
The nursery rhyme running through this makes it so unique and creative. I love the special order of the child – imagine what a blessed world we would have if every child were told they were specially ordered.
“Show me your hands!” Carries
Multiple
Meanings. Here are my hands. They are not my
Mother’s, though I cannot
Remember them exactly. They are not my son’s, whose
Fingertips are very slightly
bulbous. Skipping generations, Grandma handed me
Hands, almost as wide as
Long, and well-suited to axe and hoe handles.
“Skipping generations, Grandma hand me/Hands…” Isn’t it wild how genetics work? How different and similar our bodies can be?
I love this poem so much. Our hands say so much about who we are metaphorically, too. Thank you for sharing!
I love how you compare the hands of your family members. It is interesting that traits can skip a generation. It reminds me that, as a baby, my son looked more like my father-in-law than my husband and nothing like me. Beautiful poem.
And it carries still more meanings when it comes from a policeman.
A table made for eight sat twelve
bottoms on benches side-by-side
elbows tucked, hands to mouth
fish sticks, sloppy joes, pot pies.
A sofa made for three spilled
bodies on carpeting for TV
elbows hovering hearts, hands
resting cheeks, fingers fighting
channel changes, folding laundry.
A phone made for one perched
above the trash bin, Ma Bell’s
coxial cable stretched to the
the bathroom phone booth
teen fingers dialing in gossip.
As a child, I did not know
what my hands could do
that my fingers could say
what my tongue could not that
my silence at the table
my passivity on the carpet
my refusal to lift the receiver
was not an absence of thought
not a sign of senselessness.
It was a sign that I was a writer
waiting for a place to speak.
And you sure found it, Sarah.
These lines, “was not an absence of thought
not a sign of senselessness.”
remind me of how important it is for adults to not make assumptions about children, to not give them labels, or put their personalities into boxes – we do not know, we do not know, what will become.
Powerful final words “It was a sign that I was a writer/waiting for a place to speak.”
A writer, waiting for a place to speak. What a perfect close. Your voice sees all of us through our months now. Thanks for speaking to us through this forum.
Bam! Sarah — this is a homerun. Walking us along the crowded table with the “elbows tucked…” and introducing the typical fingers till BAM… your fingers’ “refusal to lift the receiver…. not an absence of thought…sign of senselessness…” but the wonderful writer that you knew you would be and are! So well paced and set up….you walked us right to the last line … really good stuff. What I like the most is the sensation of writing as something that you just need to do…it is who you are… it is not an external activity; it is you. Love that, love that, love that! Thank you for being such a writer … and teacher… and organizer… and well… you hear me, I know. Love, Susie
Sarah,
Your descriptions of a crowded table, the bathroom phone booth, the overflowing couch are gorgeous. The remind me of feeling alone. “It was a sign that I was a writer /
waiting for a place to speak.” This exquisite reality makes me think about what I did not realize about my own desire to be different.
—Glenda
Sarah, your poem reveals so many reasons we should offer opportunities to our students to write freely. For some, it’s the only time they get to express themselves with words.
Yes, you found your voice for sure. Beautiful imagery – the crowded table and sofa show how the writer in you was born!
All I can say is …
?BOOM! ?
freckles
I grew up graced by freckles
never remembering my skin any other way
a comment on my skin – beyond judgement
why did Art get teased for freckles?
but never me
were freckles only meant for girls?
mom had freckles
less prominent than mine
I was like my mom
when my daughters were born
I wondered would there be freckles?
Laura’s began around 3
a sprinkle of brown sugar across her nose and cheeks
and as she grew
freckles spread to her arms, legs, chest
any spot the sun might hit
for Rachel the arrival was different
there was a time before
BF – before freckles
when she longed to be like mom and Laura
and then they came
a sprinkling of brown sugar across her cheeks and nose
until her arms, legs and shoulders were graced
Jamie,
Freckles are things some people embrace and others seem to have a disdain for. I love how they offer common ground for your family. The brown sugar metaphor really works.
I love how you tie grace in the first and last line, first your freckles, and finally, your daughter’s. I like the image of brown sugar sprinkled on the faces and bodies of you and your girls, how you have this in common. I also like the question that you ask, ‘were freckles meant only for girls?’ because I have freckles.
thanks for sharing your “freckles” with me 😀
Ditto on the “brown sugar sprinkles” that makes freckles a rare, but sweet trait to have
These Hands
These hands . . .
Once youthful
No wrinkles or age spots
Fingers moved with ease
They rocked you as a baby.
These hands . . .
Changed your diapers
Fed you meals
Fixed your hair
They clasped your hand as we walked across the street.
These hands . . .
Propped books as you fell in love with words
Guided your fingers as you learned to form letters
Signed countless forms and permission slips
They enclosed yours as I taught you how to pray.
These hands . . .
Spanked you to correct unwanted behavior
Clenched the armrests as you sat behind the wheel learning to drive
Fiddled as I waited anxiously for you to come in by curfew
They write down prayers for you I no longer share out loud.
These hands
Touched
Caressed
Comforted
Soothed
Nurtured
Loved
All past tense
The older you get the less my hands intermingle with yours,
The less they touch you.
These hands have grown old
And so
have
you
Very touching piece. A reminder of what our hands, especially as parents, did and do. The nostalgia is clearly evident. There the huge gap between the young hands and the older ones, and the need to reach out and touch our loved ones.
Susan, I am so happy I had a chance to get back to read this tonight. I want to cry because it’s so relevant to those of us who have grown children. They have no idea what it feels like to realize how little touch time we have. This line holds me tightly:
They write down prayers for you I no longer share out loud.
I will continue to write my prayers in my prayer journal for my son and daughter. One day, I pray they get an opportunity to read them.
Thank you!
Dance Party Fun
We dance with no technique
purely wild abandon,
there’s really no mystique,
head-banging, body rockin,
chasing a mad shimmy
across the kitchen floor
Alexa belting music from … the 80’s?
No worries,
my kids can groove
raised on a variety of smashing tunes —
Rock n roll, alternative, and musicals swoons.
We can dance and sing
“Mama Mia” & “Bohemian Rhapsody”
Without pause, quite amazing actually
We dip and skip and sash shay away
push those blues to another day
Without a doubt, we are crazy family.
Tammi,
How fun!! Love the rhythm that “We dip and skip and sash shay away
push those blues to another day” offers. Our girls dance and sing to “Dancing Queen” so I love the specific detail of song titles!
Showing up to see Grandma
Swept straight to the barber shop
Grandma couldn’t see
a boy’s hair past
his shoulders – not hergrand-
son
Now that I’m older and my hair grows longer
in all the wrong places, they real-
ize that my hair wasn’t a style; it was
my ideas.
No one wants to hear them now.
Charles,
You made me smile. I love reading poems that from from a past reflection to a present realization. “in all the wrong places” and “it was my ideas.” Hair is really a metaphor for how we try to tame and control our nature, isn’t it. I want to hear your ideas, Sir.
Peace,
Sarah
Charles—I really like the way you emphasized “hergrandson” (can’t do the italics here…). I think I heard her voice there! And I have a feeling that your ideas are pretty interesting!
Charles the opening of your poem is so swift. I can just imagine this whole event and how it would feel for you. The emphasis of “hergand-/son” line is so powerful. Your end carries a true punch and it’s what I appreciate the most.
“ornery grey” – love that image; “like a sentinel” – I can absolutely see it
Other useful Hair-related pieces –
1. Song from Spike Lee’s “School Daze” – Good Hair, Bad Hair
2. “Hairpiece” – a scene from George C. Wolfe’s COLORED MUSEUM
3. Speech from Malcolm X – who taught you to hate the color of your skin? Also, from his autobiography – his description of getting his first conk
4. Lorna Simpson artwork
Stacey,
Thank you for your mentoring today in this gorgeous poem that is story and argument, reflection and activism. This lines strike me as I think about my hair: “Poisoning me against the natural curl pattern.” I wrote a verse novel a couple years ago, Alone Together. It is set during a tumultuous year in the life of a 15 year old (what year is not tumultuous). This poems is from the novel . All are welcome to copy and share if you’d like another mentor poem for your classes. I swear, I am not cheating: I will write another poem today.
As a little girl, I had wavy hair
curls bouncing as I ran through the park
dangling as I hung upside down from the monkey bars.
And as a little girl, I had — have —
cowlicks
growing in a different direction from the rest,
resisting being combed flat;
my wild locks looked like a lion’s mane,
roaring away order
until Mom would say:
“Line up! It’s shampoo day.”
The youngest girls would
gather on the kitchen floor,
seated cross-legged,
waiting our turn to
be lifted onto the counter,
lay back,
head over the sink,
rest our head in Mom’s strong palm,
listen to her bracelet music as she lathered
our locks.
And when it was my turn —
“Tangles!” she’d cry.
And I cry
as she fought through my curls
with lather
and disgust
as the neat row
fidgeted in fear.
And then the day came
when the tangles were too much,
too
disrup-tive.
And so I marched
with #s10 and 11
and a few bucks
a few blocks —
curls bouncing
as I jumped over
sidewalk cracks
(so as not to break my momma’s back).
A mission
to tame the unruly curls
and put an end to tangles.
My curls were cut
into a bowl-shaped coif.
Just like that.
No longer a little girl,
I have learned to fight my cowlicks and curls,
to tame the unruly with tools of the trade–
hair dryers and flat irons,
gels and mousses and sprays
that I buy myself.
But when the humidity heightens,
little curls still spring up around my brow.
Smooth tresses begin to frizz,
a wave re-appears just at my chin.
Sarah, this is one of my favorite descriptive passages from Alone Together. I think because it brings to mind all the times we laid our heads over kitchen sinks and hearing the bracelet music. We see so much of who the MC is in this passage. These are the perfect words to companion with Stacey’s piece and prompt today.
Sarah,
What a wonderful journey this was! I never thought about the struggles other people have had with hair because in my mind, if it wasn’t nappy, you had it easy. LOL, not true. Thank you for sharing this excerpt.
Love it or Lighten It!
Love the skin you’re in
Be satisfied and you’ll win,
Unless your skin is black or brown
Then few folks even want you around.
“High yellow is mellow,”
Says the gawking fellow.
“And white is all right!”
“Don’t even say it”, I’ll fight.
Melanin count predicted your life.
If you’re dark, choose light for your wife.
Do so and lighten up the family tree.
Lighteners is what we were expected to be.
Those who purged the line of black
“If you’re black,” they said, “get back”.
Thankfully, we were taught to be proud.
“I’m black and I’m proud!” we’d shout out loud.
Today when I hear that exact same stuff
I turn a deaf ear and walk off in a huff.
Melanin count predicted your life – such a powerful statement. I appreciate that you begin with a well-known phrase (love the skin you’re in) and introduce some less familiar ones (high yellow is mellow). Your ending emphasizes that we still have so far to go. Thank you for sharing today.
Anna,
Thank you for this poem that explores colorism. It is a powerful response to, conversation extension of Stacey’s mentor poem today. The sayings in quotes make me cringe — those quotation marks work graphically like thorns for my reading experience. Something tells me that there are times that you don’t “turn a deaf ear” but rather let them have an earful. Your are fierce, my friend.
Have you read Genesis Begins Again? I think this is an important book especially for middle school readers: https://www.slj.com/?reviewDetail=genesis-begins-again?
I like the way you bring different voices into your poem. Wow!
Anna,
This was a very powerful piece. I had re-read it about twelve times now and still get chills. The line “Melanin count predicted your life” is beautiful, but it also breaks my heart. I love this poem, and how you related the words you heard as a child to how you view them now.
I love how you describe loving your skin unless your black or brown. Because that is how the world sees people of color, and how they want people of color also to see themselves. Your piece also discusses melanin and the bad connotations associated with it. I loved reading your piece!
Anna, yes, you hit this one on the head! All the torture I, too, have experienced with “lighten up the family tree.” I had some aunts who would cringe when anyone dated someone darker than us. It was awful because we are pretty light, but one dark skinned date would have been given side-eye. It’s sad how much we suffer within our own families and have to undo damage from so far back.
I loved” Thankfully, we were taught to be proud…
I can picture you turning the deaf ear and walking out.
Fantastic poem today!
Stacey, It’s interesting the role “hair” plays in developing one’s attitude toward the world, others, and oneself. Your poem nicely outlines the role models for African American coiffure and ways so many of us struggle to live with the teaching that a woman’s hair is her glory. Does glory need to be changed, straightened, curled, or covered? Hmmm!
“Step Family Secrets”
The first time I Step into
My new family
Arms outstretched reach and wrap in
Warm hugs.
Their mouth kisses follow,
Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. All.
Wet, wild,
Welcoming mats Meet &
Align red flesh
Onto parallel lines
Drawn taught like
Fishing line.
Later I’ll read into these
Touchy-feely embraces.
Strange-to-me men (and women)—
Hands tentacled across my back—-
Pull, pressing
Inflated breasts to
Bony breasts in
Close encounters.
An arm swipes my lips
Erasing a dewy droplet,
This feeble gesture designed
To delete and recalibrate.
Later I’ll read into these
Touchy-feely embraces
A question.
I notice the patriarch’s
Calling children
A toddler first followed
By older boys and girls
His fingers touch flesh on
Flesh, first a knee on bouncing knee:
A song, a game.
Whispered warnings,
Cautionary tales entwined with
“Grandpa loves the babies.”
At seven I knew & practiced avoidance
At 16 I learned watchers’
Silence prevails.
What did they know and
When did they know it?
—Glenda Funk
Good morning, Glenda. Whew, this is one heck of a gut punch. I am sickened and wanting to erase the hurts caused by all these people. I read this and reminisced:
An arm swipes my lips
Erasing a dewy droplet,
This feeble gesture designed
To delete and recalibrate.
I, too, felt this form of violation as a child. It’s actually one that I haven’t written about but I have shared with my sister and son. It’s unclear and I have a feeling I will be exploring it more so I can name it and move on.
Seven, such a sweet and innocent age. But smart enough to know what isn’t right and what feels like betrayal. You knew what to do and you knew the “watchers’ silence prevails” which leaves you questioning.
Man. I am pissed.
At seven I knew & practiced avoidance
At 16 I learned watchers’
Silence prevails.
Giving you sincere appreciation for sharing. I hope it helps you and many others.
❤️
Glenda,
What a powerful question to end: What did they know and
When did they know it?
I love the lips drawn taut like fishing line – – for me, it foreshadows the end as the first realization that something wasn’t quite the way it was supposed to be. You were one smart seven year old – – which also foreshadowed 2020, when you’re even more brilliant.
What did they know? When did they know it? What horrible questions to ponder. I feel so lucky right now. Thank you.
Oh my! I didn’t really notice the title at first. And I read the first four lines thinking this will be a lovely poem maybe I will be able to relate it to my awesome step mother’s family. (I was lucky.) But then I read “their mouth kisses follow” and that was it. Thoroughly creeped out. I’m sorry. I’ve never experienced something like this and can only imagine. Your descriptions do exactly what you intended them to. And of course the last 5 lines are powerful like everyone has said. Thanks for sharing.
So many strong hard words here to tell the story (tentacled, taught). Recalibrate resonates – it’s a choice but perhaps a calculated one. I also notice that the softer words (whispered warnings, watchers’ silence) speak to the hiding. I’m relieved you were smart enough to know and avoid. I’m so so sorry for the ones who can’t. Laurie Halse Anderson has been reading from Shout this sexual assault awareness month. Thanks for speaking your truth.
Glenda,
Wow. I read this a few times, and each reading (like the “later I’ll read” refrain), you taught me to notice more of what I understand now to be grooming. These lines let us know that our children see much more than we give credit and self-preserve, survive instinctively:
At seven I knew & practiced avoidance
At 16 I learned watchers’
Silence prevails.
The speaker, you?, is a watcher and in unsafe spaces avoidance and silence indeed prevails. What I know of you now, Glenda, is that your voice cannot be silent. Your words scream here.
Sarah
Glenda, this illustrates the power of poetry – how it can explode with insight and honesty; it reveals a story of pain and family secrets. These words were foreshadowing for me, “Drawn taught like/
Fishing line.” Truly, I almost wanted to stop reading, turn around, and go another direction…I guess because my own family had so much secret pain, I recognized a hint. Your last two lines demand an answer – “What did they know and/When did they know it?” Thank you for sad and beautiful poem.
Hilltop Road
Life on Hilltop Road
Was a myriad
Of joys
Blue City and the creek
The woods and the street
Playing kickball, football, Annie annie Over
Raid, kick the can, and watching
Dark Shadows in Ann’s
Darkened basement
Sure, there were fights
Competition was fierce
But the love we shared
Was unforgettable
So blessed by the beautiful
Time of freedom
To run the neighborhood
To go outside
And don’t come back in
Until your called
I wish I could call you all now
Tell you how much I still
Love every memory and treasure the joy
You brought to my life
So long ago on
Hilltop Road
Barb Edler
April 4, 2020
Hi Barb,
I love this memory poem, taking us back with you to HIlltop Road. The beginning:
Life on Hilltop Road
Was a myriad
Of joys
Blue City and the creek
The woods and the street
Sounds like a lovely place to grow up. Fun games and scary fun too! Was Dark Shadows the tv show?
The end is sweet, same feelings I have with my closest friends. I think today would be a good day to call them and hear their voices.
Beautiful poem to read early this morning, thank you.
I want to visit Hilltop Rd. and live there! The name alone evokes childhood and exploration and freedom. Annie Annie over and the creek and Dark Shadows – such simple memories speak to childhood . Thanks for taking us there.
Barb,
What I have come to understand about poetry and reading spaces like this is that we are able to speak in new ways because you have readers that bear witness to the snapshots of our lives. These lines:
I wish I could call you all now
Tell you how much I still
Love every memory and treasure the joy
Your wish is true in some ways because you have told us of this love and treasure. Thank you for taking us to Hilltop Road today.
Sarah
Barb, the memories you shared in these lines are even more poignant today!
So blessed by the beautiful
Time of freedom
To run the neighborhood
To go outside
Barb, your poem makes me think we must be about the same age (Dark Shadows! Kick the Can!) You brought forth my memories of my own neighborhood, the smell of summer evenings, the sound of parents’ voices calling us home. Thank you.
Can You Hear the Story in the Hair?
Hair is more than just hair
Like books tell stories through the pages
Hair tells stories, words written in the strands.
Tells stories like
How dad’s hair was blonde when he was a kid, curls for days
In the marines it was shaved, buzz cut all the way
It grew back brown, now it’s embraced as gray
Here the hair maps out phases of life
Like a timeline.
Tells stories like
How my father used to brush my hair
and a forever longing to return there
Tells stories like
How grandma cut my mom’s butt-length mane
Against her will, without asking.
A much different story than
How I stood in front of the mirror
While every day grandma slicked my hair back tight
If it wasn’t perfect I would cry
Hair events can even express feelings like
How a daughter may have felt that her mother
Had a stronger love for granddaughter.
Tells stories like
How my brother lost his long lovely locks
Four years ago, age thirty
The baldness was easier to bear than the chemo
Tells stories like
Braiding sessions during food comas
After annual Thanksgiving dinners
Turkey, stuffing, yams, braids, pumpkin pie.
Tells stories like
How my niece acted as stylist at age four
Chop, chop, hair no more.
But there is one story my hair will never tell
How I tried to get over a guy
By chop, chopping it down
My hair refuses to be a rebound
My hair both belongs to me
And is left everywhere I go
Precious history hairbook.
Angie,
What a beautiful story! Loved learning more about you and your family. The end is the best. “My hair both belongs to me/And is left everywhere I go”. We constantly see our hair lying in the corners of the room, in the brush, on a blanket, but I’ve never thought about the stories they leave behind. The stories made in a simple haircut or ponytail. What a great metaphor.
Wow Angie!! This is definitely a hair story in verse.
I love this: “Hair tells stories, words written in the strands.”
And the repetition of “Tells stories like…”
I think this is a poem to be listened to, spoken word. I am instantly drawn in and wanting you to tell me more about your father, grandma, mom, brother, everyone! That 4-year old niece, too cute. Funny how some little ones choose to chop chop!
Then the end. Perfect!
My hair both belongs to me
And is left everywhere I go
Thank you for sharing your “precious history hairbook” with us.
Words written in the strands – this might be my favorite line today! You share your honesty (baldness easier to bear and the relationship between mother, daughter, grandchild) in these strands. The precious history hairbook speaks to the power of hair too.
Angie,
“Tell stories like” — this powerful refrain creates such rhythm and a guide for your readers to go in and out of snapshots of memory, the places, people, and experiences that you took us to bear witness. Thank you. this line, “and is left everywhere I go” has such paradoxical meaning as it is both literally left behind in the strands that fall or were cut and figuratively in the memories and in this poem. Wow.
Sarah
Angie,
I’m fascinated by hair as a rhetorical artifact, part of material culture telling history, sharing stories. My favorite line: “Here the hair maps out phases of life / Like a timeline.” I love this line and thought about the lifeline in a hand as a parallel.
—Glenda
I
Soul windows
Lash fringed
and open wide
We share the row between chestnut and tumbleweed.
Earth bound
Wood tapped
Rich soils for planting and harvesting
Grained,
Burled,
Knotted,
Worm-holed and pest-flecked
We gaze from spring sons
and fall daughters.
Curiosity seekers
Knowledge gatherers
Truth tellers.
I have now read this poem three times now. There are so many images here that I find a new one every time I pass through. We gaze from spring sons and fall daughters…soul windows, lash trimmed. Thank you!
I’m with Gayle on this one. I read your poem three times! It is so beautiful. “Lash fringed and open wide” is my favorite line. I also love “worm-holed and pest-flecked” because it creates such vivid imagery. Each time I read the poem the final line hits me though-“Truth tellers”. Thanks so much for sharing this morning.
Jennifer,
I love the imagery in your poem. Every line is so beautiful and poignant!
I/Soul windows/Lash fringed/and open wide
Just those opening lines — I mean
Soul windows
Lash fringed
and open wide
Wow, Jennifer.
Jennifer, your poem about eyes remind me of the expression, “the eyes are the windows to the soul”, but your use of colors bring to mind color charts with shades of brown.
Soul windows
Lash fringed
and open wide
We share the row between chestnut and tumbleweed.
How cleverly you link the two, then tell the stories ending with
Curiosity seekers
Knowledge gatherers
Truth tellers.
Jennifer,
Like Anna, I thought about “the eyes are the window to the soul” as I read your poem. “Open wide” suggests an ability to see more than we see, an innate intuitiveness that is a family trait allowing you and your kin to tell truths w/ a simple look. Thinking about eyes as these powerful orbs as I read. And like the eyes that make a sharp look speak volumes, your poem’s clipped lines do the same.
—Glenda
Jennifer,
This is incredible. Every bit of it.
Like everyone else, I love these lines:
“Soul windows
Lash fringed
and open wide”
The opening lines are simply gorgeous – like looking out a fringe-laced curtain window. The wormHoled and pest flecked give rich imagery to looking at the eyes that gaze. Love the ending – truth tellers.
Hi Jennifer,
I was drawn in when I read it earlier this morning. I wasn’t sure how to respond because I needed to be sure I held it for a while. Wow, I can’t let this go… that your eyes are “soul windows” and “knowledge gatherers/Truth tellers” Speaks for all of us. Wondering about all these images “worm-holed and pest-flecked” Awe is the emotion.
Ugly Feet
I hail from a family of tiny women with tiny feet—
Size five feet are “cute”.
(Size five shoes look silly;
take no room at all.)
Huh!
I am not tiny.
My size nine narrows
are definitely
Not.
Cute.
My feet define ugly—
Really. Look up ugly in the dictionary.
My foot picture is there.
Long-boned, purple-veined.
Toes bent in all the wrong places
Toe-knuckles fighting their way toward the tops of my shoes.
Toe nails not worthy of polish.
My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed.
These feet belong on a prehistoric beast,
(Thankfully extinct.)
My husband says
That if he’d met my feet first
He wouldn’t have asked me out.
Truth hurts
Ugly feet.
This poem is awesome in all it’s humor. I’m sorry if you are really self-conscious about them, but I love it. “My little piggies stay at home because they’re embarrassed.” I LOL. Humor is something I’ve never been able to write. Thanks for sharing!
Angie, I actually threaten to take off my shoes to punish my students. I kind of glory in their ugliness… To make it worse, I had bone taken out of my little toes (a story for another day), so one toe floats up when I wear sandals!
(Size five shoes look silly;
take no room at all.)
Huh!
What a hoot! I chuckled because I think I can hear you saying, “Huh!”
Then you have me shaking my head because I am a size nine also, but your description is hilarious!
“My feet define ugly—
Really. Look up ugly in the dictionary.
My foot picture is there.”
I am dying over here! “My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed.”
I can’t stop laughing.
I needed this. Thank you! ???
Toe-knuckles fighting their way, little piggies staying home – these are great lines, but I love the prehistoric beast one best. You have managed to find and give us the humor of your feet, and the humor your husband shares as well – he wouldn’t joke if he didn’t love you! Thanks for this fun glimpse today!
I love this! So many funny lines: “My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed,” /”These feet belong on a prehistoric beast”
I can totally relate because my feet are the same. Large with bunions. Cheers to all those big toed, large feet women out there. We are not alone!
We should form a club. My feet, like my hands, are almost as wide as they are long. My sister-in-law once described them as square. I am reduced to wearing flats, which limits a person’s wardrobe. They may not be pretty, but, thankfully, they do the job they were intended to do.
Gayle, I almost wrote a foot poem today, too—I still might. (I have “mud-masher” toes and high arches!…I call mine “ugly step-sister” feet because they never fit in dainty, pretty shoes. ) Your use of humor and hyperbole add to your description, balancing your no-nonsense approach to the subject …and I laughed audibly at the end of your “this little piggy” line. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Gayle,
I’m so sorry you have “ugly feet.” Forgive me for laughing at “My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed.” and your husbands proclamation. BTW: Have you seen the foot show “My Feet Are Killing Me” on TLC?
—Glenda
I may have to check it out. 🙂
Gayle,
This is great. Funny as can be.
Love this line: “My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed.”
Gayle,
I am laughing at the piggies staying home! Your humor allows us to chuckle only because we all have something – feet, ears, nose, whatever – that we’d rather keep home. Thanks for the laugh today.
The humor in this is amazing! “My little piggies stay home because they are embarrassed” mine do too! Not many can pull off humor, I loved it!
my family is so random – –
some are well-loved by everyone,
soft grandma-hugs no one resists
others are avoided and even shunned
barely tolerated, I’ll tell you
some stand at odd angles
gaps of uncomfortable social distances
others stand stoically shoulder-to-shoulder
in a steadfast show of solidarity and unity
some consider themselves high above others
showcased with spine tattoos that proclaim things
others are falling apart at the seams
held together by mere threads
some stick to their own homes
rarely a rendezvous, while
others venture out
wandering and visiting like dementia ward escapees,
until they are found and returned home where they belong
some have unsung talents
those obscure, never-made-popular voices that rival the famous
others drone on and on and on and on
incessantly chattering about what isn’t mattering to anyone
some speak in ambiguous code
others tell it flat like it is – like it or not
some spill all the family secrets
others disguise their own truths
“asking-for-a-friend” style, never admitting anything
some are painfully shy and soft-spoken
others lead the charge and WILL NOT! be silenced
some are well-traveled
have wined and dined and slept around with too many to count
others are pristine virgins
untouched, undesirable as yet
all have a place in the concerted chorus –
some blending,
others transcending
doing their best to cover those a bit off-key
unkempt books that fill my family shelves
some awake, vertical
others lazily dozing, horizontal
all waiting to be read and loved and accepted for who they are
The concerted chorus or your family, our family, all families! Your comparison to unkempt books filling family shelves and their positioning on them is beautifully imagined. And the truth at the end – waiting to be read and loved and accepted for who they are – a good reminder for us as we begin today. Here’s to reading others! Thank you, Kim!
Unkempt books that fill my family shelves—love this line the most. That could describe my family perfectly1. Added to my list of phrases to remember…
Wow, an absolutely lovely poem, Kim. Maybe my favorite lines: “showcased with spine tattoos that proclaim things, others are falling apart at the seams” Love these images. And of course the last 4 lines in all their metaphorical glory. Well done and so relatable!
“Some stand at odd angles” – going to steal that image!
Kim,
Thank you for this journey, all these snapshots of artifacts. I was smiling through out and then, that white space let me breathe just enough to shift my gaze to the shelves:
unkempt books that fill my family shelves
some awake, vertical
others lazily dozing, horizontal
You brought us to this place in and as your family — artifacts, books as beings.
Love it,
Sarah
Kim,
I love the contrasts and the randomness of your family members. I love the humor in “ pristine virgins, undesirable.” That ending is wonderful: “ unkempt books that fill my family shelves / some awake, vertical / others lazily dozing, horizontal / all waiting to be read and loved and accepted for who they are.” If only families functioned this way.
—Glenda
Teeth
“Your girls have such big teeth!”
Our neighbor
was giving my mom a compliment.
My teenage sisters looked at her–
eye rolls postponed until after the goodbyes–
And smiled fakely,
light glinting off the
three piano keyboards,
(fortunately,
minus the sharps and flats.)
These Reed teeth
Dominate the genes
Because the next generation
was also initiated into
the big teeth club.
An indelible image
comes to mind:
My daughter’s first dental x-ray
“What is this?” I asked, pointing.
The dentist, not alarmed,
“A secondary incisor,
Her front tooth.
For later.”
Frightening!
Is that how Reed teeth look in a three-year old?
I thought.
Those front teeth were like
masked, menacing miscreants,
lying in wait to strike.
How can we stop the invasion? I wondered.
“Are they too big?” I asked.
“She’ll grow into them.”
Sigh of relief.
Your opening stanza is powerful, opening with the memory and the dialogue, following with the fakery and the postponed eye rolls, and ending with the metaphor piano keyboards minus sharps and flats (loved that additional detail!). I’ve always thought that kids look little until they get their big teeth in and suddenly their mouths seem too big for their faces – you describe this so well with the x-ray. Thanks for sharing!
The big teeth club…..”she’ll grow into them”……..stop the invasion……these lines help us identify with the ways we feel about ourselves. And then the sigh of relief. Assurance that we are fine just the way we are.
I love this! From the entry comment to the sigh of relief at the end, your acceptance and comfort with who you are and where you come from shines. The humor of your metaphors is wonderful.
Denise,
I love that you focused on teeth. I also love the story that you tell here. I especially love the alliteration and personification of the teeth when you write “masked, menacing miscreants.” Your inner thinking is so great too. “How can we stop the invasion?” Thanks for sharing this little piece of yourself with us.
“masked, menacing miscreants” – awesome
Also, funny to think about growing into teeth. We grow into feet, but teeth!
I love your “piano keyboard” metaphor.
Remember, “Smile, and the world smiles with you.”
Obsessed with this poem! Great job. I can perfectly visualize all of the dialogue and the exact person who would say something like that. A very powerful piece that is filled with imagery. My favorite line, “eye rolls postponed until after the goodbye.”
Cracked Layers (Jenny Sykes)
Each member of my family has a different set of hands.
As a child, I remember my dad’s hands were unpredictable.
At times they were clean and pristine,
yet underneath the layer of balm, hard and calloused.
Other times they were dirty from the fields he explored
playing detective, finding clues for the geneticists and seed developers.
His hands traveled throughout the midwest.
For years, it was a rarity to feel his touch.
Only seeing his waving hand from afar
as his truck drove away.
But my mom was always there.
Her hands with shallow cracks
clutching a combination of treasures-
potting soil, dust, flour, paint and the newest shade of lipstick.
Hands always giving, providing, making life easier for others.
Hands creating.
Hands healing.
Self-less hands.
My younger brothers’ hands were always occupied.
Derek’s always clasping a golf club,
trying to become the next Tiger Woods.
Tim’s clasping a pencil as he sketched away his anxieties.
Then there’s me.
My hands are always damaged,
always cracked.
Rough and dry in the fall and winter.
Washed too often.
Impossible to keep moisturized.
Constantly at the keyboard like a woodpecker at his favorite tree.
Creating.
Emailing.
Teaching.
Transformation occurs in springtime.
Taking on new life.
Warmer temperatures and sunshine soften the leather
and new elements fill the cracks.
Sunscreen and potting soil,
acrylic paints and lemonade.
Our hands are all different,
yet the same DNA flows through the blood in the veins
Barely visible under a cracked layer of skin.
So many beautiful lines throughout this, but my favorite has to be “constantly at the keyboard like a woodpecker at his favorite tree” – the sound and image is perfect. I once read that it is the hands we remember of other people because of all the doing (making cookies, dinners, building) – our focus is on our hands. I can remember the time when my own hands had the texture and appearance of my mom’s from a memory of us coloring together – I was around the same age as she would have been when I made that realization. You’ve beautifully captured so many family layers in the sharing of hands.
Jennifer, hands are a winner for you! You show how they give – – and live – – within us. I love this part best:
Then there’s me.
I just love how you say this and then show the ways you give and the things you do with your hands to keep them used and worn well.
Jennifer,
This is so beautiful. I really loved the way you have captured your family through their activities which are reflected through the hands. The last lines are my favorite: “Our hands are all different/yet the same DNA flows through the blood in the veins/Barely visible under a cracked layer of skin. Very powerful!
Jennifer, this is a beautiful piece., an homage to your family and their various roles (and hands) . I like how you use the details of the hands, what is filling the “cracks,” as a character study of the various people. Your description of your own hands at the end of the poem mirrors the description of your mother’s hands from the beginning…as if to communicate that years and experience and acceptance shapes who we are (and how we see ourselves). Thank you for sharing your poem!
This speaks to me so much right now. Your words bring back so many memories of the 70’s – the simplicity patterns, the unattainable forced perfection of Barbie, Soul Train dancers. I love your description of your hair as sentinel and how you return to it in the end. Hair is a bane for me. When asked if I’d prefer a chauffeur, chef, or housekeeper, someone to do my hair needs to be a choice! And as many of us have gray popping out with little hope of touch ups, few will be wasting time on what to do with it. Thanks for sharing this today.
Hi Jennifer,
Thank you. Yes it is truly going to be a tragedy on my head soon. I am weary!
Thank you, Stacey, for sharing three distinct chapters in your hair life. Each one seems more empowered than the former.
This is my favorite:
“My hair stood stiff and still
Like a sentinel
Guarding my mind
From the toxic waste I fed it”
Yes, your hair did guard your mind from the toxic waste, and now the wise gray hair continues to be a sentinel for your mind. Beautifully said.
Hi Denise,
Thank you! I am worried now with no option of getting my hair done professionally what will happen to my guards and my mind. Lord help us. LOL.
Ah, yes, Stacey. I can relate. I’ve begun to cut the hair from around my eyes, but I’m sure it’s going to look wildly unprofessional quite soon. You, may have to try Donnetta’s do for your gray sentinals.
“Now I wear my hair
Powerfully natural and oh, so short
Fade so tight, so close to my brown skin
Round, but fierce lined-up edges
With just enough hair to not be bald”
Do you have any clippers at home?
Thanks for leading us today!
Denise
Stacey, you’re helping us dig deep today! Your poem brings back memories of those Butterick and Simplicity patterns and how I never looked like those illustrated models, either,because I was no thin mint ( more like a Double Stuff Oreo). Today, I know it to be a good thing. Back then, it set the stage for being dissatisfied with every 1970s dress or romper my mama made for me. I do remember a great vest looking like I wanted it to look. Your description makes me think of Adichie in Americanah when she talks about the hair being such an important aspect of culture. Your poem has a feel of Woodson, taking her memories of growing up and applying them to now. What a wonderful inspiration for us today. LOVE the Malibu Barbie line. Oh, the damage she caused in all of us.
Stacey, you’re helping us dig deep today! Your poem brings back memories of those Butterick and Simplicity patterns and how I never looked like those illustrated models, either,because I was no thin mint ( more like a Double Stuff Oreo). Today, I know it to be a good thing. Back then, it set the stage for being dissatisfied with every 1970s dress or romper my mama made for me. I do remember a great vest looking like I wanted it to look. Your description makes me think of Adichie in Americanah when she talks about the hair being such an important aspect of culture. Your poem has a feel of Woodson, taking her memories of growing up and applying them to now. What a wonderful inspiration for us today.
Damn, Stacey. The last 5 lines of this poem are powerful. The imagery is so vivid. I can definitely see the image of your current hair and I love that you make the point of saying you don’t waste your time on it. Thanks for sharing!