Poetry Ptuesday: Becoming American by Vern Rutsala

The Yankees needed ditch diggers,

sandhogs, fodder for the wild

hunger of their mills and sent out

invitations with no RSVPs.

My people came then, dimly knowing

they had to cut away the baggage

of the selves they brought with them.

The cutting was strangely easy

as they gaped at clerks smoothing

harsh corners off their names,

docking final vowels like tails.

Distance helped the cutting too–

the ocean roiling behind them

with all that danger and disease,

the old country already swallowed

by the horizon’s bulging lead.

At most it was only a village,

a hut, the midden out back

all frozen in the endless winter

of the past. The new language

squeezed more color from that past,

making it shameful–starving winds

and nothingness. They tugged

the new words into their mouths

like odd-shaped and exotic food,

curiously spiced, hard to choke down.

The rolled its oddness on their

tongues, tried to suck the sense

from it and the new ran together

with the old like milk in coffee,

the color changing until the old

was mostly gone, half their lives

dropping off the edge of the world.

***

I had my citizenship interview last week and the officer who interviewed me was a German/Polish immigrant. He told me that his and his sister’s last names are different from his older brother and father’s because when they immigrated from Germany to Poland, their surnames were changed. He and his sister were born in Poland after the change. He explained that the original spelling was harsh sounding so they changed out a vowel to make it sound more pleasant and smoother. To make it more Anglo-friendly, I ventured. He replied that was it exactly. So there we were, American and American-to-be, sharing a snippet of immigrant life. He also shared pictures of his family’s doberman with me. It was a good day.

Helpless to Help

Today I had an eye-opening but ultimately unproductive discussion with someone I care about dearly. This person refused my help. They specifically requested that I do not treat them any different and that I treat them like normal. They didn’t want any resources even though they appreciated the offer. They told me they didn’t want what I offered. They told me they didn’t think they needed it and did not find it helpful in general. They said they’ve tried it and did not benefit. They had their own way.

 

They are right, of course. Unwanted help is no help at all. And I am not wrong. We hold very different views in some fundamental ways. No one did anything wrong today. We felt what we felt. We said what we said. We told what we held true, and just couldn’t get anywhere. I am learning a truly difficult lesson.

 

My heart is heavy and it hurts. But I had to stop forcing the issue. I have to accept that everything I want to give, stops at the boundaries of another human being. And rightfully so. I can’t tell people what they need or want. All that I can offer is of course of no benefit when it is not wanted. I have to face that, for all I can do, there is still so much I just can’t.

 

I feel awful. I feel lost. It’s not my fault, and it’s not anyone else’s either. That sucks. But what can I do? I can just feel how I feel. I can sit with it, breathe it out, and get back up again. I can keep going. I said my offer did not expire, and I can make absolutely sure that I’m good for it. I can still learn, too. I can change. I can do better. So I didn’t help today, I guess I’ll just have to be here tomorrow, and every day after that.

Poetry Ptuesday: The Meaning of Life by Nancy Fitzgerald

[This week’s poem arrives later than usual, my apologies. Tomorrow would have been Amanda’s 35th birthday. It is the third one after she killed herself. I always wonder about that. Did she think of how many more birthdays she would not have? Or take last month, how many more Mother’s Day(s)? Or, since she committed suicide two days before Thanksgiving, did she think about that one? (Confession: I had to look this up, I’d forgotten the date Thanksgiving fell on that year.) Or all the new Thanksgivings after that? I had planned a menu that Thanksgiving. I heard from Mini’s dad in the afternoon. The next day I still went grocery shopping. I had a spreadsheet for all my items I made before I knew my sister was dead. In a really crowded market I answered the call from an organization that coordinates organ donation, and heard this man tell me that it was too late for harvesting to be viable. Then I must have gone home and cooked. Perhaps tomorrow I will cook too. I guess even if it doesn’t feel like it, we’re incredibly lucky to have so many more meals and days we don’t even have to think about before they’re already past us.]

 

The Meaning of Life

There is a moment just before

a dog vomits when its stomach

heaves dry, pumping what’s deep

inside the belly to the mouth.

If you are fast you can grab

her by the collar and shove her

out the door, avoid the slimy bile,

hunks of half chewed food

from landing on the floor.

You must be quick, decisive,

controlled, and if you miss

the cue and the dog erupts

en route, you must forgive

her quickly and give yourself

to scrubbing up the mess.

 

Most of what I have learned

in life leads back to this.

 

Ace That Test: The Civics Test for U.S. Naturalization

Okay, so y’all know Ace That Test was a real thing with my late sister Amanda. And though I didn’t receive as much formal schooling, and generally fared worse considering the whole of our academic careers, my sister and I are/were both big fans of tests. I know that traditional, standardized testing is a whole tub of worms, but yours truly is basically just a chimp who selfishly enjoys the instant gratification of reading a problem and knowing the answer. Few feelings to me compare to that mixture of satisfaction, relief, and excitement.

 

Well anyway, after many long years, I now have one test coming up! It’s uniquely structured in that up to ten out of a pool of the same hundred questions are given every time. Which means, as long as you know all 100 answers, it’s impossible to get less than a perfect score. So, what’s left to do but make a study guide?

(more…)

Poetry Ptuesday: The Journey by Mary Oliver

On day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice–

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do–

determined to save

the only life you could save.

 

*

 

(for Mini)