“Four houses down on the right, it’s the one with the red door. There’s a porch swing and a black volvo in the driveway. You can’t miss it.” This is what my mom would tell friends when they needed directions to our house. Forty-seven seventeen Brockham Way was my home. The numbers-like our home-demanded order and discipline. Our street-old like the owners of the old homes-displayed its nueveau riche landscape with neatly cut lawns and polished cement walkways. The wealthy working class had decided to move here in nineteen seventy-two, but we were new in Hatherly Village. It was here where my parents, young with kids, struggled to seek approval of those high atop the social ladder. Our house established the mark of their determination. I was twelve and one of the only children in the neighborhood. The other kids went to public school, a place I had been taught was unfit for a proper education. Everyday my sister and I sat on our porch and hid our faces when the high schoolers passed us on their low riders. We were scared and embarrassed to be seen in our plaid jumpers; we turned crimson when they hollered at us. Curiosity kept us from scattering inside; instead, we stayed and conjured a life without knee highs and brimming backpacks. One day we came home late, unable to sit on our landing strip of observation. After dinner, we dashed outside to dally in the street like the other kids had hours before us. We imitated their laughter and hop-skip pivots as we sang their pop-songs. My sister unbuttoned her collar, and I removed the stifling cardigan I had grown to hate. While my parents did the dishes, my sister and I fiendishly escaped into the unknown, trying desperately to look cool in case some public school kid was sneaking a peek at our rebellious behavior. The light from our front porch beamed into the charcoal butter sky, and we danced for the first time. Our bodies rocked with awkward freedom, swaying to the music of our rabid imaginations. We pulled our hair back and giggled, while our grey eyes glazed with clumsy satisfaction. As the seasons changed and the driveway grew slick with ice, we moved our frustrated fantasies inside and watched the care-free children from our living room window. I asked my mom if I could wear hoop earrings and blue eyeshadow, but I knew she would not let me. As winter melted into summer, we remained perched in the living room window, abandoning our porch swing. My sister and I, when we could, put on makeup and danced with our pretend friends-even boys. The kids didn’t look for us anymore, nor did they shout out the words that my mom said they must have learned in public schools. They ran home in rowdy packs, just like they always had, forgetting the two misfits who had sat on the porch swing a summer ago. Forty-seven seventeen Brockham Way, the one with the red door, is my home. And I tell my friends this when they need directions to my house. I’m sixteen now and I go to public school. I don’t wear plaid anymore, except when I want to, and I’ve learned to holler back. The numbers that represents our house no longer demand discipline, rather they scream independence like those that seek its shelter. My sister has made friends all throughout the neighborhood; but occasionally, I still sit in the living room window.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Holding onto
my exoskeleton
like a kite
except I’m not soaring
The string taunt
staked in gradd
and I lay stunned
among
taller strands
A child looks
and picks me up
I buzz inside
my shell
Instead of shelter
a coffee table
and de
composition
Saturday, February 2, 2008
/ecstatic. static. stable. still. stop. /my life line picks poor patterns. /i fear i’ll lose you to her. /her hair, her hot holster, singing a shotgun shootout. /from a dim doormat a dim damsel relishes red and relinquishes “remember.” /brighter than brewed brandy glistens glamour /as i pick the fuzzoff of a woolen pea coat.
