Seattle 50, or The Breakthrough Poem

Author's note: this is the one I've been trying to write since leaving Bent. Glad it finally came out.

work in progress, or parable of the baby social worker

They tell me I steal from children who have nothing,
use the shadows of their trauma
to make myself a superhero spotlight:
“Look at me. I spend all day
with children who’ve been put in group homes,
the ones nobody else can handle,
and I give them love like an ocean’s gift to the beaches!”

I have been face-smacked and scorched
for putting my work days on a stage.

Don’t think for a minute I don’t deserve it.

The voices of my teachers
were screams of pain caught in patient teeth.
I took the lessons home, let them echo for days.

“Listen, rich girl. Put you and me on a scale
to weigh our privilege and you’ll sink
like your pockets are filled with stones.
Jewish means nothing against my skin color, queer
is nothing they can read on your face, and
your body can carry you up mountains.
Shut up, and let me speak.”

I don’t take circumstance well.
Tell me it’s not my fault and I’ll find a reason it is.
My fault means my chance to fix it,
my wrongs are my chance to right it;
take that away, and you leave me helpless.
Anorexia, racism and self-defense class taught me
that a white girl’s greatest fear
is losing control.

Shame curled around my neck
like a noose, or beautiful jewelry,
something public.
I sat with open palms,
cracked heart, cheeks blistering,
like egg whites on cast iron,
trying to listen through the
ever blasting radio of guilt.

Listening is the hardest thing I do,
I look still, but inside,
I am a thrumming beehive,
reminding myself not to speak through:

“You’re just another white girl
working social services.
You may bear witness
to silenced people, but don’t
mistake yourself
for their scribe.
You want to make a difference?
Give them notebooks for Christmas,
and listen with an ocean’s patience.
Listen without an ear to how it will sound later.
Practice holding other people’s stories
like a conch learns to hold the ocean.”

I am learning to embody the listener.

She says I need to be gentle.
It’s damaging, this work,
it’s hard, like scar tissue,
and she teaches me
to work it below the surface
until things are loose
with tears and shouting again.
Take a minute
to see how hard you’re learning,
she says.

There are more ways to break down barriers
than with your forehead.

Jump out of the frying pan.
Go back to the ocean. Sit with it,
let it breathe rancid up your nose.
See what it offers you.
Learn its patience,
hold conch shells to your heart.
Come back when you’re ready to make waves.