Thursday, April 17, 2014

Not quite done yet

After many years my college career is coming to an end--or at least I thought.  I have met my match with Senior Seminar and have gone from worrying about a silly piece of gold rope on my shoulder to wondering if I'll cross that stage a fraud.  Sometimes my professors just do not like me.  This is the dilemma behind the English degree--not every professor will like your work.  So I play the game.  I go to office hours.  I prove in class that I have done the reading and offer my opinions or theories on the texts.  However in this case, it is all for nothing.  I just try harder and dig a deeper hole.  It's like I'm drowning and all my paddling towards the surface is only moving me farther down into the abyss.  All this came to a spear head last week when my fears of failure became even more real with a gruesome presentation.

So today I sit in my chair, humiliated and beat down I stare at the dest.  I want to hide within the pages of my text and listen as my colleges present effortlessly five page texts while I was stuck with 130 pages.  Every word they said felt like a match lit underneath my desk burning the indignity and memory of the horrific moment into my consciousness.  I sat and looked at the rows of letters stretch across the page.  How can I survive everything I went through last year and the much-less-than-metaphoric collision with I car I lived through in January to let one professor beat me?  I looked at my leg and remembered what used to be red flesh, filled with what felt like tiny little knives digging into my every movement--and I was about to let one man take me down. 

I scribbled down my thoughts.  I dodged the professor's derailment and continued to make my point.  While I may be only capable of a high school level reading, my elementary rendition of the text just hijacked the class.  I tried not to smile as my peers mimicked my thoughts for the remaining fifteen minutes.  Apparently I am not the only one incapable of close reading.    

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


We untie the knot 
we made out of our legs and arms,
and I realize I am holding a mirror.
The place you stand 
is a perch I know well.

I tell you what’s on my mind 
but the image is backwards,
and my words fall down on me
like the rain stumbling and stammering
while outside the storm is raging.