Treasure Chest

Standing across from you, fire in my fists, blinded by your voice.  You’re piercing right through me, I am the wall. Your words like sea salt to scar tissued insecurities and I’m raw. Hollowed at my core, I want to reach for you, dig my fingers deep in to the cavern of your chest, tearing you open, find the treasure in your ribs. I could build a home inside you, climbing the steps of your bones, a stairway to the heaven that is your slowed heart. The murmurs of broken romance. Palpitate, exhilarate, you scream. I search for the warmth in you and I paw at your arteries, feeling for your history. Veins like nooses where I could sleep inside you; instead I swing from the branches of your nerve endings and sling shot right through you until you grab a hold of me. Shaking me, bringing me to your senses; sound and sight. Bringing me to my knees, holding the me you see, disappearing in the parts you don’t. 

A Dream

 

It was warm and my belly was full and round. Life was inside me and in the next moment, in an eye blink, life was in my arms and she was beautiful, not a newborn but an energetic, laughing girl. She, less than a year, still needed me to carry her but she raised her own head. I remember frantically wondering who the man was that would father my child. I remember thinking, was I ready for this? We were in a car and we were going to a home. There was no driver but faceless family members. I left the car and we were in my parent’s backyard, her still in the car. I thought, I need to know where you are forever. I will never walk away from anything as my own person. Part of me, inebriated and worried that I had forgotten about my child for a moment too long, opening the door to her reaching arms. Why did I feel so out of it? Was I already a bad mother?  She giggled, she wriggled and when I tried to photograph her, she turned away.

 

A boy I loved as a teenager claimed the baby girl for his own, she looked nothing like him and I wondered to myself how I could have birthed his child. I searched for blonde in her hair or green in her eyes, but she was golden with big brown smiling eyes that slanted slightly. She was mine, not his. He was as I remembered him, a mess. I told to him he could not be a part of her life, that she was mine and mine alone and that I did not need anyone to care for her. I remember feeling like it was impossible that he could be hers but I never spoke it, never told him that it could be someone else’s. He was hurt either way and took off to slain my name for a child he could never own, another part of me that got away. 

 

The only face I saw in my heart was the only man I have loved, not a boy from my past. I looked in her eyes and saw my own, I looked at her and saw him. When I dream, faces are never clear. Everyone is a blur and an essence of who they represent. Voices are not heard, thoughts are translated from memory. I cannot discern specifics, ever. I wake and feel the images slip between my sheets and dissipate into the fibers, waiting for another cycle of sleep that they may enter once again. 

 

I held her close to me trying to photograph her, through most of my dream, I just wanted her picture. I wanted to show the world how beautiful she was. Mostly, I wanted to show him. I began to panic when I realized she was not a newborn and thought that if her father received a photo of her then, already lifting her own head, not needing newborn mittens, with light brown hair all over her beautiful head, that maybe I was too late. Never did it cross my mind that he should have sought us out, his new family. I named her Madison Charles and she was all I had.

 

Pregnancies and babies in dreams are part of beginning anew. All I have is this new beginning and I cannot drag my past into it. My life is my own, I can lift my own head. 

Behavior Modification

Recently, a teen on my caseload, lets call her Clarissa, asked if I was upset with her. At first, my response was, “Why would I be mad?, Its your life, Clarissa, you know what you’re doing.” Clarissa and I spent most of the day together, working on an internship application and making her appointments at the agency. A treatment team conference was held and all of the experts on her life are in attendance. Her entire history and life is discussed, flaws and strengths on the table, bullshit called, and goals set. Clarissa once asked me if I felt it was wrong for someone to throw things you’ve shared with them in your face. My answer was that it was obvious that she felt it was unfair and we discussed her feelings on it. Personally, I think its fighting filthy and desperate.

Working in foster care, you see a lot of self sabotage, longing for love and kids destitute of all trust. I try on a daily basis not to take it personal, I recall being a teenager not long ago and hurting so many of the people I loved. I recall disappointing those around me, rationalizing all of my decisions and never allowing anyone to understand me. I see myself in so many of my cases and in that, I see hope. I can sacrifice hours, health, hunger and sleep because too many people have given up on today’s youth. When Clarissa asks me questions about personal opinions, I see in her a search for approval and when Clarissa partakes in shocking or risky activities, she yearns for a reaction that says, I care enough about you.

Last week, my supervisor said to me, you know, its really telling that insert foster children’s names are doing well, it reflects in how much effort you have put in their success. I felt great at that point, that someone who has been in this field for so long and once had my position, would notice my drive to help. However, there is a detachment between supervisors and actual caseloads, while knowledgeable, most is hearsay through transition meetings. I prefer direct care, I want to work as close as possible to youth. It is the only thing that makes me happy.

The moments that count to me are not when recognized by someone in a superior role but when it has become a realization for the youth that I am caring for. Today, maybe an hour after telling Clarissa that I was not angry with her for not fulfilling her responsibilities and accepting her foster mother’s consequences of our treatment plan, she apologized for taking up so much of my time, using my office to type essays that she was supposed to have written before showing up without an appointment, taking up the majority of my day while my progress notes piled up.

This brings me to my reason for writing in the first place. As Clarissa typed away at my desk, hoping to be chosen for an internship, I ruminated over my own reaction, stating I was not angry. Well, I was not angry with her but I was disappointed. Clarissa is one of the only females on my caseload and we work together a lot. I see in her a drive towards independence, survival and success. Although, the “system” and the “agency” do not exactly promote complete independent success, my hope is to break the mold and really get our youth to see cause and effect, behavior and consequence, and goal and fruition.

After accepting her apology, I explained to her that I would continue to lose sleep, meals and paper work time if it meant that she was doing what she needed to do. I described to her, her behaviors that led me to feel disappointed and then described all the things that she had done that day to make up for it, taking care of responsibilities that were important. “As long as you do what you need to do, I don’t mind helping you…” She turned to me and said, “Ms.Rosanna, I don’t mean to interrupt you but I want you to know that I have learned a lot since you became my sociotherapist…”

& It is in those moments where I know I have done right. I know I have worked to my potential and I know that my heart is in the right place. When I quit Boys Town, a lot of my kids were upset, they said things like, “Ms. Rosy, you’re the only one that I could talk to…” or “You’re the only one that cares.” These are the things that matter to me. For so long, I have cared for the people around me. I have given 100% because I cared and so many times, I found myself hurt by those people or the decisions they made. I have since lost faith in friendships and I have become realistic about romantic relationships. I realize now that I can be content being someone that marries their work because I can give to those who need it, those who have gone forgotten.  One day, I will make a difference.

Bus, Skip & A Train

Bitter letters at bus stops. The MTA has found another way to rape. She fell for the NSA. Peeling benches that read forever and stars now belong to gangs. Smoking girls and blue tooth men. The delays of convenience and the smell of poorly dried laundry. Lines become crowds and no one knows that ladies go first.

Sleeping purse clutching and seated far from luggage watching. Next bus please and heavy sighs, over zealous wallet reaching. Apology accepted, won’t you please give these seats to the elderly or disabled? Do you have identification, sir? We have to get to work. There’s no respect for the elderly and let the disabled park in better places. Over the bridges and through the hoods to train stations we go. Working shoes that step to the back of the bus while couples rest on crooked shoulders.

Transfers to the train and clusters of smoking degenerates that greet you before you escape into the earth. Service changes, the weekender voice cuts through the humming underground silence. Start here. Go anywhere. But not there, the trains don’t run there.

The Carpenter & The Tree

The bricks of disbelief
forfeit the foundation
built on uncertain beams
that sway with the winds of maybe’s

I swallow your stones
smooth from the sands
of your indecision

An esophageal vase
where you rest your anxious hands
to that place where actions meet demands

Cold in the tones
of shoulds and shouldn’t be’s
the web of dreams we sleep
the carpenter and the tree

Making a Request

At my job, we use rationales in order to teach social skills to the youth. I see how it really becomes a language and a way of life for my fellow colleagues. We teach the youth the steps of mastering any skill. It’s repetitive and sometimes the kids say we’re robots but as a behaviorist approach, it is successful.

Our society has severely slacked in practicing and teaching others how to productively socialize. It’s almost like an art to manipulation. If you want something, you should know how to get it. I’ve always told my brothers that if they wanted anything from me that they’d have to be nice about it. These are the steps to making a request.

Making a Request:

-Look at the person.
-Use a pleasant voice tone.
-Ask in the form of a question using “please”.
-If you get a “no”, say “ok”.
-If you get a “yes”, say “thank you”.

This seems simple enough but it’s surprising how often, when you start paying attention, people don’t make requests. Especially at work, you hear a lot of demands. When we give the kids the rationale for making a request, we tell them that when they make a request, it’s more likely that they will get what they want.

I was just reminded of this simple skill while rushing for a bus. It’s not often that you can get a bus driver to let you on once the doors are closed. It’s even harder when they’ve already given you the signal to wait for the next bus.

Well I left for work on time but I stopped to buy a drink because I figured since I knew what I wanted that it would be quick. I didn’t factor in the new guy being trained and not being able to read the price list. Don’t you hate when you feel that one insignificant event, only minutes long, could effect your own fate?

I saw my bus from 2 streets away and thought “I’ll never make it.” I walked as it sat there and I realized the bus might be waiting for me so I started running. I had to wait at a green light so I could avoid being hit by a car. I watched as my bus approached the corner waiting for its own green light and I ran up to it as I saw a gap in traffic.

The bus driver gave me the ol’ next bus thumb. I know from the past that I could possibly wait a half hour for this bus and missing this bus could mean being pretty late to my far away job.

So I subconsciously “made a request”
-I looked at the bus driver through the bus doors.
-I used a pleasant voice tone by smiling and placing my hands together in prayer/begging mode.
-I asked in the form of a question by making my facial expression inquisitive and mouthing please.
-& When he opened the doors to let me in, I said “thank you so much!!”

I felt the need to write this down because I’ve been having really great days just practicing being able to communicate better. I teach these skills to my kids everyday but what I’m teaching, I’m also learning.

pen man ship

I seek
the cursive in you
trapping the flourishes
in puzzled meanings
the forgotten elegance
where you let
your letters sleep
dancing beneath
calligraphy
that stumble over niceties
I find you
in vowels
holding me
close like consonants
that roll
and rhyme
just like poetry
you nap with nouns
leaving me
verblessly

Tuesday’s Lessons

I read the book, Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom back when I was graduating high school and it changed my life. It helped me make some tough decisions and really be able to get through stressful times. I wanted to make sure I shared it on this blog. The book is about a guy who visits his old dying professor/mentor Morrie and writes down his lessons on life. I highly recommend it.

Detachment

“What I’m doing now is detaching myself from the experience.”

Detaching yourself?

“Yes. Detaching yourself. And this is important – not just for someone like me, who is dying, but for someone like you, who is perfectly healthy. Learn to detach.”

But wait, I said. Aren’t you always talking about experiencing life? All the good emotions, all the bad ones?

“Yes.”

Well, how can you do that if you’re detached?”

“… detachment doesn’t mean you don’t let the experience *penetrate* you. On the contrary, you let it penetrate you *fully*. That’s how you are able to leave it.

Take any emotion – love for a woman, or grief for a loved one…. if you hold back on the emotions – if you don’t allow yourself to go all the way through them – you can never get to being detached, you’re too busy being afraid. You’re afraid of the pain, you’re afraid of the grief. You’re afraid of the vulnerability that loving entails.

But by throwing yourself into these emotions, by allowing yourself to dive in, all the way, over your head even, you experience them fully and completely. You know what pain is. You know what love is. You know what grief is. … I have experienced that emotion. I recognize that emotion. Now I need to detach from that emotion for a moment.”

Same for loneliness: you let go, let the tears flow, feel it completely – but eventually be able to say, ‘All right, that was my moment with loneliness. I’m not afraid of feeling lonely, but now I’m going to put that loneliness aside and know that there are other emotions in the world, and I’m going to experience them as well.”

I remembered this today as an important additive to my new found positive outlook on all situations. For the past few months, I have been looking for silver linings. I have been learning to change things about myself and mindset. As I’ve written before, a lot of times, our experiences in life makes us feel justified in our actions and feel entitled to being an asshole.

Things go wrong all the time and whether its my own fault or out of my control, I don’t want to sit in sadness because of it. I used to let myself go through bouts of depression, negativity and hopelessness before getting up and taking over the world but that doesn’t work anymore. No one really cares what you’re going through, you don’t get a ‘get out of jail free’ card just because you’ve had a bad day.

I have never been happier in my life, now that I am being positive throughout every facet of my life.

Well, today I felt especially upset over a situation (out of my control) and I let it consume me for longer than I’d like. I’ve read somewhere that any feeling you experience in response to a stimuli should only last 12 minutes and that anything longer is in your own control, the rumination is in your hands. So I reminded myself of Morrie’s lesson of detachment.

I wholeheartedly feel everything, be it sadness, anger or even bliss and I must detach myself from my own disappointment. Absolutely no luck, experience, person or event will change my path.

Hopefully, soon I can sit down and update this blog on how my life has changed and all the new opportunities that have arisen.

Write

My brother recently threw out all of his old journals. I can understand the how’s and why’s and believe me, I’ve considered doing it myself but there is is something very tragic in aborting those little books of self made history. I’ve always written everything down. I’ve always kept journals, wrote poems, albeit terribly devastated poems but can I detach myself from my past? Is it my past that I’d release myself from or is it the release from words itself?

Quotes on napkins, doodles laced with lyrics and lines of poetry mismatched and crisscrossed on scraps of paper could wallpaper this house. I’ve written poems to all my lovers. A pen is present during all my heartbreaks and every now and then I explain concisely where I’ve been to a journal in hopes that someday, my life will make sense. Someday, being me will make sense. Maybe someday these journals will read like a recipe for success.

The King

Loving me like our bodies can feed from energies released, searching ravenously for the deities’ glee. My body, like a chasm for keepsakes, dances in waves. Eyes, they follow the ripples of my rhythm, the slow dancing sweat glistens. Stormy drums beat to the sound of desire, you moan and heave but do not tire. The arch of my ache and the rise of your sting. Sometimes, just sometimes and always, the woman is King.