Experiment #6 Slam Poetry

                                                                       SEEDS

I was five years old when a classmate told me that if your butt wiggles when you walk

It means you’re pregnant

She said mine did, but I wasn’t.

So from that day forward I became a friend of the shadows.

I hid my parts. I lost my voice.
.
In silence, no one sees you. No one notices the flaws.

I escaped to the silent residential street behind the main drag where no one would see me and assume the worst. A child bearing a child was not possible. But that’s how a child’s mind thinks.

I braved the terror of walking with trepidation passed front lawns where big dogs with their incisors bared and hackles raised would charge at me behind their gated prisons.

But I was the one in chains.

Chains I bore in silence.

At eight, Melva Anderson sat by the pool and called to me as I walked by.

She noticed the wiggle.

I sat down, trying to become one with the concrete in an effort to shield myself from the spotlight that was bearing down upon my derriere, condemning myself to the sidelines, becoming a spectator to the frolicking adventures I once attended.

I sat there on molten concrete until the lifeguard’s whistle blew.

And still I waited til the last kid had passed through the locker room doors before wrapping my hands around my voluptuous bottom and scurrying back inside.

My middle school years, no matter the weather, I hid my imperfection behind a sweater. For heaven forbid anyone see it and I become the talk of the school.

Then I’d probably be offered a job under a tent, “Come one, come all and see the world’s largest backside.”

That would be embarrassing.

Change came when a new family moved in across the street; single mom five kids. The one my age was very pretty.

Yoyo, that was her nickname.

She taught me how to dress, how to wear my hair, the importance of appealing to boys.
For boys were critical to a middle school girl’s world; a key to being liked. being popular.

She soared. I floundered.  Too shy. Too quiet. Too little self esteem.

And I learned that there are worse things than record inspiring rears.

Yoyo was beautiful. Me? Meh.

She tried to help but I was a lost cause.

My unintentional grade school pals saw to that.

Funny thing was, I liked me; on the inside anyway.

I wanted to use my brain, to be respected and appreciated for my inner self.
I wanted to meet a boy who would love me for who I was
I wanted the outside not to matter.

But that’s not the world we live in, and middle school is a bitch.
And middle school boys have an itch
For girls who play horizontally
And I was proud to say not yet, not for me.
Despite my sister's friends declaration that my wide hips evidenced the contrary. 

I wanted more
And self hate for my outer shell
Did not translate to self hating behavior

I wanted more

I demanded more
And so I was alone
But I had her, my best friend, my buddy, so I was ok.

Because of her, I hung with the popular crowd
I didn’t like those kids
 Popularity seemed to be universally connected with being mean.

And I watched the dark games they would play upon those who were shy, quiet, with low self esteem. The un-cool kids. The nerds.

Those kids. The ones whose feet could be seen dangling from dumpsters, the ones pressed to the walls dabbing at purple soda stains on white tops from the drinks that were “accidently” spilled on them, the ones being tripped as they tried to navigate their way down treacherous school halls.

Those kids were me, tortured relentlessly because they didn’t have a Yoyo to teach them how to dress, how to wear their hair, how to behave around boys.

And their embarrassment was my embarrassment.

Their shame, my shame.

And I hurt for them in silence.

 Because I was one Yoyo away from that being me.

Truth isn't always free.

We are adults now and not much has changed.

Yoyo still turns heads wherever we go.

I’m still her invisible shadow walking silently by her side.

But inside I’m screaming, “Uh, hello? Flesh! Bones! Feelings!

The scars hurt and I still have to tell myself.

I am certainly no Beyonce but that doesn’t mean I don’t have value. That doesn’t mean I lack worth.

And I am not defined, I will not be defined by the shallow, the vapid man-child who hasn’t yet learned which is the proper head to think with.

I will not measure my worth by the limited calculations of a standard long in need of a major overhaul.

I wish I could go back and tell my younger self

That you are not defined by the few, the proud, the arrogantly popular.

You are more than flesh organically congealed in all the right places.

Your value is not sealed by the geometric proportions of your face.

Beauty doesn’t reside there.

It burrows in simple things; like moments when we feel alive, accomplished, loved. 
 
It dwells in every moment that awakens confidence and beauty in a soul that has and is constantly being bombarded with messages that tell it to believe otherwise.

 It’s the little moments, like sharing a laugh with a friend.

 It’s the capriciousness that comes with falling in love.

It’s the sensation of pride that comes from doing something to make someone else’s day.

 The dimples created from the smile you've inspired.

The uplifted face welcoming you home.

 The warmth that fills you when reciprocity pays it forward.

 Beauty is in your heart, your soul.

Middle school is such a small fraction of your life.

It will pass.

The bullies will be gone.

 Popularity doesn’t travel.

And you are so much more than they told you you were.

Beauty is life.

Live it!

(Or is all this just the kinds of things that ugly people say?)


Comments

  1. This is excellent.

    My favorite message: " I wish I could go back and tell my younger self

    That you are not defined by the few, the proud, the arrogantly popular."

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you. I wish I'd have had the courage to read it in class, but it was so long i didn't want to monopolize class time. Maybe this can be my one do-over in the world, lol

      Delete

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