The Bad Dot

I don’t want to tell you how embarrassed I was.

When they parked their car (a small, orange hatchback) about a half a block away and walked up behind us, I was mortified when my mom turned around and asked them what they were doing. Any high school age kid was by definition way cooler than I felt as an awkward 8th grader. Please mom, don’t embarrass me in front of these two unknown teenage boys who appeared on the sidewalk right behind us.

I don’t want to tell you about how they walked through us (my grandfather, my aunt, my mom and I on a walk around the block after Thanksgiving dinner, 1986), walked ahead of us a few paces, then turned around and came back.

I don’t want to tell you about how the force of his hand on my face knocked me to the ground.

I wouldn’t tell you if I was screaming, but I can’t remember if I was. But I think somebody was.

I don’t want to tell you about the glimpses I got of my mom on the ground behind me, kicks coming at her ribs, or my aunt pushed up against the fence, fists coming at her face.

I don’t want to tell you about my grandfather unsure of what to do and unable to stop it.

I don’t want to tell you about the drops of blood on my jean jacket and how my first thought was that I hoped they would wash out because how would I explain that to people at school?

I don’t want to tell you about how I kept ice on my cheek all evening to ward off any possible bruise, about how the police told me that the statement I wrote was so detailed and specific, about my aunt’s broken nose, my mom’s bruised ribs, about how when we took my aunt and grandparents to the airport the next day people looked sideways at us, drawing their own conclusions about my father’s bandaged hand (from a recent surgery) and my aunt’s horribly bruised face.

I don’t want to tell you about how because my face didn’t bruise and the blood washed out of my jacket I didn’t have to deal with any questions from the kids at school, but Chuckie Griffey stopped me in the hall, “I heard about what happened to you, and I’m really sorry.” I am still grateful for his kindness that day.

Then, I didn’t understand why these two boys weren’t with their families on Thanksgiving and instead made us unwilling participants in what the police told us was likely a gang initiation.

Now, I know that the gang they were trying to get into was the most stable family they had.

Being a victim isn’t a bad thing, but maybe I didn’t want to tell you about this because I have never considered myself a victim after this. Not then, not now.

The whole thing has always just made me sad. Sad for my relatives visiting from rural Ohio for who had to confront big city violence. Sad for the two boys whose lives gave them no other choices. Sad for what we heard about in the news, that a few weeks later these gang initiations started including golf clubs.

I didn't want to tell you all of this.

But now I'm glad that I did. 

Doc Z's Personal Commentary: U2 Breeds New Fans

I would appreciate some feedback (in the comments) about how well this is working. Any of Pitts's craft moves I could add? Where could I include more specific detail? Does it all work together--does it reconnect at the end to where it started at the beginning? And my title is boring. Help.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Last week, every single itunes user, that’s all 885 million of them, got U2’s latest album, Songs of Innocence, for free. According to Apple, “this is the biggest album release in music history.”

In fact, this free gift to itunes customers is the only way to acquire the album until October 13.

The presumption that they would want this album mysteriously showing up on their iPhone annoyed some iTunes customers. To this, Bono responded, “The same people who used to write on toilet walls when we were kids are now in the blogosphere. The blogosphere is enough to put you off of democracy [laughs]. But no, let people have their say. Why not? They're the haters, we're the lovers, we're never going to agree” (Heisler).

And yes, the world seems to be divided into the haters and lovers of U2. Which is why I think this unprecedented album release is pure genius. Bono himself explains why:

People really who would not ordinarily be exposed to our music have a chance to listen to it. Whether they hold that to their hearts, we don't know. Whether those songs will be important to them in a week's time, we don't know. But they have a chance, and that's gotta be exciting for a band that's been around as long as we have. (Heisler)

Of course it’s exciting for U2 to imagine that people who would not ever consider purchasing the album are now listening to it. Some of those people will like it, even love it. And it’s those U2 lovers who make the band so successful.

See, U2 fans are die hards.

They drop huge amounts of money on U2 concert tickets.

I know because I’m one of them.

I started listening to U2 in middle school. I own every album. I’ve attended every concert tour since Joshua Tree. That makes six times I’ve seen U2 in concert--Denver, Denver, Seattle, Chicago, Denver, Denver. As a teenager, I legitimately mourned the fact that I had missed the “Sunday Bloody Sunday” performance at Red Rocks; I was only ten years old at the time, too young to know what I was missing. On bad days in high school, I carried the cassette of Unforgettable Fire around in my pocket--not even in my Walkman. I had no way to listen to it. Just knowing the music was on my person seemed to make everything okay. 

That first U2 concert was epic for me (the link goes to video footage of the Los Angeles concert that happened 11 days after the show I saw in Denver in 1987). I was in ninth grade and U2 was larger than life in my world. I had been to a few other concerts but nothing this huge. The Steve Miller Band at Red Rocks (with my best friend’s nun aunt as our chaperone) was a great way to start my concert going experiences, but that was a far cry from the energy and intensity and huge rock band atmosphere of that Joshua Tree tour show. I bounced up and down for the entire show, screaming along because of course I knew every lyric.

To be truthful, U2’s glow has faded for me in my adulthood. I don’t listen to the music often. At the last few concerts, I’ve hoped to have tickets somewhere in the stadium where I can sit and still see the stage rather than having to stand for the whole show--my 14-year old self would be so disappointed.

But I will of course snag tickets the exact moment they are released for sale whenever U2 comes back through town on their next tour. I’ll have to be quick to get the tickets because I’ll be competing with all those new U2 fans cultivated by this unprecedented album release.

This time I’ll take my kid along to the concert, too.

And if Bono and The Edge and Larry and Adam walked into the room, the 14-year-old version of me would take over.

I’d be the one who just fainted on the floor.



Work Cited

Heisler, Yoni. “Bono talks 885 million iTunes accounts, new music format, and ‘haters.’ Tuaw: The Unofficial Apple Weblog. Online. 22 September 2014.

Breakfast Preparation Time: Results

Tuesday, 9/16/14: 11 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Wednesday, 9/17/14: 9 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Thursday, 9/18/14: 8 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Friday, 9/19/14: 7 minutes 50 seconds for making breakfast (ate in the cafeteria that day--cheesy polenta!)

I wrote about my morning oatmeal routine a while back on my writing blog. You should read that post here.  And leave me some comments (there or here) if you have any thoughts.

Ink

18
Heavily researched with Kuhrt.
Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Mine--the left eye of Ra, the moon,
crying a tear of faith, hope, and love.
His--mysterious Kuhrt language they say now.
Nobody knows what it means.
But I remember.

20
With Heather, horrified, in
a Denver studio.
Seeking balance.
Yin/Yang hand, to remind me.

22
Leaving college. Leaving childhood.
Leaving a version of me behind (but
taking my nickname with me).
With Jeni Rae (sunburst on her foot)
and Jay (navel piercing)

24
Daisies. With Paul.
Olympia.
First Christmas.
Our wedding flower.

28
Getting braver in my new midwest life.
Capturing my Polish heritage--colorful,
bold, but still only where I can see it
most of the time.

34
Visible. Vibrant. Daisy and
ladybug, four spots for Jane’s four years.
So beautiful.

36
I finished my dissertation.
I deserve more daisies
creeping down my arm.

37
I have a daisy on my toe,
It is not real, it does not grow.
It’s just a tattoo of a flower
So I’ll look neat, taking a shower.
It’s on the second toe of my left foot.
A stem and flower, but there’s no root.
Because… it wouldn’t look good!
A pretty daisy on my toe
My right foot loves my left foot so! --The Smothers Brothers
And this makes six daisies, and
the start of the official Morgan family tattoo.

38
With Amy, who arrives in Boulder
wanting a vine and flowers around her ankle.
The simple excuse I needed
for words, about love, what my father taught me
about living a life.
Live, act, speak through love.
Marked on me.
Forever.

39
The words sprout a tree.
A love tree.
Jane’s initials.
A peace sign for Paul.
Nine, red, heart-shaped flowers
for Jane’s nine years.

40
A farm now rests beneath the tree.
The barn, circa pre-1974 tornado.
The place where my mother learned love, care, empathy,
and cookies.
My grandfather’s 1982 red Dodge Ram,
drives to the farmhouse,
taking him home.

40
Matryoshka. Polish.
Zerwin was Zwierzynski.
Jane,
me,
Verna Su,
Sarah Jane and Eleanor,
Elizabeth, Pearl, Tecla, and Francis
The string of mothers before me.

41
My father’s childhood home
that defined family for him. Laughter, love--
these things he taught many of my favorite people
over 10-day summer adventures
with fishing stories, and slow laps in the row boat,
and rocks across Lost Lake,
and solitaire and poker, great food and conversation,
in cabin 25.

Columbine, fireweed, Indian paintbrush,
the wildflowers that carpet the aspen forest
surrounding Mesa Lake.

“So it goes,” says Vonnegut. And it does.

Ugh the snow

Ugh.
The snow.

If it were October,
I would be giddy at the soft flakes
cascading
down,
tugging at the already ready to fall leaves,
blanketing the last living flowers into sleep,
reminding me of quiet, snowy nights.

But it's May.
The snow will rip the baby leaves
AND THEIR BRANCHES
from the trees
before they are able to shade us from the hot summer sun.
It will smother the fledgling vegetable gardens.
Tulips, lilacs--the flowers will die.

I will not wear my winter coat,
or gloves,
or a hat.
I will not shovel any snow
or remove it from the windshield.
It is time for sunshine and warmth,
for a light jacket and no socks,
for windows open at night,
for putting the space heater away.

Not for cold and seeing snowflakes
in the umbrella of orange
beneath the streetlight outside my house.

P: Pepperoni

Urbana, Illinois, 2003

I didn't want to see the movie Old School.

Amy and I and our husbands and a bunch of their running group buddies went to the movies. When we got there, the men all wanted to see Old School. I didn't. Amy didn't care. So I ended up going to see Old School instead of something I thought would be more redeeming.

The University of Illinois is home to one of the largest greek systems in the entire country. And when we walked into the theatre, every single fraternity brother from the university was there, filling all of the rows except for the very first one. That's where we sat.

I was terrified. I remembered years ago at a CU football game how there were fraternity brothers throwing pepperoni at people. I never knew why. But they thought it was really funny.

So there at Old School, I worried and waited for the pepperoni slices to start flying. How long until there would be one landing on my forehead or in my hair or on my shoulder or slapping me on the cheek?

There were no pepperoni slices in the theatre. Those fraternity brothers never even threw popcorn at us. But they certainly howled with laughter at all of the funny moments in the movie.

Except for the one where Will Farrell says that he's too busy to party because of the big day at Home Depot the next day. WE (the old people in the front row) laughed at that line. That was our world at the time.

Ode to Senioritis (and my seniors)

Of course your homework isn't done.
It's 89 days until graduation
and the sun is shining.
Your friends are distracting you.
It's not your fault.
There are geese to chase at the park.

Your dog ate your backpack.
No joke.
And you ran out of gas on the way to school.

You'll get to work
maybe after you finish your paper airplane.

You'll look at me through
the telescope you just made out of your writer's notebook.

I can take it. Really I can.
You are not the first group of seniors
I've lived through a second semester with.

Even though your friends will show up with coffee
at the classroom door,
I will still ask you to write.
Even though you'll play Flappy Bird
behind Kesey's pages,
I will still ask you to read.

You won't even care anymore
if you have the option to attend or not.
Won't even believe it
when I ask you to get up and move across the room
to put some thoughts on a sticky note on a poster.

Exhausted by the weight
of high school ending
and whatever's next looming
(not totally in focus yet)
and the impending good byes
and the last time you'll walk up the ramps,
or play foosball in the senior lounge,
or get to school early enough to get your favorite parking spot...

The affliction is real,
the only cure graduation.

And in the mean time
I will cherish every moment.
Because you will leave
and I will still be here
when you maybe come back to visit the Castle.

But

we

will never
be here
in this place
at this time

together

again.