Red Flower, Green Stem

Today in Senior Seminar we read a poem that upset me. It was not about life or death, per say, though I might argue that it was about both. The poem was called “The Little Boy” by Helen E. Buckley.  It is a narrative poem about a little boy who goes to school. His teacher, though perhaps good intentioned, trains her class to follow directions. They draw red flowers with green stems. Each student’s flower looks identical. Later when he transfers to another school, and he is allowed to express creativity– he has none. He draws a red flower with a green stem, exactly the way his teacher told him to. The poem is extremely long, so i didn’t copy it on here, but I found it online, so here’s where you can find it.

http://home.bresnan.net/~cabreras/theboy.htm

The red flower syndrome is not something that I ever experienced as a child. My inability to follow directions , or to even listen, was actually good for me, it seems. In kindergarden, when my parents came for an open house,  they couldn’t help but notice all of the Orange Jack’O’Lanterns on the wall. Each Jack’O’Lantern had triangle eyes, and a round nose, and the same jagged tooth smile. Except mine. I had drawn a black pumpkin with a white ghost coming out of the top. I swear my father almost peed himself. He thought something was wrong with his baby girl. He immediately rushed to my teacher and asked her about the pumpkin picture. She had nothing but good things to say about my amazing piece of artwork.

But since I started college, the red flower syndrome resurfaced. I learned long ago to feel out professors, to determine whether or not to express my own opinion or the opinion that they wanted to hear. This is a skill that I mastered. But, I’m not sure if it is something I should be proud of. I am merely regurgitating the opinion that I have been told. My papers look exactly like every other paper in the class. But, I have given in. I have accepted defeat.

My little sister, on the other hand, will never fall victim to the red flower syndrome. She has her own opinions and beliefs. She recently was giving a bad grade by a professor, because she wrote something that the professor didn’t agree with. However, it won’t stop her. She has a strong will. That’s something that I admire.

Select A Box

Select A Box

They ask me to write down my race

And I think very seriously

And consider writing down the truth

And have my answer read

I am not a box.

I can’t be boxed.

I have history.

I am the ancestor of Cowboys and Outlaws,

The Younger Brothers share my blood.

You can follow the family tree back to Andrew Jackson,

Best known for his role as US President.

But my Papa worked for the GBI,

He helped Georgia towns fix their “Black Problem”.

I am a blend of nationalities.

The red hair gives me away as Irish,

My ancestors were refugees from the Potato famine.

Emily means Hard working

It is French/ German/ Latin/ Teutonic.

Who knows where that came from?

Wilcox is English and means son of Will.

We have a cross stitch of my family’s crest.

But Baird is a strong Scottish name,

Last year I picked up a scarf with the Baird tartan

I wear it with pride every winter.

I come from many places.

Dad’s parents are strong southern Baptists from Georgia,

And my father followed closely in their footsteps,

Though he married a woman, who was a Marine, A catholic, and a Yankee.

Mom didn’t know her mother’s first name.

Grandma Baird was an alcoholic.

Mom was 1 of 7 children.

She was in and out of foster care, and other homes,

From Kansas to Minnesota,

Depending on how life was going.

I moved around a few times as a child:

2 homes in Georgia, 2 in North Carolina, and then Tennessee.

I am an individual.

I love Sushi and Hot wings equally.

I am intrigued by history,

And I really only enjoy fiction.

I am passionate about travel,

And trying brand new things.

I strive to be independent,

And to have a life of my own.

“So what box do I fit in?

Is there a box that encompasses every facet of my being.

If you insist on ‘boxing’ me, listen to my story.”

I want to say.

But I stop

And simply write down:

White