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

Where I Come From

I am graduating from college in less than a month. Recently i have found myself wondering where I am from, where my home is, and where I am going. It’s been rather difficult. I moved around a few times as a child. There were places where I never felt like I fit, and places I felt completely myself. Then last year with the break-up of my parents, the idea of home seemed more elusive than ever. Today in class, we read a poem by George Ella Lyon called “Where I’m From”. I recommend everyone take the time to look that up and read it. But, in turn, we each wrote our own poems. (I guess I’m in a very poetic state of mind with this class). So, here seems to be my answer about “Where I Come From”?

Where I Come From

I come from Lemonade stands,

from North Carolina Barbeque and Block Parties.

I am from tree climbing, the hole in the fence, and eating watermelon in my underwear

with sweet sicky juices running down my body.

I’m from Boxcar Children books,

Shel Silverstein and Louis Sacchar.

I’m from Disney VHS tapes watched a million times over,

David the Gnome, Grilled Cheese, and “Stories out of the Mouth.”

I am from a slap on the face and

“Kiss your sister and make up.”

I am from “Cattie” not Katie,

and the love/hate relationship that comes with sisterhood.

I am from backyard teap parties, dress-up games,

and rushing home to play maids in our white slips after church.

I still have the old diaries, where I was half committed,

so they’re barely written in,

old photo albums full of blurred pictures,

because my hand didn’t fit around the camera just yet.

But I still remember the moments.

I am from those moments–

smudged, scratched out, a little too dark, with a thumbprint in the corner–

but they are mine.

What’s your metaphor for life?

At the beginning of every senior seminar class, we read a poem. Today’s poems were about metaphors for life. I felt that one of them truly spoke to how I am feeling right now. It is about a father and daughter speaking about their outlooks on life.

the drum

daddy says the world is

a drum tight and hard

and i told him

i’m gonna beat

out my own rhythm

-nikki giovanni

The poem spoke to me, because I am used to people telling me that the world is harsh. I am used to people telling me what to do and the right way to live. And, I am used to living according to the rules. With few exceptions, I have been the good girl, always doing what is expected. I never stepped out or rebelled as many expected me to.

But now, I am a senior. I graduate exactly one month from today, and I want freedom. I feel the urge to do things that are unexpected, to carve my own path. I would rather go out and try something completely me, and fail miserably, than to go the safe route and end up miserable. For the first time in my life, I want to be completely wild.

After reading the drum, our professor asked us to give our own example of what out metaphor for life is. After reflecting and hearing other people’s opinions, I came to the conclusion that life is a river.

The River of Life

Life is like a river, ever flowing, ever changing.

It is funny that people sometimes try to dam these rivers up,

because you cannot harness that which does not want to be

Sometimes when the water flows too much, and the storms come–

the dam will break.

Sometimes the course of a river changes,

it goes in a completely different direction than it did many years ago.

While the changing can disrupt the natural order;

it can also create new life and plentiful growth

Sometimes eddies are formed,

whirling, tumultuous, and a bit stagnant

Life is a river,

because sometimes they just dry up.