When you are younger, still,
and the school system is trying to teach you
wrong from right,
bad from good,
black from white, no dulled grey edges --
they tell the students to fess up to their crimes.
they tell their students to own up to their actions.
they tell you that blame is pointless:
that what has been done has been done.
                                                           ­                 and you, at 6, and you, at 7,
so very young, still, so very unaware how all your classmates
                                                                ­                                              hate you
you take it all to heart.

and if your 2nd grade teacher derides you for the colour of your skin --
when the chair falls, when the pens are pushed off your desk
you straighten it. you pick them up.
when food gets bumped, accidentally pushed, lands on the floor
you are the first to the paper towel rack, first apologising, first to fix it.
when you are running away, sprinting fast down forbidden corridors
and the other girl is running after you in the halls
you say it was your idea.
take all of Teacher's harsh words so the other girl doesn't.

And if your 2nd grade teacher looks down on you the entire year:
for your hair, for your clunky words, for the colour of your eyes.
maybe, you will think, maybe, looking back--
maybe you didn't help your case.

And maybe those actions were kindness, but none were bravery.
All of them were you, negating the blame.
Saying: actions are actions are actions have happened.
Saying: excuses are worthless, fine -- so let me fix this instead.

There was no point in blame so there was
no blame so
instead you decided
all my fault.

Here, now, in the harsh cold present --
there is a pandemic. there are people dying.
there is the news and there are your relatives,
both of them pointlessly, endlessly, arguing politics.
there was a flood, before, and an earthquake and a death.
there were schools, blurring behind your eyes because there were so many.
and friends. lost, and not.

And sometimes, the helplessness engulfs you whole.
And sometimes, the amount of rage simmering under your skin
is enough for you to tremble and shake with that power,
is enough to almost make you forget why not, why never,
is enough for you to lash out (with your words)
and hurt someone.
So you bite it back and swallow it all
(because not today, because you will NOT lose anyone today)
and you think my fault
until your breathing is calm, steadied.
until the breaking point is buried back, deep beneath your skin.
until the emptiness washes over you, back to resigned, hollow, sadness.

I have done this, you tell yourself, because
even if no one is at fault, and
even if the world is to blame
you never want to become someone who blames the world:
never want to become someone to throw down a gauntlet,
to say, "I have been wronged." to say, "This is what I deserve."
You never want to become someone who thinks they are owed --
because you are not.
because you are owed the same as anyone else and that is  n o t h i n g.

and if this saves you, this thing they did not mean to teach you at school
(and maybe it is self-loathing. and maybe it is self-deprecation.)
if this stops you from that, this twisted version of responsibility
if this helps any other person along the way --
you think it's enough.

They tell you there are always three (at least two) sides to every story.

i.
There are three sides to every story.
The good, the bad, and--(earth, air, fire, water)--

Fire can **** you.
Fire will tell its flames to slither atop your skin, to dance prettily.
Fire will then strike, will seer your flesh from your skin,
suffocate away all your air.
Fire will consume you and leave you a burned crisp, nice and black.

don't touch, they tell you, don't touch
(you leave the glowing orb of orange alone)


Water is cold; cold enough to freeze your insides whole.
Water is also so alluring, pulling you in and
    down
      down
        down,
until you can only splutter from lack of air.
Fire burns you, but water drowns you.
Takes you far into a deep, black, nothingness of serenity,
keeps you prisoner.

swim, they beckon to you, swim
(you stay far too close to the shore)


Air is never grounded.
Air swirls and changes into gusts of wind,
Takes you off of one path and blows you onto another.
Circles you in a cyclone,
Smacks you onto the ground,
taking any breath of life left in your lungs along with it.

hold on, they yell, hold on
(you are not the one who lets go)


Earth is treacherous.
So used to its existence underneath your feet, but earth is deadly too.
Because when it moves, decides to breathe, you are nothing.
Roots twist, and plates push up against each other, dirt flies:
You are nothing but a casualty left in its wake,
as your feet give out from the unsteady ground beneath
as the buildings crumble from above
as you are left caught in between.

duck and cover, duck and cover
(desks protect no one forever)



ii.
But fire can save you, with warmth.
Water can quench your thirst, can quell a burning inferno.
Air can be gentle, too, give just enough of a directional push.
Earth can give you land to go to, can help sprout food to eat.

This is a dangerous world, things that **** you hidden in plain sight, remedies turning to chaos with no warning.

This is a beautiful world, with kids that dance in thunderstorms, and sleep easy through the night.

An imperfect world, be cautious - things are seldom only what they seem.

The elements are a double edged sword, both within one.



iii.

there are three sides to every story:(the good, the bad, and--)
Yours,
            Mine,
                       and the in between of what's left.


Once upon a time, they say, and there is always a monster in this story, lurking behind walls.


So here, have a story:

Once, there were people I loved.

Once, they were monsters.

And Once, (now) they are one and the same.



iv.
the monsters are my friends, and the victims are my blood;
the victims are my blood, and the monsters are my friends;
I call them both family.

and there have  a l w a y s  been multiple sides to every story,
always a monster to uncover and a villain to slay,
always an innocent somehow hidden beneath them,
always multiple interpretations of stories that don't get told.

the monsters are the people I've loved since before i knew the meaning of that word.

the monsters are the people I've chosen to love, chosen to stand beside, of my own choosing, of my own will.



v.
and you will call me wrong, and heartless.
and you will call me weak, and deceptive.
and I will tell you that it was the easiest choice in the world to make,
and that will be a lie.

dear you,

please remember that your voice has power.
power to raise an ocean of words,
please make them mean something.
power to create a storm,
please don’t destroy too much.
you have been given hands to create,
a mind to wonder,
a life that is worth living if you make it worth living

Of everywhere you have ever lived,
you know your grandparents' kitchen the best.
Know where the silverware is kept, and the plates.
Can find the pots and pans; knives and spatulas; rags and extra aprons.
Can spot where the fancy dining-ware lies hidden away, for guests.
(and you are a stowaway, family passing by and through,
staying and leaving but always returning, never quite a guest.)

Of everywhere I have ever lived,
my grandparents' kitchen, house --
this is the only place I have always moved through seamlessly.

It's odd to think,
standing in that familiar kitchen,
tangentially following a recipe of my father's,
that I am a legacy
of things soon to be long gone.
(of course, so are we all).

For 12 years, I was the only great-grandchild,
of my father's side of the family --
first daughter of the first son of the first daughter of the youngest child
(eldest of the eldest of the eldest -- of the youngest).
I did not grow taller than my great-grandmother until I was 13,
and I thought that it was perfect -- that maybe a new child would pop into existence every time the next eldest of my generation got too tall --
my little cousin never got a chance to outgrow her.

All of your thoughts are a eulogy, not yet written.

This is the house, the house of my grandparents, where I spent almost
all my winters, at least half my summers.
This is the only house I know
with a still valid address,
long-ago etched into my memory.
This is the only house I know,
still-standing, still with its first inhabitants.
This is not a house I can stand to stay in.
Not any longer.

My (great) aunt hauls out a box of her mother's things,
slides a leather binder with school notes across to me:
they are dated in the war years, 1941, 42, 43,
years my great-grandmother stayed with her own aunt,
in order to be able to attend high school.
She slides them over to me,
to have me go over her mother's chemistry notes.
She wants them grouped together, the diagrams that go with the notes,
wants to frame them, one each for her and her three sisters,
and I, among the living, am the only one capable of deciphering them:
algebra tied to chemicals tied to method statements,
all in beautiful cursive hand-writing I can only half-read --
amidst four daughters, six grandsons, I am left the only one
who fell deep into math, deep into science,
deep enough to piece together these old, torn, scraps of paper.

And here I am a legacy of things I wished I could have known sooner.
Here, I am falling in love and falling (silently) through sadness.
Here, I am thinking, I wish. And swallowing that thought.
The dead fall silent, but the living tell stories of the dead --
People die, and you learn things you didn't know, before:
things you want to. things you don't.

My grandparents' house looks almost exactly like it used to:
same paint, same rooms, same back porch, same messy garage.
but the people inside look old, now. (but so does everyone, now.
even my parents' hair has settled into grey, worry lines into wrinkles.)
but the people inside look frail, now.
like any little thing could break them apart.
and they look at me like I am the light behind their eyes
(and I am so far, from being able to be that light).

My grandfather does not die, on that sunny evening in March of 2019.
He ends up in the ICU. He ends up sickly, but making it through.
That same, chilly morning, the one who stops breathing
is my great-grandmother.
And it is her funeral that I miss.

Sometimes, people live, and you still learn things you did not want to.
about their demons, hidden in old chester drawers sealed shut.
about their mercies, at others' expense.
about insults and grievances ricocheting in the dark --
things that would stop me cold, (and maybe they do)
if family wasn't family -- if there weren't secrets held close.

Someday, I will go back to that house that I did not grow up in.
But I spent summers, there, and winters. I spent two springs.
Someday, I will have to go back to the house
that my grandmother taught me to make cookies in.
where my mother made doughnuts, using her mother's recipe,
and my great-grandmother and I were in charge of toppings.
where my grandfather measured my height year by year on the wall,
and my father, every year, cooked up a storm.

Someday, I will return to that house
with its inhabitants
no longer living.

And yet, as time keeps on passing by:
I can not bring myself to stay in that house,
this last thing left of familiarity.
I am someone else's light, still, however reluctant.
And I am afraid, that staying there will be the thing to break me.