The Stanford **** Case
Statement from the Young Woman Who Was *****
June 10, 2016 | Revolution Newspaper | revcom.us

Editors Note: The following harrowing and courageous "victim impact" statement was read in court by the woman who was assaulted and ***** by ex-Stanford student Brock Turner. It has been released widely and revcom.us is reposting it here. As Sunsara Taylor said in "The Stanford **** Outrage: Reason Enough to Make Revolution": "Her letter is 13 pages long and everyone should read it. In its entirety. Out loud. In classrooms. In church groups. In families. On sports teams. On air. Her pain must be seen. Her battle against despair must be supported. Her courage must be multiplied."*
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Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends.

Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party.

When I was finally allowed to use the rest room, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my ****** and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “**** Victim” and I thought something has really happened.

My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my ****** and ****, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my *******. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my ****** smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for *** because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my ****** was sore and had become a strange, dark colour from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been ***** behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone.

After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair dishevelled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was **** naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognise.

This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.

And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own ****** assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.

The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a line-up, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know.

He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me.

Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.

Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my *** and ****** were completely exposed outside, my ******* had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an ***** freshman was ******* my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.

I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful lawyer, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this ****** assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly *****, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His lawyer constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his lawyer saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right?

This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The ****** assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside?

Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What colour was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.

I was pommeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the cl

Girl in a Glass Case
                                                            ­                By John DeVito

Katherine Green probably had it more together than most of the girls I knew in high school. She was a star on the track team, she continuously made the honor roll and she was involved in more than a few extracurriculars. She was energetic, open and always quick to joke. She was also a die-hard feminist and any pseudo-negative remark made against women, in her presence, never went unpunished. She’d stab with her tongue and, more than a few times, kick an unsuspecting guy in the *****. She was a little crazy, maybe, but she never denied it.
I met her in a journalism class. While I was preoccupied with researching my favorite directors and writing movie reviews, she’d be researching women’s rights and the latest new clippings concerned with Hillary Clinton, wronged wives and successful female business owners. We both had our obsessions, and quietly respected each other for them. Since we would sit next to each other every day, we started talking. We laughed, joked and enjoyed each other’s company to the point that the teacher took notice and would say things like, “When’s the wedding?” And, “Get a room already.” We’d just laugh it off.
Soon enough, we actually started dating. Being my first girlfriend, I treasured her. Every time my thoughts drifted her way, a grin would take over my face and my body would feel like it was floating. I loved her, if only for the way she made me feel, and I would’ve done anything for her. And I did. I’d walk through the heat, the rain, the cold, sickness and sleeplessness to her house whenever she’d call and ask me to come over. Whenever I would get there, I was greeted either by her mother or her father. Her mother was a German immigrant. She was short, but stern and rigid, both physically and mentally. She’d always tell Katherine not to “make him bad” and say that I was a “good boy”. It made me wonder what kind of past Katherine had with other boys, but I’d quickly let the thoughts leave my head. Katherine made me feel like I was worth something and that I was special, and that was enough for me… But I digress.
Her father was New York City detective. He also had the capability of being quite stern, like his wife, but had a more playful disposition. He was nicer to me than I ever imagined a girl’s father to be to her new boyfriend, and for that I was thankful. Most of the times I came over, he’d either be watching the Jets game, the Knicks game or some type of criminal investigation show (usually Law & Order). He seemed like a pretty normal and cool dad to me, and I respected him not only because he was a cop but because he seemed like genuinely nice human being.

Only three days after our first “official” date (we went to the movies and to get ice cream), Katherine and I had ***. I was a ******, and she wasn’t. She made it clear to me beforehand that she had had *** with two other boys before me and then asked me if I had ever had ***. I lied and said, “yeah, of course, last summer at camp”, which was a lie because I didn’t go to camp the summer before and my contact with the opposite *** ended at staring awkwardly at them from across a classroom (until I met Katherine, course). So, we had ***, right there, on my bed in my bedroom on the second floor of my house. My mom and dad were home and watching TV just downstairs, but I didn’t care. I was getting to do the one thing that every boy dreams about from the moment the hormones start flooding his body and brain and makes him think of *** more times a day than food, sleep and funny things combined. When it was over, I felt like I never had before. I felt like Neil Armstrong when he first stepped foot on the moon, like Steven Spielberg after Jaws became the first Blockbuster ever, like Hank Aaron after breaking Babe Ruth’s long-standing homerun record. In short, I was on top of the world and after Katherine went home I made a point to texting all of my friends about the encounter. I had to, it was a modern reflex, I suppose.
Things went great from then on. Katherine and I went on more movie dates, laughed, texted, hung out at each others’ houses, met each others’ parents and friends and had more ***. It was like a dream, come to think of it. Things seemed too… Cohesive. They seemed too perfect to actually be happening to me. One day, after watching a movie on TV, we decided to go for a little walk. We left my house and hooked around the block toward the elementary school when Katherine said, “Do you ever cut?”
I stopped.
“What?” I narrowed my brow and removed my hand from hers.
“It was just a question.”
“Why? Do you?”
“No,” she said quietly, her eyes trailing toward my shoes. “I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“What would you say if I suggested that we cut. Together. During ***.”
“Whoa… Uh…” I had no idea where this was coming from. I never even knew Katherine ever even thought about such things. I know I never had before. I had heard of kids cutting themselves but always thought it was a juvenile and mindless thing to do. I didn’t get it.
“Forget it,” she said, and started walking again toward the school.
“No,” I yelped. “Stop.”
She stopped and looked back at me.
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t know,” her eyes were innocent. “I read an article about Angelina Jolie and she said it was something that made her feel closer to her fiancé.”
“Oh.” I looked down, then back up at her and started walking.
“I don’t know about that,” I said after a block or two of trying to piece together my thoughts. “I don’t think I would like that.”
“OK,” she replied without a second’s hesitation. And that was that.

After that I seriously began to contemplate our relationship. Everything Katherine would do or say I would consider three times over, trying to analyze the deeper meaning behind her words and actions. She seemed like an enigma to me now. I felt like I had no idea who she really was, what she was really thinking. And that kind of scared me. Weeks later, we were laying on her bed and watching YouTube videos on her laptop. She was laughing at some guy falling off a park bench and I just smiled silently, my eyes drifting toward her fingers as she typed something into the search bar. And then I noticed them. Katherine was wearing short sleeves, leaving her forearms exposed, and I noticed something. There were three bruises on her left forearm, a deep blue one, an almost purple one and a fading yellowish one. I looked up at her face and then back down to her forearm.
“What happened to you,” I asked.
“What?”
“Your arm,” I said, grabbing it and turning it over so the bruises were looking at the ceiling.
“Oh, those.”
“Yeah. What are they from?”
Katherine sighed and touched her face. “Nothing, I just… Slammed my arm.”
“Slammed your arm? How? On what?”
She pursed her lips and sighed again. “At the track meet. I fell and hit the dirt hard. There were rocks and…”
“Really,” I said, shaking my head.
“Yeah, really.”
“Well, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me, Peter.”
“What really happened, Katherine?”
“Peter, just shut up. I’m telling you the truth,” her eyes started to harden. Her face got a little red, as it usually did when
she was defending a point.
“No, you’re not, Katherine.”
“Fine, Peter, I’ll tell you the truth.”
A second passed. I was staring blankly into her eyes, waiting for her mouth to open again. She shook her head.
“The track meet…”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“I didn’t make it into the top ten. I tripped a couple of times.”
“I thought you were going to tell me the truth,” I breathed out, lifting myself off the bed.
“I am telling you the truth! Just listen to me,” she reached out, grabbed my arm this time and pulled me back onto the bed.
“I didn’t make it into the top ten. On the car ride home… My dad was… Really mad.”
“He was mad at you for doing your best?”
I couldn’t believe it. I had never seen Mr. Green mad, or even upset, in my life. Granted, I knew him only for a few months, but this revelation was still shocking to me.
“He’s a very competitive man, Peter.”
“Yeah, but… You’re his daughter.”
“I am. I am his… Daughter.”
And the way she said that kind of… Really did irk me. She said with an odd combination of disdain and love. I’d never seen her speak this way before. After a few moments, she told me that she thought it was time for me to leave. I didn’t fight her, I knew this was probably the time for me to just go and let her be alone. I mean, I needed alone time after that conversation. I was an emotional wreck, if there ever was one, and I wasn’t even directly affected by this man. Her father became a mystery, one that I felt obligated to bring to light but couldn’t really bring myself to actually pursue. My hands were tied, her family wasn’t mine, her life wasn’t mine. After all, I had only known her for about five or six months when she told me what she did that day. Who was I to go pushing buttons and beating around bushes that were, frankly, none of my rightful business?


Eventually, Katherine and I broke up. It wasn’t too long after that incident that we decided to go our separate ways. Now, it’s been about three and a half years since our relationship took it’s last proverbial breaths and I still can’t get her out of my head. I regret that I didn’t push, and I regret that I didn’t try harder to get to the bottom of the matter. We’re no longer friends, so I feel like the time to do that has come and gone, but still. Something inside of me aches every time I hear her name or see a status posted by her on Facebook. I can’t help feeling like I could have… Should have done more.

The truth about school
By: Dono James

In spite of my learning I feel like a fool
For it took me so long to learn the truth about school
You don’t know how it goes? You don’t know the rules?
Then let me tell you my version of the truth about school
From my days in pre-k to my completion of college
I was told by society I was obtaining knowledge
But from what I have been through and what I can see
My convictions tell me that I must disagree
I admit in my youth not interacting with people
Which was all the more reason I saw school as evil
But as I matured and became more social
It was more of a process and less of a chokehold
Then my years in high school were somewhat a coma
Where I didn’t really learn but filled up a quota
But with flying colors my diploma was earned
And I looked forward to college to actually learn
To start my life over I was truly excited
After my first year I felt somewhat enlightened
But in spite of my joy I needed a pause
For I came to notice there were still a few flaws
Not really a flaw, but a legitimate scam
A plot to take money away of my hand
Conceiving to deceive us whenever they choose
Charging hundreds of dollars for books that aren’t used
Even worse than that is the ugliest case
The time spent on a degree in the first place
In spite of our major to earn our degree
We’re forced to take classes we really don’t need
And their justification, at which I’m dumbfounded
They say that they want us to be well rounded
But in spite of its faults I kept my head in the air
Because college here is still better than high school there
The flaw in that logic showed not after long
When it showed for the most part I truly was wrong
Being in school for almost as long as alive
I’ve been doing the same thing since I was about five
Waking up in the morning and wasting the day
Listening to jibberish someone has to say
This procedure is twisted and far from anointed
If that’s the best way to learn then I’m disappointed
But I was told school would increase how much I get paid
So I’m not here to learn I’m just here for a grade
And once my time finishes, what do I see?
A fancy piece of paper they call a degree
Yet in spite of the struggle of putting many years in it
I would not so much as wipe my rear with it
The bane of my existence and the source of my strife
I could do without school for the rest of my life
Having stood it so long I hope not to stand more
I hate all that school is and all it stands for
Being barely a step above pure embezzlement
It’s the greatest façade of human development
So if I go past a bachelor’s let the world be a witness
My reason for going was strictly ‘bout business
As in my observation the truth has unfurled
Real learning occurs with time in the real world
And with that being said I can soundly assert this
Education is priceless but academia is worthless
In fact the thing that disgusts me the most in particular
Is that I might have learned more through my extracurriculars
But this sick institution had me worried and stressed
Oppressed by the papers and distracted by the tests
To compare school to work is truly a fallacy
For in all ways it puts us out of touch with reality
Where the number 4 is that which everyone dreams
And five letters mean so much to our self esteem
For others in the struggle the burden may be small
But for my own preference I am sick of it all
My soul is disgruntled and my mind is distorted
Involved in a cause that I never supported
But having graduated I can finally move on
And get a job in the real world where I truly belong
my wounds will soon heal and everything will be cool
for at least now you know the truth about school

for most of the scholars, the future is the stressor
SATs, ACTs, grades, extracurriculars, college apps, jobs
when given notice, anyone can prepare for and deal with a challenge
when one's worries consist only of the future, one is blessed, not cursed
when life is "how can I get through this" instead of "how will I get through that"
it's a problem.

best math student in the school, but he still can't solve the everyday problem
mom dad divorce boyfriend alcoholism violence lawsuits counseling
too many terms, it's unfactorable, it's unfair, this wasn't in the textbook now it's on the test and I can't get a 100
I thought being perfect was the only way?

I used to play
in a great big band,
I say.
the others laugh,
they can’t understand
what it was like
to yawn and stretch and
play
in a great big band
on a misty morning field,
just beginning
to feel
the sun in your bones,
a dose in your chest
of something greater,
a golden dragon high,
the euphoria of
a musician
with no grand dreams,
just
a great big band
and the Morning Sun.

I was never enlightened on what to do
When someone shattered my heart,
But it happened anyway.
He took it and crumpled it
Before he went and tore it all apart.
I wasn't taught that you shouldn't look back...
So I learned to cry.
I thought the best was to be bitter
Not to just up and forget it all.
I didn't know that you should smile
And move on with your life.
Make your own joy, because I was all I really had.

All the movies they hadn't done it right.
They didn't show me that you should act
Like nothing was ever wrong.
They didn't tell me that people change and move on.
That's why I didn't know how to respond
When he left me on the street
My hands pressed to my head, my feet chasing after him.

I was never told a person wasn't worth
The pain,
The tears,
The fight,
Simply because no one ever talked about this.
School didn't have a class that eased the heartbreak,
Didn't have any extracurriculars for the ones
Who looked so woebegone over someone
Who never gave a **** about them in the first place.
They never offered up a panacea
For the scholars who thought their life was ending
Because they were lamenting over a pseudo, a sham.
They had classes for foreign languages
And math
And history too.
But not a single class about what to do
About a heart so damaged the loved drained out from the bottom
And created an abyss so deep
Not even Floyd Collins would dare venture in.

So for everyone who's never experienced
A sadness so blue,
I will tell you about what to do.
When you are told not to love someone anymore
Go ahead, continue on
Just don't let him know.
Don't show any emotion when you pass him on the street
Or when you hear his name from across the room.
You can cry, that's acceptable,
But if you ever notice he's watching you
You go on and smile and act like you're having a **** good time.
And maybe you will eventually convince yourself you are.
Maybe not in the next day,
Or month,
Or even year,
But eventually he'll fade from your mind
Like the words written across the mirror with your finger
After a burning hot shower.
And if all else fails,
Just know to never go back
Because, darling, I know you're stronger that that.

What if alpacas are a hairy type of land fish?
If the moon is made of cheese does that mean space cows are really a thing?
Why do people say give things time when everything significant thing that happens does so in a moment?
What if the government assigned famous people before they were famous and that's why a lot aren't really talented?
Why do schools promote sleep and extracurriculars then give you so much homework you don't have time to do anything else?
Why does "I love you" not mean anything anymore?
Is it normal to ask so many questions?
Is normal even a thing?
Which religion is true and how do we know?
What if mentally ill people just see the world as it is and they're medication is just to keep a secret?
Who is actually reading all of this?
Why are we living if the world is just going to be engulfed by the sun's explosion or our own nuclear warfare?
Why do most girls sing breakup songs and most guys sing love songs?

Am I enough?
Well
It sure doesn’t seem like it
I grew up as the golden child
The gifted one
The multi-talented prodigy
Acting
Reading
Singing
Excellence across the board
I pushed and pressured myself to be the best
It was easy to be on top
I was enough
Insecurities started getting the best of me
A “B” was menacing
A “C” killed me
I was no longer the brightest
No longer the best
Comparison brought me down hard
My higher-than-average SAT score upset me
Why?
Someone else was better
I wasn’t the best
My anxiety got the best of me
I imagined my family’s disappointment
In my lack of straight A’s
In my lack of gifted-ness
“Try harder”
“Be better”
No one was telling me that
Except myself
Now
I feel more average than ever
The mediocrity suffocates me
No real extracurriculars
Only three classes
The self-loathing sets in
I don’t feel proud
The praise for straight A’s
In three
****
Classes
It feels like mockery to me
Though deep down
I know I have something to be proud of
I could have dropped out
When my body failed me
But I didn’t
I could have given up on life entirely
But I didn’t
Maybe I’m not the classic Gifted Child anymore
Maybe I don’t sweep the awards at the school ceremony
But that’s alright
I am enough
Even if I DID drop out
Even if I DID give up
I would still be enough
Because I was put here for a purpose
My family and friends won’t leave my side
Even if I failed every test this year
I am enough

The tragedy in the irony
of No Child Left Behind
was never the inadequacy of the policy
but rather,
the assumption that it’s possible to have
no losers
in a finite game.

* * *
Each year, less than two and a half inches
of rainwater nourish Death Valley—
the hottest and driest place in North America.

* * *
We play this game all the way through.
“And what do you want to do with that [major]?”
they almost always ask,
with an unpretentious curiosity
that never quite pangs me the way I think it should.
Reassured by the familiarity of the ritual,
of asking and answering
this question
for most of my educated life.

* * *
The Valley,
marked by steady drought,
boasting record heat for days on end,
and devoid of visible life,
is remarkable in it’s
uniform emptiness.

* * *
“How are your grades?”
“What are your extracurriculars?”
“Why do you want to go to a liberal arts college?”
They ask, and I answer.
Across the hall they might ask
“Wouldn’t it make your family proud if you went to college?”
(Like expectations,
some rungs must sit lower
on finite ladders)
But the question is always the same—
it’s always a question of ends.

* * *
In the Winter of 2005
three times the normal amount of rain
wet the dry floor of Death Valley,
seeping into the scorched, thirsty cracks,
parched from praying all summer.

* * *
These ends surface
again and again
in our language.
Yet to escape the international contest
since A Nation at Risk,
investments and ends at every level
are (naturally) presumed economic.

* * *
That Spring saw the coaxing of waxy seeds,
after decades of unbroken slumber,
realized into a singular, infinite bloom.
The sleepy desert lupine
and hearty, golden poppies
felt sunlight
for the first time in 50 years.

* * *
The second tragedy,
greater than the first,
is the alienation of millions of
young beings.
The slow death
wrought by living a bounded life
of the caterpillar
never set to feel the sky.
The passions we mask and confuse
and cement ever more deeply,
hardened, at every step
by the conformity in our
expectations.
The means to which we grasp at
these apparent ends.

* * *
A sudden rush of caterpillars
fed by blue, purple and yellow blossoms
grew until they saw from above,
the spontaneous gathering
of birds, rodents, foxes, and snakes,
renewed again to life
by the tender hands of rain.

* * *
In a world where we stop asking
engineers
to build plants,
I imagine the organic
explosion
of latent seeds
everywhere.

"Kids just don't have any respect for their betters these days..."

Well
When you decide to come home from work
To see your kids seated in the same spot they have been in since they got home from school
Laboring over homework that really never ends
A chores list laying forgotten on the counter in front of their eyes glued not to their phones
But to the massive pile of work that even you couldn't hope to accomplish
And instead of encouraging them to finish their work
Shout at them for not taking your needs into consideration,

Remember that every period of every school day (That's 6 periods, 5 days a week)
Every single one of their teachers is telling them the same thing
To forget the other work and prioritize theirs.

Recall that even before their homework that they have extracurriculars
And colleges are looking for not just academic excellence but social too.

Remind yourself that on top of THAT, they are constantly under pressure from themselves as well
No one puts themselves through hell without mental conviction
And certainly no lazy student would ever take initiative unless it was extremely important.

Your chores pale in comparison to the ocean of stress floating in the minds
Of the very people you berate.

And bear in mind that you are not their betters
For respect is a privilege to earn,
Not a right to have.

When you’re a little kid, the first question you’re asked is always “What do you want to be when you grow up”.

Almost as if we have a choice.

We’re told to follow our dreams.
We’re told the world is our oyster.
We’re told that everything will be okay.
Lies.

Our life is already planned out for us.

Step One: Get good grades.

Ignore the anxiety howling at your door like a tornado.
Get over the flooding depression, drowning you slowly.
Ignore the large burdens slowly breaking your back, as admitting weakness won’t get you any sympathy.
Spend your hours studying each subject for your standardized testing, getting exercise, going and doing extracurriculars, volunteering, working a minimum wage job, cutting out time for the friends you didn’t have time to make, and don’t forget the homework.
Do all this and perhaps you might pass your classes.
Perhaps you’ll make honor roll.
Perhaps you’ll get into college or university.
Perhaps people won’t think you’re a failure.
Perhaps.

Step Two: Get a stable job.



Step Three: Get married.

Step Four: Have kids.

Because that’s the only reason you’re here, right?
To leave something worthwhile behind?
But there’s only one way to do it correctly.
You spend the first two years dedicating all of your time to this squirming thing, waking up at 3:00 AM to appease it’s crying, but you don’t care because you think it’s the one thing in the world you’ll love unconditionally and you know it loves you back but you aren’t thinking about that when you’re overtired and it’s bawling and you can’t do anything and you just want a few minutes to think.
It will get better from here, right?
The next ten years are spent driving from house to house, soccer field to soccer field, recital to recital trying to fit it all in.
Never really looking.
Never really seeing.


Step Five: Retire.

Step Six: Die.

hello to my 29 followers...
i wanted to let you know that a couple of my poems will be taken down in the coming days, including dichotomy pt. 1: votive and perhaps the poems in the crossroads series along with gratitude and whatever else i feel needs to be removed.

there are a number of sweet, kindred souls on hp whose writing always amazes, leaving me hungering for more. it's these people that have shown me what it means to be a human being and the virtues of poetic catharsis. how strangers can convey their deepest emotions to other strangers through artful verse. their words inspire. always. i don't have the space or words to sufficiently thank them all, lest i offend anyone dear to me*, but it's these people that inspire me to write.

however, being the stubborn-a-- idealistic pisces i am, i know i can improve. for a period of time, i believed my poetry was actually good (hA nOpe). but after reading the works of some poets on this site, i felt my poetry was absolute s---. i was not writing from the heart. i understand self-deprecation is bad and whatnot but i sincerely know i can do better. i'm taking down all the poems i personally feel are inadequate. they will eventually be 'refurbished' and republished.

for the next month or so, i'm going to try and get back in touch with my artistic self, an artistic renaissance if you will. not just in poetry per se, but the other liberal arts as well, along with extracurriculars and academics. school begins in two weeks and when it does, i want to come back the best version of myself.

thank you for all of your support! reading your comments always makes my day. i'll be back, better than before. again, thank you!

~reignier

I hate college
I hate my classmates
I hate my classes
I hate my extracurriculars
I hate my teachers
Why am I still here?
Because society tells me as a black female from a poor family im lucky to be here
The thing is though
I don't feel lucky
I feel trapped

the boy scout in you died
when you were 16.
the creatures of the wilderness
of the brush and bramble
the mountains and basins
held vigil at the low-lying ranch with its
wide-brimmed eaves casting shadows
on the lake in the evening light
the viper slithered solemn
the mockingbird warbled wistful
the frog croaked creaky
the monarch flittered fretful

i couldn’t care the way you did
you wanted that freedom because
you were never afforded it
not by the crucifix nor your family
you wanted to be able to go
anywhere, anytime, at your own will
so you logged your 30 hours,
did the lessons
you earned your freedom

i wonder if you’re a good driver:
if you shout and swear like my parents
when cut off on the freeway
or if road rage takes a backseat
to the sheer pleasure of coasting on
highways and night air
breathing syncopated
with your heart beating in 6/8

i want to be in your shotgun seat
no maps, i want to get lost with you
miles? we’ll quantify distance with time:
five hours in any direction,
smug with the knowing that
wherever we’ll end up
texas’s blazing lone star
will still shine overhead

sheaves of hallowed rays gathered
like threshed wheat
sun biting the rolling golden plains
of our faces, mother of pearl spittle
dribbling from my lips in ecstasy
(i could never stop drooling
while napping)
an almost imperceptible
etch-a-sketch grin
betraying your apparent enjoyment

i imagine you splayed on
limestone and shale
toes tickled by mountain water
or balancing on the bow-legged
boughs of some mighty fallen oak
swollen strawberries skinny dipped in
marshmallow fluff
blistering over open fire
mottled black and praline brown
sticky chocolate between our fingers
all in our very own golden afternoon

i imagine your lips on mine in a
humid school locker room
choking back bile and something else
as i succumb to your gnawing
an indomitable wildness emanating
from my skin, fierce, foreign, fickle
like the stubborn shimmer of pollen
caked on my leaden eyelids

i imagine your neck making
sweet amends with mine
carotid against carotid,
lifeline on lifeline
tracing cherry-red capillaries
with fingers that could speak to wood
protruding from carpenter’s palms
soft and creased like origami cranes

the little love you can spare me
broils me alive
what bitterness in my bone marrow
maillard-sweetened as the days pass
burn fast, burn bright kindling
summer eats me alive and it's glorious

i imagine that you fight for this
(because i refuse to fight any longer
for a love that i'll never receive)

your mirth, you sacrificed
in the name of growing up
because you knew **** well
that with happiness came
the certain promise of pain
the boy scout's compass,
the adventure, the calling,
tucked away neatly in a box
and traded for more classes,
extracurriculars, exams,
time spent withering behind screens
more, more, more, something, anything,
to plug the gaps and fix the leaks
because things are better this way, right?
you don't stop because running towards
the unreachable is familiar, comforting

my mother can attest to the fact
that i have no sense of direction
but my heart has always
stood strong and pointed true
i will be your due north, your polaris,
with a quiet majesty rivalling a
thousand sunsets and moonrises
bearing sharp as the bite of june
asphalt on the bare soles of feet

still, even below our tie-dye sky
we found even darker corners
to sequester ourselves in
when threatened with the
possibility of light

i want to share milkshakes with you
in red-white checkerboard-clad diners

i want to stargaze among bluebonnets
the breath of the creek thick in the air

i want to bake cookies upon cookies
until you are fragrant with chocolate and toffee

i want...i want...