I hated my high school teachers—
Few recognized the simple, obvious fact
That I was a genius in my own mind.
Instead, I was ushered through chemistry, geometry, algebra.
And failed,
Several times if you must ask.
I dodged volleyballs and ducked into stalls to change for gym,
Embarassed by my cheap Kmart underwear and padded bra.
I faked having my period so many times to avoid class,
They called my mother.
She needs a doctor,
Something’s wrong with that girl.
It did not help that I socially inept.
Or a prodigy, a year younger than everyone,
Or smart, really smart—
Or not having boobs when everyone else had them,
Or being a blue-collar girl on scholarship in a private school—
Driving my junky 1976 Malibu into the lot,
Parked alongside the Camaros and Corvettes–
The epitome of 80s pretention
.
When I was fifteen,
I decided to hate everyone around me—
Of course, no one noticed.
I was just another skinny girl in the cafeteria line,
Sexless, preppy clothes, pimples shrouded in Clearasil.
I flaunted my pretentious vocabulary,
The same way the cheerleaders paraded en masse
Down the fluorescent cinderblock halls
In tight, expensive monogrammed cashmere sweaters.
My words were my armor.
I read too many books and made a conscious effort
To be different.
It would be different, they whispered
If I forgot painting, poetry, my books
And trying so hard not to fit in.
Maybe, if you’re lucky
Some nice average college-bound future captain of industry
Would take you to the party on Friday.
And you will be grateful, and giggle on command.
I didn’t go to that party,
Or the senior prom.
It didn’t matter.
I watched days, then years, and decades pass.
Time is an amazing equalizer.
None of this matters anymore—
Except as footnote and anecdote.
I almost forgot the frustration.
I am so busy now and so far, far away.
Today, I made love three times,
Cleaned house, and filled the house with food for the week,
I created abundance—
Got a pedicure, slut blood red,
Then had the afternoon to write, and write.
Occasionally,
I look at the face that still sits in a gilded frame
On my mother’s mantle—
The face of that girl who used to be me.
Stiff smile, wide-eyed, impossibly tan
In a pink lace blouse, fake pearls and white linen blazer.
I want to give her a good bitch slap.
I have no tears left for her, or for any of you.
But it’s really all right.
She has forgiven.
She has moved on.
She no longer hates everyone.
She delights in her difference,
Sealed in time, smiling in approval
From behind the dusty glass,
She is pleased with us,
And the way we move.
