Division Street

This poem is for Autism Awareness month, which is in April each year.

Link to the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network with more information.

Division Street

A street divides her thoughts from her lips,

I see my reflection in the puddle of her eyes;

Still innocent to the decorated world around her,

Averting the sunshine of the faces in her skies.

Her smile shines on her colorful creations,

Her imagination holds the key to wonderland,

She cradles the many characters with care —

So please, imagine holding me in your hand.

Hush my sweet baby, I’ll sing you a lullaby,

Dream, I dream of the day we sing your song;

Hush my sweet baby, I’ll sing you a lullaby,

Dream, dream of the day we sing your song.

Her sweet, sweet hum echoes into my heart

As exploration takes her from dolls to doors,

From goldfish to gates, from swings to the stars,

Taking big, big steps gazing up from the floor.

The street which divides narrows each day

As moments of connection draw us closer,

And the song of our voices begin to harmonize,

So one day, we will cross that street together!

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. 

Belly 

The earth will become the oceans, 

when it succumbs to the froth of the waves replacing cotton ball clouds, 

where one can only swim in all directions towards the slithering glimmers of light 

and submerged to plug the hole at the bottom of the sky, in a no fly ozone 

surrounded by dangling tentacles with suctioning barbs and incandescent monsters. 

Whales with mouths, the stomach and the appetite to swallow whole souls 

only for an eternity of digestive processes that is a fisherman’s purgatory, 

until I’m born again out of the propulsion of whipping fins and the waist high entrails  

that one must wade through, unable to doggy paddle or stroke over tidal waves, 

along with the noxious smog atmosphere of salt water and dry air, 

untethered from the belly to spill me up and wipe me down 

onto the salted seas of sand that stranded the last of us 

on an endless palm oasis of ice water cubed in the sinking of sacrificial glaciers, 

pulling us deeper away from every surface.   

  

Carbon’s Footprints 

The path of carbon’s footprints  

across the beach’s sand, 

still will not wash away  

despite the tide’s undulating  

tsunami of vengeance.    

I am my own black hole… 

…as an astrological waste of space, lackadaisically laying in an inflatable tube down a lazy river of darkness, making my way across an endless nothing, occasionally waving a helpless hello as the stream lures me further down the weightless torrent. But then I am pushed and pulled by forces with such gravitas that their gloriousness simply goes by “gravity”, stretching my inert inertia until my muscles suffer from the slightest strain of atrophy to rupture any rapture, until I am down-streamed up and away from one bobbing gaseous sphere and towards an impending one of dirt. All kinetic and spastic energy is then expunged and redacted, causing me to curl up into a fetal ball to collect all of the dust particles with static shock, until I snatch larger and denser objects in my porcelain drain, tightening them in my grasp until the last atom pops.   

 

Each tongue has individual truths… 

Never mind the words, 

mind the meaning hiding behind the words.   

And in the end… 

Everyone will steal a quote from someone famous, 

because they never believed in the legend of themselves.   

Prayer

Prayer remains a reflex

even after all these years

of silence – wishes ungranted,

questions unanswered

puzzles unsolved

a reflex, a response when one of those

moments strike

the sunshine on a cold morning

catches our eye, or

bad news from television, this front or that

a diagnoses we didn’t expect

a phone call in the middle of the night

the doorbell

someone asking for help you can’t give

then they ask you to pray

and you remember the words

string them together

a hiccup, a reflex

something you try to perform

in the silent theater of your life.

List of Deceased Classmates

First thing I thought of when I saw it was

my college yearbook off there somewhere

collecting dust in some box, on some shelf.

Yearbooks make sense at first, fresh faces

of classmates, some you recall, then others

you think you recognize from their pictures,

formal picture of each one, then activities,

clubs and teams. They goes on a shelf, then

disappears into the years. Everything ages

we know, everything we know ages, even

the classmates frozen in time in yearbooks

age, live lives after then, do great things or

little things, careers and families, the stuff

that fills obituaries or are hinted at in lists

like the one I got today, the list of deceased

classmates. The list seems long for a class

that was fairly small – I count forty-four

and know there’s more out there, or should

I say not out there, more names, more dates.

I should find my yearbook and look at faces

and names, all of us, before that list began

being compiled.

 An Ache

The pain in my right elbow this morning

reminds me,

puts a bit of emphasis on

the hold my body has over my mind,

how time has brought the two

to cross purposes.

My body says one thing, complains on and on

about this pain or that,

about a weakness in that or that

a shortage, a soreness, a stinging,

while my mind moves on, runs marathons

sprints, sets records and ambitions

does all the things it did back when even

my elbow didn’t ache and the physical part

kept up with what I was thinking.

But this morning I’m reminded of how

my mind rides around in a vehicle that’s

wearing out, piece by piece

is riding around in a body that hopes to 

at best, at least

limp across the finish line.

The Britney Box

by Teresa Smith

The Britney Box (excerpt)

By Teresa Smith

The following is an excerpt from a forthcoming essay by Teresa Smith reflecting on the social and political of the suburban United States between the launch of Britney Spears’ first and second albums.

✵

CW: anti-Indigeneity, murder of Indigenous people, racism, colorism

✵

To my knowledge, there was not a single Black, Latino, or Indigenous student in my graduating class (Issaquah High School, class of 2002). We also didn’t have any teachers, local leaders, or town historians who weren’t white.

In 1997, my last year of middle school, around sixty juniors and seniors from my future high school drove to another city to destroy an Indigenous artifact. It was a totem pole created by a member of the Snoqualmie Tribe. The totem pole had only just been finished and it was slated to be the site of an upcoming celebration over the Tribe’s victory in their long battle to win federal recognition. Prior to the planned celebration, a group of sixty or so Issaquah High School students, led by the football team, drove to the freshly carved totem pole in the middle of the night, chopped it down and set it on fire.

In the weeks that followed, the local newspapers tended to use the term “peep rally” to refer to the incident. The local media also liked to emphasize that the man who carved the totem pole had been an “adopted member” of the tribe, as if the Snoqualmie nation didn’t have the sovereignty to welcome new members, as if this made what the high schoolers did not count.

Our high school’s mascot was “The Indians.”

Following regional media coverage of the incident, outsiders began writing angry letters to the editor of the local paper—perhaps the tokenization of Indigenous people and this hate crime were related? That was the general tone of the letters.

“We’ve been the Issaquah Indians since 1917,” a white woman from the historical society said to me one day, in a huff. “What do these out-of-town liberals know? This is our heritage!”

­­­I began volunteering for the local historical society when I was in middle school (it was a good way to get out of the abusive environment at home) and I would sometimes staff the front desk at the old town hall, which had been converted into a museum. The building was named for the white man who is credited with founding Issaquah, and I would eventually that this man was so famous for murdering members of the Snoqualmie and Sammamish people that, according to legend, once he and his family ran out of bullets so they began to pull nails from the walls of their own home so they could load them into shotguns and keep shooting Indigenous people.

The Issaquah High School mascot was changed to the Eagles in 2003, but there are still hundreds of schools around the country with mascots that depict Indigenous people. When Indigenous kids look around in their daily lives for representation, this is what they see: Some high school mascots are wild animals, others are Indigenous people.

✵

In many parts of the country, the White Flight of the 1970s had grafted rather cleanly onto the remnants of earlier white supremacist movements. Our “commuter suburb” had been a known as a Klan haven in the 1930s, and my mom, who was white, didn’t see any problem with this. As for myself, I didn’t pass as white, at least not there, not in Issaquah.

The old ladies at the historical society used to grill me about my origins. They were always smiling, acting cordial as they tried to wrangle the truth from me about “where I was really from,” as if I was intentionally hiding it from them. Their questions didn’t make any sense; I was born in Oregon and had lived in the Pacific Northwest my all my life. Sometimes when I would go to the gas station to buy candy after school, old guys in hunting caps would walk up to me and thrust their big pink noses into my face, demanding to know where my accent was from. Uh…accent?

It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that I left the Pacific Northwest and learned that in other parts of the country, I read as white. It was like falling into a different universe. I spent so much of my young adult years trying to prove myself to everyone in town—my photo was always being printed in the local paper for things like winning the school walk-a-thon, raising money to rebuild a local playground, running a petition drive to save a nearby wetland. I was just so eager to show that I was that “exceptional person of color.” Even after things fell apart at home and I moved into foster care, I was still actively working on volunteer projects. During my senior year of high school, a plaque was installed at a local mall with my name on it, honoring my service to the community. It was so strange moving to California, and visiting New York, DC, Texas and finding out that in those places, people don’t expect me to constantly prove myself.

Sometimes looking into the mirror feels like gazing at one of those Magic Eye pictures from the early 1990s. If I look at myself one way, all I see is static, whiteness, the markers of colonial privilege. If I turn the other way and squint a bit, this caricature pops out, and I can almost find the features, however faint, that the white supremacists in my hometown used to frame me as an outsider, a sidekick, a suspicious person. Someone always at the periphery, never at the center.

Years later, I would be applying for food stamps in the bigger, safer city of Oakland where I began living in my twenties. I worked full time, but rent was taking up nearly all of my paycheck. The social worker became angry when she found out where I was from. “What are you doing draining our social services here?” she snapped. “Go back home, back to where you belong.”

Just a few months before, I went back to Issaquah for a brief visit and tried to leave a few copies of a brightly colored activist newsletter on a café newsstand. It had become a habit, leaving around little zines and newsletters that my friends and I made in South Berkeley about the dangers of climate change, the 1%.

“Get out of here with that gay trash,” the café owner was suddenly shouting at me. “Go back to Capitol Hill!” At first, I was shocked, indignant. This was my hometown! Didn’t he recognize me? I used to deliver his newspaper. Didn’t he know there is a plaque with my name on it at the mall? I wanted to explain, to make him see who I was, but then I saw him reaching for something and I ran out of there before there was time to see if it was a broom or a gun.

THIS ARDENT REST




      This ardent rest breeds continuity 
 Allowing a passionate insight before
 the beginning.


     I imagine sight as lost yet the eyes 
 were open while lids were closed.


    The paralysis that never happened as
 inspiration marches the sightless draw
 in joyful repute.
 
     My song pulls from within. Vibration 
 requires no host only the Love that
 begins all things.


     I knew you were there all the time,
           Before time ever existing,
 As before finds no home in our past.


The magnitude
     As options build excitement
         Rest again, 
            For strength is found in the moment.


The process never left us behind


    Taste and smell, the hands speak,
       As ultra trillions sing a single stand
           Lifting to open skies.

The Mob    

April 4, 1968   

Emmett Till, a 14-year-old young black male was beaten, mutilated, and lynched, and shot in the head. He was tied down to a cotton gin-fan and thrown in the Tallahassee River near Money, Mississippi. His crime was that he was accused of flirting with a white woman in a family grocery store. He was abducted four days later. Emmett Till was murdered on August 28, 1955. The lynching of black people (men and women) by the Ku Klux Klan is a great part of America’s history. The lynching of Emmett Till brought lynching to the forefront in America’s national conscience. What has provoked such resentment towards nonwhite races? Issues of injustice, racism, and violence have always been directed towards black Americans. Yet, many black Americans, fought, suffered, and died, for the honor to be an American citizen.  The country learning of Emmett’s fate was outraged. If one is lynched, then no American is safe. Over the years people forgot about the difficulty of the Black Americans.

I was ten years old at the time. The fear and the tightness in my stomach caused me to vomit violently. The mob prowled the city with taunts of “Burn this motherfucker down, burn baby burn!” was the rallying cry, in addition, they repeated “if you don’t have “soul brother” on your door, we’ll burn your house down.” It was April 14, 1968, Martin Luther King had been assassinated. Days later blacks looted and set fire throughout neighborhoods in the nation’s capital. The police and national guards watched the mob devastate the community. The mob set out to destroy and threaten to kill other blacks. My foster father frantically used one sheet of my notebook paper and wrote the words with black shoe polish. “Soul brother” taping it to the front door. Like in the capital riots the mob menaced everyone in the capital that day. 

The Mob    

January 6^th, 2021   

“Hang Mike Pence!” they hollered repeatedly. A mob of white supremacists and white nationalists. All of them sent to the nation’s capital by former president Donald J. Trump. The violence and racism have grown in America under the presidency of Donald Trump. Now not only nonwhite races but our government leaders are targets of aggression.   

The white mob erected a gallows on the capitol grounds, while they continued to search the capital looking for Vice president Pence and Speaker Nancy Pelosi to murder them both. Lawmakers were also sought by the intruders in the capital that dreadful day. No one was safe from certain death. This coup led by Donald Trump to maintain power as he was voted out of the presidency in the November elections of 2020. The white mob attacked law enforcement officers on the capitol grounds leaving one officer killed and many severely injured all in the name of white nationalism.   

Adolf Hitler told the German people the lie that it was the Jewish people who were responsible for the predicament of the German nation. Six-million Jews died in concentration camps known as death camps. Adolf Hitler used this hate of the Jewish people to be a dictator. Donald Trump uses the dogma that other races are the enemy. Fear and hate are used by Trump to usurp our democracy. Trump uses deception, hatred, and dread to be a clone of Adolf Hitler.    

 I remember hiding from the black mob in 1968 was a horrific experience. Hearing the story of those lawmakers and staff and others in the capital on January 6^th and their recounting the “booming” sounds of glass breaking and banging on the doors by a rabid mob of the crazed white supremacists. Many said that they called their love one to say a final goodbye.

The trauma of facing death as a mob searched for them while destroying everything in their path. It is this violence that never resends in one’s memories. It is sadness and anger that I feel for all those that had to endure such an event in their lives. I walked through the rubble of the riots in a state of shock for years to come. Life seemed surreal to me and death was intimate at that time.  My world had been ravaged by the mob like those in the capital on January 6^th.    

The white supremacist destroyed many irreplaceable artworks in the house of the people. Leaving urine and feces on the walls and floors and artwork as reported. Reminding me of the night that the black mob ravaged my neighborhood. Recalling the shouts “Burn this motherfucker down!” Those words echoed in my thoughts for many decades. The insurrectionist shouted for what seemed like an eternity to hang Mike Pence. Hunting our elected officials to hang or execute them is the action of barbarians to commit atrocities against Americans. Led by a psychopathic and sociopathic, and egomaniac racist Donald J. Trump. It does not take courage to be a racist it takes valor to uphold the virtues of being a patriotic American.    

It was revealed that a black capital police officer broke down and wept after the melee said, “Is this America?” Men and women of the capitol police and metropolitan police braved the onslaught of a “murderous” mob of violent white extremists.  Three officers ended up dead from that day. Many survived because of the heroism of those officers protecting them and our capital and democracy.  This “Is America.” An America where courage and dedication to protecting our democratic way of life. The insurrection on January 6^th, 2021 will remain one of America’s harrowing moments.   

      Note: Black Americans have lived through the nightmare of being murdered for decades. Black Americans’ pleas have gone unheard. Martin Niemöller wrote, “First they came for the Socialist, and I did not speak out….”     Black Americans have been speaking out for decades and now that the violence has come to the capital of the nation. People now realize that white supremacist are a menace to our nation. Martin Niemöller continued, ‘…when they came for me there was no one left to speak out.”