A dragon with wings was my imaginary friend.
We would dangle on the monkey bars
And make up songs about him.
We named him Pete and did upside down hand jives beside him and with him.
We would hook our ankles and hang until the blood rushed to our heads and made us dizzy.
My friends would flip down from the bars to land on their feet,
But I was a bit too fearful.
Afraid of what? they would ask.
The flip or the fall...
It didn't matter.
Inside I knew I could do it if I wanted to-
I just never wanted to.
On the swings we would pump our legs and try to flip around the top bar.
When we got so high the swing would jump out from under us,
We would scream with glee
Knowing we could flip all the way around if we really wanted to
But we never did.
Under dogs and party lines,
Shadow tagging and sometimes standing,
The swing set in my backyard made me brave-
But it also taught me fear.
(My mom would tell a story about a photograph of me.
I am two years old and standing on a swing.
They were so proud of my bravery.
My sister is eighteen months older
And I would do whatever she could
And then more, they tell me.
There is another picture of me
Standing on a vacuum cleaner at about the same age.
While my mother would clean
I would climb up and dance.
I was silly, they say. Brave and silly.
I don't remember the vacuum, though,
Not the way I remember the swing set.)
At school we had two recess breaks
Two breaths during the day when our cheeks grew red
And we ran with life.
Our playground was divided into two:
Fourth through sixth graders would mostly play tag,
But the younger kids stayed on what was called the Lower L.
We climbed on jungle gyms, slid down slides, or flew on swings.
On a creative day, I would scour the playground for ant hills to stomp with the girl who ate glue.
Most days I rode on the back of Vanessa's electric wheel chair,
Begging her to spin again and again.
Once I was the first to begin a conga line and got the entire first grade class to join in behind.
Recess was when we were all alive.
One day a girl ran up to me with a paper she wanted me to sign.
I was on the lower L playpad and she was from the Upper L.
An ambassador from the other side,
Somehow she had snuck away from the sixth grade area
And had brought this paper down for signatures.
She said there might be a war. That we should be afraid.
Nuclear bombs could be dropped at anytime
And that if we signed this letter to President Reagan
He would stop it.
It was 1980 and our President was good.
She hopped upon the orange balance beam and read her petition aloud.
It was my first political rally.
Some girls listened a minute before running back to the swings,
But I was hooked by the ankles again
My world flipped upside down.
It was the first time I had heard of a need to fear
And the first time I felt a deep responsibility.
I was in first grade and the Russians began to wake me at night.
My world consisted of the play ground, my backyard, and my court.
And now there was Russia.
An elusive landmass, oppressively present.
The next day I told Vanessa I couldn't spin on the back of her wheel chair at recess.
I organized a group of girls to meet at the orange balance beam to discuss the state of the world.
I wondered to my peers if maybe we should get our parents involved,
To help stop these bombs.
When a friend reported that the sixth grader had gotten her recess taken away for crossing over to the lower L to get her signatures,
We suddenly feared our teachers more than Russia.
Our underground club dissolved
We squealed and ran away from boys.
We returned to the jungle gym
And turned our worlds upside down again for release.
I would not take part in political activism again until third grade,
When I wrote a letter to the editor voicing my disgust and contempt for acid rain.
It appeared in the Detroit News.
My mother cut it out and put it on the fridge.
My father stood me on his desk and gave a speech in my honor.
I signed an index card for him so he could have my autograph before I became too famous-
I remember thinking I could change the world.
I knew I could, if I just wanted to.
I also remember wondering how my article could possibly help stop acid rain.
Surely everyone who would read it must already agree?
Then how and why did it still exist?
How could my article stop acid rain,
I asked my teacher who had assigned the project.
She said it must help. It would help.
So I wrote it and prayed for the fish.
And I wondered...
What to do next.
For me, activism meant telling someone bigger.
My parents, the president, God
But what if the someone bigger is too busy, doesn't care, or allows it?
This possibility surfaced after my letter to the editor for a brief moment
-A star falling across a midnight sky-
In eighth grade I learned about the Holocaust.
With all my old testament studies and world history books
I started thinking America invented goodness.
What followed was a stint of extreme patriotism and pity for the world.
My environmental spirit changed its object of affection
From world loving to people saving.
For how could acid rain compare
To these piles of baby shoes and empty suitcases?
I felt more than cheated.
I began to understand what it means to have a tilted axis.
It made sense that another degree this way or that
And we would freeze or burn.
I learned Humanity stands precariously close to combustion.
I was thirteen and I received an A on every paper
And A on every test.
I thought education would help.
For the next four years
I read for answers. I memorized formulas.
I became the valedictorian, a golden chord around my neck.
But the world still confused me.
In college, I met Africa
as a dark place needing things.
cliché and hungry.
My world fears became world pities
and I almost joined the Peace Corps.
I had years of trouble pinpointing my blue spot on the globe.
The happenstance, the randomness,
incomprehensible still.
I have a pocket full of dark discoveries
to carry with me.
And me, a simple, white, girl who grew up in the time of peace,
with parents who are not divorced or even alcoholic.
With what contempt or injury
can I claim my brokenness?
Barely scarred at all,
the world still pains me
like a funny bone knock-
sharp and denting.
Now I am a mother
and I have watched my girls
unaware of their safety
and innocent fear
step into the age of twelve
Middle school-
where boys become secrets
and next year they will read number the stars
There have been hints,
moments to foreshadow their awakenings.
Like the time my daughter cried and made me turn off the car radio
because the Matchbox 20 song was too sad.
(She was 3.)
Yes, I have known the day would come when I would have to teach them about the world's darkness.
That nightmares can come true.
and explain the name of Hitler.
I am not ready.
I do not understand.
And I certainly do not know how to walk a child into sadness,
except to hold a hand
and say,
I know.
I see it too.
I am with you,
there on the playground
swinging
between fear and courage.
