LITTLE LORALI

It seems like I’ve been harping on the father lately for some random ass reason – I apologize. I’m sure this will phase away soon enough.

We have a poem due this week in my creative writing course and I suck at poetry. One of my coworkers, who is also in this class but another section, said her professor said to write poetry from a strong emotion.

Once she said that, I had some junk come to my head that I think sounds half decent:

Unanswered Questions

 

How can you hear your child cry

without feeling a droplet of blame?

She cries because of the denial for

any concern or care you give her.

Every year since she realized you were

not around, she calls your phone multiple

times throughout those twelve months wanting a

simple “hello, how have you been.”

She only wants to hear your voice,

and feel like you are her father.

Why do you refuse to let her in?

 

She knows she is your only blood child

and it bothers her more and more as

she gets older knowing you adopted two

children and give them the love that you

refuse to give her. What emotions do you hold

against this innocent child?

 

For the first time in her life,

you called her back after almost

eighteen years of her being ignored.

I will never forget how upset she was

when that long-awaited call ended

seven minutes and eleven seconds

after she answered her phone.

I will always wonder why

you bothered calling her for the

first time in her life to have a

worthless conversation with

broken promises.

Was it her raspy voice

on your answering machine begging

you to tell her that you do not care

that made you call?

It’s mainly focused on the last (and first) time he called me before I came to college.

When I was thinking about what to do, it kind of came, unnoticed at first, that sounded good as someone talking to my father about him and me.

I don’t know, I like it.

Now, most people who know me can agree that I am not a temperamental, raging rhino. The only people who can say different are the people who have been around me long enough to know the personal things that have made me seem like a rhino.

One reason why people never see me angry is because it takes a lot to actually get me angry. Also, if I notice that someone is making my feel uneasy, I usually leave the situation so I do not ruin my day.

However, since I have come to college, I am around someone who constantly makes me aggravated – purposely or not (see “I had to be a snitch.” for more insight). As you might see, that was a little over an exact year ago, and nothing has really changed. Lately she has been on the whole do-this, do-that, I told you so, blah blah rage that is REALLY getting old.

A few weeks ago, we did a batch of letters for award winners at. She told me to fold, stuff, and send 200+ letters out after I signed them individually. She NEVER mentioned that I needed to make a copy of each one. After sent out, she was complaining about how she needed the copies to see who she sent them to, blah blah blah. Basically, she didn’t want to unstuff and copy the 200+ letters and so they were not copied because I sure as hell wasn’t going to. When I walked in from class today, she snapped at me and said “I told you this is why I like the letters …. ” because some guy claims he never got a letter. I just responded with “You have the merged letters before you printed them, so you have who all and where all we sent the letters.” Then, she literally snapped at me. If it were anyone else that I do not rely on employment with, I would have put that nonsense in place, but I rather not lose my job. She, afterwards, said she wasn’t making it sound snappy and preachy, but I don’t believe that crap for a second. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

About that same week as the letters, I mentioned to my coworkers how this is really getting overwhelming again. I felt like my coworker made excuses for her. Yes, this chicks husband was out for a week while her husband has surgery and she hasn’t gotten much sleep, but that is NO excuse to be rude. You don’t see me walking in here being snappy and rude just because I haven’t slept, or Aj and I got into an argument, or one of my roommates pisses me off. My coworker also, bluntly, said that doing what the other girl “tells” me to do is my job. Now wait. I may not be the same age as anyone I work with, but I am still an adult, and I still request the same amount of respect as they do. I do not care how old or young you are, I will respect you when you give me respect.

I just feel like this job is giving me more stress, in the long run, that I want. I am better than the errand girl – I used to be a fucking account director for a bail bondsman! I’m just hoping I can still graduate a semester early (December 2012) and move on – I cannot work here if I am not in school.

I really an just overwhelmed with everything, not just my work issue (you all will probably be seeing more from me soon).

Excuse the title! In class today, we read this kick ass poem about, from how I read, how different generations really are. Take a look:

In the bodega, a young girl wearing
jeans so tight she has to use turpentine
to get them off, says to her friends,
Damn, it’s dead ass raining out!

I was enamored.  Instead of cats and dogs,
I pictured donkey corpses falling from
the sky, clogging the gutters.
That’s some “serious” rain.

The song on the radio said that the po-po was:
“tryna to catch me ridin’ dirty.”  I imagined
Chamillionaire wearing a 20 lb. gold chain
with mud dripping off Jesus’ shiny toes,
Krayzie Bone in four-hundred-dollar jeans,
with grass stains on the knees.

In Oakland, the sound there is “hyphy.” To me,
that alien word means gooney-goo-goo.
To me, that word is my dead father’s kiss.
But to thousands of youngsters whose trousers sink
below the Plimsoll line of their asses, hyphy
music makes their bodies dip up and down
like oil drills.

These words make me feel old, and alabaster.
When I hear something new, it’s like I discovered it
for the first time, like I excavated it from the mouth
of a teenager.  So I dust it off with my fossil brush
and try to jam it into the keyhole of academia.

Words like,
Fo’ shizzle, crunk, hella: I place in glass jars like rare moths.
I want to hang them on the doors of sonnets
like a welcome sign to an apartment
I don’t live in.

-Michael Cirelli-

I personally laughed my ass of just because we all go through this “what the fuck did he just say” stage.

I usually do not share stuff from class, but I totally felt this was worth it!