Perrin

The one thing that never changed about my mother was that her feet hurt. She worked two jobs my whole childhood to pay the bills in a tiny Missouri apartment that sat halfway underground and had shingles falling off. We were surrounded by poor people like us, and we were one of the only white families in the neighborhood. I remember hearing about people being stabbed or setting fire to the buildings or some kid drowning in the pool. I remember being called a cracker. I remember drug dealers by the crab apple trees.

But I remember crossing the highway on foot to pick cattails in the trailer park, my mother pressing them into bookmarks. And crawling hundreds of yards through the drainage tunnels that opened up into the woods, where some of us would sit still in the trees in the summertime, looking out over things, growing up. I remember my exhausted mother reading to me half an hour every night—six straight years in 500 square feet—until I started kindergarten. We were broke, and we were alone, but I remember good times. I remember laughing and hearing people laughing and never feeling like I didn’t have enough.

My mother is proud and unafraid. She sits with this legendary shamelessness. She tells me, “Listen: you are never too good for anything.” In the spectrum of my life, the truest version of myself is the 9-year old me, the skinny blonde kid who found adventure tramping through a few small acres of Midwestern backwood, the kid who hadn’t forgotten his mother is stronger than everyone else.

I wrote this poem about a time when I was 9:

Gunpowder cornfield, July--
long time ago--
Grown-up asks over the fireworks
if the real me is still in there
pointing at my chest.
I don't say anything.
I am young and afraid.
I wish I'd yelled over the explosions what I feel now:

Yes I'm in here.
I'm in here with the energy of a bomb.
I'm knighthood. I'm roller coaster.
I'm in here gaining speed.
In here flipping full beer cans into the air
vaporizing them with a shotgun.
White-knuckle nosedive

slipping out of handcuffs.

Racing coal trains.
Bringing home dinner on my shoulders.
I'm spitting blood between rounds in here.
I'm in here with a sledge hammer.
I'm in here swimming for my life.
I'm in here on a trampoline.

If you can't see it
one of us must be dying.

Danielle

Richard Hugo has a quote that goes something like, "The poem is always in the hometown, but you never find it until you go somewhere else." If there is one sentence that can sum up my whole life, that would be it.

Although I was born in Pittsburgh, PA, and love to bring that up when people try to charge me with being a native Southerner, most of my life was spent south of Kentucky. My parents divorced when I was very young. I spent all year in Mississippi or Tennessee with my mom and the summers in Pittsburgh with dad. Every second of my life in the South was spent dreaming about leaving. I hated the people. I hated the accent. I hated having to explain Hanukkah to a bunch of Christian kids.

As soon as I graduated from college, I left Tennessee for Chicago and intended to never look back. In the country, I always looked at things with a city gal's perspective. When I got to Chicago, it became clear that I was looking at everything through a country gal's lens. The first 20-something years of my life were spent trying to escape the fact that I was a Southerner. I suspect the next 20-something years will be spent reconciling that, in fact, is exactly who I am.

Day 1 Question: Danielle

This is your first Bridge blog assignment. Usually, you all will be responsible for coming up with the blog questions. However, since we are all new to this experience, I will provide today's question. Perrin and I will both answer the question--in 300 words or more--to provide some examples for you.

Your first blog assignment is to attempt to let us know, as much as possible, WHO YOU ARE. Try to go beyond telling us all of the short answer information (you know, the stuff we could see on Facebook): age, favorite movie, and what you like to eat. Stay away from giving us a list of biographical information. Each day you'll be writing fully developed thoughts on this blog. Attempt to start that process today.

You must:

-Create your own blog post in which you write a 300 word response that attempts to shine a light on WHO YOU ARE as an individual. Tell us whatever you want to tell us. Be creative. Be original. Be thoughtful.

-The title of the blog should be your first name. Look at my example for guidance.

-Include a photograph that will deepen our understanding of what you are telling us. This may not be a photograph of yourself (though it can be), but rather a photograph that epitomizes, as much as possible, what you are trying to communicate.

Happy posting!

Welcome to Bridge 2011!

Welcome to Bridge, 2011! Perrin and I have created this space specifically for YOU. On this blog, we will share thoughts, ask questions and attempt to find some answers.

Here's hoping for a great Bridge experience and many happy posts!