8 posts from May 2007

Milk of Life

A pure white Persian cat had just carefully
shook each of her kittens throats
until they were asleep.

She had no milk to feed them.

She laid them in a row in the sun's
last rays to keep them warm.
Their eyes dimmed into the night.

Now as I stare into empty cupboards
and the bottomless grief on mothers'
faces, I wonder

how many infant souls
have been silently laid to rest
gently beneath the daffodils?

Cheryl Lynn Moyer

----------------------------This is the reply: -----------------------
Hi Cheryl Moyer: Here it is and you do have my permission to post it on your site.

How could I have known poverty''s aroma, its social distaste? I was a child young and growing my mind clear and pure loving all mankind, we were the same. Why tell me otherwise? I grew above the trees flying like an eagle free and legally protected I loved and loved freely uncomplicated virginal to the world around me. But poachers blinded me their guns fired into my back I never came back never flew again I was poor, how poor you ask? poor enough to walk. So walk I did into a mist of discontent and storm youthful immaturity mind not quite developed wings growing into instruments of self doubt and devastation. Such is youth and social stigma dogma of the rich strengthening my courage my mantra became my own. I am poor, poor enough to grow wings.

It could have been a lesson right out of a class on satire.
Gross exaggerations of characteristics in order to illustrate a point.
A new lens with which to view societal problems.
The only problem was that over Spring Break
the story was real.
Once upon a time there was a city called New Orleans…
a true story of unfortunate events.
Our paths crossed, and now neither of us will be the same.

Satire.  Life.  Lessons.
This time the situation was real.
The characters were real.
Mrs. Wade.  Mr. Jones, Vera, Donald.
If the story had been written by Pope,
it would have masterfully satirized the country’s
racial tensions and denial of poverty by using a fairy tale
set in the little town of New Orleans.
If only the story had been written by Pope.

Katrina wove a different tale.
New Orleans nearly died a year and a half ago
after suffering from an abusive hurricane and then
nearly overdosing on water.
The rehabilitation process has been a slow one.
White people have the money to rehab.
To rebuild their broken homes,
and pick up the pieces of their broken lives.
That’s nice for them.

No really, it’s nice.  Someone has to start rebuilding
and it sure as hell isn’t going to be people from the lower classes.
They don’t even have enough money to get back to the city
let alone gut their house and start over.

Think that New Orleans is just a bunch of bayou
stuck beneath sea level next to a river.
Think again.

New Orleans is filled with mountains.
Mountains that people face when trying to rebuild their lives.
Government, society, poverty, race.
Just like Everest.

And these people won’t ever rest.
Not until their lives are restored.
They say that Katrina added 10 years to everyone’s life.
Some people don’t have 10 years.
Didn’t have 10 years.
The hurricane didn’t kill them when it hit,
but the hurricane killed them.

How does it feel to rely on the generosity of volunteers to rebuild a city?
To humble oneself to ask for help in one moment, many moments of need.
I wouldn’t be able to do it.
Many people can’t.
It’s far easier just close that chapter of life and start a fresh page elsewhere.

Life.  Lessons.  Stories.
For me it was like Vesuvius had erupted again.
Causing devastation, and preserving it beneath
layers of ash.  Only there was no ash.
The city was preserved beneath a layer of poverty.
The archeologists: the volunteers piling out
of the long white vans only to discover that
A house that looks normal from the outside is dying on the inside.
The inside of these houses are perfectly preserved.
and why?
Because there is no money.
Because rebuilding is slow.

A watered down version of a once vibrant culture.

An election is coming up.
In just a short period of time television will be filled with political ads.
Millions upon millions of dollars spent, and for what?
To ruin the reputation, the life of another human being.
Katrina ruined lives for free.

Wouldn’t it be great if those millions of dollars
were spent in a more constructive way.
Not constructing a reputation, or a political machine.
But to rebuild a home.  Mr. Jones’ home.  Mrs. Wade’s home.

Being Poor

Being poor is knowing exactly how much everything costs.

Being poor is getting angry at your kids for asking for all the crap they see on TV.

Being poor is having to keep buying $800 cars because they're what you can afford, and then having the cars break down on you, because there's not an $800 car in America that's worth a damn.

Being poor is hoping the toothache goes away.

Being poor is knowing your kid goes to friends' houses but never has friends over to yours.

Being poor is going to the restroom before you get in the school lunch line so your friends will be ahead of you and won't hear you say "I get free lunch" when you get to the cashier.

Being poor is living next to the freeway.

Being poor is coming back to the car with your children in the back seat, clutching that box of Raisin Bran you just bought and trying to think of a way to make the kids understand that the box has to last.

Being poor is wondering if your well-off sibling is lying when he says he doesn't mind when you ask for help.

Being poor is off-brand toys.

Being poor is a heater in only one room of the house.

Being poor is knowing you can't leave $5 on the coffee table when your friends are around.

Being poor is hoping your kids don't have a growth spurt.

Being poor is stealing meat from the store, frying it up before your mom gets home and then telling her she doesn't have make dinner tonight because you're not hungry anyway.

Being poor is Goodwill underwear.

Being poor is not enough space for everyone who lives with you.

Being poor is feeling the glued soles tear off your supermarket shoes when you run around the playground.

Being poor is your kid's school being the one with the 15-year-old textbooks and no air conditioning.

Being poor is thinking $8 an hour is a really good deal.

Being poor is relying on people who don't give a damn about you.

Being poor is an overnight shift under florescent lights.

Being poor is finding the letter your mom wrote to your dad, begging him for the child support.

Being poor is a bathtub you have to empty into the toilet.

Being poor is stopping the car to take a lamp from a stranger's trash.

Being poor is making lunch for your kid when a cockroach skitters over the bread, and you looking over to see if your kid saw.

Being poor is believing a GED actually makes a goddamned difference.

Being poor is people angry at you just for walking around in the mall.

Being poor is not taking the job because you can't find someone you trust to watch your kids.

Being poor is the police busting into the apartment right next to yours.

Being poor is not talking to that girl because she'll probably just laugh at your clothes.

Being poor is hoping you'll be invited for dinner.

Being poor is a sidewalk with lots of brown glass on it.

Being poor is people thinking they know something about you by the way you talk.

Being poor is needing that 35-cent raise.

Being poor is your kid's teacher assuming you don't have any books in your home.

Being poor is six dollars short on the utility bill and no way to close the gap.

Being poor is crying when you drop the mac and cheese on the floor.

Being poor is knowing you work as hard as anyone, anywhere.

Being poor is people surprised to discover you're not actually stupid.

Being poor is people surprised to discover you're not actually lazy.

Being poor is a six-hour wait in an emergency room with a sick child asleep on your lap.

Being poor is never buying anything someone else hasn't bought first.

Being poor is picking the 10 cent ramen instead of the 12 cent ramen because that's two extra packages for every dollar.

Being poor is having to live with choices you didn't know you made when you were 14 years old.

Being poor is getting tired of people wanting you to be grateful.

Being poor is knowing you're being judged.

Being poor is a box of crayons and a $1 coloring book from a community center Santa.

Being poor is checking the coin return slot of every soda machine you go by.

Being poor is deciding that it's all right to base a relationship on shelter.

Being poor is knowing you really shouldn't spend that buck on a Lotto ticket.

Being poor is hoping the register lady will spot you the dime.

Being poor is feeling helpless when your child makes the same mistakes you did, and won't listen to you beg them against doing so.

Being poor is a cough that doesn't go away.

Being poor is making sure you don't spill on the couch, just in case you have to give it back before the lease is up.

Being poor is a $200 paycheck advance from a company that takes $250 when the paycheck comes in.

Being poor is four years of night classes for an Associates of Art degree.

Being poor is a lumpy futon bed.

Being poor is knowing where the shelter is.

Being poor is people who have never been poor wondering why you choose to be so.

Being poor is knowing how hard it is to stop being poor.

Being poor is seeing how few options you have.

Being poor is running in place.

Being poor is people wondering why you didn't leave.