A handful of fourth and fifth graders straggled into the school library during their lunch break, some with remnants of their school lunches resting on their lips or sneaking in a forbidden banana or candy bar. All girls, most were regulars at the poetry club created for them to get some peace from the rowdy playground.
As San Francisco’s usual whipping wind rattled the windows, the kids read aloud a poem I’d brought in about wishes, then wrote what they wished for in the quick twenty-five minutes we had together.
One round-faced girl, Stella, no more than ten years old, wandered around the library after the others had started their poems, examining the display copies of books scattered on top of the low bookcases. Her face had an absorbed expression as she lifted one, rearranged it on the shelf, and put it back in its original display. Completely focused on her task, she seemed oblivious to the other girls working at the kidney shaped tables at the center of the room.
When I was ten, I had walked to the public library on a desolate afternoon to get away from the violence and chaos of my family. Thinking I was performing a useful public service, I knelt on the floor and pushed books into the back edge of the shelves to make them look neater. The scowling librarian caught me and whisper-yelled, what did I think I was doing. I flushed in humiliation as she yanked me aside to pull them noisily all out again, lonelier than ever.
I stood aside, gazing ruminatively at Stella, then went off to help the others who were busy at work on their poems. After several more minutes, Stella walked over to one of the tables and took a pencil and a piece of blank paper from a pile in the middle.
Near the end of class, I asked who wanted to read their poem aloud. Stella was the first to put up her hand. In a clear voice, she began with wanting to be legendary and followed that with I wish I wasn’t me. Her next lines were that she wished to be smart and not so loving, followed by I wish I was loved. She continued,
I wish I don’t have to hide back the insecurity that I own
I wish I weren’t in the shadows that hide back my truth
I wish people would know me and love me for who I am
I wish I didn’t hide myself every day.
I wish I didn’t say things that aren’t too nice
But hiding my self doesn’t help
As San Francisco’s usual whipping wind rattled the windows, the kids read aloud a poem I’d brought in about wishes, then wrote what they wished for in the quick twenty-five minutes we had together.
One round-faced girl, Stella, no more than ten years old, wandered around the library after the others had started their poems, examining the display copies of books scattered on top of the low bookcases. Her face had an absorbed expression as she lifted one, rearranged it on the shelf, and put it back in its original display. Completely focused on her task, she seemed oblivious to the other girls working at the kidney shaped tables at the center of the room.
When I was ten, I had walked to the public library on a desolate afternoon to get away from the violence and chaos of my family. Thinking I was performing a useful public service, I knelt on the floor and pushed books into the back edge of the shelves to make them look neater. The scowling librarian caught me and whisper-yelled, what did I think I was doing. I flushed in humiliation as she yanked me aside to pull them noisily all out again, lonelier than ever.
I stood aside, gazing ruminatively at Stella, then went off to help the others who were busy at work on their poems. After several more minutes, Stella walked over to one of the tables and took a pencil and a piece of blank paper from a pile in the middle.
Near the end of class, I asked who wanted to read their poem aloud. Stella was the first to put up her hand. In a clear voice, she began with wanting to be legendary and followed that with I wish I wasn’t me. Her next lines were that she wished to be smart and not so loving, followed by I wish I was loved. She continued,
I wish I don’t have to hide back the insecurity that I own
I wish I weren’t in the shadows that hide back my truth
I wish people would know me and love me for who I am
I wish I didn’t hide myself every day.
I wish I didn’t say things that aren’t too nice
But hiding my self doesn’t help