The Surprise Party
The surprise party!
At the macaroni and basketry club
A different environment
(Arm in arm with her daughter.)
//
“I landed with a babe in my arms.”
He took to the drink (or the drug or the work).
The cycle of
worker>>victim>>survivor
repeats like a mobius strip that binds us to our ancestors.
(Please hand me some scissors)
//
The audacity of the American Press!
Repeating the same stories. (Scribbling madly.)
Spinning and spinning the same stories.
But there is not a beautiful tapestry.
//
One mutton joint is missing from the 200 year-old Syrian spinning wheel
(a butcher comes to help out)
This makes me think of my own joints. Bone on Bone.
(I’m not planning on calling a butcher.)
//
I don’t have a homespun petticoat.
I have this new-to-me dark grey sweater.
(Made by someone’s hands offshore.)
Their dexterous hands!
I don’t have a job at the garment factory.
My hands are not dexterous.
//
I asked for directions recently.
She answered me with an Irish glint in her eye.
(A stirring of recognition I have never felt!)
People, plants, and animals make our food possible.
(Thanks to the hayseeds)
Over the past month, I’ve written a four-part series on the legacy of Jane Addams and the Hull-House settlement on my Substack newsletter. I wrote about some stories I heard from Fiona Maxwell at an event at the Hull-House Museum. At the event, I jotted down some phrases of words from her stories. I wrote this poem using some of them, weaving them with my own. I find this process very healing and I’m glad for that.
Only one day left of my create-and-post-something-every-day project. aka #Rebirth24
I wonder what it’s going to bring?
A Blessing
May you find your existential courage, dear reader.
