Identity Written by Kasi Henderson Illustrated by McKenna Horman Designed by Ryan Birrenbach
Table of Contents When I Was Seven Rules of Growing Up Silenced Words Images Radio Flyer Escape from Wonderland Fear October 5, 1990 Carnations
When I Was Seven I would wake up every morning to the smell of a hot breakfast. My father in the living room like always, my mother in standing by my bedside like an alarm without a snooze. The carpet felt nice on my feet, but the hardwood sent chills— No need for a shower to wake me. Saying goodbye to dreams I’ve already forgotten. Today is a new day. By the time recess hits I’m exhausted. The Pledge of Allegiance, times tables at eight, nine the lost art of cursive, a fifteen minute break at nine thirty. Not nearly long enough. Nine fourty-five is a blur, all I can think about is lunch. But ten twenty— is music. My favorite time. I get lost in the chaos of tambourines and recorders, I beat to the sound of a different drum. Only to be released into the gloriousness of a PB&J— the perfect match for a hectic work day.
By the time the bus had stopped at my house I wanted to die the second grade is hard and I hoped dinner was on the table— a snack will have to do. Maybe some warm cookies and milk today is not a cheese and crackers kind of day. I kick off my shoes and get back to paperwork. What is the point of school when they just give me work for home. Dinner was ready by five when Daddy was off work— he liked when Mommy did this, and I was hungry again by then so I didn’t mind either. We don’t sit around the table, that’s for guests and fancy parties. TV trays and couches were more comfortable. Night fell. By the time I was tired, my bed had been turned down— Pillows fluffed and teddy’s in place. Night night, sweet dreams. I love you.
Rules of Growing Up “You can only have one best friend— Not two.” Back when we were five. I wasn’t sure where this rule came from, And I don’t think that I wanted to follow it. My mother said be nice to everyone, Share your toys, And be good.
Maybe I should have checked this book out the local library had all the good books The Girl Code has to be a must read. Searching the shelves for and invisible book, The Dewy Decimal System won’t save me now.
I thought that being everyone’s friend was good? Time passes and more rules acquire. Today… She doesn’t like her, so I can’t. She dated him, so I can’t Now we are fifteen. It’s much more complicated now— Unwritten rules, that she calls
Twenty now. Name calling is out of the equation, Rumor spreading is the new trend. So far I have had…
Girl Code.
3 abortions, A case of the clap, not to mention herpes—
I am a girl, I always have been, But I was never given that book, No one ever told me there were restrictions.
I’ve never had sex Not once.
Seven Minutes in Heaven Is now grown up sleepovers, Walk of shames And names that were far from nice.
As I got older the nastier the girls got Was my mother wrong? Nice wasn’t in the handbook
Silenced Words Words that sometimes can’t be expressed a constant struggle between my mind and my heart. Why do they persist to tempt you? Nothing more than escaping the language so early instilled in me. Fluidity of words, like water— tangled, tongue tied, trying to translate. Endless roots of a willow tree aged to a hundred years. Frustration mounts. What I say is not how I meant to say it. Your face—hands soaked too long in water. For a moment I wish I had a remote, rewind— too much time has passed to take it back now. Silence has never been quite this loud, a metronome in my chest speeds faster— I shouldn’t have said that… Wait— I said what I meant. A puppet master playing with his marionettes— I’ve tied strings to my back, my hands, my feet moving to the beat of your drum, jump, jump higher, not high enough. So I try again. Nothing said can set free my feet, my hands letting loose your grasp.
Images Your time has passed. A puppet master playing with his marionettes clicking from the soles of tiny wooden shoes. Crucified hands and feet form a lower case T. To the left, and the right— Poked and prodded, airbrushed and manicured. Beauty is pain, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Constant contradictions from a twenty seven inch box, a façade, a mirage, a figment of the imagination. Reminders of insecurities, imperfections, inadequacies. Unrealistic expectations of perfect temples some with steeper rooftops— others crystalline windows incased by shutters holding intellectual ideas. Beautiful soliloquies, sonnets telling stories of memories past, symphonies pleasant if one would only listen.
Ignored. The sounds of feet covering the sounds of defining whispers. Implanted concepts— distorted realities projections placed precisely to string along. Tap, tap, tap. A mallet chiseling away confidence— youthful smiles plastered over in shades of reds and pinks. Freckles camouflaged with clay two shades too dark.
Radio Flyer Once red, an object of desire. Rest in peace— in the farthest corner of a cluttered garage. I remember his hands— wrapped so tightly, callused. Singing songs from cracked cement. Metal on metal. Is this why your name is Radio? Sing me your old memories—
of your glory days, wrinkles nonexistent. Outgrowing— passing seasons tell of the things replacing you. In my mind, a memory— you can only have one best friend. For the time being I thank you—
Fear Saying goodbye to dreams I’ve already forgotten. Today is a new day. Pick yourself up Brush yourself off Tomorrow happened, get over it. Whispers fade, Lingering— Intertwining thought Believing the lies about yourself Sun shines, the face of beauty purity, serenity, comfort Skin only encases cells You capture soul Embody all that’s true Don’t hide. They smack you to make you scream, breathing is a good thing—
Escape from Wonderland All things natural cemented—a parking lot. You fall down a hole, Down— Down— Down. Slowly creeping the walls like ivy intertwining. The wall is thick, seamless, nothing to grasp, tea sets and tiaras nothing but plastic— imaginary worlds. Tales told as small ears listen intently captivated by sugar coated words. Cheshire cat smiles once trusted. Painting roses red— turns towns into a crime scene. When high was a distance from top to bottom, play, pretend, imperfect is the new perfect. Pawns, rooks, kings, queens twice forward and once back. Keep climbing— a croquet match with yourself. Shrink, as small as an ant the queen of hearts can’t save you. Alone. Identity lost in dreams of madness— rapidly growing, rotting away innocence. Stay small— comfort comes to those who wait. Let patience be a cocoon for wings yet to develop, Protection for all things deceiving. Who are you? playing on repeat through a broken looking glass.
October 5, 1990 gasps short quick. Lights are bright— blinding. Smiles, tears first signs of contradiction. Looking around impossible, weak— helpless. Independence nonexistent. No smack required. To get what’s wanted Cry To get what’s needed Cry To be changed Cry harder. What’s wanted is simple. Repetition of the day before. Schedules never interrupted. Annoyance from alarms
midnight feedings— one night of peace comes. One fourth of an inch Before eyes blink. Growth. Atop the crest of a small wood box In folds of petals and satin—
Carnations the peace of what life once was in slew of all that happened. When gone— no one remembers the bad, A saint’s spirit displayed on a pillow, covered by the makeup of youth.
Forget me not I am a memory always. A sunny day After weeks of storms A moment of comfort In times of despair If the sun should rise and find your eyes Know that that is me. Never alone.
Remember me… Pillars of strength when all is lost. Remember me… The world is dark— I am light.