Our Host
Glenda retired from full-time teaching in 2019 after a 38 year career and is now substitute teaching in her district. In addition to being a dog and cat mom, Glenda loves to travel and is a doting grandmother to Ezra, a budding reader of board books.Glenda serves on the NCTE Children’s Poetry Awards Committee and is participating in the Stafford Poetry Challenge to write a poem a day for a year. Glenda blogs at Swirl & Swing: www.glendafunk.wordpress.com
Inspiration
Recently, I discovered the poetry of Hollie McNish, a spoken-word poet from Great Britain. I promptly fell down the rabbit hole, reading and watching as many McNish poems as I could find. Her poem Embarrassed is now one of my favorites. It speaks to the embarrassment and shame nursing mom’s often experience as they suffer the slings and arrows of stares and ridicule from the public: i’m getting embarrassed / in case a small flash of flesh might offend, writes McNish.
The poem also reminded me of Tom Newkirk’s book Embarrassment: And the Emotional Underlife of Learning. “I am absolutely convinced,” Tom writes, “that embarrassment is not only the true enemy of learning, but of so many other actions we could take to better ourselves.”
Here are the opening lines of “Embarrassed” by Hollie McNish:
Embarrassed by Hollie McNish
i thought it was ok – i could understand the reasons
they said there might be young children or a nervous man seeing
this small piece of flesh that they weren’t quite expecting
so i whispered and tiptoed with nervous discretion
but after six months of her life spent sitting on lids
as she sips on her milk, nostrils sniffing up shit
banging her head on toilet-roll dispensers
i wonder whether these public-loo feeds offend her
You can read the entire poem online here.
Watch Hollie McNish perform Embarrassed here.
Glenda’s Poem
Why Don’t You Understand?
When he said, Raise your hand if—
you don’t understand, I
accepted his invitation to ask for
help but hesitated as I pointed
five fingers toward the skylight.
.
He scared me, this first-year
seventh grade science teacher
who told my class we were the
smart hillbillies, the ones for whom
he’d chosen a college textbook.
The thin pages refused to flatten. Perma-
bound gripped their secrets between the
book’s bindings. Microscopic alphabet letters
slithered across each page like amoeba in a
petri dish captured in grayscale photos.
I whispered: I don’t understand,
forgetting what scientific hypothesis
tricked me.I only remember years
filled with fear & embarrassment &
not having an answer when he demanded:
WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND!
Your Turn
Think about an embarrassing experience to write about, or write about how embarrassment affects learning, or consider writing about ways society pressures women to be embarrassed. For example, you might write about the not-so-subtle messages corporations send to women via feminine hygiene products. I’d love to read some poems about certain national embarrassments. If you know me, you know what I mean!
As always, you may choose to ignore this prompt and write what you want. We won’t embarrass you!
Glenda, your poem reminds of the necessity to teach terms in context. So often something so obvious causes the kind of embarrassment your poem describes. Sorry it happened to you, but glad for the need to be alert to who among are students just may not know what we’re talking about, and don’t embarrass them when it may be our oversight and assumption, not theirs.
Friends,
Thank you for your brilliant poetry today. It has provided a diversion for my news-magnet mind, and I sure needed it today. Thank you, too, for your kind comments about my prompt and poem. I appreciate you all more than words can express.
Hi Glenda!
Thanks so much for this poem, prompt, and introduction to Hollie McNish!
Your poem’s line about “smart hillbillies” reminded me of a favorite by Diane Gilliam Fisher: “Pearlie Tells What Happened at School.” I wish the teacher in both poems (yours and Fisher’s) would’ve taken the time to recognize the brilliance right in front of them.
Jessica,
Thanks so much for sharing Gillian-Fisher’s poem. I did not know it until now. It stirs lots of emotions in me.
Glenda, there were lots of embarrassing moments as a student and as a teacher. I wish I had more time today to think about all the possibilities. Thank you for the prompt and the book idea. It sounds fascinating. Your poem is so great. I love from beginning to end, you drive home. “Raise your hand if you don’t understand.” and then “Why don’t you understand?” Sometimes teachers are so unwise! I always tried to remember that I had students (no matter how old) who were smarter than me. I believe humility is a teacher superpower. I read Katrina’s poem and remembered this fourth grade experience, as clear as crystal. I can hear the teacher saying it to me 55 years later.
Mrs. Lifflander was the substitute
everyone hoped we would never get.
She was mean as a snake and unfair.
And if I believe anything then (and now):
Everything has to be fair!
This time we drew the short stick,
and she became our Viola Swamp.
When Mrs. Moscrip came back, she
rebuked us for not respecting the sub.
(I guess Ms. Swamp left notes and names.)
“But she did thus-and-so.” “She was so unfair.”
I raised my had to tell my side. She stopped me,
“Oh, Denise, I’m sure you had
to add your 2 cents, didn’t you?”
Ouch! You are right, Denise. Teachers can be unwise! I live the Viola Swamp reference. You reminded me of a sub I had once. My son happened to be in the class. When I asked him how class was, he said she graded all the work, gave everyone Fs, and told them they were stupid. Needless to say, I put her on my Do Not Call List!
Denise,
Yikes! Sounds as though your teacher was, as they say, plain spoken! Knowing you now, it’s hard to imagine you were naughty as a child. Your poem is kind of a “Charles” story, don’t you think? I needed this smile, my friend.
Denise, I’m on the fair train with you. I want things fair, too. Your poem reminds me to not just listen, but to consider the angles of a story. Every two cents is important, and sometimes I wonder how we will ever raise thinkers and advocates like you if we won’t listen as they reason through situations. That was a missed opportunity. I’m so sorry your teacher waved you off.
There once was a sweet girl from Illinois
Who may have been a bit of a tomboy
Her hair of chestnut
Flowed past her butt
Until her mom gave her a choppy pageboy!
Hi, Mo — Well, there ya go! Fun. Susie
Mo, I love your limerick. The rhyming of Illinois, tomboy, pageboy–perfect! I never managed to get my hair as long as my butt. Shoulder-length maybe before my mom started giving me pageboy haircuts regularly! Third through sixth grades. I always looked like a boy! I could have written an embarrassed poem about haircuts too.
Mo,
It’s like you were Samson and your mom was Delilah!
Glenda, thank you for this prompt. It really made me think (and write). Here it goes…
Some forty years later, memories are a slurry
Except for that one time in eighth grade.
I remember the candy grams on Valentine’s Day.
I remember writing notes which I artfully folded
And passed stealthily to classmates.
I remember diving into the deep end of math.
X is x. X stands for a number. It has no deeper meaning.
But if there is one singular, crystalline moment,
It is when a teacher called me “dense.”
I sat in the front row and was most likely daydreaming.
Maybe, I appeared dense.
Maybe, I was dense.
Truthfully, I didn’t even know what “dense” meant.
I had never used, let alone heard the word.
Some forty years later, memories are a slurry.
Except for that one time in eighth grade.
Katrina,
I am so sorry that teacher did that. I can’t even bring myself to type the word. I’m mortified. I love how you framed the poem, the way repetition drives home the point about cruelty. BTW, I hate candy grams. I am so sad when a couple kids take in many while others get left out. In junior high I was awkward and had not yet had my eye fixed. I did not take in a bunch of candy grams.
Katrina, ugh! Why are some teachers like this?! I just don’t get it. I’m sorry this happened to you. Thanks for crafting and sharing this memory, though! (I really liked the “diving into the deep end of math” followed by the line “It has no deeper meaning.”)
Katrina, I liked reading the details of your memories. They made me smile–notes passing and deep dives into math. Eighth grade can be such a difficult year, and how sad that the teacher didn’t know better than to keep such a word out of their vocabulary, even if trying to be funny. Your poem made me think of a clear memory from fourth grade that I wrote about.
Ouch! This was a tough one to read. I love your phrase “memories are a slurry.”
Hi, Glenda! Thank you for hosting today and sharing McNish’s poem. I enjoyed reading it. I think it’s because of people like your seventh-grade Science teacher, some of us went into teaching. When I began drafting in response to your prompt, I had another encounter in mind, but somehow it resulted in a different incident.
An Embarrassing Incident from a Life of a Crimean Tatar Girl
Growing up in Crimea,
A historic homeland of Crimean Tatars,
I often felt out of place.
Since my people were exiled in 1944—
“Glory” to Stalin’s iron-fisted rule—
Even after the Rehabilitation Act of 1968,
We were strangers in our own land.
We were “the Others,”
Our names tangled on foreign tongues,
Our diligence mistaken for defiance.
Russians filled the homes that once were ours,
And ambition—for us—was a daring act.
College? A dream nearly impossible
In Crimea’s hostile air.
When high school ended,
I journeyed to mainland Ukraine,
Carrying hope like contraband
To sit for the exams
That might grant me a place
In the world of higher learning.
The history exam—an oral ordeal.
Seven or eight stern faces sat before me.
As I stood, answering their questions,
The Chair took my passport,
Passed it from hand to hand,
His finger resting on one word:
Crimean Tatar.
They smirked.
Laughter rippled through the room—
Quiet, cutting, cruel.
My name became their joke.
“What could she possibly know?”
A whisper, sharp as a blade.
I answered, clear and steady,
Memory serving me like a loyal friend.
The Chair leaned back,
“Well, you’re close to the correct answer,”
He said, dismissive.
“Not close,” I replied respectfully, but firmly,
“I am right there.”
The words left my mouth,
And I felt them hang heavy in the room.
Had I just sealed my fate? Had I hammered
The last nail into a coffin of my dream?
Somehow, I was accepted.
And so began my college life,
My quiet triumph
Against the high-stacked odds.
Leilya, oh how I love your poetry that addresses what you have overcome. I remain in awe of your resilience. I’m so glad you were diligent AND defiant! I love this comparison:
Leilya,
My words will not be sufficient to tell you all the emotions your amazing poem evokes. The line “Carrying hope like contraband” is my favorite. I love the simile and the layered meanings. How those adults treated you makes me so angry, but you stood your ground and triumphed! Bravo. You are strong. Holy cow! You are so very strong and amazing.
Leilya — What a tremendous story. Holy cow, girl. You’ve sat before those smirky characters and showed them what you were made of… I adore the grit and the extremely difficult thing that had to be. What a woman! I salute you! Wonderful poem…such strength. Thank you and I’m so glad you are here. Susie
Oh, Leilya, I’m so glad I read your poem today! I haven’t been here much today, so I missed a lot. This one, though, I’m glad I didn’t miss. Beautiful! Thank you for sharing your courage and “Carrying hope like contraband” I love that line! Yes, indeed, “Against the high-stacked odds” That is awesome!
Oh my! Now everyone knows why I wear my hair in a short “Fro”! And, folks, guys wore perms before gals did. Check out the hairstyles of early Jazz and R&B musicians? You’ll see how their styles changed over time, too. The style was called the “conk”.
And, now that you’re reading, “cooking” means a hit on the head. It also could mean “faking it”.
That’s enough secrets out of the closets for today!
Thank you for hosting today Glenda. Thank you for sharing the mentor poem, “Embarrassed” by Hollie McNish. I listened to her read it and then I read it. I still don’t understand the ignorance of people. I love this for you because of the great poetic language, but I hate this for you because of what you had to go through to share it. I resonated with this stanza because that is how I look at any science or math text.
“The thin pages refused to flatten. Perma-
bound gripped their secrets between the
book’s bindings. Microscopic alphabet letters
slithered across each page like amoeba in a
petri dish captured in grayscale photos.”
My experience was also in 7th grade but in Keyboarding. I wonder what happened to this teacher. I hope she retired.
7th Grade
Among all the other things to be embarrassed about: acne, navigating a new building,
(and weight gained)
I get the pleasure of being initiated into “Junior High”.
(an affliction pained)
I never thought it would be a teacher with a savage heart working with children,
(should’ve abstained)
Mrs. Carmen- dirty blond, smug face. I’ll leave it at that.
(Ugh! Image ingrained)
Fingers on the “home keys” eager to speed
(A big mistake which wasn’t explained)
Which makes me wonder the real reason I became an educator.
Typing test, no one complained)
Days later she criticizes a test
(Mine printed out, thoughts couldn’t be restrained)
Just reminiscing about that day makes me cringe.
(To say I am over it, I would be feigned)
I pledge to never embarrass a student over a mistake.
(My typing has gotten better, with experience gained)
Jessica, the parenthetical and the actual parentheses work so well here to sort of hold the embarrassment/shame/understanding of each moment, of what may not have been seen or witnessed or understood by others. This is a great use of punctuation as craft in poetry. And the way you used gain in the beginning and gain in the end show such a transformation and meaning making of experience.
Sarah
Hi, Jessica! I was just posting my poem with a comment to Glenda about the teachers who embarrassed students noting that they might had been a reason for our professional choice. I find the same thought in your poem. I also noted the parentheses you used to provide us with the context or additional explanation, or side remark. This works effectively to help us understand you and your story. On another note, I would totally fail that typing exam in 7th grade ))
Jessica,
Oh my! Typing? It’s not as though that is a deal-breaker class. Ugh! I’m so sorry that teacher humiliated and embarrassed you. The way you’ve constructed your poem is so clever. The parentheses work beautifully. The beginning really emphasizes the pain of junior high. It’s so hard. I try to keep that in mind as I sub in middle school. Thank you for sharing this experience. My teacher heart longs to heal your child-pain.
Haggar Clothing Co.
CoolRight®
Performance
Flex Pants
Classic Fit
Pleated Front
Hidden
Comfort
Waistband
Wrinkle Free
Machine Washable
Heather Grey
Yet
Will Still
Make
It Look
Like
You
Pissed
Yourself
If You’re
Not Careful
While Washing
Your Hands
After Using
The Restroom
At Work
_____________________________________
Glenda, thank you for your mentor poem and for this prompt today! From “smart hillbillies” to his demanding question of “WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND,” this first-year teacher sounds like a real piece of work! Seventh grade is difficult enough; I’m sorry you had to deal with that, too! And thank you for sharing with us the poetry of Hollie McNish! For my offering, I know it’s a bit of misplaced frustration on my part because it’s totally “operator error” and not really the fault of the pants, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the embarrassment when I have to attack my crotch with paper towels or crane my pelvis under the automatic hand dryer to make it look like I didn’t wet myself in the five minutes I have to use the restroom between classes.
Scott,
I am struck by the title case you use throughout this poem like an advertisement or description on the web/store front where you read about the features of clothing. Makes me think teachers need a special store to help us think through the lived in experience of clothing in the context of a school day!
Peace,
Sarah
Oh my word, Scott …just the pits, right!? So much for “hidden comfort”… I’m sorry that I was laughing, but I totally get it… So, you don’t feel too bad… I walked all the way across campus with my pretty light blue skirt tucked into the backside of my panty hose (wearing high heels), as I headed from my car to my office at the university. Didn’t realize my posterior was on full display till I got in the elevator on the way up to the English department and I feel a bit of a breeze as the door closed…I thought I was such hot shot teaching at the uni….not a single professor said a word in the elevator. MORTIFIED! Hugs to you, and be comfy! Susie
Scott,
Just last Friday I got a long strip of water on my sweater. I swear school bathroom have a gift for sloshing water onto conspicuous spots. I love how you took the tag description and used it as a poem. I had a colleague once who exited the restroom w/ toilet paper trailing behind. Now that’s embarrassing! Stay dry!
Scott, thank you for your poem! The title sounded intriguing, but I didn’t quite expect what followed after it. It is so smart to begin with the advertised features of your “cool” pants until you got into the “embarrassing” detail. The brief lines work especially well in your poem today, and as most of the time, you made me smile.
So great, Scott! The opening stanza describes the pants perfectly. Then the turning point “Yet” followed by the zinger. Love it.
Glenda,
thanks for hosting and mentoring. Your seventh grade teacher needed some serious mentoring—or a career change. I love your description of the college textbook:
Returning
returning the rental van
an eleven passenger behemoth
after five days of camping
a day’s drive away in West Texas
with thirty seventh and eighth graders
I have to parallel park
and like an idiot
I hit my own car
parked there before the trip
I’m embarrassed, mad at myself
when I return home
my husband hugs me
chuckles gently and says
it was only a mistake
everyone makes mistakes—
a lesson he’s been kind enough
to help me return to many times
Sharon,
This reminds me of the time I jack-knifed a school trailer into the school van I was driving. I moved away! I love the humor in your poem. Those last two lines cracked me up w/ the deadpan, dry wit. Very clever poem. Love it.
Oh, Sharon! This is just the truth of it all. There is no confessing or admitting mistakes without there being some implication from the listener. I with there’d be a pact held on tight to not mention it again under any circumstances, because it will always feel like shame. “Mad at myself” is enough altogether. Thanks for trusting us here to witness this moment: I will only ever bring it up to you in the way of saying you wrote a great poem about that one time.
Sarah
Sharon, I laughed at the last two lines because it reminded me of my own incident ( I got lost in a city and called him–that was before I had a phone with GPS), and my husband “saved” me, but it’s been over 15 years since, and he still tells about it when we have a company. Thank you for sharing!
Made a last minute edit before posting. I changed my last line to add a bit of circularity and add another layer of meaning to the title or returning. In trying to be clever, I inadvertently changed the meaning. There’s a lesson there. Anyway, I’m going to go back to my original last line: to reteach me many times. Let the record show that my husband has never brought the incident up again. But he has given me that speech multiple times for being too hard on myself.
Sharon—parallel parking is someone’s way of getting even with us, sure takes down the hubris, doesn’t it!
Glenda–thank you for this prompt. Your poem is brilliant–expresses the worst a teacher could be vividly. I hurt for you. God knows I have been embarrassed more times than I can count, but they all pale against my embarrassment for our country today. Thus, a trip to Word Hippo for help in expressing those feelings…
Embarrassed, the 1/20/25 edition
I am looking for a specific word for my feelings today.
The thesaurus may help…
Adjective: Causing or feeling uneasy embarrassment or convenience.
(Not strong enough. Not even close–
that would be for the time I got in someone else’s identical car in a parking lot)
Adjective: Feeling anxiety or worry.
Uneasy, bothered,
dismayed (that’s true),
aggrieved,
(None of these do it. These would fit the day I wore the same shoe in different colors to a client meeting. They pointed it out.)
Verb: To have thrown into a state of distress marked by confusion.
Perturbed, disconcerted,
dismayed, distressed,
chagrined,
demoralized (oh, yes),
abashed,
hagridden,
confounded,
jarred,
dumbfounded
(These get pretty close.)
Adjective: Unable to express oneself clearly or fluently.
Speechless,
at a loss for words,
choked up.
(I am all of these, and so much more)
How did we get here as a nation?
I am so embarrassed…
GJSands
1/20/25
Gayle,
I feel every word, every sentiment. I’ve seen some words online that come close to expressing my anger, remorse, embarrassment at having f that vicious buffoon back in the WH. He doesn’t even pretend to support democracy or care about anyone but the wealthiest who kiss his fat fanny. I love your poem and the clever way you swim through the various meanings. Lord help us.
Gayle,
Thank you so much for all these words to name the many, many ways I am feeling today. And then that rhetorical question in the end– right, how did we get here. And I wonder if I had anything to do with it or if there is anything I can do next. And yes, I am so embarrassed by it all… and don’t want to face citizens of other countries but may want to be one.
Hugs,
Sarah
Gayle, your sharing such a variety of words to describe the same feelings shows how complex “embarrassment” can be. The causes are nearly as numerous as the effects!
We’ll probably end up sharing your poem with students in a range of age groups to let them know they are not alone in finding just the right word for a particular experience. Heck, even experienced teachers struggle to write about these feelings!
Gayle, you and I both, speechless, embarrassed, at a loss for words. Sending you love! At least we have our caring space here, to be heard, to be comforted, to be!
Oh, Gayle, so many are in the same state of “embarrassment” today that it is difficult to find the words to describe it. I like that by exploring your feeling, you also explore the words that may define it. You point out the multiple meanings and draw connections to other embarrassing incidents in your life. To offer a bit of comfort, just want to send hugs; this, too, shall pass. Thank you for sharing with us today after hosting all day yesterday.
Hi Glenda,
Thank you for sharing this prompt and Hollie McNish’s poetry! Your poem broke my heart, thinking about how a student feels when a teacher says, “Why don’t you understand?” It’s almost like the student should be free to say, “Because you can’t teach!”
I was not expecting to go down this road today but I appreciate it. I had the chance to recall one of many bad situations with my ex-husband. This memory didn’t bring me anxiety, thank goodness, but it helped me see again why we should never marry losers. My sister and I both made the same mistake and are both happily divorced. 😆
I Learned from His Embarrassment
I’m bawling like I’m at a funeral
As I walk down the church aisle
My one and only sister
Finally getting married
Just like me, to a loser
She doesn’t ask my husband
To be one of the groomsmen
Her fiancé has plenty of guys
Filling the role of closest buddies
They are all just like him
What I don’t know
Is that my husband is hurt
And never says a word
At the reception, he drinks
And drinks, and drinks
Someone warns me
“Your honey is in the courtyard,
acting a fool.”
I convince him to stay outside
While the rest of us celebrate the newlyweds
Hours later, the reception ends
Friends help me get the blabbering fool to my car
I say, “Sit down and shut up!”
The short ride home lasts forever
I can barely get him out the car
His 240 pounds against measly me
I push him onto the hood of the car to jar him
He lumbers toward the house
I drag him up the path, my cross to bear
We fall inside the house where
I leave him on the bathroom floor
And go to bed behind a locked door
I learn a lesson never to be forgotten
When he drinks too much, leave him there
I’m not embarrassed, but I will never forget this day.
(This happened 35 years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday.)
©Stacey L. Joy, 1/20/25
Stacey, vivid memories, like yours from 35 years past, stay with us, become part of the picture reel of our lives. But luckily, we don’t have to rerun them over and over. Your words remind me of what a gift it is to be able to shelve these memories and celebrate the strength of self. You are so much stronger than his embarrassment. Hugs.
Stacey – So many layers of hurt, confusion, and subsequent embarrassment seem to line the pockets of our lives. That you hold this vivid image of that moment speaks to how important it is to find ways of deconstructing pain in our lives… this poem is a testament. I so appreciate this reflective poem. Hugs, Susie
Stacey,
Your poem is a story for the ages. How many women have had to endure the humiliation husbands cause. Ugh. I love the lesson: “leave him there” and the line “my cross to bear.” My ex wasn’t a drinker. Problem was he wasn’t a worker either. Idiot could not hold a job, but he loved expensive stuff. I’ll never forget my grandpa saying, “David doesn’t like to work much, does he.” Understatement of the year. Best thing he ever did for me is leave!
Glenda,
Mine was a double loser because he didn’t work hard, but played golf! He drank but couldn’t afford to buy his own liquor. 🤦🏽♀️
Stacey,
I like how clearly you narrate both the feelings and actions of the day
Glad you realized he was not your
Stacey, thank you for putting into words this painful memory and for creating an image of the memory and for sharing it with those of us who can identify and with those who can learn “a lesson never to be forgotten / When he drinks too much, leave him there.”
Oh, Stacey, I can completely understand. There’s nothing worse than a partner who is drunk and obnoxious. You show the scene well and it’s those incredible days that should be full of joy that can end up being miserable. I can hear you say, “Sit down and shut up!”. Hugs and happy MLK day to you!
Glenda,
Thank you for the prompt, and giving me a chance for a catharsis and a melodrama at the same time. I don’t know if this works at all, but there are parts I am quite fond of…I would get more political, but I am trying to keep my sanity for a long haul.
I AM FINE, REALLY
Embarrassment:
a stain on the shirt,
slipping on the ice,
underestimating the Sioux,
Cheyenne, and Arapaho moving up the hill
from the Little Bighorn River,
throwing the pin of the grenade…
an elevator fart,
an overly productive sneeze,
something you are buried with,
or buries you.
sometimes it is as simple
as not knowing the person you think you love,
as if you are walking years with something
on the bottom of your shoe,
she can see clearly,
but doesn’t pause to address.
An embarrassment can have a perfumed scent,
and a height that dwarfs a house of cards,
it can be hidden as a mouse trap
in the cabinet in the dark
by the bag of potatoes,
disregarded till the snap,
or the pervasive smell…
An embarrassment is a truth that shouldn’t be, but is,
an “I told you” that cuts sharp and deadly,
like a fiancee fearing the parent meeting,
taking you home to a mother who wraps presents,
presents a unity candle,
and smiles as the judge of a kangaroo court,
from the cold of Cheyenne, Wyoming.
My mother and father loved me,
and I learned to captain my ship
long before meeting the one I thought was the one,
who turned out to be the admiral of shock and awe,
leaving a debris wake
with fundamental parts of me floating
flotsam on uncharted salty waters…
and I shifted from engaged to disengaged,
riding the still of the horse latitudes,
but still,
still the captain.
“The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom’s door.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.”
Rex,
First, feel free to get political. I love that in poetry and was tempted to go there. Susie did it for me! Your poem has so many layers many here can relate to, and I love getting this male perspective. Brilliant images, such as gym in the shoe. Ew! That’s hard to remove. The mixing of scents stifles and emphasizes why you “went from engaged to disengaged.” Love the final lines from “The Rhine of the Ancient Mariner.” Poignant and apropos. Now I need to reread that poem. It’s been a minute. Love everything about your poem today.
Wow, Rex. You covered so much ground here. I’m in awe! Your poem feels very stream-of-consciousness to me, but it really works well.
Rex, the way you lead up to the story by telling all the things embarrassment can be, and then turn to the relationship and then turn to the words of Coleridge in his final stanzas of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – – just brings the house down. What a ride! I’m so glad that you saw the light in time. Many a man doesn’t, and oh, that wake of debris. I’ve walked through it with a few relatives and a couple of my son’s friends, and it is numbing. I’m glad you are still the captain – charting your course! The word choice and the form add the rich imagery to the poem.
Hi Glenda–great prompt! It immediately took me back to my college days, the first time I had to withdraw from a class because I had no idea what I was doing. How funny that this embarrassing moment changed the entire course of my life!
Sophomore Year
Numbers have always been
my Achilles’ heel, but I finally
had to admit–as I stood
staring down at my clasped hands
across the neatly organized desk
of my accounting professor–
that Accounting 201 was the end.
I had purchased the requisite
Accounting Opinions and Standards 1982,
but it was like Greek, Aramaic, and Latin,
something I would never comprehend.
It would mean changing my major
and my entire life trajectory
at a time when I was dating
someone my parents hated,
so they would always wonder whether
he was the reason for the change.
He wasn’t. I’m a first born,
natural leader, bossy and extroverted.
I was made for the classroom
and definitely one reliant on words,
not numbers and symbols. It was my biggest
educational failure, and the first time I dared
to become who I knew I could be.
Lynn,
O don’t see your experience as an “education failure” but as a gift that set you on the path you needed to be on. Think of all the unwritten poems you would have missed had you become an accountant. ‘Preciate your story and love your poem.
Thank you.
Lynn, thank you for crafting and sharing this! I love the line “I was made for the classroom / and definitely one reliant on words, / not numbers and symbols.” Glad to have you “on our side,” lol!
Glenda, thanks for introducing me to Hollie McNish. Listening to spoken word poets is always fun. Your classroom situation is one I can completely relate to, knowing many teachers want to instill fear. I think that was a philosophy many adapted when we were being educated. The way you describe the book is compelling, and I can feel your uncomfortableness/embarrassment. My poem today reveals a lot about my personality and my voice when I use it at a gaming event. I don’t know if it’s really about feeling embarrassed, but more a reflection of how some people have wanted me to feel uncomfortable about my loud voice.
Hear Me Roar
in the stands I shout
loud and proud
but later I’m criticized
for sounding like a man—
a man?
a man can yell loud and proud
but I must be silent
like a little mouse
this is my house, too
I’ll not be stifled
my sons will hear me roar
long after I’m gone
they’ll still hear me
singing loud and clear
Stick em’
Run!
Fight! Fight! Fight!
knowing I was there
celebrating their wins
consoling their losses
I’m a mother
in the stands
hear me roar!
Barb Edler
20 January 2024
I love this, Barb! I went back and taught at my old high school right after college graduation, when my two brothers were still students. I did a lot of roaring in the stands for those boys!
Barb,
This is a wonderful twist on the prompt. As you know, I also have a loud voice that carries far, and like you, I refuse to mute myself. I love the repetition of “hear me roar” and the reclaiming of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” as a calling for sports and not felons. You are such a strong woman. I want to go to a game w/ you so we can shout together!
Roar on, Barb! I for one am cheering you on, although my husband says my voice is “too soft.” Hmmm. He hasn’t always said that. Perhaps it’s his hearing instead? Love that your voice will ring loud and clear for your sons always – motherlove is a wonderfully fierce thing.
Barb, I can hear you roar! I am right back in 1972 hearing Helen Reddy sing it and in 2025 hearing you today. There is nothing like the echoes of time that seize the heart of children, transcending time and the bonds of earth, like that of a mother. Beautiful!
Barb, I just love you! I am reminded of the time my ex got put out of the gym for talking trash to the refs during my daughter’s basketball game. I WAS HAPPY THEY PUT HIM OUT! LOL.
Love this so much:
Happy MLK Day!
Hi, Barb – great, strong voice and solid attitude. Gotta love that. And your kids will too. The fave for me is the calling out at how men get away with whatever they want (loud n proud), be we “ladies” must hush. Such BS we’ve grown up with! Keep being heard, my friend! Speak your piece. Hugs, Susie
You were born to roar. It made me think of Helen Reddy!
There are parents in today’s world that are much more obnoxious than a mother cheering for her boys like I am pretty sure you did. I like the reference to the house, it put me in the gym for wrestling.
Barb,
It makes me smile to think of your sons remembering you cheering for
them
Glenda–
What a great way to get us thinking about the role embarrassment plays in our lives and in students’ lives. I’m sure the way you were treated had has quite an effect on the culture you built/built in the instructional spaces you are in. What kids could do if they weren’t worried about peer reaction. I almost wrote about the time I apparently had on flowered underwear when my pants were a little see through–when I was a page at the state house! I didn’t know until years later when my friend who went along told me. But, I didn’t.
shades
a tinge of pink
unperceived by others
felt deep inside
a deep blush of awkwardness
only the clueless would miss
flight impulse takes root
a crimson of cringing
elicits compassion from all
creating a trauma ball
remembered forever.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 January 2025
Susan, your poem is compelling, and I understand the embarrassment that can occur later after one has revealed something I never knew occurred. I especially appreciate the line “flight impulse takes root”. Why do we remember the embarrassing moments? They’re haunting!
Susan,
I think we’ve all (us women) can share in your mortification. Penny Kittle tells a story about her white pants and black and white striped underwear. I love the way you structured this poem w/ sparse language that shows the emotion. Great job!
UUgghh, nothing is worse than the period embarrassments. But what’s so crazy is when I used to feel like it was gushing and it would be nothing! The phantom period!
Another reason I am always careful with my 5th grade girls. I would never want them to be the center of the “crimson of cringing” in our classroom.
Thank you, Susan.
Susan – Heaven knows I’ve had an unbridled blush my whole life. I feel the burn. I’ve never been able to hide that “crimson of cringing.” It helps to know that you’ve experienced this as well. Thank you for sharing this. Susie
Susan, the trauma ball at the end brings the bloom of the full flower, and the way you used shades of red – – crimson, blush, pink……it truly mirrors the color of embarrassment. But that trauma ball, though – – oh, this could be the title of a novel, the poem and one incident sparking off subplots of all the attendees of this ball. Brilliant, friend!
Embarrassment
[on the inauguration of the First-Felon]
It comes
when we’ve done something
so foolish that we cringe
to have played a part;
our faces redden,
burn with regret;
we feel small;
we see the mistakes,
feel helpless to undo them;
we feel the fingers point,
the global snickers,
the outright fiendish laughter.
I hear the jackboots,
see the sword unsheathed;
our Damocles
in love with Dionysian power,
the cruel orgy begins
and the sword is at his throat
as Putin smiles at the fool.
And I am embarrassed
to admit I am an American.
by Susie Morice, January 20, 2025©
Susie, wow, what an amazing poem. I love your allusions and your use of language. I can hear those “global snickers” and am ashamed to be a witness to this “cruel orgy”. “I hear the jackboots” is such a fantastic first line for your second stanza. Sort of reminds me of The French Revolution. Feeling embarrassed by our leadership is demoralizing, and I’m sure Putin is smiling. Fantastic poem to share on this historic day.
Susie,
I share your embarrassment. I need a t-shirt that says I didn’t vote for that clownish buffoon. I hear those snickers, too, and fear for our allies. You penned the perfect poem for today, and I love it. Hugs and peace!
Oooof, we are all in this pit of embarrassment together, Susie.
That says it all!
🤬
Susie,
Thanks for the articulation…I like the incorporation of the global snickers, but feel that it only resonates with the folks who see us as part of a global community, alas. Hopefully the same selfish rationality that got him the vote will make the support fall away as it impacts their immediate world.
Susie, I wish we lived closer. We’d have tea, you and me.
Hello Gayle, in this poem, the first lines were about my junior high school years, and the later about my years as a teacher consulted about peculiar behavior. Who was more embarrassed?
Hair, Then and Now
Back in the forties and fifties
When straight hair was in
Teachers often wondered why
So many Negro girls got “sick”
On gym class required-swim day.
Few white teachers understood
That hot-combed straightened hair
Kinks back up and gets all knotty
When with sweat or water it gets wet.
So back then, girls often chose to just set.
Even decades later when chemical perms were in
And curly hair was cool
California teachers wondered why
Black girls avoided the pool
Those white teachers did not know
The mixture of chemicals in pool water
And those used to chemically straighten hair
Could cause one’s head to shed
And then folks would really stare
So instead, the girls asked to be “excused”
The term for monthly periods
That, all understood.
Oh, the embarrassment of teachers
Not knowing the facts about those
Not known in their own neighborhood!
No longer the case, we suppose.
Anna, what a compelling and provocative poem. I love how you show this situation throughout your poem. Embracing one’s assets seems particularly difficult for females. I think society places a great deal of emphasis on looks, hair, etc. Powerful poem and thanks for sharing!
Anna,
This poem makes me sad but also more wise. I did not know these things about black folks’ hair. Y’all went through so much to get straight hair, but I have to say, I love the natural styles more. I’m also thinking about things “those white teachers did not know” and acknowledging we have more work to do.
Anna, the photos are beautiful. I shivered while reading your lines, thinking about the girls trying to save their hair from a watery or chemical demise. I was also struck by your intro in that this was not only your experience as a junior high student but also as a teacher “consulted about peculiar behavior.” You could enlighten the askers (an ‘aha’ moment for them, I hope)… but mostly my heart just aches for the girls’ extreme apprehension and agitation about the pool days, with the monthly period excuse providing a temporary salvation for possibly losing not just their style but the hair itself. Whew. Cuts deep.
You nailed it, Anna! My mom was a PE teacher and swim teacher in the summers. We understood the assignment!
Swimcaps were a joke! We would take them off and dump all the water out and keep on swimming. 🤣 But it was definitely a huge problem and also still stops many Black girls from learning to swim. There are better swim caps now for our hair but we still have a long way to go. Oh, and remember how the chlorine and perm would mix to cause hair to turn greenish?? Yikes!
Well done, Anna!
Anna,
The hair treatment has changed, but not so much the ignorance. I am going to share this with my colleague who teaches gym. Thanks for the step for me toward some level of insight.
Rex, if one more student is understood a little better by having their teacher read this poem, it’s worth the embarrassment I felt when I first drafted it. But, prasie the Lord, Ethical ELA is a place where we can tell the truth and still be okay … after a while.
Anna, the experience of young Black women which you depict here should “No longer be the case” in 2025. “We suppose” times have changed. That change can only come through poems like yours.
I have an embarrassing story about an embarrassing story. Kim Johnson’s blog posts come into my inbox, so I read her post thinking it was Glenda’s Ethical ELA post. Forgive me, Kim? My poem is more of a response to Kim’s poem about the embarrassing Santy Panty.
In sixth grade,
when all the rage was “snapping bras”,
I finally got the nerve
to ask Mom for a bra.
With not even a nub in sight,
she gave in, bought me a set of t-shirt bras.
“These will be more comfortable.”
What she didn’t understand
was the band
had no snap.
Margaret, isn’t it amazing how many embarrassing stories are linked to ignorance! Thanks for sharing yours … and for affirming the value of reading contemporary stories written by people of the generation, race, or culture. Did you see my poem today?
Oh, Margaret, your poem brings back some powerful 6th grade memories. I now have a new poem to write. Your poem’s end is priceless and shows so much. Thank you for sharing this powerful moment in time!
Margaret,
First, LOL! In sixth grade I didn’t have nubs either. Last day of school I wore a bra for the first time, and that was because my blouse was transparent! Go look at Anna’s post. She called me Gayle! LOL! Kim will forgive you. Gurlfriend, I think we need an anthology of bra and boob poetry. I love them all so much. I grinning from ear to ear after reading your poem.
Margaret, I have an embarrassing story about being afraid of the “nubs” and my mother laughing about it. Will refrain form telling it here. I will just say I can remember lacy, elastic “training” bras…eeesh, now that I mention it, there’s endless possibilities for writing, but, moving on…I can only imagine how you had to muster your courage for the coveted snapping bra only to be disappointed. Doubly embarrassing. But perfectly written!
OMG, the day I begged for a bra because 7th graders had to change into gym clothes! I was the only girl who wore a t-shirt and not a bra. I got that same t-shirt bra as you! No snap, no good! 🙁
Thank you for bringing back a sweet memory! Those were the days I prayed for a period! Imagine that!
Glenda, thank you for this, shall we say, emotion-filled prompt? It does make for great writing, as seen in McNish’s amazing poem (I read the whole thing. Raw and vibrant. She nailed it). And, more than once along the way, I was the child in your own poem. Needing help, hesitating to ask, fearful of the teacher who could be cuttingly condescending. There are stories to tell…your poem bring the moment to life so vividly that I cringe at the teacher’s voice in that last line (not to mention at “smart hillbillies” for whom the teacher had chosen a college textbook). Whew. Lotta layers in that. I’d seen Newkirk’s book some time ago but haven’t read it – you have inspired me to do so. How many people – not just children – limit their (our) learning out of fear of embarrassment?
Today I go with an embarrassing moment loosely linked to learning in a different way…it’s what came to mind first, so…off and running:
Legendary
must have been the rush
of having completed
a summer math camp
for kids
that they loved
must have been the miracle
that I myself could do
anything successful
with math
all those years
after my salutatorian father
lamented his one and only “C”
in high school algebra
for decades, pinning my brain
under a massive belief
of math incompetence
if only
if only
he could see
how the kids adored
pi
and polyhedra
and the coordinate plane
and probability
and fractions (heaven help us all)
and conversions
to decimals and percents
and especially Roman numerals
‘cause no one teaches that
anymore
we made it all
hands-on
creative
even musical
so when the parents came
on the final day
glowing with pride
the kids didn’t want to leave
Mrs. Haley, why don’t they teach math
like this in school?
yeah, I was on a high
pure adrenaline
surging my veins
they will surely remember this
all their lives
surely
good-bye
good-bye
hang onto your notebooks
for sixth grade in the fall
WAIT
one child left his notebook
on the floor by a chair
where’d he go? There
beyond the plate-glass doors
down the sidewalk
to the car
in one swift swoop
and a single bound
I snatched the notebook
and sped
(faster than a speeding bullet)
for the doors
when
-CRASH-
the sound echoed
(I’m told)
to the farthest back corner
of the building
but in that moment
dazed
I wasn’t sure
how I’d fallen
in the floor
with a white light
in my head
and a face full
of pain
yeah, I forgot
the double glass doors
couldn’t even see
the inner one
was closed
optical illusion
mass confusion
so, with a lobby
still full of parents
amid the gasps and shrieks
as several rushed over
I managed to get up
and dust myself off
I am okay
I am okay
some folks can’t help themselves
the laugher rolled
while I strolled
with as much dignity
as possible
outside to the kid
you forgot your notebook
a stunned little face
stared up at me
hey your nose is bleeding
yes I know
then straight to the bathroom
to stop the blood
and survey the damage
my teeth intact
thank heaven
my poor nose
turning black
look how it’s bruising already!
I told the friend
who came to my aid
she leaned in
um, that’s just newsprint
from the papers you handed out
oh
it washed right off
but the lobby is still
aquiver with mirth
when I return
to discover
that there, on the glass door
is a perfect image of my face
pressed by my make-up
mask-like eyeholes
down to every little line
on my lips
so perfectly unbelievable
I cannot keep myself
from howling
with laughter
oh yeah
the kids
and everybody there
will remember this forever,
all right
Okay, until you shared that the whole lobby was laughing, I was deciding whether to admit I had tears in my eyes, laughing OUT LOUD here with the dogs by the fire, tears in the outer corners of both eyes. Oh. My, Word. Rarely does a poem get me laughing this hard, but you have started this day with what they call the best medicine – – like a whole gallon of laughter here. The ink, too, brought a second round of hysterics. I see this unfolding like a scened in a movie. Of COURSE I’m glad you’re okay, but we already knew that – – so please forgive me for joining in your laughter right along with you.
I am THRILLED that you laughed, Kim! This happened long ago; I understood the hysterically funny element at the time, even in my utter humiliation, and especially with the assurance that my nose wasn’t broken. No harm done other than to my ego.Wasn’t sure if the hilarity would come through in print. so I am delighted to know – thank you for this true confession!
I can well remember the day I walked straight into a pole and pretended my nose was “just fine” while I saw stars and felt pain. I’m glad your story turned to laughter and the injury was all in your head, so to speak.
Fran, wow, what a story you’ve shared with your poem. I love how you also were able to laugh at the end, but wow, ouch! Thanks for sharing such a powerful embarrassing moment.
Fran,
What a story! What a poem! Honestly, I did not expect to laugh as I was mortified for you and recalling my own falls and the time I walked into a glass door in Amsterdam! But I did laugh at the idea of your face stamped onto the door. I hope you have a photo! Most of all I love the math story and all the /p/ sounds in it. We have so many things we wish our fathers could see, don’t we. I’m experiencing the full range of emotion from your poem. Beautiful work.
Good grief!!! I was holding my breath the whole time I read this. I’m so glad your nose wasn’t broken or your teeth left on the floor! What a memory!
I felt like I needed to see these two lines because I tend to laugh first, then ask if the person is okay. 🤣 So grateful you were okay.
Fran, this is indeed legendary and hilariously told. A classic tale of pride goeth before a fall.
love the action:
Fran, your choice of words and chronology took us there with you down memory lane. We almost smashed our faces against that glass door hurrying with you to get that notebook to the kid.
Oh, the things we do for our students!
Oh, but you were doing this in memory of your Dad. 🙂
Glenda, thank you for introducing me to this book and poem. I spend the first hour of my day reading excerpts and reviews of Newkirk’s book before reserving it through inter-library loan. And thank you for this invitation to remember and reframe.
When my godmother suggested an overnight
in her Rogers Park apartment when I was seven,
my father packed me into the orange Sportabout
with my flannel pajamas and a toothbrush (not sure
if it was mine). We probably listened to Simon &
Garfunkel (always second), maybe Neil Diamond
on the cassette player (or eight track) on Lakeshore Drive.
Maybe he came in for a minute, flirted a bit or
maybe he pushed me out the car door with my paper
bag and said something like “see you tomorrow”–
but she welcomed me with a tour of her place
somehow knowing I needed some space from my ten
siblings. In her bathroom, she said “it’s all yours.”
I bathed in her tub with lavender Epsom salt, toweled
off in a fresh towel (not shared), pulled on my PJs,
and settled into the throne for an uninterrupted poop.
I may have sung some S&G, may have gazed at her
New Yorker mag. I may have been in there overnight.
She gentle knocked, opened the door a crack, and I
smiled at once embarrassed and grateful. A journalist,
she took a picture, saying “this is work remembering.”
I was not so sure at the time, but years later this photo
found its way framed in the sea of memories in our
dining room. My siblings laughed but not because I
was on the toilet. No, because I was seven and cute
and embarrassed and also happy and safe in a place
I could only imagine I’d one day be: in my own bathroom.
My goodness, I think, my whole life I’ve been sitting
on a public toilet (as if not everyone struggles there sometimes)
claiming my rightful place to be unapologetically me.
Sarah, the catlike tendencies we all have to be so privately litterboxish about this particular human function is captured so nakedly in your poem. I can only imagine the horrified smiles that your photo on the toilet at 7 brings to those who see it – so unexpected, so candid, so happy to just be there in the moment. Your two words at the end: unapologetically me – – truly cast aside every single feeling of the need for privacy taken by your godmother, while you at 7 are proclaiming instead to celebrate every aspect of who we are! Love your honesty here.
Sarah, my first reaction was a warm glow at the luxury of time away from ten siblings, the lavender Epsom salts, the unshared towel – with a little shiver about the questionable packed toothbrush. Then, total recoil at the journalist godmother helping herself to the photo of little you on the loo. You evoke so many layers of emotion that I am not sure I can name them all – mostly empathy for the child who could not imagine having her own bathroom someday, and awe at the taking-in-stride of the framed photo and conclusion of being “unapologetically me.” Man, how hard this easy-flowing poem strikes deep chords. That’s power. Thank you for always empowering us with your words and this space.
Sarah, this poem says so much about your life as a child in a large family without any privacy. I have dreams all the time of sitting in public on a toilet. Is it a trope for something I don’t know about?
Sarah, I said “Halleluyah” out loud at the last lines. Yes! “…to be unapologetically me.” Oh my gosh, being a kid and bathroom to yourself…amazing. All those sibs, you and I share some very similar embarrassing moments …there is NO privacy in big families. I had an aunt who used to whisk me away once in awhile, and it was pure heaven. I loved your poem and that it drew me to connect again with you. Love, Susie
Sarah, wow, I love this poem and all the details to pull me completely into your poem and situation. I love your end! Thanks for sharing such a clear picture of your godmother and your actions at the age of seven.
Sarah,
I did not expect to ever see you write a bathroom poem, and especially not one featuring number two, but I have to say you have evoked so many memories with this memory and the reverent tone in it. I love all the beauty you describe: the lavender bath, the privacy, the having a bathroom for only you, the respect from your godmother, even with the photo taken out of love and wisdom and not a desire to embarrass you. That makes all the difference, I think. Like you, I’m grateful for my own bathroom and, I might add, own sink in it.
This tugs on my heartstrings, Sarah. A little girl so desperate to have some space, some privacy grows into an adult just wanting to have the space to be authentic.
The imagery you incorporate really makes this poem hum, too.
Glenda, thank you for hosting us today! Your prompt is one that I predict will bring out a lot of writing that is close to the bone. Embarrassment is such a passionate, emotional topic. And this is a great day to write about it! Your poem brings all the feelings of shame and confusion in the classroom – the raising of the hand to ask a question and to be met with the fear of being singled out for not understanding. You tell it well – – as a reader, I can relate to those feelings. My most embarrassing day I have never written about – – until now.
50 Shades of Red
back in the day
before adhesive strips
held pads in place
there were other ways ~
namely, the Beltx Santy Panty
(now in the National Museum of American History)
Luxury Spandex
cool, comfortable
with Sta-Put Crotch
to eliminate all loops and clasps
unconditionally guaranteed
for those
monthly “off days”
let me tell you something
lean in and listen up ~
my first “off day” still haunts me
gives me shivers
it happened in the St. Simons Drugstore
in the village
in 1977 when I was 11, shortly
after reading Are You There, God?
It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
this was not the way it was
supposed to go down
my mother took me in
to find products
the very day I crossed the
threshold into womanhood
she sought a treasure
promising
* nary a telltale budge
* never a slip
* not a whisper of odor
as she quietly perused the shelves
in the crowded store
I’d ducked to the makeup aisle
many shades of red on the shelves
all around me ~ lipstick, blush, nail polish ~
and I, too, was now red all over
above and below my waist
the most embarrassing day of my life
Griffin from my class
was there with his mother, too,
waiting on his medicine
when to my absolute horror
my mother caught sight of
the pharmacist
busy at work
while Griffin and his mother
and the rest of the crowd
stood watching, waiting
their names to be called
my own mother boldly stepped forward
inquiring for all to hear
making no secret of any of this
Do you have any of those
Santy Panty things?
My mother.
My mother.
My mother.
All eyes moved
from the pharmacist
to her
to me.
I cringed.
I saw Griffin giggle.
I bled out most of my soul
that day in the drugstore
as my mother handed me
a bag with three boxes of
Santy Panty things,
explaining for all to hear
that they were to be washed
by hand in the sink
as Griffin turned
red with full laughter
as we exited the store
Oh, my goodness…I was with every word. Isn’t it terrible that this particular moment was so embarrassing? What incredible language choice with all the shades of red and Mother’s dialog. Wonderful and cringy all at the same time.
Oh, Kim.
What a memory. Thank you so much for trusting us and this space with this memory. I am brought right back to trying to figure out the bleeding and then this line:
I bled out most of my soul
that day in the drugstore
This is everything. We do indeed bleed out, out of embarrassment when our personal and, more importantly, our natural is met in the public or a public that does not celebrate or appreciate or accept this part of our being. You express it so well here, and yet you carry the hurt, and I am sorry for that. And also grateful for you and this poem. Two things can be true.
Hugs,
Sarah
Oh, Kim… I wanted to dive behind the counters and displays in that store myself. You brought to mind a church Christmas party when my cousin and I, both 12, were opening gifts. Can’t recall what mine was but hers was a Buf-Puf. She flung it in the floor and ran out of the room in tears. Whoever thought that would be a good idea??? Now. Your mother. Alas! Humiliation heaped upon humiliation. Your title is absolutely genius with its multiple meanings for shame and the lipsticks in the aisle where you tried to find safety, not to mention Griffin’s face, laughing. And these lines – pure masterpiece: “I bled out most of my soul/that day in the drugstore.” That feeling is so universal. Which of us has not had our souls bleed out after having been pierced by someone’s words or actions? How relieved I was to exit the store with you vicariously. Your poem story-telling is sublime.
Kim — OMG…mortified…that was just too awful…what was Mama thinkin’? Geez! I love that this experience rolled out in a truly touching but funny poem. Young girls really do take a huge gut punch with “the curse” arrives. And in front of a kid named Griffin no less…geez. Those crummy products, none of which worked worth a darn, drove me nuts. But it all takes me back to when I asked my mom what she used as a girl. That made me very grateful for even those “crummy products” that were on the shelf…our mamas…holy smokes…”on the rag”…gross but a reality. Yuk. You’re a gem to have shared this doozy today. It gave us another bonding link. Hugs, Susie
Whew, Kim! I’m sure I turned red right along with you as I read further and further (while wanting to disappear more and more). What was your mother thinking? The hints of red (most interestingly in the lipsticks and nail polishes – items designed to mark adulthood, ironically) are masterful. And this line, “I bled out most of my soul,” captures the remarkable accuracy all that this poem speaks to. Students speak with such openness and casualness of their periods today, talking to me, not in hushed whispers, about the need to get items from their lockers and go to the bathroom. I’m grateful for their comfort in this natural part of our beings.
Oh my gosh, this is so unbelievable, and I can understand your embarrassment! I feel for you! I love how you developed the progress of this poem and bolded your mother’s voice. Hugs!
Kim,
I’m horrified for you having gone through this experience. I guess your mom wasn’t thinking about her own first time and the memories of kotex with long tendrils needing to be threaded through metal fasteners. I love the allusion to “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret” and I pray Griffin has been tasked with shopping for pads and tampons many times because he deserves that karma.
Kim,
Yikes!
You capture the horror of adolescent suffering to perfection. The “for all to hear” seems to be a prerequisite of our parents’ behavior playbook back in the day. And it is Griffin who has to be there. That adds a special layer.
This read like a Judy Blume book, the angst, the drama, the language dripping with reality.
Your mom!! I can’t even believe it. I’m sure Griffin was one of the worst possible
yo be a witness, too.
If there is ever an anthology of poems that capture mortifying pre-teen moments, this has to be the headliner!
Glenda, rabbit-holes are a playground. And much like Alice, I’m intrigued to spend more time in the underlife of Thomas Newkirk’s book. Thank you for opening the door to his and McNish’s works. I wonder if, as painful feelings are often thrust onto someone else, this first-year teacher, suffering his own humiliation, needed you to suffer alongside him. Your words place us right there, with you. Your poem brought forward times of my own humiliations, evoking feelings as if they’d just happened, that must be still with me. I am so sorry you had to experience that.
Mortification
Death seems an appropriate topic
today.
The French have long understood
this,
well before any sense of humiliation
was recorded.
Can you fathom its meaning?
Mortification:
Death of one part of the body
while the rest is still alive.
Death.
Of one part of the body.
While the rest.
Is.
Still.
Alive.
Mort means death,
(With a pronunciation of more,
apropos for the times, methinks)
Death occurs in many ways:
Mortgage
Mortality
And the finality of mortmain.
People cannot be sold
Gifted
Abandoned
Or seized
I wonder if that is an inalienable right.
Yes,
death is an appropriate topic today.
As is our mortification.
amen and yes. So appropriate. I love the ways you literally play with death.
Oh, what a powerfully punctuated poem for this day, Jennifer! I feel and hear the exclamation even in the absence of an actual exclamation point! The subtle, fact-presenting tone delivers more of a punch. Kind of like seeing out of the peripheral vision better than looking directly at a thing. Oh, I love what you have done here – – sheer brilliance!
Kim — yes…ditto that! Susie
Jennifer,
I can tell what is weighing heavy on your and much of the country and do not know what tis to come. Your reflection on “Mort” is an ending and maybe will be with the important allusion/statement of “inalienable right.” I will sit in this space with you in this poem.
Sarah
Jennifer, so many thoughts as I read… “memento mori for one,” the fact of death’s inevitability being a reminder to live, and another, Macbeth’s famous soliloquy “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” with its lines “All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.” I am not being political when I say this; I intentionally avoid that. It’s honestly what your lines stirred in my mind. The concept of “mortmain” strikes deep. Dead hand, literally. Your poem serves as sharp scalpel of examination, indeed…and I agree that rabbit-holes are playgrounds, vastly valuable ones! I love how an alternate form of embarrassment, mortification, led you out the back door and underground through the rabbit holes where lie the many looking-glasses for viewing “mort.” My son, by the way, is a mortician. Someone who cares for the dead. My brain keeps taking up your threads and running…testimony to your poetic prowess!
I love a good word play poem! Words like Mortality and Mortgage placed side by side. Oof!
Jennifer — Aah, eloquent observation. You are so right “appropriate topic today.” “Death of one part of [this] body…” of a nation. I hold my breath. I so appreciate this poem this morning. I’ve read it several times now, and it is perfect. Thank you for sharing this. Susie
Jennifer, wow, what a clever poem. I love how you break down the definition of mortification and end with a timely connection. Powerful!
Jenifer,
This poem is fire! Love it. “Yes, / death is an appropriate topic today. / As is our mortification.” Preach. Also love the insight in these lines:
“Death.
Of one part of the body.
While the rest.
Is.
Still.
Alive.”
If you have not seen “Severance” on Max, check it out. It really speaks to this moment in time.
Jennifer, you selected a perfect word to work with on a day like today. My heart aches. I pray we aren’t seeing the death of Dr. King’s dreams ahead. I hope. I hope.
I love word play and teaching my students how to develop their vocabularies by understanding morphology. I just might give them (mort) next week. Hugs.
Good Morning Writing Friends, Happy MLK Day. Thank you, Glenda for your thoughtful inspiration today. I had a grand time tapping memories into my journal this morning. Lots of paragraphs. Lots of self-forgiveness. Your poem took me right back to 8th grade when I didn’t understand a term and went down a wrong road. Oh, that embarrassment! I didn’t include the details of that in my poem like you did masterfully in yours–I turned to the diamante form. Have a great day everybody!
embarrassed
ashamed, diminished
dirt-kicking, face-hiding, running away
got back up on that horse
patient, determined
assured
Linda, your grit comes through in every line (dirt-kicking nails it). We can see the embarrassment build as your lines lengthen and then recede as it lessons. I love the movement between embarrassed and assured, the form allowing us to follow the character arc (perfection!).
I love the use of the word diminished. I often forget about the diamanté form, and your use of it here is so fitting for the crescendo of emotion that happens in the poem. Ending with determined and assured is a triumphant ending as I envision you trotting off on the horse, dust at its heels.
Yes! Get back up on that horse! It’s a mighty message, a needed reminder, especially with the necessary patience and determination outweighing the shame of feeling diminished. How beautifully you’ve crafted this in diamante form. I envision a girl on the horse riding like the breeze to the horizon, her hair blowing back…assured.
I’ve read today about how we as students hated to be mortified over misunderstanding and yet, the practice continues. I am so angry inside about teachers who likely experienced this as a child, but continue the practice with children. I also hate that I am sometimes that teacher. “Were you listening to anything I said?” has come out of my mouth a few times recently. I hope my students find their way to get back on the horse as you did.
Linda,
I really like the approach you took here and the recovery in the second half of the poem. We can overcome those moments of embarrassment and soldier on. Happy MLK day to you, too.
Linda,
love how you took us an entire journey and used your structure to show the build up and then flip of emotions.
Linda, I love the twist your poem takes from embarrassment to assurance. It reminds me of a “diamante” poem. The lack of specific details helps the listener/reader identify.
Linda, I love that your 8th grade self “got back up on that horse”! And your choice to use the diamante form is perfect! Thanks for this!
Linda, your terseness exemplifies the power of carefully selected words. With just five lines you captured what most of attempted to do. Today, we showed less of your skill at concision. Thanks for showing it can be done, so neatly.