Queen of hearts sat alone on Valentines Day surrounded by the vast gardens outside her royal palace The roses are red but have no odor the opulent throne was her only comfort as she looked out the majestic window at the beautiful world she ordered but was unable to share it with her other senses The senses that told her not to be a queen
10,000 dens and servants made of silver dust gold-lined bookshelves she barely peruses luxurious vacant rooms lay colder beds dressed in the finest linens And each night she tucks herself beneath her royal blankets and dreams of the day when she will be rich.
I had this dream that I was a tree who settled in the sand and began to stretch my roots deep between the shifting grains round and wet and cool and my tree-self looked out at the ocean that would not let me stay nor the elongating roots could not keep me from floating away
What’s in a name? I remember that being one of my favorite history assignments in school. Us 15 year-old-know-it-all’s were told to ask our parents or grandparents about our name. What did it mean, where did it come from, and how did it become ours.
I went on the crusade that night to find out. I asked my dad, giver of our family’s last name, Riddle. “Riddle was probably given to my great-great-grandfather by a slave holder,” he said. The thought was a new one to a tenth grader. Not only did slavery exist, but my family even has it in our name. Also, it was strange to me that “owners” of other human beings lent their names out to their “property”. I always wonder if the name before Riddle was anything close to Kinte. Taken from my relatives because it was in a language the keeper of my ancestors didn’t care to know…and all that is left is a Riddle.
My middle name came from the late, great actor, Alan Lad who played Shane in Shane. My dad loved the movie so much that the leading actor's name was transformed from Alan to Alana and shoved in the middle of his daughter. Great, I thought upon finding this out, just what every teenage girl wants to be named after, a cowboy. Probably a conservative too and from what I remember, he liked to shoot deer.
But what’s funny is that I am even searching for a meaning of myself through a name. Is there a part of Shane in me? Is there some gracious house-guest, nomadic traveler, bad-guy standin’-up-to, irresistibleness dripping from his pores kind of ways in Alana?
I realized there was much more to a name than I had known. My ego totally motivated me to do my homework that day I got the assignment in History class, but after my selfish quest, I became aware of the history that stood tall behind my name. I think I will have my students do the same.
Now, I realize how important it is to call people by their names. How important it is to remember people’s names. It’s not easy, but it is incredibly meaningful. Everyone wants to be known by name. That’s why graffiti artists put their names on walls, it’s why celebrities search for the lights, and it’s why the drinking gang went to Cheers.
Once, when in the Peace Corps, an over-zealous volunteer bragged to me how well he knew people. He emphasized the importance of saying hello to everyone he worked with, including the janitor and woman who stood only by the fax machine. Even more, how imperative it was to call them by name. It seemed like a valid insight, not that profound at the time he said it. Now I realize how true his words had been. You forget to say hello to the cleaning lady or those standing quietly on the sidelines from where you perform. But they are the very people who can ignite the winning chants from within of the Coliseum.
I knew an entire English class of 10th grade students who committed mutiny because their teacher refused to address them by name; instead he insisted on referring to them as “you” when they were called upon. They put him through hell because of this disrespect and the poor guy ended up donating the class of disgruntled teens to me. It was the first time I had ever taught a class unsupervised, without assistance and without a plan. I admit, the kid’s Hungarian names were not easy to pronounce, let alone memorize. Still, if calling them by name was all they were asking for, I could at least do that.They gave me their loyalty for that simple gesture, as my beginner, mediocre lesson plans were not what won them over. All I had to do was know their names.
It’s all Sebastian had to do to save Fantasia in the Never Ending Story and it’s all it took to conquer Rumpelstiltskin.
Several years later, the practice of knowing a name continues. And it does take practice. There are so many names, so many ways to say them and so many faces. I fuck up all the time.
“So Allison, where did you get that purse from?”
“The name is Andrea. I specifically said I hate being called Allison.”
And quietly I’m thinking, I knew there was a reason Allison was stuck in my head.
I love your pictures I love the pictures that top your stories tips that showed those pieces you felt ok with us seeing I loved the pictures the pictures you painted in my head The pictures that poured from your heart and into the world wide web of entanglement, wondering undercover freely, without debt or attempt to collect
what novices of love are we? to have forgotten the deep wells we suppress beneath
and choose not to drink from and ask myself why? why? why? why? why do we love who we love? and then tuck it away in anonymous hidden corners so it can be free
You must be a photographer because the pictures you painted are so beautiful. I found your little corner and found all your art that I didn't think you made and I stole a look. So beautiful
I wish I could make her real
But the gods took the pigment from my paint and oiled and chalked my canvas and left my tools sterile and dry so they would not do a portrait justice even though I tried to paint but had to go to ACE Hardware to buy some but not the kind that would work on people like us So you keep painting with your paint S because you make a woman beautiful.
They came together with all their pieces and for one night they made a whole moving, walking, talking, touch it if you dare Frankenzombie that even had a soul The parts had been collected-- an excellent brain, the perfect hair, sturdy ankles-- all throughout the life So the two scientists embarked on one ambitious experiment under the cover of the night Swen together with threads of sand their monster roamed the city It giggled and held the hands of strangers of whom it thought were pretty Even wrapped it's stitched fingers around their hearts but with the dawn, the monster fell apart
Just like Cinderella's dreams evaporated into a pumpkin the girl scientist had no interest in trying to experiment again Yet the boy scientist was undeterred and sad she would not build another So the girl told him the truth, "Frankenzombies cannot last forever even the instruments said THE END when it was laying on the slab and how lucky we were to have been successful that one night in the lab. In fact, I'm not even a scientist," the girl softly continued, "I only wanted to see... if the parts we put together could make a real-life Frankenzombie." "But we did!" Cried the boy scientist who didn't understand, "Maybe when we try again we'll use cotton thread instead of sand..." And as he pleaded the girl disappeared, right before his eyes and all that was left of her was a pair of borrowed thighs.
