Help Me.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Mr. Rogers’ popular quote has perhaps never been more relevant than it is right now, in these times of upheaval.  It resurfaces after every inexplicable atrocity, repeated and shared until we are convinced that we can retain our faith in humanity.  Recently, it has become a mantra for me, providing a fleeting moment of hope in between the merciless chaos and despair.

Currently, it seems as if the whole world is involved in an elaborate scheme to keep my heart and spirit broken.  The past few weeks have been particularly depressing, with one senseless act of violence preceding another, overlapping without a single second of peace in between.  It has become impossible to turn my head without encountering some form of injustice.  Whether it was the worst mass shooting in recent history that targeted the LGBT community in Orlando, bombings in Turkey, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia that killed Muslims during the holy month of Ramadan, deadly attacks in Bangladesh that occurred less than a week apart, the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, in Baton Rouge and Minnesota, or the retaliatory attack that killed five Law Enforcement Officers earlier today, in Dallas---it is undeniable that the ugliness on this planet has reached a fever pitch.

I am tired, hurt, devastated, angry, and deeply saddened, but mostly I am ready for change.  It is especially difficult to remain positive whilst simultaneously feeling helpless.  As a humanist, it is impossible to abstain from feeling vicarious pain;  it is even more challenging to stop myself from feeling emotionally, physically, and spiritually drained from the frequently debilitating empathy. 

It has always been my desire to leave the world a better place than it was when I found it.  It feels selfish of me to continue pretending that my own life is somehow more significant because of my blessings.  Although, the gates of oppression can only be unlocked by education and information, I cannot convince myself, in good conscience, that I am making a difference.  It is not merely enough to spread awareness; I need to feel like I am doing everything in my power to assist the less fortunate.  It is said that charity starts in the home, so that will be the beginning of my journey, and then from there I hope to spread love across the globe.

Grief is pointless unless it acts as a catalyst to help rewrite some of the saddest stories.  I refuse to be on the wrong side of history or these wars being fought against the innocent.  There is no better time than now for me to evolve from feeling helpless into being a helper. 

Landslide.

We lived high, upon the mountain,

the streets could not seduce us anymore. 

Far away from the sounds of the city,

no traffic jams on our way into work. 

All we could hear was the sound of the ocean

slapping playfully at the lazy shore,. 

Here we could celebrate in silence,

serenity filled every corner of our home. 

And all we knew, all we needed was beside us,

here was somewhere we could grow old. 

I was always frightened,

afraid of losing you. 

So everyday, when I came home,

you would be endlessly accused. 

I could not swallow my paranoia,

insecurity was eating me alive.

All the hurts from the past kept piling on

until they were as majestic as Everest. 

That day, we woke early to trembling,

our house shook until we felt a sudden jolt.  

If only we had paid more attention,

and strengthened our foundation,

then perhaps we wouldn’t be awash in water,

or drowning in the seventh sea. 

This landslide was bound to happen,

since we noticed everything

but the cracks right underneath our feet. 

Fighting from late night into the early morning,

unable to admit defeat. 

Perhaps we weren’t meant to meet,

maybe life would be simpler

had our paths never crossed. 

All I know is that the landslide brought us down. 

We came crashing to the ground,

like lightning and thunder engaged in a fight.   

The comforts we worked hard to acquire,
went up in flames then sailed out of sight.

 

Hole.

Holy water valentine, whose lips are cherry red,
strolls into the pastor’s shrine, thoughts filled with dread.

Temptations consume her, she is burning in her sin.

She clutches her rosary so tightly it makes her singe.

“Father, father, help me.  Forgive my evil deeds,”
she calls out for mercy, or a cure for her disease.

Her fishnet stockings tell a different story,
one many believe is inspired by greed.

 But with the Lord as her witness,
she only worked the streets so she could eat.

Jezebel of virtue, once she was so pure.

Devoid of any wrongdoing, that was her allure.

The other congregants turn up their noses when she walks.

They return to their stone houses, before pelting her with rocks.

wrigley field

he bought my innocent time
with promises of candy and wine
but when i opened my eyes,
i learned that those were just lies
for him to feel my underaged insides.

fourteen years old, in chicago,
when i ran out into the february frost.
i collapsed, then decorated the street
with this agony i refused to accept.
and this, the trauma that i could not eat.

there, beneath the famous lights of wrigley field,
i cried until my tattoo tears
erased the sparkle from my eyes,
unable to survive after learning
that the world could also be like this.

the vicious, windy city won this wicked war,
burying me alive that night, without a fight.
it threw the ashes of my adolescence
in the air, like criminal confetti.
it stripped away my security,
to soak me in my own sorrow.

i crawled into the cocoon inside my head.
remaining here in this self-induced coma
until i'd shed the sympathy-stained skin
of being a victim.
i REFUSE to be anything but resilient.
still, no butterfly should ever have to
suffer through abuse in order for its own
metamorphosis to occur.