There’s a glass building rippling in the sun,
a sidewalk littered with cigarette butts and bus tickets,

a blue-eyed boy teetering precariously close to the curb,
and a distracted mother staring off into the distance.

There’s an old woman standing at the bus stop,
clutching a brightly flowered handbag to her chest.
I smile at her and she glares –
what the fuck are you looking at, bitch?

There’s a sense of crashing, a feeling of emptiness,
and a guitar player on the corner of 8th & Marquette.

His strings are broken,
his case is filled with change and a one dollar bill.
He gives me a toothless smile
& I fight the impulse to give him everything I have left,

until there’s no choice but to run barefoot

through the pine needles, past the iron gate,
up the cobblestone driveway,
and into the arms of danger,
which is the only place I’ve ever felt loved

(even if only the danger was real).

There’s a waiter outside of Garage Joe’s
pacing and smoking a cigarette.
He looks undone before lunch,
like he wants to start running
until the clatter of plates is far behind him.

I understand.

There are months I’d like to forget,
& moments I’d like to reclaim,
but the thought of your teeth on my neck still makes me gasp

& there was a time I lived for that,
even while everything around me withered & died

In the gray pale of June,
there are clenched fists and closed mouths

and I don’t want you back,

but there’s rain in the sky &
an empty space in my heart
and it’s more than loneliness.

There’s a crumbling church with a tilted cross,
a boy with a blue Mohawk smiling into the sun

I wave at him to shed the anger
that has stolen my morning.
There’s an enormous sense of gratitude when he waves back.

(If I save you, I am somehow rescued
If I love you, somehow I feel loved –
but absolutely ruined for anything or anyone else).

There’s a need of something,
but I’m not sure what it is.
I want to crash through walls until I’m naked and raw,
and there are no memories of you left on my skin.

(I don’t want you back,
I want you faded, gone).

There are two men sitting on a blanket in Calhoun Park,
One is arguing, the other rocks with his head between his knees.
I walk past them as if I’m invisible.

There are days I wonder how much I have left
and how much of me there is really left to lose.

(And there are days I just want you
to bury me a little deeper, love, because I’m not gone enough).

The bookstore women are walking back from the coffee shop.
They look unhappy despite their rainbow welcome sign.
I want to tell them to lock the door, pull the blinds, and make love
until they understand every word ever poured out
by the broken-backed, strong-hearted women
whose passions line their shelves.

There are days I want to matter to someone like that. . .
when I want some proximal type of love

& there are days I just want to fall into your abyss,
and let myself be swallowed whole.

There’s a woman laughing on the corner,
her dark hair falls into your eyes

(I wanted to erase your scars once,
even if it meant erasing myself).

There’s a girl with a lip ring bent over a sketchbook,
her tiny arms are covered in tattoos.
She is drawing a purple mountain and a golden moon.

(I don’t love you).

There’s a chilled wind that sweeps through the trees
and a terrible longing that courses through my veins
and never enough, never enough
is burned into my marrow.

There’s a life that doesn’t feel like mine,

it’s teetering precariously close to the edge, distracted,
& edged in an anger that doesn’t belong to me.

There are feet that want to run,
and broken things that need tending.

There’s a big yellow sun, other arms,
& a shadow to step out of –

there’s a sense of gratitude, and a feeling of dread. . .

and there’s something on the horizon,

but it’s not here yet.

~ ~ ~

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I feel like I should give some disclaimer to this piece, some explanation of why, not only because the topic is tough, but also because it’s become a cliche.  Writers, film makers, and students alike have been steered away from the topic of child abuse — it’s been done, the subject is stale, and every story that could be told has been told.

Yet, when I wrote the first version of Cousteau’s Daughter as a teenager, I didn’t care about any of these things.  I was just a girl who had been sent to California with an ex-babysitter and her husband, who spent the summer molesting and threatening me.  That experience was followed by being raped by a seventeen year old boy and a nineteen year old man.  There was no one I felt I could turn to, so I went where it had become natural for me to go — to the world of words, where I could spill my secrets, cleanse my spirit, and maybe make some sense of a world that, to me, was frightening and unpredictable. 

I have since eclipsed the experiences of my childhood, but have found that the responses to my writing about it range from sympathy to disgust.  There are those who, in their compassion, wish to offer some comfort to the child from long ago, or the woman who carries the memories.  Others find something revolting in the telling of the story, believing it signifies a propensity for being stuck in the past, an inability to “get over it”,  or even the making of “excuses” for this or that failure as an adult.  A few have even preached the gospel of forgiveness to me, as if I had the obligation to heal by way of acceptance, or by viewing my experiences as some sort of sideways, God-given blessing.

I appreciate the compassion given the child, but at the same time wish people to know that for the woman, the pain from events that happened almost thirty years ago is distant.  I hesitate to use the word “healed” because I’m not sure what it means in this context.  I don’t know who I might have been or how I may have felt had I not gone through this particular pain as a child.  No experience, much less one that is traumatic, gets to sit outside the tapestry of one’s life, where all things fuse together to create character and personality.  My way of “getting over it” has always been to tell the stories, my own and and those of other children — even in times of resistance.  As for forgiveness, I have none for those who would lay a violent hand upon children, no matter what their backstory may be.  There is no abuse I would ever consider a blessing, no matter what poetic justice might follow.

All that said, Cousteau’s Daughter is still an important piece to me, not because it’s personally cathartic any longer, but because it was written so close to the events.  It is a child’s story, written by a child who, even in pain and turmoil, loved poetry and words, the oceanic world of Jacques Cousteau, and Lucky Charms cereal.

Some of the phrasing was cleaned up as I got older, but not much.  All the elements, including the length, have remained intact.  The length, as well as the subject matter, prevented this piece from being published in literary magazines, but I always wondered if it wouldn’t work better as a visual piece.  A while ago, I put out the call for a videographer on this site, and Elaine Charbonneau stepped up to make it happen.  I thank her for her patience, her care, and the hours she gave to this project.  My friend, artist and photographer Linda Woods, saw my vision even better than I did, and provided photographs to tell the tale.  The only thing lacking was a professional narrator, but I thank my local radio station, KQSP-AM, for allowing me to use their studio.

Stop it Now! is an organization which has done much to bring attention to the issue of child abuse, and I am happy to dedicate this video to them, as well as to all of those who have had to grow up too soon.  The child in me also holds onto some scant hope that someone who is thinking of molesting might watch this, and seek help before they act.  The sexual invasion of a child is not just a physical act, but one that causes long-term emotional devastation.

Does it matter?  Is one more tale of child abuse even relevant?  I don’t know.  I only know that the story of Cousteau’s Daughter has long been in my heart to tell — and now it’s been told.

If it’s relevant to you, or others you may know, please share it.  And please do visit the Stop it Now! website to learn more about what you can do to help prevent child abuse.

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She’s got that low, sensual, beautiful, Southern voice. The perfect blend of drawl and inflection that’s all at once a lullaby and a catalyst — an invitation to lay back on the porch swing and lazily watch the moon, or to rise up in the morning like Joan of Arc, prepared to honor the trumpet’s call to battle.

When I write short stories and poetry, it’s most often her voice that accompanies, reading the words back to me, imbuing them with a wealth of feeling that belies the ragged poverty of pen and paper.

Sure, I can write a pretty good line every now and then, but without her cadence, the sentences seem like only so much type — forgettable words that fade all too quickly into a pale background, or that fall short for lack of tone and timbre.

Hers was the first voice I heard that made me really want to sit up and pay attention. I was nine years old, and she was the original Olivia Walton in The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. I would have traded all six kids, and grandma and grandpa too, just to hear her tell the tale on her own.

I love her face. Her strong lines and proud features speak to me of dignity: of standing steady in the face of adversity, while honoring the spark of passion that creates, laughs, loves, and sustains. Unadorned, her true-to-life beauty rose above her profession of acting. The bleached and painted others who shared her craft seemed stiff next to her, unreal, as if they really were just actresses, and not wise, resourceful women who had known, and could tap into, every emotion in the well of shared humanity.

She is a woman whose voice once inspired a child to write poetry, and whose voice I still hear when I’d rather listen than speak.

This is what I want for navigating the circumstance:
swift justice and tender mercies.
To bestow a fortune of luck upon the unlucky.
An untying of the knot that binds my hands.

To open that heart-shaped Pandora’s box
and find it mercifully empty,
wanting for nothing more than locks and chains
and a place deep in the mantle of Earth
where it will melt into legend,
a myth of Hades’ proportion.

There’s some key around my neck, but I don’t mind.
The clink of decades past,
or the rusted metal of prolonged strength.

If you listen closely, you will hear it — that perfect blend of drawl and inflection. That knowing tap into the well of human experience. On my birthday, I honor my longest, dearest, and most inspiring muse — Patricia Neal.

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In 2000, I was awarded a month-long fellowship to Norcroft, a women’s writing retreat on the North Shore of Minnesota. A few years later, when the retreat closed its doors, I was asked to contribute to an anthology about the Norcroft experience.

I set out to do it, but realized that whatever I wrote would be considered profane by most Norcroft adherents, who not only fit in with the nature-centered dynamic of the retreat, but who were also at a place where they truly felt righteous about any and all good that came their way – if, that is, they noticed the good at all.

Yet no one can accuse these poets and writers of not being gentle. Gentleness abounded at Norcroft, as did all those lush words that lull in the throats of the romantics – silky, majestic, sensual, mysterious, alluring, tempest. The guest books were filled with loving prose for water, sky, and forest. The fallen bark from birch trees became a palette for framed poetry, cooing with appreciation for wind, leaves, and wildflowers.

My focus – and my distraction – is all things human. Nature is exquisite, but simple. I believe poets write of nature because it is the easiest and most mutable subject of all. Simplicity leaves gaps in the pages, waiting to be colored in by human metaphor. Gentle waves kiss the sand, and lovers are newly born. The slope of a mountainside transmogrifies into the curve of a woman’s hip. A tall tree becomes an ancient mother, continuously giving life and watching it fall away.

I would have wanted to immerse myself in the Norcroft experience as so many others have. To stare full-on at the poetic paradise and be filled with the compatible, communal spirit of poetry-prose-mother nature, but instead, I became entranced with symbols of a different sort.

One of the first things I noticed at Norcroft was that the cupboards were fully stocked. Really, the cupboards just bewitched me. I opened each and every one and found not an inch wasted. I then opened the pantry, the refrigerator, and the freezer. Weirdly, the site of all those jars, bottles, cans and bags – all those fresh juices, fruits, and vegetables – made my throat turn raw and my eyes well with tears.

Many would look at me, a woman whose curves have turned to bulges, and not guess that much of my life was spent hungry, but I spent desperate years at the unforgettable bottom, making do with whatever I could find; soda crackers and ketchup soup, 10-cent packs of noodles, cheap white bread covered with margarine. In that state of hunger, my stories were driven by my very human fears and hopes.

Even after escaping poverty, I never gave much thought to poetic things like eternal skies or majestic seas, at least not as a main plot. I wanted, instead, to talk about children, justice, prevention, politics, human potential, the way it actually is, and the way it could be.

It was beyond my comprehension that the state of abundance at Norcroft could bring about a request for even more, but there was a blackboard on the kitchen wall where the writers were invited to request anything the caretaker failed to provide. Fresh mangoes. Black beans. Sweet corn. Cadbury chocolate bars.

The blackboard grated on me. Amy’s Enchiladas. (Peeled and deveined) shrimp. One-half pound of salted pecans. Granola without raisins. Nearly every day, one of my three housemates found something deficient in the copious riches, and felt called upon to fill the blackboard with more, more, more,which seemed to me both insulting and excessive.

After the first thirty minutes at Norcroft, I retreated to my room, and sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed. I viewed the hand-made quilt, the polished desk, and the profusion of perfectly-tended flowers outside the window. My first five silent words at Norcroft were: I do not belong here.

To assuage the feeling of not belonging, (which often passes after I settle into new situations), I busied myself with setting up my assigned writing shed. It took only a few minutes before the familiar triad of fingers, mind, and blank page intersected, but my thoughts were disorganized, running over with stupid questions that had nothing to do with why I was there. Who was the owner, and why did she do this? How much did all that food cost, and how long would it last? How did the caretaker feel about that blackboard? Wasn’t she glad when all the never-enough writers just went home and she had the place to herself again? Who were the other women I was sharing a home with? Who else has been in this shed, and what did they write?

I pulled out a postcard and wrote to my daughter. “It is beautiful here,” I said, and it was not a lie. “I am glad I came,” which was half-true. “I think I’ll get a lot done,” which I knew was bordering on a lie.

Days passed. In the silence of the sunlight hours, more postcards were written, several books were read, and I fumbled horribly, distracted by everything from clusters of black flies to a stack of personal notes left behind by another writer, a self-described woman of stone who was into the howls of lone wolves and ancient scarification rites.

In the evening, I gathered around the fireplace with other women for readings, and tried my best to curb my facial expressions, which are always spontaneous, and almost always totally transparent.

Of the writers there, one told a story that really resonated with me. Her words were strong and truthful, and outside of a few minor dips into sappy territory, her story powerful. Later, she would inform me that the story I liked had been rejected by over 40 literary publications. Two other women, whose words struck me as overripe and overly styled, were the most widely published. They were, of course, academics. Academia provides a prolific and unabashedly incestuous network, where editors frequently publish the works of their students, friends and colleagues, without much regard for talent or story.

Years ago, a friend shared the line of a poem with me, (from Marianne Williamson I think), that says “love brings up everything unlike itself.” I recalled that line in 2000, as I sat on a plush couch, in front of a crackling fireplace, watching women – real women, who lived real lives – roll their eyes at anything approaching realism, while exuberantly and passionately scribbling the poetry of pale gold moons and sensual riptides.

In the mystical space of Norcroft, in the midst of abundance and excessive generosity, among women who were more moved by birch trees than by even their own human experience, I felt more disconnected, more alone, and spiritually poorer than I had ever felt.

When approached about the anthology, I knew that writing about my Norcroft experience would be like punching an iron fist through a precious bedtime story. My hard-wired attachment to all the human things would run roughshod over the fawning adjectives others reserved for nature. I suspected that if my submission were included, it would be a black stain in an otherwise sunlit book.

Not wanting to cast a pall over other people’s euphoria, I set the request aside.

The other night, while at a restaurant, a fellow Norcroft alumni found me and literally bounded over to my table, her Burberry scarf flying, her bangles jingling. She spoke with a hyperbolic kind of happiness, like there should be multiple exclamation points after each long, vividly detailed sentence.

In contrast, by way of comparison, I felt like a real bitch. I had no words heady enough to match her enthusiasm for our common experience so many years ago.

If love brings up everything unlike itself, then certainly nature does, too.

I still find it odd, though, that under the bluest of skies, among the loftiest of pines – in the center of God’s most perfectly drawn universe – some will run from their own natural or realistic place in the schematic. Instead of studying human nature in raw form, they will metamorphose the ancient and unchangeable nature of everything else. They will choose, instead of self-examination, to reinvent the nature of trees.

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