Thursday, February 14, 2013

Middle Child Syndrome - M.M. Vellturo


“Middle Child Syndrome”
Everyone is special. Right? Everyone’s unique. Individual finger prints, differentiated voice patterns, personal perspectives, all that jazz. But when you get right down to it, having seven billion individuals with fourteen billion special talents and forty-nine billion important problems, it just doesn’t mean all that much. ‘Everyone’s unique’ is just the glass-half-full way of saying that nobody is.
Janie has OCD, Joey has ADHD, Johnny’s still 5’3”, and Jenny – well she’s in middle school. Jill has OCD, ADHD, bi-polar disorder, anxiety, depression, and she’s in middle school. Tommy’s dyslexic, Tammy’s anorexic, Carver’s diabetic, and Isabelle’s tall. Xavier has asthma and Lisa’s double-jointed. Grandpa’s blind and drinks like a fish, Dad’s being asked to work for the President, and Evana’s band is recording its first album. Kara can cut hair, Charlotte’s bilingual, and Roger now goes by the name Random. Jorge is Hispanic, Sarah’s got allergies, and the lead in the play has a cold. And mom – well, mom’s raising Jill, Jenny, and Random.
And me? I go to a small liberal arts college. I have four close friends and thirteen farther friends. I keep my GPA above a 3.0 and my plants well-watered. I know three and a half songs on the piano. I volunteer. I work. I call my mother once a week. I do my laundry on Saturdays. My hair is brown, my bank account is stable, and my skin gets itchy in January.
It’s a stretch just trying to list the things that make me unique. One of my thumbs is larger than the other. I have an irrational fear of cotton balls. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to cayenne pepper. I talked to God once, though I think most people have at one point or another. I’ve felt the merciless hands of a panic attack close around my lungs, but then again, who hasn’t? I breathe, I blink, I live my life to the best of my abilities. It just so happens that my abilities are moderately decent. Not great, not lousy.
Just somewhere in the middle.
When you fall somewhere in the middle, you tend to slip through the cracks. After all, it’s hard to see that brown-haired girl buried between Janie and Johnny. No envious or critical adolescent whispers behind a cupped hand as you pass. Not to mock, nor to praise. Teachers never learn your name, not for the honor list nor for the detention one. No one ever really looks at you at all. There’s never much reason to.
You’re the defense on the field, the extra in the play, the middle of the curve. No goals, just saves. No melodies, just harmonies. No awards, no tutors, just piles of books to read.
You never cause your mother to cry. Not even when you walk down the aisle in that cap and gown, because what’s so special about that? The tears flow when your junky brother scrapes his diploma, and when your sister gets valedictorian, but you should be happy. You never made your mother cry. You never made her so sad, never made her so proud.
No one blows the whistle. No one shines the spotlight. Why should they? You’re not winning, you’re not drowning. You’re not center stage or running away. No one tries to find you when you’re not lost. And no father is going to stick around when you can’t give him cause enough to stay.
Would he have stayed if I’d given him a reason to? A state-championship trophy, an ivy-league acceptance letter, a suicide attempt, perhaps? Something that meant something? The point is moot. He did leave, and I had nothing with enough value to bring him back.
We’re running the race. We’re not fastest, we’re not slowest, but we’re trotting along somewhere in the middle, and somehow we seem to miss the cups of water that people are holding out from the sidelines. But we’re running the same distance as everyone else. We’re going somewhere, too. We just have to bring our own water bottles.
We’re never the reason for sadness, or pain. We’re never the reason for drama, or anxiety. We’re never the reason for surprise or redemption or celebration. We’re never the reason for anything. Before we know it, we look down, and see that we’ve faded. We’re disappearing.
We start to wish we had problems; because then, at least we would have something. Something that people can see. We are willing to risk getting lost so that maybe, for one brief moment, we could know what it is like to found. If we’re not going to win the race, we might as well trip and fall and get taken care of. Considering we’re not getting the A+, we would take the F and tolerate the disappointment, so that maybe someone’s eyes would fall on us. And see that we’re not really in the middle at all. We’re on the outskirts. That maybe we need some help too, sometimes.
There’s only so much energy shooting around our universe, as every high school student learns in physics class. You can’t get rid of it; you can get more of it. There’s only so much energy you have to focus on other people.
Some people just shine brighter than others, and absorb the energy that’s there. There are seven billion unique individuals, and not enough attentive energy to go around. We jogging somewhere in the middle run on our own energy, derived from the uncertain supposition that we prefer our current position to sprinting along in front or tripping up the rear, and the desperate hope that somehow, in the grand scheme of things, our perseverance and self-sustenance will prove us to be, in some twist of logic, actually the most unique of all.

M.M. Vellturo

You are a fish out of water when everything that you thought made you the person you are gets stripped away from you and you end up with nothing but the person you actually are. Some people actively seek this experience to find themselves, others are forced to experience it, and still others never truly experience it at all.

"Memories Ingrained" and Sudoku" - Joe Oppenheimer


Memories Ingrained

Ingrained memories of kids
drawing, writing, doodling -
pushing dull pencils, sticks -
on the old pine topped
kitchen table. 

Left marks - as
from too hot                                       
pots, and cuts
from too dull
choppers.

Bringing yesterday
into today.

Until after 30 years
refinishing leaves them
in sawdust
vacuumed – 

Amounting to nothing
but newly
glossy surfaces.

Sudoku




Anna sat and mused.
Daily puzzles used
to ensure her mind’s agile,
to certify life’s non-fragile.
Numbers go in rows, lines:
ones, fours, fives, nines.

Anna, in her wheelchair slows –
as she sees, as she knows,
rules quickly flee her head
leave her alone, filled with dread.
Now numbers without rhyme
make senseless rows of nine.

Next, she awaits aides,
to wheel them all
to a TV room,
down a hall,
like numbers with no reason,
tossed –
persons in a wintry season
lost. 

"Sharing" and "War on Terror" - Joe Oppenheimer


Sharing

Frowning.
Hand in hand.
Walking.
Even though
they're not
talking –
and don't
like life or
each other.


      War on Terror

Grey haired lady
by the dairy –
phones in ears:
can’t hear
my “ ’Scuse me!”

I touch her
shoulder
lightly,
Bringing
“Oh, please, God!”

With a prod
I move
her basket.
She yells,
“Go away!”
I do:

A terrorist
escapes
in the local
Safeway.