Ought To Bees ~ a monologue

I hate the Ought-to-bees! Church folk at Belle Chasse Baptist always talk about how I ought to be. Like, “You ought to be a better role model.” Half of them think I really am a role model! Like, they pray their kids turn out just like me and hold me up for an example. You know their kids hate me for that. Shuh! And other half? They call me a problem child in need of better home training. Whatever!

It is so hard being the Pastor’s daughter. Like, it’s hard just to make friends my own age. Take Shane Guidry. I mean, we are friends. I just wish we could be better friends. Shane Guidry is smart, like me. At Christian school, we’re both way ahead of everybody else in our workbooks. And Shane's always neat. He keeps his shoes as clean as his Bible. But even though we’re friends, still, he’s kinda stand-offish.

Or take that Vardimin Huckabee. Puh-lease! I trust Vardimin Huckabee about as far as I can throw him. And that ain’t far. Ok, there was this one time I thought we might date, but that was a whole year ago! I was twelve! No uh-uh, not anymore. Vardimin’s mean. He always did play too rough. Like this one time, when we was all seven-years-old—that was our first year at Christian school—Vardimin Huckabee put sand inside my panties. Boy, was my mama mad! Everybody was in trouble with Mama that day. Even my daddy was in trouble. And he’s the Pastor! Oh, Mama was all shouting about “boys need better male role models!” So whatever was going on between Vardimin and Shane, I know it’s rough. And I just think, well, Shane has had enough rough in his lifetime already.

I mean, I already know the truth about Shane, despite all my protestations to Daddy, Mama, or anybody else at Belle Chasse Baptist. Oh I can still hear Sister Charlotte Purtell—she’s my mama’s best friend—teasing me, "A pastor’s daughter ought to be selective about whom she chooses for her first beau," she says. "How ‘bout that cute little Brother Shane?” She looked at the other church women and laughed. “I hear tell he’s a faerie nice guy!" Sister Charlotte’s sense of humor really sets my teeth on edge. She always teases me like that, boyfriend jokes, in front of other church women whenever Mama's not in earshot. 'Sides, there's nobody at Belle Chasse Baptist I want for a first beau.

So I nurtured my suspicion about Shane and Vardimin all last semester at Christian school. And then, when it was time for Spring term crawfish boil, I confronted him. I don’t know where I got the gall, maybe it was adrenaline, but I dragged Shane into the church side-yard where I could ask him privately about what was up with Vardimin. “Are y'all sexual?”

Shane denied it, vehemently, but eventually he broke down, all harried by my persistance. I get that complaint a lot. But finally, Shane confided the truth to me. “Don’t tell your daddy!” he begs, all panic-stricken. Like, why would I tell my daddy?

So I don’t know, maybe it was adrenaline, but I just asked him outright, “Shane, does your father ever beat you up?” I mean, Shane always seems so scared, like he winces whenever church men shout "Amen!" too loud. But my friend would not even answer that question at all. Clamped shut his jaw. I stood by and watched the vision in Shane Guidry's hazel-green eyes turn inside. I tapped his shoulder. “Bubba, what is it?”

Well once I got at home, I decided to talk to my daddy, the Pastor, anyhow. I changed out from my good Sunday jumper my mama made me, and put on a boy’s tank top and culottes. Daddy doesn’t like me to wear tank tops; but Mama says it’s ok because I haven’t developed my boobies yet. 

Then I tip-toed into Daddy’s private retreat, his sanctuary, his home office in the tool shed. I felt just like Queen Esther, fearfully entering the court of King Ahasereus in order to save my people. I guess it was adrenaline. Cuz with the same gall I had confronted Shane about his father, I now beseeched my own father to intercede on Shane’s behalf.

Daddy was leaning sideways in his office chair, the one with the missing wheel. His big head cocked to the side listening to me in disbelief like I was Balaam’s talking donkey. And when I finished talking, Daddy just shook his big head slowly side-to-side. “That Shane Guidry,” he says, “sure is one confused young fella.”

But I blurted out in Shane’s defense, "You would be confused too if your father hid behind the door when you got home from Christian school and surprised you with a weight lifting belt!"

Daddy sat bolt upright, despite his leaning chair. “Now Sharon Rose Buchanan,” he tells me, “Brother Guidry is just more strict as a parent than me or Mama. Some parents use corporal punishment to teach their kids right behavior. That is their prerogative. But you and your brother Bobby, y'all never get spanked. Mama and me don’t believe in corporal punishment. So of course you think spanking is abuse.”

Prerogative? Shuh! I knew better than that. “A weight lifting belt?! I know what that’s called!” I was just besides myself, trying not to cry. “Daddy, I’m scared for my friend. Can’t you do nothing?” 

“Like what could I do?,” he says. Daddy seemed harried by my persistence too. 

I faked a smile, holding back my tears. “You’re the Pastor," I said. "You influence people. You could talk to Brother Guidry?” Underneath my fake smile though, I prayed Daddy would see the real distress I felt for my friend. I wanted him to pull me by the waist into a hug like when I was a little girl.

But he didn’t do that. Daddy didn’t hug me. He just thought for a while. “I tell you what," he finally says, "here’s what I will do. I will write a Bible study for this Wednesday night, explore the topic of corporal punishment, using scripture.”

I wailed. "Spare the rod?!"

“Yes!” Daddy says, definitely harried. “But other scripture too, like provoke not thy child to wrath. I will debate the topic of corporal punishment from the pulpit, both sides, with scripture. Try to set some reasonable boundaries.”

I winced at my own gall. “Will you mention the weight lifting belt?” Even Mama knows to back down when Daddy has that look in his eyes, like King Ahasereus, or Moses.

Through tight jaws and clenched teeth, my father just says to me, “I will be very, very clear, my dear." And then, he turned me around by my shoulders, pointed me out the exit of the tool shed, and swatted my butt.

Shuh!

Well I’m thirteen now. And maybe I don’t always know how things ought to be. And maybe I never will become the best role model in the land. But I do know one thing for sure, that's how to be a good friend. And right about now, I think Shane Guidry sure could use a friend.

The Final .2 Miles

This is a newer draft of a poem I began during National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) in April. You can see an earlier draft in the blog entries below. This poem still needs work, but it's approaching what I intend:

The Final .2 Miles

The modern marathon is more than 26 miles long.

It is 26.2, to be precise. The .2 added

because a young queen wanted to greet the runners 

of the first modern marathon at the ornate gates of Buckingham palace.

Flash-forward 50 years. Hawaii, 
inside the chain-link fence enclosing Moana Loa shopping center.

where 26 thousand anxious runners are lining up in the pre-morning dark of pre-morning, 
hopping in place or rolling shoulders 

under the tendrils of falling sky flowers, the opening ceremonial fireworks.

Speeches I do not hear, crunching my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,

happy in my selection of moisture-wicking socks.

My feet fall into that familiar rhythm that I recognize from training.

When all of a suddenly, that shoeless Ethiopian who soon will win the race,

is already returnsing in the opposite direction, already at the mile 20 marker (for him)

grinning as he passes, his bare feet flapping on the sticky blacktop.

But Yet for me, yet, are two times over Diamond Head, our only hill, 
a volcano really, and then an the eternal stretch of featureless sky and Pali Highway and sky.

Porta-potty stops, more water and , more Cheerios.

Beide the Pali Highway, Llocal Hawaiians cheer us on., handing us banana halves and cups.

Someone hands me half of a banana.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner 

up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind, 

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.


Hours later, my turn finally arrives to pass that mile 20 marker for myself,

Momentary elation and relief are swallowed by the realization 
of not jut 6 more miles to run, but 6.2.

of 6.2 miles yet to go. And then at mile 26, still another .2 miles!

But everything I had apportioned out to sustain me over 26 miles,

is used up already, good intentions long-since gone, 
both water bottles empty. All my Cheerios are consumed.

Physical stamina? Depleted; and I run solely on emotional energy now, 
and that too wanes. My stomach, painfully bloated, sloshes with its own acids.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner 
up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind, 

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.

But the rubber band, or my imagination, stretched beyond the limit, 
snaps. And I am hurtled backward by impact with The Wall.
My left IT band is tearing away from the knee.

What fuel is left that I can use?

A whisper, the slightest suggestion inside me: Rage? 
Oh right. Raging against the dying of the light!

So many times in my life before, rage has served me well. 

Can rage carry me now, over what feels like 
the final .2 miles of life?

Because I am finishing this race! I have traveled too far--
600 miles in training and then 2 separate jets!
I endured the headaches and Plantar Fasciitis,

low blood sugar depressions, and the body certainty 
that long distance goals are really short distance goals 
when taken daily, one step, and then the next. 

Yes, rage! Even if I drag my bloody stump 

across that line, I will finish strong. I am a Finisher.

Although, I have not finished yet. I still earn 
every painful step of those final .2 miles 

before I will be greeted at the scrolling gate of an eternally ancient queen.

The marathon extends beyond my reach. But I know that sometimes

just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.

Genius in My Livingroom

Publication, it would seem, is a secondary concern

that a writer should consider only after
actually writing.

But validation, admiration, respect?

I mean, how long must I remain content

just a genius in my living room?

And love? Who does not want love?

But if love can be won, I haven't won it yet.

Validation, yes, some respect, and even admiration.

Plus head-wagging a-plenty. But love?
Really, I should look elsewhere.

Validation, admiration, and respect then.

To feel a part Of It All.

Not just feel, but to believe it.

To sit, crowded at the table with the other
VIPs, the other hungry young celebrities,
all of us scanning the ballroom, looking outward

instead of in, anxious to see and be seen, anxious
to feel Chosen, for someone to call

our names.

On Bayou Lafitte

The floating lands, folded by a storm surge,

rebounded with tides too saline

for Giant Blue Irises to thrive.

Yet these blue tenacious flowers do survive,

roots clutching at the certainty that change

is the nature of Nature, and that 
even Giant Blue Irises can rebound.

Musical Debut

Tonight is Dress Rehearsal for "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the Musical". This show marks my musical theater debut in New Orleans, this coming Friday night. I'm excited and proud to have come this far. Dress Rehearsal. I expect things to be harried and confused tonight, but overall very well-done. We've rehearsed our songs, practiced our set changes, lighting cues, and choreography. We're in good shape.

Me, I'm in good shape too. Dancing does wonders for my body and stamina. I feel pretty good. And proud to say I'm hanging in there with REAL dancers, some in their late teens. Fortunately, there are 2 levels of choreography in the show: REAL dancer choreography and simplified, mostly upstage in the back choreography for me and the other singer/actors. I rely on my female dance partners to guide me around, signal the next change, and maintain tempo. But otherwise, I'm DANCIN'!! In a show! Not bad for 42 years old.

There's a poem about the experience of dancing starting to form...

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 4

A poem a day is a chore, but overall, I'm happy with my progress. Even on days when I do not publish a poem, my mind is writing.

If you are reading this on Facebook, my revisions make a lot more sense on the actual blog (http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com) where you can see the colors at work. Bold white text is the original impulse on a particular day. Green text is revised after the first day. Gray text is deleted.

DAY 7


DAY 6


DAY 5

cloud of Sweet Olive


DAY 4

change is the nature
of Nature


DAY 3 ~ Bayou Lafitte

The floating lands,

folded by a storm surge,

return rebounded with tides too saline

for gGiant bBlue iIrises
to thrive

And yet they Yet these tenacious flowers
do survive, roots
clutching to the certainty knowledge that
change is the nature
of Nature

And that Giant Blue Irises
can also rebound.

DAY 2

DAY 1

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 3

Week 2 started strong, but then seriously dropped off. The poems were longer, more noticeably structured, and located firmly in New Orleans, sights and recent experiences. But then, nothing. Or perhaps I should say, too much. Too many thoughts swirling inside my head like a carousel, but no gold ring to grab hold of. It's times like these when my pocket-size notebooks are really handy to jot down snippets.

DAY 7 ~ Genius in My Living Room

How long can I be content
being just a genius
in my living room?

I know, pPublication
is a secondary concern for writers
after writing.
But validation, admiration, respect?
Love? Who doesn't want love?

But if love can be won,

I haven't won it yet.
Plenty of admiration though,
some respect, more copious eEncouragement, yes,

some respect, and even admiration. And yes
a bit of plenty of head-wagging.
But love? Really
I should look elsewhere.

Validation, admiration, respect...

To feel a part Of It All.
Not just feel it, but believe it.
To look outward
instead of
in.
CTo sit, crowded at the table with the other VIPs

with the the other, hungry young celebrities, all of us
scanning the ballroom, looking outward

instead of in, anxious to see

and be seen, anxious for someone to call

our names.

DAY 6


DAY 5


DAY 4 ~ The Final .2 Miles

A marathon is more than 26 miles long.
To be precise, it's 26.2. The .2 added
because a young queen wanted to greet
runners of the first modern marathon runners
at the gates of her palace.

At the line-up there are 26 thousand
of us, hopping in place with excitement,
under the falling sky flowers
of the opening ceremonial fireworks.
Speeches I don't hear. I eat
my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,
happy with my selection of moisture-wicking socks,
my feet falling into that pleasing rhythm
I recognize from training, when that barefoot Ethiopian
who soon will win won the race was is already returning,
grinning as he passesd me in the opposite direction,
flat feet flapping on the blacktop.

And when I finally see saw that 26 mile
marker for myself, my momentary upsurge of pride,
elation, and relief was are swallowed
by the realization of .2 miles
yet to go!. Oh no!

But everything I brought
to sustain me for 26 miles
I had have used up already,
all my good intentions gone,
both water bottles empty, and I had
consumed every bite-sized bit of energy bar
consumed, plus and all the Cheerios.

My physical stamina was is long-since depleted,
and I ran run solely on emotional energy now,
and that too wanes. was waning. fast

My right IT band was is tearing away
from the knee, and my stomach was is
painfully bloated painfully. What fuel was is left
that I could can use?

A tiny voice inside me whispers, Rage?.
Yes, of course, why not rage against the dying light?.
Like so many other times before, Wwhen all else fails me,
rage can carryiesd me over what felt feels like
the final .2 miles of my life.
Whatever works.

No one can ever take that away what I have accomplished
so far, from me, nor the understanding body certainty
that long distance goals
are really short distance goals
when taken daily, further divisible into
one step at a time, and then
the next.

I have am not finished yet. I earned am still earning
every painful step of these final .2 miles
before I can be greeted at the queen's gate of an ancient queen.
I still run the marathon, and know that sometimes
just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.


DAY 3


DAY 2


DAY 1