Tag Archives: Alcoholism

Jun 8 2012

No Nostalgia November

School was out for Thanksgiving. Most the kids in the neighborhood were playing outside. Many of them riding their bikes up and down the sidewalks. I liked playing by myself most of the time and much of my play was serious business. I decided that it was my job to protect the ants that lived beneath the sidewalk in front of our house. My front line defense was formed by sitting in the center of the cement square where they emerged from the ground. A tiny sand pyramid had sprouted between two cement sidewalk squares. Their door was at the top of the bitty crater where fire ants poured out into the day like lava from a volcano.

I liked watching them scurry around. Stumble like they were drunk trying to carry pebbles and crumbs bigger than they were down into their home. I liked imagining what it must be like down there, was worried that a mommy ant would get stepped on or run over.  Her babies left alone, they’d be scared. Wonder what happened to their mama. So I claimed their square as my domain, which placed me right smack in the way of anyone who wanted to pedal past our house. When kids tried to make their way through I insisted they go around me, which required them to drive on the grass making a few of them crash. Most times they called me a  stupid retard then went around. Every now and then someone would try to usurp my position by threatening to run over me with their bike. Refusing to move, my sister and brother would come to my defense; lure them away from me by starting up some sort of game.

Mom was busy in the kitchen getting ready for Thanksgiving. When I went in the house to pee I could smell the sage and rosemary she used in her stuffing. Pumpkin pies baking in the oven. When she wasn’t looking I snatched a handful of miniature marshmallows she’d poured on top of her sweet potatoes. Her beer can sat in a puddle of sweat on the counter. She had the radio on. The newsman was talking about the movie star who was now our Governor. When my mom turned her back to rinse out a bowl I grabbed a handful of the stuffing, jammed it in my mouth. She took a drag off her cigarette then set it in the ashtray so she could stir the stuffing. Smoke blew out of her mouth and nose like puff the magic dragon.

When us kids went to bed dad still wasn’t home from work. Laying in the dark I listened to mom cleaning up the kitchen. Could hear the whispering snap of her beer cans opening, smell her cigarettes. The nine o’clock news was just coming on when I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up to explosions, heart pounding against my chest like a drum. Dark. Dad’s words coming through the wall like bullets, “You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you!” Then something else blows up. Glass shattering, mom’s body thudding against a wall. Crying.

Us kids knotted together in the same bed listening to the battle. Hot. Our bodies feel like we’re melting. Sticky skin. Can’t breathe. Twisted tight together everything including our heads tucked beneath the blankets. Buried alive we wait for it to stop. When it doesn’t we cover our ears real tight. Fall back to sleep.

Morning. Sun kissing my face, birds singing. Like a punch in the belly my mind flashes back to the bombs. Untied, but still in the same bed, my brother and sisters are sleeping. I’m careful not to wake them when I climb off the bed.

Mom and dad are nowhere in sight. I can’t put my finger on it but sense something essentials been erased. A fist inside my chest squeezes my heart. I think mom’s dead. The chandelier in the living room hangs lopsided, the only thing connecting it to the ceiling are black and red wires. No bulbs. Glass all over the living room carpet, couch turned over, TV face down on the floor.

I find three stray cats perched on the kitchen counter. Trying to shoo them away I swing my arm, making them snarl, hiss at me. Growling under their breath, they rip pieces off the thawing Thanksgiving turkey.  All that’s left of the kitchen window is a few sharp shards in the corners of the frame. Food splattered, dripping down the walls. Cups, plates and silverware tornadoed around the room. All I can think about is what we’ll eat for dinner.

Jun 7 2012

Holy Shit it’s Christmas Eve

After we moved to Utah when I was nine Christmas Eve was never the same. Our family went to my father’s aunt Edna and Uncle Pete’s house but we didn’t dress up. There was nothing special about being there and there was no other kids. If there was a tree I don’t remember it. I know we had dinner but my mind goes blank when I try to remember what we ate. The bright spot was grandma Bestemor. This is what we called her although it’s like saying grandma grandmother being that Bestemor means grandmother in Norwegian. She was kind but old so she couldn’t get around very well. I used to like sitting on her lap. She bounced me on her leg while she sang songs in Norwegian.

Mom, dad,  Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete sat around and drank most of the night. Grandma Bestemor went off to bed early. I was always nervous when we were there. Things almost always ended in a fight. And the fights were more times than not physical. I worried about who was going to drive us home. Seventy miles from our house both my parents drunk. I also worried just the way I did in California that Santa would come while we were away. That he’d think no one lived in our house and fly right past. All the fear gave me a stomach ache. Made me have to use the bathroom.

The last year we went to my aunt and uncles for Christmas Eve was the worst. Before we left to come home all the adults got into a big brawl. Dad jumped on moms back so my aunt jumped in to help her, making dad even madder. While he was lying on my mom, pinning her to the floor like a rug, he reached around behind his head, grabbed Aunt Edna by the hair and flung her off him like a rag doll. Uncle Pete jumped in to break them all up and somehow we made it to our car. As we drove away I looked out the back window. Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete were standing in their driveway watching us leave. I could see Aunt Edna’s blonde bun, normally neat as a Victorian ladies, dangling down the side of her bright red face.

On the way home mom and dad kept drinking. One thing led to another and they got into it. Us kids huddled together in the backseat as the car careened down the highway at seventy miles per hour. Trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen tree we pleaded with mom to shut up but she wouldn’t. She called dad a no good god damn drunk. Said she fuckin hated him. That he’d ruined all our lives. Dad kept telling her to shut up too but she continued slicing him to pieces with her tongue.

Suddenly the car screeched and veered sharply to the right as dad reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a gun. Cracking mom in the forehead with it he opened the door and shoved her out of the car. All I could hear was screaming then realized it was me. The car kept moving as we watched mom tumble head over heels down the embankment and out of sight.

Dad passed out as soon as we got home. Not knowing what else to do us kids hid out in our room. I tried to keep everyone calm but all I could think about was what was going to happen to us now that mom was dead. Two or three hours had passed when I heard a vehicle pull up out front. When I looked out the window I could see that it was a police car. The cop, a guy I came to know as fat Tad was slid way over on the passenger side with mom. Her shirt was off and they were kissing.

May 17 2012

Liberty or Madness

It takes courage to be shadow; to go mad in a world

bent from being brave.

I drank. Like Alice

used drugs to shrink myself

to fit

into the tiny box marked good.

I trusted

when doctors said

the blue pill

would take away the bad dreams,

the purple one

the fear.

The white pill lifted

the weight of pain and

love poured over my parched heart

flooding my life;

so they saved me

with the yellow one.

It erased all the feelings

that come

when we realize

no amount of good

is going to save us.

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May 15 2012

Blacking Out a Bankrupt Life

When I was nine, my parents moved from Orange County California to Peoa Utah. Population maybe three hundred. It was 1969 and dad wanted to get us out of the city. Thought peopled gone nuts, that the world was headed to hell in a hand bag. He’d grown up in the Utah Mountain’s, his dream was to bring us up close to nature. My mom was a city girl, the move didn’t suit her at all.

My parents started spending their recreation time with my dad’s uncles and cousins on his mother’s side. Grandma was one of ten children. Her brother’s were rugged hard-drinking men who worked in the copper mines. Most of our time was spent with one of my dad’s distant cousin’s families. My mom got along well with his wife Donna. Even though we referred to them as our aunt and uncle, I personally never had any love or real concern for them.

When my mom had a car we went to their house in the city. It was where the family hung out and drank. Even though aunt Donna was easy-going as an overweight house cat, she ruled her roost. Anybody caused any trouble, including one of her five kids, she kicked them out. She also never cooked. Even though she worked, there was rarely anything to eat. The first thing her and mom would do on the weekends they got together, was go to the store for food so us kids and my dad could eat. Then the party’d begin.

I blacked out the first time I drank. I was around ten years old. On this particular weekend Donna, her husband Carl and their kids were staying at our house. Friday night Mom and Donna cooked up a big Chinese meal. The adults hung out drinking, smoking cigarettes and listening to country music. Mom always danced. It made me mad when I watched her sashaying around the house all sexy like. Saturday night the adults all went out to the local bar, something mom rarely did. Donna barely combed her hair, but mom fixed herself up pretty. Lips painted Oslo Orange, she left the house excited as a teenager headed to a prom.

When they came home dad dragged mom into the house by her hair. She had a tendency to be french kiss friendly with guys at the bar, which dad didn’t like. Trying to calm him down only made him worse. He tried to beat an apology out of mom, while Donna tried to distract him from his jealous anger, by reasoning and joking with him. Uncle Carl, an impotent sickly thin wino, hid out in the bedroom with us kids.

At first I hated hanging out with them. Everything felt out of control, unpredictable, but when they hung out Mom was happier than usual. She flounced around, joking and flirting with my aunt’s oldest son, and my dad’s uncle Freddy. I once caught her in a lip lock with him. When I walked in the kitchen she got real mad at me. She was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs spread, he was standing between them. They were kissing with their mouths open.

Donna had hair the color of a Robin’s breast, didn’t get dressed before noon, and was seriously overweight. For breakfast she cracked a beer. Her kids, although not much older than I was, were what I considered to be degenerates’. They all drank, smoked cigarettes, and weed.

Until I started drinking and smoking with them, I was bored when we were together. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the constant uneasiness I felt, knowing the weekend would end in violence. Which eventually ended the visits. Since these wild weekends were our families only social connection to the outside world though, when they ended I missed them. Was angry at my aunt Donna for refusing to deal with my father’s violence. Felt abandoned.

Us kids, except for my aunt’s oldest son who hung out with the adults, found things to entertain ourselves. Early one spring we decided to go tubing in the Provo River. The icy water raged, rapids peaked at six or eight feet high. The day was terrifying, several of us nearly drowned. My brothers blue eyes, sky wide with terror, laughed hysterically through choking gasps. Purple lips. My tube got stuck under a boulder, slamming my head hard, it knocked me silly.

Walking back to my parent’s trailer frozen stiff and blue as bruises, one of Donna’s daughters pulled out a bottle of vodka. Another lit a joint. They next morning the pile of us came to and I panicked. There were red streaks running down both my legs, scraped raw from my scuffle with the river, I thought I had blood poisoning.

“I’ve got blood poisoning!” I shrieked frantically.

This made the rest of them howl like a pack of hyenas.  “You got the munchies last night, ate everything in sight. “That’s Kool-Aid,” they bellowed.

Apr 23 2012

SOS

In a black out

I reach for my son

soldier, in my war

on drugs.

I fumble

with the tiny keypad

on my phone.

I try

to type a note

to say something;

I don’t remember?

Grasping for him

has become

the only

predictable thing

I do.

Like calling an old lover

after too much wine

lonely; I hunger

for someone

who knows me

someone to keep me

from reaching

the point I reach

while I talk merrily

sipping poison

that erases memories.

Mar 30 2012

Bucket Battles and Baby Dolls

I am the only child of five to have brown eyes, brunette hair. Like my father. Like my father’s mother. My brothers and sisters are blonde and blue-eyed. I should clarify that they were all blonde when we were children. My younger sisters thick mane turned light brown as she got older. I was also the only girl of three who liked playing with dolls.  I don’t remember being disappointed because dolls were always blond and blue-eyed. Nor do I remember asking for a doll that had brown eyes. I doubt I even considered that there was such a thing. I was awed when my mother gave me my brown-eyed brunette Madame Alexander baby doll for Christmas. An extravagant gift for our family. Although I didn’t know that at the time.

It was supposed to have come from Santa, but I knew it was a gift, a message from my mother to me. I was not an easy child to please. I didn’t pretend I was excited about or liked something I didn’t. My brothers and sisters were acutely aware of what mom wanted them to feel.  They became adept at pretending they were thrilled by whatever they received. That way mom didn’t have to give it another thought. Her duty performed, she could move on.  I made things much more difficult for my mom.  She couldn’t tolerate what she considered my unreasonable selfish demands.

My refuge from the chaos and fighting in our home was playing house. My dolls were my children. I made sure I kept them safe and always meticulously met their needs. Feeding, changing, and rocking them to sleep. Tucking them into my dresser drawers, their cribs.  I muttered reassuring promises as I scurried around my bedroom house, “I will never let anyone hurt you.”

I made my brothers and sisters knock at the door before they could enter my home. Before I let them in they had to promise to be careful and quiet while they were visiting. Which wasn’t often. They thought I was a kook. I spent hours held up alone in my room with my babies. Singing them to sleep, then cleaning and organizing ‘our’ home.  To me, my dolls were as alive as I was.

I don’t remember how old I was the Christmas my brown-eyed baby was born. I was strong enough to pick up and swing a five gallon bucket half full of coal at my father’s head. It was Christmas Eve. My parents were drunk and fighting. Somehow the battle ended up outside in the driveway. Dad pounced on top of my moms back. His hand, a claw gripping the back of her scalp; he was grinding her face into sharp shards of stone that covered the driveway.

When the bucket hit the side of his face he barely flinched.  Not sure what hit him he searched madly for the culprit. Springing to his feet he spun around, locking his wild eyes on me.  I launched the coal bucket into the trees and took off for the house!  To this day I have no idea how I managed it. I squeezed myself into the space between the wall and the hot water heater which was only about four inches wide. Stuffed into the crack like wood putty, I held my breath. He stormed through the door! The moon shining through window gave everything an eerie blue glow. He raged through the room. To look under the bed he flipped the mattress and box spring upside down.  He tore the closet apart, tearing clothes from hangers, ripping the rod right out of the wall. I could hear his snorting breath. Smell beer, his musk, my fear, as he frantically searched for me.  He saw me go into the my room and knew there was no way for me to escape. It was an old house and all the windows were painted shut. When he couldn’t find me he flipped on the light.  Stood silent as death, listening for my breathing, he sniffed the air like a wolf. Finally, the light went out and he was gone. After he passed out my sister and I tried to squeeze ourselves into my hiding spot. No matter how much we sucked in our breath we couldn’t make our heads small enough to fit.

The next morning we all piled out of bed and headed for the tree. My parents sat mute with their coffee and cigarettes. My brothers and sisters pretended they were surprised and happy about what Santa had left under the tree.  No one said anything about mom’s black and blue face. Little frowns cut into her left cheek. Dad sat slumped over his coffee. Mom bruised, indignant.  Both seemed stunned. Trying to make it ok us kids erupted into neurotic yips and chatter. Christmas morning cheerleaders. Hey, did you see this? Wow! I can’t believe Santa remembered, I wanted this so much!  Big sad smiles plastered on our bewildered faces.

When I peeled back the wrapping paper, saw her, my brown-eyed baby, I was stunned. I don’t know why but I looked directly at my mother. She was studying my reaction, staring at me hard, as if to say, Is that good enough for you miss prissy? And indeed it was. I was delighted! She was the most beautiful doll I’d ever seen. The front of the box a clear plastic window. Carefully posed she was wired into place. It made me smile when I looked at her chubby beautiful face. Her tiny arms reaching for me. “She has brown eyes,” I squealed!

Dad gently cut her out of the box and carefully handed her to me. “Here ya go honey.”  Her dress, the most beautiful dress I ever saw, a delicate butter colored chiffon. I was dazzled by her matching silk booties and the beautiful bow that adorned her coffee-colored hair.  Her wrinkled feet and hands curled like someone was tickling her and I felt loved.

Mar 28 2012

Dancing Societies Shadows

Memoirs are the back stairs of history. ~ George Meredith

***

As I move forward with my memoirs I am aware of the extreme discomfort parts of my material causes for some of you, my valuable witnesses. It seems there are various opinions about the genre. Some seem to think I write as some sort of personal therapy. A way to work out “my problems.” And indeed, getting into it does help me to sort out facts from fiction. Which when you think about it is interesting, as what I perceive as fact, another may perceive as fiction. I think that at least in part, that’s because we have been taught to edit out certain facts. Just the way we edit certain facts from our history books. Those who insist on staying closer to the bone, more times than not, are silenced. Or they learn to write in code,  like a poet. I admire and play with poetry but find it doesn’t always serve the greater public when it comes to making history honest.  

Then there are those who interpret my reactions, feelings, and memories,  as “demons.” As if in some way, because of what happened, I am possessed. That the writing is a sort of exorcism. I believe that puritanical mind-set to be down right dangerous. So typical of our smoke and mirrors society. To discredit the victim is an age-old tactic that allows  perpetrators to continue to get away with it. Like priests who violate children, who then grow up feeling dirty, unworthy because they were convinced that they wanted it. When they began to come out of the shadows there were people who accused them of sinning for telling the truth!  Women who have been raped many times are raped again, physically, psychically, for telling the truth. They are considered suspect until the rapist is proven guilty. Forced to prove they didn’t want it. Deserve it. Cause it.  And in my case it’s the thousands of children who grow up with violent insane alcoholic parents. Live in homes where the unspeakable is a daily occurrence. But if we choose to tell, we are breaking that all important Commandment: Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. No matter what.

I have heard that you are only as sick as your secrets. My experience is that this is true. I have also heard that the nature of insanity is that it can’t be fixed. It must be given up. Another term for my so-called demons has been crazy. Insane. I believe that writing my memoirs is my way of giving the insanity up.

I also want to address those who feel I am doing it because  I have an ax to grind. That I am violating the age-old motto that “Some things are better left unsaid.”  Why I ask are they better left unsaid? And for who? It seems to me that child abuse, alcoholism, and drug addiction [including prescription drugs], all the secondary issues that arise as a result, are just another layer of the facade of the American Dream. The lie that families in America are always good and right and happy.  Mom and dad know,  and then do what’s best. If yours didn’t, they don’t count. And you don’t count because you must have done something to cause it. We are the shadows dancing in the huge cracks of that facade.

***

Every work of literature has both a situation and a story. The situation is the context of the circumstance, sometimes the plot; the story is the emotional experience that preoccupies the writer: the insight, wisdom, the thing one has come to say. ~ Vivian Gornick

Mar 27 2012

Taking Up Arms

Us kids huddled together in the dark bedroom we shared.  The caboose, the end room, on my parent’s single wide trailer house. Our room was meant to be the master bedroom, the largest on the train. Me, my sister, and both my brothers shared the same space. Spent plenty of nights curled together in a double bed, listening to the fighting.

We rarely ventured out to see what was happening. Fell asleep to screaming slugs. By the time the sun came up, mom would have the broken dishes, food dripping from the walls and ceiling, beer cans and overflowing ashtrays cleaned up. Our job was to pretend nothing happened.

That night was different. The sounds pounding down the walls, more guttural. More dangerous than usual. I being the oldest went to investigate. When I reached the mouth of the narrow short hall, I could see that dad had mom backed against the stove in her cubicle kitchen. He was holding something in his hand.

“I’ll bash your fucking face in you god damn whore!”

“Dad!” I hollered, charging toward the kitchen. “Dad! Stop! DAD!” I watched in horror as he shoved the handle of the hammer hard into my mother’s mouth. Heard teeth crack. Blood pouring from her face. I raced for my parent’s bedroom where I knew my dad kept his guns. My intention clear. Kill my father. My brothers and sister clamored, clinging, begging, screaming, “Do something! Not that! Help mom! Stop dad!”

I didn’t know how to load the gun so I ordered my younger sister to do it. “Load the god damn gun!” I commanded, shoving the rifle into her hands.

“I can’t,” she said, almost pleading.

“He’s gunna kill her this time! Load it!”

“No! I can’t, please Leslie.”

Jerking the gun from her terrified fists I ran to save my mom. My stance, solid, a desperate child soldier. Twig arms shaking, I raised the barrel of the 30.06. Neither parent noticed I had infiltrated their war. When I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Drop the hammer!” they were both shocked. Calculated as a sniper I aimed the empty rifle directly at my father’s forehead. Time stood still. Silent. Like animals we waited to see who would make the next move.  I was surprised by their faces. Stunned. Fearful as elicit lovers busted for their crime.

I watched as my father’s eyes changed. Deadly. Suddenly, like a mountain lion, he lunged for me! I dropped the gun. Took off on a dead run, leaping the wrought iron banister, like a deer running for my life, I loped toward the back door! “You little bitch, I’m gunna fuckin kill you! Who the fuck do you think you are you little cunt! Get back here! STOP!

He caught me by my ponytail with his jaw fists! Yanked me off my feet, I landed flat on my back. Couldn’t breathe. He on top of me, punching me in the stomach, the face, yanking my hair. Snarling teeth, “I’m gunna kill you, you no good little bitch!” He tore out my ponytail and I blacked out.

In and out of consciousness during the attack I remember hearing my mother tell my brother to go get my grandfather. “Hurry!” she shrieked. I heard my grandfather tell my father that I’d had enough. That I’d learned my lesson.

Then I was sitting in a line up with my brothers and sister on the couch. My father stood in front of us with the gun. He loaded a shell into the chamber, locked the bolt. Starting with my five-year old brother he growled, “Do you want to kill your father?”

A tiny little voice uttered, “No.”

Moving on to my seven-year old brother he shoved the gun toward him, his voice getting louder, “Do YOU want to kill your father? Leslie wants to kill your father. Do YOU?” Four hollow bodies visibly vibrating with terror.

“No dad.”

When he got to me I fainted.

Mar 26 2012

Inspired to Teach

A few months back my family and I went to see Taylor Mali read at a theatre in a city not to far from us. He is the king of spoken word poetry and became famous for a poem he wrote titled, What Teachers Make.  Caught up in his quick-witted humor I laughed through the entire reading. I also felt uneasy for some reason.

I woke up at 2:00 am to the voice of Lily, one of the protagonists in another of  Mr Mali’s poems titled, Like Lily Like Wilson. Mr Mali talks alot about the importance of kids. That it’s important that teachers inspire them.


Dear Mr Mali:

Like the nation, where like millions of people will starve this year. I was so inspired by your performance last night that I decided to act like a verb, take some action, and like write you this letter. This is big for me because I’m like usually more of a noun, more of like a thing.

I listened to you very closely Mr Mali. Giving you my undivided attention, because that’s like what you said you and other teachers like want the most. I laughed a few times at your funny jokes. You are really smart and handsome with your long ponytail.  I saw some YouTube videos of you with short hair. I like wondered if you grew your hair out because you’re no longer a teacher, and like don’t have to worry about setting a good example. Not that a ponytail is like bad or anything.

I watched when you pulled money from your pocket and felt relieved to see that you, like my mom, only had one dollar bills. If I’m really honest, like you said I should be, I was surprised because you like talk a lot about all the places you like travel, so I thought you must be like rich.

Mr Mali, I need to tell you something. It made me feel like really weird in my belly, when you asked the kid in the front row if he would like take your money and get you a beer from the bar. Maybe that’s because it reminded me of my uncle, who pays me quarters to get him beers from the fridge, so he doesn’t have to like get off the couch. I’m not complaining it’s the only money I have. Mom tells me I should be grateful he is willing to pay me for something I should like be doing anyway. It made me feel happy when the bartender told you no. I hope you don’t like think I’m mean Mr Mali. It made me feel like I’m a weirdo when everyone but me like thought it was funny.

I asked my uncle once why he drank so many beers. He told me that it was so I didn’t like stress him out.  You said it was so the seven state Poet Laureates’ in the audience didn’t stress you out. My mom tells me she drinks so she doesn’t get like so stressed out she has a meltdown. I guess that’s like how it is when you grow up. Oh, and it was nice of you to like give that kid your pen. I wish I would’ve been in the front row.

Have you ever heard of alcoholism Mr. Mali? I read about it online.  Anyway I read that there are like 17.6 million adults in the United States that are alcoholic or have serious problems with alcohol. I like looked it up one night while I was waiting for my mom to come home, [when she like remembers to come home], from the bar where she like works. I know I’m probably a strange kid to be like looking up this kind of thing.  It’s just feels like I’m alone alot of the time. Like I’m the only kid that doesn’t think drinking is like fun. It’s like I’m the only one who gets real mad when I see people drink. I also count people’s drinks. I figured out that doing that helps me to know when things are going to go from like funny to angry. I always try to get my mom to stop at that point, but she like never does.

I counted your beers too. I’m holding up three fingers Mr Mali [smiley face]. In the just over ninety minutes you were on stage you drank like three beers. I only know how long you were up there because you asked someone if you like had been up there for ninety minutes already. Then you told us that a poet is like not supposed to do that. Which confused me. But I seem to get confused like alot these days. Then when everyone thought it was so funny I felt bad for not like thinking it was funny.  Actually, in reality, you finished two of them while you were on stage. The third one the bald guy with the glasses handed you, was like still half full when you were done.

I know, I’m like a weirdo, a thing, like I said, but I got real mad when you started to slur your words. You’re supposed to have more respect for words than that Mr Mali! You’re like supposed to understand that words, the thoughts that form the words, are like things. So you were creating blurry things! You seemed to love the beer more than you loved the words; smacking and licking your lips, swallowing slow, savoring each drink. Making jokes about like not closing the bar. I wondered if it was guys like you that kept my mom working longer than she was supposed to. Which made me hate you. I’m sorry Mr Mali.

You mentioned that your poem, What Teachers Make had like over three million hits on YouTube. I looked it up and to be exact it has like 3,222,557. For some reason that got me thinking about a song that Rhianna sings called Drink To That. Have you like heard of it? Anyway I went to her YouTube Video and she has like 34,261,329 views. I think you should invite her to the Bowery Poetry Club and have a slam. She isn’t technically a rapper, which reminds me of slam poetry, but she has like done lots of songs with rappers. She did one with Eminem, you’ve probably like heard of him. They did one that made me like think of all the screwed up stuff that like happens in my family when people drink too much. Eminem has also written songs about like getting sober. I wonder if he is telling the truth. And after watching you tonight I’m like wondering even more.

Are there any grown-ups anywhere that like don’t drink? Why am I so angry Mr Mali? Why does everyone seem to think the thing that terrifies me the most [drinking], is like so fun and funny? Drinking scares me like almost more than the things my uncle does to me like late at night, after everyone but him has like passed out. No quarters for that. Is there anyone anywhere who like cares about this Mr Mali? Or is it true what my mom says when she’s like drunk and sad. Lily, she says, the sooner you figure this out the better. What you think and feel doesn’t make a god damn difference! Time to grow the fuck up little girl.

Yours truly,

Lily