A Vivid Snapshot
Day tripping in time
One day, not long ago, I started organizing what was left of a collection of poems I wrote as a teenager. I was looking for one particular poem and never did find it. It was an assignment for, of all classes, the Glee Club. Our Glee Club wasn’t anything like the modern Glee Club featured on prime-time television. No, not even close! We had a short, slightly stocky young woman who wore dated dresses, and wore very little makeup teach our class. Today, I don’t remember if it was her first-year teaching at the high school I attended, only because it happened to be my first year at the new school.
Ms. Cook was soft-spoken, she had very rosy cheeks, a warm welcoming smile, and she genuinely cared about her students and their well-being in or away from class. Back in the 60’s, it wasn’t all about showmanship; we wore long choir robes in our school’s colors of emerald-green and white, we stood very still, we focused, and we sang. Period.
The reason I was looking for this particular poem is because it was the first poem I read orally that evoked a physical emotion as I read it. I remember being embarrassed, barely able to finish reading the last few lines. In between, with the black mascara streaking down my face and trying to get a grip on my runny nose, I looked up to see tears welling up in several of the other girls’ eyes, including the “mean girl” and my instructor’s. That’s when I realized my words invoked emotion in others. It was a lengthy poem with two voices, one of a son, Tom, the other was his mother. It was written in letter form, and the gist of the poem goes like this…the son joins the armed forces while the senseless Viet Nam War was going on, the son, Tom, asked his mother if…I lost a leg/legs…if I lost an arm/arms, and the mother’s reply was always, “I will always love you.” The poem ended with the loss of the Tom’s life and the mother’s mournful words.
If I hadn’t lost someone I loved, and another I cared for, to the meaningless and pointless Viet Nam War, maybe reading that poem on that afternoon in the school library may not have affected me as much and went on to read the poem without a hitch. On the other hand, I was always terrified about being in front of the class, but no, I’m sure the reason was the latter. I never did find that poem and I don’t know why I felt like it was imperative to find it; I haven’t thought about it in years. But the vivid snapshot of that memory was with me that day and I only needed to validate it.
Each and every time I sit down to write, I discover something new about myself, and about others. Some days, I get off track like I did today. The novel I am writing features a character that came back from Nam and hurt someone he loves horrifically, and it triggered the memory of being in choir class—the nervous me standing in front of the class behind a podium, my sweaty, shaking hands holding my handwritten poem, all eyes upon me.
My mind works like this all the time. It gets me from sunrise to sunset every day. The unconscious part of me knows more about me than the conscious mind will ever admit. Writing for me is like dreaming, then, I start thinking. What if I suddenly saw my life from a different perspective? What if I had a real glimpse of the face behind the mask? What if I really saw the person I may have forgotten, the person I have lost, or the person that made me afraid? Would I still like me?
Writing has become an adventure into the unknown, like opening Pandora’s Box. It stirs up old forgotten memories, sometimes making me feel anxious or exposed. Other memories, the pleasant ones, the snapshots of amazing moments, those are the ones I sometime carry through my written words. Something important lies hidden—something that matters deep within myself that my pen must unleash—something that will be revealed, on another day…
Peace...
Vivid memories from something that touched your heart.