Sandy Day's Blog, page 13
January 21, 2019
My Teacher
[image error]In grade two, Miss Lennie handed out slips of paper. On each was written a few words. She instructed the class to write a story about the words on the slips of paper.
My slip said, “My Teacher”.
Of all the topics in the world, Miss Lennie wanted me to write about her? Was this some kind of trick?
I decided to teach Miss Lennie a lesson. Rather than tell her the truth, which she obviously expected, I wrote about her buggy green eyes, her fat knees, and her streaked hair—like a skunk’s is how I described it.
I wrote comments that were partially true, but were not compliments. I wrote, not knowing how a woman in her twenties or thirties might react to remarks about her personal appearance. How they might hurt her feelings. How they might reverberate every time she looked into the mirror for the rest of her life.
I was seven years old, and I had a pencil like a chainsaw.
I gleefully wrote the piece knowing that the last line was going to be the clincher. The last line, after all my insults and jibes, was going to be, “but everybody loves Miss Lennie, because she is so wonderful.” Which was the truth.
I knew that the last line would pardon me from all the sins I’d committed in the rest of the creative writing exercise. I smirked that it would probably be the last time Miss Lennie went fishing for a compliment from her Grade 2 class.
A few days later, Miss Lennie handed back our pages. She’d written in red pencil across the top of my story, “Very interesting” and given me an A. I was accustomed to A’s. But she also said, and she told my mother, that she’d like me to do the exercise again.
So I did. And this time I played it straight. This time I wrote that Miss Lennie was pretty and delightful and taught her students so well that there could never be another Grade 2 teacher as magnificent as she was.
This time I got an A+.
What did I learn?
I learned that I had observational powers that, with only the slightest provocation, could be summoned to record a multitude of details. I was astounded at how quickly and precisely the specifics I needed flooded into my mind when I decided to portray Miss Lennie in her worst light. On the other hand, when I was writing to an expectation, rather than my own mischievous voice, I noticed how phony and inferior the words sounded.
I learned I had the power to rebel. I had the power of words. The power of prose. The power of interpreting the observable world in my own unique way. I was a writer. I was seven years old. I was a writer with a voice.
December 23, 2018
A Jolly Family Photo
In this one, you are holding your knees. You’re an old man,
or you look old. But you’re not sitting in a chair like the rest of the
grownups. You’re sitting on the floor, hard leather shoes, socks, trousers, your
arms gripped around your knees.
My sisters are three and one in the picture, which means you’d
be about sixty, about my age now, but you look so old. Your head sports a few
wispy white hairs and your skin is like ash.
It’s a jolly family photo taken by your brother. (I deduce this
because he’s not in the picture.) It’s probably Christmas at the house in
Stouffville, and you’re probably home for the holiday.
What must that have been like for you?
There’s a lot of smiling in the picture. My mother is
holding the baby, quite close to you. Were you disturbed by the baby? Her
fussing? Her goobers? Or did you even notice her?
Beside my mom, on the floor is my uncle, your nephew. He has
on a wide striped t-shirt, which he probably got for Christmas. And he’s
wearing a wide grin.
Seated behind you in a row are my father, my grandmother, my
sister (standing on Granny’s knee), and my two great-grandparents, your
parents.
You are home. Home from the mental hospital where these
people think it best that you live. You’d resided in the hospital most of your
life, ever since coming back from Europe after the war.
It feels like you think of yourself as a young man with a
life yet to live. (I feel like that some days.) You are hugging your knees and
rocking like my teenage uncle. Thinking, none
of these people know anything about me. Taut. Strung like an arrow in a
bow. Ready to spring to your feet and run out the door, To hell with you all! And let the door slam.
But then you’ll miss dinner. And you probably don’t get food
like that very often. Turkey and stuffing and cranberries. Better to sit still.
To stay with the family. To smile a shy smile at the camera as it snaps your
life away.
March 6, 2018
Small Talk by Theresa Sopko, A Review
[image error]Recently I came across a charming book of poetry by a young writer named Theresa Sopko. Small Talk is her second collection of poetry.
The book is quirky, and compelling – titles are often included at the foot of poems, striking ironic tones, sometimes hitting like punch lines. Because of the inclusion of script typography, I felt almost like I was reading the poet’s sketchbook.
The subject matter may be “small talk” but the poet takes these mundane subjects, familiar experiences, and magnifies their significance. This is my favourite poem in the collection:
Like a sweater
I get snagged on some jagged
Edge and begin to unravel and that
Loose thread is
Tug
Tug
Tugged
By some unknown weight, by the elements
And
What I want to do
What I try to do
Is to sit with it
Be alone with it, brood over it
Because I know there’s something
Just under the surface
Between my threadbare skin and
The scratchy particles of wool that is trying
Crying
To be addressed and I want
To confront it, rock it to peace
Though
What I end up doing is
Playing dumb
Ignoring
Taking that loose thread and
Tucking
Tying
Trying
To stop the unravel in its tracks
But
The next time I put that sweater on
My body will stretch it
The elements will reach with prickly fingers
And that thread will get caught
Again
Because I never stitched the hole I only
Patched it
The tone of Theresa’s poems is conversational but the language is refreshing and original. She expresses the agitated ennui of the mid-twenties so well that I wish I could tell her that it all gets better and that she is “tough enough” for the writing that is to come.
Many of the poems address an invisible “you”. Throughout the book, the poet plays with the notion of dating/loving herself and I sense that the nuggets of advice and philosophical musings are messages and reminders for herself. She wrestles with living in twenty-first century America (the small talk) while her poetic soul longs to soar to higher realms. The poet is anchored in the world of school, and boyfriends, sisters, parents, coffee shops, and tattoos but writing, an overwhelming urge, is an undercurrent in many of the poems. A poem about tattoo ink could be a metaphor for the exposure the writer feels when writing and publishing confessional type work, such as poetry.
Everyone asks if I’m concerned about regretting the ink
in the years to come
I’m not
I’ve made myself a walking story
A living picture book
And even if the illustrations are not relevant to
60 year old me
They were to 23 year old me
They are a part of my story
And, even wrinkly, that is beautiful
[image error]The poet is very young, only twenty-three years old. She writes:
I find that I can’t write about the relationships most
important to me
The ones that are embedded into my bones, a part of my
every breath
I have yet to find the words to encompass their enormity
As a writer, I am familiar with that experience. It takes a lifetime to express a worldview created within a family. The poet is aware that something is germinating inside of her. That is exciting and lets me know that much more will come from this talented young writer.
February 22, 2018
February 2, 2018
My Valentine for the Brokenhearted
Fill in the form below for your chance to win one of fourteen FREE Chatterbox Poems Ebooks. Three lucky winners will win an autographed paperback edition. Contest closes at 11:59 pm, February 13, 2018. Winners will be chosen by a random draw by my eighty-six year old Mom – I trust her. Good luck, my lovelies!
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January 29, 2018
Win a Chatterbox Ebook! (US residents only)
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Goodreads Book Giveaway
Chatterbox
by Sandy Day
Giveaway ends February 13, 2018.
See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.
January 28, 2018
Goodreads Giveaway of Fred’s Funeral Ebook
Hey everyone! If you haven’t read Fred’s Funeral yet, enter my Goodreads Giveaway for your chance to win one of one hundred Ebooks.
Goodreads is a wonderful online community devoted to readers. If you haven’t joined yet I encourage you to sign up, and add me as a friend.
If you are on Goodreads, I’d love if you would rate Fred’s Funeral and leave a review if you’re so inclined.
[image error]Paperback copy ready to go!
[image error]One of my Great Uncle’s letters
3 Days Left for my Goodreads Giveaway of Fred’s Funeral (paperback)
Hey everyone! If you haven’t read Fred’s Funeral yet, or you’d like another copy to give to a friend, enter my Goodreads Giveaway for your chance to win one of ten autographed, paperback copies.
Goodreads is a wonderful online community devoted to readers. If you haven’t joined yet I encourage you to sign up, and add me as a friend.
If you are on Goodreads, I’d love if you would rate Fred’s Funeral and leave a review if you’re so inclined.
[image error]Paperback copy ready to go!
[image error]One of my Great Uncle’s letters
