Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Student Shannon Dusute has generously shared excerpts from a memory book on Patrick Moore that she is helping to compile. I would also gratefully welcome stories and fond memories of Christine Burchett so I can include them here. Both were a integral part of the fabric of Madonna, and both will be sorely missed.
Pat Moore was an unbelievable man who taught me so much about life. Not only was I honored to share in so much of his joy, laughter, and happiness, but I was also able to share in the joy, laughter, and happiness that he gave to my best friend, Amanda Geraci. Seeing their relationship grow into what it was, was truly something that I will never forget. My favorite memories of Pat include his incessant need to constantly talk in a British accent whenever I was around (may I add that this annoyed Amanda to no end!), the way he was constantly “grammar policing” any and every email that came by his desk and, most importantly, the constant love he shared with everyone he came in contact with. Spending most of my evenings with Pat and Amanda after a long day always brought a smile to my face. I will always remember Pat as the encourager when things got difficult, and I know that he is looking down on us with his encouraging smile forever and always.
As a matter of fact, I am angry. I am extremely angry at the never-ending, systematic racism and discrimination that people of color have to face on a daily basis. I’m upset that I always end up explaining a system of oppression to the same damn people who benefit from the same damn system. It’s aggravating as hell. It’s like shooting someone in the face and then asking them to prove how much it hurts or prove that the shot was even fired in the first place.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
making your way through a verbal minefield.
You don’t know how much of someone
goes into the stanzas you’re meant to critique.
where the evening bumps into the stars,
is the half remembered fears of a child
who fell from a tree one night
and watched as the night sky came crashing down?
Or what if the blue jeans but standoffish voice
is something cultivated from years of code-switching,
a lifetime of language you thoughtlessly dismissed?
you’re roaming the decaffeinated streets
with a mind full of meetings and due dates
and you’re picking stanzas at random,
praising an image that was inspired
by the cough drops on the writer’s desk
and critiquing a metaphor drawn from
a traumatic memory involving a gardening hose.
You do your best; you qualify until your words spiral,
say, I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.
You weren’t trained to diffuse bombs, after all.
The least you can do is give everyone warning,
and hope that no one critiques that line in your poem
that made your eyes sting when you wrote it.
and seductive friendship.” For most of the arriving Southerners, conditions in their new home would never be as elegant again.