click around, see what you find
behind the wall behind the pulpit, the old church building turned into a delicious labyrinth. the whipcrack smell of chlorine dulled, at rest in the white walls. the hardended, denim-blue carpetthe only color, rough. if you knew which stairs to climb, you could find the choir loft. if yourparents gave your free roam after church so they could mingle, you could find the dark stairsbeyond the choir loft. if your parents trusted nothing bad could happen at church, you could open the white door as gently as possible and peek into the giant, empty baptismal tub. one sunday afternoon, the sanctuary empty, I slunk into the tub [waterless] and crawled across its span to the other door, the one for the pastor. the plastic was cold and it creaked a bit as I moved, the chlorine smell at its strongest above the silver drain. no one was there to see me, but the thrill of being out of my place, out of line, gave my tiny heart to pounding. a few years later, 11 years old, I was baptized, my entry to the baptismal a sanctioned one at last. my hands shook as I held my piece of paper and declared gratefulness to G*d for loving me. me! a worm, a sinner. pastor had given me feedback on my testimony’s first draft – too much about you, not enough about G*d. the water was up to my chest, the white robe clung to my shorts and t-shirt. after pastor tipped my small body back into the water, holding my nose with a cloth, I was born again into the air, hair wet and out of breath. I plucked my testimony paper from the edge of the tub, careful to leave minimal water-prints.
Poet: So, father, tell me and the audience what it is you like about being a parent.
father sits quietly across the desk from me, sipping his hot coffee. He seems to not hear my
question; he looks around at the set, the lights.
Poet: So, father, tell us about the moment you knew you wanted children.
How does it feel to have four daughters,
four children, who require from you
four times the bravery you possess?
father turns and squints into my face, as if I might be there, sitting across from him; as if trying to read a book through thick, blurry glass. It is my job to get my guests talking; I am the one who must crack him open.
Maybe if I ask...
Poet: So, father, tell us what it is that you are certain about.
father: Ah, yes. I am certain it is important to be humble and to listen, to be willing to learn and
evolve to the expanding needs of the world around you. Things are complicated,
no easy answers. You can’t be afraid to ask hard questions, to question everything, to ask
everything
of your children.
I’ve hooked him. He loves to talk about the man he thinks he is. I’ll peel him back, layer by layer.
Poet: You know, father, I have always wondered what it is you are afraid of.
Can you tell us a little about that?
father: I’m not afraid of anything much.
Except me, I could argue; except most things you can’t control.
Poet: Come on, father, there must be something. Don’t hold out on us now; your audience
is ravenous.
He rolls his shoulders, settling into the luxury of listening ears and quiet lips.
father: Can I say something that will hurt you?
His favorite way to begin tough conversations with me since I was eight years old.
Poet: Of course, father, of course.
I lean in, ready to greet the familiar sear; his voice, the one that always echoes inside my head.
He raised me to be this kind of masochist.
father: I have always been afraid that you would become exactly what you are now;
this fearsome
and unholy thing.
I know what to do with this pain, I know to turn myself inside out. At least this time I have
witnesses; now they will believe me when I tell them I am afraid of love, of men, of love.
Then, I take a deep breath and I roll my shoulders, settling into the luxury of the truth.
Poet: father, thank you for your candor. You are right that I am fearsome and unholy.
You are right to fear me. I am a world you will never know; my life a brisk hope
that you will never feel upon your skin.
father: Truthfully, I have always liked you most when you are quiet.
Poet:
I am quiet.
