The Basement

I'd die down there before I could find it. Die cold and alone in the darkness where nobody could hear me whimper in defeat. And I really had to go to the bathroom. This happened every time. My body purposely waited until I was far from civilization on a critical mission to find... uh... shoot. What the heck was I looking for?

"Mo-o-o-m-m-m!!!" I yelled up the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"What am I supposed to be finding again?"

"Blueberry Jam!"

"Oh yeah," I whispered to myself.

I pulled a few ballet moves to keep myself from having to abort my mission prematurely for a bathroom break, and disappeared back into the room of shelves used for food storage.

"Let's see. Tomato sauce, tomato sauce, tomato juice, tomato sauce... Can't find it."

"Mo-o-o-m-m-m!!!" I yelled up the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"We don't have any."

"It's on the far left side on the top shelf."

After a long, meaningful sigh, I danced back into the storage room, reached above my head to grab the jam, and sprinted back upstairs.

"This is chutney," said mom. "The jam is right next to it."

"I think chutney would taste better on bread than jam, mom."

"I'm sure you do. Now go get me some jam, please."

After surrendering to a short bathroom detour, I bolted back downstairs. Each stair step squealed underfoot. I jumped off two steps from the end. My bare feet lightly stuck to the oddly smooth cement floor and my fingers and toes stiffened in the chill.

I knew that one firm tug of the metal string dangling from the fluorescent light fixture across the room would bring the basement to life, but I slowed to find my way in the dark. This fluorescent light triggers all electricity down there and the resucitated electronics hum their appreciation upon awakening. I hate to quiet their carols by tugging the metal string again before leaving. Because of my illogical sympathy dad says I waste electricity. He doesn't understand I'm sparing its feelings.

Basement time works the same as dog years. In the perplex intensity of the search for food items, one loses sense of time and company. I sometimes excused myself to find some "thing" for my mother when company came for this very reason. I could stare at food awhile, forget what I came for, and not have to feel anxious about conversing. Only muffled roars of laughter, droning utterances, and clunking footsteps mark the unintelligable conversation of the basement.

I slipped into the storage room, found the jam by the light of the staircase, and sprinted back upstairs half convincing myself that ghosts would appear if I didn't scram.

"Alright, Anna! Two attempts. That's a record!" said mom.

"I don't know why I can't ever find it."

"It's okay. Here. Throw this downstairs."

I crumpled the moist rag in my fist and walked toward the open basement door. Pulling my elbow to my cheek, I flung the sour ball down the stairs listening for the satisfying smack, slurp, and plop as it unstuck itself from the concrete wall. The door whined as I pushed it closed, sweeping up the light.

Portrait of Abandonment

Laying listlessly on the wadded sheets of her twin bed, she pulled her thighs against her bulging, pregnant belly. Her fisted hands crossed, propping her chin as she wept. She was no longer an individual, but a vessel. A vessel with no captain.

She thrashed and cursed and raged, pleading for love. But nobody came or heard or cared. He told her all about love, and she'd believed him 'til now. She sank further into the twisted sheets, biting at her fist, feeling her eyes swell in the salt of her tears.

Native Tongue (Creative Non-Fiction)

I speak English. Well, at least I thought I did. I realize, however, that grammar class has a way of taking something you know so well you could play it on the piano with no hands and twisting it into something like calculus. Before this semester, I assumed language fluency came through intuition. I thought I shouldn't have to hesitate when communicating or aspirating, or whatever it is that my native tongue should do on its own.

Grades, standardized test scores, teacher's praise, they all mean absolutely nothing now. Anxiety began dripping from my heart to my stomach again as I recalled my failed quiz attempts. I don't fail English. I get an "F" in algebra and everyone has a good laugh over it. I get an "F" in English, and it feels like I had an affair with a geometry problem. The only constant in my life has been strolling through English classes, tipping my hat to the professor, and smiling at my "A". Failing grammar feels like ignoring phone calls from my most intimate friend.

Don't get me wrong, I know nouns. I know adjectives. I even know adverbs and semicolons. Ha. I see Tom is getting to know his adjectives a bit better. The lazy, awkward, burly kid with "happy" stamped to his drool-stained cheek. Only ten minutes go by, and Tom's asleep again. I wonder if I should poke him.

"Anna"

"Uh...yeah?"

"What's the purpose of the pedestal?"

A flush of red splashed my cheeks. It felt like standing in front of 1,000 people and forgetting your name. I used to be the one staring at the struggling kid wondering why he didn't just blurt out the answer already. Now, all eyes were on me. I wanted to yell, "No! This isn't how it looks. I-I know English. It's my thing. I swear." But nothing came out. The silence could have made a feather bed uncomfortable. My brain sucked in the noise that the silence had scared off, making any intelligible answer impossible to find. "Shoulder shrug. That's all I can do," I thought. As if united by some invisible rope, the students' hands flew up with the motion of my shoulders.

I couldn't even hear the correct answer over the self-deprecating voices bouncing off the empty cave walls I call my brain. "I need a tutor? In English?" The thought seemed foreign and vulnerable. "I need help. I admit it. I cannot do this on my own." I felt like a member of Grammar Failures Anonymous. I glanced down at the basic sentences scrawled in my notebook. "Peter kicked the ball". The subject verbed the direct object. Simple enough. Next. "Mary caught hold of the soccer ball, which caused her to jump for joy at having rescued her team from humiliating defeat." Hmm... I'll go ahead and skip that one.

I speak English, I write English, I read English. I even breathe English. But dissecting English and dissecting a cow's eye will make me equally pallid.

Native Tongue (Poem)

Peter laughed.

(You) laugh.

What is so funny?

Peter laughed and jumped excitedly.

Mary, Peter, and Tom laughed loudly.

Tom kicked the ball.

Tom kicked the ball and fell

Asleep. On his desk. With drool

Pooling around his lips

Staining direct objects, verbs, and nouns to his cheek.

Tom is tired.

So am I.

Diagramming sentences is fun.

The teacher writes it on the board.

The teacher brainwashes the students.

Happy soars over the ski slope

To describe Students.

Apparently Happy can ski uphill.

Anna feels dizzy.

Feels? Is that a verb?

The paper crumples itself

And leaps into the trash can.

Anna speaks English.

Anna thought she spoke English.

Anna liked English before it became geometry.

Statue

I resent all statues,

Copper, marble, wood.

Their idle stances mock me,

their frozen flawlessness annoys me,

and their simple fulfillment of purpose baffles me.

Effortlessly, they unveil thought, love, and creation to the world.

Yet my idle stances deteriorate me,

Tire, depress, and distress me.

They make me fat, hungry, and lonely,

Reminding me of imagined and proven inadequacies.

I'm constantly reminded that movement matters, "almost" misses.

My past failures spur discouragement.

Recalled fears burden motion.

Accomplishments fade to memories of temporary validation.

Reminders, reminders, must the past repeat always?

But statues... statues stand as sedentary symbols.

Their paralysis pleases passersby.

They depict one declaration, one emotion, one soul.

Nothing less, nothing more.

Mere figures devoid of reason or original comment,

Reminders, reminders, repeating always.

I wonder if with hardened hands they hang their heads

And wish for life of more significance

While I long for the respite and simplicity of motionless accomplishment.