Welcome to the New World, a pandemic poem

Lana Hechtman Ayers
  
 Welcome to the New World
  
 Movement in my peripheral vision’s edge
 makes me look away from the screen
 out the window in front of my desk.
 I’m barely in time to catch the tell-tale
 white head and serrated wide wings
 of an eagle—American symbol of freedom—
 before it soars over the roofline out of view.
 I’ve been staring at my computer for so long
 the words of the manuscript I’m editing 
 have become ancient hieroglyphics. 
  
 The sight of the cumulus-filled sky bordered 
 in blue and the rippled pink-tinged beige sand 
 and aqua green seawater below the hillside 
 is such welcome relief. Concentration has been 
 hard to achieve with the startling grief 
 I’m experiencing  during this global pandemic—
 so many losses. To look out at this bright spring day 
 one could be fooled into believing all is well. 
 Calm. People strolling the weekday beach,
 throwing frisbees or tossing balls to their dogs.
  
 Even the stubborn hydrangea outside my porch
 gate has come into full leaf, buds at the ready.
 But my heart will not settle into steady rhythm.
 My breath is shallow. Later, I must make my weekly
 excursion into town for food—masked, gloved,
 hatted, scarfed—looking like a nineteenth century
 immigrant just off the boat from Poland,
 wearing all of the clothes she owned at once, 
 frightened of the unknown new territory where
 communication and comfort appeared impossible.
  
 I wonder, is this how my grandmother felt,
 fifteen and alone, disembarked at Ellis Island
 into the blinding sunlight after weeks seasick
 in the dark bowels of the ship? Her family had sent
 her in 1918, decades ahead of the holocaust, 
 not knowing she’d be the only one of her bloodline
 to make safe passage. And how did my young
 grandmother manage her loneliness, 
 knowing no one else, everyone and everything 
 around her strange and possibly dangerous?
  
 I never once in all the years I knew her, nor 
 in the years since her passing, stopped to think 
 of her bravery. I never thanked her or celebrated 
 her for being the heroine she was. She made my 
 American life possible. If my grandmother could 
 muster all that courage at the tender age of fifteen 
 for a sea journey of weeks, surely, I can 
 manage as much for a simple half-hour trip to 
 the grocery store and back, in my own car,
 me a native here in my fifth decade of life.  

Meltdown by Sally McGee

I am fortunate and grateful to share with my readers this exquisite essay by writer Sally McGee that speaks to all of us #metoo survivors with such grace and courage.

metoo

Sally McGee is a writer, community organizer, and nature conservancy advocate living on the Oregon coast. In the 1970s in New York, she worked tirelessly until rape survivors were treated by legal authorities with the dignity and respect they deserved as victims of a serious crime, instead of the blaming-the-woman mentality that prevailed for decades.  

MELTDOWN by Sally McGee

The phone rings.

A neighbor was calling looking for a reference.

incoming

Some people I know want to rent his house.

Unable to get a letter of recommendation and having heard some unsavory things, he was looking for information.

Right Facing Red For Rent Real Estate Sign in Front of Beautiful House.

Could I tell him anything?

I begin to shake and find it hard to get words out.

The man is big and menacing.

drunk (2)

Often unemployed, he has drinking and anger management problems.

The police have been called.

What can I say?

shaken

I find it hard to talk and begin to stutter.

I am surprised at how shaken I am.

Things get worse as the week progresses.

bad worse

The night descends and I crawl into bed.

The nightmares begin.

nightmares

Growing up female in an out of control family, I was often afraid.

I wake  feeling disjointed.

Something is trying to rise from my unconsciousness.

disoriented

What my body knows, my brain has not yet figured out.

I am confused.

Monday I think is Friday. Wednesday is Monday.

together (2)

Get it together! You are scaring people around you.

It is the trauma that is being brought forth from early childhood.

trauma (2)

The trauma triggered by 11 white Republican men wanting to grill a sexual assault victim while her attacker looks on.

11 repub (2)

A woman who thought she was going to be murdered, the weight of a male body pinning her down.

His hand on her mouth stifling her screams while his friend looks on.

rape

Some on the committee have already pronounced her guilty.

Senator Orin Hatch, well established member of the Republican power structure, next in line after the Speaker if something untoward happens to the President and the V.P., has pronounced her, “Confused”.

Christine Blasey Ford, the woman accusing Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh of sexually assaulting her at a party 36 years ago, testifies during his US Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearing on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC, September 27, 2018. (Photo by SAUL LOEB / POOL / AFP) (Photo credit should read SAUL LOEB/AFP/Getty Images)

Virtually the same thing he said 20 plus years ago during the testimony of Anita Hill before the Judiciary Committee during the Clarence Thomas hearings and we know what the men did then.

anita

If they win this one, it will be a Pyrrhic victory.

Too many women are watching and feeling the attack on Professor Ford to be an attack on them.

Old traumas are being re-lived.

relive trauma

Traumas that will spell the death of the Patriarchy.

And I say, “Thank God”.

 end patriarchy (2)

Some years ago I spent 8 days in the Trinity National Forest in Northern California backpacking; 3 women, 3 dogs.

Leaving, the hardest part was saying good by to the trees.

There was no wrapping my arms around the trunk because of their mammoth size.

mammoth

But I leaned into them and quietly spoke of my love.

The surprising thing was the response.

Clearly they said, “We love you.”

 redwood

This forest burned in the fires of 2018 but destroying the Redwoods is next to impossible.

They were here in the beginning.

One of the oldest life forms.

Their presence is a gift that uplifts me and sustains my life.

And for them I am grateful.

oldest

With trauma in the news every day, I vow I will not be defeated.

All is not lost.

Life goes on.

defeats

I live in a community that was logged 100 years ago.

The trees were cut down and removed but their life not destroyed.

Many came back and today I walk among them some 60, 70 feet tall.

They are unusual looking because the cut made 100 years ago was 10 or more feet above the ground so the tree I see today has very large roots high above the ground.

hemlock

I make my escape running to Sanctuary, the family home in Portland where my daughter and her B.F. live.

The house was built in 1915 and is in one of the older, close-in neighborhoods.

Craftsman houses and Bungalows surrounded by very large trees that were somehow spared  100 years ago.

trees (2)

Sanctuary and I am safe.

Surrounded by family and loving neighbors.

Children’s voices ring out.

It is music to my ears.

laughter (2)

I rest and sleep.

contral

Thank you, Sally McGee for your lovely words. 

For a survivor like me in this treacherous time in our nation, your words are my balm and sanctuary.

stands up (2)