Article voiceover
In the 7-11, I run into a high school friend— not a close friend but somebody I'm happy to see after thirty years. We reminisce. We speak of our spouses and kids. We speak of our late parents. My old friend tells me his father was cruel. My friend says, "Honestly, I'm relieved the bastard is dead." I was one of only four Indians in high school and I believed we felt more pain than all of the white kids. But that's not true. Over the years, as I've encountered and conversed with white kids from high school, I've learned that a few, when the school day ended, went home to houses fueled with silence and sparked by incandescent rage.
this is so amazing oh my!
This is an amazing poem. I especially like the phrase "incandescent rage." When I was teaching, I was always saddened by adults (who as children had been savagely abused by adults) who still believed in (and celebrated) the use of violence as a means of "teaching" children and inspiring their trust.
Your poem clarifies that abuse and violence has very few boundaries. Wonderful writing as usual!