Soapbox

In the center of the future lie the deeds of yesterday,
In the center of the ripples fell a stone.
Wrapped within each lie is a truth about yourself;
In the center of hate is fear alone.

In the center of true justice there is no concern for winning,
In the center of the breaking is the whole.
In the center of each ending lie the seeds for all beginning,
The center of the diamond remembers coal.

In the center of conflict you must find a road to peace,
In the center of each soul there burns a flame.
In the center of all life is a love that will not cease;
In the center of my heart I wrote your name

In the center of each trying there must be a believing
In the center of knowledge there’s more to learn
There is love still in the center of all loneliness and grieving.
In the center of goodbye waits a return.

T. Meisky

My mother has strong hands,
large and well-proportioned.
Working hands that can’t be bothered
with nail polish and cocktail rings.

My mother peels her potatoes
with a paring knife.
As a child
I loved to watch her
elegant economy of motion:
her thumb planted,
fingers guiding the blade under the curling peel
as it grows longer and longer,
finally dropping with a satisfying plop
into the sink.

I’m not the type willing to invest
the concentration it takes to use a knife.
I keep my peeler blade flashing and skipping
over the potato
with careless energy;
endangering fingertips,
sending bits of peel flying
into the sink and onto the counter,
behind the bottle of dish soap,
to be discovered at some later date.

Last week I looked down
and realized that I’m wearing my mother’s hands:
sensible, strong, working hands.
I’m not sure when I traded them
for the long-fingered, nimble hands of my youth,
but there they were,
brushing my daughter’s hair.

And so, last night,
tongue tucked in the corner of my mouth in concentration,
I peeled the potatoes with a paring knife
And watched my mother’s hands
Guide the blade home
Against my thumb.

As for my mother, I don’t think she’ll miss them,
For these days, I expect she’s wearing
Her mother’s hands.

So I’ve got this kid…

…and when I picked her up after school yesterday she told me that she had a paper about “the stupid science fair." (gee, do you think maybe she’s still mad that we’re making her compete in it?) and another paper…

"…about being in some thing, which I am not going to do, where you compete about how much you know about stuff or something…and it’s probably totally lame and I am not going to do it, so you don’t even need to look at the paper!"

Wonder where she gets that negative attitude from? Couldn’t be from me. I was never sarcastic and dismissive.

I had visions of this being some Quiz-bowl type event and was thinking, evil Nazi mother that I am, that maybe she should do it. It turned out to be something called "Preteen Ohio Scholarship and Recognition Program" and she’s quite right- she’s not going to do it.

Held at the beautiful Holiday Inn Worthington in August, for 3 days, they make a point of saying that it is NOT a beauty contest, but an invitation-only "scholarship and recognition event". Recognition for what? Outstanding contribution in the category of wearing make-up and hair extension in the 6^th grade?

"NOT a beauty pageant!" it insists again on the back, (you know, they more they feel they have to assure you that it isn’t a beauty pageant, the more you know that it really pretty much is) "but an event that promotes family values, high moral and ethical standards, patriotism and self-esteem." "A wholesome family activity" we’re told.
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