My Letter To The World

My childhood was not easy. Many have had tougher but I had an interesting run of life before I knew anything about what that meant. For too long it felt unfair, like I was robbed and something was taken. Tonight I see clearly through eyes that have recently cried the most soulful of loving tears, why all of it happened and why I am here.

At the beginning of this summer I moved across the world for winter, away from love, towards an uncertain dream, hoping the fog would settle and a path would appear. In recent days and recent nights, all which never ask much of sleep, I have begun touching on things inside that I've seen before but only as they flee away with fear as though I'm saying to myself, I'm not ready. Now I am and it's shown through looks on the train shared between children and I, moments when the dying sit beside me and I refuse to look away for long. As the dying woman coughs I sit yearning for water and a glass to forgive her parched present pain, if only for a second. If loving one gets love in return, loving the world brings one straight past the certainty of death to the highest heaven. This is where I am and this is why I write to you.

So many nights I have been working, finding time throughout to scribble notes and type letters, while maintaining one of the hardest positions in the world by being one of societies replacement parents. During my time in and out of work I am constantly wondering whether I should live it, feel it, write it down, or just speak the story. It all happens with good intentions and blissful realizations. There's enough time in every day for all that we need. When words bubble up, out they go. When writing at a hundred words a minute is far too slow to transcribe the thoughts of my mind, I say it freely to a friend, learning from life as my feelings speak without hesitation. When writing a letter I am holding one's hand, taking them through where I've been and showing them how to land pleasantly in moments of contentment during any situation.

As with all of life, my words mean less when not directed at another, for saying these things to you makes them better than just saying them for the sake of saying them. There is a story I'd like to tell and, since I can't mail out a hundred letters of thanks to a hundred souls tonight, I'll write these words here, hoping that those I love grab my hand and wander through this moment with me.

Tonight I am working at a house, a contingency unit, where I've been working for the past few weeks. In that time children have come and gone, and those who have stayed have been waiting, or so I feel, to see what I was made of, to see if I could be trusted. This week has been tough. Sweeping up broken glass is something I got used to. Getting eye level and raising my voice to the stern growl of a lion has been the only choice. It's routine. A glass of milk gets dumped on the floor. The cup gets smashed. And so it goes, or has gone, but tonight I have no glass to sweep up. This house is one of a few where the unmentionables go. No home, no need to worry, no support from life, and no fear of death, this is their world. Ten years ago, even less, it was mine too.

When I arrived there was the little one waiting to see who was knocking. He hugs me, relaying his youth as he smiles like a child I worked with a world away. On rollerblades he skims through the house hopping steps and asking for cookies from one staff, then the other. We let him go, let the energy go out freely and before he went to sleep he and I watched cartoons and laughed together. He said something to me in French when I asked him to go to bed. As we hiked the creaking stairs of an old house turned make-shift home, he asked me if I knew any other languages. I said no, and asked where he learned French. School, he says as he speaks greetings in farewells in German and Italian as well.

I bring an extra blanket and he lies down in bed before I throw it over him with a one two three count that came with a smile and let him giggle a little before I turned out the lights. As I closed the door I whisper buenas noches and before the latch shuts he asks what I said. Goodnight in Spanish, I reply. Where'd you learn that he said? School, I said with a smile as the door fell flush with it's frame and I softly released the handle back to it's place, letting the silence of sweet childhood nights send him to sleep peacefully.

After that came the older one who smoked the cigarette behind his ear while talking on his phone for a few minutes before coming inside and heading straight to bed. He saw me, as he has all week, and for a second in his world of trouble I feel the truth of just being there, over and over again.

Later on, at the point when their absence lasted almost long enough to report their unknown whereabouts to the proper authorities, the other two came home. With the same noise and intention for disruption they usually have, they swore and talked of the abuses they faced during each of their four arrests today. I listened and my part time partner parent, the other staff, a man of almost sixty who exudes the love of a great father and has stories of playing the bongos with all the Aussie jazz greats, heads off to another house where things have gone sour. He checks in first. You ok? We'll be fine, I say, head on and take your time and good luck.

Then there in front of me my eyes began to see more than before as I noticed the two teenagers sitting there talking to me about what sucked that day and why it wasn't fair. Throughout their conversations of being busted and dealing with the consequences I heard many subtleties that deserved more focus. One said that he was thrown down by the cops, that it wasn't fair and that he hadn't done anything deserving of such a reaction. He then said how his buddy beside him pushed the cop because he messed with his friend. I stopped the conversation and began my explanation and interpretation of what I had just heard and what it meant.

So you stood up for your buddy in by pushing a cop, I ask.

Yeah, he says, it was bullshit and he didn't deserve it.

Don't mess with the guys in uniform, I reply, you'll get jail time for that and then it's over, but I gotta say that sticking up for your boy like that is a beautiful thing. You're lucky to have that.

Yeah, he said. Yeah, said his friend.

The conversation continues and I care not whether these guys go to bed ever. I'm stimulated. They are too. I tell them about my childhood and they listen. I explain why it makes sense to do it another way, and how life can give you anything and everything you need. I say it's always good to be there for your boys. One of them says to the other, I like the way this guy talks. And we talk on till two am and beyond.

There were so many moments of realization for me. I told them my story, said it wasn't much different than theirs, and told them I was proud to have made the choices I did and proud of what I had achieved. They listened and liked what they heard as yawns began to crawl over their young and often fearful faces which relaxed into those of children once again. We talked about jobs, about having money to do what you want, about women and children and how they deserved the utmost of respect. Then they told me about those who look out for them, the woman at the train station nearby who never makes them pay and tosses each one a smoke as they go past, the man in the park near Flinder Street who, during a brake from busstling to sleeping streets with his guitar, shares some of his grass with them.

I say, it's ok. You guys are fifteen. This is what's supposed to happen.

The phone rang and I answered to find my coworker's low raspy comforting voice on the other line calling to make sure I was alright. Are they in bed, he asks. No, I say, but we're having a great talk so take your time because we'll be fine.

And back into the room I go, sitting in the same sofa seat where these two teenagers waited to continue hearing me speak. They listened the way my friends do and I listened the way their friends do. At the end of it, when exhaustion reminded them of their youth and the comfort of warm blankets they went to sleep saying thank you in a way most people never hear. I walked one to his room and spread out his blanket, thanking him back. And off went the light as the last child fell silent. I walked slowly down the hallway trying not to make sounds with my steps, feeling love like I'd never known as tears came quickly without me even asking.

In the office the TV showed informercials for hair care products so I turned on the computer to find that a signal couldn't be reached and the internet world was unavailable. This, so often is a blessing, because there are times of beauty that require experienceing a feeling alone. So I changed the channel and found a fuzzy station with an old black and white movie complete with standard characters; a beautiful woman, a handsome businessman in love with her, another man who loved her first fighting for her back and violins singing the distance between scenes. I turned off the office light and sat with my feet on the couch eating a few cookies with creme centers as a reward for a life well lived.

The story unfolded on the screen but I didn't pay much attention to any of it other than the last scene where the other man, her first love, wins and they set sail out of the Hudson Bay and head off towards Paris, or London, or Rome. It didn't matter where they were going. In that last scene was that old black and white finish. With top hat and trench coat the man grabs his dark haired, full lipped, and porcelain skinned lover and kissed her ferousciously as the crescendo rose and they swayed while credits came rolling by.

So softly I stepped, as the credits rolled on, out to the moonlight of this never ending, always changing night where I smoked and smiled waiting for my co-worker to arrive back again but that didn't happen for another hour, most of which was spent lying back on a couch that's more comfortable than my bed, with my legs kicked on the arm of it, and my hands behind my head, staring contently at the ceiling glowing with the flicker of a silent movie that I didn't watch but lived instead.

With my eyes shut I almost slept but my mind wandered to so many thoughts. I work at night and sleep in the days, but recently I am lucky to get a three hour nap, but maybe it's not luck Maybe it's time to stay awake. I wanted to write but sat instead in the feeling of knowing I had changed a life, knowing that I was fifteen once and heard some similar words from a man working in a rehab in west Jersey who stayed on late to teach me some things on his guitar and talk to me about the way things really are. I no longer remember that guys name but I'll never forget his stories, or the fact that he always looked high, and always seemed more burnt out than I had ever felt, and most importantly, I'll never forget the nights when it was he and I in the staff office where I wasn't allowed to go, sitting and telling stories as he showed me chords but got too excited to play songs so I never learned guitar but instead learned of love and friendship and the truth that it is always there.

And now I sit seeing the time as six, knowing there's an hour to go of my last shift before a day off and plans for poetry reading and moments of freeing my words in front of others in moments on stage I now know I deserve. But this story hasn't ended and this letter must go on, but next comes the mopping of floors and the scribbling of notes and a walk to the train and a long ride home. Then, in the hours to come, when I reach my house still sleeping with my friends inside, I'll walk quietly in and finish this letter of eternal gratitude and love, this letter that says to all above, below and beside thank you, for I have found my purpose in life.