it’s always the same

not the same number 

or ages or names

not the same season  

but it’s always the same 

not the same shooter 

or teacher or children 

but always the same thoughts

and prayers for the victims 

always the same heartbreak 

and anger and tears

but never any action 

for twenty three years 

we are a work in progress,

(i guess)

and we need work from congress 

what else do you expect 

from this new generation

than to fight against policy 

and disinformation

this aggression will not stand

but we will 

. . . and we plan to expand 

our thoughts and prayers go out 

put it in a hallmark card 

i could write 

a generic poem 

for school shootings 

so we won’t have to come up 

with a new message each month 

how about this:

our thoughts and prayers go out

to your child shot in the mouth 

by the other child with an AR-15

bought legally in this country

— we’re so so sorry.

signed, 

yours truly,

america the free 

freedom isn’t free

TRIGGER WARNING

This post is about school shootings. I wrote this on December 1, 2021, shortly after learning about the school shooting in Oxford, Michigan which left four students dead. I put it aside until now, not knowing if I’d share it (some things I need to just get down on paper for my own well-being). So why now? It’s been weeks since the shooting and the country has moved on. The victims have not. They are spending their holidays with an empty chair at the table, an empty stocking on the mantle, and empty shoes at the door. I am reminded of them as I spend my Christmas alone with my family, quarantined with covid. Our plans are canceled, but they can be rescheduled.

. . .

When I was in junior high I saw my first musical: Miss Saigon.  I fell quickly in love with the male lead, “Chris,” thereby beginning of my obsession with all things Vietnam War (morbid, I know).  By freshman year I was (in my mind) a full blown hippie, listening to Creedance and Barry McGuire and pissed off at a president long dead.  I couldn’t get enough of the music and particularly loved Four Dead in Ohio.  I was so taken by Kent State, knowing that what happened there was inherently wrong; students shouldn’t be shot down, and especially not at their own school.  It was unthinkable. 

By my senior year in high school that idea was completely obliterated.

It was my junior year and I was in pre calculus when we heard the first ambulance and police sirens flying by the school.  The rumors had already spread about the shooting at a nearby high school.  We sat in shock trying to think of who we knew that went there: we all knew someone.  We were attending a Catholic school and had many friends from elementary school who had then gone on to the public high school: Columbine.  Not to mention neighbors, family friends, cousins, teammates, acquaintances… we all knew someone.

No one had cell phones at the time.  If you were lucky your parents left you with a car phone… if you had a car.  None of us could contact our families and nobody knew quite the extent of the shooting.  Nobody was getting news, except maybe the staff, and they weren’t sharing anything with us.  We had to go throughout our school day as normal and wait until we got home to find out what happened.

My honors Spanish teacher, Señora Bolton told us to “reza por ellos” and we were sent home.  I heard murmurs of rumors: “she was at lunch when it happened,” “his girlfriend goes there and ran all the way here.” 

I don’t remember driving home.  I know it was my best friend’s birthday and I went to her house with a few friends.  We brought her balloons from a woman who cried and asked if they were for the victims. I remember watching who I now know was Patrick Ireland, half paralyzed, throw himself out the second floor window onto the roof of a waiting ambulance.

We slowly began to hear names of victims, friends of friends, former classmates.  It was unthinkable.  

That was then.

School shootings are no longer “unthinkable” or even “uncommon.” So far this year there have been 34 shootings that took place in a school. And unfortunately we as a country are becoming numb. And I can understand the sentiment. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of marching and signing petitions and watching another school shooting as nothing changes. I’m tired of being triggered, of wishing I could change things, of trying to change things.  America is what it is.  Guns are here to stay, and so are school shootings.  This is the price of freedom.  And it pisses me off more than a long dead president used to.

English poet Brian Bilston wrote a poem after a particular shooting (can’t remember which…they start running together) entitled “America is a Gun,” and its devastating honesty resonated with me :

https://medium.com/poem-of-the-day/brian-bilston-america-is-a-gun-e6a52d97c8d9

This is how much of the world sees us.  And many Americans are probably proud of that fact… the second amendment and freedom and being big and powerful and scary…  I personally would rather have a culture that didn’t list school shootings among its unique characteristics.  But… freedom is freedom

So too when it comes to the pandemic.  As other countries look to lockdown for the third or fourth time, America carries on and comes to terms with the fact that we are not the kind of country that will give up our personal freedoms for the good of the community.  I’m astounded by the amount of people who think wearing a facemark is equivalent to the murder of six million jews during the holocaust, but “OK, Boomers. Cry me a snowflake.” 

I’m still the same girl that wanted to fight the government for sending kids into combat; who was convinced adults didn’t understand the youth of my day; who was eager to stand up for a cause she believed in.  Columbine presented the cause and I sure as hell wasn’t the only one to jump up and say “no more; never again.”  And then again. And again.  And when five year old were murdered in their kindergarten we thought surely this time something will change.  23 years since Columbine and nothing has changed except the safety drills our children are now required to learn.  Because we have failed them.  We have failed to pass common sense gun control measures to make them safer in their own schools.  It is up to them to learn to protect themselves and up to us to “think and pray.”  This is the cost of so-called freedom to bare arms: the sacrifice of our youth; the loss of a carefree childhood; the worry that someday our child might now return home to us.  And it’s not a cost any of us would be willing to pay.

False Flags and Equivalencies

January Sixth
Twenty, Twenty-One
A date which will live 
Momentarily for some 

The wolves assembled 
In the halls of the temple
Told to fight like hell
(And they did as well) 
Led by their father 
Like sheep to the slaughter

They came from America
White bred and buttered
With privilege and lies
Confederates and militants 
And nazis alike 

Caravanned from Kansas
Bussed from Nebraska
Conspiracy riders 
From both Carolinas
Militants from Michigan 
Americans all
They put on their caps
And heeded the call 

Descended on DC
Continental breakfasts
In their AirB&Bs 
Insurrectionists read 
The most current tweets 
Over coffee and tea
As they readied themselves 
For mutiny

They carried their flags
As a show of passion  
For the very country 
They were now attacking

The same spangled banner
We see carefully draped 
Over fallen heroes 
On soldiers’ graves 
And flown to remember
(always remember)
The attack on our nation 
That dark day in September 
A hallowed symbol 
Of persistent resilience 
Used now as a weapon
For violent resistance 

Oh say can you see 
The insurrectionists fight
As the proud boys all hail
The fact that they’re white 
All dressed to the Ts
In their militant flair 
Playing at war

…And the flag was still there

The flag of our fathers
Thrown at brothers in blue
Whose lives used to matter 
But no longer do

Belligerent screams
False flags and equivalencies 
Absurdities spit
And atrocities committed
For what is “patriot” 
Without a little riot

Now they ask to be pardoned
Forgiven and forgotten
So our country can heal 
From the crimes of the rotten

Members of Congress
Please remain seated 
In the event of insurrection
Check your seats and fasten 
Your own gas mask first 
And let us remind you
The closest exit 
May be behind you

Don’t be deterred
To do what is needed
Come back to work
Help stem the bleeding 

January Sixth
Twenty, Twenty-One
A day not forgotten
(A battle barely won)
So make them remember
And call out hypocrisy
Because the king is dead – 
Long live democracy

naked

you came to them cloaked
in the robes of a king
and everyone gawked
at the glow of your skin

the rubies, the emeralds,
the long lengths of silk
elaborately stitched
with one dollar bills

you had them believe
in your nobleness
but you had them all fooled
’cause you’re naked as sin

naked in empathy
naked in faith
naked in truth
and naked in face

naked in wealth
and naked in mind
naked in bravery
and what it means to be kind

you try to hide
your ugly lies
behind bouts of madness
and eclipsed eyes

your nudity seeps
into the hearts of your fans
who can’t help but cheer
for your naked tan

you spread your plague
unto all your houses
all the while spouting
a naked promise

naked in empathy
naked in faith
naked in truth
and naked in face

naked in wealth
and naked in mind
naked in bravery
and what it means to be kind

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

winter weight

Well, it’s almost that time of year again. The time when we are bombarded with ads telling us that Summer is Coming, and if we are to shed those “winter pounds” we have to get started yesterday.  As a mom to three boys in my 39th year, those pounds seem to hang on a little tighter each spring.  Not to mention the aches and pains that have taken up residence in the last several months (is doom-scrolling arthritis a thing?)

With every spring I realize a little more just what my winter pounds are made of. I hope Tim O’Brien will forgive me for going a little “The Things They Carried” here, but the truth is I carry a lot more than extra body weight every winter.  And this winter is certainly no exception, amiright?

This winter has been the longest, coldest, darkest, and loneliest of my life.  And that is saying a lot considering I have lived in both Vail and Chicago —and it’s only February.  “Darkness” of winter has taken on a new meaning with the coronavirus.  In a normal winter I tend to hibernate, living more than half the time in pajamas and venturing outdoors only when necessary. 

This takes a tole on my mental well-being every year, as I am someone who thrives on connecting with nature and the feel of sunshine and fresh air.  As the season progresses I spiral slowly downward, becoming more at home with being at home and not realizing how unhappy doing nothing is making me.

But that’s never how the season starts; I begin the winter season in high holiday spirits, Christmas shopping and decorating and planning get togethers.  I always think I’m prepared for the “holiday hangover” that follows New Years eve, when nothing is scheduled for the next several months and the only thing on the horizon is a sunset that comes too early. 

Then as January and February settle in, so does my depression.  The less I do the heavier it feels.  It can be so hard to pull yourself out as you sink deeper.  And this year it’s deep.  I haven’t seen my parents since we moved to Cincinnati several months ago.  I’ve seen my in-laws only in brief interactions.  The tense political climate and uncertainty around the pandemic has caused arguments with loved ones— I’ve noticed this happening to so many.

My kids are struggling to make friends at their new school since they can’t really be close to anyone (although I must say that I am SO happy they at least are in school and am super impressed with how great the district is doing to keep everything moving smoothly).  The guilt I feel over moving my kids from all of their friends and a school they loved is immense. 

My husband and I are doing good — considering we are always a room away from each other (we even went on our first date in about year the other week).  So yes, it’s already been a long, cold, dark winter, and I am definitely carrying some extra weight.  But the heaviest weight is not the physical; it’s the mental, emotional, metaphorically overwhelming pounds of guilt, sadness, loneliness, and fear that the “winter of our discontent” might not eventually melt into spring.

Hope can be hard to find in times like these, but I’ve made the recent decision to try to search for it where it can be found, for my own well-being and to be a better parent.  It’s easy to see things in the moment as awful and forget that good things are also around us and waiting for us to acknowledge them.  I try to find joy in my kids, and have faith that they will find their place and make it through the pandemic a little wiser and more adaptive.

I am grateful for my health and the health of my family.  I can not stress that enough; the fear I felt about losing a loved one has begun to subside as vaccine rolls out. I try to remember how much I love my new home and feel gratitude to be in a position where we were not significantly impacted in the last year. 

Although we miss our old friends, we have made some new amazing friends.  There have been babies born and weddings planned.  I look forward to summer and the warmth it brings.  Spring will show new growth and the return of life. There is a light on the horizon again; light of the promises of an end to the pandemic.  It will take time to shed the weight of the last year, but the more hope we can maintain the lighter that weight will be.

i can’t help but think

of the spring fling
when you taught me to swing
dance on the polished gym
floors you sent me twirling
sing sing sing
and a string of pearls

after that we sat
in the hatchback
(of your used ford)
pretending it wasn’t as cold
as april in boulder
you put your hand
on my shoulder
and we listened to the rain

there’s a park we rode to
when you fought with your father
where cottonwood leaves
rustle in summer breezes
along a winding stream
we fished for crawdads
and hunted garters
in the tall grass
collecting bones
near the fox den
to hide in a hollow
where they were forgotten
by the winter
you fell through the ice

the year the beaver dam
flooded the woods
we skated between the trees
of the frozen forest
until park rangers came
and took them away
to preserve the landscape
they said
(it was never the same)

later that night
when the rain subsided
we turned off the headlights
and coasted down the drive
that led to the park
felt our way in the dark
to the water’s edge
to talk about letters
and where we’d be
in the coming years
and all of our hopes
(but none of our fears)

the night grew thick around us
seeping into our pores
stardust and meteors
entire worlds
we breathed it in
and it consumed us
lifting us off the ground
to swallow us whole
until we were nothing
(and everything)

-Carolyn Fridman, 2020

if only/shatter

If only one person 
Changes their mind
To see through the eyes
Of the other side

If more of us change
The size of our shoes
To step into someone’s
With opposing views

We might have a chance 
As a nation again
Depending on whether
And if and when

But so many of us choose
To simply ignore
As we climb ever higher
On the backs of the poor

So shatter the glass
Shatter your fists
Shatter the stigma
In which you live
Shatter the silence 
Of the privileged class
And shatter the voices
That cling to the past
Shatter the earth
On which you stand
Shatter the chains 
That bind your own hands

If we can work together
And cross the vast canyon
To bridge the gap 
Of tribalist fandom 

But it seems far away
And at once too close
To reflect on ourselves
And and the lives of our foes 

When batons and bullets
Become the norm
And peaceful protesters 
Are gassed and swarmed

It’s too much to handle
Too much to take
Clear eyes weep
And strong hearts break

So shatter the glass
Shatter your fists
Shatter the stigma
In which you live
Shatter the silence 
Of the privileged class
And shatter the voices
That cling to the past
Shatter the earth
On which you stand
Shatter the chains 
That bind your own hands

New World

It’s getting to the point
Just knowing what we do
About the man in the White House
And his version of truth
That people might realize
He’s not what he seems
Just a dumbed down version
Of the American dream…

The king of fools sits
On the royal shitter
Updating twitter
With a healthy portion of hate
To be served on a silver plate
A feast for the hungry beast
He more than helped to create

But his ratings are higher
Than a five alarm fire
And as he shanks the First
Things could always be worse
Just ask Heather Heyer
Murdered by a very fine nazi
From northern Ohio

Or the children in cages
Bordering gang wars and racists
Refugees torn from the warmth
Of loving embraces

There’s no rhyme or reason
No rhythm to this season
Or future we’re facing
But there is a time to embrace
And a time to refrain
From embracing
So if I die on a ventilator
Throw me in the refrigerator
And admit the next patients

Because Covid-19
Has people in the street
Screaming “What about me?”
Into mass graves
Where 500k are laid
To rest for eternity
(If you think April is cruel
Just wait until June
When your selfish actions
Lead to reinfections)

And the nurses are TIRED
As one by one
Their patients expire
So do me a favor
And explain to THEM
Why your needs are higher
Than heroes and fighters

He throws money at whores
And paper towels at the poor
Throws his friends in jail
(He’s too big to fail)
Throws his hands in the air
Because he really doesn’t care

With support from the KKK
And blood money from the NRA
He makes his case
About a perfect phone call
To his hostages in Ukraine

He shouts “Fake News!”
As he spouts fake views
To rally his base
for the 2020 race
Disregarding the lives
He didn’t even try to save
In this land of the free
Home of the Brave

Carolyn Fridman 2020
Photo by Life Matters on Pexels.com