We are accepting

BUT

you must think like us,

talk like us,

walk like us;

Your mind is not your own-

We are tolerant

BUT

those who do not assimilate, integrate

we will violate, desolate

and decree to hate;

Your mind is not your own-

We are your friend

UNTIL

you question us or do not agree

THEN

you will be our enemy;

Your mind is not your own-

Violence is wrong

BUT

it is great for those we hate

hunt them, stalk them

drag them out of bed, kick them in the head;

Your mind is not your own-

We believe in freedom

freedom to fight for our ideals,

freedom for people like us-

BUT

self-think we DO NOT tolerate

self-think we must annilihate;

Your mind is not your own.

Did you know

a yellow bird whistled outside your window

as you drew your last breath?

One last exquisite song

sung especially for you

Could you hear the birdsong

when your hands became unyielding and stiff,

and your skin grew cold?

Tell me,

did you see it beside you,

the angel in that bird?

Do you remember me brushing your course gray hair,

or my fingers lightly stroking your pallid cheek

as you rest your head on my shoulder like a child

reflecting on a death so near

saying,

"I can't believe my time is here"

Floundering in the water

unable to take flight,

weighed down by heavy wings

dripping with painful things;

Tossing to and fro in a stormy sea

still unable to find strength within me

to lift my wings and fly-

so hard to even try;

I don't know where to start

or how to be,

even the stars don't motivate me;

When overcome by the mighty sea,

still,

my wings won't set me free

Nobody knows what it is like to be me-

tattered and torn

desperate to be free;

Nobody knows my face is a lie,

a mask to hide behind

comedy told with empty eyes,

no flicker inside

Nobody hears

the wails and screams I hold inside

or the implosion, explosion

in my heart and mind

Nobody hears

the remaining fragments of me

breaking in me-

no one knows you are taking me down

If only they could see your tar-soaked heart

like I do

If only they could see how easily you deceive

with your mask of glittering lies,

hiding viper tongue and arrogant eyes;

They think you are so thoughtful and kind

but if only they could see

how you feed on me-

draining my soul

with your cruel words and vindictive deeds,

your cold heart leaving me to bleed;

If only they knew

what is behind my empty eyes

If only they knew

why I broke in two

It was a miracle, they said. Resting on railroad tracks with a forest of trees on one side and rolling farmland on the other, was a long chain of open freight cars. Some bore damage from the fighter planes that had flown over and fired on what was perceived as an enemy threat. Several cars had been completely obliterated, while three others were engulfed in flames. How fortunate I was to be in one of the few cars that was untouched. Strangely, I have no recollection of the train cars being violently jarred by explosions just a few feet away, or how I came to be on the train in the first place.

The soldiers found me lying inside a car with only the bodies of the dead to keep me company. Of the hundreds of people that must have been crammed into each of the twenty freight cars, I was the only soul still breathing. I have been told by many people that God must have special plans for me. I think of a cynical response, but say nothing.

The liberators ask me daily where I come from. I couldn’t remember. Each time I felt my mind reaching back, probing for memory, haunted by familiar voices and images that dart through my mind, and then vanish. So today I tell them the name of the concentration camp I last remembered. “But what is the name of your hometown?” I give a blank stare in response. The Red Cross doctor makes some notation on his sheet, and goes on to ask my name. I show him the tattoo on my arm. “No,” he said, “Your real name, the one you were born with.” I shrug. I don’t remember this either.

Day after day I sit in the big dirt yard, my scabby legs stretched out before me like two long sticks. I try to think of places I had heard of and wondered if that was where I was from. Sometimes I imagined I was from romantic, cosmopolitan places like Paris, France or Rome. But of course, I wasn’t, I couldn’t speak anything but Polish. When I tired of this, I watched the doctors and nurses scurrying about, moving between and around the wilting, drooping bodies walking listlessly among them, like it was an obstacle course. But the walking dead take no notice. They just continue to shuffle back and forth, back and forth every day with seemingly no purpose. I am like them. I am lost.

Then one day, as I sit in the yard, my eyes closed, enjoying the cool breeze blowing through my wisps of hair, memories from my childhood gushed to the forefront of my mind. Everything I see and feel and smell is as crisp as if I was actually there in that time and place. I walk down the main street, feeling my feet hit the pavement. Everything was just as it used to be, before it happened. The creamery and general store are still there, the school and temple too. I walk past the rabbi’s home. His son Asher is there in the yard. He hasn’t changed a bit in all these years- still young and handsome. This time he notices me. “Hello Hannah, so nice to see you again,” he says with a smile. I exchange pleasantries with him. He would like me to stay longer, but I am anxious to be reunited with my family. I continue on toward my home, and soon it is within sight.

One

My father is picking me up from school today. Not because he is some great father who wants to spend extra special time with me- oh no- it is so he can take me to some new doctor for my “mental health issues.” This will be the fifth one. I have no patience for this nonsense, and usually don’t even bother to talk to the counselors. I could just tell my dad straight up what my problem is, if he would even care to listen- which he doesn’t. He just wants all the problems to go away without expending too much effort on his part.

After the last bell of the day rings I pick up my books and head out the classroom door. I accidently bump into Janine Sampson, who sneers at me “Freak!” before she dismisses me with a toss of her shiny, long blonde hair. Janine, the head cheerleader of course, has a thing with her hair. I notice she is always tossing it and twirling it between her fingers like she is auditioning for a shampoo commercial. We used to be friends- when we were much younger- like up to Kindergarten, but then things changed, or I did. Now we can’t stand each other. I ignore her remark and walk down the long, institutional corridor to my locker. Along the way I notice the stares and barely disguised looks of disgust thrown my way. As you can probably guess, I am not the most popular girl in school- not even close. My appearance and chosen attire are not appreciated in the affluent suburb of Kentwood, where I live. My naturally wavy blonde hair is dyed jet black; I wear heavy dark eye makeup; a plain wardrobe of blacks and grays, topped off with purple lipstick and nails. My stepmother Vicki bought me clothes in more vibrant colors and fashionable styles, but I never wore them. The locals of all ages gossiped and fretted over why I looked the way I did. Was I a druggie? Or involved in witchcraft or satanism, they wondered. This all got back to my father and stepmother, who were desperate to keep up appearances, which is why they felt it urgent that I get some “help.” The truth was, I was not involved in witchcraft or otherwise, and although I did not consider myself a drug addict, I did smoke weed from time to time. The actual reason for my chosen appearance is much harder to explain.

My dad was waiting for me outside in his sporty SUV. I set my black book bag with a cross and bones insignia down on the floor between my legs as I buckled my seatbelt. My dad watches me anxiously, like he’s trying to figure out what to do next. “So, how was school today?” he asks- a typical parent thing to say when there is nothing else to say.

“Fine,” I answer. He nods and starts up the SUV. As he carefully makes his way out of the school parking lot trying to avoid getting sideswiped by teenage drivers of expensive cars, I pull out of my bag a book I have been reading by Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar. The book is old and worn, the pages are yellowed. It used to belong to my mother. My dad glances down at the book. “What are you reading?” he feigns interest. I hold it up so he can read the title. A frown wrinkles his face. “That again? How many times do you have to read that trash?” My dad doesn’t appreciate fine literature. “Sixty,” I say. Doug, my dad, snickers. I have read it a lot-maybe ten times, I’m not sure.

“Don’t you think it’s time you got some new reading material? Why do you always want to read depressing stuff?” I think about this. I do seem to have a preoccupation with the morbid. Besides The Bell Jar, I have read Plath’s poetry, Anne Sexton, biographies of Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland- pretty much any persona who has committed suicide or led a tragic life. I am also obsessed with reading about the Jewish Holocaust of World War Two. My only other reading involves tales of vampires or the horror genre in general. I don’t like to read those frilly or racy romances, or any lovey-dovey hopeful stuff. I don’t believe in that crap, its not realistic. Music is the same way for me. I listen to mostly hardcore metal or grunge bands. Songs of love or how great life is make me want to vomit-unless its about love gone bad.

“Just be happy I read,” I retort. Doug opens his mouth to say something more, but changes his mind. After twenty long minutes we finally arrive at the Good Feelings Counseling Center. Just kidding-its not actually called that, it’s just my private joke. After checking in, dad and I take a seat in a seventies-style waiting room. On the coffee tables are stacks of magazines. I leaf through them to pass the time: Parenting Today, Reader’s Digest, Boy’s World, Field & Stream- typical boring waiting room fare. Despite this I decided to look at one to pass the time. I choose Parenthood to see what crap they are telling parents now about what kids need. I turned to the page that gave advice on how to deal with your troubled teen. “Teens act out when they are dealing with issues that are too big or confusing for them to handle alone, while also feeling that they cannot come to you for help and guidance. This is the time to stop yelling and start listening to your teen. Communicate. Express your love and concern . . .” blah, blah, blah. Like no shit! Why did magazines like this make millions selling common-sense advice year after year? Did any of the readers actually put the advice into action? If they did and were anything like my parents, it probably didn’t last long since it apparently takes too much effort.

“Hailee Courtland?” someone called. I looked up to see a tall, middle-aged woman looking expectantly around the waiting room at all the possible candidates. I raised my hand. She smiled at me- a real smile that reached her eyes (not fake like so many people did)- and beckoned me to follow her. Her office was the last door at the end of the hallway. She held the door open for me and closed it softly after I entered. “Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Doctor Olivia,” She said, extending her hand. I shook it. She gestured for me to sit. I took a seat in a very comfortable plaid armchair. “Can I get you something Hailee, like a soda or juice?” “Ah,” was all I could say. She waited patiently for my response. Never before had a therapist offered me refreshment. I wasn’t sure I had heard right. Dr. Olivia reached around behind the empty chair and opened the door to a mini-frig. “Let’s see. I have Dr. Pepper, Diet Coke, Sprite and orange juice?” she looked back at me.

“Um, I guess I’ll have a Dr. Pepper, Dr. Olivia.” She chuckled at my corny joke. She handed me the can of soda and then seated herself in the chair next to me. I was surprised. I had expected her to sit behind her desk like all the other therapists I have seen. “So, tell me a little about yourself,” she said as she popped open a can of Diet coke and leaned back into her chair.

“There’s not much to tell. My life is pretty boring,” I gave my rote answer in monotone, as I study her. I note how she is seated- kicked back, relaxed, like we were just two friends hanging out.

“I doubt that,” she said, taking a swig and then setting the can on the coffee table between us. “What kinds of things do you like to do by yourself or with friends?” I mulled over the question. I was almost tempted to answer, but I didn’t. I stared back at her. She stared back into my eyes, just as intensely. Was she trying to unsettle me? What did she hope to see there? After a couple minutes of this she tried a different track. “Why do you think your dad brought you here?”

“He thinks I’m crazy,” I blurted. I realized my mistake too late. I hadn’t meant to speak. Heretofore, the Code of Silence had been strictly enforced. A brief smile pulled at the corner of her lips. “Are you?”

“So is Olivia your first name or surname?”

“It is actually my surname,” she answers, nonplussed. She continues on, “do you think you’re crazy?”

“Probably,” I say. After all, how could I not be? I thought back to the “garage sale incident”, as it was called, when I was ten. My stepmother wanted to get rid of a bunch of old stuff she felt was taking up valuable space- which meant she wanted to get rid of my mother’s things. I didn’t realize this though until the day of the sale. I was sitting at the designated check-out table, shivering in my windbreaker, when a woman approached the table with a set of custom-framed matted photographs. “Will you take $10 for these?” she asked my stepmother. My mouth dropped open in shock at the recognition of those photographs. A rage and overwhelming sense of loss welled up inside me. I couldn’t even hear Vicki’s response. Without thinking I grabbed the photos out of the woman’s hands. “How dare you sell my mother’s pictures? My mother took these and framed them herself. These are not junk!” I screamed. I got up and looked around at all the tables to see what else of my mother’s she was selling. I found clothes, some of which still smelled of her, as well as her many books. Numerous items that had belonged to my big brother Colt were there too. My reaction horrified Vicki, as well as the many onlookers who had begun to gather around. Apparently, I had started throwing things and knocking over tables whilst screaming obscenities at my stepmother, among other things, but I only know what they tell me, because I have no recollection after seeing Colt’s things. What followed after was my first introduction to psychiatric hospitals.

“Why do you say that?” Dr. Olivia pressed on; pen poised over her yellow notepad. Suddenly I felt angry. What was it with therapists and their dumb-ass questions that they already knew the answers to? “Don’t you already know? I’m sure its there in my files.”

“I don’t want to make any assumptions. And for the record, I don’t think you’re crazy, but I want to know why you think so.”

“Besides the fact that everyone else in my life seem to think so?” She didn’t even try to argue that point like my previous therapists did (though clearly, I was right), she just nodded. I started to respond when I thought to myself, wait, what is going on here? Why am I even engaging with her? She was just another in a long line of therapists/psychiatrists who would find some reason why I needed to be “medicated” to the point I was a drooling, empty thing, or “sent away.” Why did my dad keep insisting I rehash the same crap over and over again? I didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“There is no point to this. This is a waste of my time and your time. I don’t want to keep reliving this!”

“What don’t you want to relive?”

“You know!”

“Why don’t you tell me?” She persisted. I sighed with exasperation. She was a bull dog; she was not going to drop this. Surprisingly, there was a small part of me that wanted to tell her, that wanted to trust her. I stared intently at her for a minute or two, debating whether or not to get up and leave.

Two

I wasn’t supposed to be there. After school that day I was to attend my friend Emily’s slumber party, but she got sick with the stomach flu and so it was cancelled. I came home on the school bus as usual. When I opened the front door, I was greeted by a hollow silence. Since Colt had died a few months earlier, the little bit of laughter and joy we had left in the house faded away with him.

I put my backpack down and called to my mom to let her know I was home. She didn’t answer. I thought she must be sleeping- she did a lot of that in those days. I proceeded to the kitchen to fix myself a snack and then settled in to watch an old favorite on TV Land- “Little House on The Prairie.” My mom had grown up watching it and introduced me to it. It was her favorite show as a kid, she had told me. After school she would race home to watch it before her brothers could take control of the only tv set in the house.

After watching a couple episodes, I decided to do some coloring. This was an activity my mother and I had previously enjoyed doing together. Soon hours had passed by and I was getting hungry.

“Mom?” I called. No answer. I went into the hallway by the stairwell and called for my mother again. When she still didn’t respond I went upstairs to her bedroom and knocked on her door. “Mom, are you in there? I’m hungry.” Silence. A cold sweat broke out across my brow. My limbs began to tremble so much I struggled to make it up to the third floor where her private study was. As I climbed, I thought to myself, why am I so scared? Maybe she’s not even here. She probably went out since she didn’t expect me to come home. When I finally reached the study, I rapped on the door loudly. Still getting no answer I gingerly turned the door knob and slowly pushed the door open. I looked around the room. Seeing nothing, I sighed with relief. Just as I was about to shut the door, something caught my eye. It was right in the middle of the room. How could I have missed this before? If I had walked straight in, I would have bumped into it. Hanging from the light fixture dangled the body of my mother, a thick rope twisted around her neck like an umbilical cord. Her skin was grayish-blue, and the light was gone from her still open eyes that seemed to be filled with tears. I stood still in the doorway staring at her corpse, transfixed by the gruesome sight I don’t think she meant for me to see.

I don’t know how long I stood there- I lost track of time and my senses. When my father came home, he found me huddled on the floor just outside the open study door. I didn’t even remember sitting down. For months after I couldn’t talk. My mind was in a complete fog and sometimes days would pass and I remembered nothing. Numbness replaced all emotion. I even forgot that my mother was dead and what I had seen. The doctors diagnosed my six-year-old mind with PTSD and said maybe it was for the best that I didn’t remember. When I could talk again, I kept asking, “Where is mama?” Relieved I had forgotten my dad decided to concoct a more “family friendly” version of her death, telling me she had an accident of some sort. I believed this lie for four years until the day of the garage sale. Somehow, seeing her things being given away brought back the memory I had hidden deep inside myself for so long. And then I went off the rails, so to speak.

Three

Somehow, Dr. Olivia compelled me to talk about my mother. I told her about the tinkle in mama's laughter; how warm and soft she felt when she held me, and how she smelled of cucumbers from the lotion she used. I told her about how much I had loved and adored her. How I had thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and could do no wrong in my eyes. "She did character voices you know, when she read to me," I looked up at Olivia, "Sometimes we even reenacted scenes from the stories."

“You know,” I sniffled, “I remember how my mom reacted when she found my brother Colt hanging in the garage." I try to gulp back the pain and bitterness rising inside me. "This is what I don’t understand! She knew how it would feel. It was devastating to her so what did she think it would do to a little girl!”

“Sometimes I find myself thinking of my mother, and even smile or laugh out loud at the memory, but then I get angry.”

“Why?” Dr. Olivia gently probed.

“Because of all the good things I could have shared with her, like talking to her about boys I like . . . helping me pick out a wedding dress or being there for me when I have my first child. But she took it all away,” Rage overcomes me thinking about these things. Sometimes I hate her so much for what she did, and yet I still long for her. Sometimes the darkness inside me is so fierce I wonder if I am going to become like her and do what she did.

“How could she have not known how much it would hurt me or the void it would leave?” I ask Dr. Olivia, who says nothing. “Maybe she didn’t really love me like I thought.”