"Veterans Day"

        “Is that Daddy?” queried four-year-old Lizzy as she pointed her finger at a man dressed in green fatigues.
         The young mother squeezed her daughter’s hand tighter as she answered, “No. I’ll tell you what you need to do. Look at the caps the men are wearing. Your daddy’s cap is dirty.”

         Ten-year-old Paula nodded in affirmation. “Dad needs a new hat.”

        Restlessly, the two children watched as airmen purposefully strode across the tarmac. Suddenly, Lizzy tugged free of her mother’s grasp and dashed toward a man wearing a dirty hat. She wrapped her arms tightly around his legs in the tightest bear hug her little arms could muster. The young man attempted to disengage himself from the small child, his face growing red as he scanned the area.
         “Elizabeth Anne,” the girl’s mother dashed forward. “This man isn’t your daddy!”
         “But his cap is really dirty!” Lizzy exclaimed earnestly.

        The airman pulled his cap into his hands, embarrassed by the child’s observation and confusion.

         “My husband’s been on a long TDY,” the mother explained.
     “I understand completely,” the man said as he sidestepped the little family and continued on his way.

        Hand on hip and head shaking in disapproval of her little sister’s faux pas, Paula pointed to another cluster of men approaching the fence line. “There he is!”
       And there he was! Dad with a brand new cap cocked on his head. He jogged away from the other men and scooped his girls into his arms.

         For years, my family teased me about the time I flung my arms around the man with the dirtiest cap, converting the story into a running joke that I threw myself at men. As an adult, though, I realize how much that childish mistake must have stung both of my parents. My mother did her best to talk about Dad when he left on long trips, but keeping his image strong in the mind of a four-year-old proved an almost impossible task. Tight on money, my parents didn’t have many photographs of each other around the house. After my mistake, my father gave me dashing picture of himself from when he first joined the Air Force to keep in my room.

Karl F. Abrams--circa 1948

         For Veterans Day, we pause to honor the men and women who serve in our military, but we should also reflect upon the sacrifice the families make. When a young man or woman decides to serve our country, his or her entire family becomes a military member. The soldier misses birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries. The soldier misses that first step, the lost front tooth, the touchdown, and the first broken heart. Every moment of every day, the families of these men and women ache for the lost moments. Our tributes to these veterans must recognize the full scope of their sacrifices.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Be Kind"

           For many years, I’d jot a list of goals or guidelines onto the final page of my journal. At first, the practicality of these reminders meant I rarely looked at them. “Pay off car” or “Save for a fence” didn’t need a weekly reminder. Gradually the notations gave way to little personal mottos like” Stay in today” or “Laugh every day.” This time around, I wrote the words “Be kind.”
            What a lovely concept, and how sad that I feel the need to prompt myself to give tolerance and understanding when dealing with other people. I often fall short of personal goals, and when I’m stressed and tired, my ability to react with thoughtfulness dwindles to a microscopic mite.
            “Be kind” holds nobleness. If I can dip into patience and sympathy as my initial response to an adverse situation or obnoxious encounter, perhaps I can diffuse negativity in my life.
            “Be kind” nurtures grade and gentleness. If furious frustration flames within me because of someone’s painful thoughtlessness, I should douse it with common courtesy, drown it in goodwill.
            “Be kind” smothers greed, hatred and cruelty under a blanket of consideration, tenderness, and decency. So by following this two word principal, my spirit gains contentment.
 

 

 Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“When You’re Not in a Cult”

            Yesterday I woke up wrapped in defeat. My stomach ached. My head ached. My heart ached. My belief in American voters lay bludgeoned and bloody at my feet. I had no desire to triage my world. Let it bleed out.

            My writing sharpened down to eight lines of poetry predicting regrets that I realized today won’t happen. These people want to add heat to boiling wrath. They feed their outrage with a volatile fuel of racism and misogamy. Their deity’s failings purify him and absolve him. They expect nothing from him but chaos and destruction.

            He empowers them because he is them.

          Those of us not in the cult can only step aside right now to keep from burning up in the initial explosions. When you’re not in a cult, you know that there is more than one person or one way to put out a fire.

 Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

             

 

           

“Order of Destruction”

David Chapman-artist

 

            Who will cry the loudest when denied coverage for your pre-existing condition?

           Who will weep and wail when your air quality index nudges to red day after day?

            Who will stand in shock when tariffs rob your wallets with relentless brutality?

           Who will stupidly mutter, “I didn’t know?” when funding vanishes for public education?

            Who will lament the women in your life bleeding to death?

            Who will regret your neighbor ICE-d into deportations?

            Who will mourn for your LGBTQ teenager choosing death?

            Who will protect you when they brand you “Other”?

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

     

"My Vote"

 

         As political leaders play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own incomes.

         My brother stands alone.

         So as the political pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.

         My brother has learning disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words. He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes. His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and became a teacher for Head Start.

         His low salary at Head Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He represents the working poor in this country.

         My brother lives a modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.

         If my brother carries the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes won’t bare the weight of a second household.

         When I hear and see mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much, don’t want to understand that Life isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb to Huntington’s downward spiral.

         I am not a statistic.

         My sister is not a statistic.

         My brother is not a statistic.

         So when I cast my vote in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“The Lying Game”

One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A promise between women to defend a choice
 
No questions asked
No explanations expected
No expectations required
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A bond between friends to nurture with care
 
No judgement levied
No vow risked
No trust betrayed
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A link between sisters to honor with respect
 
No exposure feared
No disloyalty dreaded
No love broken
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A burden dropped into my mind
 
Left under lock and key
Held tightly under my protection
Allowing her to play a lying game
 

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman