“Dormant”

I love this time of year. With camera in hand, I take an excursion into my own yards, seeking sleeping possibilities. 

I hover over buds hidden under winter’s quiescence. 

I linger with my feet wet from yesterday’s rain. I close my mind to the hours of hard labor ahead—clipping, raking, bagging—erasing evidence of end time. 

I let my memory dash back to last summer when I danced in dappled sunlight, a nymph delighting in lazy days.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"DELETE, DELETE, DELETE"

More deaths

More excuses

More status updates

More comments

         I’m right

                  You’re wrong

         It is the weapon

                  Fuck you

         Punching keys

         Angry

         Frustrated   

         Viciously vomiting vile

                           DELETE, DELETE, DELETE

         I understand

         Your fears bind your logic

         It is the weapon—and more

         Let’s find common ground

         Pausing at each letter

         Appeasing

         Calmer

         Weighing wary words

More deaths

More excuses

More status updates

More comments

         I’m right

                  You’re wrong

         Lives matter

                  Fuck you baby killer

         Gnashing teeth

         Pissed

         Wordless

         Shredding senseless shit

                           DELETE, DELETE, DELETE

         I understand

         Your reasoning rambles

         It is the weapon—and more

         Set aside the diversion—for another time

         Carefully staying focused

         Sensible

         Cogent

         Decisively data driven

More deaths

More excuses

More status updates

More comments

         I’m right

                  You’re wrong

         More guns? No way!

                  Fuck you BITCH!

         Away from keyboard

         Pulling hair

         Livid

         Annihilating aggravating assholes

                           DELETE, DELETE, DELETE

 Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

        

        

        

        

        

        

        

        

        

        

        

                   

"Resist This!"

         Not long after Trump announced his candidacy for President, I began following him on Twitter. My logical, fact-bound brain couldn’t absorb the ridiculous tweets attributed to this man, and I had to witness first hand that the racist, misogynistic and narcissistic beliefs truly belong to him. They did.

         When Trump’ campaign came to San Antonio, I joined hundreds of protestors outside the country club at which he spoke. My fellow demonstrators chanted and picketed. We participated in peaceful dissent. At that time, hints of Russian involvement within our election process didn’t seem believable. Robert Mueller’s indictment of thirteen Russian nationals this week means we’ll soon learn more about the exact way Trump and his cohorts manipulated media and voting. With 2018 midterms looming, I find it necessary to email and call my Congressional representatives to beg them to do their jobs to safeguard future elections within our country. Also, in response to this I’ve joined a local chapter of Indivisible and completed the training to register voters within my county. 

         Many of the Executive Orders signed by Trump will prove harmful to my family, community and environment. I’ve written emails and made phone calls to protest. I’ve used social media to educate those within my radius. I joined the San Antonio March for Science after it became apparent this administration wants key Cabinet positions filled with unqualified, small-minded personnel.

         This week’s slaughter, so close to the lives lost in Los Vegas, wrapped my mind in foggy disbelief. I will make another round of emails and phone calls to remind my representatives that the miniscule progress made on gun reform has been stripped by this president. I will March for Our Lives in a few weeks. I will hit Twitter and Facebook. I will write through my tears and heartache. I worry that nothing will change. That my generation’s failure to protect everything (our environment, our health, our security, our children) will overburden me. That I will give up. I realized today that’s the goal of the opponents. They want us overwhelmed and off-balanced as they pummel at rights and regulations.

         I am tired.

         But Emma Gonzalez isn’t. David Hogg isn’t. Cameron Kasky isn’t. Delaney Tarr isn’t. Annabel Claprood isn't. These survivors, a year away from voting, will rip apart the current political system. They will save us all.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Put God Back into Schools”

   

         The battle cry of conservatives whenever slain children’s bodies hallow hallways, “Put God Back into Schools” mystifies me. For thirty-five years I’ve worked within the public-school systems. I’ve stood reverently through daily rituals of moments of silence and respectfully kept mute as faculty members and staff openly pray “in Jesus’s name.” I’ve watched students bow their heads before taking major exams and preach personal beliefs to their friends.

         These people don’t understand that the business of public schools isn’t to proselytize. That responsibility lies with parents, family, communities—religious leaders. Many educators’ strong beliefs seep out of their pores. They may not sermon while in front of the classroom, but their religious agenda pervades and influences how they approach everything they do. Anyone observing within the public-school system knows that the students most oppressed are those with no faith.

   I feel confused that anyone’s religion professes that if the Ten Commandments aren’t posted in the classrooms of public schools, the punishment of an avenging God is a logical result.

     What kind of God do these people believe in?

 Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Blowing Off the Dust"

         Like many writers, I have my first manuscript hidden away. The yellow binder draws my eyes only when I make a forage into my closet in search of something else. I crafted the original draft on an old Amiga computer in the early 1990s. Remember 3.5 floppy discs? With diligence, I printed chapter after chapter using my new dot matrix printer. The book’s setting, Iraq, sent me to the library on weekly forays where I unearthed National Geographic articles, English to Arabic dictionaries, and a copy of the Qu’ ran. I loaded my car with textbooks and histories of the country and the entire Middle East while also dipping into novels and stories set in the region. I researched the old, hard way as I weaved my characters into real world places and events.

         I longed to write an entire manuscript created from one small idea and refine it into a draft worth publishing. In the year that I had to work on the novel, I penned a promising draft. Then, I had to return to full-time work.

         The printed story sat in a desk drawer. I occasionally pulled it out and polished passages. Sometimes I’d rewrite entire chapters. Sometimes I’d fine tune a phrase. Eventually, the manuscript shifted from a drawer to the closet into a nondescript box and became buried under life’s odds-n-ends. Our old Amiga gave way to iMacs and homebuilt PCs while the dot matrix printer shifted into obsolescence, and the novel drifted into the back corners of my mind.

         A few summers ago, I unearthed the box with yellowed pages of barely legible ink. I felt as though I’d neglected a child as I reread the book. Maybe driven by a little guilt, I retyped the entire text and printed a copy using my laser printer. I placed the pages into a bright yellow binder and positioned it on a shelf next to the notebook that contains the final, hard copies of my blog. There is no way I can let myself forget this manuscript yet again.

         On Friday, I decided to revisit this old friend. Delighted to find she’s aged well, I’m making her my next major writing project. I can’t wait to use the ease of the Internet to double check all of those details I used as I spun my narrative. Maybe the years I’ve spent sharpening my skills means I’ll finally blow off the dust from this story and share it with my readers.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman