First Kiss (#BeenRapedNeverReported)

The bus zoomed past the stop as I dashed up, panting.

“Oh no, now I have to wait a whole hour for the next one.” 

My friends from drama class wished me luck as they headed home.

I found a bench and plunked myself down. Frustrated. Nervous. Trying to be invisible.

My first chance to take a course in the big city, all by myself. At night. My parents had decided I was old enough.

And now here I was.

Fourteen years old.

Alone.

Shivering. Chilly. Anxious.

Avoiding eye contact.

Then he approached.

His brown hair was slicked back with some kind of grease, save for a small twist that hung down over his forehead. His eyes were piercing yet dull as he gazed at me. He wore an ill-fitting, crumpled suit.  He might have been handsome in another time, at another place.

“My name is Gunther Kraus and I have been drinking.” A heavy German accent. Slurred.

My heart sank as he sat down beside me.

He reeked of cologne, cigarettes and rye.

He was too close.

I looked the other way. I looked at the other people waiting at the stop.

Why had I sat so far away from all of them? How stupid of me.

Why had I missed the bus? I was so careless.

Mom and Dad were gonna kill me.

This was my fault.

So for an hour, I sat frozen on that bench.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

Took control of me.

Told me how beautiful I was.  

How he wanted to take me home.

Stroked my cheek.

Touched me.

And kissed me.

Slobbery. Disgusting. Horrifying.

My first kiss.

Frozen on that bench. Tears welling up. Silent.

Changed.

At long last, the bus arrived.

I flew from that cold hard seat. From that slimy man.

And on to the warm bus, where I frantically found a spot next to an older woman.

And then I started to sob. I cried and shook all the way home. She offered me some gum.

“This might help you feel better,” she said.

She meant well.

This is rape culture.

My first kiss.

Never reported.

Fourteen.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Heart on My Sleeve

“So why bleeding hearts?” asked the tattoo artist, needle hovering over my wrist.

“They remind me of my mom. And my grandmas. My aunts too. And all the strong women in my life.”

And as the ink marked my skin, I winced and wondered, “why bleeding hearts?”

They always grew in our flowerbed.

Tougher than they looked.

But fragile too.

Tiny teardrops as they aged.

Because sometimes love hurts.

Wild romances and crushing break-ups.

Powerful labour, then a perfect tiny child.

So much laughter that it turns to sobbing.

Heartsongs.

Heartaches.

Heartbreaks.

My heart on my sleeve.

So the blood is wiped away gently. The lovely little tattoo encircles my wrist.

For my mom. My grandmas. My aunties and aunts. For women’s strength.

For love.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall: A Visit

Bobby Sloan

The name jumps out

Not Robert

Not Rob

Not even Bob

Bobby

Still just a kid

A goofy teenager

Dead

One of thousands

and thousands

and thousands

Shipped off

Then

Mangled

Shredded

Destroyed

Bobby Sloan

Dead Bobby Sloan

Dead

For nothing

A name on black granite

Dead

Nothingness.



I hate war.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Choices of a Broken Heart

Two paths

Victim

Unsure

Insecure

Shocked

Embarrassed

Humiliated

Frustrated

Furious

Helpless

Anxious

Tentative

Sad

Unsure

Heroine

Aware

Sensitive

Surprised

Angry

Curious

Thoughtful

Responsive

Confident

Open

Sure

Hopeful

Aware

I choose heroine.

                                   

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Grandma

A tree falls in the forest.

I hear it

Sigh.

Grey knotted skin

tears.

Crack.

Brittle back

snaps.

The windstorm too much to withstand.

A young neighbour breaks the fall.

Held gently in fresh green boughs

Making room for new growth

It humbly passes.

I hear it.

An old woman dying in her bed.

I hold her

Gaze.

Clear eyes

 close.

Silence.

Shallow breath

 stops.

This life too long for weary bones.

Granddaughter strokes her hair.

Hands in hands

Clearing the way for the next generations

She silently passes.

I hold her.

My grandma.

With my grandma many years ago.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Roller Coaster: A Year in My Life

“She had a mastectomy last week.”

“We’re getting married in April.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night, but my mom passed away.”

“Would you like to teach over at Urban Circle?”

“I broke up with him.”

“He doesn’t need another hip replacement!”

“Don’t rush me.”

“Do you want to listen to our new song?”

“I guess I didn’t get the job.”

“They checked me out and my heart is fine.”

“I need to sit down.”

“It’s a boy!”

“I realized I’m a girl.”

“I’ll go to the funeral with you so you don’t have to go alone.”

“Try the hot tub.”

“Will you shave my head?”

“Have a good day dear. See you tonight.”

“Love you mom.”

“Cancer free!”

“We found these kittens in the ditch.”

“Can we have our party at your place?”

“He’s disappeared again.”

“Thanks for helping me with this. I really appreciate it.”

I scream down. I climb back up. Life is a ride.

An Oath to Children

To the children in my care:

·      I will honour you and your family, respecting the love and deep understanding you share.

·      I will welcome you into our beautiful play space and be joyful with you as we experience the peace of nature.

·      I will treat you with integrity, as you grow alongside others. Fairness and honesty will help us to solve problems together.

·      I will celebrate your courage as you learn how to say good-bye and how to say hello.

·      I will remember with humility that you know what you need. My safe arms, kind words and open heart will always be yours.

·      I am your Early Childhood Educator.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Speak No Evil

The third monkey.

Valued

When her mouth is shut.

Muzzled

Mute

Screeching

Within.

She sees evil.

She hears evil.

She aches with sadness.

Quietly.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Girls

I love the show “Girls”. I wait for the new season of dysfunctional friendships and unhealthy relationships.

Marnie, Shoshanna

Jessa and Hannah

Anxious, unemployed

Messed up and obsessed.

But I look around me, and the girls I know are not like those television characters.

A sixteen year old German flew to Canada, missed her connecting flight in Toronto, figured out new arrangements, and made it to our home in rural Manitoba. She climbed onto the bus the next day and began attending the local high school, knowing no one. She joined the cross-country team, then she joined indoor track. She aced all her classes. And now she’s learning to shovel snow.

“Do you need help, Conni? I can do that!”

A twenty-one year old was born in a boy’s body. So she found the resources and raised the funds and got herself to Montreal for the surgery she needed.

To have the body that matched her soul.

A twenty-three year old had her ceiling collapse. When she realized that her landlord was not going to fix it properly, she gave her notice, found a new apartment, hired movers, and got herself relocated within a month.  And then built her own Ikea couch.

All by herself.

A twenty-nine year old was busy raising her son. When her niece needed care, she took her in, rescuing the child from addicted parents. A year later, an infant nephew became her charge, too. So she clips coupons and lives carefully and fights the system and does whatever she can to protect those little ones.

To give them a real family.

The fifty year old friends started to lose partners, fight cancer, miss their kids, look for new jobs, move out of their homes, mourn parents. So they drank coffee and complained, or ranted and cried, or laughed good big belly laughs. And sometimes they shopped. Or baked.

Or did nothing at all, with each other.

The support group of eighty year olds cried together as they tried to cope with aging and abuse and partners’ confusions. And they laughed  till they cried again, talking about how ridiculous life could be.

They were the toughest old girls I ever met.

So the TV show is just a TV show.

Entertainment.

In real life

The girls are all right.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014