#DearMe

My letter to my younger self for International Women’s Day 2015:

Dear Conni,

It is nice to have manners. Saying please and thank you at the dinner table, opening doors for others, apologizing if you mess up…. courtesy for those around you can go a long way in promoting kind respect.

But know this…sometimes you should not be polite! You should be downright rude.

Do not say, “yes please” to the old man offering you a glass of vodka. And a kiss. When you are fourteen. March out the door and slam it in his face. And then tell somebody you trust what he has done.

Do not say, “I’m sorry” to the person that slaps you across the face. When you have been hurt, scream and rant. Whenever you need to. And you will need to sometimes.

Do not allow harmful people into your life because you feel socially obligated. Some folks are just plain nasty. You do not have to try and fix them. It’s okay to say, “no, you are not welcome here.”

Walk on the grass.

Disagree with teachers.

Stand up.

Speak your mind.

Say no. Without explanation or apology.

Manners. Use only as needed.

Love always,

Young Conni

Conni




















©Conni Cartlidge, 2015

Raven: A True Story

She’s got a bad reputation.

Dressed in morbid black

Squawking

She doesn’t know when to shut up.

A tough old bird.

On a harsh winter morning

She follows me

As I storm down the back road

Seething.

Her calls catch me

And I stop in my tracks.

“What do you want?”

She tilts her head

With curiosity

“Hello!”

“Hello?”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

Cackling

She swoops past me

A dark slash of laughter

Against the snow.

Judgements don’t matter.

It’s all a game.

Life is silly.

I plunk down in a deep drift and chuckle.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2015

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