Colored rain
Tastes like
Colored rain
Rain down colored rain...
Rain...
Bring it on down, babe
Spill.
-Traffic
Bad weather here in Georgia this day. Sadness spills and fills my street. Dropped my life off at school today—postcard from her daddy tight in her hand. It’s the first postcard she’s ever seen, and it’s from her daddy, even better, she misses him so much. She runs up to the circle where the teacher sits with the children, starting to read a book. A book my daughter could already read on her own. The circle is isn't about story time, the circle is about structure, control.
This day, my daughter can’t sit down. I found myself, standing inside of her, so excited to share these words, this picture from daddy. She holds in her hand the missing piece to the puzzle that is her world. At that moment, there is nothing more important to her—to the world—than this 4X6 piece of cardboard.
The teacher says, “Please, sit when you come into the circle.”
“I have this,” holding it out.
“I’m reading a book right now—you need to wait.”
Crushed that her world isn’t their world and our world doesn’t fit like it used to, how do you make sense of that at 4? And I think back to my own education—what mattered to me, did it ever matter inside those walls? Slice and dice, pound the peg, take your seat. Hail Mary, Full of Grace.
I left, and I didn't look back.
The money that we spend on school isn't what bothers me. It’s seeing the future, the lifetime ahead of conforming or paying the price, of not relishing the unique, the spirit unlike, the one who is so much more.
I have no way to fix the future, never mind the past, and that’s what bothers me this day.
Torrents of torture, rob my soul, tie my hands, take their toll.
Wet with sadness, more rain on the way.
"Bring it on down, babe"
Spill.
