In the Crossfire

by Donna Schoenkopf

It was Poetry Night and my feelings were a’boilin’. I had to leave the house in an hour to make it on time, but I decided to write a poem. A slapdash poem.

When I got to the restaurant, the scribbled piece of paper was jammed in my purse. I loosened up a bit because I knew I had friends in this place. I knew there would be smiles and gentle touches, little bits of news and brief hellos. I knew I would be accepted, exactly the way I was.

I listened to our featured reader, a handsome young man who read wonderful poems that I could understand and feel and see. I laughed and I felt feelings and his words rang true.

I scribbled around on my ratty little poem as I sat at the table and decided that I wanted to read it after all to get it my prickly feelings off my chest.

After fussing with it for a while, I went up and put my name on the open mic list. I’d be the last reader. Kinda gave me a feeling of insecurity. Being the last poem, it would leave a taste in their mouths. Probably bad.

Yikes. But one must do what one must do.

How in the world did all this come about? Why was I so overwrought? What had driven me to public proclamation? Why had World War III erupted here in our little town on the prairie?

Welllllll ...

It was a Facebook fight. (You know me and my Big Mouth.)

It all began with me commenting about someone saying they were going to eliminate a certain someone from her life because the person in question was full of drama and this only made for bad feelings and life was too short to be unhappy.

It sounded very Real Housewives of New Jersey or, to be more refined, very Scarlet Letter to me ... the shunning of a person. I have ALWAYS felt sorry for the shunned. Just remember Mary Magdalene and what Jesus said about her, okay?

But that wasn’t the only thing that grabbed my heart and twisted it. I have heard four, count ’em, FOUR people saying to me recently, “Life is too short to be unhappy.” They all have chemical dependencies and are my dearest family and dearest friends. To say I loved them would be an understatement.

So, I said something stupid to the writer on Facebook. Something about being careful about trying to be happy all the time. It could lead to drug addiction/alcoholism.

This made the Facebook writer really, REALLY mad and me. I apologized, publicly and humbly. My usual big mouth had done it again.

But she did not accept my apology. I pursued her. Asked again to be forgiven because I knew that she knew nothing about my situation and must have felt blindsided. I tried to let her know I was just feeling anxious about people whom I loved.

In response came videos from other members of the group. I was excoriated for saying Jesus was a liberal. I had no right to talk of Jesus if I didn’t even believe in God. They sent anti-Muslim, anti-Obama sentiments, and flags were imprinted next to their writings because they are Americans and good Christians. A video of Gary Stearman and Dennis Avi Lipkin talking about the plot to install a Muslim (Obama) in the White House came my way. Huge American flags unfurled next to more anti-Muslim sentiment.

As I read this stuff over the week I thought about the flag. I thought about how I loved it as a child. I thought about how the flag began to be something that menaced me when big flags were carried by people who spat on me and ripped my peace sign to shreds and gave me the finger and said I was un-American.

The flag began to represent hatred to me. It began to represent war and anger and shunning.

Then I remembered how I fell in love with the flag again, a deeper love than I had ever felt as a child.

My love returned when the Supreme Court ruled on whether or not it was against the law to burn the flag. They said flag burning was a Constitutionally protected right to free speech.

I literally broke down and sobbed as I listened to the decision. The flag had martyred itself for freedom of speech.

The greatest gift of all.

So it’s MY flag, too, my sisters, even though you wish people who burned the flag were wrapped in it at the time. I am an American! An American who cares about what happens to our country and our world and works hard to make sure we don’t lose our precious freedoms.

I thought of all this as I sat scribbling at the table.

Then open mic began. The poetry flowed. Fresh thoughts. Loving thoughts. Pain and beauty. Funny observations. Beautiful metaphors.

One of the poets read a poem dedicated to me and my cat Che who had died. It touched my heart. It was the first poem anyone had ever written to me. Eventually I read mine and then the night was over.

The poets stopped to talk to me after our evening had drawn to a close. They were all accepting of me even though, I knew, they didn’t all agree. One asked if I would send it to him. He had been searching for a way to have a talk with his girlfriend about his beliefs.

Freethinkers. All of them. People who valued speaking the truth and actually loved differences. No one here would ever shun another person. Write your heart out. Spill your guts. It’s all good here.

It was nice to be among friends.

So here’s the ratty little thing. I know it’s not a great poem. But what the hell.

I was almost defriended today.

I may be yet.

It was over politics and Jesus.

I was called a know-it-all.

I plead guilty.

 

But when she said I had maligned her Jesus

and I had no right to speak at all about the Saviour

because I didn’t even believe in God,

I objected.

 

I love Jesus!

The beatitudes slay me with their beauty.

Yes, charity IS the most powerful of the three

and the Golden Rule shines in my heart.

 

I used to be a believer and it was nice.

But faced with the cruelty of reality

I had to let Him go.

 

Poof.

 

I wish all believers well.

Believe on, O believers!

Take your solace where you can.

Dominus vobiscum,

et cum spiritu tuo.

 

(But what had I said to offend her so?

Oh, yes.

Two things.

Bumperstickers, both.)

“Jesus was a liberal,”

“... a revolutionary who died for the cause.”

Acknowledgement:

Nancy sent me the last line. Without it the poem just kerplunked at the end. Feh. Thank you, Nancy.

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