Buried Secrets

Chapter 3: Stranded in Kentucky-2

After these first few weeks, English class is the bright spot in my otherwise rather bleak days at Butler. Ms. Schell is definitely my favorite teacher here; she looks young enough to be a college student except for the tinge of grey in her funky short hair. She wears bright-colored tank tops under her uniform shirt, writes outrageous poetry, and insists that her students speak their minds. She also tells lame grammar-related jokes, but all the kids laugh because she’s trying so hard.

Ms. Schell seems to like poetry as much as I do. I guess this is another reason why I’m so comfortable with her. Writing poetry, for me, sometimes feels like a life preserver when I’m drowning (which has been most of the time since that day last August.)

Right now in English we’re working on traditional poetry forms, both reading them and attempting to write them. Of course, there are only a select few who even try to take the writing part seriously. Recently, we read some haiku and other traditional Japanese forms written by Americans in internment camps during World War II. It’s creepy what the US government did; those Japanese Americans hadn’t done anything, they were just different. And they were exiled without a second thought. Kind of like me with my mom sending me to Kentucky for my whole junior year.

So I tried writing a couple of tanka poems for Taylor. The tanka is about expressing emotion, and is the oldest kind of Japanese poetry. Here are the two poems I turned in:

here in Kentucky

the landscape is lovely, but

my heart bleeds sadness

I miss you so much,

though no one must know your name

so far away now

the hills of Kentucky rise

and swallow my soul

will you forget me?

our last good-bye still lingers

No surprise that Ms. Schell would get from these that I had someone back home I was missing, and that there was some painful secret. She wrote this note on my returned paper:

Emelia,

You definitely have talent as a young poet. So much maturity as a writer for a 17-year-old! I know it must be hard to start school in a new place; maybe it would help to have someone to share with. Maybe the school counselor?

I’m always around if you need me,

Ms. S.

WTH! I love that she liked my writing, but I’m not at all interested in talking to Mrs. Sanchez, who has a hint of a mustache and wears earrings from the seventies. I can’t imagine what she might have to say that would be of any use. I’ll just keep on writing my poems and be more careful about sharing them. Thank God Ms. Schell didn’t call Aunt Penny because of my poems. What I don’t need is more trouble with the “authorities.”

Aunt Penny is the best and I do love her, but because of why I’m here she seems nervous about everything I do. My mom has called from Florida three times already, and Penny basically freaks out every time, chain smoking herbal cigarettes and drumming her fingers on the granite counter top. I feel guilty that I put Aunt Penny in this position, but I still blame my mom for sending me here. Although Daytona, Florida is not the classiest place to live, I did at least have some friends there.

Here at Butler, I am something of a pariah (I looked it up after Ms. Schell said it in class), and every day seems more and more lonely. I know I could find new friends if I went to church, but just the thought right now makes me a bit sick. The pitiful truth is that, right now, my best friend is Aunt Penny’s hamster Charlotte.