...not being different

Just posted a poem on the poetry forum.  It isn't new.  I wrote it back in 1978, taking a Creative Writing course while I was back in college, after divorce, working toward my degree.

Some of it is uncannily accurate.  International Village was the name of the subdivision, which was kind of synchronistic because it was the first racially diverse neighborhood in my home town, and the first house I ever bought where my name was on the first line of a mortgage agreement.  It was scary, I remember.  Many of my old "friends" were horrified at my "mistake," for buying there.

The kids were all real; well, mostly.  It was the boy from Vietnam whose name was George, not Chien.  The "George" in the poem was really a girl named Gemetria - "G" for short. So I used a bit of poetic license.  It worked out better that way, poetry-wise.

I had totally forgotten about writing this poem.  I was listening to a news channel while working on tonight's family dinner, and it blipped back into my head. (the latest news re that guy Bundy's comments about "negroes.")  Amazingly, I was able to remember it - word for word.

I'm also posting the poem below because I don't think many people here read the poetry forum these days.

...not being different

The International Village Boys Club met at our house today.
David proudly brought his friends inside to meet me.
Chien is from Vietnam.
Ahmet is from...
"I'm not really sure," David once said.
"His mother speaks a funny language I can't understand.
I think it must be Spanish or British, or something like that."
They talk awile,the question is answered.
Ahmet is from India, near Bombay.

"Where are you from, George?" they asked.
George's big brown eyes almost showed dismay for a moment.
He lowered his kinky black head. "From here," he murmered.
"Me, too," said David.
George raised his head to look at David.
His brown eyes met David's green eyes
In shared disappointment
At not being different.

Dear Ann,
I love that.  I have written some stuff back when I was enamored with T.S. Elliot (still am) that I thought was the way my heart beat.  I have not saved it and cannot remember it, which is probably just as well. We are all of the years we have lived and all of the thoughts we have held to be the truth and still believe that they are true.
Love,
Betty

I did one years ago that I called "Prufrock's Women,"

Remember the line
"In the room, the women come and go, speaking of Michalangelo"?

I used it as a refrain. it is all I remember, which is also fortunate, although I imagine yours were much better.

Ann, You would be wrong.  I am not a poet.  I am a dreamer with words.
Love,
Betty

Betty Fasig wrote:

Ann, You would be wrong.  I am not a poet.  I am a dreamer with words.
Love,
Betty

For which we are all very grateful.

(And I think that is what poetry in its essence is, my friend.)

Annie