Teaching the Terrified Tongue (Part LII)

Barbara and I read through the material for Streams. Barbara typeset the first three issues on an IBM Selectric. She also added copyright free public domain illustrations.

Barbara was not drawing any salary. A grant from the New York State Council on the Arts paid for the printing, the paper (bought from Gem, a cluttered shop behind a discount clothing store where Gabe cut and wrapped the stock), and school visits by Louis Reyes Rivera.



Thomas was graduating from high school, photographing the program, and delivering messages on bike around the city. He was also helping out at the special education committee for District 2.

I traveled around the city visiting the alternative high schools and programs. Many of the offsited residential rehabs I visited were engaged in behavior modification, using punishments, ridicules, and social pressure. Some residents could not take the punishments and ran away. The programs also conducted probes that explored the residents’ deepest thoughts in a forum of peers.

Streams 3 contained “Elegy” by Neshia

O, my brain, it’s not the same.
I cannot comprehend.
For the things I learned today;
I learned them yesterday.
Today I’ll find a new way
to help me move ahead.
I’ll stop the drugs
so I can think
and move along instead.

and “Epitaph” by Monique

Before you read this epitaph know that this is a tale of a lonely poor child who needed help for she had an addictive personality. But, she never sought help.

THE UNKNOWN

They all were fooled by me
because of the masks I wore.
I wore a thousand masks
but none was me.
I gave the impression that I was secure;
that all was sunny and unruffled;
that confidence was my name
and coolness was my game.
And, all believed.
Beneath dwelled the real me in confusion,
in fear and aloneness.
But I hid this
for I did not want anyone to know.
I would panic at the thought of my weaknesses
and the fear of being exposed.
This was why I frantically created a mask to hide behind.
It was such a nonchalant, sophisticated facade,
I wish I could have assured myself that I was worth something.
I was always afraid of people thinking less of me;
that people would laugh at me;
and that their laughter would kill me.
Look at me. Six feet under this dirty earth.
I disliked hiding; I honestly did;
that superficial game I was playing;
that phony game;
I really would have liked to be genuine
and spontaneous and me.
But, I needed help.