Tupelo 2/30: The Shield of Harambe

Dear Readers, 

Today, before I could write you this post, I texted my mother. I wanted to explain the end of my poem, how when I mentioned being the child of a mother who failed, it was not to shame her, but to talk about how dispel the myth of the perfect mother, how to unite and undo the individual and collective shame over not being the mothers/parents we, or someone else, expect us to be. 

After the death of the gorilla Harambe (notice how I have not given you a hyperlink for this), there was such an immediate and virulent spew of judgment and accusation cast at the three-year-old boy's mother that I recoiled, refused to watch the videos, refused to read any more of the hate speech than what appeared on my Facebook wall. And I encouraged a few mothers in a private Facebook group to write their own prose responses because yes, no one was talking about how we have all sneezed and discovered our small ones missing or in immediate (small/large) danger. How did you bite off that doll's head? 

And slowly, these other voices emerged, the ones sharing their own stories, when good god, they were human. But the comment threads (I know, don't read the comment sections!) revealed a hateful, often racist, self-righteous Internet mob assembled and offering much advice on parenting and/or not having children. Ack! 

So I started reading the most painful of the articles and the change.org petitions asking for social services to inspect the family of this boy. And I looked at photos of the mother and her family and I thought of all the times I have failed as a mother. (Sidenote: Tonight I am missing my three-year-old daughter's first-ever end-of-year show because I am at a writing residency until Sunday.) 

I am also reading Ross Gay's gorgeous and lush and painful catalog of unabashed gratitude, and I was struck by these incredibly long sentences tugged and stretched over multiple pages and how he could braid so much celebration into these poems of loss and sorrow. 

So here is an excerpt from today's poem-a-day "The Shield of Harambe" (read the whole thing here):

"All of our mothers have failed.

Sometimes it’s a bit of fiberglass

installation spun like carnival

cotton candy. Five fingers caught

in a car door. My own child bit

by a beach restaurant’s pet parrot.

It happened so fast–what they all say.

I watched it. She was pretending,

as children do, that she was cooking,

and when she offered the parrot,

high in the rafters, a small plate

of crushed shells and sticks,

he swooped down and chawed

her meaty shin breaking into blood

bright as the bird’s back."

I want to thank everyone who has already donated in support of my cause. The response has been so positive. As of this post, I own friends, family, and followers all of this:

• 4 poems written to/for a specific title
• 4 poems with a specific set of five words
• 2 poems written about a specific theme/topic
• 2 She-Rex Sampler chapbooks (signed, of course)

And I know that a few others have donated and have not sent me their incentive requests yet! Wow, friends, you really are the best. 

Yours in poetry,

Emari