Poems & Essays

24 Feb

What Should They Call You?

Toddlers to Teens No Response

Call me a Lucy Stoner, after the equal rights activist who kept her maiden name in 1855. When I became engaged twelve years ago, I knew two things for sure: I would not wear a veil and I would not change my name. As Claire Cain Miller and Derek Willis reported in a recent New York Times article, we Lucy Stoners are in the minority: “Roughly 20 percent of women married in recent years have kept their names.” I was prepared for – and have encountered – much opposition for this latter choice. What has caught me off guard is the discomfort I’m faced with when fellow parents cannot figure out what to tell their children to call me.

Call me sentimental. My Armenian paternal grandfather, Lee, changed his last name from Kougasian to Matthews during a brief and ill-fated run at acting before becoming a decorated First Lieutenant during World War II. One may question why I refuse to let go of this name that does not even accurately reflect half of my heritage. But, for me, that story becomes diluted when we substitute one name for another based on my sex.

Call me a stickler. “I’m sorry. It’s confusing,” a close friend recently complained. “Are you Mrs. Severud? Mrs. Matthews? What should my kids call you?”

Though I want to answer with, “Liz. Call me Liz,” I understand that many adults feel that a lack of respect is connected to using first names. I answer, “Ms. Matthews.”

“Okay, Mrs. Mathews?”

“No, Ms. Ms. Matthews,” I enunciate the “zzzz” sound to make my point.

“Okay Miss Matthews.”

Call me a thinker. My eight-year-old daughter has never questioned the fact that I have a different last name. My five-year-old son, on the other hand, often calls me “Liz Matthews,” rather than “mom” – as if calling me out for this decision. Although he is too young to understand how this moniker could potentially be read, there is no questioning that my decision unnerves him on some level. And sometimes I wonder if these opposite reactions reflect personalities or some anachronistic gender norms.

Call me a provoker. I recently asked my daughter, “How do you feel about the fact that I have a different last name?”

She did not look up while she colored at the kitchen counter, “I don’t know. It’s kind of like you’re not part of the family.”

I took a deep breath. These are the words that a lot of women fear. I’m grateful I waited until she was old enough to begin this conversation, and that’s what I did. I began to explain my decision. She didn’t respond. She kept coloring.

Call me a historian. During my senior year of college, I began craving a stronger connection with the community I had lived in for nearly four years. I became a volunteer at the Women’s Rape Crisis Center – focusing mostly on outreach and education. During my training, I learned that violence against women exists on a spectrum. If abuse and assault is on one end, language is on the other. Attitudes towards women are slowly eroded when people use disparaging language that objectifies women or glorifies men who abuse them. “Wife-beater,” for example – a term so ubiquitous, it makes me cringe each time I hear it. I see my decision of not changing my name falling along this same spectrum.

Call me a teacher. Fifteen years ago, I taught middle and high school in Brooklyn, and at least one-third of my students’ mothers kept their names. When I asked some of these students how they felt about this, many of them were confused. Their responses were mostly unanimous and impressive.

“I guess I’ve never thought about it.”

“My mom is really independent.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all.”

“I like it.”

“My mom is very successful, so why would she change her name?”

For a creative writing assignment, one of these students wrote a poem about walking to the bus with his mom each morning. This was their time together, he explained, to talk, to catch up, without the other siblings around. His mother was a very busy casting agent, and it was clear that he relished this time alone time with her. No mention of names. No mention of feeling distant from his mother – the woman who birthed him – for having a different last name.

Call me a nasty woman. Armed with this knowledge, I became more confident with my decision, but this doesn’t stop me from being somewhat disappointed with my generation. I personally know very few people who have decided to keep their name. Now, as we witness the perforation of the ultimate glass ceiling, I hope that it will become harder to justify why a woman would not keep her name. Lucy Stoner did it over one hundred sixty years ago – nearly sixty years before the 19th amendment was passed. At this moment in time, things feel more charged.

Call me Ms., please. And while I have your attention, do you mind if my children call you Ms. rather than Mrs.?

 

Elizabeth Matthews received her MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and her work has appeared in Town & Country online, Brain Child, Literary Mama, and The Rumpus. She blogs at lalalaliz.com.

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20 Feb

I Collect the Silence

Toddlers to Teens No Response

These days I collect the silence:
the chirring of insects,
the leaves rattling with drops of rain,
the crows calling across the grove of trees,
the steady breath of air through the screen.
I collect the moments when my thoughts are the ones I hear,
and I can consume them whole,
beginning, middle and end.

 

Annie Demko currently spends her days homeschooling her sons, working on her homestead and writing in her spare moments. Her poems and prose have appeared in Kindred Magazine, Grounded Magazine among others.

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20 Feb

Pieces of Patience

Toddlers to Teens 3 Responses

This is one thing I would like you to know in each moment after
I have yelled, as I sink down inside, slowly melt a little bit:
This was not my intention, this is not what I meant
to do, I am sorry.

I have no right words to say for this, the way my good intentions
shatter in my arms as I carry them to you.
Nothing that can take them back from the floor
and make them whole.

I hold them so carefully, but it’s not enough, some days, they jostle
and slip from my fingertips; dancing away from me the way things do
the moment you know it is too late to catch them. And you are crying, and I am
aching, pulling you to me,

I am sorry, forgive me, let me pick up the pieces of my patience again.

 

Annie Demko currently spends her days homeschooling her sons, working on her homestead and writing in her spare moments. Her poems and prose have appeared in Kindred Magazine, Grounded Magazine among others.

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20 Feb

when my arms are full

Toddlers to Teens One Response

when my arms are full of my children
it is my church
it is every prayer i had that came true
and every birthday candle and fortune cookie
every eyelash and every time i put my finger on the window glass
in my car as i crossed a railroad track
and it is every dream that left me crying when i woke clutching air
and everything that is good and wide and complete

when my arms are full
i feel sometimes
like i could die right there and replicate heaven
in that moment
when my arms are full of my children
it is like holding life itself

 

 

My name is Amanda Linsmeier and I am the author of Ditch Flowers (Penner Publishing, 2015). In 2014 I placed as a quarter-finalist in the Mary Shay Ballard Poetry Prize by Casey Shay Press. Other work has been featured in Portage Magazine, Brain, Child Magazine, and Literary Mama. When I’m not writing or reading, I work part-time at my local library and bring home more books than I have time to read, but I see this as a really great problem.

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