Mia
She called herself Mia. Three letters. Two syllables. Mia.
Frida Kahlo eyebrows. Jewish nose. Long brown hair gathered in a low ponytail.
At 4’ 11”, she stood straight and tall. Chest out. Head erect.
Like Wonderwoman.
She spent her summers at circus camp.
Learned to play with fire. Walk on stilts. Fly from trapeze heights.
While I wove lanyards out of plastic string,
Mia practiced the art of tightrope walking -
Placing one foot purposefully in front of the other,
Letting the crowd’s roar fade into a sea of white noise beneath her.
She was the only child in her Shakespeare performance troupe.
The youngest and smallest by far,
But she spoke loudly enough to fill an entire theatre
With perfect iambic pentameter.
When we had to write a poem for class,
the other girls used line breaks and rhyming schemes.
Mia wrote a paragraph.
“That’s poetry too,”
She said, placing an indignant hand on her hip.
Her poems were series of run-on sentences.
Words tripping over one another.
Demanding attention. Demanding centerstage. Spotlight.
They almost seemed too big for her little lungs to carry,
But Mia’s voice was much bigger than the rest of her.
She brandished pride like a megaphone.
Carried a soapbox with her everywhere she went.
Gave speeches on street corners about girls’ education and apartheid.
Her mouth curved into a permanent comma that said,
“I’m not done talking, but
I’ll give you a moment to prepare for the onslaught of Genius
Headed in your direction at approximately 42 miles per hour.”
Mia was never done talking. Never done marching. Never done advocating.
Her dreams were so big,
I could barely wrap my 12-year-old mind around them.
She was going to be president someday. Or a film director. Or an astronaut.
Or a poet.
“Poetry is made of dreams,” she said,
“And my subconscious imaginings?
Transcend both space and time.
Poetry is made of dreams,” she said.
If boys went to our school, they would have called her “Bossy.”
But we all knew “Bossy” was just a word boys threw at girls
To make them feel ashamed.
Mia was never ashamed.
Frida Kahlo eyebrows. Jewish nose. Long brown hair gathered in a low ponytail.
At 4’ 11”, she stood straight and tall. Chest out. Head erect.
Like Wonderwoman.
I am trying my best to do the same.
I’ve been teaching myself the art of authenticity
Of swallowing the doubt in my throat,
Of hearing the sound of my own poetry
Fill a room full of strangers.
Even after years of stitching together poem after poem,
I still struggle to find the words that fit me.
This voice is not loud enough for Shakespeare.
This body is not meant to play with fire. Or walk on stilts.
Or fly from trapeze heights.
But my dreams have grown to the size of revolution,
And if poetry is made of dreams,
Then I’ve got plenty of pages to fill.
I won’t shout at you on street corners
With a megaphone or a soapbox,
But I will spread my stories like dandelion seeds;
My words will sprout like weeds in your brain,
Impossible to ignore.
I will dare to call myself “Genius”
When tall men in monkey suits underestimate me.
If you think about it,
Tightrope walking is just walking -
Placing one foot purposefully in front of the other,
Letting the crowd’s roar fade into a sea of white noise around you.