This morning I am all of the faults my Grandmother detested: contemptuous, fatigued, imposed upon, and impatient. I never asked to come here, and my tenure has turned into a trap of sorts, a place I can walk away from; however, if I do, then I will self-destruct and all of my arrows will have missed the mark. A vision of my Grandmother passes before me dressed in her starched apron, her hands kneading the dough, a soft breeze rattling her screen door.
We will all forget, as soon as humanly possible, the spoilt and petulant, slightly plump little valley girl feigning credentials, yet possessing none, but still allowed to trounce on the souls of hard working, dedicated professionals she perceives beneath her. But, in the academic world, she is simply nothing but a communications degree that failed to make a west coast splash, a loser of plump proportions, a twit beyond description.
And in the hallways a woman creeps like a lizard peeking into the rooms, searching for fault, and when finding nothing, she constructs a drama from thin air, and she weaves these falsehoods to support the plump and gelatinous, the petulant and feigning. We watch these actions in horror, from behind our glasses, and our dependents look on helplessly, some of them resisting injustice, and others tricked by the duplicity, all of them cheated by the sheer force of the inept and incompetent leadership of our establishment; the falsehoods created to destroy me are openly discussed in the hallways, and this undermines my authority; I am defeated.
I check under my eyes, and they are darker than ever with lines forming on my cheeks below, and after another bout with the illogical and duplicitous, I wipe a frustrated tear off my cheek, and I grit my teeth for another round because we have never had more to lose, and I do not want to disappoint my Grandmother.
After all of my years on the docks, the roadways, and the cities and towns of North America, and after all of the rough characters that have passed in and out of my life from the communities around the world, and after all of my experience, the scholars, the sages, the poets, the chiefs, the professors, the professionals, the workers, the soldiers, and the quitters, after all of these lessons, I was still not prepared for the disgraceful spectacle I now witness—a spectacle of negativity that completely derailed the future of an entire urban neighborhood.
I question why our supreme leader sits on his hallowed throne and allows this scandal to continue, and I am answered by a poet with underworld connections,
“It is his golden rod, and those who parlay to kiss its tip are whisked away by a magical lizard.”
My poet winks at me, and I nod in confusion unraveling the riddle, and pondering its meaning. I rock back on my heels, and my sudden laughter fills my vacant room as I comprehend the absurdity of our dilemma: the carnal weakness of man.
In the world hereafter, I know my Grandmother is smiling.