eulogy: a farewell piece
My time at DUB has been, more than anything, a learning experience. I’m grateful for the opportunity and horrified at what I’ve had to endure and very well aware that there are others who have had to endure much, much worse. Maybe it’s not a good idea to have my last column be something this vulnerable and angry, but then again, it kind of makes sense: I’m leaving the position with a bit of a bitter taste in my mouth, so it seems only fair for my last article to be a little hard to swallow.
i am not a poet. ee cummings was, and he. was allowed to experi.m.ent like this, with FORM and message and intent. i am not a poet. i write. am i a writer? verb, one that does. do i write? i regurgitate. is that the same? one time a professor coudn’t say my name so she- one time a man stopped me in the street to tell me- one time a boy decided i was talking too loud and- one time- one time- one time i missed my mom. two times. every morning i miss my mom. my dad. they’re there, they’re- one time i skyped my parents, i don’t get to see them like you do, i don’t get to- one time i cried so hard i got a nosebleed. one time i emailed him and he told me to ignore it. one time i couldn’t stop writing about the time i got publicly defamed and i got really hung up on the words publicly defamed, because say them out loud, they sound onomatopoetic, publicly defamed, like they’re meant to be said all indignant and affronted and how dare you, how dare you, how dare you. there are people who have it so much worse. i regurgitate the same ten things that have happened to me like they make me interesting because no one will believe that you’ve been hurt unless you tell them how and when and where and by whom. so i tell them. i tell them and people tell me to shut up and i keep talking. one time a cop gunned someone down in the street- one time they shot a woman asleep in her bed- one time they called it soot and wore red lipstick- but you won’t listen to that because you think it’s too far away so i’ll tell you how one time a professor- i am an employee in that i do things and someone gets paid, i assume. i am an employee in that i wrote a thousand words and now i write more. i am an employee in that i got a cash prize so when people tell me you’re a puppet that spits out american politics like they’re universal when people tell me it’s good you won’t be writing anymore so no one else has to hear your when people tell me go to hell you scum i can’t say anything because i got a cash prize so the joke’s on them, right? right? oh, no, i’m prosing. it’s okay. i am not a poet. one time i cried so hard i got a nosebleed. do you think lewis carroll could make a poem out of fake words because no one would call him stupid? im sure they called him crazy. i get two emails telling me to keep up the good work. i get ten comments screaming at me to- one time i told him i was going to leave and he said the council would feel very sad if you took this decision but of course no one can stop you. if only. my point is they don’t call me crazy. my point is they give both sides a platform like one of them isn’t five hundred feet deep with weights strapped to my- one time i cried so hard i got a nosebleed. every cry i’ve had since has felt aspirational.