by Dante Medema
Can we not do this?
Me: Why were you mad at him?
Kodiak: I wasn’t exactly mad at him.
I was more mad at myself.
So I took it out on him.
Me: . . .
Why?
Kodiak: Because.
Me: Tell me.
Kodiak: I was mad it wasn’t me.
Okay?
But it doesn’t matter now,
does it?
You’re into him, right?
Me: What about Liv?
Kodiak: What about her?
Me: I heard what she said to you last night.
The thing about doors staying open?
Kodiak: Oh.
Yeah.
It’s not what you think.
I was talking to her about you.
It’s like walking outside
at midnight
in summer.
It feels like night,
and anywhere else
it would look like night.
But in Alaska
it looks midday.
The sun sits high above the mountains,
and people are bicycling down the street.
A hot dog vender on the corner
is still up
selling reindeer sausages.
It never feels quite right,
or makes much sense.
Kodiak says with his words
that we shouldn’t kiss,
but he doesn’t want someone else to kiss me either.
I’m so angry.
So tired
of not knowing where people stand.
Why people do
the things they do
instead of saying
the things they feel.
This time,
it’s me,
knocking on Mom’s door.
She folds laundry
in little Marie Kondo piles,
organizing clothes by color
and size
and type.
“I need to know why.
Why you slept with Jack
when you loved Dad.”
Why did I kiss Fletcher
when I like Kodiak?
She almost stops breathing,
clutching one of Dad’s shirts
to her heart.
“I don’t know.”
I guess that’s the answer.
She doesn’t know,
and neither do I.
I guess we’re not so different anyhow.
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: Vidya Nadeer ([email protected])
Subject: Pages
Cordelia,
I haven’t received your last two poetry assignments.
Also checking in to see how things are going with your project and if you need any guidance. I’d like to see what you have been working on so I can help to make sure you’re giving this project your very best. If you need anything, let me know. Please, take my advice and don’t wait until the last minute to complete your project.
Vidya Nadeer
If I mess up
and don’t do my best,
Ms. Nadeer could fail me.
If she fails me,
my early acceptance means nothing
and I’ll have nowhere to go next year
because I won’t be a high school graduate.
I tell myself
there are bigger things happening
than high school,
but really,
this is important.
I need to get back to the project,
find which part of this defines me
Jack
this thing with Kodiak
Poetry
even if it derails me.
GeneQuest
Genetic Family Conversations
To: Jack Bisset (online)
From: Cordelia Koenig (online)
Sorry I wasn’t around this weekend.
I’ve been thinking a lot. Talking to you, finding out about you, has been amazing. I always felt like there was something off about me, and that I didn’t belong, and I really think you get that. Maybe this whole time I’ve been trying to fit in with my family because there’s a whole part of myself I haven’t been able to access. Really, what it all comes back to is that I didn’t know you were my father.
I think that if we met, I might feel better, somehow.
Like a chapter of my life can finally open.
What do you think? Can we meet? Could you come up here?
Cordelia
He doesn’t reply.
One hour.
Then two.
By the third
I’ve stopped what I’m doing
to stalk his Instagram.
I hover over the Follow button
like I’m willing it to reach him
so he responds
before I have to make contact
again.
I want to hear the ping of my phone
more than I want anything.
It doesn’t matter that Sana texts
or Kodiak sent me a message
with pages
I’m supposed to read.
I just want Jack
to say yes.
I press Follow,
and instantly
he follows back.
The best stories aren’t the ones on Instagram.
They’re the ones in my mind.
Like the time I was little
and wanted to go see my favorite band live.
He knew a guy,
a friend of a friend,
who recorded an album with him.
He took me.
I was so little I couldn’t see over the crowd,
but he put me on his shoulders,
and I tickled behind his ears
during my favorite song.
He pretended
he was going to drop me
and I screamed.
We laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.
And I’ll never forget
this memory that didn’t happen.
@Jack_Bisset_band
Me: Hey.
Jack: Hi.
Sorry I didn’t message you back earlier.
Me: I get it.
That’s too much, right?
Maybe I should have waited to ask.
Jack: No.
It’s not like that.
Coming up would be a lot. You know?
I left and I didn’t ever think I’d come back.
Me: I get it. I’m sorry.
Jack: Listen.
There’s no reason to be sorry.
Me: I don’t want things to be weird. I like getting to know you.
Jack: I like that too. And I do want to meet you.
I’ve thought a lot about how that would look.
Me: How do you think it would look?
Jack: Well.
If you came here, we’d start the day off at Pike Place.
Have you ever been?
Me: No!
Jack: We’d go there and see the wharf.
There’s also this gross bubble gum wall you should check out.
Kids love it.
A few years ago I did a photo shoot there with a band I worked with.
Me: That sounds amazing.
Jack: Then we’d hit up Beecher’s Cheese for lunch.
And I’d show you the very first Starbucks.
Me: I can do coffee!!!!
Jack: I’d take you to my studio.
Show you what it looks like.
And how it works.
Me: What if I could do that?
Come to Seattle?
Jack: That would be amazing.
Me: I have enough in my bank account right now.
I just looked at tickets.
Jack: Oh kid. I don’t know.
Me: Why? Don’t you want to meet me?
Jack: I
do, but it’s complicated.
Have you talked to your mom about this?
And your dad. Wouldn’t it hurt his feelings?
Wouldn’t it hurt his feelings?
I can’t say
he doesn’t know.
Or since when did you care about his feelings?
The man who has been here
for eighteen years
and held my hand
and taught me how to ride a bike
kissed my boo-boos
and read The Tempest
until I fell asleep.
Who picked me up
when I was too drunk.
Who loves me.
Doesn’t know.
Things I would have missed if Dad wasn’t my dad:
Yearly Shakespeare festival we all complain about going
to but secretly love
His go-to “breakfast for dinner” meal. It’s the best.
All his jokes and quotes
His NPR marathons
Iris
@Jack_Bisset_band
Jack: Cordelia.
Does your dad know?
Me: Not exactly.
But it’s okay.
If we met—it would be okay.
My mom wouldn’t care.
We’d figure it out.
Jack: Message not received.
Me: Jack?
Jack: Message not received.
Me: What happened?
Jack: Message not received.
He blocked me.
The man
I share blood with
blocked me.
I’m shaking,
my fingers so tight
against my phone
I’m scared
I’ll shatter the screen.
My stomach
drops.
The sickening
thud
as it settles
too low
to scream.
why
Why
WHY
Outside my window
on the street
in the yard
are leaves
matted
left over
from last year’s autumn.
They were bright orange last year
before the snow and ice
now they’re a moldy brown color
like my hair.
I’m crying soft tears,
wishing winter could come back,
when Dad walks in
and holds me
without talking
for a long time.
How fucked up is it?
Dad is holding me,
listening to my sobs,
and drying my tears
because my birth father,
the one he doesn’t know about,
blocked me.
Did Dad console Mom when she left Jack?
Did he hold her this way
and let her break?
And when he asked what was wrong,
did she lie the way I did and say,
“It’s just this project.
It’s too hard.”
This isn’t what I thought
or ever imagined
this would be like.
How could I know
what I would tumble into?
Who I would learn about?
“Oh honey.”
He brushes hair
from my face.
“Why don’t you talk to Bea?
I know how she can be sometimes,
but she means well.
She had the hardest time
when she was doing hers.”
“This is different,”
I promise.
“It’s not.
Finding yourself,
it’s hard
no matter what you learn.
I’m still trying to find myself.
In every play I read
every book I scour
every class I teach
I’m searching for an answer
to a question
I don’t know how to ask.
Same with your mom,
she’s searching for herself
in her own way too.
Talk to her,
she wants to talk to you.”
“I can’t.”
“Why is it all my girls struggle with their mom?
Someday, she’ll be your best friend.”
Masks I currently wear:
School Mask that says I’m fine. I’m ready for college, and I’m not scared.
Jack Mask that says that I’m mature and cool, and ready to meet him.
Dad Mask that says I don’t spend every day thinking about how he isn’t my real dad.
Sana Mask that says there’s nothing I’ve ever hidden from you.
Kodi Mask that says I understand him. I’m cool. I’m mature. I play these games all the time.
Sister Bea
Me: Can we talk?
Bea: Sure.
Me: Without you getting upset or acting like I’m a little kid and I don’t know what I’m talking about?
Bea: I’m not sure what you mean by that.
But yeah.
Me: I’m having a hard time with my project.
Dad said you had a hard time too.
Bea: I did.
It was hard to find myself in people that aren’t “real.”
Most of them are just names with no faces.
So I dove in deeper and deeper.
I became obsessed.
I was on GeneQuest and AncestorHunt all the time.
But after I found out we were related to Emmeline Pankhurst it clicked for me.
Me: You felt like what you found defined you?
Bea: Absolutely.
Me: To the point that it changed you?
Bea: For sure.
I guess it made me want to explore feminism more.
Actually, it’s a big part of the reason I chose Brown.
Because they have an incredible Women’s Studies program.
Me: But you changed your major.
Bea: Yeah.
I did.
I don’t want to be an academic for the rest of my life.
And Finance allows me stability later on.
What better way to be a feminist than to take charge of your own success?
Me: Yeah. I get that.
Bea: It’s like this.
You’ve always had this connection with Dad, right?
Me: I have?
Bea: Yeah.
You’ve got that poet/artsy vibe thing.
And I’ve always connected with Mom on that “I want to take over the world” thing.
We’re both workaholics.
Very Emmeline Pankhurst about things.
Me: Ah.
Bea: But on Dad’s side we’re actually related to Emily Dickinson.
God, have you done any of the AncestorHunt research or did you just log your ethnicities and call it a day?
Me: I guess the latter.
What does Iris get from our parents?
Bea: I think she’s got a little bit of both.
Ever notice how she won’t talk to people when she’s mad?
Like Mom?
But she’s got Dad’s sense of humor.
Me: What if you didn’t learn all this from your project?
What if what you learned changed everything you knew but in a bad way?
Bea: What do you mean?
Me: I don’t know.
Sorry.
Just having a bad night.
I’ll talk to you soon. Okay?
Bea: Okay.
No.
You
are related to Emily Dickinson.
I’m related to a guy
in Seattle
with a tattoo
and a guitar
and a lot of story
who won’t talk to me.
My creative line
is birt
hed from a different stream.
Like an imposter
floating toward the mouth
of a river
I don’t belong in.
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: Vidya Nadeer ([email protected])
Subject: Conference
Cordelia,
I wanted to check in about a few things.
First, I’m putting together a list of students going to the conference with me in just two weeks! Have you thought more about attending? I really think you would enjoy it, and we’d love to have you along. I’ll attach the necessary forms to this email in case.
Also, how is your project going? Did you receive my last email? I tried reaching out to you after class yesterday, but you’ve been leaving so quickly these days. I miss our post-third-period chats about what you are reading. I understand projects like this can be hard, and I want to make sure you’re getting the help you need. Please let me know what sort of assistance I can offer.
Vidya Nadeer
Attached document: conferencepermissionslip.doc
Attached document: conferencestudentagreement.doc
Attached document: conferencescheduleandinfo.doc
Progress: to move forward
I am moving forward
and backward
at the same time.
Treading a snow-topped mountain
only to see
there is no safe route
for return.
Kodiak Jones
Me: Okay.
We need to get together.
Not like together-together.
Like lunch and poetry together.
Kodiak: Is this the nerd girl’s version of Netflix and Chill?
Me: I’m being serious!
Ms. Nadeer emailed me last night asking for progress.
And I still haven’t written a thing for this project.
Kodiak: You’ve been writing!
What about the poems that you showed me?
Me: Yeah.
I’m not going to air my family’s dirty laundry in my senior project.
Can I come over and work on pages with you?
Like
Right now?
Kodiak: I thought you’d never ask.
I haven’t seen Kodiak’s parents in months,
but it feels like yesterday
that our families
saw each other
so often
we didn’t have to ask questions
like
“How have you been?”
His mom hugs me,
warm and a little too long.
I ache
knowing she might know more about me
than I’m ready for her to know.