A Weed

At the age of 12, I moved to Flemington, New Jersey. I was in 6th grade about to start 7th grade and went from being a majority hispanic to the only hispanic in my school. Flemington, New Jersey was a very interesting experience. It was a very small town with a couple of elementary schools, one junior high school, and one high school for the whole town. And I had a week off of school to get adjusted to the move and move all of my stuff from California to New Jersey. But soon enough I would be enrolled into one of the best schools in the state and country.

One of my classes had a great teacher. Actually all of my classes had great teachers. I had Mrs. Canti for Spanish. Mr. Murphy for Algebra. I can't recall my home economics or art teachers name, but they too were wonderful classes. But Mrs. DiBenidetto's English class was my favorite. As soon as we walked in we had to journal. It could be a poem, song, letter, anything but we had to write something original. We would turn them in and she would read it in the strictest confidence. And then she would make a comment on them with a big red pencil and return it to us. Always constructive. Never a D or and F. And then she would slip a note to some of us and ask if we would share them. I made two great friends in that class Julia Kashtelyan and Katy Steel. Both with out a doubt had a writing bug. They would let me read all of their stories and I would sit for hours hours hours and read what they had to say. I've googled both of them and can't seem to find what they're up to, but I'm surprised they aren't published yet.

Mrs. DiBenidetto would have us read a book a week, a few grammar excercises a day, journal, and then read a book put together by NJ school district that contained poems, essays, short stories, etc. And one day in the middle of the book was the most incredible poem I've ever read. I've never heard a sermon, philosopher, professor, friend, lover ever say it like this. My teacher loved this poem too and we discussed every word in it. I must confess at the end of the school year I stole the text book because I wanted that poem in that specific page. It had a great matching illustration. I can't find the book now. I can't even find the poem. I've searched for years. I always got it confused with the Emily Dickinson poem of a similar subject matter but that wasn't the correct one.

So while sitting in grey cubeyland I decided to do one last final search on google. And surprisingly it came it. It came up about 200 times. Thank God for google. So now I sit her. Almost 30. Feeling like a 12 year old in Flemington, New Jersey. Still uncertain of my future now, not so different as to how I felt then either. But I'm as convinced still that I'd much prefer to be a weed than any other plant on this planet.

Identity
By Noboa Polanco

Let them be as flowers always watered,

fed, guarded, admired,

but harnessed to a pot of dirt.
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed, clinging on cliffs,

like an eagle wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.
To have broken through the surface of stone,

to live, to feel exposed to the madness of the vast, eternal sky.

To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,

carrying my soul, my seed,

beyond the mountains of time or into the abyss of the bizarre.
I'd rather be unseen,

and if then shunned by everyone,

than to be a pleasant-smelling flower, growing in clusters in the fertile valley,

where they're praised, handled, and plucked by greedy human hands.
I'd rather smell of musty, green stench than of sweet, fragrant lilac.

If I could stand alone, strong and free,

I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed.

I'm having a joyous tear fest now.