Heel Stompers

We are fragile, but this is not a tragedy 

Described as the softer gender 

We are the ones with the gentle touch

Who have done the most hitting 

Our lips are a specific red 

Not a crimson or cherry 

Centimeters away from the microphone 

Staring at our mouths- not hearing words

The doors of corporate America only remain open so wide

Let’s just hope that is enough 

For our lace covered legs to walk right through 

So we can stomp our heels onto the soil plowed by the other kind 

A monument to commemorate the differences between the stick figures on each public bathroom door

Cold stone, constructed with the proper curves and clashing corners 

Standing only so near the statue it sits next to 

A monument to commemorate the differences between just us

I am a she, but I am not like her 

Her sharp stilettos may be red like my lips,

But my Chuck Taylor’s aren’t as black as her lace

I am not one of those angry feminists 

I am a she, but I am not like her 

We are whole, though 

Softer, but not afraid to strike

A scrape from her manicured nails 

Or a dirty punch from my uneven knuckles 

We are not afraid 

Her Real Name is Eleanor

There isn’t much more than pairs of dry elbows which rest on this table 

They are white and grey and cracked 

No, I am not talking about Gabbie’s hands 

I am talking about the elbows 

Gabbie is my Grandma

She refuses to be called Grandma 

So she asked my mom to have her grandchildren refer to her as Gabbie 

Even though her real name is Eleanor

As if it was a Sunday morning,

Grandpa set a plate of scrambled eggs onto the table 

Where Gabbie and the rest of us sit 

He doesn’t mind being called Grandpa 

The bookshelves behind this table are full of Gabbie and Grandpa’s collection of literature 

From his favorite- Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby to hers- Gaskells’ North and South

I cannot say that I like eggs,

But they are edible

Home is this apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan 

On the corner of 100th and Riverdale- over looking the Hudson 

The street is on a hill

Where cars park on a slant- but their tires wont roll back into the river

Once Connected

They were all gathered together
Trying to lift the wooden legs of the table which had been the largest accent in my kitchen
My roommate said it needed to go
I suppose she has a point
Its wooden legs were broken
There was only the stained table top on the floor of my kitchen
The legs were in the lawn
Their struggling
Trying to lift them into the dumpster

Letter

Dear Dad,

          It's been almost ten years since you died. A decade. Can you believe it ?
I remember when mom and Uncle Burns took Biz, Jack and I outside in the backyard of our Maplewood house. Jack wouldn't really sit still, he was only three so I wouldn't really expect him to. I remember Mom said something happened to you, and I knew right away. "He died, didn't he?"
I knew you were gone.
I don't remember much after that.
Little things like being angry that there were so many photographers at your funeral. And the big reception with a white tent in the backyard.
Mr. Galante and a few other people were in the garage smoking cigarettes. At the time I knew it was bad. I now smoke daily.

People treated me differently after that. I was in third grade. Mrs. Ryan was my teacher. For some reason, the rest of third grade I can't remember.
I can recall bits and pieces of fourth grade. Like going home early because I couldn't handle being at school. I still have this picture I drew of you and I while waiting for mom to pick me up in the Jefferson Elementary School office. It hangs below my television, right next to the collage mom made for you while you guys were in college. The one with the polaroid of her as a child in the middle of it.

I don't remember fifth and sixth grade. Seventh is when I started growing up. I got my first boyfriend, started wearing make up. I became close with this girl Haley Burniston. She was wonderful. We had sleepovers on her trampoline and fought over who got to sleep in the green flannel sleeping bag, 'cause it was cozier than the red one. We had water balloon fights outside with her sisters and went to Joy together. The youth group at Memorial Church.
Slowly Haley and I drifted apart. For no other reasons but the average. I became close with Caroline Lynott at this point. Our big thing was "going into town". Which basically consisted of a bunch of seventh graders walking into Maplewood to hang out at the Trattoria or on the corner by Bagel Chateau.
Caroline's Dad called town, "Mecca". Because everyone our age seemed to worship it's small streets and local shops.
After seventh grade, summer came around and mom made the decision to move us to Chagrin Falls, Ohio. I guess she grew tired of the "9/11 widow with three children" title. Plus, Columbia High School had its reputation for fights and bomb threats. Mom googled top 100 high schools in the United States, and Chagrin it was. I left Maplewood and went to sleep away camp in Vermont for the summer. After eight weeks of canoeing and sailing, I went "home", but not to Maplewood.
Chagrin was something foreign to me. Aesthetically pleasing, yes. Welcoming? No.
I began to change. I started tanning, and dyed my hair. I wore fake nails and changed the way I dressed.
The details of eighth grade I'll leave out. I just wasn't me, Dad. I wasn't your emmabean.
After eighth grade I knew I couldn't return to Chagrin Falls High School, so mom and I began looking at private schools.

 After a long process of looking, we found Andrews Osborne Academy. At first, things were really good. I became close with a bunch of girls, but I got involved with the wrong crowd. I started smoking cigarettes and drinking. I fell into a whole new mind set. Sex, drugs and rock'n roll at the age of fifteen.
Soon enough weed wasn't enough and beer didn't suffice. I started selling drugs and getting in a lot of trouble. I became everything I was ever afraid of, Dad. Again, I guess details aren't needed. People say you can see me while you're up there anyway.
Sophomore year was pretty much the same. However, that was when I came out to mom. I told her I was bisexual. Which I was, but I knew there was something more.
I guess I've never really came out to you.
I'm gay, Dad. I know it's probably not what you wanted, mom is still accepting it too. I mean, I am still accepting it in a way as well. I still believe love has no gender, and I could fall in love and marry either a man or a woman. However, all I know is right now, I am a lesbian. Most people think that's permanent. They think the word "gay" sort of means, forever. But to me, that's not true. Love is ever changing.

I'm now a senior at Montessori High School. I was asked to leave Andrews, and I knew I needed a change. I came here junior year, and it changed my life. I'm sober now. Have been for a year and 2 months. I'm now a published writer... my art has been in shows. I've broken people's hearts, and mine has been broken as well, but I'm slowly becoming who I want to be, but I've never been so scared.
I started writing this letter because I need to know what to do. I was rejected from my top choice of college, which was Bard, in New York. Although, I got accepted into my second choice, Eugene Lang The New School for Liberal Arts. It's in New York City. It's a beautiful school, dad. But I can't help but think you would be disappointed in me if I didn't go to Ohio Wesleyan. Fourth generation... you were the head of your fraternity. Mom was the beautiful liberal arts woman. It feels wrong of me to go elsewhere.
I knew I wanted to go to nyc for college. I wanted to go back home. But now since I actually can go, since I have those acceptance letters on the fridge, I don't know what to do. Would you be mad if I didn't go to OWU? Would you be disappointed?
Are you disappointed in me? For not staying on the swim team like you did. For not treating our family the way I should have? For losing my self respect and dignity. For becoming the disgusting person I was. I can't fucking feel you, dad.
I've been trying to feel you for ten years now, and I still can't.

I'm falling in love with an amazing woman, dad. I know you'd love her.
I'm graduating a prestigious high school.
I've been accepted into four out of the six colleges I applied to.
I've been published in a book.
I've won awards for my writing and my art.
I'm sober.
I have a job.
I've made amends to the people that deserved it.
I've tried to make amends with myself.
I'm trying dad. I'm trying so hard.
Please help me figure this all out. I need to feel you.
Write back.

Love,
          Emmabean

P.S.  I left out so many things.
P.P.S. I'm sure you already know that.