Voices

 

Editor's Note: Eighth grader Jordan G. recently earned a Gold Key in the Bay Area Scholastic Writing Awards for his series of poems, "Grandfather." Additionally, he shared his spoken word poem, "Fear and I" at the March 21 World Poetry Day celebration at the Hillsborough campus. Jordan shares his poems, in both written and spoken form, below, along with an artist's introduction for each. 

Grandfather
I wrote this set of poems about my grandfather who fled the Holocaust. While he did survive, his father and many of his friends and family did not. To fully embrace and take pride in my Judaism today, I realize that acknowledging the pain and suffering of past Jews is important. While the state of anti-semitism has definitely improved since then, synagogue bombings and attacks continue nationwide and that's an important fact to address.

Thunder Over a Nation  A thunderstorm of darkness  accumulates over a nation:  a leader of darkness descends  from the sky. I was born a boy  in a world that whispers.                   Outside the orphanage, Dad  said This is all for the best. How  did he die? I’m not sure. I hear  the camps devour people whole,  sweeping the last crumbs of life  under the rug of genocide.   I scuttle like an ant from town to town where a bakery sits.  For shelter I bake: blistered  hands kneading sweet bread.  We used to make Challah.  Challah: sweet cinnamon  fell into my hands while  snow fell on the windowsill.  Dad said Freedom should  never be taken for granted.  When the soldiers enter  the bakery, I am an owl,   still and quiet in their red  shadows.  Their boots dig into the flour  on the floor, I can hear it.  I run from the bakery when  sun rises the next morning.  I run from this country when  sun rises the next morning.

Customs official  A teenager approaches,  says he is boarding a boat.  Name? Ragged clothes.  The boy is circled on registry.  I could report him.  I could be a hero.  I could leave work.  I could be with family . I imagine the screech  of a bullet ringing  through this cold day.  Would the rain keep  pouring then, pouring over a limp body?  Would the world notice?  Or would the blood blend  into the rain forever?  The cross around my neck grips my sweaty fingers.  The preacher said  God rewards those  who do the right thing.  I am a poet forging the papers, spelling  the words of freedom.

A Stone of Meaning A boy turns to his mom:  Did Grandpa ever come  back before he died?  A man digs a hole. I am  surrounded by slithering  roots and cold pavement.  Do you think Grandpa  missed his old house?  The apartment in front  of me has cracks. The  tulips smell of lavender.   Do you think people  will read the stone?  My dates of existence  and expiration inscribed  on my hardened face.  Some read me. I wait to be read.  I want to be read.  Let it be known: I represent  a person and a spirit. I am  struggle, success, pain, glory.  Roots expand underneath,  not shackles but an anchor  of tranquility and peace.  I shake, I quake, I break  into a new world.  A new world that flashes  by like a life does, leaving  a stain for the next generation. Let it be known: let it be known.

My Story As I place my menorah  in the window I think  about my grandfather.  I think about freedom.   What is freedom?  Freedom is a filter, letting  some in and others out.   Freedom is a synagogue  without a metal detector.   Freedom is a collage, pieced and stitched together over time.   Freedom is telling others  I’m having a bar-mitzvah.  As I place my menorah  in the window I think  about my grandfather. His spirit lays in these wicks,  in this window, in this room  right now. I continue his tradition  even if he abandoned it.  The rain pitter patters outside but I don’t worry it will erase  anything. I am cozy right  where I am, finally at peace.   What is freedom? Freedom  is a choice. Will we choose it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fear and I 
I wrote this poem about the fear I was feeling in different ways. For example, those include wearing nail polish as a boy (who knew self expression could make anyone feel unsafe!), living in a mass-shooting-plagued world, and being Jewish in a world that has historically and continues to treat us with violence. I see poetry as a way to share my feelings with the world in an engaging way, as well as learn about other people's experiences and find common ground.

It’s 1998: Matthew Shepard is tied to a fence. Thought body was safe until pistol banged on head. If violence dealt the blow then hate left him dead. 

I’m at a gas station with fingernails painted the color of sweet cherries. A man and woman stare, laugh, and whisper until my face is either red from embarrassment or bottled up anger.  

I scan for warning signs. Large truck. Bumper sticker. Rifle logo. I camouflage behind the aisle like a chameleon. 

If that’s how chameleons stay alive, then what happens when the leaves rustle and branches shake and the veil of conformity disappears like dust? 

I imagine the fall of fangs on its skin or my skin or skin risky enough to be uncensored in small town America.

Fear and I are intertwined. She sees me and I see her. We don't pretend to be strangers. 

I enter an amusement park and an armed guard surveys the crowd. How can I enjoy my night when threats stain the air?  

Suddenly: Blue and red lights. Sirens. Screams. Fear lurks in every corner I turn and every person I see. She thrives in crowds. 

Sandy Hook and Orlando rattle my thoughts. Which is another way of saying I could be on a new victims list tomorrow in a speech about gun violence that I never thought I would need to contend with. 

Fear and I are intertwined. She haunts me from the news stories I’m scared to turn on at night that I know I could have been on that night. 

I ask Mom as a kid why our synagogue has a metal detector. How do you tell an eight year old about society’s thirst for violence? 

2009: a plot to bomb a Bronx synagogue is exposed. 2017: Charlottesville chants “Jews will not replace us” with torches and swastikas. 

2018: eleven are massacred in a Pittsburgh temple. 2019: five are stabbed during a New York Hanukkah celebration. 

How do you tell an eight year old about enslavement under the Pharaohs, about gas and guns, about the shadow of persecution that chased your ancestors since the beginning of time. 

The Pittsburg shooter said he wanted “all Jews to die” so don’t be surprised that I lower my voice when I practice my Hebrew in public. 

How do you tell an eight year old that safety has never kissed his people goodnight. That he lives in a world that whispers.  

Fear and I are intertwined. We fight constantly. If she wins I cower in my shell of lost moments and missed opportunities. 

If I win I chant out loud. A chant so loud I cannot shrink anymore. A chant so loud the birds rejoice on my doorstep. A chant so loud that everything and everyone that’s ever been hunted sings sweet songs.