China, Beneath a September Sky

 China, Beneath a September Sky

On the morning of September 11, 2001

I folded shirts into a suitcase

and China into a list of names:

Beijing, Xi’an, Guilin,

the Yangtze, Chengdu, Shanghai,

Hong Kong bright at the water’s edge.

I imagined red gates opening,

stone courtyards holding imperial weather,

a wall combing the mountains,

dynasties breathing through lacquer and dust.

 

Then the towers fell.

 

Two planes.

Two towers.

Thousands who went to work

and never came home.

 

We tried to cancel,

but the trip was nonrefundable. So we went.

a door we could no longer close.

 

I remember the strange guilt

of boarding an airplane

when airplanes had become

symbols of terror.

I wondered whether courage was motion,

or fear carried forward.

 

Ten flights stitched us across the country,

shoulder to shoulder with strangers—

families, workers, elders, children—

and once, caged birds trembling beneath our seats.

 

I watched them

and thought about freedom,

and how little it takes

for the human heart to become afraid.

 

Beyond the glass,

China refused a single face:

vendors calling over silver fish and ginger,

silk glowing beside patched coats,

minarets and temple roofs, farm paths and neon,

old stones watching glass towers rise.

 

I bought black freshwater pearls—

a bracelet, earrings, a necklace—

less than a hundred dollars.

 

I thought I was buying jewelry.

 

I did not know I was choosing

something dark, small, and enduring

to carry home.

Before the Terracotta Warriors,

in their silent ranks,

thousands of faces

made by hands two thousand years ago.

 

In Xi’an’s Muslim Quarter,

steam lifted from lamb and cumin;

vendors measured the day in handfuls,

voices braided through the dusk.

I scrutinized those ancient faces

and thought of New York—

of families searching for faces

beneath the ruins,

of names becoming photographs,

photographs becoming memories.

I asked what survives us:

the face, the name, or the love that keeps naming.

 

In Guilin, karst peaks rose from mist

like dark brushstrokes on silk;

 

fishermen crossed the river’s pale breath,

 

their boats writing brief sentences in water.

 

In Chengdu, tea cooled beneath plane trees;

in Shanghai, towers burned against evening;

in Hong Kong, ferries combed the harbor with light.

Everywhere, life spoke in another cadence—

Mandarin, Cantonese, market cries, temple bells—

and the hardest truth was its continuance.

 

Markets opened.

Boats moved.

Children laughed.

Planes rose.

 

Life continued

with the unbearable confidence

of life itself.

I began to see that continuance

could be both wound and mercy.

 

Meanwhile, across the Pacific,

America was digging through ash.

 

Families waited for calls

that would never come.

Firefighters and police

walked toward the flames

while others ran away.

 

I was thousands of miles from home,

walking through ancient cities

while my country was learning to grieve.

 

But grief has no geography.

 

It followed me through China—

through Beijing,

across the rivers,

onto every crowded flight.

 

I returned with black pearls

in my suitcase,

but they were not what I brought home.

Home had become less a place

than the measure of what absence leaves.

 

I brought home an understanding:

 

an ocean can separate countries,

but it cannot separate human hearts.

 

The river still moves.

The markets still open.

The planes still rise.

Morning still comes.

 

That is not forgetting.

 

It is carrying.

 

We carry the names.

The families.

The silence after the noise.

The ones who ran toward the fire.

The ones who never came home.

 

We carry September.

 

I have come to believe remembrance

is not an anchor, but a compass—

it does not hold us in the past;

it asks what direction love will take.

And wherever we go,

it goes with us.

 

I left Hawaii believing

I was going to see China.

 

Instead, China showed me

not one China, but many:

red walls and river mist,

prayer and bargaining, silk and steel,

a thousand ways to enter morning.

I understood then how travel changes us:

not by answering grief,

but by enlarging the silence around it.

 

The Yangtze kept moving beneath us,

 

bearing silt, rain, voices, centuries.

 

I moved with it, though part of me remained

 

under that September sky,

I still ask what it means to continue

when the world has divided into before and after.

learning that to go on

is not to leave the lost behind,

but to carry them differently.

Voices Carried Forward

 Voices Carried Forward

On September’s first light in 1878,

when morning wires began to sing,

voices traveled over copper strands

and distance learned a different thing.

The boys who once had mocked the calls

fell silent at the sound—

for patience, skill, and steady hands

were changing what was possible, what could be found.

 

Emma Nutt, the first woman

to answer the telephone’s call,

sat among the tangled cords

where laughter once had filled the hall.

 

No cannon marked her entrance.

No trumpet called her name.

Just nimble hands, a listening ear—

and nothing stayed the same.

 

With every connection calmly made,

with every voice put through,

she helped a new world find its way

from one unheard voice to two.

 

Yet long before those ringing lines

had learned to cross the air,

in 1773, Phillis Wheatley

lifted words from silence there.

 

A young Black woman, carried far

from the country of her birth,

she answered those who doubted her

with verses of uncommon worth.

 

They questioned whether she could think,

whether her voice could be believed;

she answered not with anger alone,

but with the words she had conceived.

 

Her poems became a lantern

for minds that would not see:

a voice they thought could not be heard

spoke with its own authority.

 

Then came the years of marching feet,

of banners, grief, and flame—

of women who refused to wait

for justice to remember their name.

 

They walked through years of sacrifice,

they pressed against the door,

until the law that barred the vote

could bar them there no more.

 

The Nineteenth Amendment rose

in nineteen-twenty’s light—

a hard-won sign that women’s voices

could enter public life.

 

The ballot box opened new ground;

new possibilities could start.

Yet freedom, written into law,

still left too many standing apart.

 

And Shirley Chisholm stepped forward—

elected to Congress in 1968—

then sought the presidency in 1972,

refusing to accept a smaller place.

 

With unmistakable courage,

she kept asking, clear and bright:

Whose voice is heard?

Whose voice counts?

Who has a claim to civic light?

 

She carried hope into the struggle,

made courage into sight,

and turned a woman’s voice and vote

into a claim to equal right.

 

Now Wheatley’s ink and Nutt’s switchboard,

the marching feet, the votes—

their stories form a living thread

that history still holds.

 

Not every victory thundered.

Not every triumph shone.

Some changed the world by writing words;

some simply held their ground alone.

 

But every woman who stepped forward,

who answered, wrote, or fought,

left one more door ajar

to one more once-impossible thought.

 

One voice became another.

One hand reached for the next.

One generation carried forward

what the last had dared to protect.

 

So let September’s morning come

with memory in its breeze—

with echoes of the women

who made pathways where none had been.

 

For history is not a monument

of marble, stone, and steel.

It is every voice that dared to rise,

every wound that refused to heal,

every hand that opened what was closed,

every dream that would not die,

every woman who stood and said,

“I belong. I will not be denied.”

 

The wires still hum.

The pages turn.

The ballots wait for hands.

The torches still burn.

 

And somewhere, even now,

a voice is gathering strength—

finding courage in the voices

that carried hers this far.

 

The chain endures:

from Wheatley’s pen

to Nutt’s patient hands,

from marching feet

to ballots cast,

from one brave voice

to another—

 

across the years,

across the distance,

across every barrier raised,

 

a living song

of courage,

dignity,

and voices carried forward.

 

Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

 Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

A family-shopping satire

We packed up the children, the coupons, the car,
And ventured to shop—not especially far.
We entered for trousers, some socks, and a shirt;
We left with a headache, a leaflet, and hurt.

The sign said, “WELCOME!” in corporate cheer,
Then twelve smaller notices made nothing quite clear.
“For comfort and safety, please follow Rule Eight”—
But Rules One through Seven were “pending updates.”

We asked one young clerk, who consulted a screen;
The screen asked a chatbot what “family” might mean.
The chatbot said, “Thank you—your concern has been logged,”
Then froze with a smile while the whole system bogged.

The app needed passwords with symbols and flair,
A fingerprint, PIN, and a sample of hair.
It welcomed us warmly, then crashed at the till:
“For faster assistance, please reinstall.”

We queued by a doorway beneath a red light,
Where arrows pointed left while the floor pointed right.
A manager arrived with a binder of lore:
“The policy’s simple—except in this store.”

The children grew hungry; Dad studied the map;
Mom guarded the cart from a clearance-rack trap.
Each sensible question produced, by design,
A survey, a QR code, and “Terms” to decline.

“May families shop here?” we asked with restraint.
“We welcome all shoppers,” came back the complaint.
“But where should we go?” “That depends,” they replied,
“On which temporary sign has most recently dried.”

So downward we tumbled through jargon and spin,
Where nobody knows where the rules end or begin.
The rabbit wore khakis, a badge, and a tie,
And promised, “Your comfort is our highest priority.”

At last we escaped with one sock and a hat,
Three digital coupons, no clue where they’re at.
The receipt was six feet, the explanation thin—
And somehow, we’d signed up to shop there again.

So here’s to the household, still mostly intact,
Seeking plain common sense in a maze of fine fact.
If this is “progress,” then kindly take note:
The rabbit hole now has a loyalty code.

With daughters and sons in one family crew,
The fitting-room puzzle soon came into view.
Should Dad join the ladies while helping them dress?
“Consult Appendix Q,” said the clerk at the desk.

Mom needed one doorway, the boys needed more,
Dad stood like a bellhop outside every door.
One daughter cried, “Help!” while the youngest yelled, “When?”
And Dad checked the policy binder again.

“A family room, perhaps?” we politely proposed.
The clerk tapped a tablet; the tablet then froze.
“We had one last Tuesday, from ten until three,
But now it’s reserved for the store’s Wi-Fi tree.”

So husband and wife, with their boys and their girl,
Were routed through arrows that twisted and curled.
We came for new clothing; instead, we were schooled:
A family of six needs a flowchart—and rules.

Watch The Hands

 Watch The Hands

It began in the ’90s—

or maybe earlier,

but nobody remembers,

which is how you know

the shell game was working.

Poison the food supply.

Move the shell.

Disregard the weather.

Move the shell.

Destroy the coral reefs.

Move the shell.

Look—

look over here—

another crisis,

another war,

another miracle cure,

another billionaire

promising to save us

by leaving.

The plan was

to go to another planet,

but what they needed

to do first

was fail.

And fail they did.

Spectacularly.

The big, beautiful plan

lifted off

into the stratosphere,

burned through the sky,

and crashed—

again— and again—

and again—

into the ocean.

Everyone watched the rocket.

Nobody watched the hands.

Except for a few.

A few who stood

at the edge of the crowd

pointing at the table,

saying—

There. There is the trick.

There is the shell.

There are the hands.

But nobody listened.

The crowd was too busy

watching the spectacle,

arguing over the shells,

cheering the magician,

booing the magician,

buying another ticket.

That was the trick. Not the shell.

Not the pea.

The hands.

The uptown shuffle,

the slide,

the razz-ma-Taz,

the doo-Wop,

the Diddy,

the shitty-shitty

bang Bang.

Now you see it. Now you don't.

Where did it go?

Under this shell?

No.

This one?

No.

Surely this one.

Look closer.

Keep watching.

Keep guessing.

Meanwhile, behind the little velvet table,

the whole country

was being rearranged.

The map moved.

The money moved.

The truth moved.

Even the meaning

of the words

began to move.

And those few—

those inconvenient few— kept pointing.

Kept shouting.

Kept saying,

You're looking at the wrong hand.

But nobody paid attention.

That was how they succeeded

for so long.

Not because nobody saw.

Because almost nobody

who saw

was heard. And while we argued

over which shell

held the pea,

the table disappeared.

Then the room.

Then the house.

And still—

the few were standing there,

pointing at empty air,

saying:

Look.

Look at the hands.

The Forest is not Finished

 The Forest Is Not Finished

 

Where is Congress?

Beneath the white dome,

the machinery still turns.

Votes are cast. The record grows.

On paper, the tree is alive.

But outside, people are calling through the branches:

Where are you?

Trust did not disappear overnight.

It left like water—

a little through the cracked earth,

a little beneath the door, a little each time the storm came

and someone insisted the roof was holding.

Vietnam. Watergate. Wars. Crashes.

Promises made beneath bright lights

and broken in rooms we could not see.

Leaf by leaf,

the canopy thinned.

And still we ask:

Are we watched?

The answer is more complicated than fear.

There are laws, courts, warrants, limits.

Some powers have ended.

Others are winding down. A sunset written into law
does not make the room dark at once.

And freedom—

freedom is not the flag alone.

It is whether the person beneath it
can speak, worship, vote,
and expect justice to recognize them.

America is still called free.

But freedom can remain written on the door
while people inside wonder
whether the room still belongs to them.

And still—

we vote.

Millions enter the booth,
close the curtain,
and make the smallest possible declaration:

I am here.

I count.

Perhaps that is where democracy begins again.

Not in making everyone the same,
but in remembering:

every person is one.

Not more.

Not less.

One.

Power prefers shadows.
Fear prefers enemies.
Despair says nothing will change.

Democracy asks something harder:

Look again.

Check the record.

Bring the lantern.

Tell the truth, even when it embarrasses your own side.
Revise what you believed.
Keep the question alive.

We do not have to become louder
to prove that we are awake.

We can stand in the forest

without pretending every tree is healthy.

We can notice the dead branches.
Smell the smoke.
Hear the roots beneath the soil.

And still believe something can heal.

Because awakening is not madness.

Concern is not hatred.

Doubt is not betrayal.

To ask whether the roots are dying
is not an act of destruction.

It is an act of love.

The forest is not finished.

Beneath the dark soil,
something is still reaching.

So we listen—

not for proof that everything is well,

not for proof that everything is lost,

but for the faint, stubborn movement
of the roots.

 

 

Many Coats of Light

 Many Coats of Light

Where Tennessee dawn
lays gold along the pines
and blue hills gather
the first thin light of morning,
Dolly rose with a voice
warm enough to enter a room
without asking permission.

She knew something about hard roads—
how they can narrow a life,
how a song can widen it again.

She braided truth into melody,
wore courage without calling it courage,
and laughed as though joy
were another kind of strength.

Then she opened books

and opened doors.

A child turned a page
and found a larger world waiting.
A weary heart heard a song
and remembered, for a little while,
that sorrow was not the whole story.

Her songs became lanterns.
Her stories became windows.
And wherever they traveled,
they left behind
some small assurance
that hope could still be found.

But fame is only one kind of light.

There are others
whose names will never be printed,
whose kindness will never make a headline—
the teacher who stays late,

the neighbor who notices,
the grandmother who reads
one more story before bed.

There is the hand
that stitches a coat for a child,
the stranger who carries a burden
without being asked,
the person who leaves groceries
on a doorstep
and walks away before anyone can say thank you.

These things seem small
until you begin to count them.

A coat.
A book.
A meal.
A listening ear.
A little courage given
to someone who has run out.

Ten thousand hidden stars,
perhaps—
quiet lights scattered
through ordinary lives.

They do not need an audience.

They shine because shining
is what they have chosen to do.

And perhaps this is how
the world is changed:

not always by the brightest star,
but by one light finding another
and refusing to go dark.

So let tomorrow open
the way morning opens over Tennessee—
slowly,
goldenly,

one ridge at a time.

Let one generous heart
call to another.

Let the kindness we thought
was too small to matter
become the very thing
that carries someone home.

Until, across the long dark,
a million quiet voices
lift their light—

and the world,
for a moment,
is brighter than we knew.

 

Failing Systems

 Failing Systems

For every voice made to wait while the safety net frays

Listen—

They told us the system was built to catch us.

But when we fall,
it answers with a locked door.
A dead phone line.
A form stamped DENIED
because one box—
one box—
was left without a mark.

Come to the kitchen table.
Look.
The numbers are laid out like bones,
and still they refuse to stretch.

Rent.
Medicine.
Heat.

Three winter hands at the window,
knocking—
knocking—
through the glass
of one thin wallet.

A parent counts the meals,
turns an empty cupboard
into a bedtime story:
We already ate. We are not hungry tonight.

An elder halves a dose
and listens to the clock
between each careful breath.

But listen—
beneath that frozen ground,
roots are gripping the dark.

And the worker?
The worker clocks in before sunrise,
sleep hanging from their shoulders like wet wool,
one small ember cupped against the wind,
then clocks out
still owing the day.

The shift runs long.
The paycheck does not.

Say it again:
the shift runs long—
the paycheck does not.

Rent climbs.
Mortgages climb.

Hours vanish.
The schedule changes without warning,
and one sick morning
splits the whole month open,
spilling every careful plan across the floor.

These hands lift.
These hands sweep.
These hands stock, carry, clean, build.

Palms split beneath cardboard and steel.
Backs burn beneath fluorescent suns.

Still—
these hands rise every morning.
Weathered tools.
Mended tools.
Tools that were promised
work would build a steady life.

So they become their own bridge:
plank by trembling plank,
name beside name,
shoulder beside shoulder,
even while the floor moves underfoot.

And when the hours are cut—
when the factory gate goes quiet—
lunch pails gather dust by the door,
work boots wait like faithful dogs,
and silence punches in for the night shift.

Still, a neighbor knocks.
Still, a meal appears.
Still, we become a patchwork roof—
each small kindness another shingle
held against the storm.

Then the frayed system asks for proof.
Proof that the fall was real.
Proof that the bruise belongs to us.
Proof that breaking
was not our fault.

Meanwhile, comfort speaks of sacrifice
as if sacrifice were weightless.
As if hunger were homework.
As if dignity could take a number,
sit down,
and wait.

So hear me—

when my own hands tremble,
when the stairs become a mountain,
when the rooms go cold
and the days narrow
to one long, dim hallway,
remember this:

We were never burdens.

We were people.
Roots gripping the dark earth.
Embers refusing the wind.
Bridges built from one another.
Hearts beating behind closed doors.

We are still here.
Still here.

Not asking to be carried—
asking for the ground to stop giving way.
Not asking to be praised—
asking not to disappear.

We were never burdens.
We were people.
We are people.

And we will not
be abandoned
in silence.