THE FOUR SEASONS
Shots and shocks over a lifetime . . .
. . .
I. AUTUMN-WINTER
I think it is Friday.
We’re marching in after recess
when I overhear my teacher,
Mrs. S, talking to the Kindergarten
teacher, Mrs. Z, in hushed tones.
The President has been shot.
I see the stunned look in Mrs. S’s eyes
but my 7-year-old self thinks
I guess even the President has to get his shots
. . .
II. WINTER-WINTER
A mid-morning January.
I have no idea what day it is. In the fog
of new motherhood everything is diapers,
feedings and fatigue. The TV’s on
in the living room. Suddenly a live blast:
The Challenger Space Shuttle blowing up midair.
Stunned, I shield my baby’s eyes, lower the volume.
There’s a teacher on board, Ms. McAuliffe.
No one guesses she’ll die being shot into space
. . .
III. SUMMER-FALL
It is definitely a Tuesday.
A clear, cool September morning. I drop
the kids at school, I’m driving to work. On the radio
a story about the World Trade Center: bombs go off.
I’m stunned; it makes no sense:
Passenger planes shot into America’s tallest towers.
I keep driving. Must be a recap: parking garage bomber,
February, 1993. But no, today is September 11. Many Americans die.
Never guessing airplane missile shots will announce a forever war
. . .
IV. SPRING-SUMMER
It’s sundown on a fiery solstice Saturday.
My son and his wife and two dogs, we decide
to hike at Great Falls. Flood-swelled waters
shoot past as we scramble over rocks and mud.
An alert on my phone: we’ve bombed Iran.
Nuclear shots in the dark. Mission: Unclear.
A single strike or opening salvo, it no longer matters.
My kids grown, it is their children we’re inoculating.
Guess I’m too old to be stunned any more. Just counting shots in the dark
. . .
Where were you when the shock came? What “season” of your life did it first arrive?
This is terrific, Robin. And I appreciate the way your narrate your own budding understanding, starting with a 7-year old imagining the president was receiving his innoculations.
Robin, thank you for sharing this powerful prose-poem here. I registered each one of the shocks as I was going through your timeline--and realizing that each tragedy has lodged somewhere deep inside of me, the memory held in my body, my dream-life, sub-consciousness--each tremor, each quake, informing me on how to approach my own relationship with vulnerability and art, how to think about geopolitics, how to manage loss and grieving. But your last line here haunts me still: "Guess I’m too old to be stunned any more. Just counting shots in the dark"
I'm recalling the last years I taught in Chicago at the university--it was nearly impossible to talk about the unrest in the world with students, to make sense of it, process it, let alone have a dialogue about it. But what I realized too was that most of my students (along with myself to a degree) had become "shocknumb"--nothing was reaching the level of being "stunned" anymore, the atrocities and violence had sadly become "normalized" and somewhat "routine".
I have always stood for peace and compassionate negotiations--and I've never been able to hold a thought of unrest or violence for too long. But what is happening now to us as a whole--as humanity-- if we are all "counting shots in the dark"--
I don't have an answer but I refuse to give up. I believe we all show up here on Subtack to make something beautiful in the world. Robin you continue to inspire me to always go deeper and to find the stamina, and joyful purpose, in standing up for beauty, for family, for nature and for testifying to resilience and love. Thank you for sharing this incredibe piece.