A Certain Distrust For Squirrels

The first poem I ever wrote was forced out of me by my second grade teacher, Mrs. Reynolds. The class was assigned to write a poem that would be featured in the school's yearbook. I was stumped. This was a project that I wanted to take home and mull over with a slice of baloney (which I liked to roll up and smoke like a cigar). Mrs Reynolds wanted them finished by the end of the day.

I was a mess. I didn't know what to write about. All I knew was that it had to be succinct and describe the human condition (yes, even at age 7, I knew these things). I also knew that it had to wow the entire class. I had to be celebrated for the genius that I was. When Mrs. Reynolds saw that I was struggling, she summoned me to her desk so we could pow-wow about it.

"What's your favorite animal?" she asked me. And for the life of me, I told her, without missing a beat:
"Squirrels!"
She gave a perfunctory nod and set out to make me a poet. "I'll start you out. Give me three adjectives that describe squirrels. Remember, we just learned about adjectives. What are adjectives?"
"Describing words!"
"Good. Now, what are your adjectives?"
"They're furry. . . and brown. . . and kinda cute, I guess."
Mrs. Reynolds wrote my first line for me and asked that I rhyme words until I had a complete stanza. After 5 minutes, we ended up with this:

These are the squirrels,

cute furry and brown

These are the squirrels, 

that climb the trees down.

It shames me to have to say this but I "wrote" this poem under the strict supervision of a responsible adult. It came out in the yearbook that year and my mother noted that it was "a lovely little poem." I knew even then, I couldn't take credit for the four lines. It was lackluster and syntactically, it didn't even make sense. 

Ever since that incident, I've never been able to look at a squirrel without seeing that farce of a poem. It proved to me that I was no Mozart. I don't know who told me that I needed to be that special at age 7, but I was convinced that I was supposed to be a prodigy. I felt like a fake. 

You know what hurt the most? This kid in my class, named Christopher, a bit of a clown, wrote his own poem about his pants bursting at the seam and him stapling them shut. It was a riot! Our classmates couldn't believe the envelope that Chris pushed. It was bawdy, tawdry and it rhymed! Most of all, it was original. Chris thought it up all by himself. 

I looked on in jealousy. He made the class laugh with his genius. This altered the way I've written for the rest of my life. I only write funny poems. I took a page from Chris's book and held on for dear life. I only read poems that I know will make people laugh. 

When I get behind a podium and recite my original work, the only feedback I desire is a titter or guffaw from the audience. Without it, how will I know I've been accepted?

You could call this a "traumatic time" in my writing career. Perhaps I've let a relatively small incident in my past rule my creative life. I'm trying to write with more depth; touching on subjects that don't get laughs, because I'm not a goddamn stand-up comic, I'm a poet. 

One day, I might get up the courage to write a poem about a squirrel. Maybe I'll try to uncover it's inner turmoil of surviving day to day on acorns. There is a chance that this could turn out to be humorous though. So I don't know. 

I do know that my work, no matter how long it takes, is original. I've not asked anyone for help since Mrs. Reynolds. My art has been a solitary act of reflection, time and soul-searching. . . with a touch of laughter. Thank you, Christopher.