December Mo(u)rn
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Dark December days filled with grief
There is more than just one day that will live on in infamy
There were those who sought to destroy
There were those who sought to escape
Those who were loved (or feared, or lost)
And succeeded (were hidden, were found too late)
Some were taken away, with a suddenness that took breath away
My own memory is short
Reading headlines and thinking of that date brings some of that stinging grief all back
As a young one grieving for someone I really never knew but admired
Grieving changes going on (cue David Bowie and c-c-c-c-changes)
And an icon representing an old, now discarded life
Destroyed in mere moments
Now older, I’m grieving for someone who was lost to me and others
Mourning my younger self
Moments that changed the world forever
Further altering it, diverging from a semblance where life might get better again
Starting over
Sometimes the mo(u)rn is just the start of another day
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December 8, 2019
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Dear John,
You were my Beatle.
After all these years, you still are my Beatle.
When I was young, my sister and I often played with our neighbors. We had the vast outdoors at our disposal, thus we roamed around that woodsy sprawl outside of Ithaca, NY. On rainy days and moments when we were simply bored, we listened to music, on LPs, and the record I remember listening to the most was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The front cover is wild and chock full of figures, literary, famous, etc. The gatefold portrait is more fascinating to me. The portrait of you, Paul, George, and Ringo garbed in weird, psychedelic band-leader costume regalia. The four of us all thought you were all so cute, and while one day in a fantasy world, we each chose a Beatle to covet.
My sister, Kathy, picked Paul (in blue). Erin, the older neighbor child, chose George (in red). Amy, the youngest of all of us, had to settle for Ringo (in pink), because I had you (in green).
I wasn’t anywhere near understanding the wider world, had no awareness about differences between men and women–too young to truly know about gender or sexuality–nor alter egos, experimentation, and so many other adult things.
You had a wild quirky sexiness about you that both despised and thrilled me. Perhaps it was the handlebar mustache you wore.
I can’t believe it’s been so long since you left me.
Sincerely yours,
Rae
Read Rachael’s review of The Monster and the Mirror: Mental Illness, Magic, and the Stories We Tell as well as the Reading Loop in this issue of Wordgathering.
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About the Author
Rachael A. Zubal-Ruggieri (she/her/hers, they/them/theirs) is a long-time employee at Syracuse University. She co-created (with Diane R. Wiener) “Cripping” the Comic Con, the first of its kind interdisciplinary and international symposium on disability and popular culture, previously held at SU. At conferences and as a guest lecturer for many years, Rachael has presented on the X-Men comic books, popular culture, and disability rights and identities from her perspective as a Neurodivergent person and as a Mad Queer Crip. Entries in their “Micro Mutant Postcard Project” have been published in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature and Stone of Madness. Their most recent publications include two articles (co-authored with Diane R. Wiener) in the Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies‘ Special Issue, “Cripping Graphic Medicine I: Negotiating Empathy and the Lived Experiences of Disability in and through Comics” (Volume 17, Issue 3).