An Understanding

There was a point,
in my childhood,
where I learned to fight back.

It was second grade.
I was small,
gawky,
emotional,
certain to grow up as a poet.
I cried easily.
I tried too hard to please.
I thought everybody would love me
if just given the chance.

And I couldn't understand why
Mrs McDonald didn't like me.

She told me I was stupid.
She tore up my art project,
and told me I had to do it again,
this time, right.
She put me in the corner of the room
and left me there
for the entire year.

And each time she would do this,
each time she would raise her voice,
I would cry.

She would bring me into the hallway
and dig her long nails into my skin
and scream at me an inch from my face,
and I would cry.

Becuase there was obviously something wrong with me
and I had no idea what it was.

Until one time,
one moment,
I realized that it wasn't me who was wrong.

And with Mrs. McDonald's claws digging into my
tiny forewarm,
alone in the hall,
I looked up at her with clear eyes,
and a clear face,
as she screamed "Do you understand? Do you understand?"

I said,
clearly, calmly, honestly,
"Yes, Mrs. McDonald. I understand".