Rachael Coughlin

We should be screaming “murder”

Holding hands out in the streets

We should be speaking up about her 

Demanding justice from those in seats

It isn’t right or normal

For cosplay soldiers to shoot mothers

For an investigation to be informal 

To declare it’s Us against the Others

And maybe we all see now because her skin was closer to snow 

Than those that are not white, and really already know

If this is the first time considered, “it could be me too”

Maybe that’s what was missing – sanctioned murder isn’t new 

I was washing the dishes and watching my hands

Twist and scrub the bowls 

That held the leftover contents of easy meals, 

Snacks, second helpings

And I thought how lucky to have a sink full of dirty dishes

Even though moments before I cursed the chore 

Once again 

Always dirty dishes waiting for me with scraps of

This or that – remnants of milk, scrapes of peanut butter, drops of yogurt, chunks of meat, cheese, or bread. 

And for a moment I thought how I should have less to compare to the suffering of the world, the injustice of closed borders, food burned in incinerators, weeping mothers holding the remains of their starved children. How we should all have less in the face of so many with nothing. 

I blinked to push away the salt in my eye,

Daring to splash into the suds as it was –

Swallowed the stone in my throat, wondered if other lucky people felt guilt over dirty dishes.

And I decided instead how insulting it was 

The notion of shrinking to less – 

How insulting to imagine my less would equal their nothing.

They don’t need a starving martyr,

Or more people to go hungry, 

Or less bowls to wash

They need people with full bellies

demanding the same,

not less. 

I wish for dirty bowls everywhere,

Tired hands washing them

And the joyful cursing of this never ending chore 

– Rachael Coughlin 7/25

Blue Bracelets

Won’t work if the wrists they’re on don’t force the hands –
Won’t work if the mouths on the same bodies won’t speak –

White women – it was you

– and me –

Because in our circles we didn’t talk enough
or act enough
or build enough
or work enough –

We didn’t want to take up space with big ideas –
when fashion, mortgage rates and floor cleaner, pick up lines and crockpot meals-
were more polite topics.

We idled in small talk loudly
While our souls whispered:

We don’t have to worry about this as much as you, our dear sisters.
Our dear sisters of color
Our dear immigrant sisters
Our dear queer sisters
Our dear sisters that need reproductive healthcare

And now –
We won’t speak loudly of privilege
We will hold our tongues and our truth in neat containers
– wary to be “too much”

We will send our private messages to other safe women
exfoliating an outer layer
only when we are sure of mutual beliefs

We won’t stand on soap boxes alone –

But we will wear a blue bracelet together –
– Much too late

• Rachael Coughlin
  November 8th, 2024

I just watched Everything, Everywhere, All At Once. I’ve wanted to watch it since it came out, but life is busy and tiring, and I wanted to see it without distraction when I could steal some uninterrupted time. It’s my birthday today. So I took the day off work, and had plans to spend the day with my boys doing some activities. But, as happens with me from time to time, my senses are simply overloaded. I was over-stimulated this week with sound, and obligations… and I just needed to ask for some alone time instead to watch this movie and eat junk food in my bed. 

So I watched the movie. And I think I needed to watch the movie. It is ridiculous and silly, first of all. But that’s because it needs to be. You have to remove any ego you carry as you slide into this movie, and simply allow it to take hold. Don’t try to actually figure out what is going on, or attempt to place constraints on what is actually physically or metaphysically possible… 

If you let go, the movie will guide you and itself to the ultimate point, which of course, I won’t give away, but will say, yes it does actually have to do with googly eyes and hotdog fingers. 

Along the ride, be prepared for your feelings to be churned up, and brought to the surface for you to look at, identify, and decide what to do with. Themes of intergenerational pain and guilt, long term marriage issues, family strain, and financial ruin abound in this film. The feeling of being trapped in the ordinary or average, when maybe life could have looked very different if different choices had been made probably speaks to many viewers. The question, “does any of this really matter”, and the echoing ‘NO’ hurled back, leaves the watcher at times helpless and vulnerable, waiting for the moments that the film pulls you back from that edge, offering instead the whisper of, “so what if it does or doesn’t”. 

During the rock scene, I felt it when one rock understands the other by responding, “we are all small and stupid.” In the infinite landscape of the universe, I mean, we are. We really, really are. And this assertion should maybe be a depressing viewpoint, but somehow in the creative dance between the mundane and the extraordinary, this film demonstrates how being small and stupid isn’t depressing at all because as we learn by the end, “we can do whatever we want. Nothing matters.” And because nothing matters, at the same time, also everything does. 

As for the relationships and dynamics between the  characters, it is as much about the “flawed” but charmed marriage, the parent/child push and pull, as it is about relationships with strangers that you walk in parallel with during your timeline, in this universe and in all the others. Each relationship is relevant to your story. 

Overall, the movie got me unsurprisingly, as I am easily pulled into clever fantasy scripts doubling as social commentary. It reminded me of some of my other favorites including the poem Desiderata, (whoever wrote that – the credit varies), and my favorite line:

“For all it’s sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world…” 

And of course, my go to show, particularly when the world is offering me anxiety on a silver platter, The Office. I read that people often find this show soothing when everything else feels out of order. It is dependable for some reason. We fans might just have a weird sense of humor, but I  tend to agree. The last line of the entire series is my favorite. Pam ponders why they decided to make a documentary about a small company for so long, finally sharing, “There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kinda the point?”

And so on this ordinary day, that happens to be a kind of special day for me and all those born today too, I watched a movie that showed the extraordinary side of being an ordinary person. And I loved it. And I ate donuts in my bed, and some popcorn, and I didn’t rise and shine or seize the day. And that is ok with me. 

2nd grade – reading intervention push in teacher 

Reading intervention push in meant that I went into other teachers’ classrooms and pulled small groups to read with the students that needed some more help. For this particular school and position, most of the students in the program were brand new to the country within the last two years. They were still learning English. 

The first day, he came to the round table with a big grin and bright eyes. He asked a bunch of questions and waited for my answers. He was engaged with me and the others even though he barely knew the sounds of all the letters. I left the group that day knowing I would need to go back even further, back to basics, but inspired by the curiosity and spirit of the little boy. 

The next day, I pulled the group and the little boy that was so bright the day before did not come to the table. I asked the teacher in the room if he was absent today. The teacher gestured to a trash can leaning against the wall. Poking from behind the trash can were the slender legs of the little boy. His arms curved around his knees, forming him into a small ball of a person. 

“He does that sometimes. He pulls the trashcan in front of him.” The teacher informed me. 

Ok.

I knew I had to give it one try, but the other kids were already at the table ready for reading. I crouched slowly next to the trash can. 

“Would you like to read with us today?”

Two dark eyes looked back at me, but no answer came. 

“If you change your mind, you are welcome to join us when you are ready.”

Two dark eyes barely blinked in acknowledgment and I returned to the other students at the table. 

It went back and forth like that for a while. Some good days strung together, some bad. The teacher informed me that he and his family had fled Afghanistan about six months ago. 

On one good day, I recall, he came to the reading table and he was in the mood to talk. He told a story about the rooster  that they kept in the bathroom and at first I thought I heard him wrong, but he was adamant about the rooster in the bathroom. He told me that it tried to get out this morning when he went into the bathroom and he leaned back and laughed with his entire small body. I couldn’t help but laugh with him. It was such a laugh. 

Another day, his face was drawn, pale. His eyes tired from more than lack of sleep. I pulled him separately that day as we had started to do. He needed some more attention and I was happy to stay a bit longer with him. We did not read together that day however. He looked at me carefully and asked, “do you know what happened where I come from?” 

I told him that I did know some of it but he could tell me about it if he wanted to. He nodded and words flowed out of him, as if he was narrating the scenes he was watching flash through his mind. … Fire, flashing, loud sounds all around… my dad died… my friend had a lot of blood coming from him…. in his head…. 

I listened with an ache deep in my heart. I wanted to hug this boy and comfort him, but touch wasn’t something that he felt comfortable with. Instead I met his eyes with mine and listened closely. The only thing I could actually do. 

He finished speaking and carefully stood up, pushed the chair in at the reading table, and walked to the side of the classroom. He pulled the trash can close to the wall, and squoze in between, knees bent with his arms around. 

Old enough to know better. Young enough to wish I didn’t.

Forty one is stretch marks and belly fat, and edibles and wine. Parenting and not knowing what the fuck we are doing to raise the next generation right. Financial stress and worries and woe. Wisdom enough to know that there isn’t nearly enough saved in the savings account. Time enough left still  (we all think) to  save the money later for teenage cars and college tuition and retirement funds. 

No time left for the ramblings of our twenties when all of our ideas were romantic and sublime. Just wait until we make our dreams come true… 

Just wait and then wait… they’re here. And not at all what we imagined too.

But beautiful in their own way. In the way they change and shift to make possible for our children and the dreams that they dream too. 

Taking care of them.. Watching them grow, watching them know, watching them question and drink up this world of unknowns and hate and love.

We all walk the line, all a few bad decisions away from a bed on the street, all a few good decisions away from a mansion on the hill. 

Forty one  is asking what the hell this all means, not that you never did before, but just that you thought someone would give you an answer by now. 

It is facing the wrinkles stretching across your face and wondering how long they’ve lived beneath the surface waiting to show. Staring at saggy elbow skin like an uninvited guest, but letting it in anyway.  

Writing badly after wine, but remembering the commas. 

Forty one is half way, maybe, less or more, more or less.

Old enough to know better. Young enough to wish I didn’t.

Forty one is stretch marks and belly fat, and edibles and wine. Parenting and not knowing what the fuck we are doing to raise the next generation right. Financial stress and worries and woe. Wisdom enough to know that there isn’t nearly enough saved in the savings account. Time enough left still  (we all think) to  save the money later for teenage cars and college tuition and retirement funds. 

No time left for the ramblings of our twenties when all of our ideas were romantic and sublime. Just wait until we make our dreams come true… 

Just wait and then wait… they’re here. And not at all what we imagined too.

But beautiful in their own way. In the way they change and shift to make possible for our children and the dreams that they dream too. 

Taking care of them.. Watching them grow, watching them know, watching them question and drink up this world of unknowns and hate and love.

We all walk the line, all a few bad decisions away from a bed on the street, all a few good decisions away from a mansion on the hill. 

Forty one  is asking what the hell this all means, not that you never did before, but just that you thought someone would give you an answer by now. 

It is facing the wrinkles stretching across your face and wondering how long they’ve lived beneath the surface waiting to show. Staring at saggy elbow skin like an uninvited guest, but letting it in anyway.  

Writing badly after wine, but remembering the commas. 

Forty one is half way, maybe, less or more, more or less.

Last year around this time, I learned that instead of a resolution or goal, some people assign a word to the upcoming new year. I liked the idea of that since resolutions usually feel like a way to disappoint myself three weeks after I’ve set one. 

I decided on the word ‘authenticity’ last year with the wish to listen to my inner voice as she attempted to guide me. Often before, she was stifled when life had to be about making ends meet and caring for my family. She would whisper her warnings, and I would ignore the call in lieu of the routine or from fear of failure. I found myself stuck in the piles of mud I often created for myself. Not allowing myself to walk in this world as I truly wanted felt inauthentic of course to me, but also to all of the people in my life. I decided that the year would be dedicated to quieting down to listen to the whisper coming from within, and then changing accordingly. 

For several years my work caused the greatest stress in my typical day to day life. As a teacher in a middle school in a low socio economic area, I always felt that my work was important, and many days I felt fulfilled for the connections and relationships I built with students and co-workers. But, I would often return home from the day with no emotional or physical energy to connect with my family. The kids at school received all of my patience and acceptance, while my own children found a more frustrated version of their mom, who was often tired and preoccupied with worries about the next school day. And the next day I would bolster all my tenacity and push forward with the lessons, but also with the life lessons because they took place daily. I had to be tough, because weakness did not work with that age group and in that area. The kids tested what kind of stuff I was made of and we all settled I believe, that my teaching style was tough, but fair by design. In the face of insults or defiance I could stand tall in front of a student and shut it down. I broke up fights, I counseled students during lunch, I tough loved them through the school year in many situations. I wore a suit of thick skin armor, aware of when I needed to soften for particular students. It was effective and useful and the way I built respect in my classroom. But, was it me? Was it my authentic self? I didn’t really think so. It felt like an acting gig on some days, and for my introverted self, it became exhausting. I began to experience vertigo at school, sometimes during class, right in the middle of a lesson, requiring me to sit down and pretend that I was fine as I directed students to some independent work for a few minutes.  I had several near panic attacks begin that I had to elevator breath my way out of, and my anxiety just started to take over. I wanted a change, but middle age career changes aren’t really all that easy to navigate. I stayed because I was good at it, because I felt depended on and needed, and because I simply didn’t know what else to do. 

After COVID brought us out of the classroom, some things changed for me. First, I realized that working from home is amazing. For me. I loved it. The actual staying at home part that is. Teaching from home at first was very challenging, and frustrating. Most of us wanted it to be over because we just hadn’t had enough practice with it yet. Zoom was brand new and the kids figured out early on how to put us on edge with their potential for “zoom bombs.” Many students just did not show up to class. At all. Our administrators tasked the teachers with trying to find these missing students through phone calls and searches through alternate phone numbers listed on the student profile. Students didn’t do the online work. At first, it was all so messy. 

In August of 2020, we went back to school online for the next school year. A month later, my school district was the first to require teachers to return to school on campus. I wasn’t ready or comfortable with that decision. I said so. It didn’t matter. I had to return to campus three days per week for one in person class period. I remained online for the other class periods. I spent September through December of that time constantly battling with students to meet the covid protocols. Masks were off. Kids were sitting very close to each other and there was a general sense that because the morning teacher didn’t make them follow the covid protocols, that I shouldn’t either. This is when I really considered that I couldn’t do it anymore. By the spring of 2021, when I was able to get vaccinated, I felt somewhat better, but the damage was done. The school district sang the praises of how safe it was, how progressive it was, and my frustration just grew. It felt political and theatrical. It certainly did not feel authentic. 

As 2021 pushed on, I was often reflective about my place in all of this. I turned to creative outlets such as writing and photography to push myself to find other routes to express myself. Part of my goal in assigning the word ‘authenticity’ to the year 2021 was to force myself to express instead of repress. It was working. I expressed more. I wrote more, I focused on art and projects, and ideas. I checked in with the inner voice and she encouraged me to keep making the changes. 

In August of 2021, I was offered and accepted an online position working from home as a teacher. It was a big change and the old worries almost nagged me away from taking the job. I took a lot less pay, a trade off that my husband assured me would be worth the gain in my mental health. I took a chance by leaving tenure and a union that would represent me if needed. I walked away from stable work and into the unknown. When I made the decision, I felt lighter instantly. The weight of worry shifted and I felt my shoulders let go. I loved my co-workers and the students. I really did. But I had to love myself more and my family more, and I knew that it was time to move on. In those moments of change, I found authenticity. I knew I was listening to what needed to be true for me. 

Writing about this has eluded me until now. I wasn’t really even sure about the choices I made until very recently. As the year winds to a close, it seems I’ve come back around to the word. I’ve had some quiet moments to listen further and to make more plans and ideas that will guide me to continue my goal of  living in authenticity. As I write, and as I think and create, I am ready to choose my word for 2022. With plenty of ideas floating through my mind, and with a focus on truth, it is now time to do. I’ve learned about myself this last year, and now it is time to trust and create. This year I aim to manifest. 

To manifest (verb): : “to make evident or certain by showing or displaying”. 

In 2022, my goal is to manifest. My ideas, thoughts, plans…. Into reality. At least some of them. To stop the stall of insecurity, fear, or the idea that production of ideas and art should have to have some form of capitalistic value for it to be worthwhile. More action, more doing, more creating for creating’s sake. More belief that I can, because I know I already did. 

What is your word for the year?