i'm hoping to cut out some parts of these speeches. any advise?
Written By: Grace K
July 14, 2015
SOMETHING LIKE FIRE -by Tara Hardy
EVERYBODY IS SPIDERMAN -by Robbie Q. Telfer
Painting yourself into a corner is an issue if you're Spiderman except Spiderman has spent his whole existence becoming more and more like Spiderman so that at this point even if he wanted to stop being Spiderman, he couldn't - this is the problem with being fictional and written by everybody. Everybody is Spiderman. Like one day he's going to be like Hey guys, I decided to become a bus driver. Everybody – who is also Spiderman mind you – would be like No way, man, you gotta be Spiderman forever.
Yeah but the process for becoming a bus driver is actually pretty elaborate – they get like 1000 applications a month.
So like, you expect people to give their fare to a guy in a skin tight…
No, I’m… well… I’m ACTUALLY Peter Parker.
Fool, we know you’re Peter Parker, we can read that part of the comic too. Everybody knows you’re Peter Parker. Everybody is Peter Parker.
But don’t you also see then that I’m splitting my identity all the time? I feel like I’m the mask more than the man.
Hey, you can make a mask out of anything if you poke out eye holes. A comic book can be a mask.
Just poke out eye holes. That’s it. We’re gonna pick you up, poke out eye holes in your torso and we’re all going to wear a Peter Parker mask and we will be known as PeterParkerman and our superpower is that we can replace being Spiderman with ennui and a bus driver’s uniform, and we will sit in the living room of evil doers shaking out heads from side to side and asking a lot of questions we don’t listen to the answers of and we will overstay our welcome and eat all of their honey-roasted peanuts and we will defeat evil by complication their understanding of evil. PeterParkerman will wonder how he got to this point 100% of the time and he’ll stop shaving because what’s the point. Everybody is PeterParkerman.
We all wear masks on top of our masks…
Shut up, Spiderman, we’re over it.
Survivor: “…but I did it because of the trauma.”
Survivor- what a pointed word.
What a something to sharpen and jab
at someone. Survivor- what a blockade
to stand behind. What a shield. What a
corner around which to peek
a gun. Explosive to roll into
a party. “Everything I’ve said and done
is because I am a Survivor!”
When is the day we become responsible
for ourselves? For the ways our damage spills over, onto others? I want to join a parade of: This is What I’ve Done and This is Where I Did it and This is to Whom. I want a spotlight
on their scars, not mine. I want to carry
my fault on a platter, like a cake
down a street. With the names
of the people I made into a whom
on top. Until everyone comes out
of their houses into the square
and starts confessing, as if
our future depends on it.
(Because it does.)
I want to meet the ones who made me
a whom on the other edge of town
at the end of their cake parade. I want them to put down their sharp sticks,
empty their cheeks of explosives, and
step out from behind the barricade. I
want them to pull their whole bodies from around the corner and say,
“Me. I did it.”
Without blinking or minimizing.
And then I want them to give me
some cake. The slice with my name
on top. But when I take a second look,
I want it to be their name. I want our names to be the same.
(Because they are.)
And then I want to hug
about it. I want Survivor to be a name
we stop taking in vain, stop using
as excuse. Here, I’ll start: I have raged
and thrown and manipulated and coerced and lied and lied and lied
and lied. Every single time I have held up the card “survivor” as if it is a get out of jail free ticket. But there are real live names in my wake. In the sea foam behind my boat. Can’t you see their eyes?
The way they spin in the waves- the whites and the blues and the browns and the hazels of them?
Those are the people I made
into a whom, people to whom I gave
a card, while showing them exactly how to stand
behind it. Survivor- what a pointed word.
What a shield, an explosive. I want the day when Survivor means a temporary
state, a place to pass through
but not set up a permanent, fenced-in
residence. I want survivor to mean something
like a fire of renewal after which grows a forest with as many trees as human complexities.
I don’t always want to stomp my feet
on home plate saying,
“That person. Did this. To me.”
But neither do I want to stand
on the pitchers mound- hurling forward
what someone else pitched
at me. I’ve been getting this backwards, thinking Survivor meant I had to toughen
up instead of melt and maybe offer myself as something to quench.
Something to ease, to nourish and embolden. Don’t get me wrong,
I am as mad as Volkswagen full of hornets about what’s been done to me, but that doesn’t mean
I want to let my stingers out. Not
only because the world needs all of us
to step into the light. But also because what a day, what a triumph when Survivor means
so much more
than what was done to me.
(Because it does.)