By: Judith Mikesch McKenzie
The old red quilt hangs
against the window with
little white yarn-bows
in each square
many no longer tied
but falling limply
unravelled but still in place
against the glass
hung there in the window to
keep out the cold
the quilt provides
a hiding place
between the hanging folds
and the glass
the illusion of warmth
provided by
red-plaid
red-checked
red-striped
patches
proof against the cold and light
Hiding between
glass and comforter
staring at the red and gold
of morning
I have no courage
I stand I stand
facing outward braced against the day
I stand
waiting for my own strength to fail me
I need my strength more
sometimes
than the warm room behind me
or the arms that wait there
I stand I stand
against those I call my brother
who try to strike me down
I stand
Between glass
and red hanging
wondering where the battle is.
Judith Mikesch McKenzie has traveled much of the world, but is always drawn to the Rocky Mountains as one place that feeds her soul. She loves change - new places, new people, new challenges - but honors a strong connection to the people and places of her roots. Writing is her home. She is a recent winner in the Cunningham Short Story Contest and the Tillie Olsen Short Story Contest. Her work has been published in Who Are We?, the Tishman Review, Rogue River Review, Thought and Action, Mountains and Lake, Works in Progress, and in the anthology The Poetic Bond X, and she has upcoming publications in Wild Roof Journal and Halcyone/The Black Mountain Press/Her Words.
"Shortly after the 2016 election, I went to a meeting where a woman cried. It was a 'Teach-In' organized to give people ideas about the best ways to protect those things important to us in the four years that were coming. In one session, people went around the room giving ideas they had, and most of us were scribbling ideas down as quickly as we could. Then one woman burst out in sobs. We all turned to her, trying to comfort her, and someone asked what was the cause of her tears. Pulling herself together, the woman choked out - 'there’s just so much to fight for - I’m overwhelmed, I don’t know where to….what to….' and she cried again.
After that meeting, I was not able to catch up to her to offer her my number, but I have thought of her often and, when I did, I also thought of this poem, which had actually been written a few years before in a particularly hard time. My family is multi-racial and multicultural, and, in the (mostly white) town in which we lived, my children suffered at their schools. Daily battling racism and poverty along with the normal struggles of work and parenthood, we were also constantly in battles with the school district (The superintendent: 'But there are less than 1% of minorities in our district - what do you expect us to do?'....Pause, response: … 'So you’re saying our children are acceptable casualties.')
We were struggling financially, socially, emotionally, and actually in the struggle for our rights and our lives. I would often, in the morning, stand between that red quilt and the glass doors, holding my coffee, holding on, trying not to sob, as that woman did years later.
After the 2020 election, I became concerned about the number of people who seemed to think that they no longer needed to worry, that the change in administration would solve everything. So, I took out this poem, polished it, and felt it was time to send it out. When I first wrote it, I showed it to my daughter, and she asked only 'Why did you call it Anarchy?' I told her because it felt that was how our lives were at the time - in chaos, in anarchy, in constant battle. She just nodded. "
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