Emily Wright Original poem.

Emily Wright original poem: Black Dog. A shared secret about the black dog of depression. Mental illness lurks in dark corners of life.

Emily Wright original poem.

Emily Wright original poem: Breathing Fire. A shared secret about harboring rage and the carnage caused by angry words

Emily Wright original Poem:

Emily Wright Original Poem

Tiny Threat – a story with a poem. Tiny Threat is an excerpt from Little Sister a manuscript in the making.

An Emily Wright original poem part of the Little Sister, manuscript in the making.

Emily Wright: Rant

Public vs Private life – is there a difference? And how will this affect the mental health of our youth?

We are so polarized.
There is a story in the news about an Uber driver who posted the interactions of four young male passengers on YouTube. They were teammates who were openly discussing the inner workings of their team. Comments were made that were not meant for the rest of the team or the coach. This is newsworthy because it questions whether a taxi or Uber car is a private domain, one that remains private just as a hotel room. This is not a controversial issue that I wish to broach. But it does bring the boundaries between public and private into play.

On any given day, I am personally video recorded up to 15 times. There are video cameras everywhere, and where there aren’t, there are people with their smartphones at the ready. We are raising a generation of young people who are accustomed to being recorded at any time. When do we get to be ourselves, or is the ‘self,’ as we know it, undergoing a disembodiment?

Not a day goes by that I do not consider the wild days of my youth. Back then, my cell phone did not have the capability to snap photos or record videos. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I have forgotten much of my party days and that which I remember I do not wish to have documented for the world to see.  Smart phones were not equipped with cameras until after the birth of my first born, long after my party girl days. 

I feel honored to be of the generation who had the opportunity to be wild and reckless without having to worry about such moments being plastered on social media the next morning like a hideous scar obtained while hungover. Partying in my early twenties often consisted of drinking too much and winding up dancing on the speaker or high-rise platform provided specifically for that purpose. The point was to make a spectacle of myself. Nerve and a shot of courage were served with every cocktail. After the third or fourth, I had earned the reassurance of deniability too. Sober, I would never be dancing center stage. In fact, sober I would secretly judge and pity the drunken chick, knowing the morning will bring regret and embarrassment if remembered.  

My colleagues today would never believe the depths my inhibitions would sink to back then. And for THAT I am forever grateful, for there were no means for my friends or nearby party people to document.

A close friend works at a post-secondary school establishment, and the stories of past weekend endeavors the students share are laughable in comparison to the trouble we used to get up to. A decade ago, I used to think Yikes, we were chronic, promiscuous party girls. Now I think, what happened to being young and stupid? Isn’t that what youth is for?

My concern is that society is conditioning our young people to accept that there are no more private moments or regrettable times revisited only in our memory.  Today every smile, fake smile, misstep and momentary lapse of judgement will wind up on your social media or worse, someone else’s social media without our knowledge or consent.

What will become of us?

Will we eventually not care? Will we just accept that it is just a matter of time that we will all end up naked on the internet? If this is our future, we can only hope that eventually everyone will be considered flawed, it will lose its novelty and eventually nothing will surprise or shock us? Or will we all just embrace our public identity and assume our less authentic self all the time?  If this is the future waiting for us, then we will all end up with greater mental health issues than we already do?

Kids will be kids implies that there is a phase of silly decisions that were not meant to brand us like a tattoo. 

It is inherently human to lash out. We need an outlet to vent, to complain about things that bother us. Healthy adults seek safe places to do this; over drinks with colleagues, we say unsavory things about our boss and criticize other colleagues. We bash our spouses over the phone with our best friends. We groan about our parents with siblings. And our partners see our many hats; more importantly, they see us completely naked in every sense of the word. We need this, and I worry that our obsession with YouTube, Facebook, and Tik-Tok seriously threatens our authentic selves.

Consider our politicians. Decades ago, it was scandalous for a leader to be divorced, to step out on their marriage, or to get caught with a sex worker. Today, we accept that everyone has their secrets and is entitled to a private life free of judgement. Meaning, everything you do is up for public opinion. Will our standards eventually stoop so low that we will cease to care?

I don’t know: stepping out on your wife to get with a hooker kind of says a lot about you as a person that might influence your values and policy. Either way, I preferred scandals served cold. I would rather read them or hear about them afterwards as a true testament that one can be a great leader and a womanizing, elitist prick all in one. Today, we just accept bad behavior because there is no escaping public scrutiny as no moment will ever be private and no secret will ever stay buried again.

I want my son to end up streaking down the block on a dare at his first team party in college. I want my daughter to enter a limbo contest while spring breaking in Florida. I do not wish to witness or have access to any of this. But I don’t want my kids to have embarrassing videos that will plague them forever. They deserve the same rite of passage as I did, where I could be reckless and wild without it being documented. When such events are whispered and rumored about, there is room for deniability. Video footage does not allow us any room to get beyond a reasonable doubt. 

How do we preserve the privacy of being reckless and wild for our youth? It’s an important part of growing up that was not meant to be posted as public.

An excerpt from Emily Wright’s manuscript in the making . . .

Little Sister

A novel about the rise up against preconditioned expectations women and girls have learned to accept and often think nothing of enduring.

A Bull’s Purpose

The high-pitch hum of heat buzzed around her like a war cry that frenzied flying insects. Raising her head to ease the tension mounting in her shoulders, the breeze was quick to cool the sheen of sweat at Melody’s hair line. It was too late to consider a hat. The task had already begun. Gardening was meant to be light welcome work. Not this patch of dirt. The massive plot carved out at the back of the yard did not make the chore of weeding enjoyable in the slightest. It was labor: an overgrown jungle of hated perennials crowded out the desired ones.  

Melody’s mother, Emma, had wanted a small patch of the acre yard reserved for some flowers. A splash of color to enjoy while at the kitchen sink gazing out the window or sipping coffee as she sat on their expansive deck. Hugh had a different view. The hunk of land Melody’s father had dug out would have been massive for a public space . They should have known his ‘go big or go home’ attitude would warrant a backhoe. In fact, her mother had mentioned a rock garden and envisioned stones no bigger than pumpkins jutting up between her peonies and iris. Instead, Hugh arranged for a front-end loader to drop off stones that any normal person would categorize as boulders to squat in the sprawl of upturned earth. 

Now, when Emma looked over her yard she saw a neglected eyesore of weeds and overgrown plants choking out some sort of grotesque ruins. She hadn’t asked for a hobby that would require multiple days to tend to. It was now a constant reminder of time she had reserved elsewhere, while the hours of work needed to maintain this wild foliage dogged her from her view from the kitchen. Very rarely did Emma sit on the deck anymore and when she did she turned her back to her jungle garden.

In an effort to help with this, Melody had set out to weed a section of garden; a mere portion that, perhaps over a few days, would make some sort of headway. There were no disillusions to this thankless effort that would hold very little impact. Nonetheless she would try. At the very least, she hoped to inspire her mother to come out and garden by lightening her load somewhat.

This too could backfire. In early summer, many of the flowers had yet to bloom. Weeding without a degree in horticulture was risky. Melody was prepared for her mother’s misguided wrath. Unearthing the wrong plant could trigger Emma’s anger. The rage meant for her husband, the frustration with her own neglect, could rear its ugly head to hiss and snarl at her daughter’s good deed. You know, the kind that doesn’t go unpunished.

On this particular day, Melody stood to straighten her back and once again vowed to never own a garden of this size. Cows had been grazing in the west field when she first knelt, trowel in hand. They were  now migrating to the east. The slow trod down the hill was a muddy one. Their once creamy white coats were dappled with muck and manure as they slogged along. At the base of the gentle slope, water pooled and gathered in the wells of their hoof prints to pull at their legs. The cows plodded on and glanced back every so often at their struggling calves, helpless. Mud sucked at the entire length of their little limbs. Every step was a silent labor. 

Looking on, Melody spotted the smallest calf and worried for its safety, not knowing how to, but wanting very much to intervene. But it endured. Measured and slow, the tiny cow, now dipped in mud, fought to find higher ground along the fence line. The effort to get there seemed greater than the straight line behind its mother, but Melody appreciated its will to find a better way.

It was painstaking to watch as the small cow navigated through thick inhospitable stocks of wild grass while the sodden earth clung to every step. The calf’s unwavering effort was rewarded when it broke through to dry land. This was made obvious when it pranced and leaped towards its mother and the rest of its herd. Frolicking calves were always a gleeful sight. This little guy’s struggle made for a rewarding happy dance and a smile found its way to Melody’s lips. Her gardening tasked seemed manageable after witnessing the inspirational feat of an unexpected muse.

Then, grunts of protest and annoying complaints interrupted this moment of purity as the only bull reached the marsh field. Always lagging behind and bringing up the rear he ambled along. Seeking out the calf’s path, the massive male sought higher ground to minimize his efforts. Leg muscles twitched as he easily pulled his mud soaked ankles from the wet dirt. Detouring and avoiding the straight path left by the females the bull balked and bitched the entire way. A noisy rant to the others making his inconvenience and rage known. 

As he passed by Melody, his over privileged mud smattered ball sack bobbled behind. 

“And that’s why we eat the males!” Melody hollered at the disgruntled beast before returning to work on her mother’s garden. 

An Emily Wright Original Rant on giving up the fight.

A Shared Secret of The Only Road.

Every day, I remind myself there is much to be grateful for; or so they keep telling me.  

This is not a pity-party, nor am I just another Karen ignorant to her privilege. 

I am privileged. This I know.

I grew up as a middle-class white girl in the country. There were no limits to what I thought I could accomplish. There were obstacles, yes. Many of which I welcomed. Crashing through norms, busting down barriers, and biting into ignorance is in my blood. Maybe this is because I grew up fighting against and disguising my dyslexia and the uninspired future my family had imagined for me. Or maybe this is because I am a Scorpio, redheaded, Scott Viking with molten lava in her veins. Either way, I am not about to back down and fight for what is right.

I graduated from university, surprising them all, and ready to set the world on fire. As a humanities major, I raged and burned with the inequities of our past that paved our future. I was going to make a difference and level the playing field. I was going to bring rich white men to their knees and make them see how their narrow gaze and financially driven ways perpetuated and fueled the fires that burned in every disadvantaged, marginalized, and unprivileged community. There would be a day of reckoning, and I would be there with bloodied fingers, a dirty face, and a sweat soak brow just to help hoist that flag.

Twenty-five years later, and I have nothing. It took me years to understand that passionate is often confused with being emphatic, and no one is listening if you are shrill and dramatic. So, against everything I am about, I learned to be controlled, calm, and slow when I spoke. This I mastered, and still no one is listening. I am dismissed and overlooked at every turn. I have lost count of the number of occasions I had the right to say, ‘I told you so.’ It didn’t matter, no one was listening anyway.

While on maternity leave, a younger, less educated white male became my manager. Never before setting foot in my department until inheriting the keys. Accepting his leadership was a massive bitter pill without water. While choking, I tried to see the bright side and reasoned that I could leverage myself when he inevitably came to me for my advice and opinion. When he did not, a slow rot consumed me. Instead, he recruited two young white males who looked at him with wonder and admiration. Not long after learning the bare minimum of the job, they were assigned the training of new hires. With their six months of experience between them, they were responsible for molding even newer staff members. There were days when I actually poked my own arm to confirm that I was not invisible. Experience was worth less than obedience.

These boys had overthrown me in the eyes of my manager. Still, I sought comfort and sanity in the fact that those I worked with appreciated and preferred my work ethic, dedication, skills, talents, and years of experience over the unengaged, arrive late, leave early attitudes of the newbies.   

The smartest woman I know is a doctor of the highest degree. She is a wife and mother of two. A few years ago, the opportunity to earn her fellowship came at the least opportune time for her career and her family. The overachiever could not resist the challenge, yet still struggled with the promised sacrifice of this goal. This decision was forcefully encouraged upon her by her boss, a childless doctor herself. After months of studying and adding one more near impossible task to her already unmanageable schedule, she earned her fellowship.

Her credentials had yet to be hung on her wall when she was asked to be patient and less particular with her male colleagues. She was told to accept mediocrity. Nothing in her life thus far was achieved by way of mediocrity. So why must she lower her expectations to accommodate her lesser counterparts?

Another friend of mine waited to have her child later in life, thinking it would help secure her career. As young women, we were told by our role models, “We could have it all, just not all at the same time.” This we accepted. So, confident in her field, she left her dream job to have her daughter. She returned to work early because she caught wind that her job contract was up for renewal. She would have to compete with her replacement for her position. After cutting her maternity leave short by more than three months, the guy who was filling in for her landed the job anyway. She lost out: lost those three months with her baby girl to lose to the guy with no risk of going on maternity leave. 

I am angry. Everywhere I turn, there are women working their asses off to achieve things they already deserve. They work harder with fierce loyalty, expecting only respect and acknowledgement in return. And every time they are disappointed, they turn inward to improve and have greater self-awareness. Fuck that ! ! ! 

That is like taking a hit and donning more protective gear. Instead of calling foul and enforcing the rules. But let’s face it, those rules only apply to them, and they are changing them as we go.

On the day I realized my privilege and understood that guilt lacked value and purpose, I vowed to use my privilege to better the world, open some eyes, wake the ignorant.

Today, I see my privilege as window dressing. It is enough to exclude me from the marginalized but not enough to allow me to make a difference. 

I am not allowed to complain because I am white and middle-class. But as a woman who has been silenced, dismissed, objectified, and victimized, the rage burns on. I am nearing fifty. What is sadder than losing the fight is losing my will to fight. For decades I have been throwing punches with quick wit and undying moxie. It took a lot to kick me down, and when I did fall, I would have a good cry, question my code, and feel sorry for myself. While down, I would doubt my path, which inevitably ended with me getting up, brushing myself off, and bracing for another fight. 

I am afraid that someday soon I will just stay down. I will scroll past the job post for the promotion I will never get. I will turn down the volume on stories that celebrate tiny achievements of the marginalized and then gloss over the growing financial divide between classes. I will sit down when called upon to protest. I will look down when my daughter asks me about my greatest accomplishment. The obstacles were just too big, that when ignored and dismissed too many times for far too long, I finally learned to just turn off, shut up, and stay down.

The unremarkable sound solicited a disinterested glance out the window. When Melody’s gaze landed on the empty patio set, her daze while unloading the dishwasher held. Until she heard it again. It was a thud, soft and muffled. It sounded like one of the black aluminum chairs bumping the wood planks of the deck as it shifted beneath an occupant’s weight. 

This time, the sound snagged her attention. Calling her again to the window, where within her view of the vacant outdoor dining set was a flash of something. 

Brilliant green streaked by. What was that? An enormous bug of some sort? Were dragonflies green?

Melody thought of bright summer days lounging on the dock as kids. The lull of the sparkling waves, sleepy with boredom, conjured the memory of flitting blue dragonflies. She supposed they could be green. 

Then, she reconsidered. Decidedly, it was not a dragonfly that hit the window for the clash of effervescent wings against glass would be a messy collision. A thwapping buzz, unlike what she heard. 

Another splash of green zipped from behind the hummingbird feeder. Then, vanished again. It hadn’t been bigger than her thumb, with wings a blur, beating at an impossible rate. Such a beautiful marvel. Tiny and powerful, moving too quickly for the eye to see.

But where had the thud come from? Another flurry of fluttering wings jetted from above and, to her astonishment, smacked directly into the other hummingbird. Shocked by the aggression and deliberate violence, Melody reasoned this to be a display of male birds posturing. A miniature rallying of competition over a mate. The attack was swift. After blitzing the bird hovering at the feeder, the offender returned in the direction from which it came. 

How could something so small, harbor such tremendous zeal and moxie? Imagine the size of its heart, so delicate yet fierce and determined.

Curious, Melody closed the dishwasher and moved to the sink to better her view. Just beyond the window’s frame, on the clothesline that stretched the entire length of the backyard, perched the other bird. A sagging blue cable doubling back onto itself, held and now still humming bird. 

Again, the tiny aviator with the higher advantage point, bomb dived the other. Despite effort and injury, the one at the feeder refused to falter. The entire scene was in view and she questioned: if this was over a female, shouldn’t she be close by?

There were four yellow flowers skirting the humming bird feeder. A strawberry shaped container with clear liquid offered waxy plastic flowers to surrounding hummingbirds. This endless supply of nectar dangled there, shielded from the wind in the alcove of her country home that backed onto rolling hills of farmer’s fields edged with an overgrowth of wild flowers. Purple, blue, and pink dotted the wide strips of tall grass that followed the fence line into the horizon. At the far end of their property, Melody’s mother fussed over a large manicured garden of irises, begonias, and rose bushes. The means of nectar in the vicinity was limitless, yet one humming bird flitted around the feeder as if guarding it. Protecting the open flower stalls like one would preserve a row of seats in the movie theater as they waited for their friends to arrive or return from the concession stand. This panicked frenzy to hoard the plastic flowers in an effort to squeeze out the other bird made it clear to Melody that these humming birds were female. Most likely related. 

This pointless and petty fight was nothing but a display of cruel, catty, stubborn behaviour. It was clear. These birds were no doubt sisters. Senselessly unwilling to share a manufactured treasure. 

Where has the empathy gone?

I believe if the pandemic has shown us as a civilization anything it is that empathy is often taken for granted. It takes work and conditioning made easier with socialization.

As someone who is an essential worker, I have noticed a gradual shift in attitudes among those who have the luxury of working from home.  

Yes, I said luxury. 

Not to say that I do not sympathize with the mundaneness and boredom working from home brings. I acknowledge that the opportunity to work from home keeps employees safe; they have no risk of contracting Covid-19 or any of the countless variants at their place of work. I stress that people working from home may be bored, but they are safe, which is the entire point, right?

Those braving the elements for the past year to come into work have put themselves at risk at every facet of their day. Public transit, stairwells, elevators, washrooms, kitchenette are all risky, as are doorknobs, keyboards, telephones, and stationery. Imagine a random routine task like grabbing a pen to jot down a note. An act we think nothing of until we catch ourselves touching our face moments afterward. Cue the sinking feeling that you have just contracted a deadly virus that will not be detected for days and could kill someone you care about all because you were thoughtless in grabbing a pen at a shared workspace. This is a constant stress that has the power to eat away at any stomach lining. I think I would rather be bored.  

We essential workers put our health and safety in the presumably washed hands of our colleagues every day. It is infuriating when a colleague boasts about jamming with their band over the weekend, having a dinner party the night before, or crossing into another province on their days off, when the mass majority of essential workers are abiding by the stay-at-home order. We do not do this because we have nothing to do or because there is no one we care to visit. We sacrifice by staying at home because it is our civic duty to keep each other safe. We take responsibility for the health and safety of our colleagues, friends, family, and community as we all should. 

Those at home are trapped within four walls. These once empathetic beings have now spent much of their time over the past year feeling sorry for themselves and dwelling on their own situation. I understand it is frustrating that you cannot go to the gym, but do not tell me that I am lucky to go to work. Boredom is not nearly as unhealthy as stress. Besides, only the boring are bored. If you don’t know what to do with your time, ask someone who has no free time. I bet they have a really creative list. Better yet, why not help? If you are so bored, why not volunteer to shop for your neighbor who is in isolation or shovel the walkway of a single mom who works at the hospital.  Trust me, there is plenty to do if you are motivated. 

The pandemic has knocked our society off balance, not that it was balanced to begin with. While some are bored out of their minds, others are scrambling to keep up. Those too busy to see straight are also those who sympathize with the other half. I do not feel that sympathy is reciprocated.

Where has the empathy gone? It too is working from home. 

By being shut in for so long, many have stopped looking outward. They don’t see the dying, the suffering, the unemployed, or the stresses of the essential workers. I understand their challenges; I just don’t want to hear it anymore. 

Every day, I am grateful for my family’s continuous good health and my paycheck. Although, it feels as though both are teetering on the precipice this pandemic has created. Mostly, I am grateful that I am not on the front line. I do not have to contain the sick or work with the assumed sick public. I have enough worries with a selected few colleagues who carelessly spread their fear-mongering conspiracy theories while not able to keep their masks over their noses. 

Months ago, the images on the television and social media became too much. Raw and sore faces from constant mask wearing, stories of loss and mourning for a loved one gone too soon, the nonstop display of rising numbers, and restriction announcements began to chip away at our ability to carry on. Many decided to turn it all off, but in doing so they learned to look only inward. As a way of coping, they ignored all that was still happening beyond their front doors. 

We are not immune over time. The world did not heal while your back was turned.

By shutting it all out and binge-watching mindless television, many have shifted their narrowing empathy inward. The empathy has grown thin and weak over time. It is selective too, as we tend to surround ourselves with like-minded company. Those working from home limit their Zoom access to those who also work from home. This only feeds into the now-remote pity parties. The empathy that remains is reserved for the self. This is self-serving empathy.  

So, if the only empathy you possess is for yourself, I suggest you get your head out of your ass. The vaccines may be on the horizon, but we are still very much in the thick of this storm.