Transcript
Modelo (0:00)
If your day sounds like we need to report asap, you deserve Modelo. If you've persevered through two more rests, two more. You deserve this ice cold revolt. Medela the mark of the fighter. Drink responsibly if you're imported by Crown.
Major Jackson (0:13)
Import, Chicago, IL hi, it's major. All year long you rely on the Slowdown for moments of pause, reflection and poetry. This show is powered by palms and by the generosity of our listeners. Give today to help us power the show into the new year. When you donate, you can choose a special thank you gift like our tote bag or ceramic mug. Visit slowdownshow.org donate or find the link in the show Notes. Thank you for your support. I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slowdown. On Christmas Eve, my grandmother led us in singing holiday carols. I love when she played her upright piano. She was self taught and thus she mostly carried the tune with her soprano voice while her fingers trailed behind the melody. We didn't care. Me and my cousin sang along with her. I remember this night of songs because that was the night I learned to use a nutcracker. I ate so many walnuts and oranges that I became sick. Someone rang the doorbell. We initially did not hear it over the holiday music. Then a loud banging froze us. I opened the door. It was my father. He stood on the steps. Snowflakes dusted his hat and eyelashes. My grandmother urged him to come in. He was tentative, but then took a few steps inside. He removed his hat and clenched it in his hands. Then I noticed his face was wet from both the snow and tears he had been crying. I was young and was slightly confused. I had only seen my father during weekends, full of laughter. I had not seen this side of him before. Sorrowful, his tall frame and shoulders slightly bent forward so that he seemed shorter. It's jolting to see a parent bereft, brought to tears. He told my grandmother that he wanted to say hello to me, but asked if she could pray over him. He knelt on one knee in the middle of our living room. My grandmother recited the Lord's Prayer. He sobbed a little. When she was done, she invited him to join us. He declined and left after softly kissing me on my head. That night was my first encounter with my father's bipolar disorder, what was known as manic depression at the time. He eventually came to control his condition thanks to prescription meds. The experience made me deeply empathetic, less fearful of psychiatric disorders of other family members and friends. I only wish other methods of care were available sooner to people dear to me who felt they had no other choice. Today's poem invites discussion of the physical and emotional barriers that exist between family members when dealing with mental health issues, spotlighting feelings of confinement and helplessness. The Room is a Rectangle By Marianne Chan My brother in Bitto City locks himself in his room. If I could open the rectangular door, I can't. It is locked. I would find him there under a layer of blankets, a lump of laundry ready for folding. In this room there are angles everywhere, sharp corners where one might tear a sleeve, hurt oneself. He learns early on that the body is a rectangle, a box that contains the soul. The box is pliable, can be torn on sharp angles. The soul would trickle out. He doesn't want the soul trickling out. It would mean disaster, damnation. But the skin bleeds and there were not enough bandages to keep everything inside the soul, the body, the city, the room. The room's air is stale, a square of the sun's gray on the floor. My brother locks himself in. He tries to sleep like a lump of laundry ready for folding. His soul leaked out his body, not a box but a flat rubber tire. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. This project is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. On the web@arts.gov to get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram slowdownshow.