Acknowledgement
ac·knowl·edg·ment /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/
noun
plural noun: acknowledgements
1. acceptance of the truth or existence of something.
“there was no acknowledgment of the family’s trauma”
1979 was the year. The U.S. established diplomatic relations with the Republic of China, McDonald’s introduced the Happy Meal, Three Mile Island melted down, and you began attempting to conceive me, a baby girl, in the back of a ‘67 Camaro. You know, you sought balance, a future sister for a brother, one of each and all of that. The two of the 2.5 kids. Add in Lassie and all set.
At the same time in California, did Brenda Ann Spencer gather ammunition and orange juice, think all set, as she sat in her living room and opened fire on the elementary school across the street. Was she thinking to the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream? You know, the movie came out that week. And, somehow, that thought was translated into, god, I hate Mondays. Reporters. They never see subtext. She surrendered. So, what? I want to know if she longed for death. Could she not face, even at 16, the mile markers ahead? I don’t see how anyone can face the enormity, a mayfly life stretched into double infinity sign. The infinitely looping Route 66.
Don’t you ever wonder what could have been? What if Voyager I never revealed Jupiter’s rings? If the Iran Hostage Crisis never ended? What if you had gone west? If you never went to see Star Trek, climbed into that backseat, took down your pants?
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Acknowledgements
You could have gone west, just drove, let the road fill you up even as meth stripped you down, not that you hit the hard stuff then, just the pot and whiskey of a shotgun wedding.
You could have left your son. You hadn’t saved him from anything except oblivion of not being born.
You could have lost your shirt in Vegas. Watched Michael Jackson living off the wall. You looked like the lead singer in an ‘80s hair band, your long lank strands, your tall, lean frame.
Could have protested the canceled Mardi Gras with your mere presence.
Could have been more than a jack-in-the-box, said your name was Joe when you took that Wyoming waitress home. Could have fathered another daughter. Remember your first? You named her Eve, called her Molly. You dream of her still, how sweet and unknowable she was at the beginning, before she became known and knowing. Before she showed you in between places addicts must go.
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Acknowledgement
ac·knowl·edg·ment /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/
noun
2. the action of expressing or displaying gratitude or appreciation for something.
“she received an award in acknowledgment of her work”
1979 seemed to stretch into 1980. A year of attempting to conceive. The Iran Hostage Crisis lasted 444 days. It was enough time to create new families. Was there an after? In An American in Paris, Jerry renames Lise, allows her to forget her occupation past; she pronounces his name with a French accent and suddenly his wartime is forgotten. Can there be an after disaster? Yes. Look at the trench coat, that belt you tie against rain, against time, was meant to hold grenades. And even though your hands blow shit up, you can’t pass yourself off as heavy artillery.
If Dirty Dancing had aired five years earlier, you wouldn’t have settled for him, another not-the-one. You could have carried a watermelon, not a grenade, not a kid, not the rain. Could have not lived in the trenches. But divorce shellshock lingers. What if you had headed west, been on American Airlines Flight 191 out of Chicago? Can death be a kind of life? Even as you slid into that ‘67 Camaro, as you lifted your peasant blouse, unbuckled your bra and leaned into his hands.
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Acknowledgements
You could have gone west, been a Vegas showgirl, a Midwest Rockette kicking thighs over chest on stage rather than over the backseat of a muscle car. It was supposed to be the time of your life.
You could have scooped out the Grand Canyon with your hands, rode a donkey all the way down, bleached your hair blond, widened that streak of light and rebellion.
You could have become stewardess, flown Paris, London, Minneapolis, learned the sign language of leaving, of always assessing survival tools and nearest exits.
You could have left your son, a lesson you learned from his father. From your father’s father too. And I’m told that leaving one kid is easier than leaving two.
You could have fallen in love with shadows, the way light weaves and narrows, cul-de-sacs of shadows, shadows within shadows, of stones, in drawers.
You would have walked past me never knowing I was never born. You would have loved my shadow. You would have loved your own.
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Acknowledgement
ac·knowl·edg·ment /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/
noun
3. a letter confirming receipt of something.
“I received an acknowledgment of my application”
Somewhere inside these bones, this brain, this heart, I know I wouldn’t rewind, just watch as addiction and depression climb into the backseat of a young man’s sick ride, a ‘67 Camaro. As a young woman’s shoulder pads and legwarmers sink into the floorboard, past, into the pavement, into roots of the overarching trees, ambivalent cover dripping sap against humid windows, no cover at all against the Texas heat, no Bruce Springsteen’s Cover Me, just that song, Do It To Me One More Time playing over and over again in the cassette player, until the ribbon gives out, tangles up, and rips, as all things rip, when you try to untangle.