Freedom of Voice

So many thoughts swirling in her head, So many feelings tugging at her heart, So many doubts nagging her brain. She drew in deep breaths-- positive energy in, negative energy out. You got this , she told herself. Drawing in more breaths, she repeated her favorite grammatically incorrect phrase:      You got this.      You got this.      You got this.    

We just pre-signed our closing documents on the house and get the keys for our rental on Friday. I know this is what we wanted, what we planned (kind of), so why did my eyes well with tears as I scribbled by signature? Maybe because my sweet dog slinked over to the table, rolling over to get his belly rubbed by the agent who brought over the paperwork, and I know in another week in a half I have to let him go live with my daughter? I know he'll be fine, and she will love it, but I will miss him. Maybe because AJ sent John, Alyssa, and me a text conversation between him and his friends reminiscing about the fun times they all had at the Ferry abode with the opening, "Since it's the last time I will be at the house, my friends and I were remembering all the good times..."? I know he doesn't "live here" anymore, but I know he's feeling nostalgic, losing a piece of his childhood. Maybe because as I'm packing and purging, I'm looking through...

"Ms. M," one of the middle school girls sweetly addresses me by the nickname she gave me on the first day in class, "you're always so polite." Choking back tears that have been building all week, I reply, "I try. Wouldn't it be nice if everyone spoke to each other in a polite tone all the time?" "Yes," she quietly answers. I had to turn on my heels--fast--so she didn't see my eyes well up.  Her simple observation hit me like a lightening bolt and brought me to this devastating realization: most of these girls live in situations where people don't speak politely--at best.  I already figured this was true, but it's the first time the reality really hit me hard. "MISS!" someone else screeched from across the room.  I knew in that split second one of the best ways I could serve these girls in my time with them is to model appropriate and polite interactions. Yes, reading skills are important, but learning will ne...

Forbidden by Annmarie Ferry The sting of his slap spread across her face like fire. She was used to this song and dance but still struggled to keep her frayed black and white checkered Chuck Taylors planted firmly on the dull beige carpet.  His words brought the real sting. You stupid whore! Slap. You slut . Slap. You filthy tramp. Slap.  In between blows, Faith attempted to make eye contact with her mother, to silently plea for intervention. But, as always, she was cowered in her corner of the brown chenille couch, hands clasped so hard that her knuckles had turned white, eyelids sealed shut tightly but eyelashes vibrating in angst, rocking back and forth in some kind of sick prayer ritual, one that never yielded any satisfactory results.  Not only have you shamed this house, you have threatened my position at the church. How am I going to explain that as a minister, I can’t even control my own daughter and her filthy urges?  The n...

Wanted by Annmarie Ferry Female, straight, but fantasizes about women when the man I’m with isn’t doing it for me. 32, which I consider young(ish), depending on your age, I guess. Seeking a man who isn’t a selfish, self-obsessed son-of-a-bitch, one who will listen when I speak, really listen, reading between my subtle lines. Must be employed at something you enjoy simply because I can’t listen to endless bitching about your stressful, high-paying, high-power position.  I don’t care if you like dogs, but dogs must like you. They are great judges of character. Must be compassionate, empathetic with a few rough edges, some snarky rawness lurking inside. Most importantly, must be aware. Aware of people around you—the sad-looking child who sits away from the other kids, the old woman struggling to open the heavy office door, the frustrated mother of three with wailing children.  Smile at them; lend a hand; offer an encouraging word. That is all....

The single lit candle cast a soft glow under my grandma’s chin as she gingerly balanced the sheet cake while slowly shuffling it over to the buffet table where the rest of the family had gathered.  “Happy birthday to you,” most sang gleefully, ignorant of my building terror. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Jesuuuuus, happy birthday to you!”  A searing embarrassment spread through me, singeing each of my nerve endings. I took in my breath so sharply, the cold air in my grandparent’s AC always set on 68 degrees because of grandma’s hot flashes home sent a sharp sensation through me, assuring me that, no, this wasn’t a nightmare, but was indeed all too real.  I bowed my head like everyone else, not in prayer, but in mounting mortification. As I slowly lifted my head, I half expected to see tire tracks in the carpet where he once stood. But, he was still there, mouth agape in disbelief, staring wide-eyed at me, silently asking, What the hel...