Poem: "Escape a Thousand Memories"
Jun. 20th, 2021 11:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysabetwordsmithThis poem is spillover from the May 4, 2021 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from chanter1944, technoshaman, and Anonymous. It also fills the "being outnumbered" square in my 5-1-21 card for the Leaky Pipeline Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by a pool with ng_moonmoth and fuzzyred. It belongs to the Rutledge thread of the Polychrome Heroics series. It is the first in a set, followed by "Who Can Create the Future," "Good Food Choices Are Good Investments," "Layering Flavors, Tastes, and Textures," "A Vibrant Symbol of the American Dream," and "The People Who Give You Their Food."
"Escape a Thousand Memories"
[April 2014]
Kardal Abdullah arrived in Rutledge
with the clothes on his back and
a duffle of grudgingly given supplies
from Britannians eager to get rid of him.
He had grown up in Aleppo, but after
a bombing destroyed his home, he and
his family joined relatives in Damascus.
When Damascus heated up too,
they tried to flee again, but
his parents were killed.
It took several attempts
before Kardal managed
to escape from Syria.
He wound up in London,
but couldn't settle there, and
eventually made his way to
America, where he heard
about the Rutledge offer.
It was totally different from
Syria. That was a good thing.
Kardal met with a social worker,
Hamrish Neumann, to talk about
settling in -- housing, work, and
making friends with neighbors.
"I have a room. Family Business Rest
is comfortable," Kardal said. "When
I find work, I may look at apartments.
Neighbors ..." He shrugged. "Everyone
will be moving anyway, why bother?"
"All right, let's talk about work,"
said Hamrish. "What education do
you have? What skills? Did you
work before, and if so, what job?"
"I was a street cook in Aleppo,"
Kardal said. "I left school for it,
and I was good at it, I think."
He could almost smell
the smoky brazier, taste
grilled meat and vegetables.
"Oh, excellent!" Hamrish said
with a bright smile. "Food workers
are always in demand, because
everyone has to eat. I'm sure
local employers will want to hire
Syrian cooks to feed the refugees.
How much do you know about cooking?"
Kardal talked about buying ingredients
to make kebabs and falafel, mixing
all the different dips and sauces.
It made him even more homesick.
"So you know a fair bit about food,"
Hamrish agreed. "I have a program --"
Kardal flinched. "I don't like governments.
I can get by on my own," he insisted.
"I can see how you'd feel that way,
after escaping Syria," said Hamrish.
"Not just Syria," muttered Kardal.
"I spent most of a year living in
Britannia. They really didn't want me."
Being outnumbered had made him
feel especially vulnerable. He had
no family to stand up for him, and
that was no better here in America.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Hamrish.
"I understand that refugees didn’t
just escape a place. They had to
escape a thousand memories until
they’d put enough time and distance
between them and their misery
to wake to a better day."
Kardal nodded, his throat
too tight for him to speak.
Hamrish waited patiently until
Kardal was ready to continue.
"You know Rutledge wants you,
now, right?" Hamrish asked.
Kardal had read all the paperwork
before moving here. The people
sounded eager. "I guess," he said.
"Then let's take a look at how
I can help you settle here,"
said Hamrish. "First, there's
a class on American ways of
preparing and serving food."
"All right," Kardal said.
"Once you pass that, you
can work in food service,"
Hamrish said. "Would you
like to learn more about food?"
"I don't know ... I already know
enough to cook it," Kardal said.
"What about a related topic?"
said Hamrish. "Would you
consider starting a business?
We have street vendors here,
in food carts or food trucks."
Kardal perked up. "Yes."
"Look at these," said Hamrish.
"Rutledge negotiated with
several nearby colleges to get
special programs for refugees.
You could get a business degree
at St. Joseph here in Rutledge
or Landmark in Putney for
unconventional learners."
Kardal looked at the papers.
"These take a long time."
"It takes two years to earn
an associate's degree or
four years for a bachelor's,"
said Hamrish. "Middlebury
and St. Joseph also offer
smaller things that go faster."
He offered Kardal another set
of colorful papers to look over.
St. Joseph had two offerings,
one on general business and
another on entrepreneurship,
based on their minor programs.
"This ... maybe," Kardal said,
holding the entrepreneurship one.
"It sounds useful, but I have no money."
"That program is free, and the others
are free or discounted," said Hamrish.
"Vermont wants you to settle in, get
a good job, and pay taxes. They
understand you might need help."
Kardal didn't like getting help; you
never knew how reliable it would be,
and people could be mean about it.
The classes looked good, though.
He'd like to be a street cook again.
"Great, the food handling class is
open now, and you can start on
the entrepreneurship classes
in summer," Hamrish said.
Kardal's hands were so sweaty
that he could hardly hold the pen,
but he managed to sign the papers.
* * *
Notes:
This poem's character, setting, and content notes are long, so they will appear elsewhere.
chanter1944, technoshaman, and Anonymous. It also fills the "being outnumbered" square in my 5-1-21 card for the Leaky Pipeline Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by a pool with ng_moonmoth and fuzzyred. It belongs to the Rutledge thread of the Polychrome Heroics series. It is the first in a set, followed by "Who Can Create the Future," "Good Food Choices Are Good Investments," "Layering Flavors, Tastes, and Textures," "A Vibrant Symbol of the American Dream," and "The People Who Give You Their Food." "Escape a Thousand Memories"
[April 2014]
Kardal Abdullah arrived in Rutledge
with the clothes on his back and
a duffle of grudgingly given supplies
from Britannians eager to get rid of him.
He had grown up in Aleppo, but after
a bombing destroyed his home, he and
his family joined relatives in Damascus.
When Damascus heated up too,
they tried to flee again, but
his parents were killed.
It took several attempts
before Kardal managed
to escape from Syria.
He wound up in London,
but couldn't settle there, and
eventually made his way to
America, where he heard
about the Rutledge offer.
It was totally different from
Syria. That was a good thing.
Kardal met with a social worker,
Hamrish Neumann, to talk about
settling in -- housing, work, and
making friends with neighbors.
"I have a room. Family Business Rest
is comfortable," Kardal said. "When
I find work, I may look at apartments.
Neighbors ..." He shrugged. "Everyone
will be moving anyway, why bother?"
"All right, let's talk about work,"
said Hamrish. "What education do
you have? What skills? Did you
work before, and if so, what job?"
"I was a street cook in Aleppo,"
Kardal said. "I left school for it,
and I was good at it, I think."
He could almost smell
the smoky brazier, taste
grilled meat and vegetables.
"Oh, excellent!" Hamrish said
with a bright smile. "Food workers
are always in demand, because
everyone has to eat. I'm sure
local employers will want to hire
Syrian cooks to feed the refugees.
How much do you know about cooking?"
Kardal talked about buying ingredients
to make kebabs and falafel, mixing
all the different dips and sauces.
It made him even more homesick.
"So you know a fair bit about food,"
Hamrish agreed. "I have a program --"
Kardal flinched. "I don't like governments.
I can get by on my own," he insisted.
"I can see how you'd feel that way,
after escaping Syria," said Hamrish.
"Not just Syria," muttered Kardal.
"I spent most of a year living in
Britannia. They really didn't want me."
Being outnumbered had made him
feel especially vulnerable. He had
no family to stand up for him, and
that was no better here in America.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Hamrish.
"I understand that refugees didn’t
just escape a place. They had to
escape a thousand memories until
they’d put enough time and distance
between them and their misery
to wake to a better day."
Kardal nodded, his throat
too tight for him to speak.
Hamrish waited patiently until
Kardal was ready to continue.
"You know Rutledge wants you,
now, right?" Hamrish asked.
Kardal had read all the paperwork
before moving here. The people
sounded eager. "I guess," he said.
"Then let's take a look at how
I can help you settle here,"
said Hamrish. "First, there's
a class on American ways of
preparing and serving food."
"All right," Kardal said.
"Once you pass that, you
can work in food service,"
Hamrish said. "Would you
like to learn more about food?"
"I don't know ... I already know
enough to cook it," Kardal said.
"What about a related topic?"
said Hamrish. "Would you
consider starting a business?
We have street vendors here,
in food carts or food trucks."
Kardal perked up. "Yes."
"Look at these," said Hamrish.
"Rutledge negotiated with
several nearby colleges to get
special programs for refugees.
You could get a business degree
at St. Joseph here in Rutledge
or Landmark in Putney for
unconventional learners."
Kardal looked at the papers.
"These take a long time."
"It takes two years to earn
an associate's degree or
four years for a bachelor's,"
said Hamrish. "Middlebury
and St. Joseph also offer
smaller things that go faster."
He offered Kardal another set
of colorful papers to look over.
St. Joseph had two offerings,
one on general business and
another on entrepreneurship,
based on their minor programs.
"This ... maybe," Kardal said,
holding the entrepreneurship one.
"It sounds useful, but I have no money."
"That program is free, and the others
are free or discounted," said Hamrish.
"Vermont wants you to settle in, get
a good job, and pay taxes. They
understand you might need help."
Kardal didn't like getting help; you
never knew how reliable it would be,
and people could be mean about it.
The classes looked good, though.
He'd like to be a street cook again.
"Great, the food handling class is
open now, and you can start on
the entrepreneurship classes
in summer," Hamrish said.
Kardal's hands were so sweaty
that he could hardly hold the pen,
but he managed to sign the papers.
* * *
Notes:
This poem's character, setting, and content notes are long, so they will appear elsewhere.
