Lindsay Stewart
Maybe Medusa was my eleventh grade English teacher
People talk about heroes using past tense
when there are thousands of teenagers who have hung on the word of a woman
at the front of an ordinary room. No matter the sound of the bell
no matter the shit that went down in the comments last night
no matter the page count we made ourselves new each day
in a den of her nesting. She did it like I could do it too, no makeup,
attire irrelevant, her body made of many mighty
mouths: loud, and sometimes angry. I wanted to do whatever
she asked of me, wanted to be like her: a monster, so many sets of eyes,
always watching. Her voice would build and we, in desks,
enraptured, held our breath until our notebooks filled,
wanting something bigger, and
terrifying. We watched in awe, sick with laggard
curiosity, as she rendered the boy with the Bieber cut immobile. Though
he was back the next day because, like the best of monsters, she was
merciful. But there was that one Monday, when she brought
her daughter to class. Until then, it had never occurred to me that she
could also be a mother–a mother to someone
else, a woman who waited in the same traffic I did
to get here, a woman who made the world she is standing in.
when there are thousands of teenagers who have hung on the word of a woman
at the front of an ordinary room. No matter the sound of the bell
no matter the shit that went down in the comments last night
no matter the page count we made ourselves new each day
in a den of her nesting. She did it like I could do it too, no makeup,
attire irrelevant, her body made of many mighty
mouths: loud, and sometimes angry. I wanted to do whatever
she asked of me, wanted to be like her: a monster, so many sets of eyes,
always watching. Her voice would build and we, in desks,
enraptured, held our breath until our notebooks filled,
wanting something bigger, and
terrifying. We watched in awe, sick with laggard
curiosity, as she rendered the boy with the Bieber cut immobile. Though
he was back the next day because, like the best of monsters, she was
merciful. But there was that one Monday, when she brought
her daughter to class. Until then, it had never occurred to me that she
could also be a mother–a mother to someone
else, a woman who waited in the same traffic I did
to get here, a woman who made the world she is standing in.
Biography
Lindsay Stewart is from Glen Ellen, California. Her second home is San Diego, where she is currently pursuing a master’s degree in American Literature at San Diego State University. Her work has previously been featured in The Los Angeles Review, What Rough Beast, and one of her poems was recently featured on the Poetry Foundation’s VS podcast. She has work forthcoming in The I-70 Review. Visit her website: https://lindsaystewart.weebly.com
