Rachel Pietrewicz

Rachel Pietrewicz

On the first day of my last year of high school,

my Physics teacher takes attendance.

Eighth block,

eighth time listening to a teacher stumble

and stutter when their eyes land on my name

and their mouth tries to shape the letters into words.

I sigh quietly and brace myself for that one moment

that comes at the beginning of every class.

When my Physics teacher's voice breaks the smooth stride

of the Smiths and the Johnsons and the Wilsons,

I am ready.

It's “pee-etch-true-wits,” I tell him

before he even gets the first syllable out.

My classmates laugh, as they always do,

Mr. Rogers looks relieved, as teachers always do,

I slide further down in my seat, as I always do.

It's difficult to embrace

and accept

a name that no one can pronounce

or spell

or shorten into a convenient nickname.

I have spent too many hours of my life

repeating the spelling of my name

to teachers and doctors and reporters and bankers.

P as in Paul, I, E.

T as in Tom, R, E.

W, I, C, Z. Charlie, Zebra, yes we have finally reached the end.

“I'll just call you Rachel,”

everyone always says, shifting uncomfortably.

Because the ten letters that make up my surname

are arranged in a combination

that baffles intelligent people

and complicates simple situations.

*****

Yes, this is a poem called Rachel Pietrewicz written by Rachel Pietrewicz. :) I wrote this at the workshop, where everyone was assigned to write a poem with their name as the title. To be honest, I don't usually mind when people mess up my name, but I channeled those occasional moments of annoyance and ended up with this.

I Have Never Been in Love

I Have Never Been in Love

I have never been in love,

But I have watched the sun set over empty fields.

I have seen fireflies illuminate summer nights.

I have watched fresh snow glisten after storms.

I have laughed until my stomach ached and my lungs grasped for air.

I have felt the crowd swell as the lights went down and the curtain pulled back.

I have found comfort in the yellowed pages of old books.

I have felt the satisfaction of creation.

I have never been in love,

But I think that what I have felt

And seen and done

Is close enough.

Inseparable

Inseparable

There once was a boy and girl who lived next door to each other. They spent all their time together pretending and laughing and dancing. All summer long, they would run through their tiny town, leaving a trail of mischief and recklessness behind them. The boy and the girl were inseparable, unstoppable, the dream team, partners in crime, practically siblings, explorers, romantics, dreamers, darers, doers. They were pure hope, never scared or disillusioned but constantly smiling and helping and appreciating. The boy and the girl were king and queen of the town, rulers of the country, leaders of the world, game makers of the universe. They were misfits with ripped jeans and bare feet, ready to dominate and inspire and educate and love and be loved. As long as they had each other, nothing and no one could hurt them or stop them or ruin them.

But then the boy and the girl grew up, as boys and girls always do, and their days of mischief and recklessness became a thing of the past, something easily forgotten and rarely remembered. Growing up brought new people and goals and responsibilities, and there wasn't any time for pretending and laughing and dancing. The boy and the girl were hopeless, burned-out, the lost ones, grown-ups, practically retired, cowards, quitters, fakers, haters, seducers. They were pure regret, never brave or optimistic but constantly scheming and wanting and trying. The boy and the girl were strangers from the same town, separate citizens of the country, individual observers of the world, different pieces of the universe. They were conformists with broken dreams and wrinkles, ready to sabotage and get ahead and judge and hate and be hated. They didn't have each other, so anyone and anything hurt them and stopped them and ruined them.

*****

Fun fact: this is the only piece of writing I've ever read aloud to an audience. It was terrifying (and mandatory :P) but I think it turned out okay. 

Also, I'm not sure what to classify this piece as. I've been calling it prose poetry, but maybe that's inaccurate. Is it flash fiction? I have no idea!