An Open Letter to TIME Magazine, from the Me Me Me Generation – By Angel Mack

An Open Letter to TIME Magazine, from the Me Me Me Generation

 

I am trying to find

the Barbie shoes and Hot Wheels

I buried below

the jungle gym of my mind,

but I keep digging up

the terrorist baseball cards

we made in Social Studies class—

I am trying to remember

the prayer we said

at the memorial—

maybe, if I did,

we could catch fire

to our TV sets

with the candles we lit—

I do remember

Katlyn’s mom

took her out of school

the day the Towers fell—

the rest of us

sat crooked in our desks

with a million questions,

12 years later,

still unanswered—

but you don’t care

where I was

that day

because you

were getting coffee

on your morning commute

and I

had pig tails

in my blonde hair

hanging down my back,

which carried the weight

of the world—

fragile like the tissue-paper-art

you hung on our fridge—

12 years later,

glass shards and car parts

covered the road

as I passed

an accident

on my way to class—

my students,

with their hairy legs

of innocence,

ate peaches—

hairy peaches—

untouched

by the airbrushed models

in the magazines,

or the cars that wrap themselves

around light posts,

or the terrorists

on America’s Most Wanted list

that I memorized for

my sixth grade Social Studies class.

 

 

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