The Class of 2018
(notes on the incoming freshman class, after orientation night)

They come to us like kicked dogs.
Trembling and speaking in quick,
nervous barks. The way they say
their names sounds like a plea for
forgiveness. I want to ask, why do
you introduce yourself apologetically?
Who taught you to carry shame like a
heavy backpack? Why are you all so
hell-bent on keeping your arms full?

I ask them how they are. Stressed, they
say. Busy, they say. These are the answers
they are trained to say. Because if you're not
busy, you must be lazy, right? How can you be
successful if your life isn’t stressful?

The girl in the back row doesn't notice it,
but she is caving in on herself. She crosses
her legs, slumps her shoulders, folds her
arms across her chest. She knows how to
collapse, she has done it for years- since she
learned there is a right and wrong way to speak,
to hear, to grow. Silence is the only method of
guaranteed safety. You can't get in trouble
if you don’t say anything. She knows how to
collapse, but does not understand how to expand.
None of them make eye contact with me,
just their desks. They shift and shuffle
painfully in their seats. When I ask them
to share one unique fact about themselves,
they struggle to come up with anything.
One boy says he plays soccer. Another
doesn't know. A girl says she draws
sometimes, but isn't very good at it.

I wonder if they have ever knocked
at their own door. If they even notice
the pillars of potential they hold, when they
will finally give themselves permission to
happen. I wonder if and when they will
discover just how here they are.

Perhaps this is just a phase,
or maybe these are the faces we raised;
startled by their own existence,
convinced they are accidental.