Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

On Christmas Eve, my grandmother led us in singing holiday carols. I loved when she played her upright piano. She was self-taught. And thus, she mostly carried the tune with her soprano voice, while her fingers trailed behind the melody. We didn’t care; me and my cousins sang along with her. I remember this night of songs, because that was the night I learned to use a nutcracker. I ate so many walnuts and oranges that I became sick.

Someone rang the doorbell. We initially did not hear it over the holiday music. Then a loud banging froze us. I opened the door. It was my father. He stood on the steps; snowflakes dusted his hat and eyelashes. My grandmother urged him to come in. He was tentative, but then took a few steps inside. He removed his hat and clinched it in his hands. Then I noticed his face was wet from both the snow and tears. He had been crying.

I was young and was slightly confused. I had only seen my father during weekends, full of laughter. I had not seen this side of him before: sorrowful, his tall frame and shoulders slightly bent forward, so that he seemed shorter. It’s jolting to see a parent bereft, brought to tears. He told my grandmother that he wanted to say hello to me, but asked if she could pray over him. He knelt on one knee in the middle of our living room. My grandmother recited The Lord’s Prayer. He sobbed a little. When she was done, she invited him to join us. He declined and left after softly kissing me on my head. That night was my first encounter with my father's bipolar disorder — what was known as manic depression at the time. He eventually came to control his condition thanks to prescription meds.

The experience made me deeply empathetic, less fearful of psychiatric disorders of other family members and friends. I only wish other methods of care were available sooner to people dear to me who felt they had no other choice.

Today’s poem invites discussion of the physical and emotional barriers that exist between family members when dealing with mental health issues, spotlighting feelings of confinement and helplessness.

The Room is a Rectangle
by Marianne Chan

My brother in Biddle City  locks himself in his room.  If I could open the 
rectangular  door — I can’t,  it is locked — I would  find him  there under 
a layer  of blankets,  a lump  of laundry ready  for folding.  In  this room, 
there are  angles everywhere,  sharp corners  where one might  tear a 
sleeve,  hurt oneself.  He learns early on  that the body  is a rectangle, 
a box that contains  the soul.  The box is pliable,  can be  torn on sharp 
angles.  The soul would trickle out.  He doesn’t want  the soul trickling 
out. It would mean disaster, damnation. But the skin bleeds and there 
were not  enough  bandages  to keep everything inside:  the soul,  the 
body,  the city,  the room.  The room’s air is stale,  a square of the sun’s 
gray on  the floor.  My brother  locks himself in.  He tries  to sleep like a 
lump  of laundry  ready for folding,  his soul leaked out,  his body  not a 
box, but a flat rubber tire.

“The Room is a Rectangle” by Marianne Chan from LEAVING BIDDLE CITY © 2024 Marianne Chan. Used by permission of Sarabande Books.