When I was in grade school, we had a closed-circuit TV morning program that was broadcast from the library. Somehow, I don't even remember why, I got the chance to read a poem during the program. I was all excited because they let me pick any poem I wanted (and I got to be late to class). I was going to share my poetry-reading skills with the world! The other kids would watch and marvel at my knowledge of the written art. They would point and say, "Hey, that's Lisa. I never knew she could read poetry so well!" And after it was over, I would return to class, and my classmates would swarm me and ask for my autograph.
So which poem to choose? It was a no-brainer. I reached for old faithful, my copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends. I made the perfect selection, I just knew it. It really spoke to my audience and the issues important to them today:
Sick
"I cannot go to school today," Said little Peggy Ann McKay. "I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I've counted sixteen chicken pox And there's one more--that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut--my eyes are blue-- It might be instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke-- My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in, My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains. My nose is cold, my toes are numb. I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight, My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There is a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is . . . Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
Well, my big moment was close at hand. I was sitting at a table off camera next to the "news desk." The girls who were reading the morning announcements said, "And now it's time for your weekly poem. Today's selection will be read by Lisa Di Trolio. What poem do you have for us today, Lisa?"
The camera creaked over to me. It felt like a thousand eyes aimed directly at my head. Sudden stage fright hit. I went into survival mode. The only way to get out of this was quickly and efficiently. So I read the whole thing like this:
"SickbyShelSilversteinIcannotgotoschooltodaysaidlittlePeggyAnnMcKayIhavethemeaslesandthemumpsagasharashandpurplebumps . . .
Later I slinked back to class, hoping and praying that everyone had chosen that moment to go to the bathroom.
Even later, for some reason they asked me to appear back on the morning show. Maybe I was the only kid who read poems in that school? It was a chance to redeem myself. I took a few notes from the director and A.D. (i.e. a teacher who was volunteering and my mother who was the room mother that day). I like to think that I redeemed myself, but honestly my mind has blocked it out.
Mom, can you shed some light on this?
