Jennifer Schneider

To Be Simultaneously Seen/Unseen

I am a keeper of a cream parchment cardstock that I alone claim. I am a body in a wooden dining room chair, with a reserved seat and setting at the far end of the long table. The one laden with ceramic bowls filled of foreign and flavorful substances. Cumin and curry. Basil and bay leaves. Savory orange and brown broths. Rectangular casserole dishes full of sweet corn, crisp asparagus, and lean meats. Folded cloth napkins and a pitcher of freshly brewed lemonade just out of arm’s reach. Laughter, too. Heavy aromas blanket the air and wrap my personhood. A dry wad of Fruit Stripe gum lodged in the cavity of my right cheek. My tongue pushes it right, then left, then right again. I speak and await responses I know will never present. Silent victims of my lack for dialect, language, and charisma. A reality I’d gladly attribute to my routine upbringing though I know it was anything but routine. Nights counting minutes, eyes tracking night lights. Quiet now. Listen please. It’s better if you saw nothing at all. Now, my uttered words land on the tiny red, yellow, and pink flowers embroidered on the cotton cardigan draped across my lap. Initially a light dusting. Eventually a drenching cast upon the ruffled collar that I wrap around my neck daily. Commuting to and from. I am a body on a bus. The No. 5 on Tuesdays. The No 2. alternate Wednesdays. The No. 32 each night, three minutes before 11. I am a hand that clutches tokens and a head that bounces to beats of Lennon and Joel. John and Stevens, too. Their names and their lyrics roll through the potholes that litter the city streets. All hands clutch devices and all heads bounce in rhythm with tunes that stream through wires in oddly shaped ears. Three tiny bones, some of the smallest in the human body, with an odd, oval shaped window. As much as I consume, I remain always looking for a way out. Beyond the window of the standard 4 bed 2 bath in the standard suburban town. Beyond the window of the standard bus traveling down the standard thoroughfare. I wonder why the others seem so different. Most eyes cast downward. Some heads covered in cloth. I see no one and I am seen by no one. We commute, to and from. Over the green tinted water, in and out of the city to the dwellings we call home. To all who ask, we are city people. Yet we too flee as dusk descends. Awaiting the morning call of the train before returning. I am an employee whose stomach rumbles like clockwork at the top of the hour. An employee who prefers analog to digital, thrift shop to store brand, and late nights to early morning. Though my shift starts at 9 AM sharp. I am a number whose work is measured also in numbers, mostly fractions of an hour. I am a number who output is measured in rows and columns added daily and tracked weekly. I am body that longs for sleep yet sweat dreams of alarms and missed deadlines. I have eyes that long to close forever and lashes that long blink. I am a body painted of black mascara, purple and blue shadow, and rose blush. I am a girl who grew to a woman and who was taught to listen, say thank you, and take orders. I am a woman who no longer thinks that what she was taught is timely. I am a body in a wooden dining room chair, with a reserved seat and setting at the far end of the long table. I am a keeper of cream parchment cardstock that I alone claim. I have not forgotten who gifted me life, though they have forgotten me.