About Flagpole. (Athens, Ga.) 1987-current | View Entire Issue (Dec. 24, 2025)
DECEMBER 24, 2025 & DECEMBER 31, 2025 ■ FLAGPOLE.COM 17 own actions and reactions. The next time I went to class, I looked at the board, won dering if my contribution had been erased. My quote was still there but was now encircled, with more conventionally positive examples pelting it from all sides: “Believe in your self,” “Sing like no one is listening,” “Live, Laugh, Love.” Bumping up against my quote was a religious saying with a bible notation and the words: “I’m grateful for my life!” Did someone think I wasn’t grateful for my life? Did they think I didn’t “live, laugh, love?” Maybe they thought I was a negative, doomsday kind of person with no faith. Or maybe their responses had nothing to do with me. Their reactions are one of those things not under my con trol, right? But I can control my reaction. My biggest fear (besides heights and roaches) is being misunderstood, so, let me run my intentions up the Flagpole. This saying, “Relax: Nothing is Under Control,” was found online, with an accompanying picture—a cherubic child maybe four years old, asleep, his head leaning against a stone wall with a slight smile—totally vulnerable, yet sur rendering into the moment. I see his serene face whenever I think of the quote. Usually thinking of how little control I have in life evokes anxiety, but this image reminds me to breathe, to settle, to try to not be ruled by fear. I included this saying in my recently published book about recovering from a career working in the ER, where there was no controlling what I had to confront. I’ve written this saying onto the inside cover for many people buying my book, and now I wonder if they read that inscription and felt offended, thinking I was flippant and harsh. Part of my mental health recovery has been to be truthful about my perceptions, even the stark ones... espe cially the stark ones. When I share that saying, I am trying to share a part of me that resonates with a mystery—the peace that comes from being able to relax into the unknown means that even when things aren’t OK, they are (somehow) OK. There is much about our lives and the world that we cannot control. But I don’t feel defeated, hopeless or passive. If we stop pretending that we have the means to con trive and sustain the “perfect” life, we have a chance to more deeply value the beauty of the moment. Of course, we all want the best moments to last forever, and, of course, they cannot. Unable to explain all this on that white- board, I could have made a different choice. Here’s one from Lt. Colonel Ann Ruth Scha- backer. She was an Army nurse who died from TB, contracted during her service: “Every day comes bearing its gifts. Untie the ribbon.” In Memoriam of Broken Kroger By Patty Tacuri time machine By Vikki Wynne Grab the fuel for the time machine. The keys are tucked in my coat next to the matches that will light candles for all the birthdays we’ve missed. We’ll wipe our boots before we step inside, point to the hot pink circles on the map, and check the mirrors for objects trying to follow. Did you wrap our dinner in parchment and bring the best of your vinyl? You’ll tell me again your curated tunes always spin in digital chapters. But you bow to my nostalgia and vow a turn around the hi-fi when we settle. I remembered to pack the napkins and gummy bears. We’ll bite their heads, swap their bodies for two-toned confections with no flaws in flavor combinations. Now check the gauges, check the windspeed. Let’s drive this machine in infinite loops, hand over hand, hand over wheel, find the stops where we once were, where we want our last kiss to be. To the east side of town where we clinked bottles of beer, everyone blind to how our knees anxiously touched. To the spots we sat separately for a film, engaged in scene and snack critiques. To leaden moments that clung to sorrowful song. The lavender sheets and chilled champagne never shared. Monolithic exchange. Please don’t be polite in order To assuage our hatred. Like gods we swallowed our karma And the bottle shattered Scattershot glass, Ramayana, And frothed Bintang alike. Like ghosts we danced, like worms we dined In feasts before the fall, In feasts before the fall, Like gods working out our karma In feasts before the fall, In feasts before the fall. United We Stand By Patricia Priest Some of my loveliest friends in town are from Iran, where they were stripped of their rights and their positions at universities and sometimes tortured because of their Baha’i faith. Many fled the country in precarious ways, and some Baha’i were murdered. During the early years of Aya tollah Khamenei’s revolution, radio broadcasts warned the Baha’i not to call the fire department if their homes were set ablaze by looters. That’s what life in America feels like now, with a rogue administration setting fires everywhere. Neighbors young and old are swept up by ICE agents acting like an Ameri can Taliban, masked and without warrants, disappearing people. And our steadfast federal workers have been treated by the Trump regime as if they’re enemies of the people and cruelly fired by the thousands. Yet they are the very back bone of civil society that keeps the country humming along robustly with safeguards and laws in place to protect us. I’ve been thinking lately of Ray Bradbury’s book Fahrenheit 451 because MAGA types have been on a bender banning books that center on histories and characters they want to extinguish. In that classic novel, the fire chief in charge of burning people’s libraries said, “Kerosene... is nothing but perfume to me.” Trump’s budget director Russell Vought is just as callous. He said of the anguish felt by fired federal workers: “We want to put them in anguish.” What has become of us? We can’t look the other way when the people in control are merciless. We cannot lose our humanity, especially these days when it seems that Rome is burning, wrecked and weakened; our safety net slashed. I’m so grateful for the brave and prin cipled people rising up across America to protect and help the vulnerable. They know we’ve got to look out for one another, not see other people as enemies. We are infinitely weaker and more vul ¬ I am broken Kroger on the eastside, a complete and func tional mess who even with the many cracks in my aesthetic still gets up bright and early in the morning despite my weary bones in desperate need of repair always bursting into some random song that could be from the ’70s or modern bedroom pop It’s either “I will survive” or “She’s got you mesmerized while I die!” always falling short of everyone’s expectations and left for a better and brighter option and randomly breaking down because while I have panic attacks in the bathroom the dairy section will suddenly stop working in solidarity the truth is both me and broken Kroger are trying our best in these modern times defying the odds every single day we get up and fulfill our duties in a society that reminds us that if we don’t we’ll be dismissed, discarded and replaced the next day The site where a memory erased was an offer denied. The halls where your name spoken would never feel like consequence. The matching fireplace stockings, cinnamon gum, bad dancing in the kitchen, finger-written messages in the shower steam. To the places we’d never nap, the places we’d always find ourselves entwined. A toast to our finite collection of souvenirs, our journey forced in parallel. I’ll savor each sentiment, leave the keys, and take the matches. The Americans By Andrew Benzinger Like gods working out our karma In feasts before the fall, Like pigs we ate, like fish we drank, Set to burst into flames. Pray tell the virtue in gaping mouths? nerable when we are divided. United we stand! Especially against a tyrant and his ogres unleashed and doing his bidding. Night of the Meek By Eddie Whitlock The boy kicked Hank Corwin one last time before getting on his bike and heading home. He called the old man “a piece of shit old drunk.” Hank knew that he deserved it. The boy had asked him for a gift he could take home to his little sister. Corwin— dressed in his bell-ringer Santa costume—had reached into the bag he was carrying and brought out a pickle. In the dim light, it probably looked like a turd. The boy had shoved him. Hank fell, dropped his bag and shattered the several glass containers inside. The kid pro ceeded to pummel him with fists and feet. Once the boy was gone, Corwin pulled himself up. Ringing the bell was the only job he had held in years. For three weeks he played Santa, he hadn’t touched a drop > continued on next page
