Jen Schneider


In(Visible)

The silver bells chime as the regulars stream in and out. The diner feeds all who can pay. Guests who order their steaks well-done and ask for ketchup on the side always seems to leave the smallest tips. And the most on their plate. Customers going for blue cheese dressing over greens give more. Enough for me to purchase fresh fruit – apples, oranges, bananas - from the market on Saturday mornings. Adding a Diet Coke to the order means I might be able to add some extra to my market basket.

None of them see me. I cast my eyes downward and offer my services. Most don’t even look up from the vast menu of options lying before them. Their eyes scan the laminated luxuries. Black, bold text. Glossy images. Short stacks. Fish. Steak and eggs. Forbidden fruits.

I’m invisible. Carrying flatware to and from the dishwasher to the tables. Scratching orders on a tiny notepad. Struggling to understand the accents and the words. Cotton uniforms baking in smells of cooked meat and grilled onions. Balancing platters of eggs, cheese, and bacon, I inhale and hold the smell, feeding my hunger. Despite my dietary restrictions. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Manager never offers me the leftovers. From table to trash, one, two, three. In the restaurant, I’m invisible.

My shifts run from 5 AM to 2 PM four days a week. In the door each morning at ten minutes to five. I spend the other three days cleaning at a local library. It’s a grand building in a grand city. Much like my home used to be. Inside, I’m given a bucket and a large mop. A broom, too. Squish. Brush. Squish. Squish. Brush. All day long. Hushed voices share stories. Papers. News. No one asks my name.

I look for myself in the hallway mirrors – massive, beautiful pieces with ornate frames - but no longer know who I am. Before we were forced to flee, I was an English lecturer. At one of the largest unis in Damascus. Now, I’m invisible. Unable to afford a meal in the diner I serve others 36 hours a week. Never addressed and never asked to converse.

Instructed to say “What can I get for you?”, “Doing, okay?”, “Be right back” in brisk repetition, with a cheery tone. No matter what. No discussion of proper pronouns, prepositions, or adverbs. Never asked how I’m doing. I am invisible.

My favorite wing of the library is on the third floor. South Side. I sweep in there every other week. The sun highlights the dust for my broom-clad limbs and bathes my back with warmth. My arms reach under pant legs, pushing the broom in and out. Quickly. Rows of denim, cotton joggers, and canvas twill. Sometimes I search for fabrics that remind me of home. Finding only bare legs, spandex, high-tops decorating the air beneath the tables.

I spend most of my time in the stacks. Carefully sweeping while I study the book spines. On top of the wooden bookcase, towards the back of the large room, I pause. Always. Taking my time to gather loose dust into the pan.

The collection of antique globes with “Do Not Touch” signs printed in an antique font remind me of home. No need to touch. To see. To feel. I am whole.

Sometimes, when no one is watching, or when the room is empty of readers, I reposition the globes, just right. With Damascus, Syria facing the tables. The sun casting a warm glow over my little patch of the world. I want everyone to remember us.



Blinded


Right eye patch secured

with a taught, deep purple

elastic strap.

Tiny fibers fray.


Worn not to conceal

what’s hidden beneath,

but to shield

what I no longer wish to see.



Naming Conventions… and all that

36 weeks pregnant, still haven’t decided on a name. “What’s it gonna be,” friends ask. “Come on, girl, what are you waiting for?” curious well-wishers say.

Everyone says to choose something special, something you love - yellow daisies, Chamomile tea, hopscotch. Cammie? Coconut meringue pie. What about Coco? Maybe favorite music - Bruce, Patti. Television? Sarah Jessica, Sherlock. Ooh, movie stars. Doris Day, Avengers, Spidey. And then there’s sports. The legends. Sixers, of course.

Funny well-wishers, I think. I don’t want her to follow in our shoes. She’s gonna be somebody. I could reply in my usual testy way.

Did you know that conviction records are public information? Names are posted online, for anyone with access to the web. Employers, too. Colleagues. Future dates. Anyone.

But I don’t. She’s made me calmer. More reflective.

What’s in a name? Depends on who you ask.

Some say love. Others say family. Some say nothing at all.

In our jails, those in charge bear names like Warden and Officer. Wish I didn’t know that. Inmates, even those charged for crimes they never committed, wear numbers.

Names bear shame. Sadness. Memories better forgotten.

I’ve often wondered about how Rocky got his name. Probably because his statue sits in my own backyard. Not mine, really. Ours. I share him with the city. The world.

I’ve even thought of naming her Rocky. Maybe to spite them. Maybe in spite of them. I’m not sure.

I climb the museum steps daily. Often taking a break about midway. I used to be able to tackle all 72 with ease. Not anymore.

Concrete steps. wide, expansive views of the city. My daily routine. Up. Back down. Again. My legs shake as I finish. It feels good, though. Who needs a gym when you’ve got Rocky?

Facing outward, a view of the city. Philadelphia City Hall, City Green. Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Only a mile or so from his quarters. Full of tourists. Daily, from 9 to 5.

Eakins Oval. Children playing mini-golf, pushing life sized chess pieces. Ice cream trucks line the street beneath the steps.

Roasted peanuts, sticky fingers dipping into the warm paper bag. Hungry tourists sampling salty soft pretzels and icy cold Cokes.

A plethora of sounds – music, horns, sirens, adding to the buzz of the city.

I see the teens, too. Groups of them, searching for somewhere to be. Reminds me of my girls. And the sign.

We ordered the sign special, from a mail order operation. The first package had a typo, a missing T. That T was something special. Times two. One twin named Juliette. The other Julianna. Two T’s, two N’s. Something special, I’d always say.

The banner cost us 8 hours of pay, and 2 hours of fighting on the phone. Finally getting an agreement to reprint. “What’s a missing T?” the guy asked. Everything, I replied. Finally, he relented. Made sure I knew I’d have to pay for shipping.

The second package was right.

“Congratulations Juliette! Class of 2019. We are so proud of you”.

Gorgeous, just like my girl. Shiny and bright. Golden. We left it hanging long after the ceremony passed. All summer long it dangled for passers-by to see. Despite the errors, that printer makes a sturdy sign. Sassy. No matter the shells that hug our brownstone.

Hosted a big block party at the park across the street. Near 33rd. Pulled out the barbecue pit grill on tiny wheels. Burgers for all. Heaping plates of mac n cheese. Streamers pulled through the iron fence.

What the banner didn’t say was we’re proud of Julianna, too. Even though she ain’t graduating. At least not yet. When no one was looking I said a little prayer, planted two seeds. I’m gonna watch them both grow. Blooming something special.

We’ll be celebrating again next weekend, for Julianna. The annual NA picnic, same place, same fields. Same grill, same mac n cheese. Ice cold waters all around. Karaoke on the playground stage.

Two N’s, two T’s. Two stars, wished upon nightly. Something special, I’ll say.

Reminds me of a poem my boy wrote last week in class, too. I keep the paper in my pocket. It’s a scorcher.

Library doors locked and bolted,
metal detector beams
silenced, for off hours.

Where city council, can we be?

Street lights shine,
mosquitos blare.
Sonic booms bite.

Where zoning board, can we be?

Sidewalk cafes and wrought iron
tables. Balance plates of steamed
half shells, glasses, and pockets of cash.

Where, lawmakers, can we be?

Metal chains wrap ball court doors,
netless rims, and faded paint.

Neon signs boasting new condos
in their wake.

Commissioner, mayor?

The museum’s 72 steps.
Home to filmmakers,
tourists, and me.

Home, but not seen.
Where can we be?

Not sure what to tell him. Philadelphia is one of the most popular places to film movies. The cameras flock here. How do they miss us?

I see you, I told my boy. I see you. We climbed the steps and raised our arms. Just like Rocky.

Rocky Balboa. He took his name from a famous boxer. His idol. Rocky Marciano. Maybe I will name her Rockie.

Or another. I listen to the names that dance around me. On the steps.

Dozens of languages pepper the air. English. Spanish. French. Korean. More.

I have to get it right. The first time. Changing one’s name is hard. Sometimes forbidden. Too costly. Too confusing. Just too much.

I wondered about the names most common amongst our nation’s many inmates. Google tells me Juan and Jeremy top the list.

Did you know that students with ethnic sounding names often get weaker evaluations? For the same work as others.

I thought of none of this when I named my first son. My boy. Not when I named my two daughters or my youngest son either.

This time I’m going to get it right. The first time.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. Her work appears in The Coil, The Write Launch, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, 42 Stories Anthology (forthcoming), Voices on the Move (forthcoming), One Sentence Stories, and other literary and scholarly journals.
 
 
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