She was sitting up there in the front of the hall in her newly ironed skirt,
A rigid standard blue that could make any
Adolescent girl look sillierthan she knows she already is.
She was crossing her legs at the ankles andthen the knees,
Making sure never to display anything unladylike.
Alwaysa tad uncomfortable, but such is the nature of the event.
The nightbefore, she had run around the house
Locating the missing badges, the piecesto her jigsaw,
The pieces of her history as America's future
That depictedthe brightness, the promise, the service, camping, cooking, sewing andnature studies.
She had sat on her bed, listening to Hendrix, sewing.
Andsomehow, this project had unleashed the little girl in her.
For such along time, the Monday night meetings were just something she did.
One of manyactivities
Wedged between ballet and music lessons.
Never did she realizethe implications of her Monday night meetings - their worth toothers.
Would she become a doctor?
Lawyer?
First interracial, femalePresident of the nation?
Why not?
At the time her goals weresimpler:
She had simply wanted to paint her nails
With the peel-offTinkerbell nail polish Emily had,
And make Colonial paper dolls.
As she saton her bed that night, sewing bright badges
Onto her insipid blue vest, shewas revisited by the girlish anticipation
Of something fun to do, while shereflected at the same time on the implications of her accomplishments.
Her polish was no longer of the peel-off kind,
(Although she was quitecertain there was a market for it)
And her interests no longer were satisfiedby paper dolls ...
But she did love what she had achieved
Without evenknowing it.
Her Monday night activity wasn't about the cooking badge,
Thecamping or the sewing skills ... it was discovering what she could do,
Whatshe had done,
And how it mattered.
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