Thanks for coming to our fundraiser
Yes, I work here
Um, it’s psychiatric residential treatment facility
Yes, I know you’ve never heard of those before
No, it is not an orphanage
Yes, I know that there is a group of old men down in Hendersonville that make little wooden birdhouses to send to us and think they are going to small children in headbands and skirts and bunkbeds instead of to teenagers who will probably want to throw the fucking birdhouse at my face after whacking me with the post of the bunkbed
But we still thank them for their “kind donation”
These are the hurricane children
that struggle to hold back the force of their own wind
But let’s just call this an orphanage today, since that’s probably going to make you feel a little more comfortable
Welcome to our annual Christmas tea where you, the fancy people with fancy clothes and fancy things eat all the fancy food in the name of the people who don’t have fancy things.
Here have some sparkling cider in a mini wine glass that we poor down a rooster-shaped ice-sculpture
So it is chilled for your enjoyment
Which you won’t be able to drink now without remembering the image of a rooster peeing in you wine-glass. Oh well.
Never mind that, here have some mini jars of jam with our company's name on it and mini pens and mini paper so you can record all your mini fancy thoughts and ponder the amount of fancy numbers to write on fancy checks…cough cough…hint hint…
But first have a Christmas ornament with our slogan “helping children succeed” so while your sitting around your Christmas tree giving and getting more shit you don’t need, you can look up and convince yourself that you’re still an ethical human being.
Geez. Ain’t that convenient.
For your wallet to help you feel like your doing good things without ever having to actually do any good things! :D
Win-win, right? Everybody’s happy!
Have some procuitto-wrapped asparagus while I explain to my children what the hell procuitto is and why the hell someone would ever feel inclined to wrap it around a fucking asparagus.
Like, maybe they were worried about vegetable pro-creation and thought they might end up with too many asparagus babies running around the god-forsaken rooster ice-sculpture
Wrap it before you tap it, kids, wouldn’t want to have a baby you can’t afford to buy procuitto for
Now use the smallest daintiest fork to your left to enjoy our final course of pasteries
While I explain to my kids why someone would possibily need three forks to shove 2 plates of food into one mouth
Because last night, when making these kids dinner I washed the same orange plastic fork 6 times because we haven’t been able to buy any more utensils for the cottage yet.
And today, I have brought you the children
No They are not hurricanes
No today, they are shiny, they are ready
Today they are wearing Sunday dresses, and headbands,
and have poems to perform for you that will warm your heart and make you glow and realize in the meaning of life and love and help us convince you that maybe these children are worthy of having nice things
Like forks for instance
There ‘s a thought
And YOU can make a difference! Just write a check! Hooray, it’s done, go home, the world is a more just place now, everybody’s happy, yay
And every day I try to convince these children it’s not crazy to believe they are worthy of good things.
And trust me, it’s hard when the world has spent their whole life teaching them otherwise.
It’s hard to believe you deserve kindness, and comfort, and safety, when no one has bothered to show you what it looks like.
Crazy means believing something that doesn’t match reality
These children aren’t crazy
This is their reality
They are doing as they’ve been told
Fighting the world to keep breathing
And then deciding it’s too hard
Last night, I was washing the same plastic fork 6 times
Last night, I was holding back the fists of a girl who's believes she has to hurt others before they hurt her
Last night, the girl who read you the poem about starting over was hitting her head on the wall because that’s the only way she’s found to get the trauma memories out
She wrote this poem sitting in a hospital bed with a concussion
And she’s been trying to find words to tell you
How every morning is a soul-crushing battle-ground
of getting up again, that every breathe she takes is her trying to start over
But no, today everybody’s happy
They are wearing Sunday dresses, and headbands
Let’s just call this an orphanage, or a summer camp, why don’t we
That has a better ring to it, right
Last night, well..
Well, nobody really wants to see all that