Introductory remarks: Hi. I am Hope Blecher. As an educator for 39 years and as a person who gets joy from reading out loud to children and who encourages my students to enter festivals such as this one, I will share that I am a little bit nervous. This is my first time participating in a public poetry festival. Thank you for this opportunity and for your gracious hospitality to those who read before me. Being in the lineup as the person to read after the county’s poet laureate is a tad nerve-wracking. Here I go.
That smock,
That extra, extra-large shirt.
White or tan
Fit for a large man.
That one I loved,
That fit me like no glove.
That smock,
The one so large,
No clothes got a splotch.
The one some giggled at
When others got a splat.
From that pocket on the left,
To the knees below,
That smock,
That extra, extra-large shirt,
You brought me comfort.
From dots to dabs,
From braces to glasses,
The wipes from my fingers,
Were able to linger,
For art class was my heaven
And the smock my home.
As years passed,
The school lists grew,
On it always a smock,
‘though never a shock,
That mine was not new.
What did I wear?
Why do you care?
I will tell you,
And you will see,
Why that smock became so special to me.
Then, we lost touch,
And I grew into a college gal.
Then a wife, and a mother,
A teacher and a student.
No more smocks for me,
It was aprons upon my knee.
Yet, those shirts,
Soon, they began to cover up hurts.
And, still, you would smile and share.
As if you did not mind,
When I asked for a few,
They always looked so new.
No plastic,
Always cotton
As if it just been gotten.
Ah,
The beginning of a ring around the collar.
Although to me that was not a bother.
That smock,
The one I wear now and again,
From way back when.
With adult finger prints,
And some colors sharing their tints.
Today,
Those years so far away,
The shirt in the closet,
The one too big to fit.
It will be just right.
And I’ll pull it out tonight.
You see,
The shirt,
That smock
That fits me like a T,
It was a gift,
From my dad to me.
Author’s Note
Every year from elementary through high school, we would need to bring a smock for art class. Sometimes art class was in an art room, other years, we had art on a cart. The art teacher would bring the supplies on a cart with wheels and travel from room to room.
My dad wore a size 13 shoe and was 6 ft and close to 200 pounds. He was a big guy, especially when you’re a youngster.
My art smock, year after year, was a shirt that he would give to me. When I was younger, it would be a short-sleeved shirt, although the sleeves were to my wrists instead of my elbows.
Art was my favorite class. Although I was a good student, well-behaved, and working hard to get good grades, art was where I could get lost in time. From elementary school through high school, it became less fun, at least for me. Talent and college potential took the focus in those classes.
What happened to me? I went to college, got good grades, and became a teacher. That career officially lasted 38 years. I became a wife, a mother, a divorcee, a single parent, a remarried woman, a stepmom, and yes, a friend, a daughter, a niece, and a hard worker.
What happened to art? My creativity snuck into my work. Sometimes administrators got it and other times they looked aghast, and at last, I was let go. That has led me to today. I have reunited with art. I write, paint a bit, cut, glue, and see where things fit.
Thank you for making the time to hear this poem, to attend this event, to read it for yourself.
Thank you for making space for me.
Go grab a shirt,
Play in the dirt and give a squirt.
A dab,
And a hug to someone like your dad.
Artfully yours,
Hope
