"The Campfire story leads the broken to home" - A Poem by Shandela Contreras
/Shandela Contreras is a current undergraduate student at the University of Southern California, majoring in Creative Writing. Shandela is the author of the chapbook Mellow Ballads, that move your bones. She is a Los Angeles County Youth Poet Ambassador and was a Finalist for the Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate 2022. She is an alum and participant of, but not limited to WriteGirl, The Los Angeles Times High School Insider, GetLit and USC NAI. She was the recipient of the First Place Gold Medal for the Prepared Speaking Competition at the California Health Occupation Students of America (CalHOSA) State Leadership Conference 2021.
The Campfire story leads the broken to home
By Shandela Contreras, WriteGirl Alum
How do I
How do I give heaven to those who were fed saltine crackers before they could taste what epiphany
felt like on their tongue
When they realized that this isn’t sugar
And the sour patch kids that come hopping upfront have more hand waves to offer
Than answers to prayers
How do I give them home, when they feel less
Because to think every single home less
person does not have a different story,
is to think their bodies less of a home
Is to think their mind a broken roof
Unworthy of repair
The strands on their hair
Rotten Gypsum tile ceiling
They just need that glory feeling
To say
Is it in my soul, my heart, this door that don’t need fixing
Because when that twelve year old girl, a mom, a brother
come passing by this tent
I open this door, I let them in, I light my match, to start my fire, I tell them stories
And they say give me s’more
Add more roasted memories and golden graham wisdom to their flame
Have them cackle upon my shame as they walk home and lose track of their worries for the day
I gave them campfire stories, my rural wounds, this urban legend passed through these tents
in the midst of this smoking city
Reaching this here chimney that channels it out and vents to you
To say to you that these people who are said to have no home,
that are storyless
Have a story and a home that lives within me
Because I share those same flames watered and put out by the saliva I gulp, buried underneath my
breath
I remember seeing ratatouille’s brother and brothers, was I his cousin garnering fiber one lemon
bars out the kitchen drawer to sneak into a single room full of all of my loved ones eyes
Without one name linking them to existence in that house
Without name to a lease
But at least we were sheltered
At least I was a somebody to everybody who saw my smile in a classroom, on the sidewalk, in a bus,
in the mirror that did not belong to me
I smiled, knowing it rare to smile when your body is missing a home to belong to
And they smile in the reflections of a parked car, on a sidewalk that is said
to not belong to them
They smile, knowing it rare to smile when their body is missing a home to belong to
When I can put name to a body and bring home to a name
When their stories become old and seem to wither away
The seniors I teach and hear
And those who have no home I witness what they bear
They share and we share our stories like a campfire choir
Yet I ask how can I
How can I give heaven to those who were fed crumbs
I give heaven by serving this here bread pudding from their “off-putting”crumbs, by sharing their
words rooted from their lungs
I wrought change from the chump change out their rotted cups,
Give a dime for the priceless stories we heard during camp time, that was our luck
For the camp songs I heard — I say
“Аѕ І, turn uр thе соllаr оn/
Му fаvоrіtе wіntеr соаt/
Тhese [words] are blоwіng mу mіnd/
І ѕее thе kіdѕ іn thе ѕtrееtѕ/
Wіth nоt еnоugh tо еаt/
Whо аm І tо bе blіnd?/
Рrеtеndіng nоt tо ѕее thеіr nееdѕ” - M.J
Pretending not to hear their stories
The campfire stories that lead the broken bunch feeling better as they return home
The campfire stories that are home to those who have none
SHANDELA CONTRERAS, WRITEGIRL ALUM
