Angela Brazeal

Angela Brazeal grew up in St. Louis, Missouri.  She received her MA in English from the University of Texas at San Antonio in 2004.  Her graduate thesis, titled Space Under the Tongue, was a collection of short stories and poetry.  Her work has been published in local San Antonio university journals, Quirk and The Luminous Page, and her poetry has been featured in the San Antonio Express News.  Currently, she is an English Instructor at Northeast Lakeview College where she teaches English courses from Freshman Composition to American Literature. 

The Circle of Life

My mom is the recipient of grocery lists and

dirty looks from my grandma, who has,

since 1986, lived in my mom and dad’s house.

She is eighty-eight years old and can no longer

drive herself to Thousand Oaks Baptist church, or

to Sensational Hair (for a weekly wash and set), or

the Dollar Store (where she buys greeting cards),

or to the grocery (to replenish her supply of cashews).

When she hitches a ride with my mom, she

voices her discontent for various offenses:

chili that was too spicy, clothes left in the washing

machine on her washing day, or a phone call missed

when the line was tied up.  My mom first sits

in silence, eventually yelling back until

they scrapple like a mom and teenage daughter.

When grandma scolds mom, across the

kitchen table, for buying the wrong brand of Gas-X,

my dad and I hardly stifle our laughter, until

finally the snarls are directed at us.

The Basics

Before I could begin school at Woerther

Elementary, my mom insisted I learn several

basic skills. I must remember to always

put paper on the toilet seat, never holler

“I’m finished” from the bathroom and wait

for my teacher to help, and most important:

I must be able to spell my whole name. 

Just  “A-N-G,” like my dad taught me,

would not hold up in big kid school. 

After the trials of learning to spell the whole

thing, writing my Z in the right direction,

and leaving accidental pieces of forgotten

toilet paper on the all three toilet seats

in our house, I was ready.  When I arrived

at school, my teacher called me “Angie,”

which I couldn’t spell.  I went to the

bathroom to cry, and in my hysteria, forgot

to put paper down on the seat, and I knew

better than to holler for help.