Heather Stewart Poetry

My last command in the Navy was kind of a disaster but it had moments that I still smile about. I was stationed with several people I adored, several I couldn’t stand to be around, and many I was indifferent to. Among those I adored was Rachel.

Rachel was not well liked by most people. She generally frowned at work. She didn’t talk to most people. She was unhappy with most things and seemed sad all the time. Two minutes of actual conversation with her would reveal that she did not anticipate this path being what she signed up for and that she had actually put quite a bit of thought into the path which made it much more disappointing than an impulse decision would have been. Rachel was also new to the Navy and 26 yrs old at the same time with what many would refer to as a baby face. She had lived on her own, in the real world for years before joining and being treated like a child.

Bear in mind, most people join the military and go straight from their parent’s house to boot camp. It is not common for someone to be able to pay bills and be an adult right out of boot camp. And then she also still looked like all those people who were barely old enough to join and were too young to drink. It was a fairly constant struggle. She also got to our command about five seconds after two pretty and obnoxious girls who were able to slide into advantageous positions despite not having the maturity to take advantage of it. All this to say that I always thought she had every reason to be frustrated.

She could hardly say anything to anyone without it being taken as a complaint or without a certain amount of jealousy. Not to be deterred, she found a way to express herself that gained some notoriety and gave people the opportunity to listen to her without pretense.

Yes, poetry.

On a US submarine, underway, steeped in toxic masculinity, she began writing poetry. It was not simply the gorgeous poems that strike feeling into the hearts of readers. It was intelligent, sarcastic, and necessary.

You see, we often have notices that most go up to not use a broken door, or shredder, or to remind people to wash their hands. This was where her poetry was used and shined.

Every notice that she was instructed to put up was a poem and they were in different formats. They were memorable and unmistakeable and then coveted. Though I don’t remember the exact words, the first poem was subtle and most people missed that it was a haiku.

A few days later, she put up a notice in the bathroom about something or other that was in rhyming couplets. When people realized who was writing them, some would ask her to write one for them, others would just compliment the ingenuity.

Poetry is what we make it. Rachel saw this toxic atmosphere and rather than embrace it and try to breathe, she inserted as much art into it as possible. She also made fun crafts out of things that she found on the ship and some that she brought. She made earrings out of danger tags, knitted finger puppets, and I think she brought coloring books.

I don’t think she’ll ever know how much I appreciated the life that she brought that place. I know a lot of people never connected with her, but I think about her a lot. I wonder what she’s doing these days, if she’s still writing poetry or otherwise making art of some kind. I hope she is.