Cocoon, Cocoon
A poem & epilogue by Christine Chanty
Cocoon, cocoon… When you come out, you will be…
LION!
ROOOAAARRR!
I am leader, I am fierce!
Lion loud, I am BIG, I can fight, take up space!
In this safe place
Cocoon, cocoon…
Why, young lady!
I’ve never seen you so noisy
You’re a good girl
Time to learn
You can be noisy at home
When you come out, you will be…
Dog! Woof woof!
With energy! Curiosity! Excitement for the world!
Ideas, so many ideas!
Let me show you
I can sit still
Cocoon…
Great ideas
You’re very talented
This is fun
But what will you do
Cocoon…
In the long term,
When this is done?
When you come out…
“You’re very talented, but your experience doesn’t suit”
You will be…
Rabbit
Sensitive, reserved
At times, an energy burst
But ever smart
Safe, subserved
Cocoon…
Caterpillar
Cocoon…
Stuck inside
When you come out…
Can I be
You will be…
Butterfly?
Epilogue
When I was a kid, and still small enough, my parents played this game with me called ‘Cocoon, Cocoon.’ One of them, usually dad, would sit on the ground and place a blanket across their lap. I would hop into their lap, and they would wrap their legs around my body – blanket and all – cocooning me.
The game was played in my parents’ native language of Lao. They would say: Cocoon, cocoon, when you come out you will be…
LION!
It was always an animal. My job as child would be to burst from the cocoon and perform my absolute best rendition of said animal, sounds, body language, and all.
“Again, again!” I would say. I was a loud, playful child. I didn’t mind making a fool of myself or improvising.
That changed dramatically upon entering school. A core memory of mine is being reprimanded by a teacher for the first time, for being too loud. Outside of class hours. Waving goodbye to a friend at the school gate, who had been picked up before me.
“BYEEEEE BUM CHUM!” I called out. It was a phrase that I had recently learned meant ‘bestie’.
“Young lady!” The female teacher beside me exclaimed. She looked down at me in shock. “You’re usually a good girl!”
I pulled back my waving arm from between the school gate pillars and sat down. I felt like I’d neglected the one thing mum said while ushering me out the door each morning: be good.
From then on, I was good. I excelled in academics. I wrote fiction for creative activities in class, which would come back with a bunch of big ticks and a shiny sticker. Once, I was especially sent to the vice principal’s office during class time, to show her a story I’d written. I think the VP was a fellow horse girl, so my teacher thought she’d enjoy my short story about a young girl whose dad owned a horseracing betting business, which meant she was around the track and horses all the time (is this a good time to mention I grew up around gambling problems? Anyway…). Great use of vocab! The principal wrote on my paper.
My stories became less ‘valuable’ the older I got, the further I got into the education system. But what are you going to do for a job? Was the perennial question. So I squished my writerly side down… down… All the while focusing on being a ‘good girl’.
This poem is a conversation between my now writer self, the voices that have shaped me, and the young lion girl who just wants to play ‘Cocoon, Cocoon’ again and again.