War in The Burgh

an anti-war poem story

Prologue

War is a terrible thing, we can all agree. Do you know there are 32 of them occurring across the world right now, and at least 14 of them are civil wars? They seem remote to those of us in the United States, the impact of brothers fighting brothers, friends fighting friends, and even children drawn into fighting in the streets.

With the current problems and stresses in the US, a government in favor of too many wars and uncaring with regard to personal liberties, multiple social tensions, cities succumbing to increased violence, and a struggling economy, we decided to illustrate the impact of a civil war on the streets of Pittsburgh, at the human level and seen through the eyes of people driven to violent struggle.

We don’t choose to write as though the world is always perfect and wonderful, rather that the human spirit is tenacious and beautiful and will do what it must in life. We illustrate this with our young protagonist, who struggles between loyalty and her heart. The reading is by young Eva Taliesin, who does her best to adopt a Pittsburghese (Yinzer) dialect.

War in The Burgh

My brain coasts along a byway, for a moment wishing, only wishing, until I see what’s ‘round me again. I hear the shellin’ begin once more, buildings downtown it seems. It’s only early on Mundy, but we still got lotsa buildings here, some all black-faced & broken-eyed, like they’d cry if they could, the way I cry… others with plywood on the windas like they don’t want ta see what’s going on in The Burgh.

I think about those mountains, so jigunda, in old mexico that looked like shark fins to me. It’s the only place I been at other than ‘ere. The only different thing I ever seen, like giant sharks trying to rise up outa the land in morning mist. I think about it sometimes, and what else I might never see.

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

My brudder, the “hero of Steel Street,” tells me I should write about everything, because he knows I like to write, n’at, document our noble struggle for freedom. “Girls shouldn’t be holdin’ no guns anyway. Specially not a 12 year old girl.”

But it’s hard to write pretty about war, even when we’re fighting to save our country. War’s just not pretty or noble or heroic, just a scramble in fear… and firing guns blind behind us as we run, mostly. Daddy waited and waited, for us, no blood left in him in the end. It’s the bombs that’re the worst.

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

I wish I could have told Mama that I got two people in me, one that wants to fight, and the other who feels like running far away and like throwing down my DB9 pistol.

Once Daddy died so bad n’at, Mama’d overlooked me, seeing only clouds, like maybe I was just the grass & dirt She talked and didn’t listen no more.

Mama wouldn’t want me to fight now, and she’d be all nebby ‘bout it if she was here, still alive and not shot. Would she have wanted me to stay in the house? “You wanna shoot your friend Danny? He’s on the other side, too, you know.” If she was alive, she would have said ‘at.

“But he’s with the Reds now, Mama, those that are going to ruin it all, the ones that kilt you dead.” It’s us that’s in charge ‘ere now, and the government soldiers help us against those… jagoff rebels.

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

When my brudder Bobby & me go out to scavenge some food, Captain Gill, from our troop, comes over to us all cocky, all skinny and ragged like he is.

“Y’unz going with, down Colville? We’re lootin’ Marcus Food.”

Bobby grunts, shrugs, and nods, “Well, I guess it needs done.”

“I’m going over by The Gheney,” I say. I don’t much like lootin’.

“Chowt. Take your gun, Emma. Kill some Reds.” All he says, as he walks away shouldering his rifle.

He knows I kilt before, leastwise I said I did ‘at. Only shot garbage cans, instead… instead of killing ‘em, that buncha rebels I had cornered. They were hiding out n’at, outa the heat, hard to see in the yella haze. But I could see their pretty blue eyes, brudders and sisters, I think, and I just couldn’t shoot ’em.

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

I sigh, tucking my gun in my waistband, cuttin’ down Spruce Way to 24th and the Marina on The Gheney. Ain’t no one around. Don’t spect to see the enemy much in this zone that we control. The troopers’ blue truck passes by, the one that gives us guns & bullets n’at, and I have half a mind to give ’em my gun.

Are they even runnin’ this war? Seems we’re just on our own now. Shootin’, missin’, gettin’ shot up, and running ‘round like crazy plantin’ bombs wherever. Just killing each other.

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

Danny’s sitting by the river, red hair shining even in the smoke of all the burning boats there. He still wears his red armband. and I absently tug my black one up. I remember when Danny & I were friends, when we played boardgames and built tree forts in our yards.

I take my gun out and point it square at his big head.

“Yello, Danny. Truce?” I smile at him.

“Never got a bullet for you, Emma.” He shrugs and pats the ground, Invitin’ me to sit with ‘im.

I look over by the edge of the park, seeing our blue truck stopped and giving out guns to the Reds.”

“Remember when we went to Mexico, and saw those spikey mountains that I said looked like shark fins?”

Danny smiles. “I remember.”

“Sometimes things ain’t what they seem.” I point over at the blue truck.

“Yeah, at least we got the military on our side in this war,” Danny says.

“Yeah. Us too.”

— — — — — ※ — — — — — -

I put my head on Danny’s shoulder, and he takes my hand in his.

Bobby will never listen to me. It ain’t never gonna end.

I cry and think of all the things I’ve never seen or done.

Thank you for reading our poem.

Here are some of our other poems posted here on Medium and some background on our writing approach.