Maria grew up in a big city house
In the fenced off “hoods” of LA.
She was always at odds with her father’s spouse,
Fighting in the car to school each day.
She wore Fenty makeup from Sephora.
Her was house was shiny. The lawn was green.
She had gold bracelets from Pandora
And acrylic nails that clicked on a screen.
Maria lived for Twitter and Instagram
And anything under six seconds.
She spoke only internet. Her speech was a sham.
TikTok had made her brain deaden.
She could not build, fix, clean, or cook.
Food was always delivered to her door.
She lived a delicate life from a fairytale book.
Until behold! LA was hit by a storm!
Water flooded her house and swept Maria to sea.
She paddled and paddled, barely keeping afloat
Until she reached a strange island with trees.
Cast on the shore, sprawled on the sand,
She wished that she had died.
No one to help her, no phone in her hand,
For hours, Maria laid there and cried.
She cried until day crept to night,
And screamed once more for good measure.
She shivered of cold and fright
And fear she’d be there forever.
But on the sixth night came a brilliant thought-
After six days of eating berries and seeds.
God do I crave a meal that’s bussin and hot.
A big ol’ fire is what I need!
She prayed it’d be simple as scraping two sticks together.
Because until then, Maria was used to easy endeavors.
She scraped the sticks with all her core,
Giving it valiant shot after shot.
She tried like she’d never tried before
But still a fire, there was not.
In LA, comfort was historical,
Her parents erased problems on command.
But on the island, sans YouTube tutorial
She was alone on that forgotten land-
Tough and persistent, having tools to employ,
Maria was none of those, those words are for boys.
How badly she wanted to give up, but with no one else in sight,
She understood survival demanded a relentless fight.
What she needed was a new method,
Something primitive and quick.
She imagined a bow that could be threaded
With twine to spin a stick.
She cast off her jewelry. She chewed off her nails.
She’d have to try something else, even if she failed.
She tore down trees and sharpened her set,
Until blood covered her knuckles.
She spun til her eyes stung with sweat,
And her knees began to buckle.
She pictured the fire she hoped to kindle,
And finally produced a tiny stream of smoke
That like her perseverance, quickly began to dwindle.
“God dammit!” she screamed “this must be a fucking joke!”
She spun probably a hundred times more
Cursing the wooden bow and wondering if she should.
Because even if she kept trying, she was highly unsure
That her bloodied effort would do any good.
Yet, in the grain of the wood, a hole was carved,
Where on the hundred eighth spin a spark appeared.
The glowing ember promised she wouldn’t starve.
Her face dripped salty tears.
On the weary conclusion of the eighth night,
At last, a fire finally flickered orange and white.
That night, Maria found herself richer,
In the end, having emerged a victor,
Of a fight for survival that lasted eight days.
She had been persistent at something resistant.
She taught herself when there was no other way.
Any other girl with a little less grit easily would have died
Had she given up before the hundred eighth try.
Thus, the lesson withheld from queens and bestowed to kings:
The capability of doing hard and dirty things.
Norma Panigot is a wilderness therapy field guide based in Salt Lake City, UT. Known for under-the-breath one-liners and nonsensical bedtime stories, she is passionate about teaching young women to do cool and tough things outside.