Nov 2013
The time is Friday
The scene is dinner.
Candlelight, shimmering dishes, white tablecloth
Flowing wine, pleasant conversation, good food
An enjoyable evening at the neighbors' house.
I sit back, I do not speak much.
I am happy, I am content.
And then the neighbor starts telling you a story.
A woman she knows
got angry, lost her temper,
hit her children.
And so she stepped in, calmed her down, said
"leave the children alone."
You agree.
I do not react. Years of practice
have served me well.
I sit across from you, I do not look
fascinated or riveted or frozen
in place.
"Children," you say,
"are so helpless. To hit them especially
is horrible."
I cannot hold my pose any longer.
My eyebrows rise until they have eclipsed
the place where my glasses usually are.
You do not look.
You would not see.
You will not remember how you come by this knowledge.
(My friend says hypocrisy
is a pox-ridden ***** whose company
many enjoy.
You never have to pay for her services
to you she comes freely.)
Not even four years ago
(maybe)
you have forgotten.
I do not remember it all I do not
remember what made you angry
(that time).
There never were flashing lights
A big sign to tell me
TRIGGER WARNING.
I do remember holding on tightly
to the golden-brown, smooth banister
on the white-grey, cool marble stairs
so I wouldn't fall down them.
I do remember you standing strong
above my hunched figure
and the closed fists
and the blows that rained down
like drops in a thunderstorm.
I do remember my father
coming when it was too late
when the hot tears finally soaked everything
and apologizing for not being there.
I do remember not having the heart
to tell him
that I was screaming his name constantly
begging for him to come
and save me from you.
You are right.
Children are helpless.
But you have missed the biggest truth.
Hitting children is most dangerous
not because they are helpless.
but because they love you.
Because for years they will protect you
and justify and accept
and blame ourselves.
The scene is dinner.
Candlelight, shimmering dishes, white tablecloth
Flowing wine, pleasant conversation, good food
An enjoyable evening at the neighbors' house.
I sit back, I do not speak much.
I am happy, I am content.
And then the neighbor starts telling you a story.
A woman she knows
got angry, lost her temper,
hit her children.
And so she stepped in, calmed her down, said
"leave the children alone."
You agree.
I do not react. Years of practice
have served me well.
I sit across from you, I do not look
fascinated or riveted or frozen
in place.
"Children," you say,
"are so helpless. To hit them especially
is horrible."
I cannot hold my pose any longer.
My eyebrows rise until they have eclipsed
the place where my glasses usually are.
You do not look.
You would not see.
You will not remember how you come by this knowledge.
(My friend says hypocrisy
is a pox-ridden ***** whose company
many enjoy.
You never have to pay for her services
to you she comes freely.)
Not even four years ago
(maybe)
you have forgotten.
I do not remember it all I do not
remember what made you angry
(that time).
There never were flashing lights
A big sign to tell me
TRIGGER WARNING.
I do remember holding on tightly
to the golden-brown, smooth banister
on the white-grey, cool marble stairs
so I wouldn't fall down them.
I do remember you standing strong
above my hunched figure
and the closed fists
and the blows that rained down
like drops in a thunderstorm.
I do remember my father
coming when it was too late
when the hot tears finally soaked everything
and apologizing for not being there.
I do remember not having the heart
to tell him
that I was screaming his name constantly
begging for him to come
and save me from you.
You are right.
Children are helpless.
But you have missed the biggest truth.
Hitting children is most dangerous
not because they are helpless.
but because they love you.
Because for years they will protect you
and justify and accept
and blame ourselves.
November 29, 2013.
