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Xyns Nov 2014
I just want to take a moment to address a very real problem.

Racism.

I find that the most racist people are usually southern Christians.
And this I don't understand at all..

Christians read the Bible and live by what it says.
At least, they claim to.

The Bible teaches love of all men.
Everyone is made in the image of God, the Creator, the Almighty.

Since all men are made in the image of God,
Are all men not equal?

Every man is equal to every other man.
No person is superior or inferior.

Thus, racism goes against what the Bible is supposed to teach.
So a Christian's racism is against their religion and should be frowned upon.

Also, Southerners are typically the most religious.
Why then is racism such an issue in the south?

It makes no sense for Christians to be racist.
Those who are racist Christians are ignorant and obviously not true Christians.

And to anyone who chooses to use their childhood upbringings as an excuse:
That makes you even more ignorant.

You should be able to think for yourself and realize that your prejudice is idiotic.
And because you claim to have been raised into racism, you are simply blaming your parents for your idiocy and they are just as ignorant as you are.
My thoughts on the matter.
Lady Bitternit Nov 2013
From where I stand, there is a kaleidoscopic view of the world.
My cousin always had something negative to say about my upbringings, my excessive scruples.
Life is an hourglass.
The scent of your tongue is a foul one and I cry because it reminds me of my brother.
The blood runs down my fingers, scared I run to the nearest lake.
Has anyone identified Victoria's secret?
The reindeer reign over me, because of this I know Santa is near.
The wind tells me stories of my father who lived in China until age 8 and I ponder if my love for sushi is hereditary.
The kitten meows until I give her milk. Little *****.
My red moccasins are the reason I could not attend the wedding but I have no regrets.
Yet again, you enter my thoughts, and I throw you out like yesterdays trash.
EENER EENER EENER NOSPMOHT, YO.
Victoria Myron Aug 2018
My Teacher is silent and strict.
My Teacher feeds me in upbringings.
My Teacher caresses like wind,
My Teacher is full of his Feelings.

My Teacher's a nascence, an end.
My doubt is My Teacher and sure.
My Teacher is art to refrain,
My Teacher is art to be pure.

The Doctrine is simple and hard,
The Doctrine is stable and driven.
The Doctrine that evil allowed
To make all my blessings be given.
-----------------

Учитель мой и строг и молчалив,
Учитель мой взращает и питает,
Учитель мой ласкает как прилив,
Как ветер нежно обнимает,

Учитель мой- рождение и смерть,
Учитель мой-сомнение и ласка,
Учитель мой- умение терпеть,
Учитель мой-безумие и сказка.

Учение и сложно и легко,
Учение и твёрдо и безбрежно,
Учение-дозволенное Зло,
Учение- что Благо неизбежно.
k e i Aug 2020
the date reads november 18.

there's 6 days before our anniversary

-i think i've finally gotten it right now.



the air's crisp with that autumnal scent of dried leaves. the coffee’s what keeps me from losing the last of my grip on this cold morning, indifferent to the iciness of our early days i currently heed through.



my forgetfulness had its way of having us spiral down to endless fights-our anniversary was one thing for instance. petty back and forth bickerings resolved with my “i love you's” met with eyerolls failing to cover up the smile that slides it way on your face. heated stares and suffocating silences. “i'm sorry, i'll make it up to you's” soon lost its charm. conflicts hung with one of us walking out. compromises wavered, melted into emotionless pleas to end it all-us saying "**** it" to the rings glinting on our digitus quartus.



the day we've chosen to surrender it all true to life inevitably came, that september 7 five years ago. if i force myself to stop thinking about the specifics, i can brush it off as our homage paid to the same day i was first made known of your existence as you passed by me in the campus grounds, the day we scratched our angst upon a match box-little did we know it would become the same fuel that extinguishes all the embers we've lit aflame. that year winter followed but it simply couldn’t come up with blizzards raging with more cruelty.



autumns ago we gave up on being each other's stressors and stress reliever. we’ve turned out to be the boulder rolling on all the spaces we shared, flattening the dreams, the dayfalls, the vows we’ve exchanged and wherever it was that we’ve only quite reached the middle of;



our midpoint turned out to be our ending.





for so long this wondering nested in the crevices of my hollow. have we done or not done some small thing, done or undone it some other way, would the course of things have ran differently for us?



maybe they’ve been right all along,

and their fingers pointed to our temples were justly served.

maybe they were right and we were just two kids unsuspecting of just how much an involvement of forever would cost us.

such hasty entanglement, infinitely falling unto acts of impulses yet again.

maybe we should’ve saved all that trouble of gown and tux thrifting and cake tasting and tying the knot until the years proved ripe with stability.

you should've said “we should talk about this first.” instead when i got down on one knee five months after we’ve gotten our degrees.



you could have offered a spillage of precarious uncertainty instead of easily giving out that hearty yes, flinging us both on top of the world only to be mercilessly pulled six feet under, forced to breath still.

you would’ve stomped over the shards cut out of the shape of my heart but at least i’d eventually come with an acceptance. we wouldn’t have turned into ten years worth of grief.



i know you’ve always been born for higher things, always been on the lookout for greater pursuits. that’s what made me drawn to you in the first place after all. you were someone who knew where she was headed to despite the fuckedupness of all that surrounded you while i was some beaten down misguided boy who needed that pulling uprooting force of a direction.



maybe you should’ve gone off to medschool and i with working my way for a promotion before we dealt with rent and bills and threading on the line of what it truly meant to be parents.

i’ll always thank the heavens for having the thorns leave that part unharmed, our daughter cradled by peace, swaddled in the softest of petals, later on forging the steps where wildflowers bloom; it was only right we named her after one. celandine.



she’s got your doe eyes, the exact tinge of blue. i can see how much she looks up to you. she told me how she wants to be a doctor when she grows up the last time i picked her up from the place you both live in now. during the drive, she was humming to the chorus of that old nirvana song, you know, that one we repeatedly listened to. i couldn’t help but have my heart swell, nearly tearing up. it felt like a memory the three of us shared like her first nights at that house. her loud cries quieted down as you hummed that alt song into a lullaby. she’s very inquisitive for her age though she’s still yet to ask questions about us or why her parents don’t live or spend time together or why she only gets to see her dad during the weekends. but i think for a five year old she somehow understands.



i can imagine you scoffing, a cigarette dangling from your lips just like the old days where you’d light one whenever you couldn’t help but be annoyed. your belief that regret is stupid and what if’s take you to a drive to nowhere still stands strong. but baby for a long time the what if’s have kept me going, as with all my unhealthy coping mechanisms-when we peeled off the last of the wallpaper, pulled out our clothes from our shared closet, even still when i gunned my old corolla to ignition.



we lost it all.

to our fights. to their i told you so’s. to the vows we’ve memorized since our dates around the college park. to the milestones framed. to autumn and winter and spring and summer.



it's years later and we've managed to unstuck ourselves from the rubble this marriage has become like how adults are expected to deal with everything else this sorry excuse of a life hurls at. but hey, maybe you were right. maybe us separating was necessary to **** off the beasts that tore past the skins of our monsters in unison.



i know you don’t really regret any of it. i know what we’ve birthed from the sadness that trailed down our tailbones patterned from dysfunctional upbringings held out to be intentions pure, offered for a ravaging love. i saw it, felt it the years that led us to the altar and the years witnessed by those housewalls, those fall afternoons the three of us napped in the same room as a family.



there’s 6 days before our anniversary and i’ve finally got it right.

10 years too late.

forgive me for longing, but i think it’s only right that i make do with what was saved from the skeletal framework of bruised years;

the gold ring i’ve strung on a necklace.

the state magnets from our old refrigerator.

the photo album filled with pictures from that white sand beach on our honeymoon.

the pinstriped tie you made me wear on my first day at my third job.

even the way you used to hog the covers and how you’d tend to burn the breakfast eggs.



there’s six days before our anniversary and now, i’ve finally gotten it right.

10 years too late.





“our relics are still yet to meet their grave. but their epitaph would read happy anniversary”.
liz Nov 2012
Either I'll see you in ten minutes,
God

or I’ll be lying in bed
self-induced coma
oatmeal upbringings from my esophagus

tremor stricken
shrunken sobs
grasp onto life
or onto toilet paper

in my bath of uppers
ill insist on decency
wear white
forced affection
carry me on chairs
and take my candy

and my daughter will exasperate
at the end of the lane
MOM
and will see the triple entante of assistance
and will choke
and stroke my forehead

and ill meet prostitutes
and color
and expel black liquids
from all crevices of my body

make this easy on me
God
or I’ll see you in ten minutes
Jack Rosette Apr 2011
I have ye to thank,
all ye actors and poets and marvels
(and DCs and everything in between)
for I have lived with ye, and amongst ye,
and ye have gently inspired genuine genius
in all ye holes in the wall
and all ye pens and strings and voices.

I thank you for the endless memories
of conversations of unnecessary furor and consuming hysteria
of brilliant surprises from elegant unknown talents
of tossed salad people and places and history and interaction
of a night lost in glowsticks but preserved in pictures
of a time my time in between periods of blank walls
of a blinding bolt forward in presence of mind.

For was it you
who told me about your grandfather
a man so brilliant that a mere conversation with the dean
at sixteen granted him admission to Columbia?
who told me of Canadian interlocutors
intimately engaged, only after your party had left?
who told me of amazing cliffside adventures
in education and nature's nomenclatures abound?
who discussed my heritage against that of a concrete world
of exploding dreams and collapsing stars at once,
where you take a bite but might get the proverbial worm?
or you, against that of a simple hicktown
where tractors run tandem with buicks in school lots?

Might it have been you
who watched with me psychedelic documentaries
and named canaries after variations of drug store medications?
who gallantly tolerated my most obnoxious outrageous disgusting
interesting unaffected out-of-their-mind friends?
who took me to absurd spots at absurd hours to breathe absurdity,
then churted we'd go, back the building we'd known?
who brought me in groups to feast on uncomfortable meats,
but between the awkward and networked gossip pipelines,
were enjoying the food and friends and flattery?
who drunk on dreams, droned on into darkness,
and dripped into ears of a man in his cave,
a man playfully perplexing you by pondering preposterous?

It must have been you
whose beautifully woven music reached my ears,
enveloped my being, seldom alone, and even when solo,
scattered brains with banter and brilliance combined...
who, with an open door and wide smile,
welcomed me to the mind's great opera house,
and gave audience to my own logical saga...
who in the weekend's weak end became crazy dazed amazings,
lazing in listless lack of activity, or senselessly celebrating
sins and kinship, all ways seeking erasure...
who gave me so many names against the grain,
jrosay or nerp or j or jackattack or just plain jack,
your classmate hallmate roommate or just plain friend...
who sat and sang and slew, dragons myths, moods,
and hit and clicked and ripped and spilt, toxins, guilt,
and hurt and failed and walked with me...


at least i hope it was you
you who paved platforms and bridges to raze amazing
and left vast caches of spectacular aptitude
or you who spread brilliance like plagues defined loosely,
grossly self-aware in great stares of embarrassed arrogance
and defeated demons crying freedom and bleeding love
you gave worlds great engravings, new meaning
to be me in new worlds new dreams new things
nooses spread shredded across mind fields
you lovingly led leaders over languid anguish
dangled carrotsticks and heritage bringing peace
you found you finding a place in space in winding time
under universal roofing aloof of stinking sewage
found a truth around music and beauty

shopping cart hearts that gather dust and poetry
blissful obituary tears splashing across my memory
loco rangers of brilliant oblivion armed with toothy news
slaying my molded upbringings refreshing genius

fair chance soul trade and daylong flatlines
double barreled shotgun roulette
blank charge buckshot
noisemakers both

that trigger
firing
you
?
I dedicated this poem to the people in my freshman year living-learning community at the University of Michigan. There are many references to specific moments from that academic year, but you certainly don't have to understand them to understand the poem's message. It is structured to mimic the progression of the academic year, and then beyond.
Alexis J Meighan Oct 2012
UNLIKELY FRIENDS

Your scent tends to linger around me
The words from your sentences can be astounding
But normally humorous
Very few of us
Know exactly what the two of us
Connect on
Agree on
Or even see eye to eye
Converse, and sleep on
We randomly crossed one another
With a "Hi and Bye"
Like night fall and sunrise
While
My sarcasm is sinister like clouds in the night sky
The gutters of my mind
Are
Like the gutters of my upbringings
Yet still I'm a petal
The depth of your eyes
Are
Brilliant like the depths of your mind
But stubborn like the oldest metals
Your style is so wild
While mine is conserved
A canvas scratched and scarred
To make a painting so disturbed
Yet it hangs on the wall

Alexis J Meighan
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Where/Why and the Who,  I Am

I am a child of emigres,
Sojourners in a land that was not theirs,
Early risers, both long distance travelers,
- a traveling salesman who never forgot a customers name,
- a lover of Rembrandt, ceremonial Judaica, Broadway,
who shared her love for small stipends, traveling large distances.

They were transformational people, transformers of all they met.

Not great successes, yet well-reputed.

emphasize the small in smaller businessman,  
emphasize the part in part-time lecturer, writer,
emphasize the fullness of full time mother,

An odd couple, continentally divided,
Germany and Canada and born many years apart

Never understood the pairing, the mystery of "them,"
Different in so many ways, but inspirational to many in their own way,.

Never till just now,
got the light bulb turned on to what was their secret sauce,
the connectivity essence that wove their web
and I had a front row seat!

Story tellers both,
and if their biggest dreams went unrealized,
no matter, no matter as long as they could tell stories,
Entrancing the many Sabbath table guests, Sisterhoods,
Their Passover table included everyone on the block,
Long before 'regardless of faith, creed and color' was extant

Even interlopers, those who would beg a meal,
The professional beggars who knocked at ten pm
never went away empty handed,
Any crying child who crossed their path taken in, was restored,
Authors of good night stories that incorporated your daily escapades

Their was no commonality in their separate tales,
Their upbringings were as different as Jupiter and Mars,
But in the telling was their planetary passion released,

His ramrod posture, highlighted by eye twinkling charms,
Germanic, on Saturdays he wore a Homburg and striped pants.
Was oft disturbed by the pressures of the real world,
Never took me to Yankee Stadium.

But to this day, his children are approached by strangers,
Grown men and women now,
Who all say the same thing,
I knew your father.

The where and why of my life is still a mystery to me,
What I will leave behind that is worth cherishing may be  
Less than a zero sum game, but now I see that
Nature trumps nurture, for the story telling gene is
Strong in their offspring, inheritance, both sides.

What they gave me, all their children, was this:

The fearlessness to sign your name
to a public document like this poem,
to do small acts of public service kindness
and thousands of small private one for no thanks,
that lays yourself out, open to snide critique and ridicule,
Above all, tell stories.

The Where/Why of my parents lives'
explains mine somewhat,
or maybe even,
its entirety.  

Feb 2012,  
above the intersection of
Wyoming, Colorado and Utah
Eric Reiter Feb 2013
Love.

It's such an easy word to scoff at.
We are born with our parents
nursing us on it.
With promises of never letting
that well run dry.
We live the rest of our lives
dedicated to finding that love in another person.
To discover that true, pure chemistry with someone.

As much as I hate to admit it
I want all of this and more.
I'm only human.
I just can't break out of this cage.
A cage built on a foundation of
ignorance, Jesus, loneliness, and hate.

That must be what a tiger feels like.
Living everyday enclosed by thick glass walls
watching everyone else live the life you want.
To be able to walk outside
with my fingers interlocked with the person I care about most
Without being stared at
Without being told it's unhealthy
Without having bibles thrown at us.

I'd ask my parents to make me free
But they'd just swallow the key
So I'd stay in there forever.
Because letting me breathe the outside air
would be conceding to what their upbringings told them.
It would be admitting that their baby boy is abnormal.

Somehow they didn't get me the memo
that I can't share my love the same way the normal people can.
That I'll never be able to feel the soft skin of my own child
or be able to hang a piece of paper on my wall
announcing my promise to keep my love forever.

You know, it's not like
I ever wanted to be in here.
I didn't choose to be trapped.
I didn't choose to have my life criticized and nitpicked.
I didn't choose to feel like a pariah.
If there was any choice involved
It certainly wouldn't be this.

I spend my life screaming
and pounding the glass
hoping people hear me but
really wanting to hit hard enough
to shatter some of the glass
and let the shards meet my skin
so I can feel something other than
guilt
shame
and embarrassment.

For now, I just stand hear
Wishing, hoping, needing
Someone to see me.
Someone to hear me.
Someone to find a key
And free me.
martin challis Mar 2015
Like you perhaps I am the heathen who sifts through the
hazes of a blood soul sentence. One that is forged in an emptiness
that cannot fill or find space between remembering or forgetting past entrenchments.

With the shackles and shapings of exemplary upbringings, coupled with history's ancestral machining hands I am defined by, predictable to and quintessentially fixed in most certain consciousness.

My thoughts are parabolas of yearning sent in all directions to past and past participial futures. As each return without geometric certainty they are repeatedly sent again - missives to unknown or perhaps unfriendly oracles: what is known is that all go unanswered.

Perhaps endemic to each lived experience is the perfect folly of presumption that it is possible to rewrite the past. The angel's kindest mercy being to reveal the conundrum for which a state of equilibrium can only be reached by one anointed practice; which is, to accept that transcendence is in and of itself an illusion.

MChallis @ 2015
Lina Banzaca Jul 2017
Why am I not good enough for you?
You don't know my life story.
My upbringings.
My parents.
You don't know the Mother that raised me.
The mother who taught me how to be a decent human being.
The same Mother who's making 81 cents to your dollar.
Why?
Because of what's between her legs.
Why am I not good enough for you?
Maybe its the way I dress.
I'm modest.
I was taught the difference between lingerie and clothing.
I know what is appropriate.
I'm comfortable with myself.
Why do you have to degrade me?
For something as stupid as the genitalia between my thighs.
You discriminate and degrade people.
You don't see us saying, 'We're so sorry, but we regret to inform you, America, simply won't allow a Cheeto to be our PRESIDENT.'
You say that just because of someone's sexuality or gender, they CANNOT join the military.
Well, I don't know about the rest of America, but if someone is willing to fight for our country, that's more honor than anything.
Not like you're volunteering your life to fight for our once, accepting and loving country.
America the free.
Home of the brave.
A dream to most people.
It isn't as great as it seems.
If anything, it shouldn't be a dream to people.
It should be a nightmare.
A nightmare.
Why am I not good enough for you?
Is it because my parents taught me to love whoever I want?
Do you want to judge me for being an open person?
Are you going to degrade me for saying I love both girls and boys equally?
Do you know why?
Because a person...
Is a person.
Maybe my mind isn't as contorted as yours.
Maybe some therapy or medication can help alleviate my sins.
Maybe instead of judging majority of the country, you should judge yourself.
Maybe you should realize, you aren't as good as you think you are.
I'm not a nobel peace prize winner, but I can tell you how to resolve some of our country's problems.
Put a little love in your heart.
Love for all the people.
Love for those who's skin isn't as white as yours.
Love for those who believe love is love.
Love for the people who want to fight for our country.
Love for all those people who aren't good enough.
So I ask of you one more time.
If I am good enough for everyone around me...
Why am I not good enough for you?
#ProtectallLGBT
They told me to write about the family dynamic,
and even though they were careful to say

"The" family dynamic,

I was quite sure they wanted to say

"My" family dynamic.

The way I'm quite sure that when my mother asks if I'm gay,
and if that is the reason I'm sporting a gay pride belly ring,
that she is actually saying,

"I swear to God if you're a **** that's the last straw."

Catholic upbringings seem to only account for politely covering up
hidden agendas, not actually purging them in place of acceptance.

My family dynamic is the blank stare I gave my mother that day.
It is the uncertainty I feel on a daily basis. A constant debate on
whether or not I should send her fragile ideals about me spinning
off their axis, admit to being bisexual. In my mind I always look
her in the eyes and say something along the lines of,

"Don't worry mother, I could never be gay. I enjoy a good hetero ******* too much."

In reality I smile and shake my head.  Leaving her to go on living in a world
where daughters don't have premarital ***, or lose babies, or try to **** themselves.
In a world where her good catholic daughter could never be gay.
Sort of different for me, what do you think?
Devon Baker Aug 2011
Slaughter with fangs that love to incise, 
lust to ring and roar
plastic zips that smother too tighten,
feast on hindered breath takings. 
Pull to gorge against their blessed soulless upbringings. 
It's not terrifying,
not bloodless lucid heart beating, 
steal the latest last of,
butcher and reel till the crazy flees in fear. 

paint splatter smiles,
hang harlot blood stained baby childs.
It's long love lost lusting,
just a carousel killing ride,
a manslaughter ****** scene,
mask me a demon,
kiss me a rotting rose.
For fledgling sake hand me the last shotgun blow.    

Breathe me a reason not to die.
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
Taking your life was the most selfish and selfless thing I have ever done and will ever do. Oliver and I, we shared the mutual consensus that no one in the world had ever loved us as much as we loved each other. Moreover, we understood one another; we shared the commonalty of unstable upbringings, of neglect, and most pertinently, of loneliness.

We’d dually been abused, rejected, and abandoned by those who were supposed to be our caretakers and guardians and parents. Perhaps, that in itself was how we’d grown such an indestructible bond.

And yet.

I saw a glint of a monster inside of you. The previous night. A manifestation of the horrors you’d faced, suddenly channeled through you. From that moment onward, I began to understand the truth. All of the anguish you’d survived may one day define you. One day, the innocence would be gone and in its place, the product of your childhood would be born.

On the last morning of your life, who you were, was living proof of good. Proof that a person could exist so pure, and kind to the very core. The best and most honorable person in my life. The only friend I’d ever known. I wanted to preserve your memory; a perfect relic, never to be tainted by the evil which would one day consume you.

I knew that as you lived, you were the only entity I’d felt genuine compassion for. The only human I’d ever loved. The only person in the whole world who could ever hurt me. That vulnerability ran like
poison through my logic.

And so, I resolved.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Angel Mar 2013
I didn’t sleep last night, not one pathetic moment of lost consciousness-anything to forget; anything for paralysis; still I tick; still I remember. The thought that haunts me like a translucent spirit flying it’s way through my past. My memories tainted with your dark voice, one that would have been smoother without the excess of your choices. I remember sitting in class trying to absorb every word that took an exit directly through your mouth. Driving down the express way of your mind and it’s knowledge. I remember the days we worked so hard together to get to where I am now, and all I have learned. The tiniest of classrooms, the biggest strides were taken inside. The most crucial things you said are simple lessons in life. Such as, to breathe, because the truth is we all forget once in a while. If there was a person I ever thought was perfect it was the person you became when you taught. Was this all a figment of my imagination, this human being? A mask worn, and simply torn off? Or were you once different.
It all started when you stopped showing up for class. How does one tend to learn without another? One does not. The thought occurs to me again, slipping inside of my visual of the past, I cannot think straight. I picked you up in the empty Church parking lot, little did I know you were more vacant than the absence of parked cars around you. Where was the priest that day? Praying for some souls, praying for all souls, he must have forgotten yours. We should have gone inside that Church instead of driving around town, you needed the healing of your soul more than a light lunch. But I refused to acknowledge a higher power when the leaves were turning colors, there was something too logical about those times. Why did I ever pick you up that day? To listen to the things you had to say? I just needed you to fix what was wrong with me, believing you could, after all you had successfully healed what I had thought was broken the year before with your brain. With the things you had to say. Wisdom leaked through the pipes of your head those months, raining out onto the concrete surrounding you. I don’t believe it will ever return; not this late in our lives. It seems so long ago that I could sit in the darkness of the room with high ceilings, a candle in the middle of our circle, with my head down, to pray and cry. To share secrets, to share pain, to share happiness, to share intentions. I lost track of when we stopped having those prayer circles, but the last one I remember was with you, was it you that kept those going? Is the reason I lack strength in the group now because we don’t pray together? Was it always you, and no one ever realize it? It doesn’t matter now.
The wind blew strong, healthy at it’s peak when the earth lay covered with a layer of milky tone. The bracelet lay around my wrist, the one that now is lost, one I will never carry the privilege of owning again. We stood in the cemetery and it had never been so frozen over, why couldn’t you feel the cold? Your coat lay around my shoulders, staring at the tomb that withheld your late friends ashes. Even in the icebox the tree continued to grow with it’s green leaves, nothing could **** it, it was surrounded by dead people. Of course it was inspired to grow through the winter. That tree must have stolen the life out from underneath your skin, because you died in the heat of the moment, when you lost your friend. My teacher lost in the desert, parched of life and feeding on the hottest air. My teacher who turned into my friend who turned into a stranger who turned into thy own enemy.
When you lost yourself I wrote it all down on paper, how the day in the cemetery was the day that saved my life. I’d like to give you the credit, but you wouldn’t take it if I handed it to you on a golden platter. You wouldn’t accept the pedestal I put you up on if it meant life or death. After that day, when you stopped talking to me, I continued to learn from your teachings. What I learned was that disappointment may come in many forms, flesh appealing or earthly upbringings. I remind myself of the day in that Church parking lot every once in a while, how I should have passed you by instead of pulling over. There is a thought that consumes me, eating away at my mind, coming to know that nothing is better than knowing the truth until the truth destroys your perception of perfection in a human being. I pray your breathing soul will rest in peace, you died so long ago.
Written in March of 2012
Despite the differences of skin color
and our cultural upbringings,
we're more than brothers of Mankind -
Technically, we're kin.

Go to the mountain
preserved by ice and snow
where the revelation of Ararat's secret
is available for everyone to know.

For the ark's existence
proves the global flood story is true
and being our brother's keeper...
Is still a right thing to do.

Descended from Noah
are the many races of Man;
see our palms have the same tint -
By a show of hands.



Author Notes:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Santiago Jan 2015
My mother, my father, my friend
The one I truly love until the end
First month first day gave the way
To the sweetest mother
A gifted spirit like no other
Five sisters & thee only brother
All her children love her
Very humble, caring, and preparing
Us for a righteous life
Don't result in vengeance
Instead pray for assistance
Leave it in the Lords hands
Understand impossible
For him it's possible
I love her to the fullest
Gave birth to the illest
She came from Mexico
To give birth to a ****
It's not her fault I'm so crazy
Did her best to raise me
Jalisco from my mother
Tijuana from my father
Aztec blood runs in my veins
My indigenous reigns
I love her teachings,
Her speeches, & upbringings
I love her & no ones above her
A blessing I'm confessing
She did her best
It's up to me to finish the rest
Happy birthday Mi AMA
Ramona te amo
Con toda el alma
Eener Nospmoht Feb 2014
Our past reeks of week-old salad dressing.
     Don't tell me you're not intrigued.
My health has always been secondary to the glares
     you send my way.
Your love is my tangy dipping sauce;
     too much but never enough.
Super-size me, friend.
I haven't the time to wait for your fickle
     transparencies.
Love me now or love me never.
You never shared your goldfish but I understood your
     upbringings and nibbled on heartache.
An expiration date halts me not. I am too willing for
     your passions and fail to excuse myself.
It takes two to tango but one to dougie.
     Explain or I shall leave at once.
I dance alone, and darling,
     my fries are getting cold.
The microwave does not
     suffice.
Jason Cirkovic May 2018
I just want to say good luck
To my past lives
Who now have future guys without me
I hope they treat you great
And wont procrastinate
When you need them to take out their dang socks out of the dryer.
And maybe stop leaving the window open in your mom's minivan
    
I rotate myself like a rotisserie chicken
So I can feel the burn of emptiness left in me.
I turn and turn
Until my mood is dire and my humor drier
From this mirage of hope.
That dissipates to the back of what's left of my crowded mind.

I find myself looking at wedding rings in pawn shops.
Knowing that I will eventually find myself back
At this exact counter adding a total to the line of wedding rings.
Like my parents before,
They bring me a bringing of upbringings
On how to fall into dislike.
Slamming doors,
Yelling,
Tears,
And talking mad ****.
Are common vocabulary words for my ears
And it make me uncomfortable when it is absent.

Like this isnt right…

So I just want to say good luck.
To my future wives
Who want to live life without me
I’m sure i'll prepare you
For next guy you’ll date
And for every guy you'll hate
Kathleen May 2015
Sweet Refraining Mindnumber,
In the instances when neither speak, there is a feeling somewhat narcotic and lackadaisical.
I tend to forget the solidity of words and some often slip between cracks in my teeth.
Try not to ponder these odd things while I comb my fingers through trifle upbringings,
though you might, and I might as well, raise questions in my head of dreams I've had and ones you've witnessed.
ALamar Jan 2017
Self infliction locked behind the doors of self-oppression
We trick ourselves into believing we cant leave our upbringings
We dream but we're too afraid to chase
Neville Johnson Jan 2019
Love is easy
Relationships aren’t
So Kathy said to Jim
They split up after a couple of years of marriage
Money problems
Youth
Tough upbringings
They stayed apart for dozens of years
No contact
A couple of marriages in the interim for each of them
After the last divorce Kathy went online
Examining her life
Trying to figure things out
Looking to find peace
A few emails later they met in a cafe
Both let down their guard
Neither expected to rekindle their romance
But that’s what happened
The magic was back
Their kids were astonished
It all turned out fine
Love heals they learned
It’s all about respect
Eleven years later
Their love still grows
winter sakuras Aug 2016
Why there are such things as drugs for pleasure
I will never understand
for at some point in life
we are all high
peering down and hollering from the peak
of the mountain
whether with fear or anger or love
or life's great psychotic events
Then we are low and empty
as a hollow oil drum
swaying in the darkness and savoring
the bits of peace
or bitterness
or sourness
or life

A being might seem
as if it can it be heartless
cold and empty
undesirable and unforgiving
but at some point in life
it will locate the sturdy
undisturbed dark metal gate
and the floodwaters will
discover their massive and livid strength
and flood until
the being can decide
whether it wants to feel or not

There will be some point in life
that our suppressed souls
our anguished minds
our lives in secret unexpressed turmoil
will make itself suddenly known
whether it be the decision to
****
hate
love
live
die
for we all happen to be the ones
with scarred upbringings
blurred lines and dark pathways
the shoulder to be leaned on
the mind to be lashed at
the eyes to stare coldly at
the heart to be stabbed at

We will all at some point
flood the gates and
let the world
acknowledge us
as the beings
whether great
horrid
dead
or alive
it has made us turn out to be.
It's not your fault.
Arfah Afaqi Zia Jul 2016
Memories heart rendering
puts a closure to all upbringings and my whereabouts
a redemption of thoughts,

Our togetherness
our time spent together
triggers in emotions and feelings of bliss n' joy,


Years and years of our friendship
the ongoing occurrences
our past, our present and our future, exultant,

Prayers and support
ebullient meetings and exquisite pictures
compels only flashbacks,
  

In unison
we sing songs of our bond
in euphoria we fight the world, two against all.
I love my best friend to bits. She means the world to me <3
Joseph Martinez Apr 2015
I am here with you
my brothers and sisters
isolated though we are
like islands in a vast sea
The poisons of our upbringings
need not taint the future
there is still time
there is no such thing as time
We were born into a lie
constructed of greed and blood
but the rich living mystery
it is incorruptible
It is waiting
fresh as the snow gathered on the lawn
In this cold Michigan winter
The time has come
to break the cycle of decay
of endless pain and insanity
to control the lust
which tarnishes
the gentle offerings of beauty & love
handed down by Nature
There is no better time to be alive
Than right now
In this moment
Candyokumu Feb 2022
In a perfect world right now, I would be happy. But I’m not…surprise
I met a guy I suppose…I don’t remember much of our encounter only that I was speaking too fast. I was too nervous and he was calm
You might wonder huh…why didn’t you have everything under control. I’m not sure.
Is it because he was white? Is it because his whiteness was too cliché to my dark skin?
Is it because the stares nerved me in a way I haven’t experienced before or is it because of the assumptions of what my countrymen would think mattered most to me?
I think it’s because I went on the internet today and my heart broke dear reader…I wanted to understand what I was doing wrong.
It turns out this person and I are too different…different seems like an insult to me right now.  I’m not supposed to feel this way. Different is not a bad thing I suppose?
Okay, I’m mumbling at this point.
We are culturally different he says…we have to step one stone at a time and mind his feelings. he wasn’t raised in an open way in his country. Who will mind my feelings? Wasn’t I raised differently too? I don’t understand. I don’t understand what I did wrong
Our brains are different. I hate this word now…different.
It has such a distance to it. Separation, aloofness.
Dear reader, I went online to read about his people. He checked all the boxes.
I’m sad every time he doesn’t text back after 8 hours…8 hours. In my country, 8 hours is enough for a person to develop feelings of hatred and lack of affection? I’m not sure.
I met a man dear reader but my mind tells me I haven’t. it fights every day with my heart. Leave… read the signs…don’t be patient. He doesn’t like you.
Dear reader this man is very affectionate in person. It baffled me the first time we met. I’m not used to such kind of affection from my people, the tenderness. The small kisses on my face and forehead
Yuck, I sound like a 20-year-old girl who has never experienced such emotion before.
But oh, dear reader you should see us discussing everything under the sun…where did I I go wrong
Why am I sad?
I don’t understand why I feel this way.
Is it because he is different?
Oh, how I hate the word different.
It says I should take initiative, approachable manner with him, take my time with him if I really like him. Why? why all the effort?
Different cultural upbringings
Language barrier. We both speak English dear reader.
I must confess. I am a bit drunk
The author Charles Bukowski used to be drunk half the time he wrote his books Not a role model. But I like him
Why should someone make me question myself so?
Why should someone also make me feel like I get him immensely, I get all his books and politics?
I don’t know what I am writing
I might be overreacting dear reader but what should I do?
Ignoring a being who texts you back at odd hours of the night and morning is difficult for me dear reader. But what should I do???
What should I do if he has the prettiest eyes? okay, I’m lying here. His eyes scare the living hell out of me.
They remind me of a snake. Green eyes and speckled yellow in them.
I’m sorry if he replies to my texts with indifference and I rush to reply to them. He is too interesting for my liking dear reader
What does it even mean when someone calls you cute? So vague. I have never liked the word cute or beautiful.
I am foolish dear reader; did I miss out on an opportunity or something. Did he get tired of me?
They are known for being overly nice. On the surface. But what does it mean when people say they are aloof ish to the extent of being mean? They are used to a close-knit circle of family and friends? They do not like strangers or foreigners?
I’d expected him to be different dear reader. He has traveled and met many different people
Why is he still tied to his country’s understandable archaic upbringings?
I’m so confused.
My heart has betrayed me, dear reader.
And for a man. I am very disappointed. I am disappointed because in a way we made a pact with this body of mine you see.
Men are not to be part of our heartache. Not ever not anymore
But I like him. I like him, dear reader
And I hope he texts me soon. So, I can delete all this foolishness and go back to normal. Go back to the girl who affected and controlled the emotions of men…. not the other way round
Do you think he is aware of how much I bore him so? Or he has foreseen I will fall too soon?
I think it’s the alcohol dear reader. These feelings do not belong to me.
I refuse to accept them and I hope to rid of them as soon as possible
Lovesick. My heart is lovesick
Oh, **** I’m 20 years old again I suppose. I hope I return to 27 soon enough
Goodbye
Faye Jun 2019
May we forgive the ones who refuse to see past our faults and our flaws.
May we forgive the ones who make us feel like the results of our upbringings are our faults and ours alone.
May we forgive the ones who make us feel as though we are the heaviest burden to carry.
May we forgive the ones who have wronged us.
May we forgive the ones who have beaten and broken us,
and
May we forgive the ones who struggle to see our hearts.
SCHEDAR Mar 2023
Turbulent upbringings
often teach one
to write out the storm
Michael Marchese Sep 2018
Remembering back
To when I first arrived
Couldn’t speak, but to say
I was grateful to be
A brand new addition
To your family
And 2 months it’s been now
Growing fond and at ease
In your presence, your company
Meals you made me
All seemed to come naturally
As the ferenji uncertainty held
In two distant and different upbringings Dispelled
Of the looming rejection
In human connection
And comfort I felt
Without fail or despair
As your home became my
Latest place I could rest
Until really goodbye
Michael Marchese Jul 2018
Early morning mired
In drizzling language class
Passed first assessments
Though fluency still I lack
Practicing out on the road
With the local pastoralists
Kids flocking to me in droves
Won’t let go of this
Hand without money
Though reaching to hold
Tiny beggars’ five digits
Smooth, ***** and cold
As beside me a barefoot
Joy bundle abounds
With a pace to match mine
On the hard, rocky ground
But my feet unperturbed
By just do it disparity
Different upbringings
Though similar clarity
Youth in full motion
Freed, careless in stride
Growing up in the
African sky
Countryside
Chapter 9:  Big Brothers, Big Sisters, Friendship & Mentoring

On the first day of school, every first grader was assigned a ‘big brother’ or ‘big sister’ from the 8th grade.  These were our designated guidance counselors and caretakers during the entire term of the first year.  This was something the 8th graders took seriously and a responsibility that not every 8th grader was given.  If you were lazy or irresponsible, this honor would go to someone else.  The care of these younger children was a serious matter, and you treated the 1st grader in your charge like your younger brother or younger sister at home.

You duties entailed number one, making sure that they had a safe way to get to school.  If both of their parents worked, a rarity, you would try, if it wasn’t too far, to meet them at their house and walk them to school.  Most students lived within walking distance. By today’s standards, the 30-minute walk many of us had would seem too far away.  Back then, the walk to and from school was one of the highlights of our day.

It was on these treks, back and forth, that you oftentimes experienced your greatest adventures.  You would try to find a new, and shorter, way each time and always different from the one you had taken the day before.  In reality, there was only one way home, but we dawdled and zig-zagged, and cut between different houses, so it always seemed like our navigation was different.  Every one of us fancied ourselves as Meriwether Lewis —blazing new trails for others to follow.

When walking home with one of our ‘charges,’ it was straight home by the quickest and safest route. In the morning, for safety, we tried to take the pathway that would have the least car traffic so our younger ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ would be safe and not afraid.

Once at school, we helped them put away their coats and get their desks in order.  We also asked them if they were having any trouble with their ABC’s or numbers. If they were, we would work on those things on our way to and from school.

Once ensuring their safety, our next most important job was to instill in them a knowledge of what would be happening over the next 8 years.  What better example could there be than 8th graders who were completing the journey, and in 9 short months would be graduating and heading off to the various high schools that served our area.

We reveled in the success of these younger charges, as they learned to read and eventually count as high as 100 before their first year would end. Often, they would paint us special pictures, depending on what we liked, and based on the stories we told them.  These became some of our most prized possessions, and over 50 years later, I still have mine prominently displayed.  

What we did, more than anything else with these little people, was share.  We shared our time, our laughter, and our concern for them, and were rewarded with love and admiration in return.  Yes love, the kind of love that needs no reason or explanation, one that is given freely and without asking, and a love once received that was so special that we couldn’t wait to give it back in return.

                                 It was a love we shared

We loved watching these little kids going through the same magical process that we did and hearing Sister Rita Marie tell the same stories, with the same inflection and emotion in her voice, as when she had told them to us so very long ago.  They also got to share, through the power of her instruction, the knowledge of what true value was in life.  She taught each one of them in a special way that was tailored for their own individual needs, emphasizing always that what was given away would come back 100 fold, and how to be a true friend.

We reinforced the same lessons to our young charges at recess and on the way home in the afternoon. We knew they would again hear the same things from their parents over dinner that evening (does anyone remember family dinners), and the chain of connection that we shared would only solidify and get stronger.

                        We Really Were ‘Parents In Absentia’

Like the relationship between parents and their children, the accomplishments of these little ones, and their occasional misdeeds, reflected on us.  We took great pride in their victories and we suffered with them when things didn’t go well.  They struggled, they learned, and they played together, all the while knowing they would never be alone.

               It All Worked Because We Were Willing To Share

This willingness to share didn’t happen by accident or osmosis. It was handed down, and then taught, in a system run by highly principled women who knew its intrinsic value and what it would ultimately mean for all of us.  

Whenever I meet another person who went to parochial school, or in most cases any public grammar school during the 1950’s, there is an instant kinship and connection.  After 15 minutes, we usually end up finishing each other’s sentences and marveling at how identical our upbringings were.  No matter how far removed our childhoods were geographically, it made no difference. The lessons the nuns taught were universal in their message and roadmaps to a better life.

What gets shared among young children today?  The desire for more of what they couldn’t get enough of yesterday — and will still yearn for tomorrow?  In the abject isolation of a destructive video game, or violent TV program, they withdraw further and further inside of themselves, missing much of the beauty that is only brought out by others. In the absence of cell phones, I-pads, and video games, we personally got to know each other, and in many, if not most cases, those friendships we made are still strong today. It takes another human being to bring out the best in you, and vice-versa.

              Not A Machine Or Unfeeling Scion Of Technology

The obesity of today’s younger generation is caused by inactivity and a series of lazy and uninformed choices. It is driven by a search for temporary comfort and gratification at the expense of their health and self-esteem.

I’m sure, looking back 50 years from now, we will have discovered that diseases like Obesity, Diabetes, Autism, ADHD, and Anxiety & Depression, were all at least partially caused by an inactive, poorly nourished, and degenerative lifestyle.  

We couldn’t build a bird house, assemble a scrapbook, or put together a model airplane without the glue or adhesive that held it all together.  We faced many challenges and obstacles on our journey toward 8th grade, but we encouraged each other, respected the rules, learned to laugh at ourselves, admonished the stragglers when needed, and most importantly — did it together.

The Glue We Had Was A Set Of Core Values That Proved Their Worth When Times Got Tough




Chapter 10: TV & The Messages It Held Inside

My generation, the Baby Boomers, was the first to be raised, at least in part, by television. The magical gray box held wonders beyond compare for a 5 year old fixated in its presence. You would marvel at the places it would take you, as it became your special nanny, while your parents were off tending to the chores in the ‘real world.’

Like all mediums of information, The T.V. was neither inherently good nor bad.  That depended on the intention of the programmers behind the camera. As young children, we experienced the final result, and in 1955 that result was almost always good.  The messages the T.V. brought were mainly those of accepted, time tested, family values, and our parents were comfortable and confident letting us watch by ourselves.

Back then, the message always ended with the good guy winning and the cowboy wearing the white hat saving the day.  The one’s wearing the black hats were always the villains, and implicitly we knew this when they first appeared on screen.  The good guy’s stuck together in our T.V. shows, and the bad guys were those who didn’t hold to the accepted social order (values) and wandered off in search of self-interest by breaking the law, creating havoc, and usually getting caught and then punished by shows end.  The message of these early shows reflected the shared values we had as a society and only served to reinforce what we were already being taught in school and at home.

I can remember my mother and father coming into the living room as I was watching re-runs of the ‘Our Gang Comedy’s’ from the 1930’s.  They were among my very favorites, and my parents would sit down with me and watch them too.  They would then relive all over again their childhoods during the Great Depression and tell me over and over how much that series meant to them when times were so tough.  The characters were called ‘The Little Rascals’ and had names like Alfalfa, Spanky, Porky and Buckwheat and always got into some kind of mischief.  They usually got caught, resulting in their acknowledging the errors of their ways, and learned a great lesson in the process. In many ways, they were as much a ‘morality tale’ as any told previously or since and a stark contrast to what the negative on-screen ‘entertainment’ provides for our kids today.

According to film historian Leonard Maltin, “Our Gang put boys, girls, whites, and blacks together in a group as equals.”  To be equal, we had to agree upon and share in what makes us that way.  Back then we had no problem doing that.  

                                             As equals  

‘Our Gang’ was comprised of some upper middleclass kids, but mainly poor and black kids all playing together. In playing and seeking out common goals, they set aside any petty or surface differences in their pursuit of adventure and fun.  They may have come from different economic or social circumstances, but they realized, when playing together, that that’s all that they were. The magic and the adventure of the task at hand superseded any variation in class, color, or social standing. They had much more important things to do than worry about petty differences and spent all of their time playing, planning, and conspiring as a group.

                        They Had More Important Things To Do!

The images on T.V. came to us in black and white, and the messages they carried inside were black and white too.  No confusion or embarrassment in trying to be ‘politically correct’ like today. Their messages were linked both spiritually and ethically to the ones we learned outside when the T.V. was turned off.

Shows like Lasssie, Rin Tin Tin, Gene Autry, The Lone Ranger, Howdy Doody, and then Superman, all came with a message that if the right choices were made, good would triumph over evil.  We felt better after watching these shows, and again our parents would often break away from what they were doing and watch them with us.

                            Another Thing We Shared Together!

With our decoder rings and coonskin caps, we cheered for our heroes on the 11 inch screen.  We knew that they might struggle for a while, but in the end would always win the day. They let us know that the same thing applied in our personal lives as well.  I remember going to see Gene Autry in Northeast Philadelphia when I was 8 years old. Gene Autry, along with Roy Rogers, were the biggest cowboy stars of my young generation. Gene had his horse Champion, and the Son Of Champion, with him at the outdoor demonstration.  

Gene took the time to walk the entire crowd and tried his best to talk to every child who stood outside the corral.  His questions to each kid were always the same … “Are you doing good in school?” and “Are you listening to your mom and dad?’  I left that day knowing that my on-screen hero was real, and the things that he told me, and encouraged me to do on his program, were things he believed in his heart.  I also knew he had served his country bravely during World War 2 when many stars in Hollywood hadn’t.  He represented the best of all the things, and we all wanted to be like him.

Our on-screen heroes also encouraged us to have piggy banks and to save our penny’s, explaining to us the magic of doing the right thing every day (saving) and how quickly it would add up.  They also reinforced that good things take time, and that immediate gratification was the imposter of the short-sighted. We filled our piggy banks by having paper routes and redeeming used soda bottles and didn’t ask our parents for the money, knowing that they hadn’t asked theirs.  

When that bank got so full, that it wouldn’t accept another dime, you  knew you were the wealthiest person in the world, or at least on Rockingham Road where I lived.  Your parents proudly accompanied you to the local bank where you had opened your first passbook savings account with your name on it (Mom and Dads too).  At birthdays, and holidays, you might have some relatives who wanted to ‘invest’ in your future success by making your passbook even heavier with the magic it contained.

Every kid in the 1950’s knew the story of ‘The Tortoise And The Hair,’ and understood that it was by continual effort, not just a grandstanding initial burst out of the starting blocks, that true progress was made.  It was the choice of putting aside the temptations of the present, and contributing to something larger and more important, that they taught us on T.V.  We all knew that the value in saving, and planning for the future, would override any temporal persuasion and allow us to eventually accomplish much bigger things.

                  Again, These Messages We Got From Our T.V.’s

Just think of the symbols and messages that exist on T.V. and in Video Games for kids today.  Violent action figures that continue to **** and maim, basing their success on how much damage they can do.  These violent messages reach children today at a young and impressionable age. Unless parents are conscientious and extremely vigilant, the young child is damaged severely before he or she is even given the chance to understand that the world can, and should, be a different and more uplifting place.

Occasionally, our T.V Shows would deal with tragedy and even death, but it was presented in a spirit of hope and renewal and a belief in the future.  I remember how I felt watching ‘Old Yeller’ when the dog was shot after contracting rabies while defending the boys from a wolf and had to be put down.  I was sad for days until it slowly started to sink in.  The message was that sometimes life isn’t fair, but we can be, and that doing the right thing in certain situations was the hardest thing of all.

                    And That Made It All The More Worth Doing!

Rin Tin Tin, a tan and black German Shepherd, was my personal favorite.  He was the troop mascot in a cavalry unit, and Rinty was always saving some trooper from an Indian attack or rescuing someone who was either lost or being held prisoner in the American West.  Rin Tin Tin embodied the moral message that the army and the settlers shared in common, and he proudly served to enforce these values when called upon by his master.
Rinty was both loyal and obedient, courageous and brave …traits we all tried to emulate in our everyday lives.  

He also knew the difference between right and wrong because that is what he had been taught.  We all loved and wanted to be like him and trained our own dogs to be at least partially as heroic and adventuresome as Rinty was.  As I got older, I always had German Shepherds as my personal dogs.  In real life, they share most of the qualities, and nobility of character, that Rin Tin Tin personified on screen.

In many ways, we love dogs so much because of the purity of their character.  They are totally loyal to their masters, and would in most cases die in the protection of those that they love. They often give up their own interests, in the pursuit of deferring to their masters, and want nothing more than to serve something, or someone, they see as bigger than themselves. They truly are man’s best friend!

                  And T.V. Portrayed Them Exactly That Way

Whether watching ‘Sky King,’ ‘Sgt Preston Of The Yukon,’ or ‘Daniel Boone,’ I never saw any cross-legged kid, sitting in front of the T.V., confused as to what the message was in the show he was watching. We all cheered together, laughed together, and cried together, based on the plot at hand because we all shared in the values within the message that was showing on screen.  The good guys were always good, and the bad guys always bad.  No matter how desperate the situation got in one of those shows, we always knew that good would win out in the end.  It was in this spirit, of sending a positive message of hope, that the T.V. shows during my childhood were at their best.

Imaging what a young person watching a show today, laced with *** and violence, must be thinking.  He or she can’t help but come away from that show diminished and in less control of themself than before. The only value in T.V. today is one shared by the parents.  Many parents today use television and I-pads to keep their kids occupied, and out of their ‘hair,’ while they check their emails and watch even more violent and sexually explicit programming thinking, in error, that they are spiritually immune from its negative effects.

If you have children of your own, and no parental controls on your T.V.’s, … then shame on you.  If you allow your children to watch T.V., play video games, or with I-pads, at their friend’s houses without the same controls, then I echo the sentiment.  Children grow up fast enough as it is without having the very core of their childhood ripped away from them by these violent and destructive electronic pariahs.  In many ways, T.V. — and its electronic counterparts — are the great progenitor of the downward moral spiral that we seem to be on.

My head is neither in the clouds nor do I live in a world of fantasy … in most ways I am a realist.  The realities of the world today I am all too familiar with, but I am unwilling to anoint them with unlimited power over our children in a capitulation that there is nothing we can do to fight back.

When young children, and teenagers, bring guns into our schools, with mass murders and suicides the result of their misguidance, what does this tell us about their state of mind and what they see when they look into the future?  As young children, we had heard the stories about Nagasaki and Hiroshima and the devastating results those two bombs caused.  We also knew they were dropped with a higher purpose, and in the end saved lives.  Invading Japan, which would have been the only other alternative, would have resulted in many more lives being lost on both sides.  We understood their purpose, and we also understood the difference between self-protection and preservation and wanton destruction and violence.

As horrible as it was to think about what those Japanese went through in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we understood why it had to be done.  I don’t think anyone, including the confused and misguided young person with the gun in their hands, understands why someone enters a place of learning and starts indiscriminately shooting at everyone and in all directions.  A person like that can’t share the same value for human life that we all like to believe we share.  A person like that has had their moral barometer and compass shattered inside them. They are running sociopathically amok — devoid of any empathy for others — or sense of right and wrong.

People like this don’t just happen. They are created in an environment of abandonment, moral confusion, and despair. In many ways, the Columbine shootings were done by someone feeling even more helpless than his unfortunate victims did on that sad and tragic day.  

The television of today puts kids in these violent and destructive situations on screen.  If they are left unsupervised, the lines between fantasy and reality can easily become blurred, and over time these negative images pile up inside of them until one day the pressure becomes so great that they snap, hurting not only innocent victims, but themselves.  

Our TV programs in the 1950’s were an extension of our parents, our teachers, and our religious instructors.  They were a positive reinforcement and the best example of what the medium could be.  As has been said many times … “Art is a reflection of the society of its time,” and our time (in the 1950’s) was reflected in the most positive and uplifting light by the things that we watched.

What eventually happened to TV is what happened to our society in general.  By not sharing the same value systems that created those great programs, we’ve allowed our world to become polarized and divided with our heels dug in. In our misguided defense of what is politically correct, we have allowed the perpetrators of wrong to sit equally, and sometimes as overlord, at the table with those who are trying to do the right thing.  

To make matters worse, through misguided legislators and organizations like the ACLU, we pass laws and give legal rights to the creators of this violent and perverted programming.  As the famous comic strip character ‘Pogo’ said in the 1950’s …
    
                   “We Have Met The Enemy — And He Is Us!”

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