Ok, this isn't really a "parenting" issue, but I know that there are some people here that would probably be able to lend some thoughts on what I'm having trouble with. I have to write a personal response essay in english comparing a poem's meaning to a personal experience of my own. It doesn't actually have to be a factual expereince that I, myself had, I'm allowed to improvise there. This poem is about domestic abuse. I was doing alright until I realised that the speaker in this poem is an observer of what's going on and I don't know how to compare a personal experience of mine to what's happening here. I know that other people here have been in, or witnessed similar things...so if anyone has any advice on where I could go with this, it would be greatly appreciated. Rush Hour by Elaine Terranova Odd, the baby's scabbed face peeking out over the woman's shoulder. The little girl at her side with her arm in a cast, wearing a plain taffeta party dress. The woman herself who is in shorts and sunglasses among commuters in the underground station. Her body that sags and tenses at the same time. The little girl has not once moved to touch her or to be touched. Even on the train, she never turns and says, "Mommy." Sunlight bobs over her blonde head inclining toward the window. The baby is excited now. "Loo, loo, loo, loo," he calls, a wet crescendo. "He's pulling my hair," the little girl at last cries out. A kind man comes up the aisle to see the baby. He starts at those rosetters of blood and wants to know what's wrong with him. The woman says a dog bit him. "It must have been a big dog then," "Oh, no. A neighbor's little dog." The man says, "I hope they put that dog to sleep." The woman is nearly pleading. "It was an accident. He didn't mean to do it." The conductor, taking tickets, asks the little girl how she broke her arm. But the child looks out to the big, shaded houses. The woman says, "She doesn't like to talk about that." No one has seen what is behind her own dark glasses. She pulls the children to her. Maybe she is thinking of the arm raised over them, its motion that would begin like a blessing.
All I can think of is the children I see everyday, the ones that are docile and oddly calm for their ages. Beaten, or screamed at, into submission. Made into perfect angels, with no imagination or drive to explore, all ready beaten. And the screams of the parents that speak volumes and generations of screams, of hurt, and unshown love. I don't even want to get into my own experiences.
Poor kids I thankfully, was not raised around abuse to anything even close to that extent. Maybe abuse in a neglecting sense, but not physical or demeaning abuse. Sorry to not have a genuine reply, this just made me sad to think of all the poor kids out there who I cant help.
have you ever been at a grocery store or restaurant and a mom or dad was just screaming and berating a child or telling a child to "shut up" ... (imagine saying "shut up" to a 2 year old?) ... and you were like, "man that's mean ... that's just a little child" ... if you haven't seen that or experienced that, they you don't live in america and good for you ... but probably everyone in america has seen a child being abused in front of them ... maybe not with physical abuse, but the emotional and mental abuse is just as deep and disturbing ... always stand up for the child and say something ... that is child abuse ... compare that experience with the poem and you will connect with the feelings that you felt when you witnessed it first hand.
how wonderful for you that you've never lost your temper and yelled at a child. The rest of us are human, and know that not everyone has good days every day, and we don't judge other parents because we know how hard it can be, especially with a toddler who is pushing all our buttons and knows just how to make our heads explode. The most abusive parents I know in real life are those who want the world to think they are soooo perfect. It's what happens when nobody is around that is so scary. And the effects on a child of a parent who wants everyone to think she's the best mom in the world, who never owns up to her mistakes, whose children are always perfectly well behaved like little robots, that's what's really really scary. Kirstyn, try retelling the same story, in your own words. Maybe choose a different point of view, like that of the little girl, or the mother? But if you haven't been in that sort of situation, be real careful about what you think might be going on in their heads. It's probably safer to stay an observer instead.... hmmm.... I couldn't do it, I'd have to find a different poem.
I don't know if I'm going to be able to do this assignment....not only is it a hard subject, but I'm so confused on where to start. My life when my parents were married is what this poem reminded me of. My dad had a really bad temper...I remember one night, he came home from work pissed right off, went downstairs and punched holes in all the walls, then put me up against one of the walls and threw a plate right above my head. I also remember nights when I would get up and watch the shadows of the furniture flying toward my mom that my dad would throw at her. I just didn't know how those experiences would be the same as that speaker in the poem. Then I got to thinking about all the sad things that I have seen while working as a cashier at different grocery stores. You see some really sad things sometimes...but that makes me even more stuck. This is just a really hard issue to get into writing about.... On the other hand, I found another poem totally the opposite that maybe someone could lend a hand with. It's called "Hope" It hovers in dark corners before the lights are turned on it shakes sleep from it's eyes and drops from mushroom gills it explodes in the starry heads of dandelions turned sages it sticks to the wings of green angles that sail from the tops of maples It sprouts in each occulated eye of the many eyed potato it lives in each earthworm segment surviving cruelty it is the motion that runs from the eyes to the tail of a dog, it is the mouth that inflates the lungs of the child that has just been born. It is the singluar gift we cannot destroy in ourselves, the argument that refutes death, the genius that invents the future, all we know of God. It is the serum which makes us swear nto to betray one another; it is in this poem, trying to speak. I thought that this one was nice. Although, I also thought about trying to write an anti-thesis to it since hope doesn't necessarily mean life. I thought that a mother's or father's perspective about this would help. I can't seem to use my head these last few weeks....after all *sings* It's the most stessed-out time/of the year!
