The Child I Was (not exactly a poem)

You don't want to meet the child I was- quiet, bespectacled, and usually alone; at recess, when other kids romped, shrieked, and laughed, I would be sitting under a tree at a safe distance cradling a spiral notebook given to me by one kind teacher (Mrs. Gould, who lived at the corner of Bock & Kingsway Roads; later in life, I would earn money mowing her hillside lawn) That notebook was my friend; it listened to all my childish worries & complaints; it absorbed my fantasies of a life in which I was strong & brave. Kyle & Kevin, the schoolyard bullies stood in a corner where they snickered & plotted new ways to torment me. One ploy was to incessantly demand ten cents- small change even for me, but if I complied with their demand even once, I would be defeated. My notebook detailed horrible things that might happen to them- ravenous monsters that would stalk their dreams and leave them sweating & trembling in their beds, fearing sleep. Perhaps they're in prison now, stalked by other ravenous monsters... it's a pleasant thought to contemplate... You don't want to meet the child I was- raped at ten by a fat sweaty white man, beaten by my mother with a switch plucked from a tree while she imagined I was one of those demons that tormented her own childhood. I don't want to remember the child I was but he is here, inside me, haunting me, pouring out over the pages of a spiral notebook given to me by a kind teacher, Barbara...Sorry this is so raw...I went to a writing workshop this morning where we were asked to write about our childhood. Not a happy topic for me... Written April 12th, 2002 © on Apr 12 2002 04:19 AM PST   10 • 0