This is an amazing poem. I especially like the phrase "incandescent rage." When I was teaching, I was always saddened by adults (who as children had been savagely abused by adults) who still believed in (and celebrated) the use of violence as a means of "teaching" children and inspiring their trust.
Your poem clarifies that abuse and violence has very few boundaries. Wonderful writing as usual!
Fan-fucking-tastic. Wow. Cuts right to the bone. The notion that ‘white people’ are all rich and privileged and have easy lives is as silly as saying all ‘black people’ or ‘Indian people’ are oppressed and poor. Thanks for pointing this out, and doing it extremely elegantly. ❤️❤️🙏
Great poem. I was lucky with my parents, my father was patient and loving, My mom loved us, but was a W.A.S.P. Jewish mom. Guilt being a oft used tool. Looking back I can recognize classmates that were obviously subjected to various forms of abuse. I never had a clue what I could do about it. Probably because I didn't experience it. Even with that being said, I ended up with a heavy load I carried for many years. Fortunately I found a way to unload that. Thanks again for more wonderful words for me to remember
I think people who traumatize others are created, not born. What experiences led to the trauma that created that bastard? Didn't that person perhaps also deserve to live in a world without his bastard?
I feel like rage is one emotion we share in America. I have been in a hospital setting for weeks now, away from steaming intersectional rage for now. It feels good. I don’t want to go back. Does it mean I have to live in a remote cave?
When I was a kid, there was a white family who lived across the courtyard from us. On many occasions late at night, the father would be lying in the gutter or on the sidewalk, drunk and passed out where he was barely missed by my grandfather's car as he was coming back from work at 3am. The kids faces the morning after...
Just yesterday I was rewriting a course description and found myself trying to avoid the word "intersectional" and that left me thinking about that word and others when they become political. It's funny to think of words having a life "of their own." I use quotes because I guess the life can be taken out of them...
That is lovely and tragic. I wonder if teenagers could share their pain earlier, across racial lines, revealing their vulnerabilities rather than masking them and wearing a costume of bravado, if bullying might fade away. Loneliness and misunderstanding thrive in silence. Pain separates us and makes us erect barriers that are hard to transcend. How could schools encourage fuller communication so young people might recognize their common ground: even in a melancholy way, it could bring people closer. Poetry helps. Perhaps drama? Words. Language can be both villain and healer but eloquence such as you wield makes the passage through pain possible. The home "fueled by silence" was the saddest line to me.
The older I get, the more it seems that everyone I meet is dragging behind them a life full of pain, disappointment, abuse, sadness, terror and fear. Life lands upon us like a mountain, crushing some, transforming others. I don't know what allows some of us to come out the other side, scars intact, while others are lost. I can only believe that there must be purpose in survival. Here's to every dog left standing.
this is so amazing oh my!
This is an amazing poem. I especially like the phrase "incandescent rage." When I was teaching, I was always saddened by adults (who as children had been savagely abused by adults) who still believed in (and celebrated) the use of violence as a means of "teaching" children and inspiring their trust.
Your poem clarifies that abuse and violence has very few boundaries. Wonderful writing as usual!
Fan-fucking-tastic. Wow. Cuts right to the bone. The notion that ‘white people’ are all rich and privileged and have easy lives is as silly as saying all ‘black people’ or ‘Indian people’ are oppressed and poor. Thanks for pointing this out, and doing it extremely elegantly. ❤️❤️🙏
The Black Snake of Wounded Vanity
https://blacksnakeofvanity.substack.com/
This hits home. I'm grateful to have lived long enough to begin to heal. Thanks so much.
Great poem. I was lucky with my parents, my father was patient and loving, My mom loved us, but was a W.A.S.P. Jewish mom. Guilt being a oft used tool. Looking back I can recognize classmates that were obviously subjected to various forms of abuse. I never had a clue what I could do about it. Probably because I didn't experience it. Even with that being said, I ended up with a heavy load I carried for many years. Fortunately I found a way to unload that. Thanks again for more wonderful words for me to remember
I think people who traumatize others are created, not born. What experiences led to the trauma that created that bastard? Didn't that person perhaps also deserve to live in a world without his bastard?
To think trauma is the great unifier across so many lines
I feel like rage is one emotion we share in America. I have been in a hospital setting for weeks now, away from steaming intersectional rage for now. It feels good. I don’t want to go back. Does it mean I have to live in a remote cave?
When I was a kid, there was a white family who lived across the courtyard from us. On many occasions late at night, the father would be lying in the gutter or on the sidewalk, drunk and passed out where he was barely missed by my grandfather's car as he was coming back from work at 3am. The kids faces the morning after...
Yes, all the good, bad, and in-between happens at the 7-11 and at Cumberland Farms in every town and city in the country.
This is *tonic* intersectionality. Good stuff, Sherman.
This intersectionality is important to highlight. We are all more similar than different...
Just yesterday I was rewriting a course description and found myself trying to avoid the word "intersectional" and that left me thinking about that word and others when they become political. It's funny to think of words having a life "of their own." I use quotes because I guess the life can be taken out of them...
That is lovely and tragic. I wonder if teenagers could share their pain earlier, across racial lines, revealing their vulnerabilities rather than masking them and wearing a costume of bravado, if bullying might fade away. Loneliness and misunderstanding thrive in silence. Pain separates us and makes us erect barriers that are hard to transcend. How could schools encourage fuller communication so young people might recognize their common ground: even in a melancholy way, it could bring people closer. Poetry helps. Perhaps drama? Words. Language can be both villain and healer but eloquence such as you wield makes the passage through pain possible. The home "fueled by silence" was the saddest line to me.
I too am glad the bastard is dead, sad but true.
The older I get, the more it seems that everyone I meet is dragging behind them a life full of pain, disappointment, abuse, sadness, terror and fear. Life lands upon us like a mountain, crushing some, transforming others. I don't know what allows some of us to come out the other side, scars intact, while others are lost. I can only believe that there must be purpose in survival. Here's to every dog left standing.