Monday, February 26, 2007

Interpretation
Culture, sex, age and education or lack of it, all play apart in how we interpret everything from the experiences in our life, to the books we read, to the current situations that cross our path.
I was amazed at the varied ways that my writing was analyzed and whether they were seeing my intended personal vision. In everyone is placed a seed of thought, how that seed grows, and what is gained depends on where the person stands on life’s platform.


Five children, one family and the same chaos and yet how each of us was effected, was quite different. My brother felt a disconnection with our parents, it was definitely in his mind, betrayal. His punishments were bizarre and his calm disposition was ruffled as he was made to feel inferior for not being aggressive. Dressed in girls clothing and kneeling on rock salt for hours. “ If you want to act like a sissy, look like one”. He was a artist with untrained creativity. I would sit late on Saturday night,the only night we were allowed up late, as he would sketch my picture and the little freckles across my nose. His steadiness of hand and his patience,created amazing pictures.

My eldest sister, she took the position of mediator, judge and terminator, small and stature, she was nicknamed tiny. Yet she became extraordinary protective. To walk in her shadow was to feel no fear, as she did what was necessary to protect her young siblings. Whether it was verbal
insult or physical threat, she without thought stood between danger and safety.


Each child victimized in different ways, left an un-glossed reflection upon the darkness of the night. It had taken almost forty years or more before we would ever share in the stories that had taken place in our lives. Each story was just a bit different depending on who was reciting it. In one set of eyes a hero, another a victim, caretaker, timid, strong, broken.

The only thing I am really sure of is that no matter what the interpretation, of each situation the outcome was the same. Survival, did they survive? I am not sure about that, I see in them a heart, shielded by the coldness. I saw the innocence of childhood swept up in the wind, I felt the pain as the first seeds of insecurity and fear were placed in each of us.

When the wind blows, the cradle will fall,
I don’t think they meant that literally......

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Beautiful Blog!

Matty said...

I love your writing although it makes me so sad. I came from a very large family of 11,,,and although we were dirt poor, we didn't have physical abuse or mental abuse, and we did have some happy memories.
It makes me wonder how all your family turned out, and were they able to break away from it,,,or were they abusers as well?
Today, children have more of a voice, but still abuse goes on.
It's a form of healing to be able to write of your past. I hope you are happier now.

Children with out voices said...

Thank You Matty for your kind words.
My brother had no children, and that was probably best,he was violent with his wives and unlike the days of silence he spent time in prison for it. My eldest sister, had one child who is her heaven and though no physically abusive, he probably saw way more then he should. My second born sister didnt fair so well, she died at a very young age, from a food eating disorder. My youngest sister and very little contact. Alcohol became her crutch and not sure how that reflected on her children.
Am I happier now? I think I have always been pretty optmistic of a person, but the demons that we fight sometimes are not in the past, and I find that when I am reaching out and helping others and talking that I am at my happiest. I am by nature a people person and their engergy fuels me.

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