The Fourth of July has never been an event that I exclusively look forward to. The idea of being forced into what feels like a war zone isn't so appealing and the fact that we do it for fun kind of disgusts me. Am I the only one who sees fireworks that way? Think about it: searing rockets splitting the sky, explosions surrounding you, random bursts of light and flame engulfing the air...we imitate a war zone! And we do it for fun! Sick. Really sick.
By the time it was dark enough to do fireworks, I was exhausted. Earlier, my family had hiked at Sundance and we met a young girl with a birth defect who was unable to walk on her own. Her left pant-leg, just below the knee, hung empty and swayed in the wind. I watched her skillfully maneuver her crutches along the trail that was maybe barely a foot wide. My dad talked to her and her dad as we hiked. They were visiting from Tennessee and their Southern accents told stories and random facts about themselves in a way that vaguely reminded me of the get-to-know-you game. I learned that this girl went all through high school on crutches. She never used a wheelchair and never wanted one. She liked hiking, and just because one leg was dysfunctional, didn't mean she wasn't going to do it. Her dad mentioned that she was wanting to hike to the Timpanogos Caves before they left (Can you imagine? I don't like the steep incline on two legs, let alone on crutches!). All in all, they were nice people and I was absolutely blown away at how well she handled the hike. It's amazing to see people who, despite their circumstances, simply refuse the idea that something can't be done. If I were in her situation, I can pretty much guarantee that I would not be hiking. In all honesty, I'd probably take the wheelchair. It was neat to learn about them. That hike was easily one of my favourite hikes, simply because I knew that I had nothing on her and certainly no room to complain. It's a comfort to know that there are still goodhearted people out there who put their full effort into achieving what some would call impossible. Afterall, someone's going to have to compensate for people like me.
No, sharing that story doesn't really give me room to complain about how tired I was, but really, I was done for the day. There's a reason I don't have a birth defect; I'm not the inspirational type.
While my dad was getting ready to start the fireworks, we had a conversation that went something like this:
"Dad, we're the only ones doing fireworks on our whole street."
"Well...oh, look! That family down there is doing some."
"They don't count. The point is, we never get invited to parties."
And I was SO right.
The street adjacent ours had a huge crowd gathered and they were blowing up some really big fireworks. Y'know, the ones that are now apparently legal? Yeah, those ones. While those were blowing up, I got to watch my dad occasionally burn his finger and curse the fuse lines on our Walmart package. Y'know, the fireworks that spit colours from a box? Yeah, those ones. So, we watched our fireworks, overwhelmed with excitement as they were clearly the most compelling fireworks on the block that night, and then...it started raining. I experienced a new perspective of fireworks this year. After the wind knocked them over, I had the unique privilege of watching them catch fire and melt their packaging. We ended up just going inside and watching television.
What can I say? Whit Happens.
P.S. I don't usually mix my sarcastic complaints with serious issues. I really do, sincerely, admire that girl from the hike. I'm not trying to make light of her injury.
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Amourpropre
Ollo.
In Socratic we've been studying WWI and the literature we just finished with it was All Quiet on the Western Front. (I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it, it's quite the masterpiece.) Upon completion of this reading, we were given the weekend to write a war poem. As much as I love writing and poetry, I can honestly say that this is the hardest assignment we've had all year. I spent HOURS trying to wrap my mind around the horrors that I know nothing about. Whenever I've been in a writing class or conference, or whatever it may be, one thing that your lecturers harp on is to write what you know. After banging my head against the keyboard, racking my brain trying to uncover the emotions of a soldier, I realized that I couldn't possibly put myself in that situation, but I do know what it's like to be on the other side. I wrote from a much more mature perspective than I can personally relate to in detail, but it's better than having no connection at all. In the end, I think I accomplished a fairly sound piece. It's not finished of course, as nothing is ever really 'finished', we simply turn it in, but I would like to improve it. So here is what I turn in, I hope that my effort is shown, if not, I've been jipped. Then I'll be forced to tell myself that some Whit just Happens.
Just as a side note: amourpropre is French for vanity or self indulgence. But, you already knew that.
In the pearl white casket
Gleaming with glory
Lies the man who belongs
To an unfinished story.
The black sea of despair
Draggles after men we treasured.
And silence is nearly tangible
As wrung hands cry their displeasure.
We'll bury him like any other,
Deep within the ground,
Where he'll never ease the pain
'Cross the lips of his lovers frown.
She'll collect his pay,
But forget why it was important.
She'll pretend to hear their respects,
But drown in her own discordance.
Her restless nights in woe
Because half the bed was cold...
Tell her the honor in dying
In a land that’s not your own.
Leave her to her tears
And shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God
As we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."
But her lover is still dead.
A broken home trapping the ghost of he who bled.
They'll give her a medal to replace her regrets,
But her lover is still dead.
His mere mortal strength
Matched not their artillery,
And now in freedom's dirt
He'll rest or turn forlornly.
We’ll bury him like any other,
Deep within the earth,
Where he'll never again hear his mother's talk,
Her pride in his worth.
She'll hold her head high;
Respectfully follow her one and only son.
She'll blindly shake strangers’ hands,
Not knowing her war has just begun.
But far from the crowds
And the noise of the opaque,
Her eyes will swell as she swears
Her misfortune is all a mistake.
Leave her to her tears and shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God as we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."
But her baby boy is still dead.
A mother's heart patched by loose threads.
Her prized possession lost, we're all free instead,
But her baby boy is still dead.
In Socratic we've been studying WWI and the literature we just finished with it was All Quiet on the Western Front. (I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it, it's quite the masterpiece.) Upon completion of this reading, we were given the weekend to write a war poem. As much as I love writing and poetry, I can honestly say that this is the hardest assignment we've had all year. I spent HOURS trying to wrap my mind around the horrors that I know nothing about. Whenever I've been in a writing class or conference, or whatever it may be, one thing that your lecturers harp on is to write what you know. After banging my head against the keyboard, racking my brain trying to uncover the emotions of a soldier, I realized that I couldn't possibly put myself in that situation, but I do know what it's like to be on the other side. I wrote from a much more mature perspective than I can personally relate to in detail, but it's better than having no connection at all. In the end, I think I accomplished a fairly sound piece. It's not finished of course, as nothing is ever really 'finished', we simply turn it in, but I would like to improve it. So here is what I turn in, I hope that my effort is shown, if not, I've been jipped. Then I'll be forced to tell myself that some Whit just Happens.
Just as a side note: amourpropre is French for vanity or self indulgence. But, you already knew that.
In the pearl white casket
Gleaming with glory
Lies the man who belongs
To an unfinished story.
The black sea of despair
Draggles after men we treasured.
And silence is nearly tangible
As wrung hands cry their displeasure.
We'll bury him like any other,
Deep within the ground,
Where he'll never ease the pain
'Cross the lips of his lovers frown.
She'll collect his pay,
But forget why it was important.
She'll pretend to hear their respects,
But drown in her own discordance.
Her restless nights in woe
Because half the bed was cold...
Tell her the honor in dying
In a land that’s not your own.
Leave her to her tears
And shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God
As we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."
But her lover is still dead.
A broken home trapping the ghost of he who bled.
They'll give her a medal to replace her regrets,
But her lover is still dead.
His mere mortal strength
Matched not their artillery,
And now in freedom's dirt
He'll rest or turn forlornly.
We’ll bury him like any other,
Deep within the earth,
Where he'll never again hear his mother's talk,
Her pride in his worth.
She'll hold her head high;
Respectfully follow her one and only son.
She'll blindly shake strangers’ hands,
Not knowing her war has just begun.
But far from the crowds
And the noise of the opaque,
Her eyes will swell as she swears
Her misfortune is all a mistake.
Leave her to her tears and shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God as we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."
But her baby boy is still dead.
A mother's heart patched by loose threads.
Her prized possession lost, we're all free instead,
But her baby boy is still dead.
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