Abuse: To Laugh or to Cry?

January 7, 2008

By: Ashley B. Vincent

I have found it quite amazing the way things change in society. I myself have a 15 month old daughter who is in the stages of exploration. She seems to find every new and old way to hurt herself. Not on propose, she doesn’t understand that word. But just by falling down, running into walls, hitting her head from crawling under the table, or shaking her rattle too hard it hits her face, she has experienced her share of pain. If she is anything like me, she will be an accident waiting to happen.

However, now day’s people make jokes that I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe at.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was in my second full year at Broome Community College in Binghamton, New York. After she was born, I decided to take a year off from school until I went back to graduate, so that I could spend time with my new bundle of joy.

When the year quickly came and passed, I made my decision fast. There was no way she was going to go to any daycare, and there was no way someone I didn’t know and trust was going to be watching my daughter. I had watched the news, looked at CNN and read the newspaper. Many kids were dying at the hand of their guardians, parents or daycare providers. Some kids weren’t even dying, they were just being abused. Diapers shoved in mouths, being held to the floor using corporal punishment, and shaken until they were a statistic of Shaken Baby Syndrome (SBS). I do have to say that not every place for kids is bad, but how do you choose the good apples from the bad ones without tasting one first?

I was not going to let anything happen to my daughter of any sort. (Even if that meant not going back to school, but doing it online or through the mail.) Luckily though, my boyfriend’s mother took charge and retired to watch her granddaughter. I knew she was in good hands and I could rest easy.

However, no mother can rest easy when every new step of their child ends up in a screaming cry because they bumped their head on the table or bruised their butt on the hard-tiled kitchen floor. And like every other child on earth, my daughter still is gaining her marks of growing. Every day she has some new scratch or bruise.

When my daughter came home from her grandmother’s the first day with I bump on her forehead from hitting it on the side table, my boyfriend made the crack to his mom, “What did my daughter do for you to beat her?” Now I know he was kidding, and so did she, but when did society decide that was something funny we could say? I have to admit, I have said something like that too, and when I say it, I feel like my mind steps back from my physical self and says, “THIS HAS TO BE WRONG!” There used to be a line that we shouldn’t cross, but where is it now? I was stunned. I was confused too. I didn’t know whether to laugh because she wouldn’t do that, or cry because that happens all around the world to kids.

I do know there is one line that never can be crossed that there is no way to joke about abuse, and that is in a sexual manner. But what is the difference between sexual abuse and physical abuse to not only kids but adults as well that makes it okay to joke about? Is society not on the same wave length? If we joke about abuse are we the ones that can abuse? If we laugh, should we be convicted or shunned?

There is no sand, but I think we ought to redraw the line that used to be in it. There should be no joking when someone’s well-being is at stake.

©COPYRIGHT 2008 ASHLEY VINCENT

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FRIENDS AND FAMILY 2007

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FRIENDS AND FAMILY!

T

he end of the year has approached us again,

But this year you all get to be filled in.

I finally get to write a letter like I’ve always wanted to do.

So here is my first year letter to you:

T

he year was joyous, as you know.

A baby was born one year and almost four months ago.

She has grown so much, cannot believe it now.

Larry and I have survived… Somehow.

Her hair is blonde and eyes are blue,

She gets her good looks from… you know who.

She took her first steps on mother’s day,

Now I can’t get her to stop to sit and play.

Teething was a struggle…and finally at 8 months one came in.

Do you know how long of a struggle it’s been?

By now she has eight,

And just two seconds ago is the last time she has ate.

She has an appetite just like her mama,

And just like me too, she is full of drama.

O

n November 16, 2007,

Larry’s sister and brother –in-law were blessed with a baby boy.

At 5 pounds 3 ounces, he looks like a baby doll toy.

Tarrah thought he was a toy until she heard him cry.

You should have seen her jump when she heard, she really touched the sky.

L

arry and I bought a new house, it’s an early Christmas present.

Now we have a mortgage instead of wasting money on rent.

The house is bigger for Tarrah to explore,

Bigger bigger bigger by so much more.

L

arry got a job at Broome Community College,

And I went back there to gain some more knowledge.

We are a busy bunch; you know how it is…

We barely have time that is just mine and his.

But we manage, and we get through,

We know its part of life, and it’s what we have to do.

S

o now, the Christmas tree is decorated, the stockings are hung.

Tarrah doesn’t know Santa is coming, she is still too young.

The mistletoe is waiting for a kiss goodnight,

Before Ashley, Larry and Tarrah turn out the light.

We wish you a Merry Christmas and New Years too…

As we sign off with,

From OUR family to YOU!

Santa’s Reindeer are on Strike:Can it be resolved before Christmas?

'Twas the night before Christmas but all was not well. The reindeer, Santa found out, had decided to go on strike!

They had heard on TV about a strike by Hollywood screenwriters and the recently resolved Broadway stagehand walkout.

So outside their stable, the reindeer organized. They made signs with catchy slogans, such as "Respect Reindeer Rights!"

Their demands: name-brand oats and herbal teas. Aromatherapy. Massages.

In exchange for their hard work of flying all over the world, they thought they should get spa vacations, reindeer facials and hoof pedicures.

They wanted daily yoga and step classes. And then they decided their stables were all wrong -- they needed feng shui!

One more item went on their list: They wanted better PR. If they only had agents ... After all, they were famous. It had worked for Rudolph; why not for the rest of them?

Outside Santa's Workshop, they picketed and chanted, "A stable united cannot be divided!" Indoors, at preliminary negotiations, the reindeer and the big guy literally locked horns.

"Oh dear," said Santa. (No pun intended.) "I must find a way for their gripes to be addressed."

He hemmed and he hawed, with no clue of what to do.

And then...

Santa called Mrs. Clause with his voice in such a frantic. “Mama, mama- the reindeer won’t stop! What do I do? “

“There is only one thing you can do dear.” Her voice settled with a comforting sound.

Santa knew what she was thinking. Had the reindeer been extra good, they usually got some imported lichen that they most certainly loved. But every so often, the reindeer got feisty and wanted some homemade apple-pie that was fresh from Mrs. Clause’s oven. Santa knew that reindeer couldn’t eat apple-pie. That was a preposterous idea.

But maybe, just maybe, this would work to end the strike.

He called into the winter air, he called them by name. He called them to the porch, this was no reindeer game. Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! Come on, Comet! Come on, Cupid! Come on, Donder and Blitzen!

It had to work he thought. He scratched his head and tugged at his beard. He waited by the window, “They won’t come!” His eyes widened, as mama opened the front door. They traipsed in, hoof by hoof, antler by antler, into the kitchen to a slice of freshly warm backed apple-pie.

The reindeer cheered and yelled in harmony, “We are so sorry. We just can’t stand all the talking of this apple-pie you do. It is so delicious, warm and sweet. The strike is off, there is no more you see. We will ride into the night and deliver presents to every Christmas tree.”

Poem for 2007 Winter Beauty Pageant

For the pageants, there is an "About Me" section that the contestant is to fill out, however, since Tarrah is so young, they ask that the parent writes something. I of course, choose to write a cute poem:

I may be small,
But don’t let that fool you.
My heart is big;
I will show all of you.
I love to sing and dance.
And so far in life I have been blessed.
I love my mommy and daddy,
They certainly are the best.
I’ll win you over
With my eyes so blue
And with my blonde little curls
I have too.
I have a couple pearly whites,
But they are quite hard to see.
The only people who can get me to smile
Is my silly family.
My smile is charming,
But to see it, is rare.
Usually I have a serious face
That tends to always be there.
I can be a cutie
And a little Miss.
I pucker up my lips
When mama asks for a kiss.

The Greatest Man I Never Knew: My Most Unforgettable Character

December 4, 2007

He never said he loved me. Secretly, I longed to hear them. These were the words I can’t really remember being said between my grandfather and me, although I am sure that they were said at some point during my life; probably when we said goodbye or something. I felt like my grandpa and I weren’t close. He favored my cousin Ryan. I know it was because he never had a son, so he treated Ryan like his own son, and I was just another girl in the family.

My grandfather was an amazing man though. He raised three daughters with my grandmother, and none of which were his. In 1960, he and my grandmother adopted two more daughters, my mother and my aunt. Five kids all together, none were his own, but he loved and raised each of them as if they were all carrying his DNA.

In my grandmother’s bedroom, there was a vent that overlooked the living room. My grandfather insisted that his red recliner be placed straight underneath it for some reason. He sat in his recliner all the time, with both

of his hands placed gently on the arm rests and his old frail fingers twitching as if it were uncontrollable by nerves. His face was weathered from many nights chopping wood for the fire and early morning’s deer hunting. His skin looked as if it were made of leather from the smoke that set in from the cigarettes he kept on hand. Brut slithered out of his pores like worms from their holes in a warm summer rain.

He was stubborn about his recliner. Never was bothered to move it for any reason. He bickered about dust falling on his head from the vent above. He’d shake his head, pat it off his hair, and go back to watching Lawrence Welk. I am sure he knew it was me making that annoying dust fall from the vent. It wasn’t because I was playing with it; I just enjoyed peering down at him from there.

I felt like I could bond with him from there. That was my way of being close with him, without him knowing. I couldn’t see much of him; just the top of his freshly cut gray and white hair that was squared off perfectly. That is where I felt love for him from afar. Where I whispered I love you… only because I was too afraid to tell him out of the context of goodbye. The greatest words I never heard, I guess I’ll never hear. Before I could tell him how I felt, he died. It’s been almost seven years since he has been gone. And now, all I can do is pray he knew.

THE BEER MAN

H

e was dirty. Well, that is what I gathered from just a quick glance and a small observation. I would have more time to see and observe though; I had to stand within a close distance to him in order to deposit my cans. I did so. I deposited them, but kept a close eye on my dirty stranger friend.

At this closer look I had, he was depositing a very substantial amount of beer cans. But not only was he depositing them, he was drinking them too. With one hand putting the cans into the machine, and the other one occupied by a full can of beer that barely made it to his mouth. He reeked of alcohol. I would say he had been standing there all night, drinking his beer then depositing the can immediately. He looked homeless. I am pretty sure he was. His hair was white and gray with a couple stray brown hairs. I suspect that was his normal hair color. It was a rat’s nest that should have had a big, bright, lit up sign that said “NO VANCANCY.” I was sure I saw something peek its head out. I was also sure that something would jump onto me from him. Who knows what. Standing next to him, I felt I would get dirty just being in his presence. His pants were dirty- more like filthy- (it look like they were rubbed in dirt and mud) and they had some slight holes in them, but that was the better half of him. His white muscle shirt looked as though it were disintegrating right there on his body.

In the midst of my observation, he confronted me. He opened his mouth, and I wanted to shove a tooth brush in there. Not that there were too many teeth anyway, but what he had left, looked like they were going to fall out right then and there. In a very quiet, drunk sounding voice he asked me, “Can I have the monies from your cans?”

Normally I am not so rude or ignorant towards the homeless people. I like to help them out when I get a chance or two. I won’t hand them a hundred dollars let alone a penny, but I will buy them some food. Everyone knows what a homeless person can do with money in their hands, and the last thing this guy needed was some more beer or alcohol of any sort.

I was there depositing my cans at Wal-Mart to get my 10 month old daughter jeans. She grew out of all the rest, and would have to go naked if I didn’t get her any then. “I am sorry sir…” I replied. “But my daughter here needs pants, and this money has to go towards it.”

He huffed at me and turned away, mumbling under his breath. I wasn’t sure what he said, but I know that he thought I was lying, especially since she was with me, and had some pants on. However, I didn’t find the need to tell him that those didn’t fit her well.

Suddenly, he began fiddling with his jeans. I looked over just as he was about to pull them off. Just in time to get my shirt soaked with that beer he had in his hand. He could barely stand before he started this other task.

Lovely, I was now covered in beer. He however, just stood there and looked at me. He didn’t even say sorry. Almost like that was the purgative for drinks. You know? Like some officers think they don’t have to obey the law because they are the authority of the law, so he thinks that since he is drunk, he doesn’t need to say sorry. “Here, take my pants.” He began taking them off again.

“NO! No, I don’t want your pants. I don’t need your pants. Keep them, please, keep them.” I was more afraid of what I would see.

“I don’t need them. I need money. I’ll gives you my pants; you gives me your deposited cans monies.” He was sure that I was going to do this. WRONG!

His voice cracked. Like the cracking that happens after 10 years of smoking cigarettes. I suspected that he hadn’t had too much education, because his grammar and speaking abilities were incorrect and child-like.

I wasn’t giving him anything, and the only thing he was going to give me was the beer on my shirt; which I wasn’t too thankful for.

“I don’t need my pants. You take them. You give me your monies.” He was very persistent. But I wasn’t budging. Not toward his offer anyway. I was however- trying to make a clear break towards the door.

But I wanted to know more about this man, I wanted to know where he was from, what he was doing, and what kind of life he has had. I asked him where he was from. He starred at me. His eyes started to tear up and said, “Nowhere. I am from nowhere, or everywhere. Depends how you look at it. I am homeless, so the world is my living room.”

The way he spoke, through the beer breath and the tobacco smell, was sad. As soon as I asked one question, he seemed to break up. I felt as though I could see into his soul, like he needed a friend, or just someone to listen to him.

“I never wanted it to turn out like this. But then again, I had no choice. For as long as I can remember, I have lived on the streets, slept under the trees, and ate a half eaten burger from dumpsters. These monies I am getting from these cans, I want to use to just get a bite to eat. I hope to have enough for the Old Country Buffet… at least I can fill up there and not worry about whose mouth it was in first. I guess it all began with my parents. I don’t really remember them either. We moved to the street, and got separated somehows. I bet they are dead by now.” He had a genuine look on his face, and I couldn’t help but get teary-eyed myself. I wish I hadn’t made snap judgments about him.

I wanted to ask the most powerful question of all… “WHY?” but I was afraid to stir more emotions than I already have. I mustered up some courage and finally asked, “Why did your family have to move to the streets?”

He looked at me like I held a loaded gun to his head when I asked him that. I was really a youngster when we moved out into the world. I was only about five years old. Daddy used to say that, ‘The world is your oyster son.’ I never really thought about it until now, but I he was wrong. I am the oyster and the world is my shell. I live in the world… I don’t live in a home.”

I didn’t want to ask what his hobbies were, but then again I did want to know the answer. So, I phrased it differently, “What do you do all day?”

He had a blank look on his face and was silent for about two minutes. He finally replied, “I do anything. I watch traffic, watch birds, and watch people walking down the street. I daydream a lot. I watch as people go about their daily lives, wishing that maybe sometime I will be able to have some sense of ‘normal.’ But I know that there is no way I will ever be normal, I may just die somewhere under a tree.”

The night was getting later and later as him and I spoke, and finally he ran out of cans. He was only about four dollars away from a good meal there, so I reached into my pocket, gave him a couple wrinkled bills, and some change. His eyes were big and brown, filled with blue tears as he said, “Thanks you. Thanks you so much.” Then we went our separate ways.

Shel Silverstein, Author of ‘The Giving Tree,” Dead at 68

October 5, 2007

KEY WEST, FLORDIA- Shel Silverstein, a goofy fun loving, American poet, cartoonist, and an author of many children’s stories and poems, including the all time favorite “The Giving Tree,’ died over the weekend in Key West, Florida at the age of 68, stated a close friend of Shel Silverstein.

Shelby Silverstein was born in Chicago in 1932 to parents Nathan and Helen Silverstein, and backed his way into publishing. He graduated from Roosevelt High School about 1948 and put in a year at the University of Illinois before he was "thrown out." He went on to study at the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts and then at Roosevelt University (Chicago). "When I was a kid -- 12 to 14, around there -- I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls," he once told a reporter for Publishers Weekly. "But I couldn't play ball. I couldn't dance. Luckily, the girls didn't want me. Not much I could do about that. So I started to draw and to write. By the time I got to where I was attracting girls, I was already into work, and it was more important to me."

In the 1950s Silverstein served with the United States armed forces in Japan and Korea and began drawing cartoons for Stars and Stripes, the American military publication.

In civilian life back in the United States, he began drawing cartoons for Playboy magazine.

Shel had two children and married twice. His first wife, Susan Hastings died on June 29, 1975 in Baltimore, Maryland- 5 years after the birth of their daughter, Shoshanna (Shanna), born June 30, 1970. His daughter died on April 24, 1982 of a cerebral aneurysm. Shel's other child was his son Matthew, born in 1984. Matthew's mother is alleged to be the "Sarah" mentioned in the other thanks for Falling Up. Silverstein is survived by his son, Matthew, and a sister, Peggy Myers of Chicago.

In 2005, Silverstein's last book, Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook, was published posthumously. As the title suggests, every poem and illustration in the book consists of spoonerisms.

Poetry and children’s stories were not his only passions. He was also a songwriter. Most notably, he wrote the music and lyrics for "A Boy Named Sue" that was performed by Johnny Cash. The song serves as a counterpoint to "The Giving Tree,” and won Silverstein a Grammy in 1970. He also composed original music for several films, and displayed a musical versatility in these projects, playing guitar, piano, saxophone, and trombone. Silverstein was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2002.

He was once asked, "Do you shave your head for effect or to be different, or to strike back at the long-haired styles of today? Shel replied, "I don't explain my head."