Blast From The Pre-pubescent Past

When I was ten, I started my first journal, which I kept up pretty steadily for more than 10 years. I still have a current one, but the drive to fill it seems to have worn off. Hmmm...a thought for another day. As far as I can remember, I started writing creative pieces more seriously around twelve. I don't know if it was that my vocabulary reached a point where writing actually became possible on a grander scale, or I figured out that it was my best strategy in dealing with pre-teen anxiety, regardless, that is when my writer's instinct kicked in. I decided to dredge up some of my earliest pieces, to see if I could connect with those young days of literal inspiration. Also, I was curious what my writing would sound like now, to my more adult self. Some pieces were badly constructed, many left unfinished, some were clearly old love letters, but more than anything, it was a confused child trying to sort out what to do with her emotions that seemed to just keep getting more complicated.

There was one piece, that I remember being quite fond of, that I felt the need to bring out of my box of old memorabilia and share, especially since it was the first piece I ever shared publicly. 

This was actually a "commissioned" piece. When I was in middle school, I was asked to speak at a Remembrance Day ceremony given at a local church. I was excused from class, and I spoke amongst a smattering of adults and musicians. I think I even wore a burgandy velvet dress, which means I must have been twelve. I was asked to come back the year after as well, so I must have done an acceptable job. Here is what came out.

WAR

War is a thing where people die, people fight, people cry,

War is a thing where people leave, people kill, people grieve,

War is a thing when every man goes, what will happen, nobody knows,

War is a thing when guns are fired, bombs are dropped, troops are hired,

War is a thing that gets in our way, makes us afraid, so we fear every day,

War is a thing that stops your heart, breaks your bones, tears you apart,

War is a thing where young men are lost, weapons are used, fingers are crossed,

War is a thing where all is in sorrow, awaiting the outcome, of dreaded tomorrow,

War is a thing when armies attack, coming only with hatred, but it's loving they lack,

War is a thing that turns everything red, the colour of anger, the colour of dead,

War is a thing where you go off alone, with no one to hold you, and never come home,

War is a thing when sweethearts are slaughtered, and killers don't think, about young lonely daughters,

War is a thing that makes everyone sad, missing their brothers, missing their Dads,

War is a thing that shouldn't happen at all, even if it brings victory, someone will fall,

War is combat, face to face,

Without it all,

This world,

Would be a better place.


I think now more than ever, I am so grateful to live where I do, and not have to worry that someday I may have a little girl that would actually know what all that feels like. I wrote that in a ringed notebook, sitting in my warm bedroom, knowing the me and my family would be safe in the morning. Many twelve year old girls then and now, know what real danger and sadness is, and fear for their lives and those of their families every day. My heart goes out to them.