The poem that birthed Pity as "Hate wrapped in the flayed skin of Mercy"
It’s a tragic story that we love to tell:
How children, in their native cruelty,
Wield words like pitchforks, broken glass, and stones,
How playgrounds turn to battlegrounds
And some
Will never make it out of there alive.
We only have ourselves to blame, of course.
As adults, it’s our job to keep control,
And never let the violence break through.
We try again, and trade those misused terms
For words made safe for younger minds to hold.
We pad them thick with extra syllables,
And add a bright veneer of innocence,
Like: ‛special’, ‛touched’, and ‛just a little slow’.
We sit the young ones down at Circle Time,
Between the alphabet and morning snack.
With voices sweet as medicine, we try
To introduce them to a brand new friend,
Whose name is ‛pity’, then we humbly ask
This friend to drive the hatred from our schools.
I am the Angel Pity.
Please let me be your guide.
And let’s pretend I am not Hate,
Just wearing Mercy’s hide.
I’ll teach you how to have restraint,
And not use all your powers,
How not to squash the lowly worms
That crawl among the flowers.
They cannot help it, being worms.
And though they are disgusting,
We all must treat them gently, dears,
And keep them sweet and trusting.
For if they roared, as lions do,
The world would fall apart.
And so I ask you to restrain
The hatred in your heart.
But children, in their play, are
Unrestrained.
We hear the new-coined phrases
That we’d so carefully taught
Enunciated, emphasized, and clear.
But somehow, now, they Have a cutting edge,
Like pitchforks, broken glass, and stones.
The playground armistice never lasts.
Whatever happened to childhood innocence?
Have these kids no pity?
We might as well be Sisyphus,
Rolling that rock uphill,
Or try to reverse the pull of gravity.
They’re only kids –
It’s just the way they are;
We’ll coin new phrases, though, and try again.
As adults, it’s our job to keep control.
Except you can’t deny that it’s absurd
To be so damned PC about some words.
From The Monsters' Rhapsody: Disability, Culture, & Identity
by Ann Magill (me)
