Words.

                A difficult question was raised by Simon Wiesenthal, "You are a prisoner in a concentration camp. A dying Nazi soldier asks for your forgiveness. What would you do?"

                People like to throw around words. We do it to socialize, to inspire, and sometimes even to hate. Some words though are so heavy that we need to take a step back and truly reflect on what they actually mean.  When attempting to answer this question there are certain words that need to be defined first.

                Vengeance. Vengeance as defined by Cynthia Ozick is "the act of bringing public justice to evil, not by imitating the evil, not by initiating a new evil, but by making certain never to condone the old one; never even appearing to condone it."  Vengeance as defined by the Catholic Church is "the infliction of punishment on someone who has done moral wrong. In this sense, only God has the right to avenge wrong doing."

                Cynthia Ozicks visualization of vengeance is the epitome of the mind set one should have when forgiveness is not even an option. To condone, upon her thinking, is too easy. Ozick states,"It blurs over suffering and death. It drowns the past. It cultivates sensitiveness toward the murderer at the price of insensitiveness toward the victim."

                Let's define forgiveness. Ozicks definition is simple-Forgiveness is pitiless. It is showing more compassion towards the murderer than the victim.

                The Catholic Church states," Forgiveness is the pardon or remission of an offense."  What some people may say is the "easy" way out isn't always necessarily true. Asking for forgiveness at times can be the most difficult thing. It implies having to contemplate  the inner most faults within one person, and most often that person is yourself. As human beings it is very natural to feel that forgiveness is too easy. We want to avenge those who were hurt, we want others to feel the pain that we felt, and at times we may even want blood to be spilt so that persons pain may not be in vain. 

                                                                Here's another word. Compassion.

                Acting out as a result of anger or revenge may cause a sense of compassion to be lost. Without compassion there is no humanity. If I may be so bold, a person who brutally beats an innocent human being or kills those who have not done wrong, hold no compassion,  some Nazi soldiers were exactly that! They had no compassion so that made them seem like had no humanity.

                There is a call to action. We must remember  to remain in tune with all the emotions God gave us, but with caution. We must continue to have compassion for those who may be our enemies because that way we may maintain our humanity. We must forgive. Forgiveness will prevent us from becoming the monster who may have deeply harmed us. As a very wise man once said, "But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father." If we do not forgive , slowly, we will become exactly what we hate most.

                To answer the question,  what would you do??  I would simply use my words.

                                                                                I forgive you.

Here we go- 1943

1943

Donald Hall

The toughened us for war. In the high-school auditorium

Ed Monahan knocked out Dominick Esposito in the first round

of the heavyweight finals, and ten months later Dom died

 in the third wave at Tarawa. Every morning of the war

our Brock- Hall Dairy delivered milk from horse-drawn wagons

to wooden back porches in southern Connecticut. In winter,

frozen cream lifted the cardboard lids of glass bottles,

Grade A or Grade B, while marines bled to death in the surf,

or the right engine faltered into Channel silt, or troops marched

-what could we do?-with frostbitten feet as white as milk.

This poem is a reflection upon World War II, which I find quite appropriate being that Donald Hall was alive during that era. As he is talking about the destruction amidst the boys out fighting for our freedom, our lives in America go on as normal as they possibly can. "Every morning of the war our Brock-Hall Dairy delivered milk from horse-drawn wagons to wooden back porches in southern Connecticut."

Often times, we are unable to see the damage that war presents until we are DIRECTLY affected. There are boys over in Iraq fighting for us but we remain unaffected so therefore- we go on our lives in complete normalcy. That is where it becomes difficult because we strive to thinking about our soldiers but we will never be able to fully grasp what this war has done in its aftermath unless we have been in the crossfire. For example, a couple at my Church recently lost their son because he was a soldier who was killed in Iraq. For them this war is a complete and total reality, they personally have been through the repercussions that war brings. We need to not take for granted the wonderful lives our soldiers have allowed us to have, they have given us safety.

Sometimes the struggle is trying to find something that we can do here in the states that is of value close enough to what the soldiers are doing for us in Iraq. Hall states, "while marines bled to death in the surf, or the right engine faltered into Channel silt, or troops marched -what could we do?- with frostbitten feet as white as milk." THAT is where the true struggle lies, what can we do to help? They are achieving so much, and working so hard- for whom? We CANNOT take our freedom for granted... we cannot under any circumstance.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all."

The Halo that would not Light...

The Halo That Would Not Light

Lucie Brock- Broido

When after many years , the raptor bak

let loose of you,

He dropped your tiny body

in the sacarab- colored hollow

of a carriage, left you like a finch

Wrapped in its nest of linens wound

With linden leaves in a child's cardboard box.

Tonight the wind is hover-

Hunting as the leather seats of swings go back

And forth with no one in them

As certain and invisible as

Red scarves silking endlessly

From a magician's hollow hat

And the spectacular catastrophe

Of your endless childhood

Is done.



 It is so funny how life works, because it was just this weekend that I had learned that as a part of the Pro- Life movement there will be 40 days of fasting and this poem reminded completely of the reason why I am a pro-life activist. This poem made me think of all those children who will never be able to see the beautiful light of day. They are angels, but unfortunately will never be given the chance to have their halos glow with the Lords light.

This poem was a representation of the childhood that many do not like to think about- the childhood that some many never get to know. It is a very dark though, but very impactful because I feel like everyone can relate to this poem whether they know someone who lost a child, or they themselves feel like their childhood is lost to them.

A halo is the simplest symbol of Angels. When we think of the glowing beauty above the head- we think of a golden love only to be found from God. A love of and for a child is simple and beautiful like the glowing of a halo. It is always bright- and even Jesus himself  said that we should love as children do. Mostly because they love with ALL their hearts.

Throughout these next 40 days I will be thinking about this poem, in remembrance of all those little children with- as I believe- their glowing halos.

To Myself.

To Myself

W.S Merwin

Even when I forget you

I go on looking for you

I believe I would know you

I keep remembering you

sometimes long ago but then

other times I am sure you

were here a moment before

and the air is still alive

around where you were and I

think then I can recognize

you who are always the same

who pretend to be time but

you are not time and who speak

in the words but you are not

what they say you who are not

lost when I do not find you

There are two pictures above this text, in the first picture picture there are several faces. One face in particular floats alone by itself in the corner. That beautiful face is of my oldest cousin Michael Brandon Shahan, to whom I lovingly called Brandon (and on the rarest occasions- Bam Bam). The second picture is of my loving Uncle Charles. Unfortunately, both Uncle Charles and Brandon's lives ended early so we had to say goodbye to Uncle Charles in 2005 and soon after- Brandon in 2007.  

When I read the beginning of this poem I automatically saw their faces much as you are seeing them now, I saw them perfectly as if it was the picture itself I was staring at. Sometimes I find myself questioning if I have forgotten them entirely and wishing that I could go back and look for them, luckily, God puts His hand on me and offers His guidance and love by showing me their beautiful faces in pictures like these. That is when I realize that they are not lost to me, and that I can still remember them.

In the second part of this poem I saw and heard someone completely different. When I read it, I felt like the description was of God Himself. By saying," I think I can recognize you who are always the same who pretend to be time but you are not time and who speak in the words but you are not what they say." When I think of God I think of a being that is ultimately divine and cannot be measured in ANY way humanely possible. He is in everything we do, and yet remains the same through out the ages. He is NOT time, and he is NOT words- but something far greater. It is remarkable how our mind works because as I am thinking of my family members, the second part of the poem is of my second half.

I absolutely LOVED this poem. No more needs to be said about it :)

Say Hello to Mr. Fear!

My Fear
Lawrence Raab

He follows us, he keeps track.

Each day his lists are longer.

Here, death, and here,

something like it.

Mr. Fear, we say in our dreams,

what do you have for me tonight?

And he looks through his sack,

his black sack of troubles.

Maybe he smiles when he

finds the right one. Maybe he's sorry.

Tell me, Mr. Fear,

what must I carry

away from your dream.

Make it small, please.

Let it fit in my pocket,

let it fall through

the hole in my pocket.

Fear, let me have

a small brown bat

and a purse of crickets

like the ones I heard

 singing last night

 out there in the stubbly field

before I slept, and met you.

Wow! This poem gave me weird goosebumps the moment that I read it. I cannot describe whether the feeling was good or not, because I am not too sure myself whether the poem was meant to be something good or not!

 I remember, faintly, last year in AP Language when we were required to read a story that had a similar meaning behind it. The meaning was securely held around this idea that either "Mr. Fear, Mr. Doubt, or Mr. Confusion" will take a hold of our lives. The "fear" aspect was especially relate able because of the fact that everyone has fears- for me? It is simple... I fear failure.

While reading this poem I could see the little devil sitting on my shoulder continuously reminding me," You are going to fail, there is no way that you will be able to achieve this or do that." Along with feeling slight anxiety because of that, the poem also reassured the strength that it is OK to go right up to Mr. Fear himself and ask what he is going to do. The strength is finding the ABILITY to actually CONFRONT your fears head on.

The climactic moments really added to the tone of "stress" upon asking Mr. Fear what he shall do tonight, those were the times that I could feel the goosebumps rising because I knew that going up and confronting the fear is usually not the easiest thing to do. In the end, it leaves with a sort of untangled mess because by saying,"like the ones I heard last night out there in the stubbly field before I slept, and met you." it feels so unfinished. I guess that is where us, the readers, come into play because we are supposed to finish what Lawrence Raab started- we have to bid farewell to our long time friend... Mr. Fear.