I've put myself into W’s brain on several occasions and
taken a look at my behavior through his eyes.
It’s a fascinating experience.
It’s an exercise where I have to primitivize my thoughts wrestling with
the knowledge that I already have as an adult.
Children know much more than we gave them credit for years
ago. And reading this story by Henley,
her ability to give a voice to a young girl, opens the door (at least it did in
89-90) to the hurt that a child feels as a result of the failings of adults.
Looking into Henley, I found a short story published by her
(Rocky Gap) in Glimmer Train back in 2008.
You can see the full index of Glimmer Train publications
here.
I also found a nice little interview with her on the Glimmer
Train site where she references a piece by Ted Solotaroff – “Raymond Carver:
Going Through the Pain”.
Well…because she dropped this---then of course I must find
it and read it.
Ah…the beauties of working in an academic library – gotta
love JSTOR.
And so, with this story by Henley, I find that in this
segment of my life I have a special sympathy for the viewpoint of a child.
I take add this to the life that my parents gave me and I
wonder if I’m going to drive myself mad sometimes completely over thinking
parenting.
And then there are what seems to be the constant reports of
child abuse, neglect and murder.
Reading the accounts, I can’t help but see what damaged,
imperfect creatures we are. We have the
potential for such beauty and love but at the same time, we destroy and hate.
The fracture in a person’s mind that takes them down this
path often times are not self-inflicted – but due to the actions of another –
and where did that originate?
Henley wraps the story up beautifully with this –
“I felt exhausted, not the clean exhaustion of after-dark
softball but a kind of weariness; I was worn out with the knowledge that life
would be different, but not in the way I had imagined or hoped. I didn’t want to forgive her for being the
way she was, but you have to forgive your mother. She searched my eyes and tried to make some
long ago connection, sweet scrutiny, perhaps the way she’d look at me when I
was a new baby, her first baby. I looked
away. Jan Mary gnawed delicately at her
cuticles. Christopher came around the
corner of the house swinging his Mickey Mantle bat, his leather mitt looped on
his belt. The new spring leaves were so
bring they hurt my eyes. “
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