When I was a young, unknowing child I was full of hope. I found, through my childish eyes, hope in everything, despite its existing nowhere near where I had. I didn’t know that then. I’d yet to know or understand poverty or its friend’s cold, hunger and misery although, by then, they all knew who intimately I was. The bees and butterflies and birds that visited us sang and danced as I thought all bees, butterflies and birds had. The people who constituted my neighborhood drank merrily in our many bars, or on our congested street corners with bottles or cans or jugs stowed in brown paper bags as I thought all people had. We children played in playgrounds or in lush fields or in the streets, in between passing cars, as all children had. During winter we played in forts or igloos and waged war on one another, passersby and all passing cars with snowballs. In the spring we aided the dandelion population and chased grasshoppers. In the summer we played in fire hydrants or water hoses or if lucky, an actual swimming pool. In the fall we trekked through mountains of leaves that were no longer green but yellow red and orange. Our mothers watched from windows or benches or leant against cars puffing on cigarettes or taking sips from sodas between dialogues with one another and looking for their progeny with that peculiar, motherly look all our mothers had. A look I now know is worry.
There was this excitement about every possibility of life. Where has that gone?
Was it lost when Hip Hop changed from RAP to TRAP? Have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snap Chat et al stolen it? Did it ever exist? These things have taken hope from me when worrying about my children, seeing the hold and influence music and social media has on them over me. Hope’s also stolen from realizing it’s never existed in my children.
Children today don’t hope, they want. At the same time they don’t want to do anything to get whatever it is they find themselves wanting, which changes with the songs on the radio or commercials in between.
I don’t say this to mean I didn’t want things when I was a kid. I did! I just didn’t expect those things, and if told no I forgot about it. For every yes there was one thousands no’s. Children today don’t know what no is. Maybe it’s overcompensation for all the no’s we received. Maybe it’s not wanting to argue about it since we can no longer hit our kids, like our parents could us, any rare moment we persisted. Whatever it is, it’s not helping mold our children into responsible, proactive contributors. Nor is it making you or them happy.
Hope began to fade, for me, the first time I was struck in the face. It vanished a little more each additional time I was struck. Nevertheless, wounds and associated pain couldn’t kill Hope for me despite it introducing me to fear and paranoia and ironically, philosophy. Hope wasn’t lost on me even after I decided, despite knowing
my mother wouldn’t approve, to fight
WHERE’S HOPE GONE
E. P. McGill
856-246-2991