Mirrors to ourselves

By Emmanuelle

PRAISE be on us, but blame be on no other. We were the die from which these children were cast. We were their mirrors; they, mere shadows to our forms. Until they be the die, the mirror, the form themselves. And on passes the cycle – of the smooth turns and the twisted angles.

They maybe the tinniest creatures around the house, but, like the tarsiers; they have the widest eyes and the most receptive ears. Camera shutters need not be clicked, tapes need not be triggered. They soak sounds and images, clearly understood or not, at first impression. These impressions streak straight from cell to cell, through vessels and nerves, to the big bank of a brain at the end of the stem. To be lodged, and filed. Now and then, to be extracted upon summons. Meat, ingredients, and spices in the making of man. Or woman. Sometimes beast in the flesh of man. Or woman.

And they, like the tarsiers, are too consistent to a fault.

When the house splurges on cash, food, and drinks like there is no tomorrow, there will seldom be far-sighted or prudent ones among the fed-and-pampered next generation. Spoil the child and foil the sprouting of industry, resourcefulness, thrift and saving for the future. When the child grows up expecting the world to come groveling for leftovers at his feet, how could we expect him to plow a field, to top it with seeds, to watch out for drought or flood, for snails or rodents, that he may have some grains left to fill a plate of his own for once in his life?

Grown-up, it would be easier for this adult and lot less bother to the skin and to the nails to bribe the bureaucracy, to cheat the board and the election commission, to be master magician and by mere wave of a cologne-scented hand, to deceive the hopelessly naive, which at the last unreliable count is almost two to one. And two naive to one dumb is just way too much.

Find a child whose one or both parents are free with the slap of their words and their palms and their kicks and their cache of arms. You will find the beginnings of the adult who curses his makers, who has no second thought in abusing, torturing, maiming and killing off all two-legged creatures on earth whose mistake is sometimes as minute as daring to look up and straight into shaded eyes.

You find these amoral ones lounging in fine corporate suits. Or wearing stiffly-pressed uniforms. Or donning dark shirts with even darker bonnets over their heads to come out just eyes from out of the dark. It is as easy as grabbing a pizza to groom a syndicate or to control a band of terrorists, to rob a bank, to kidnap a friend’s child, a journalist or a group of simpering tourists.

You may also find a miracle. A child who turns its back against the mirror staring at it every second of the day, and even nights. A child who refuses to be cast from the same mould. A child who is no shadow but a distinct form to itself.

Find this child. And you will find the others. Miracles. Just like you.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments