An insight into the hypocrisy of adulthood.
You tell me to share as you clutch your purse tighter when a dirty, homeless hand reaches out.
You tell me to get along with others as you build the fence with the neighbours higher.
You tell me to use my words as you throw the hammer when it hurts your hand.
You tell me never to lie as you tell Mom that the wind broke her favourite dog figurine.
You tell me to be polite and kind as you swear at other drivers on the motorway.
You tell me to respect my teachers and elders as you call your boss stupid and ignore Grandpa’s phone calls.
You tell me that violence is never the answer as you say how important the war on terror is.
You tell me a lot of things a child must do. How old do I need to be so I don’t need to do any of these things anymore?
How can we hope for better from those who come after us if we never show them?
‘If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.’ John F. Kennedy.
It seems that Britain’s rich never really took heed of this warning. A recent study has found that less-academic wealthy children are 35% more likely to find success then their more-academic poorer peers (‘Glass Floor’ Study). It’s hardly surprising that people want to maintain their wealth – human greed is an inevitability of life – nor is it astonishing that people are zealously doing whatever is at their disposal to ensure the success of their offspring. These are justifiable motives, which anyone could be guilty of and one cannot condemn people for.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted and this period can only really be described as a creative hiatus. It would be wrong to call it writer’s block because the problem extended far beyond words on a page. It was more of a shutting down of creative thought. It’s curious that periods like effect more than just my writing and creativity. It – at risk of melodrama – corrodes the very sinews of the soul and chips away at my sense of purpose.
Writing and creating are towards the heart of my sense of being, if they are interrupted I feel lost.
Last year, I wrote an article about creating an artwork from chaos. I went to Tenerife’s Carnaval. It’s an event whose Christian origins are, thankfully, lost in a sea of beer, urine and colourful costumes, storming with the beats of Spanish salsa sounds. I arrived – as before – with a blank canvas, paint and colouring markers intent of creating another piece with the help of the masses.
The nineteen year old headmaster – with a second level qualification – leads me to our shelter from the morning sun. We sit in the shade of a pine tree, around a locally-produced wooden table and chairs. I am warmly greeted by the other members of staff, a man in his late-teens and an eighteen year old mother nursing her baby boy, as I take a sit at the rather delicately-placed table. The school – a cobbled concoction of mud, concrete and bricks – sits almost apologetically beside some eavesdropping cows and goats. This was my first experience of being a ‘teacher-trainer’ last week.
The approaching summer always inspires in me the nostalgia of my spring. The days when me and my oldest friend would wander across the fields of his father’s farm. Meandering around cow dung, past brambles and frog spawn in search of nothing and yet with the unfaltering purpose which comes with youth. We were in one sense adventurers & explorers and in another lords or all that we surveyed. The countryside was ours for the taking. We cared little for the path that we undertook or for the world that lay before us. And if the world failed to satisfy that thirst for exploration then our ample imaginations would naturally fill the void.
Why is it impossible to reach the level of uncontrollable excitement and happiness that we took for granted as children? I had a class recently of children – who are younger than the teenagers I usually teach – and I was amazed and astonished with the level of joy that children can gain from the simplest of stimuli.