The Devil Baby at Hull-House

Oh dear Deity.

While I liked how this essay dipped into a difficult subject, it was a painful read. Why? Because I'm freakishly sensitive, but more so because it was true--not the baby, but what it represents.

It's unnerving how much that baby stood for. Abuse, neglect, all kinds of misfortune and fear personified into that child, spreading like wildfire from the tongues of abused, neglected, unfortunate, fearful women. Those women faced the devil and went through hell and back day after day after day. And they accepted it. They accepted it. And that killed me most of all.

I've seen women without voices. I've been without a voice. It's hard and scary and lonely and when an opportunity comes, you latch onto it, sometimes repeating what you said; sometimes unraveling everything to whomever will listen, but you're talking. It’s an outlet and you take it. You hold on as long as you can too, knowing it’s rare a person honestly listens, honestly gives a darn—and if you lie to keep them there, so be it. Besides, sometimes, like in The Things They Carried, it’s less what you say and more what you mean.

It amazes me how contradictory "humankind" can be. Still today people are resorting to fables to find power, and it's not always women. Parents and politicians alike rely on fear to get their message across, teens spread rumors to gain power and popularity, priests cry from pulpits, and so on and on and on. I'm pretty egalitarian, and I'm not foolish enough to believe that the world will change for the better overnight, but I think that things like the above can be stopped before they'd even begin.

Be nice. Be kind and caring and capable of listening. Be who you are and allow others the same. Most people hate hearing this, and I often wonder why--is it because they've heard that godforsaken golden rule thousands of times? Because it's true? Either way, (y)our all is made up from each individual one, and if we keep damning each other, we're going to have a very awful all.