General Discussion

“Ode to Uncle Jim”

Your mother wanted a Bonneville
So she pimped you to Uncle Jim.
To be passed like a party favor
To Tony and Frank and Tim.

To Vegas and Reno they squired you,
Little teenaged party doll.
To be very good to Daddy
And displayed in the gambling halls.

Feral child, run through the streets.
You can’t escape the sound of your pounding feet.
Don’t talk of love to a piece of meat
Thirteen years old, and oh, so sweet.

Down on your knees in the hot desert nights
Giving to Daddy such sweet delights.
A little Lolita, Missy the whore
Learning all about love behind a locked door.

Feral child, getting her pretties:
Making them pay for their little kitty.
Lay money down in the Executive Club
Fourteen years old, and a tiger cub.

Racetracks, casinos, the hottest of spots
Where they pay for their trophy who cannot escape.
Vodka and tonic and caviar crackers:
This is just a transaction: it’s nothing like rape.

Feral child, run where you will.
Daddy is happy to foot the bill.
But here’s the thing that can really kill:
You’re fifteen years old, and over the hill.

Run from the rackets, run from the tracks,
Run from the party lights and the whole ball of wax.
Run cross the country to hide out Nowhere:
Just another teenager in “Mayberry’s” square.

The new school is lovely, the kids are so nice:
They play “Spin the bottle” on Saturday nights.
Your mind is exploding, you can’t find a space:
You’re Frankenstein’s Bride, and you’re so out of place.

Here’s the doctor’s prescription, made just for you:
Have a pint of vodka, and some digitalis, too.
You can’t even laugh, and you can’t even cry.
Sixteen years old, and it‘s time to die.

Waking later in the hospital bed
The tubes and the I.V. tell you you’re not dead.
You’ll have to find another way to crawl out of hell:
Missy is dead: Long live Michelle.

Something that is not discussed when this subject is raised: these children are survivors of a terrible situation. The Judge or defense attorney uses the victim's social media to paint them as depraved, immoral fiends who (it is unspoken, but there like a dead elephant in the room) deserve what happened to them. They need to get real. People in impossible situations : combat, concentration camps, slavery, whatever -- still have to live somehow. They're not going to spend all their time moping around saying "woe is I." A survivor tries to make the best of whatever situation they find themselves in, and as that situation is usually pretty twisted, so then are their coping mechanisms. The woman for whom I gave this poem did not become suicidal because of the situation she was in -- she adjusted. What made her suicidal and crazy was being made redundant before she had even gotten out of high school. Her whole life as she knew it and had learned to live it was overturned. Ya know, Nabakov makes much the same point in Lolita. The denial of any kind of "normal" life (for whatever value of "normal" you please) is the real crime here. And when the victim does have a chance to participate in that "normal" life, the reaction is not joy and halleluja, but fear and uncertainty.

-- Mal