After reading “Faces of the Enemy” by Sam Keen, I was inspired to write a reflection titled “Facing the Enemy.”
“Facing the Enemy”
So I question myself, "who is your enemy?" That is, if you’re lucky enough, or, who are your enemies?
Well, "they" were my enemies.
Childhood
If you were the younger version of me - the prudent yet naïve little boy, "they" would probably be your monstrous father, authority-hungry mother, and perhaps that homeroom teacher with the poker-face stare whom would always pick on you for socializing – or perhaps, what I called educating others.
My Father had a vicious habit; he was obsessed with slavery (child labor, as I learned later on), and always commanded me around, “Son, would you kindly tidy up your toys in that box over there? Please?” which really meant “You spoiled child, move along, and start working those muscles, take these rubbish and dispose it at once! AT ONCE!” And once in a while, when I was joyfully educating my little dinosaurs on how to speak, the huge sinister tyrannosaurus would growl, “Down the dungeon you go! Time to feed the hungry beast!” Oh, mesmerized by those eyes, my soul had no choice but to submit to that spellbinding order – although I heard him say “Son, today’s recycling day, would you so kindly, and generously help daddy bring these cardboard boxes down the hall, to the disposal room?” I knew that was a skill of his – trickery speech. At night, the holy God would send an angel, illuminating that corner in my room, defending me from monsters that lurks in the darkness, but this ghostly figure would appear, smelling my forehead to see if I was aware (I pretended to be asleep of course), and I’d witness him exhaust the light from that innocent protector, sucking the life out of it like the wind to the flame on a candle.
Speaking of my mother, she has a thirst for hunting. And inevitably I became the savory running pork chop, while she played the earnest hunter. Rambling through the plush-toy and plastic traps I had set up, she would always find where I was, and intimidate me with the threat of burning me alive. “It’s going to be hot in there, better come out or you’ll have a difficult time breathing.” It was my safe-house, but she always called it a closet. During imprisonment, as punishment for disobeying, I was always forced to consume these disgusting mephitic green flower-shaped things or end up like that skinned creature on the plate. “You have to finish your vegetables okay? Or I’ll have you on the dishes.”
Like I said, I was good with pretending, so I’d pick up my spoon and wait until she’d ramble off to bring back more of the things she hunted, and then escape. I’d rather be chased and hunted all over again, than be helplessly consuming this alienated substance.
I had a similar fate at school – that’s what they’d called the place. My grade three teacher, Ms. Anderson, loved to partner me with the wall, in the quiet corner during her reading-out-loud sessions. It was a way to prevent me from sharing my discoveries. “Today, we will read Arthur Learns his Alphabet”. I whispered to the girl beside me, “A real bear doesn’t look like that. Its eyes are smaller, and It has a bigger mouth..” Ms. Anderson stopped, just froze perfectly still, the only movement was the enlargement of her fierce eyebrows. “I’m sorry.” She continues. “Arthur said…” I gently tapped the boy in front, and whispered, “A real bear can’t talk, they aren’t smart enough.” Like I was any smarter, I didn’t even notice Ms. Anderson was staring at me while reading. With one of her huge fingers reached out, she pointed at the wall. This enemy waged a challenging war, but I was determined to fight alongside justice and truth.
-Kay
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