you quicken your pace, feel your face flush, you turn sick inside, the very air feels crushing — you have to stop, catch your breath suddenly lost, suddenly drowning. In a sea of shame , of being the son, one of her children, of a mother like no other in this neighbourhood, this entire town of your yearning, searching, blindly groping looking that can turn itself to spying, and worse. (A thief is evolving in me. I want to steal what others have. And another beast stirs in me, though I know not what form he’ll take.)
Yeah, and your head can barely lift; you understand shame vividly because it has nowhere to hide. And if it did, then it would be different. Bearable.
Hey, shame is the eyes of others declaring it. No eyes, no shame. Listen: shamed kids are defeated kids, shame takes away their daily triumphs, turns every little victory to mush. You’re ashamed of even breathing. Which is existing is it not?
You’d rather turn and run, who cares where, you’d rather that not be a police siren and that they didn’t know this address off by heart. You wonder where the fuck Warren is. You care more for what he can do for you than what this is doing to him. He’s just got to save you, not save himself. But it is a siren and they do know the address off by heart. In two days her name will be in the paper — again. Thebuzz goes around the neighbourhood: She’s been at it — again. No! Again? Yes, again.
Here, read it for yourself: In the Two Lakes District Court Mrs Heta Burgess pleaded guilty to charges of causing a public disturbance and damage to police property, namely a police shirt and two police issue ties. The judge expressed concern that this was not Mrs Burgess’ first court appearance. Mrs Burgess spoke defiant words in response to the judge. The judge ordered her to be silent. Then he asked what her children wanted to ask her but never could: what was troubling her so?
She told him she didn’t feel so troubled, indeed she felt quite good considering she had been in a fight, and anyway why was she the only one charged, and on top of that, why press charges when it was a family affair hurting no one but each other? And your Honour, her very words there for the town to see, We do it all the time. What’s the big deal?
Big enough deal for the judge to fine her quite heavily and our father to pay it. Otherwise no big deal, mother. Not if not to you. Not if your children don’t count, their shame, their spotlighted state, the sniggering, the public humiliation.
You go to school after she’s been written up in the court pages, hahahha, your mother was in court, everyone saw it, my father read it. My mother would rather be dead than be in the paper like that . Well, who wouldn’t.
You catch glance, glimpse of your different neighbours, their reactions. Some despise you, they put you into the same Maori category of never being able to civilise you, can’t take the jungle out of you.
And you worry it’s true and when your turn is coming. But the Ropihas across the road are Maori and they’re good people. So are the Mahere family top of the street. Maybe the rumours are right, there’s something wrong with our mother’s family’s heads. They’re not all there. It’s the Te Amo family, Uncle Henry excepted, who are wrong. Not a good part of the Maori race. Except we know it spreads far beyond our mother’s family. And it is Maori. It is Maori.
On our street you get those decent people who are concerned for what this is doing to you, it’s obvious to the whole watching,witnessing street, that this can’t be doing your, um — well, your development much good, as Edith Dover says, and Mr Hodge gruffly agrees with in that manner of theirs, meaning they know the Burgess kids are being destroyed and so are a whole lot of families like them, but in those days they didn’t have the language yet for this.
Shame brings the sweat streaming from your forehead, it whips up a wet stink under your arms, it
Yeah, and your head can barely lift; you understand shame vividly because it has nowhere to hide. And if it did, then it would be different. Bearable.
Hey, shame is the eyes of others declaring it. No eyes, no shame. Listen: shamed kids are defeated kids, shame takes away their daily triumphs, turns every little victory to mush. You’re ashamed of even breathing. Which is existing is it not?
You’d rather turn and run, who cares where, you’d rather that not be a police siren and that they didn’t know this address off by heart. You wonder where the fuck Warren is. You care more for what he can do for you than what this is doing to him. He’s just got to save you, not save himself. But it is a siren and they do know the address off by heart. In two days her name will be in the paper — again. Thebuzz goes around the neighbourhood: She’s been at it — again. No! Again? Yes, again.
Here, read it for yourself: In the Two Lakes District Court Mrs Heta Burgess pleaded guilty to charges of causing a public disturbance and damage to police property, namely a police shirt and two police issue ties. The judge expressed concern that this was not Mrs Burgess’ first court appearance. Mrs Burgess spoke defiant words in response to the judge. The judge ordered her to be silent. Then he asked what her children wanted to ask her but never could: what was troubling her so?
She told him she didn’t feel so troubled, indeed she felt quite good considering she had been in a fight, and anyway why was she the only one charged, and on top of that, why press charges when it was a family affair hurting no one but each other? And your Honour, her very words there for the town to see, We do it all the time. What’s the big deal?
Big enough deal for the judge to fine her quite heavily and our father to pay it. Otherwise no big deal, mother. Not if not to you. Not if your children don’t count, their shame, their spotlighted state, the sniggering, the public humiliation.
You go to school after she’s been written up in the court pages, hahahha, your mother was in court, everyone saw it, my father read it. My mother would rather be dead than be in the paper like that . Well, who wouldn’t.
You catch glance, glimpse of your different neighbours, their reactions. Some despise you, they put you into the same Maori category of never being able to civilise you, can’t take the jungle out of you.
And you worry it’s true and when your turn is coming. But the Ropihas across the road are Maori and they’re good people. So are the Mahere family top of the street. Maybe the rumours are right, there’s something wrong with our mother’s family’s heads. They’re not all there. It’s the Te Amo family, Uncle Henry excepted, who are wrong. Not a good part of the Maori race. Except we know it spreads far beyond our mother’s family. And it is Maori. It is Maori.
On our street you get those decent people who are concerned for what this is doing to you, it’s obvious to the whole watching,witnessing street, that this can’t be doing your, um — well, your development much good, as Edith Dover says, and Mr Hodge gruffly agrees with in that manner of theirs, meaning they know the Burgess kids are being destroyed and so are a whole lot of families like them, but in those days they didn’t have the language yet for this.
Shame brings the sweat streaming from your forehead, it whips up a wet stink under your arms, it
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