Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts

Monday, May 4, 2009

Turning Night Into Day

March 2009
Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009

This was written as an assignment for my English Comp I class at Trident Technical College. My instructor suggested that I submit it to the new school student anthology.


          The atrocities committed upon the Jewish peoples in the early twentieth century are widely known and well documented. Elie Wiesel is one voice among thousands declaring the inhumanity of those times upon his people and himself. At the impressionable age of 16, he suffered the loss of his father to starvation at the Buchenwald concentration camp, as well as the deaths of his mother and younger sister in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp. Wiesel vowed to not speak for ten years of the torturous brutalities he and ten thousand other prisoners endured (Hurst and Pavlick). His silence ended when he penned Un di Velt Hot Geshvihn (And the World Was Silent), the original Yiddish version of Night in 1954 (McDonald and Trotter 506). Night asserts that what Elie Wiesel witnessed as a young teenager in the Auschwitz-Birkenau and Buchenwald camps was the numbing effect of constant brutality and the threat of individual annihilation upon social conscience and personal faith. What he also recorded, however, as seen through the refining lens of hindsight, was the glimmer of hope within his people and possible redemption pictured in shadowed Christian symbolism.
          In one chapter from Wiesel's account, the prisoners of the death camp are so numbed to the indescribable brutality around them that they are not merely unconcerned bystanders, but have also become willing participants. Wiesel depicts this condition when he tells of a young prisoner from Warsaw who is to be hanged for the crime of stealing. As the verdict is being read and the condemned youth stands defiantly before his executioners, their ability to be affected as a whole is demonstrated in the whispered question of a prisoner named Juliek: “Do you think this ceremony'll be over soon? I'm hungry…” (Wiesel 507). During this grave moment, Juliek's regard is for the prisoners' only meal: soup. Soup is their life. It is their sole concern. Soup is the currency of life. To preserve their own life “Two prisoners helped […] for two plates of soup” (Wiesel 507). The other prisoners do not seem to mind that their fellows assist. It has been said that if you do not resist evil you assist it. This saying speaks of this moment as the prisoners are no longer merely observers but have become actively involved in their own genocide.
          Wiesel, on the other hand, though “no longer troubled” by the “thousands who had died […] in the crematory ovens” (Wiesel 507), experiences a re-awakening, if only briefly, of the threat to his life individually. The sheer numbers of the atrocities committed behind the closed doors of the crematory are desensitizing. “But this one […] he overwhelmed me.” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added) Wiesel writes that as he stood watching the Warsaw youth: “I could hear my heart beating” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added). Wiesel's reaction to this single life and his awareness of his own evokes a scenario in which he appears to feel that “This is a person. A vibrant individual. Soon to die. I am an individual. Alive. Death, brutal death, is a very real threat to me.” But the reality did not last. The numbness settled back over him, for when he returns from the execution for the evening meal he “remember[s] that I found the soup excellent that evening…” (Wiesel 508). He is still alive.
          Although there are other hangings, it is the shock of executing a young child that produces a spark of humanity within the prisoners; but Wiesel looks upon the scene and loses faith in his God. This hanging is different from the ones before. The crowd spurns participation. There are no prisoners helping this time. As the chairs of the condemned are tipped over, Wiesel states that there is “Total silence throughout the camp” (Wiesel 509). There is no discussion of soup. This dying boy, dying an agonizing death, is more than the group conscience can bear. They openly weep. The “forgotten […] bitter taste of tears” (Wiesel 508) is fresh on their tongues. Unlike the hanging of the defiant Warsaw youth, this hanging touches their hearts. Wiesel, conversely, sees in the horror of this slow, tormenting death of “the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508) the death of his God. As the other other prisoners question where God is during this atrocity, Wiesel responds internally. “Where is He? […] He is hanging here on this gallows…” (Wiesel 509). He sees no other explanation for how this could be happening than that it is God himself being executed. And at the end of the day, even his life giving soup now “tasted of corpses” (Wiesel 509).
          God hanging on a gallows. Wiesel himself may not have intended to use Christian symbolism to show the possibility of hope for the prisoners, but a powerful picture of redemption can be seen in the second execution. Author Dorothy Sayers once wrote:

If an image displays the universal pattern, it will display it at all levels and in all circumstances, whether the poet was or could have been conscious of these possible applications or not. (19)

God in the form of Christ hanging upon a cross is the central image of sacrificial redemption for the Christian faith. Wiesel describes this child as “the little servant, the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508). Likewise, Christ is often referred to as the Servant King. In another parallel, this “child with a refined and beautiful face […] would not speak” (Wiesel 508) before his torturers just as Jesus remained silent before his accusers. Additionally, this young innocent “struggl[ed] between life and death” (Wiesel 509) while hanging between two adult prisoners. Three gallows—three crosses. The hearts of the prisoners were rent in two even as the veil of the temple was rent when Christ died (Matthew 27:51). In Christianity, the cross, the sacrifice of Christ, is the symbol of redemption, the payment for and setting free from sin and guilt. Likewise, through the loss of this one, this innocent, many are given an opportunity to free themselves, their hearts and their humanity from the bondage of this insidious holocaust.
          Loss. All who faced the threat of these unrelenting atrocities lost. The defiant youth and others—many others—lost their lives. Ten thousand captive bodies lost their sense of humanity, of compassion, of life beyond a bowl of soup. Wiesel lost his faith. Yet the loss of one life, though senseless and tragic, broke through to the hearts of these prisoners— prisoners of body, mind, and soul—offering an opportunity to be human again, redeeming them from the sin of complacency and freeing them to feel again.

Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009

Works Cited

Hurst, John and James Pavlick. “Elie Wiesel Biography.”
          Academy of Achievement ed. Hugh Esten. March 2, 2009.
          American Academy of Achievement. March 6, 2009.
          www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/wie0bio-1

McDonald, Ann, and Jack Trotter, eds. World Views: Classic
          and Contemporary Readings. 5th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2008.

Sayers, Dorothy. Introductory Papers on Dante. New York:
          Harper & Brothers, 1954.

Wiesel, Elie. Night. Trans. Stella Rodway. McDonald and Trotter 506-09.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

(March 10, 2009)

I was really tired that night. Really tried to sleep. I was already in bed when a line for another poem I was working on came to me; so, I had to write it before I lost it. Then another thought for another poem (I had notes for 2 or 3 in progress). I brought the flashlight into the bedroom so I wouldn't disturb Lynn. I really wanted to sleep, but if the inspiration kept coming I wanted to be prepared. Yet, I really wanted to sleep. This was merely part of a list of poems I would like to write exploring the divininty within humanity in the form of Christ or more precisely that God ain't afraid of getting dirty. I only slept for 3 hours that night.



Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

I was out in the field the other day
just lookin' things over—
it was such a nice day and all.
I was just kickin' dirt clods,
when I came across one
kind of looked like my Grandpa Massey.
And lookin' at that clod of dirt,
               that looked like Grandpa,
got me thinkin'
about something I read in the Bible.

And in the beginning
there wasn't much of nothing.
So God made something,
and comparatively speaking,
it was kind of messy.

And the angels stood back,
amazed and afraid,
as God rolled up his sleeves
and stuck his hands elbow deep
in the mud.

Now to you and me
this mud was about as clean
as any mud can get.
After all, it's God-made mud.

But to God, who ain't had dirt
tracked into his kingdom for ever
('cept for maybe that Satan fellow),
mud is mud.

But he done it any way.
And by the time He was done
moldin' and pattin' and shapin'
this stuff,
He had done made a man.

Well, He wasn't quite done yet.
The fellow wasn't quite alive.
So what does God do?
Now at this point,
when the angels see God
start to do what He's about to do,
the angels gasp
(that's right—gasp)
'cause God begins to give
mouth-to-mouth to this mud-man.

And lo and behold,
the guy starts to breathe.
And to walk and to talk.
And he names all the animals
and tends to this garden God made.
And then he ends up
doing something stupid later on
that gets him kicked out of this nice place
to places where he has to break up clods of dirt.

But God really took a shine
to this guy anyway.
And the angels are still amazed
at how much God cares
about these walking clumps of dirt.

Me.
I kicked the clod that looked like Grandpa.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

The Faith of Science

(May 2006)

Were you there?
Did you witness the Bang?
                              or the Boom?
(If no one was there, did it make a sound?)
Was there a bystander
          to the splitting of Dark and Light?
                                        Day and Night?

Did you see
the whorling, swirling, mixing
of rocks and gases,
compacted compounds
(ta da! the energy pill)
                                        (We still have to
                                        figure out where
                                        that little sucker
                                        came from.
                                        What?
                                        It's always been!
                                        Behold!
                                        The Omnipresent Rock!)
become planets and suns.

Was it you that started the clock ticking
to decree the cosmos birthday
to be in the billions and billions?
Start the clock!
          Atomic or planetary?
But wait!
Planets unformed,
          atoms unstable.
Time unmarked, irrelevant.
Rewind.
(The speed of light is slowing
          and the rowers keep on rowing.)

And it's all unconnected—
          connect the dots,
          see the signs,
          imagination unwinds—
your “evidence” doesn't scare me.

I oversimplify?
God!
Maybe it is.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Lamentations 9:11

(December 2003)
This poem was not going to be written. After 9/11, I knew that there would be a plethera of poems written. No need to add to the pile. After watching a documentary filled with visual remnants of history I witnessed live on national television, I realized that my perception was unique and that it was necessary that I pen my thoughts.



1
Long ago,
just yesterday,
live on the breakroom TV,
outsiders poked a hole
in our secure way of life.

2
Lives were lost,
confidences shaken;
agencies formed,
privacy taken.

3
And life as we know it
changed.


4
Weep for the victims
not knowing—
how could they know?
that they were someone’s enemy
marked for death,
innocent or guilty,
unprepared
to put in order things left undone:
afraid, brave,
lost, found—
a thousand stories in two hundred and twenty,
one-fifth of five,
and in the air;
all memorialized in silent speeches
shouted from the rooftops.

5
Weep for the families and friends
not knowing,
wanting to know,
not wanting to know;
passing out pictures of missing,
still missing their faces;
praying to a God they know
or don’t know
or never thought about knowing
until now;
questioning
(can we presume to know?);
breathless,
hearts barely beating,
bloated with blood;
searing pain hotter than flaming fuel,
heavier than crushed concrete.

6
Weep for the heroes
not knowing, yet knowing.
Relentless in their efforts
and hopes
of pulling
even one single, solitary
life
from the heap
of arms and legs
and twisted pickup sticks of steel
and buckets of scrap.

7
Weep for generations to come
not knowing nor comprehending
a federal holiday celebrated
with a day off from work,
picnics, and beer;
the impact on those who
watched
in the streets;
stood
in front of televisions for hours
unproductive, unbelieving, not knowing
what collapsed that day.

8
Weep for the misled and deceived,
not knowing, unknown;
fearful pawns
expecting lasting peace
with violence,
afraid to believe the truth,
blinded by centuries of hate
and vengeance
that does not belong to them;
executing kamikaze heroism.

9
Weep for the misleaders,
not knowing or caring to know
because they know
and are certain
beyond their darkened shadow
of doubt
that God sanctions
and demands their sin;
blind leaders of blind—
the bin Ladens, Husseins, McVeighs.
Weep
that they should be,
that they are—
warped and twisted humanity
bent against humanity;
Freewill misused
for a god, for a nation, for self.

10
Weep for yourself.
And know…
know.
Know love, compassion, mercy;
know tomorrow never comes,
yesterday is gone,
and all the other cliches
are true.
Know yourself.
Know others.
Know God.


11
Dust rained,
Darkness fell,
A light glowed in the smoke.
The hole will be filled,
A day will be marked,
And the second law of thermodynamics will continue.