Tag Archives: Essays

Wait… Christian and Evolutionist?

This is actually a research paper I wrote last year, but with the recent talk about the debate between Bill Nye and Ken Ham, I thought this would be fitting to post.

Many people know I’m a Christian. In fact, I would say, every person that has had a conversation with me knows that. Growing up in a strong Christian home, I accepted Christ into my life at a young age and I have gone to church every Sunday. I remember loving Sunday school and Veggietales and worship songs and flannel graphs and the rest that comes with being a church kid. But I also remember something else about going to church. When I was young, that something was a sort of haze. I didn’t really understand it, but I knew it was there hanging over everything. It was in the demeanor of others – something in the way they treated my family. It was some sort of cold attitude. It would get heavier and heavier until my family would leave that church and try another. Continue reading

Happily Ever After?

For school I had to rewrite a fairy tale. “YES!” I thought, “Something where all my creative juices can flow!” But nothing really came to mind. At all. Finally, a few days before it was due (when I was in the car driving down to visit my sister at college), I just started writing. And the words just kept coming. My two page requirement was soon surpassed. Anyway, this was the outcome.

I have recently become aware of a story about a young girl who loved her father very much, but after her father died, her wicked stepmother and sisters treated her like a servant until her fairy godmother arrived and made her a beautiful dress and carriage so that she might go to a ball, meet prince charming and live happily ever after. You have no doubt heard the tale of which I speak. This story bears my name, Cinderella, and claims to be mine. However, the facts of this popular yarn differ so radically from my own story that I truly wonder how it can possibly be mine. I doubt that this Cinderella story would be so popular if the real facts were upheld and persevered. The circumstances aren’t nearly as bright as they are made out to be. Ergo, I can go no further without relating the proper account of my tale, the story of Cinderella.

The brief summary of the popular version of my story at the beginning is true: I did love my father, and when he died I was forced to take the role of a servant, but not by my stepmother. My father, as it turned out, was a man of disreputable character, and upon his death, left a large sum of debts for me, my stepmother and sisters to pay off. We, not wanting to lose the family estate, let several of the staff go and took on the chores ourselves. We lived, not happily, but comfortably. And as to my stepmother being wicked, that is far from true. She was strict, insisting on an early bedtime for me and making sure I finished my day’s work, but she was certainly not cruel. Or at least as I look back, I know her not to be so. I probably would have been hasty and dubbed her so in my youth, for I was a stubborn, hot headed little thing, not at all like the dulcet, charming girl depicted in the popular tale.

One day, when I was about sixteen, our family, still a part of the royal court, was invited to the palace ball. I immediately assumed that I would be going and started going on about how I would meet the prince and he would fall in love with me and what I would wear and so on. My stepmother, upon hearing the manner in which I handled the invitation, was determined that I should not go. Her reasons – that I was yet too young and foolish for such a thing as a ball and that I would be out far past my bedtime – I would not heed and I adamantly insisted on going. This verified my stepmother’s worries and she firmly said that I could not go.

I was put into a rage. I stormed about the house and screamed and wailed that I should be allowed to go. Finally, my stepmother, fed up with me, said that I could go only if I finished the chores that I had been putting off for days. The amount of work that I had compiled was enormous to the extent that there was no way I could get it done in time for the ball, but this did not discourage me. I set off to work and quickly tried to complete the tasks before me.

However, I did not finish in time, and I was once again thrown into hysterics at seeing my stepsisters (two and five years older than me) get ready. I cried over every jewel they pinned on, wept over every button fastened, and mourned over every spray of perfume.

Right before their going, my stepmother gave me explicit instructions to finish my chores and to go to bed on time – both of which I had the fullest intention of disobeying. As they left, I gave out one last sob of misery and sank down utterly depressed.

A few minutes passed with me all alone feeling quite sorry for myself and bitter towards my stepmother and sisters. It was then that glowing lady appeared. I quickly got to my feet alarmed but the lady spoke and said, “Don’t worry you poor, poor child. I’m your fairy godmother.”

Imagine my surprise! I was aware of tales of such fair folk, but I had never seen one before or really believed they existed. I looked over the lady wonderingly. Her demeanor was serious, though her face looked as if it were about to laugh. She was exactly what you would label a mother or rather a grandmother: white stiff hair combed back into a neat bun, of a slightly fatter build that played nicely into cheeks and neck, eyes that disappeared when she smiled, long cloak-like dress partly faded. The only thing that seemed out of place was a delicate silver wand she held in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she said again. Her voice was smooth and full of deep variation. If I were to have met her now and not then, I would not be so trusting as I was. There was something in her face, something in the way it was light but serious. Like she was trying so hard to keep from laughing.

“I have every cause to worry,” I said impertinently.

“I know your worries, but come. I am here to break you out of here. You shall indeed go to the ball!”

That was music to my ears and I immediately let myself be taken in by her. With her wand she made me a dress (of a cut I know my stepmother would have disapproved of) and cloak. I wanted more. So she added some large earnings and a headband of an elegance not even closely matched by the jewels my sisters had just an hour ago put on.

Then she created for me a carriage out of a pumpkin in our garden and turned the pesky mice and rats that inhabited our barn into horses. And I was off! But not before a strict warning from my fairy godmother to be home at midnight for that was when the magic would end. She also said that whenever I needed her again, just to call and she would arrive.

What a ball it was! I had never been to the palace before, but it was a wonderful sight to see. Lights, fireworks, music, tall ceilings, paintings, ponds, gardens, and so much more that caused me to wonder and gaze at everything! And such finery! All the people were magnificently dressed. But none could compare to me in my magic dress. Heads turned and followed me. I had several men in my wake gaping at my beauty. And it felt wonderful!

You might be wondering if I was nervous or in fear of meeting my stepmother and sisters, but alas, I did not think that far ahead. And the party was so enormous – thousands of people – that the likelihood of our meeting at all was quite slim.

You might also be wonder when Prince Charming comes in. Well, it was about an hour after I arrived. It would have been ten o’clock or close to it. I was walking along the edge of the ballroom trying to see if I could catch a glimpse of the prince when a dashing young stranger asked to dance with me. I had already had several flirtatious suiters that night that had amused me, but I was searching for the prince, so I rudely said no to his invitation to dance. He was completely taken aback at this and proceeded to inquire who I was. Annoyed that he was still there, I said that I was a relative of the queen and could not be seen associating with those below my rank. Our conversation escalated in this manner, until he said, “I could just order one of my palace guards to make you dance with me”. It was only then that I took my gaze off of his handsome face and recognized the palace coat of arms on his shoulder. He was the prince!

Immediately, I apologized and said that of course I would dance with him if he still would dance with a wretch like myself. After many bows and regrets, he grabbed my hand and said that he enjoyed a challenge every once in a while. His manners were impeccable, his speech perfect and I found myself most in love and wanting to impress him. So, when he asked where I was from, I turned the conversation to how I had gotten to the ball. He was most intrigued. I thought because of my rebellious attitude which I believed he admired, which no doubt he did. But he had a more devious interest. When I told him of my fairy godmother’s promise to come again whenever I called, he slyly implored me to relate all the details of my adventures of that day. And I did most happily.

As we talked, we walked into the garden and the topic changed to other things. After a bit, we happened upon a little brook and I had such an urge to skip through it, for I was giddy and the water was no more than two inches deep. So we did. We took off our shoes and I hiked up my skirt and we splashed and jumped with giggles and childish amusement. At one point I slipped and he caught me; it was then he told me of how much he loved me and that he had to see me again soon. I was most flattered! And I told him he was the world to me. But then the clock struck midnight and I remembered what my fairy godmother said about the magic wearing off, so I quickly ran away with a promise to see the prince the next day. I quickly tried to grab my shoes, but in my haste, I left one slipper.

I got home just in the nick of time and jumped into bed perfectly content and on air. And apparently tired, for I slept several hours. When I awoke, I let my feet swing over my mattress with a light airy ease and I found it was not so easy. I told myself that I was just stiff from the night before – if only it were so! I looked down at what I thought was to be my magic dress (I had not changed the night before) and found it quite gone, and only my underthings remained. And something else besides. I was not me. Well, of course I was me, but I didn’t feel like me. My once flat stomach had a roundness to it. My hands were rough and wrinkled and veins popped out of them in purple and azure hues. I ran to the mirror and let out a scream. My eyes were sunken, my lips faded, my hair wiry. And yet I reconized the face in the mirror to be mine. It was my face. I did not look old as much as worn. Or spent.

In desperation I called for my fairy godmother. She appeared with remarkable swiftness. I was about to relate my peril to her when I stopped amazed. This lady was not the same person I had seen yesterday. This fairy’s robe-like dress was dark and yet shone and sparkled. One would never label her a “mother” on first sight – she had not that feature. Her hair was long and flowing, though it was the color of dazzling silver, and had strands so pure white that they sparkled. Her lips were well rounded and the color of blood. Her eye weren’t sunken, but large and expressive. But then I noticed she clasped a silver wand with her long slender fingers: the same silver wand. And as I looked into her face, I realized it was the same fairy godmother.

I presumed to tell her my predicament between choked sobs and shouts of fury. I was full of questions but I did not care so much for them to be answered. All I wanted was to look the way I had. I was thinking only of the prince. What would he say with me looking this way? And finally, too curious and confused to think, I asked her what had happened to her.

She looked at me, no more pretense of seriousness. She was all laughter now. And she laughed, not an evil laugh, but one that made my blood run cold nonetheless. “Why, I find I had better explain.”

“No, no, no!” I said, “I just want to look the way I did!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see,” she said, “this is all the price.”

“What?” I said, so confused I scarce knew what to say.

“Yes, yes. Do you think I work for nothing? That wouldn’t do! I’m no mortal, but I still need to survive!”

“But, what do you mean, ‘this is all the price’?”

“Just that, dear. Your youth for, what was it again? Oh, yes! A dress, cloak, earnings, headband – that one was gorgeous! I’m quite proud of that bit of work – Where was I? Ah, a carriage, and horses.”

“You took my youth!” I was amazed and horrified.

“Well what else do you have that I could possibly want?”

“You deceived me!” I cried.

“I don’t remember lying… But it is quite done anyway.”

“But fairy godmother!”

“Oh, I take that back, I did lie, didn’t I? Oh, well! I’m not your fairy godmother. Such things do not exist. Fairies of course do, for I am one,” She giggled, “But somehow saying ‘godmother’ makes mortals more willing to cooperate.” She said this perplexed as if she didn’t understand why it was so.

I was hardly listening to her. “You took all my youth!” I said.

“Not everything! Goodness, have you looked at yourself?”

I looked again in the mirror.

“No, not there, well I suppose a bit there. You still have fine teeth, and your eyes themselves haven’t chanced, but I was referring to there.”

I followed her pointed finger to my feet. I lifted up my underskirt and looked. There stood two perfect, youthful feet.

“You see?” She said. “I didn’t take everything. And your insides are still in perfect order! And there is much more that you can offer! Is there anything else you want? Perhaps a nice house? Or more servants? Oh, how I would love to get my hands on those toes!”

“No!” I said. “I don’t want anything else!”

“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “You do know, that I am indebted to you. Any fairy that gives their magic to anyone is bound to them.” She said this as if reciting from something.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I means I have to do whatever you say. Always. I mean, there’s still a price of course, but if you call I have to come even if I’m enjoying myself somewhere else.”

“Do you have to leave when I tell you to?”

“Why, yes, I suppose.”

“Then go!”

She was gone. I was alone. Alone with my ugly self.

I stayed in my room that day. My stepmother came a few times to my door to see if I wanted food, but didn’t force me to leave. (No doubt she thought I was still bitter about not being able to go to the ball).

It was after dinner time when the doorbell rang. There was a hustle downstairs and then royal trumpets outside. I went to my window to see who was there and low and behold, it was attendants from the palace! I was frantic!

I put on my largest tunic and a veil and waited to see what happened. There was more commotion downstairs as the party entered the house. I tried to hear what was being said, but to no avail. After a bit, my stepmother came to my door and said that there were visitors from the palace. I opened my door and as we walked downstairs she explained to me what was going on (she did not seem to notice the change in me, for my tunic was large enough and my veil a good one). The prince apparently had met a beautiful young girl last night, she told me, but she ran off before he got her name. He was searching for her and hoped to discover who she was by a shoe that she had left in her haste.

I knew that the shoe was mine, and that I would still fit in it! Ah, out of all the things that was unchanged, my feet were it! I thought how lucky I was, but I see now that I was not as fortunate as I appeared.

When I went downstairs, I was seated and a palace servant took out a shoe (it was mine) and placed in on my foot. It was, of course, a perfect fit. All the palace attendants went wild with shouts of “we’ve found her!” and before I knew it, I was in the royal carriage off to the palace.

I was then scurried here and there and though hallways and upstairs until finally we came to where the prince was. I was announced, and then I entered.

“What is this?” said the prince. “Why do you hide your face?”

“Because, it has changed much from last night. The magic I spoke of has spent me,” I said. I did not want to lie. Besides, what else could I say?

He came over and unveiled me. He started and I flinched. “I see what you mean. What an ugly horrid thing you have become.” I didn’t move. “Well, I suppose this will make my plan all the easier, for I had not wanted to trouble you so when you were beautiful. Magic does strange things to a person, but this?” He gestured to me, “Well, like I said, it will make my plan easier and my conscience clear.” He laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“Come, guards! Take this wretch away and lock her in the tower. I will follow shortly.”

“What?” I gasped.

“I can’t have you scaring my guests,” he said.

I sat in the cold tower for about an hour before he came. Two guards came with him with torches.

“Now,” he said when he came nearer. “Call to your fairy – what did you call her? Ah, yes, godmother.”

“Let me out,” I said rather pathetically and confused as to why he wanted me to do so.

“Now!” He said this so severely that I dared not refuse him.

So I called. And there she appeared.

“So,” she said. “Need a little magic after all?” she started looking at the bars of my prison and then added, “Ah, yes. I see you do. Well, this one will cost you.”

The prince was looking at her amazed – completely in awe. But then recovering he said, “No, that isn’t what she wishes. She has called you here for me.”

“Oh, clever,” she said to him. “But unfortunately, I don’t have obey you. I find myself rather in a pesky sort of mood. See I was enjoying myself quite nicely when she had to call and –”

“I don’t care!” he shouted. “You,” he said turning to me, “You tell her to do what I want.”

“Why would I do that? I could tell her to break me out of here and brainwash you all so you won’t know to run after me.”

“Oh, I can’t do all that,” she said.

“What? Sure you can!”

“Oh, I can’t change someone’s mind. That’s far too difficult. All this talk of fairies making people fall in love is such nonsense! I don’t have the faintest idea where you mortals got the notion!” she said giggling.

“Well, then,” said the prince. “If you do have her break you out of here, I will find you and make your life hell.” He said these words right in my face with nothing but the bars between us.

I was naive and scared. “What do you want?”

He turned to the fairy, “Make me the most powerful man in the world.”

She turned to me. I nodded, “Do it. I wish him to be what he said.”

“Interesting wish, but who am I to argue?” she said. “Bibbity-bobbity-boo!”

Immediately I felt myself sink to the floor. My legs had given way. I looked up; the fairy was gone. The prince was looking at his hands to see if something had changed. They hadn’t, but his face had. It looked powerful, deadly, horrible. He looked at me for a second and then walked away with a smirk. He felt the power in him.

A pain from my side hit me, and I grabbed my waist screaming. The prince didn’t turn. He walked away. And as he did, he seemed to get bigger instead of smaller.

My eyes got fuzzy, and I started to gag on nothing. Through my bleared vision, I looked at my feet. They still wore the glass slippers. My feet started to grow puffier and outgrow the shoes. A few seconds later, the shoes shattered.

Now, fifty years later, my kingdom, that was once a peaceful small land, now covers most of the map of the world. It barely has a solid house standing from all the fires and wars that go on.

I am still in that tower. I have never left it, nor have I seen my stepmother or sisters. I have had many years to think about my past. The only visitors I get is a guard who brings me food, and the prince, who still calls on me when he is losing a battle or wishes for more money. Also, once a year, I receive a present and letter from my stepsisters. (They believe that I am the prince’s mistress since there was no wedding announcement and since I have not returned.) This year, it was a book of stories and Cinderella was in it. I decided to set the record straight as soon as I finished it. I am writing this account of Cinderella into the walls of my tower where someone might someday discover it and realize that there is no happily ever after.

White Walls

I’ve been going to my church for three years come this April. I’ve had some amazing times! But I remember the first time I saw what is now my church. I felt quite different that day than I do now when I go there. The tall foreboding building conjures up completely different emotions in me now than then. I remember the cracked pavement, the tall monstrous door, the echoing hallways of that first day. I remember the cold tile floor. I remember the tidy displays of fake flowers. In a way, the people there were just like the floral displays. They were arranged in set places, greeting you with warm welcomes, but underneath I thought they were fake, doing nothing more than collecting dust. I remember the polished wood trimming and almost too symmetrical rows of chairs. I remember the “perfectness” of it all. The too shiny hand rails, faces. The over organization of the decor, conversation. I remember the white washed walls.

Everything was just like all the other churches before. And I was sure that just like every other time, the white walls would turn gray. The tall ceilings would collapse, crushing me, forcing me to leave. The polished wood would rot. Shiny hand rails would turn rough. And those smiling faces would be frowning. Frowning at me, at what I stood for, at what I believed. Those warm greetings would turn to cold stares. Instead of having open conversations, I would become an object of closed gossip. And then I would leave yet another one of God’s houses. I would cynically laugh at “Loving God, loving people” slogans and at “all are welcome” policies because I knew the lie behind them. There was no stopping this. The smiles would leave. The walls could never stay white.

White walls. Sometimes, sometimes, I would wish that the flowers were real. That they really grew, withered – required nourishment, warmth, light – just like me. I wished that their colors were genuine, reflecting what was truly on the inside and not sprayed on in unnatural hues. I would wish that they would bend instead of staying stiff. I would wish they would bend. Oh, why wouldn’t they? Real flowers follow the light whereever it goes. Only then can they truly thrive, but fake ones remain stationary, sure of themselves and their substance. But in reality those fake ones are dead. They can’t grow or change. They can’t love.

I wished that others didn’t see how black my wall was next to their white one. Their white? No, their white side. Every wall has two sides: the side people see – the side that each wall paints over every time there is a single blemish – and the hidden side, the true part. The part that does not lie. Why didn’t they show their black side, the side full of rust, hollows, cobwebs? The side full of drips and leaks and unwanted waste. Were they blinded by their shiny white walls? Could they really not see what they were hiding? No, they couldn’t. The doors to the other side were locked, bolted shut. The handles taken off. No light was let in. Nothing was open. Oh, how I wished they would open.

But I had wished my last wish. I wouldn’t dare to hope. There was no way this one church would accept me. I greeted everything with contempt. I looked at smiles and already saw frowns. I heard friendly hellos and heard stern goodbyes. I knew what lay beyond the white walls. I became sure of myself. I became unwilling to follow the light. I became stiff, stationary. I was rotting. I was dead.

I looked at white walls and saw black.

But there was something different about these walls. The doors had no locks. The handles were there, oiled ready to be turned. These walls were far from white, but the black wasn’t concealed. The black was sought out to be repainted but not by the wall, by the light. Light was taken into every corner. Instead of pushing all doors shut, turning off every light that could reach into the darkest parts, the doors were waiting to be opened. Instead of hiding away in their own blackness, these walls threw you a flashlight and said, “Come in! We’ll work through this together.”

These flowers were not fake. They would bend so much and even touch the ground, get dirty, just to obtain a little more light. They would show their true colors, even if they were dull. These flowers collected dust but allowed the rain to wipe it off, and even handed you a watering can to help.

The difference was sincerity. The difference was the the structure of the wall. The difference was the substance of the flower. These knew they were wrong, but wanted help to change that wrong. That was the difference. That was what mattered.

When I go to my church now, I feel warm, happy, and even excited. I’m excited to see what the future holds. I’m excited to explore my faith. I’m excited to help others with theirs. But most of all, I’m so thankful that I wasn’t so hardened. I’m so thankful I gave – no, I’m so thankful this place gave me a chance to accept them. Now, I can look at white walls and truly see white.

The One Need

For this assignment I had to write about one of my favorite places or people. Mongolia was a place where I felt the most of every emotion, so I chose to write about the time when I was there.

I shiver as I slowly start to awaken. A distant dog bark pulls me out of my sweet dreams and into reality. I shove the five layers of blankets off of me, and as I quickly put my feet into my shoes, I get up. Making sure not to hit my head on the low ceiling, I throw a shirt over my pajamas and proceed to boil some water. I crawl back in bed while the water is heating and curl up into a ball. I look up at the orange painted prongs which make up the support for my ger or yert. As I look more closely at the designs on the prongs, I notice that the quite intricate paintings are nothing more than a series of swirls and lines – something a child might do. But somehow all the twisting and turning of the bright colors has a sophisticated simplicity to it.

Ah! But the water is boiling now. I switch off the boiler and switch on the one solitary light in the center of my circular ger. I walk the five paces to the other side of the ger and get some instant oatmeal, a bowl and a glass. I pour myself some of the hot water and drink it slowly. I feel the warm liquid travel down my throat and defrost my insides, reviving me at the same time. After making my instant oatmeal, I open the dwarf-sized door and am instantly flooded with warm new sunshine. I would find out later that gers are always made facing the east for just that purpose.

Some Newsboys’ songs are playing across the street and into my ger, bringing a small bit of western culture into this vastly different world. I sing along as I eat my oatmeal. More sounds flow through the open door: hammers pounding, a solitary car roaring, people talking in their strange tongue of whispers. I just listen, for a while, to the whispers of every day life dance across the hills and along the breeze. All the sounds are peaceful, even the hammer pounding away. The cloth walls of the ger don’t hide much of the world around me. I can hear my neighbors in the next hasha, a wild dog walking along the deeply rutted road, people carrying home their next day’s water from the water pump, calling a friendly “sanbano” to other passing travelers. There is something quite relaxing about hearing all the sounds of an everyday simplistic lifestyle. It makes me feel not alone, like I am part of something, like there is more than me. But today, like the other days, I find myself frowning – something about the people.

I walk outside to the outhouse and risk falling into the abominable chasm for relieving myself. Carefully, I place my feet on the two boards that are the only things keeping me aloft. I make it out alive and give my hasha’s watch dog a friendly pat. He jumps up to give me a hug, and I reply to the gesture by pulling out some leftover bread to give to him. He gladly starts eating away, and I leave him to finish his meal.

Far away, outlining the capitol, there are the hills with westward sweeping robes of pines. The apexes of these magnificent peaks are green, the only time of the year they will be so. Along the southeast side of the mountains lay rocks arranged into pictures or words, which I would have been able to read if not for my incapability to read the strange tongue. In the valleys below the bare points of rock is the capitol. The towering buildings compete with the mountains, but to no avail. Cranes are scattered here and there, absently waiting to finish what they’ve started. The concrete apartments look out of place, waiting, like the cranes. But they are much more foreboding. Their hollow windows and gaping doors – empty, staring back at you – are cold. It’s like the whole place was under a spell waiting to be awakened, waiting for life. That’s what’s odd. The people of this city are much like that. Hollow and empty, waiting. Yes, they are part of something bigger, a community, but the community is lost. They are waiting for a leader, waiting for someone to show them the way. Waiting for someone to awaken them. The question is, who will it be? Will these people be lost forever wandering the emptiness of life? Or will someone show them the way? They can’t stay nomads forever.

The people of this city wander its streets going here and there. There is still a city feel, even though the city itself is small. My eyes follow a street along, up to my side of the hill. The scene rapidly changes from an urban modern lifestyle to an almost archaic one. Concrete apartments turn to single room gers. Houses become shacks. Schools and running water cease to exist. But one thing stays the same: the people. The brown, rough skin, the deep dark eyes, the whispers of a language, a single need – those are all the same no matter how high you go up the mountain. The noise of a father pounding away for a better life, or one out of work, waiting for the cranes to start up again. A watch dog barking away at an unwanted visitor, or an alarm system beeping at an unknown menacing presence. These people are resourceful, adapting, determined. If only that determination would be captured.

A single need. Starvation, illiteracy, hunger would mean almost nothing if this need was met. If only the Mongolians had a leader.

The Plight of the Youngest

After reading William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, I had to write a soliloquy for school. All of Shakespeare’s works are full of page-long monologues and paragraphs of soliloquies. Thankfully, I didn’t have to write in Old English… [For words — lengthy and minute — would in that mechanical alcove tucked concealed in my merry sconce appear rather not, for the speech of which I am not inclined to is elaborate and complex, confusing the place of which thought is inspired, both in talking and writing.] In other words, It’s confusing. Anyway, I decided to write about the sorrow that accompanies the youngest of a family.

I’m recording these events and injustices to do away with any misconceptions you might have concerning last born children. I have the authority to give you a realistic picture of this, for I am the youngest in my family. I am writing this for those who don’t meet the criteria of “last born” or have forgotten the woes that come with the title. “Woes?” you might ask. “Are there really woes that are specific to last born children?” The answer, as you will see in the following paragraphs, is an emphatic yes.

The woes of being the youngest, girl or boy, start at a very young age. (However, since I am a girl, I will refer to the youngest in feminine form.) For me, these sorrows were present ever since I can remember. The first, and most common, anguish for a last born is the feeling that she is dumb. This feeling feels valid for the youngest because surrounding her are older children capable of much more than she is. The older children are more creative, they get jokes, they have more knowledge in school, and the list goes on and on. In my own life I remember making a card for someone’s birthday and feeling quite proud of it until I saw my older siblings’ cards. Compared to their cards, mine was fit for the garbage, and I knew it, which leads me quite nicely to the second tragedy of youngsters.

Parents and other adults, too, see the ugly little kid cards and the beautiful older kid ones and do a most offensive thing. What do they do? While in their harmless attempts to lift the spirits of the littlest, they tell her that her card is beautiful, that she did a wonderful job. In essence, they lie. This praise, though done with no ill intentions, is seen by the littlest for what it truly is — deceit. The last born knows her cards are miserable and that she is being lied to in order to make her feel better; however, the result is quite the opposite of the desired effect. The last born becomes sadder that the adults try to baby her and that the adults think she is ignorant enough not to see past their charade of smiles. The youngster hides what she knows of this common lie, and lets the adults believe that their congratulations have worked and that she is happy with the outcome of her card, though this is never really true.

Though the last born is demeaned by false consolation, the same amount of maturity, as is shown by the older siblings, is expected of her! Adults can hardly be blamed for this fault, though it is theirs. Parents are spoiled by the recently acquired maturity of their older children, so when another kid comes along, and obviously isn’t as grown up as the older children, parents tend to get annoyed. Parents’ patience wears thin. When they can’t contain their frustration any longer, they let all the heat out on the youngest, and the common phrase “why can’t you just grow up?” is born. It is necessary to note that the oldest is NOT more mature than the youngest when the oldest was the age of the younger, or that the youngest is less mature than the oldest for the respective age. Rather, with the greater life experience, the older has gained more maturity than the youngest.

As I have stated, the youngest doesn’t have as much life experience or knowledge as her older siblings, and, as a result of this, she is excluded from many a conversation. I remember sitting around for hours while my parents, siblings and company would talk and talk and talk about things I couldn’t understand. I would try to listen, but after having no luck at all in trying to figure out what they were talking about, I would just quit. This, however boring, did give me quite a lot of patience that I still have to express every once in a while when I still don’t understand some conversation. This exclusion isn’t confined just to conversations but also in things like jokes. I never ever could get a joke, much less retell it. Everybody would be laughing and laughing, and I would just be sitting there lost. Needless to say, it was frustrating, but not nearly as frustrating as the most common and offensive misconception of all.

What is the most offensive? Why it is the misconception that the youngest is just like the older children. Let me further explain this with an example. My older sister sews. She sews rather well and wears her garments about. When people are talking about my sister’s sewing skills, they always without a doubt ask me, “Do you sew, too?” The answer to that question, as you might have guessed, is no. The same scenario happens again with other topics: “Oh, do you play the cello like your sister?” “Your sister likes this, so you must, too!” and so on and so forth. After years of questions and statements and assumptions like these, one of two things happen. The first is that the youngest will try to live up to her older siblings’ standards, trying to be just like them, and the other is complete rebellion. I, myself, have done both of these. At first, I tried cello, I tried to sew, to be like my sister, but after a while it became cumbersome. So I took the other extreme. I refused to do anything my sister did. I became quite bitter! Unfortunately for me, my sister is a very diverse person who tries many different things, and trying to avoid all of them was quite difficult. And this leads me to another struggle of the youngest that goes hand in hand with the one just stated.

Individuality. It is so hard to be an individual with older siblings. Now, this wouldn’t be so hard if the youngest was in a different school than the older children, but in my house, we were homeschooled. Don’t get me wrong. I loved and still do love homeschooling. However, it proved hard not doing anything like my older siblings when I was around them 24-7. In situations like this, the youngest, in a desperate attempt to be an individual, thinks of the most outlandish things to do say and wear. The youngest thinks of a way to express herself in a queer, loud way. For me this was true. I decided to wear eccentric clothes, things my sister would never wear. I took up singing, and I would sing loudly throughout the house proclaiming my presence. Writing became my favorite subject because I could voice my opinions.  I also started acting and began making friends that my family didn’t know. All of this helped me to feel more independent and different. Speaking of friends, that is the last woe of a last born.

Friends, it’s true, are a cause of sorrow to a last born. Not because they are mean friends, or a bad example for the youngest, but because they are old. It is a fact that last born children make older friends. Most of the time, the age difference is only a year of two, but in extreme cases the years extend to four or five. This is true even in my life. When I was not even a freshman in high school, I was making friends with seniors. These were all good friends to me, but because I was so much younger, I got frustrated when I couldn’t do what they could. For instance, I can’t drive, and most of my friends can. I’m not allowed to wear make-up, and my friends can. I can’t see all the movies they are allowed to see. My friends can go to prom; I can’t. This caused me to want to be older even more, and the things that I could control, like wearing make-up, I wanted. However, I have a rather strict mother, and when I would complain that I couldn’t do this, or that all my friends could do that, she would get angry. Unfortunately for both of us, I am as stubborn as a mule and wouldn’t cave. This caused friction between us. I understand the importance of boundaries, but it is hard to accept them when the people I am closest to, friends and family, don’t have the same restrictions as I.

This concludes the plight of the youngest. As you can see, there are many woes the youngest has to endure that start at birth and remain for quite a while. I hope this paper will deter you from complaining that the youngest has an easy life, and, even if you are not thoroughly convinced, perhaps you will respect the children of this world that were most unfortunate to be born last.