Monthly Archives: April 2013

Dear Readers:

This lyric essay was born out of my desire to write about my religious life and how it interacts with my social (academic) life at Baruch. I struggled with exactly what the final point of my essay will be until I sat in a class with Professor Ely Shipley as a guest speaker… and that experience solidified my thoughts, creating a path for my words to travel upon from my mind to the page. His work in lyric essays inspired my form; the conversation in the class inspired my purpose. I remained silent most of the time out of fear of offending the whole group, fear for speaking my mind, social courtesy, and plain manners. In doing so, I realized that we all must be silent at times, but that what does that silence mean? Does it mean we are cowards? Or does it mean we are wise? Does it mean that our society is not as accepting as we would like to believe? If not, then what exactly is acceptable and unacceptable now? There are so many questions we could take from an introspective on silence. This essay is just my poor attempt at vocalizing my personal internal views, going back and forth between my religious life and my social life.

The final product of my draft is certainly not what I expected it to be. I think that the sections, now that they are all written, should be rearranged for a build up effect. The final section is exactly the way I wanted it to be, but aside from that, how do you think the sections should be ordered? Also, is there any section that feels out of place, as if it takes away from the work as a whole? If anything I might rewrite or remove that section in my editing process. The metaphors I used in each piece might influence how “out of place” a section might feel, so be sure to talk about that if it is a factor. I tried to be creative in the metaphors I used, but I don’t know how effective that turned out to be.

On the other hand, my metaphors did leave me with a sentence that I truly like: “I sat there, not a flower, but a shrub with no bud or scent.” I’m not sure why I like this sentence so much, but it feels very poetic…and I’m not a poetic person in the least. To be able to write something with that effect makes me very proud indeed.

Well, my readers, I leave you to my essay. Read it with an open mind, enjoy it as a work of literature, and let me know what you think of it as fellow writers!

 

Darius Parisienne

********************************************

Voice of Silence

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
-Abraham Lincoln

 

The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls.
-Elizabeth Cady Stanton

 

“You shouldn’t have put that status up on Facebook if you knew what was going to happen,” my friend said to me.

I sat with the chair leaning on its back two legs, putting on a show of slight indifference. “I have every right to say what I want there, just as they do. I don’t go on their walls and show so much hatred when they post their statuses, so neither should they.”

“Yes, you do have the right to your opinion, but some things are just better left unsaid,” he continued, undaunted.

I thought back to the status I posted the night before. It incited the wrath of the least likely people I could have imagined. Their words drove into me like a freight train just beginning its journey on the track – slow, one by one, but each heavier and more forceful than the last. Hypocrite, asshole, dick, jerk, insensitive, phobic…the insults continued well into the morning.

All because I don’t agree with gay marriage.

***

Silent night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright…

***

            I looked up from the plastic covered Word and Song in my hands and brought my eyes to the face of my pastor. The dregs of our last hymn resonated in my mind’s ear, but I try my best to empty them to focus on his words.

“See how the world has changed? It used to be that man would marry a woman, and woman would marry a man, and they would unite as one body, one flesh, as God intended.”

Mutterings of assent and nostalgia rose from the bodies planted in their wooden soil. A soft seed of “Amen” blew into the wind of their noise.

“But now we have man with many women, or woman with many men. Now we have man marrying man and woman marrying woman. Now we have two men raising children, two women raising children, calling it a family, and expect the world to say that it is right!”

Buds of angry agreements grew from the plants, eager to reach maturity.

“We must pray that they will realize what they are doing is wrong! This lifestyle is that of sin, and sin can only lead to Hell!”

But will they all go to Hell? Doesn’t God take care of everyone with a good heart? Aren’t we all sinners to be looked after? Is this any worse a sin than lying? Or does it fall under the category of lies?

The buds blossom into heavily perfumed flowers, some small, some large, some not at all. Some already start to lose their petals as if winter was drawing near.

I sit there, not a flower, but a simple shrub without bud or scent.

***

He said

You will not suffer thy foot,

Thy foot to be moved…

***

“So you believe in the Pope, right?” I was asked.

I considered this question carefully. My words were chosen with care. “The Pope is the head of the Catholic Church…” I began.

“So whatever the Pope says is pretty much the Word of God, right? Even though he’s a Nazi?” the questioner inquired.

My feet were nailed to the floor. In that one tiny club-room, out of hundreds of rooms of the fourteen floors that comprise my entire social existence, I become a steel pillar as unmoving as if I was in place from first construction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, about whoever is a Nazi or not. Is there a point to your questions?”

The interrogator gave            me a knowing smile, implying that he knew he was already going to win this “argument” before it even became one. “Isn’t it hypocritical of you to follow a Pope who says abortion is a sin when he killed millions of Jewish babies and pregnant mothers with his fellow Nazis? Do you believe abortion is wrong?”

Flashbacks of the last discussion with my best friend bounce around in my head, rubber balls with multiple trajectories. “Yes, I believe abortion is wrong.” I refuse to elaborate.

If my child has any defect at all I’m aborting it.

You would end a life just because it’s not perfect?

Yes. I would not be able to love it.

Why not just put him or her up for adoption?

I don’t want to give birth to a retard. Why should I go through that pain?

I can’t ever agree to that.

It’s not like it’s your children I’m having anyways.

That’s not the point! You’d be ending a life!

A life that I made, so I get to choose.

Why would you take the choice away from the child before it’s even born?

Because I don’t want it to live when I can’t love it.

That’s just wrong…

I didn’t ask you if it’s right or wrong. It’s not your business anyways; your opinion has no effect on me.

“I believe abortion is wrong.”

***

Here I am, God

I am coming,

My delight is to do your will…

***

            Chilly wind nipped at my exposed flesh. Try as I might, I could not fit the djimbei across my back comfortably as I listened to the conversation around me.

“I can’t imagine changing genders the way some people do. It doesn’t make any sense.” One voice put forth.

“They do it because they can, and science lets them,” replied another. “I doubt they really feel ‘trapped’ as so many of them keep saying.”

“Well some of them could actually feel that way, but that doesn’t mean they were meant to be the opposite gender,” a third voice said.

The sidewalk was mostly clear of its usual inhabitants, loiterers from the recently ended Mass. Unfavorable weather tends to discourage the aged and withered flowers from hanging around and chatting, but the younger, supple trees have more endurance. I gave up on adjusting the straps of my djimbei’s bag and focused on the words in the air.

“I mean, come on, why would I want to be a guy? I was born a girl and I want to stay a girl, even with my period and cramps,” the third voice declared.

But you’re not the person who feels as if they are a boy trapped inside another body, I want to say. I know what I believe, and I know what I stand for, and it makes logical sense, but…I’m not in anyone else’s position. Only my own.

And you’re only in your own position as well.

The words live out their lifespan in my mind, never crossing the boundary into the concrete and un-retractable. The chilling wind is my only reply.

***

The Lord’s my shepherd,

I’ll not want

He makes me lie

In pastures green…

***

            I faced my interrogator once again.

“You’re not a virgin; you must have been molested by your priest at least once!”

The same voice. The same mocking tone. The same loud, cynical laugh.

I never seem to be able to escape him. He has continuously dug his fingernails into the ever-tender wounds of my religion and threatens to rip them wide open once more. Every possible scandal, every mistake, every misplaced perception, he knows them all and uses them as battering rams to break down my defensive wall.

How did I answer such hostile humor? With silence.

I refused to acknowledge his attempts to attack me; I refused to allow him to denounce my church yet another time. I took his challenge and rejected it with the most powerful absence of words I could muster. I defended the priests of my church, and churches all over the world, with the strongest wall I could conceive.

With my silence, I gave him all the answer I needed.

***

            “Hey Darius, you’re in the choir right?” my friend asked.

“Yes…why?”

“Can you sing me something? I want to hear you sing!”

I gave him a short laugh. “Something like what?”

“That song that was sung in Sister Act, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh, that. Sure, it goes…”

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

 

 

 

Voice of Silence – Draft Voice of Silence Cover Letter