The Sexualization of Summer

Preface: This is actually something written by my 13 year old daughter. In class they have been listening to some of Rick Mercer Report’s rants and as an assignment they had to write thier own and keep at the minute mark or just under. They will be filming their rants and compiling them together as a class.
I always encourage my kids and try to teach them as much as possible. I’m sure like most parents I have my moments when I question how effective my parenting is not just as a mom but as a woman…a guide. This is a short piece but it’s yet another small piece of evidence for me that I’m not doing as bad as I think I am sometimes.
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Rape Whistle

I have a fucking rape whistle.

I take inventory of every detail I can of the men I pass when I’m running by them.

What they’re wearing. What colour hair they have. What their gum smells like. What type of shoes and coat they have on. I actually recite these things in my head as I run by them.

So if it’s necessary to give a description I will be able to do it despite any shock or trauma…hopefully. The smells I take note of might become triggers and help me remember things I might otherwise forget if needed.

I do these things without even thinking about them. It’s just something I do at this point.

As I sit here and have my rape whistle sitting on my coffee table I contemplate all these things in a fraction of seconds when my 8 year old asks me “Why do you need a whistle to run?”

Keep it simple…for now. “In case I get in trouble.”

His Stare

His stare, his stare

It made my skin crawl.

His glare, his glare

it made me squirm.

He watched, he watched

peering between his strands of hair.

He’s mad, he’s mad

insane; with a perverse look travelling across his face.

Undress, undress

he commanded from the depths of his room.
I cried, I cried

as his eyes grew as round as the haunted full moon.

His eyes, his eyes

tore away my innocence and sanity.

His hands, his hands
ravaged and touched.

He finished, he finished

he could have left me for dead.

His stare, his stare

I will always remember.

**I dedicate this poem to my friend Ian, who inspired me with his retarded drawing of the most messed up eye. We had to do some warm up poem thing, and we decided to inspire each other. He drew something, i wrote about it ( he was impressed- I think :D) and i gave him a few words. Of course my favourite word; bittersweet. And goes with bittersweet? Love! So we did it, and we made some beautiful poetry. I must say I was proud of the outcome of my poem. As well as his, he writes some amazing love poems- Bastard! lol…So from one incredible friend to the next, This is to u Maclean!!