An Alchemy of Words

Armed

"Armed"

I was always the child without a gun,

without the need

for one.

You laughed at this, Kevin,

and gave me a He-Man sword for my birthday,

mother and father watching,

hesitant to steal a present from a child's hand,

hesitant to cross that line

of silent example

and steal the future while you're there.

I was always the child without a gun,

without the need

for one.

My father, hating the cat,

me not even understanding

when it brought home the baby rabbit,

half-dead

but half-alive, I said,

ever the optimist

as we nursed it to its grave.

Father just kept photographing the birds,

trying, in his way,

to give them immortality.

I was aways the child without a gun,

without the need

for one.

My words, were they my guns?

Teachers taking me aside to tell me

that sarcasm had no place

in the classroom.

Another taking me aside to tell me

that everything I'd ever written,

and everything I'll ever write

is juvenile

and crap.

I was always the child without a gun,

without the need

for one.

I learned from you, mother.

I learned from you, father.

I learned from your silent examples

that you don't need a weapon

to be armed.

˗ˏˋ・。☆.・゜✭・.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
✫・゜・。.・。. ✭

First, the elephant in the room: children and guns. This poem was written before our modern era, where tragic school shootings have become far more common. While the poem itself may not be clear, it is speaking about toy guns—water pistols, cap guns, and the like. I grew up in a pacifist (non-violent) family, and never owned such toys. As an adult, I continue to hold a strong aversion to and deep distrust of the role of guns and violence in broader society.

Second, every superhero (and every villain) has an origin story. This poem touches briefly on mine, on the moment I became a writer.

It was Grade 6, and the cod fishery on which the province's economy and countless livelihoods depended was in dire straights in those dark days. The cod stocks that had once been so plentiful were all but gone and the fear was palpable. In class, we were learning about the Newfoundland and Labrador coat of arms, which still bears the support of two "Beothuk warrior savages", ironically now extinct at the hands of European settlers. It was a subject that warranted far less concern in its day than the loss of the fishery. Scrawled beneath the Beothuk's feet was a Latin motto, "Quarie Prime Regnum Dei", and the teacher asked us what we thought it meant. "In Cod We Trust," I was first to declare, the taste of venom on my lips.

Later, in detention, once we were done glaring at each other from our respective corners, the teacher and I established our own detente, built around a single shared conceit. He'd accept no more of my lip and sarcasm in his class, with one exception: anything I channelled into written form, he would edit and critique and submit to a provincial writing contest on my behalf. I don't remember for certain, but I believe I won (the contest, if not the war...).

In 2018, responding to the Indigenous Peoples Commission's call for changes in the name of reconciliation, the Newfoundland and Labrador government confirmed its plan to redesign the province's coat of arms. 3 years later (and 3 decades since the moment I became a writer), not much has changed. As for the silent ghosts of the Beothuk, who continue to haunt the Rock, ten generations since their extinction... they're still waiting.