Lament of the Normal Child
I remember finding this poem waaaay back in like the 4th grade. I've looked for it periodically ever since ... until recent years, it never pulled up any hits! (Granted ... most of my research was pre-internet days, or early-internet days! lol I haven't look in several years.)
It isn't necessarily the BEST written of poems, but at age 10ish, it struck home -- being one of those smart but normal (& believe it or not, at the time -- quiet!) kids. I'd imagine that this sensation is SO much stronger these days, with all the focus on one "special circumstance" or another.
So ... since I finally found it (again) ... I'm posting it here ... just because! *nods
Lament of the Normal Child
By Phyllis McGinley
The school where I go is a modern school
With numerous modern graces.
And there they cling to the modern rule
Of “Cherish the problem Cases!”
From nine to three
I develop Me.
I dance when I’m feeling dancy,
Or everywhere lay on
With creaking crayon
The colors that suit my fancy.
But when the commoner tasks are done,
Deserted, ignored, I stand.
For the rest have complexes, everyone;
Or a hyperactive gland.
Oh, how can I ever be reconciled
To my hatefully normal station?
Why couldn’t I be a Problem Child
Endowed with a small fixation?
Why wasn’t I trained for a Problem Child
With an interesting fixation?
I dread the sound of the morning bell.
The iron has entered my soul.
I’m a square little peg who fits too well
In a square little hole.
For seven years
In Mortimer sears
Has a Oedipus angle flourished
And Jessamine Gray,
She cheats at play
Because she is undernourished.
The teacher beam on Frederick Knipe
With scientific gratitude,
For Fred, they claim, is a perfect type
Of the antisocial attitude.
And Cutburt Jones has his temper riled
In a professors mention.
But I am a Perfectly Normal Child,
So I don’t get the least attention.
The other’s jeer as they pass my way.
They titter without forbearance.
He’s Perfectly Normal,” they shrilly say,
“With Perfectly Normal Parents.”
I learn to read
With normal speed.
I answer when I’m commanded.
Infected antrums
Don’t give me tantrums.
I don’t even write left handed.
I build with blocks when they give me blocks,
When it’s busy hour, I labor.
And I seldom delight in landing socks
On the ear of my little neighbor.
I sit on the step alone.
Why couldn’t I be a problem child
With a Case to call my own?
Why wasn’t I born a Problem Child?
With a complex of my own?
It isn't necessarily the BEST written of poems, but at age 10ish, it struck home -- being one of those smart but normal (& believe it or not, at the time -- quiet!) kids. I'd imagine that this sensation is SO much stronger these days, with all the focus on one "special circumstance" or another.
So ... since I finally found it (again) ... I'm posting it here ... just because! *nods
Lament of the Normal Child
By Phyllis McGinley
The school where I go is a modern school
With numerous modern graces.
And there they cling to the modern rule
Of “Cherish the problem Cases!”
From nine to three
I develop Me.
I dance when I’m feeling dancy,
Or everywhere lay on
With creaking crayon
The colors that suit my fancy.
But when the commoner tasks are done,
Deserted, ignored, I stand.
For the rest have complexes, everyone;
Or a hyperactive gland.
Oh, how can I ever be reconciled
To my hatefully normal station?
Why couldn’t I be a Problem Child
Endowed with a small fixation?
Why wasn’t I trained for a Problem Child
With an interesting fixation?
I dread the sound of the morning bell.
The iron has entered my soul.
I’m a square little peg who fits too well
In a square little hole.
For seven years
In Mortimer sears
Has a Oedipus angle flourished
And Jessamine Gray,
She cheats at play
Because she is undernourished.
The teacher beam on Frederick Knipe
With scientific gratitude,
For Fred, they claim, is a perfect type
Of the antisocial attitude.
And Cutburt Jones has his temper riled
In a professors mention.
But I am a Perfectly Normal Child,
So I don’t get the least attention.
The other’s jeer as they pass my way.
They titter without forbearance.
He’s Perfectly Normal,” they shrilly say,
“With Perfectly Normal Parents.”
I learn to read
With normal speed.
I answer when I’m commanded.
Infected antrums
Don’t give me tantrums.
I don’t even write left handed.
I build with blocks when they give me blocks,
When it’s busy hour, I labor.
And I seldom delight in landing socks
On the ear of my little neighbor.
I sit on the step alone.
Why couldn’t I be a problem child
With a Case to call my own?
Why wasn’t I born a Problem Child?
With a complex of my own?