“Self In 1958,” was written by lonely, unhappy, unfulfilled Anne Sexton but it could be written in 2010.
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
With eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
Upon some shellacked and grinning person,
Eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnum transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
Black-angel-stuffing to comb,
Nylon legs, luminous arms
And some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’’s house
With four chairs,
A counterfeit table, a flat roof
And a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
A cardboard floor,
Windows that flash open on someone’’s city,
And little more.
Someone plays with me,
Plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me——
I am walled in solid by their noise——
Or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
And their stale bread.
What is reality
To this synthetic doll
Who should smile, who should shift gears,
Should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
And have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
Rooted into the wall that
Was once my mother,
If I could remember how
And if I had the tears.
What is reality?
To many in this generation that remains an unanswered question.
What is reality?
I pose as a plaster doll,
With eyes and nothing to look at,
Seeing shellacked and grinning person,
Eyes that open and close, colors blue and steel
I am the size of an I?
I have black angel hair,
Nylon legs, luminous arms
And some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’’s house
With four chairs,
A counterfeit table, a flat roof
And a big front door.
Some come to a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
A cardboard floor,
Windows that flash open at the neighbors
And little more.
Someone plays with me,
Plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
It this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me——
I am use to there noises——
Or lays me on there bed.
I think I am a doll.
Warmth is not a friend to me!
They open my mouth for their cups to fit
And their stale bread.
What is reality
To this synthetic doll
The Associated Press calls this new generation “The Entitlement Generation,” and they are storming into schools, colleges, and businesses all over the country. They are today’s young people, a new generation with sky-high expectations and a need for constant praise and fulfillment. This new generation may be tolerant, confident, open-minded, and ambitious but it is also cynical, depressed, lonely, and anxious.
Generation Me disregards rules. 88% of public high school students regularly cheat. We are all equals of course. No one is in charge. They are an army of one: me. We will all be famous. We are entitled to it. 80% of Generation Me have sex before they leave high school.
The sad thing is, though, that Dr. Twenge found that Generation Me is more unhappy than any other generation.
Should I smile, should I shift gears,
Should I open the doors in a wholesome disorder,
And show no evidence of fears?
But I would cry,
Put into the wall that
My mother lies
If I could remember how
And if I had the tears.
We know who we are, don’t we? We serve a living, loving, awesome God. Who loved us enough to send His only Begotten Son. It is time.