I mit hjerte

I mit hjerte bor der en lille dreng
Jeg lukker ham ude – for en tid

I mit hjerte sidder der en smerte så stor
Et lille barn som jeg har lukket ude

Jeg kan ikke nå dig, tro mig
Hvilken rollemodel er jeg

I mit hjerte sidder der en smerte
Et forslået, forsømt barn

Jeg skulle have taget mig af mig
Og så af dig

Men det er svært at tage sig af dig,
Når jeg ikke kan tage mig af mig

I dit hjerte bor der en lille dreng
Med en smerte så stor

Let dit hjerte, pas på dig
Og tilgiv mig

Lev dit liv i frihed

Christine Tscherning
November 2006


Ordet er dit

Har du noget på hjerte, der vedrører børn af indsatte, gode idéer eller råd, du gerne vil give videre, er du velkommen til at sende en mail til
info@naarportensmaekkeri.dk

Selvdestruktion

Drømmen om en læreplads
Drømmen om et hus på landet
Drømmen om en gammel bil
Drømmen om nærvær med min datter

Er bristet

Min selvdestruktion har taget over
Jeg giver mig hen til de gamle, kendte dæmoner
der narrer mig til at tro, at jeg kan alt

Den løse højre hånd, der alt for let
finder vej til andres kroppe
som sidste vej ud af desperationen

I forvirringen og håbløsheden
har jeg glemt, at jeg i bund og grund
øver vold på mit eget spejlbillede

Jeg lader mig føre af sted til de velkendte celler,
der hvor jeg kun kan være tilskuer til det,
der skulle have været mit eget liv.


Christine Tscherning
Efterår 2008




En autentisk historie fra de amerikanske sydstater

Watt’s Ambition


My cousin Watt wanted to be a convict.

In the spring of 1953, Watt lived on a farm just outside Crawford, Mississippi. His house sat a hundred yards from Tarleton Road where, every ten days or so, a gang of inmates from the Lowndes County Jail trimmed the weeds and brush along the right-of-way with their swing blades and Kaiser blades. Since Watt was now five years old, his mother began allowing him to sit unaccompanied by the road and watch the men work. There was little danger in this, because the inmates, many of whom were only doing thirty days for disorderly conduct, labored under the supervision of a prison guard armed with a thirty-eight special and a twelve-gauge shotgun.

Watt soon got bored with sitting and watching, and he started taking his toy garden tools out to the road so that he could help the men in their worthwhile endeavor. They were puzzled by his enthusiasm for their misfortune, but they were amused by his efforts, and they quickly adopted him as their erstwhile mascot. After a month or so, Watt’s mother began preparing a brown-bag lunch so that he could share the midday meal with his new friends when they stopped working to eat.

The mild spring warmed slowly into a sweltering Mississippi summer, but Watt was undeterred. Whenever the county inmates arrived in front of his house, there also was Watt, with his little garden tools and his brown bag. For him these men were heroes, exemplars of high purpose and venerable occupation, and he wanted to be just like them. The only thing he lacked was a proper uniform.

Mississippi convicts of that era wore classic prison issue: shirt, pants, and cap with broad horizontal stripes of black and white. To ensure that Watt’s size wasn’t the only thing that distinguished him from the rest of the group, his mother made a miniature prison uniform from material with vertical stripes. This reduced the risk of his being shot if he bolted for the house. Otherwise, Watt looked enough like the rest of the gang that passing motorists might wonder what a person so young could possibly have done to deserve such harsh punishment.

For the rest of the summer, Watt wore his prison uniform and worked on the right-of-way almost every day. It didn’t matter that he labored alone for the most part, without the company and support of the rest of the gang, who were usually busy elsewhere. He had found his calling, and he was earnestly preparing himself for life without parole. Come hell or high water, he would be a convict, and no one could persuade him otherwise.

In fact, no one even tried. For the next year or so, older friends and relatives delighted in cornering Watt and asking him what he wanted to be when he grew up. The answer, of course, was always the same: “I wanna be a convict!”

Watt’s ambition, however, was never fulfilled. Perhaps he was deterred by the meager amenities that convicts enjoy, or perhaps by the limited opportunities for advancement. Whatever the case, he eventually became a successful businessman – legitimate, I’m told, but there’s always hope.

© Bob Bernard