Holding on to my blanket, I sit in the middle of the floor, hoping.
Hoping and waiting, praying that my fate looks better then my family
Praying with words that I can barely comprehend
I am 10 with 20 years of experience with pain
I was born with pain both internal and external
They told me my mom was a strong woman, and that my dad once was a hard worker
That if I’d had the chance to meet them, I would have loved them
They loved me
My father, a man of many talents and shooting opium being one of them, was said to be a strong and fearless man…it’s said that he was so discreet, so private that not even my mom knew he was an addict until she was forced to see
Between his addiction and her dependency on medications to save her life, I never had a chance
My dad got AIDS from shooting up with a dirty needle and my mom got AIDS from loving an addict, and I got AIDS from the unbreakable bond that takes place when a man and a woman love or pretend to love each other.
Cold world huh
Holding my blanket, I sit in the middle of the floor, hoping.
Hoping and waiting, praying that my fate looks better then my family but realizing that it’s only a matter of time before I finally meet my parents.
I wrote this poem after visiting the Opium Museum. I’d never heard of the hold that the drug had on so many people in Asia and how it affected so many lives. At the Museum, there were stories of kids whose lives were affected because of the drug and in my own words, I retold it. This particular story didn’t give such details but this is what I felt when I read it. The exhibit showed a young Thai boy holding a blanket and the writing said he was 10 years old and an orphan. His mom and dad had died because of AIDS and the mother got it from the dad’s addiction and he’d got it from shooting up opium with a dirty needle. While I understand that drugs affect many people in different ways, my soft spot has always been for kids. Here is a young boy with a future that doesn’t look so bright. No matter how hard he studies or how good he is at sports, his life will be shorter and less fulfilling than most boys his age and he never did the drug.
The Museum itself was set up really nice. There was some reading and a lot of storytelling and the walk through the Museum was done in a specific order. What I especially enjoyed was the reflection room that waits for every visitor at the end of the exhibit. It’s a bright space with beams that hold different sayings, but I really liked the design of the room. I’m sure this isn’t done on purpose, but the room wasn’t finished. If I could, I would tell the founder of the Museum to leave it that way. Before you walk out, the floors are undone and there are beams without sayings and for me that was especially powerful. It says that there is no clear answer and even after guided thought, everyone has to struggle with the hardship of drugs in their own way. Its shows the complexity of taking on such a topic. Had the path to the door been glossy and fancy, it wouldn’t have been real because reflections on such topics are never glossy or fancy, but messy and unfinished. This was one of my favorite days and one of the most inspiring writing moments.