Joseph--take two!!

I'm writing this in the hopes that you can give input.  I have revised my monolog "Joseph".  I'd like you to read it, and I'm hoping that this time I get responses from actors and from people that are grammarians.  I have two specific questions:  are there any mistakes grammatically?  As an actor, do you think it reads well?  Also, many of my monologs are written as poetry--line by line.  Do you think that this monolog should follow that rule?  I'm torn about it.

Thanks for any input you can give.

Joseph 

          I love her so much.  What is that to them, now?  Look at her, so absorbed in that baby.  How is it that this has happened to me? 

        

I always thought that I would live life alone, and I was content with that.  I liked being alone.  My thoughts were my own; my life was mine to rule.  I answered to no one.  Yes, it did get a little lonely from time to time, but even that was nice, in a way.  I could revel in the solitude, the silence, and the sense of pervasive stillness that filled my life.  And if I did ever feel the need for companionship, there were always my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins...every one of them with a family of their own--loud, raucous, stridently breaking up the early morning stillness with their bickering, their banter, their hilarity.  I would find myself heading for home after a very short time, content once more with my solitary state.

        

And then I saw her.  She had always been in the periphery of my vision, so to speak, a quiet little thing--quiet, but not shy.  She seemed to be all eyes, to the point that the other children left her to her own devices.  There was something almost unnatural about her, about the way that she just--looked, as if she were keeping the events around her in some sort of ledger inside herself.  As she grew to be of marriageable age, this trait proved to make her somewhat less than desirable to the young suitors of Nazareth.  To the average man, this was not a woman to be favored.  Too much looking and too little talking were disconcerting to them.   But to me...I loved her the more for her silence.  She did not prattle on about inconsequential affairs, but when she did speak, her words spoke volumes.  I worked up my courage and asked for her hand.

Our courtship was not your normal one.  Yes, we did talk of our life together, as much as was necessary to understand her wants and needs for the future.  But that was not our main focus.  No, we discussed the Tanakh—the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings.  We loved to speak of He who is to come, Messiah--of the prophecies in all their confusion.  It was our favorite game.  How would he appear?  Would he be triumphant king or suffering servant?  Or could these conflicting descriptions somehow all apply to the same person?  How could that be?

Today, we have our answer, for this servant king is suckling on Mary’s breast.  Fully human, he cries when he is hungry, wet or cold.  His cries reach into my innermost being.  I never realized how much I could love someone who is not my own. But he is not just fully human.  The angels, the shepherds—the sky with its enormous star all have revealed him to be Messiah.  Messiah—my son.  It is true, and yet it doesn’t fit well on a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths.  How strange—living, he lies wrapped as one who is dead.  Yes, I know it’s necessary to keep him straight and strong, but it still troubles my heart.  I don’t want to think of my son, my beloved, and death.  My son…

My child, what will our future be?  Should I announce you as my son?  But you are not my son.  Should I put myself in danger of being called a naïve fool or worse by proclaiming the truth—you are Messiah, sent by God? What will Mary do?  I only have to look at your mother to know that she is not concerned about any of this.  Not in the slightest.  What secrets is she keeping? I feel that they are the first of many, and I know that she will keep them until the end of time.

hatred

I realized today that I have an issue that has to be dealt with.  I have a deep black hatred in my heart for those people in my childhood who tormented me.  I have never really thought about it in that way  before, and I never really realized what a powerful thing it was.

In childhood, I was fat and sensitive and…well, different.  I suspect that I showed some signs of autism.  I remember always looking down, having an extremely active imagination, and being interested in what I was interested in and not much else.  To say that I didn't fit in at school is an understatement.  From around 4th grade on, I isolated myself more and more.  At first I didn't understand what was going on, but by junior high it was clear in my mind that I was unloved and unlovable.  That lie stayed with me growing up, and I have to say that it is still with me today.

Bullies saw this early on and enjoyed tormenting me.  Because I was introverted, fat, and an easy target, I remember loving school but hating the people in it.  Some teachers were helpful; others ignored the problem and in doing so made it worse.  I also belonged to Girl Scouts.  One day I remember was playing a game where someone would turn around in a circle, point at you, and you had to be the animal she called out.  After being called on to be an elephant 4 times in a row, I left the game to read.  I enjoyed scouts because of the challenge to earn merit badges.  I cared nothing at all for the camaraderie that it was famous for, since that just equalled more torture for me.  Slumber parties turned into fresh ways for the girls to hurt me.

I grew up and left both the town and the people.  I never thought I would ever want to see them again, but I have renewed acquaintances with some--I've written about that before.  What I wanted to make clear here is the impact that my early life had on my later life.

I am not interested in being a friend.  I am not interested in finding a husband.  I am not interested in joining clubs, being part of a social group at school or work, or anything that would lead to close social contact.  I will speak to people online and I do have some friends, but I try them over and over before really identifying myself with them.  Obviously, I'm not talking about sharing my life.  Sharing my life is easy.  It's sharing my heart that's difficult.  I can talk about all this on paper or in front of a crowd because I feel that it's important for others to realize that they're not alone in their hurt.  But I feel, at times, horribly alone.  I feel that nobody could ever really like me, and those that say that they do want something from me.  I know it's not true, but I have to get past those feelings to invite you into my heart.

The stunning thing about this new understanding to me is that hatred doesn't have to come out of anger.  With me, it comes out of hurt and fear.  So many days I walked to school fearing that someone would see me and  find another way to hurt me.  When I was in junior high, I felt that I was so ugly, so hideous, that I would try to find ways to avoid going to restaurants with my family.  I didn't want to inflict myself on the public view any more than was necessary.  What on earth would make a 12-13 year old girl feel that way?  Day after day after day of being informed how fat and ugly and awful she was.  I believed it--it seemed that so many people said it that it must be true.

Why am I giving you all this info?  There's a video that I saw that spoke strongly to me.  It was the first time that I realized that there is still deep-rooted hatred in my heart for these people who have so negatively impacted my life.  I want to give you a chance to see it and realize what I went through (and probably what you went through, too). Here's the link:

http://www.upworthy.com/bullies-called-him-pork-chop-he-took-that-pain-with-him-and-then-cooked-it-into?g=2

I am also writing this to remind you that I am still a wounded person, as so many of us are.  I hear many of you say that I'm successful, that I'm good at what I do, that I am a real help, and I truly hope that some day I'll believe it.  Right now, though, I will just keep acting as if I do, and maybe one day the action will turn into the truth.  I know that it's more true of me now than it used to be.  And for those of you thinking about starting on this journey with me, it has become more true the more I write and the more people respond and share their own pain.  Knowing that I was not alone in my journey, both in childhood and today, has been tremendously healing.  Thanks to all of you who have shared your lives with me as well.

on being happy: Mr. Kanamori

How was your home room?  Did you spend your days hearing announcements and then sleeping on your desk?  Did you dread the start to your day?  Did you even sleep in so that you could miss it?

Mr. Kanamori's class would never do such a thing.  They are a 4th-grade homeroom in Japan, and Mr. Kanamori has helped them set a goal for themselves:  to be happy.

To be happy?  Seems like a useless goal, doesn't it?  But this incredible teacher has thought of a way to bring meaning and understanding to this goal.  To be happy, they must share with others.  Only in revealing themselves can they help others understand that they are not alone.  Once they understand that they are not alone, the children let go of barriers that have stood for years, and the entire class grows in understanding, empathy, and love.

In the video that I saw, Mr. Kanamori's class writes notebook journals.  These journals are designed to be read tot the class.  In it, the students tell their stories, and the other students then write responses.  The responses pave the way for empathy, as well as give other students the ability to tell their own stories, bringing about the ability to heal.

One boy had been gone for several days.  His grandmother had died, and he wrote the class about the experience.  He wrote about it all, from the grandmother lying in bed upstairs to the family going on a bus to the crematorium to witness the grandmother's cremation.  Afterwards, many other students shared their sympathy; some also shared their own stories.  The children were not afraid to cry about their own experiences, and they also shed tears for the experiences of others.  One little boy had lost his grandfather recently; the tears were still fresh.

Then a little girl stood up.  She had lost her father when she was three, and she had never discussed his death with anyone.  She was afraid that she was the only one to have gone through this and thought that nobody would understand.  When her classmates shared their experiences, she realized for the first time that she was not alone and that it was safe to express her grief.  

A few days later, this same little girl brought a well-loved drawing to class. It had hung in her room since she was a tiny girl.  It was a drawing that her father, an engineer, had made of a machine that was going to be in a parade.  He died before it was completed, and even though the machine appeared, her mother was too afraid to see it.  For the first time, the little girl shared her treasure with her friends and smiled as she spoke of her father.  She was happy.

Happiness is a choice.  It is something that is given away.  It comes with sharing, and it usually comes when two or more are together.  I think that it's hard to be happy without sharing.  

Val, the older I get, the more I understand your wish.  I hope you are happy now--I'm pretty sure you are, since you're surrounded with God and his saints.  I know you made us happy.  I'm going to do my best to make others happy, too.

For a link to the video, press here:  .http://www.wimp.com/homeroomteacher/