Yet Another Speech....

So, I was recently given an assignment in which I was to write a persona speech. I rather like it, although there are a few sentences that I'm uncomfortable with. See if you can detect the irony:


I've been told that my name is inconsequential, therefore, let us forgo the dubious pleasure of introductions. Besides, to give you a name would be to give me a face, and I have learned that it is better to hide my face. Instead, call me Every Child, for Every Child who lacks the common man's faith, or, for Every Child who must hide in his or her own home. Or, if you prefer, call me Nothing At All, for I am used to that as well.

I don't mean to complain, I've been taught better than that. I'm lucky really, to have parents that actually take the time to instruct me in right and wrong. And their instructions are poignant ones; the words issuing from their mouths reminding me of the sea's angry waves crashing down upon me, submerging me in emotional and physical bruises.

I've learned much from my parents. Like what love is and how God will treat disobediant children. I've learned proper manners, for example: "Children are to be neither seen nor heard." Most of all, I've been instructed in how to keep secrets. Indeed, I'm rather proud of how quickly I learned that lesson; what happens in our home, stays in our home.

It's not like anyone would listen to, or even care about, a troubled kid like me. My own mother scorns my existence. Poor Mama must often berate me for my fanciful tales of unjust instruction. That is why when teachers inquire after my collection of multi-colored bruises, I cleverly lie about them so as to both escape more of my parent's special brand of instruction and to spare my parents the trouble of having to instruct me.

And, as I said before, I have no real reason to complain. This is just the way the world works after all.....isn't it? Although, if there was one thing I could change, it would be my dad's eyes.Yes, he who instructs me the fiercest also possess the fiercest of eyes.I avoid Daddy's eyes whenever possible, for to do otherwise is dangerous. Doing so is what brings forth the bruises that mottle my skin and the dents that decorate my faith. But what really scares me about Daddy's eyes is that I'm afraid, one day, I will look into those frightful eyes and see them, not from Daddy's angry face, but instead glaring back from my own.