Against Writing about Children

    by Erin Belieu

    When I think of the many people

    who privately¹ despise children，

    I can't say I'm completely shocked，

    having been one. I was not

    exceptional， uncomfortable as that is

    to admit， and most children are not

    exceptional. The particulars of

    cruelty， sizes Large and X-Large，

    memory gnawing² it like

    a fat dog， are ordinary： Mean Miss

    Smigelsky from the sixth grade；

    the orthodontist who

    slapped you for crying out. Children

    frighten us， other people's and

    our own. They reflect

    the virused figures in which failure

    began. We feel accosted³ by their

    vulnerable natures. Each child turns

    into a problematic ocean， a mirrored

    body growing denser⁴ and more

    difficult to navigate⁵ until

    sunlight merely bounces

    off the surface. They become impossible

    to sound. Like us， but even weaker.