literature

The Cinderella Generation

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Literature Text

Scion of the Cinderella generation
Raised in the shadow of a warm 50s Eden,
Where Father knew best and Mom was well dressed
And the world was as God had made it.

Latchkey kid,
Daughter of the weekend dad -
Or every other weekend, in my case -
Raised in the age of steps and halves.

A step away from mother or father,
Half a brother, half a sister.
Fractured, we were told.

Our world was given to us broken,
Like the worst of Christmas toys.
And no refunds.

Destined to be broken, bruised.
How could we be real people
When we were reared by the "boob tube"?

We wanted our MTV
And our Nintendos and our Walkmans
To hide the sounds of parents screaming,
To cover the signs of our own weeping.

In glitter and makeup we covered them -
The bruises -
In Day Glo and Swatches we stalked
The neon Valhalla.

Spoiled little princes of the computer age,
So lucky to have our gizmos and gadgets,
So ungrateful for the clothes on our backs
(Made, as they were, in Taiwan).

Growing twisted in the radiation
Of Hollywood and Judas Priest,
Until we knew too soon
How hard the glass slipper was going to be
Once our turn came to be on bended knee.

We weren't "Like a Virgin," and we couldn't be
In the days when the beds were burning,
During the nights when our fears were tucking us in
And turning out the lights.

Hunted across streets and alleys,
In our back yards and our bedrooms,
And most of our faces never graced the news.

Chased from the ball by the ones who set the rules,
By the generations raised with God and Mom and apple pie -
And we were supposed to end up like you?

Yeah, Dad, tell me another one,
When you get done complaining about forking out cash
For the daughters and sons you left behind.

My LA Gears were as good as rags,
My teachers and shrinks as good as mice and rats,
While you couldn't take the time to so much as play catch.

I'll show you a Fairy Godmother
Spinning gold out of cinders and ash,
Weaving magic out of terror and panic,

Taking the mirror of Snow White's evil stepmom
And reflecting the hollow myth of your own greatness.

If your age was the last bastion of saneness,
Then we were as lost as Alice well before
Reagan was ever in office.

And the only way we'll dance is by breaking through
The delicate, shiny prisons woven around us
In metal and concrete and fiberglass.

For our own good, of course.
For our own good.
Whew! I don't remember the last time I was inclined to this much poetry!
© 2010 - 2024 kismetrose
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