Childhood Trauma Poem by James McLain

At Dickinson Elementary in Tampa in the early sixties.

I watched my school principal
through her window
beat one child after another pulling their dresses up
or his pants down, exposing their
vanilla creamy Flesh.

Some of these struggles were epic
eight and nine year old bodies not giving in as the
razor strap slapped their young Flesh.
There was much golden water that flowed to the floor.

One boy being bullied daily
after each class by two are three other's caught
out of class was her favorite.
If she had a penis looking back at my misfortune
it would have punched a hole through the desk she would
have me bend over.

I firmly believe now
that the earlier in life we experience such trauma,
the more difficult it is
for us to adapt to life in a meaningful way.


Childhood trauma more often than not
is an ongoing chipping away at the soundness of the soul
through emotional and/or physical abuse.

My soul having to then fend for itself
was thus invariably shaken,
cracked and hence unfortunately made unstable.
The resulting symptomatology
was by today's standards, predictable.

Latter at twelve the shock treatments were terrifying
and then my soul could not unlike yours unfold,
not unlike a beautiful flower bud which,
due to such criminal abuse, could not blossom. I now think.

Blessed with unlearned discernment I did not kill small
animals and through grace
those many other's whom took such great pleasure in the
harming of small children.