Who’s to Blame ? ?
A baby is born and the
first toy the father gets him to play with is a toy gun and when
the child gets old enough to walk, he goes around pointing the gun at his parents and
others saying “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” And the parents exclaim, “Oh, how cute.”
He gets a little older
and is bought bigger and better guns and started playing with
other neighborhood boys playing cops and robbers, cowboys and indians as well as
war and he shoots the neighbor boy who falls down dead only to get up again and
they start all over.
The father teaches him
to shoot real guns and if he shoots well, his father doesn’t
praise him like the boy is looking for in a father, but rather puts more pressure on the
boy by the father telling everyone his son shoots as is expected of the offspring of his
family, but will also improve. But if the child shoots poorly, his father makes fun of him
in front of him, even in front of boys friends, putting even more pressure on the boy to
shoot better, so the son shoots straighter and better to please the father.
Later the father takes
the boy hunting and if he makes a good clean kill, he is told he
did what was expected, but let the boy miss or make a bad shot and he is not only
made fun of, but a lot of his privileges are taken away from him, so he learns to shoot
better, kill cleaner and is put up against other boys to prove his skills against others,
including grown ups and punished if looses.
So he lives, shoots and
kills, night and day to gain his father’s approval. Now the boy
goes into the service and eats, sleeps and breathes kill, kill, kill, and if he doesn’t, he is
punished, so he lives it day and night, awake or sleep.
Then he goes to war or
what ever you want to call it and kills, kills, kills, and is even
given medicine whether he wants them or not, and has to act like it is a big thing even
though it makes him sick to be reminded by the medals and people around him of what
he has been made to grow up into at this point.
Later something happens
and he kills someone and the same people that put medals on
him now want to kill him. WHO’S TO BLAME???
Ward Weaver, California
ME IN A NUTSHELL
Ward F. Weaver C-39361
San Quentin State Prison
San Quentin, California
I'm full Irish on my fathers side of the
I'm half Irish and Half Geman on my mothers side,
I'm a blood brother to a Cherokee medicine man
And I grew up next to an Indian reservation (Hoopa)
So I guess that makes me a cultural misfit huh ?
My name is Ward F. Weaver and I tuned
fifty eight the tenth of Feb. of this year
and I am six foot three inches tall weighing a little over two hundred pounds
with hazel eyes and brown hair that is going through the change of life.
I am on death row at San Quentin Prison
and have been using my time to
develop my desire to be a writer and currently have several novels that
I am pursuing to get published so that I can leave behind a legacy,
my name in published print.
So if you wish to share thoughts, ideas,
desires and wishes, we can also
explore the realm of loneliness and frustrations, for it is said that a burden
shared loses half its weight, but a joy explored together carries twice its
splendor even if in spirit.
So, if you're inclined, please write me
at the above address.
More Links . . .
|Ward Weaver's CellPalls Penpal Request|
|Ward Weaver's Writing at Human Writes|