SAY NO TO NURSERY RHYMES

Nursery rhymes are not as they have been made to seem. For hidden amongst clappy rhythm and flowery rhyme are age old horror stories that have stood the test of time.

It wouldn't surprise me if sex, death and violence aren't the first things that come to mind when you hear your younger siblings religiously chanting the words of Jack and Jill or Ring-o-ring-o Rosies but when you take the time to uncover the story behind the story you will soon discover that nursery rhymes are not really appropriate for children.

Childhood is a time of innocence. It is a time in one's life when it really is plausible that an old woman swallowed a fly that had in turn caused her to die. Everything is straight forward and possible in the mind of a child. Even memorising the absurd and seemingly nonsense lines of nursery rhymes could keep a child entertained for hours at a time. Ignorance is bliss. But hidden behind a visard of colourful illustration lies a blood-stained past. Did you know that many of the popular nursery rhymes reflect on political and royal turmoil from history?

People have always wished to voice the monstrosities of their time but to paint those at the top of the ladder in bad light would often lead to serious punishment, the most likely of which: death. To detract attention this social-commentary would be disguised in a cloak of child-like tune and shades of rhythm. Although the events have almost all been forgotten, their tragedies still haunt the world today, manifesting themselves in the sweet hum of children.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Queen Mary, daughter to King Henry VIII, was nicknamed Bloody Mary as she was better known for the prosecution of protestants in a time when they began to break away from the Catholic Church. One particular incident involved three protestants who were accused of plotting against the Queen. She had them burnt at the stake, however rumour remains that she had had them blinded and dismembered thus giving rise to the all time favourite Three Blind Mice (which is not to be misinterpreted as a poem about a crazy farm lady who had an odd fear of small rodents wearing dark glasses).

Similarly the unfortunate events of Jack and Jill did not arise from the story of an unusually unlucky couple but was actually written as an account of the beheading of King Louis XVI which was later followed by that of his wife, Marie Antoinette.

Another disturbing tune on our pre-school play list was inspired by Peter who supposedly killed his wife for being unfaithful to him and hid her body in a giant hollowed pumpkin. This poem was originally created to warm girls of the seriousness of committing adultery.

You would not think twice to argue that it is morally incorrect to place a child of three or four in front of a horror or thriller to keep them entertained for an hour or two. Why is it then that we actively set out as a part of the education and development of a child to teach them the words to these nursery rhymes which are too essentially horrors? It is the duty of any person who will have an influence on the education of our youth  to know where it is these poems come from, what they mean and for what purpose they were written. We are brain-washing our children. You and me, well we are living proof. We can spit out the words of these nursery rhymes almost instinctively and why? Because we lost our battle at the hand of a few rhyming syllables.

Act now to put a stop to such injustice! Save our children! Say no to nursery rhymes in pre-school education!

Amused. I am really and I tend to do it to myself a lot. I find myself on this gloomy Tuesday afternoon cross-legged with my infamous purple file leaving its impression on my upper thighs. I have brought it upon myself to assume the role of art historian and critic as I embark on a journey through time.

A swift flight through the 19th century and I find myself visiting both the Romantics and Neo Classicists. They both told me stories of a very similar nature however differing predominantly in the decision of how much they would leave to the imagination (if you know what I mean). Trudging through their war stricken tales while balancing on the edge of life and death, I saw the light. So did the Impressionists and soon I was encapsulated in an atmospheric realm lost in amongst colour and reflection. My mind is swirling as this fast-paced art movement tries to explain to me the importance of capturing a moment but before I can grasp what they are trying to say the thought is gone. "It's about what you see and not what you know!" Surely I only know what it is I have seen? "I meant out there. Right now. That which you see in front of you." I guess I should open my eyes. That was implied. There were no shadows to hide amongst as the Impressionists had done away with somber tones. The unstable state of an artistic mind would get the better of them. They would soon want more. Simply seeing was not good enough. They needed structure, they needed durability, they needed emotion, they needed dreams. They would be defined simply by what they were not. What they weren't were Impressionists. What they were was individual. And this is the part of my journey that would first have me angry and then heart sore and then slightly amused but over all emotionally moved. I'm still not certain if it was the sudden increase in the average number of words used to summarise the life, work and ideology of each Post Impressionist but something was happening inside of me that had me treading on dangerous waters. I was interacting with history on a level I had never experienced before, developing theories and opinions that had little to fall back on. Silently cursing any praise given to Cezanne simply because his life story bores me. Also I really dislike his paintings, and the way he treated his family and just pretty much EVERYTHING about him. I know, strong feelings towards a guy that I've never met but I have a hunch that I wouldn't like him even if I had. Practically arguing with the photocopied notes that lie in front of me I was refreshed to see the heading "Cezanne's Death" (and this is a sadistic side of my personality that I am slowly discovering but death means end and I was slowly losing interest). With the same arbitrary, unjustified emotion that had left me red in the face I would experience a deep sympathy for Van Gogh as I slowly learnt of the series of unfortunate events were stringed together in a tragic and some what pathetic life story. I was experiencing the polar extreme of what I had not but half a page ago put myself through. My opinion is highly biased as he was quoted saying that "yellow is beautiful" and with those three words he crept into my heart. As somebody who doesn't like painting in general I did find myself enjoying the physical presence that his work willingly claims and as I look at his paintings I know how he must have felt. I get this sort of energy in my body as I pretend to stand in his shoes and I know what he meant. And then I become extremely frustrated because there is this language barrier that exists in the world when trying to communicate emotion as a person can only interpret another's feelings in terms of their own. I imagine that Van Gogh must have experienced a similar annoyance. This is fitting. Most of everything else however is not. And it’s all that other miscellaneous dribble and drab that had me catching a mild case of the giggles. 

“Welcome to my world”

No words in any one language could do my world justice. Something so complex can not simply be reduced to a few monochromatic scribbles on a piece of paper and I find it offensive that I am expected to try. It boggles my mind how anyone can have the audacity to place a word restriction on the “authentic” depiction of my entire existence. On a good day I like to challenge myself but the topic was too close to home and I could not stand to give an inaccurate depiction of who I am and the world in which I live.  I do not feel like I have failed you but if I were to have written a generic account of one minor aspect of my richly diverse life I would have failed myself.

You and I, we are sisters. We share the same mother but we did not share the same womb. We were both nursed by the hands of our planet Earth and nourished by her fruits. We are welcomed warmly into her world and within her back yard boundaries we seek to create our own.

My sanctuary, however, is a place that only I can visit. Every night I get a chance to escape the constraints of my daily routine. It doesn’t take long to convince me. I’m already gone. Soaring through the clouds I rejoice in the excitement of coming home. My toes tingle as they touch down in the centre of my luscious field of memory. Soft droplets of dew drip from the blades of grass quenching the thirst of seeds already sewn. Here it is spring all year around and I pick blooming ideas and arrange them in bouquets.

Beyond this field lies a small rusted tin, nestled in the depths of my imagination and somewhat like Mary Poppins’ handbag and the wardrobe that leads to Narnia, the size of my tin is not directly proportionate to the value of its contents. Its location is kept confidential by the likes of one, Indecision who works hand in hand with Logic and Reason to ensure that what ever it contains can never escape. The deteriorating container holds my entire life’s savings, a sixteen year collection of fears, passions and subconscious reflection.

My world is watered with imagination and the flowers that grow are dreams. At night, as I gently rest my head, I am greeted by a familiar face. She looks like me only like she belongs. Her aura is smiling as she says, “Welcome to your world.”

Song of self pity

Wipe those tears and open your eyes,

look out on the world that you've learnt to despise.

You have been looking in for way too long,

Can't say how you feel without the aid of someone else's song.

Those tears that stain your cheek are black,

only it is authenticity that they lack.

Pick up the pieces, you'll find there is only one,

you were never broken, it was all just some story that you spun.