The Velveteen Rabbit

Reading was a favorite past-time of mine as a little girl. The days were mundane and long. I waited to blossom into a beautiful self radiating with confidence. I did not want to remain trapped in my cocoon. I wanted to fly.

Sitting at my desk with the white gravel courtyard visible outside the window, I knew I was in this school institution for a long sentence. I gritted my teeth, and bit the bullet. I was able to find so many things

as all too familiar. From the curtains on the window in my English class,

to the personas of the Southern women who disciplined me with rigorous

Pedagogy. I longed to escape to the foreign lands that I read about. I wanted

to express myself, not just take in information. I hoped to create and to

leave my mark on the world. "If only I knew how," I thought. Prayers

Flew upward from my breast like Angelou's caged bird that still managed to sing.

After escaping the halls of my high school, I learned to sing, lift up my head and take control of my destiny away from everyone that held me in chains.

I was real. Cool, calm, direct, and fearless. I accepted myself and others. I allowed them to be real without castigating for differences. I earned respect, and I gave it. The thing was nobody understands why the caged bird sings.

That is not the tale that strikes me as the most poignant. There are many

tales that stuck in my mind. But The Velveteen Rabbit is a childhood tale

that I read every now and then. It reminds me that "You can only be ugly to someone who does not understand. Being real is a process. You have

to have someone love you, in order for that to happen." The discarded toy rabbit becomes the boy's favorite despite its worn appearance. He never

stops loving it, though he has other more fancy or even mechanical toys.

Not everyone allowed me to be real. Those childhood friends and childhood leaders who crushed my soul are people that are not important.

They never were. I ave learned to listen to my heart and to forge out my

own path, realizing that beauty and truth are within. Some people have it,

Some don't.

Some people have worn out slippers and worn robes. These things are

like security blankets. Letting go is hard. Objects, people, places and songs

cause one to regress in time. Memories are powerful. Vivid memories stir

us to revisit a place in our mind. Suggesting that a loved one retire a

worn jersey is often met with reluctance. The significance of losing is

not understood by the best counselor; people hold on to nonessential things. This is what the boy's nurse knew. Portraits, caricatures and

so many things have been lost in my travels. Yet walking down Main

street or going into a toy store, I see those itens resurrected for a new

generation. A toy wagon, a bunny rabbit, a headless doll pops up,as I witness children that are not my own discover the magic of

those things for the first time.

My toy bunny was pink and was seated with drumsticks in paws, poised

to strike the blue drum attached to it's base. Of course, this l1te 1970's

toy was novel to me; it was battery operated. As long as the connection

in the compartment worked, the bunny was powered. Even without

movement, it was still a striking specimen. At that young and tender

age, I knew that it was not a real bunny. It was easier to care for. And

I did not have to worry about it running away or expiring. I do not know

in what trash heap it lay, or if it disintegrated or rusted. All I know, is

the toy is in my heart. Anyone finding it will not know it's significance or

the child to whom it once belonged. Everything has a story behind it; but some things are kept secret in the heart of the object. Not even the best

psychic can ferret it out. "Shh, Shh. Don't disturb the bunny," I would

caution a passerby. "It has served it's purpose. Let it rest. And so will I."