My friend
"The vain eruditions of adulthood very often cast the light of scholarship so brightly that learning becomes little more than an academic spell ... that can only be broken by the innocent magic of a child's stated observations and illuminations." — Irving Elmer Bell
I have two photographs before me of one of my best friends. Her name is Amelia Summers. She is now four and a half years old. Some readers of Green Left Weekly and the New Internationalist may remember that I have written about her before. We have been in correspondence for more than a year. I would say that Amelia is precocious, but that would be a bit of an understatement.
In the near future I plan to present a collection of children's poetry, but because Amelia is so special, in that she is talented in so many ways and my friend, I feel that this entire column should be a praise-fest.
One of the two photographs shows my friend wearing a black wig and a wide brim hat with a pointed crown. The mischievously coy look on her face is witch-like. In the other photograph she is a cute little smiling girl with flaxen hair complete with wings and a magic wand in her hand. She was obviously ready to do the work of an angel.
Line by line, as I read her words, I am struck by the honest candour of a child's vision of her surroundings and her observations. We as adults, for all of our lifetimes of wisdom, are very often under the spell of our intelligence. Fortunately, from time to time, that spell can be broken by the honesty and magic innocence of a child. I will now share with you the innocent magic of my friend:
A rabbit is so hoppy
He loves to hop,
but he doesn't like to hop
If you pull his tail
And sometimes they pull his tail
Rabbits are so nice
when they hop by my house
And they kiss Amelia (x3)
And they love Amelia.
Why does a hippopotamus smile
Why does a hippopotamus smile?
He doesn't do anything else
He smiles all his face over
And the giraffe says, "... I
can't reach a hippopotamus' tail."
There is a mummy
And she is beautiful,
And she doesn't stop shouting at me,
Sometimes, but sometimes
She doesn't stop kissing me.
I love her
And because I love her so much (x2)
I kiss her
I love her one hundred and thirty-one.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to answer letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA. Brandon's childhood autobiography is available in booklet form for $16, including postage. Every cent raised will go towards defending his life. Please make cheques payable to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account and post to 10 Palara Place, Dee Why NSW 2099. Donations to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account may be made at any Commonwealth Bank, account No. 2127 1003 7638.]