Midweek Motif ~
Social Stigma
Social stigma is not ordinary fear, but rejection that is culture bound. Except social stigma about some mental and physical illnesses is universal.
December First is World Aids Day. The World Health Organization's goal is to have no new cases, no more deaths and no more stigma attached to the disease by 2030. Social stigma surrounding the disease inhibits communication and treatment.
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Have you seen social stigma at work?
Your Challenge: Compose a new poem with a motif of social stigma. Don't feel restricted to stigma surrounding AIDS and HIV.
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Some Quotes:
“The stigmatized individual is asked to act so as to imply neither that his burden is heavy nor that bearing it has made him different from us; at the same time he must keep himself at that remove from us which assures our painlessly being able to confirm this belief about him.” ― Erving Goffman
“The animal part of him in pain accepted my caring. But the part of himself watching himself in that pain didn't believe I could ever respect him again.”― Diane Ackerman
“It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”― Audre Lorde“I got tested for AIDS. I know Barack got tested for AIDS. There's no shame in being tested for AIDS. It's an important thing.” ― Joe Biden
"AIDS occupies such a large part in our awareness because of what it has been taken to represent. It seems the very model of all the catastrophes privileged populations feel await them."― Susan Sontag
Related Poem Content Details
I. Blood
We wondered if the rumors got to her.
I’d seen her with that other girl behind
The Stop and Shop when I was walking home
from school one day. I swear, the two of them
were kissing, plain as that, the grass so high
it brushed their cheeks. I told my teacher so,
and maybe it was her who called their folks.
Before too long, it was like everyone
in town had heard. We waited for them at
the dime store once, where Cedric grabbed her tits
and said I’ll learn you how to love how God
intended it, you ugly fucking dyke.
Thing was, she wasn’t ugly like you’d think.
She had a certain quality, a shyness
maybe, and I’d describe the way she laughed
as kind of gentle. Anyway, we never saw her with
that girl again. They say she got depressed—
shit, at the service all of us got tearful.
I got to thinking what an awful sight
it was, all that red blood—it wasn’t in
the papers, but I heard Melissa’s mother,
who was the nurse in the Emergency
that night, say how she was just covered up
in blood. I can’t think how you bring yourself
to cut your throat like that yourself—I asked
the counselor they called in to the school,
and she said something like, What better ink
to write the language of the heart? I guess
it proves that stuff from Bible school they say,
that such a life of sin breeds misery.
. . . .
(Read the rest HERE.)
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Excerpt from The Bell Jar
BY SYLVIA PLATH
My mother smiled. "I knew my baby wasn't like that."
My mother smiled. "I knew my baby wasn't like that."
I looked at her. "Like what?"
"Like those awful people. Those
awful dead people at that hospital."
She paused.
"I knew you'd decide to be all right again.”
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Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community. AND: please put a link to this prompt with your poem.
(Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be Aviation )
