Sarah Maizes's Blog - Posts Tagged "personal-essay"
The Blanket - An Exercise in Writing
I was just going through some old pieces I've written, I think looking for inspiration for something new - searching for a spark - when I came across this piece I wrote in a writing class.
I love it, not just because it was inspired by my son's own "Mankie," but because it was the first time I ever really explored telling a story through the eyes of an object, and I loved the exercise.
It was such a great way to feel through a story. If you ever want a really great writing exercise, take an object from your past that's important to you and write about it. It's a great way to get started.
I hope you enjoy this (and yes...my 9 year old son still has the tiny strips of Mankie...but I'm not allowed to tell you where...)
"An Ode to Mankie"
As the boy’s mother moved to the door and said goodnight, the boy burrowed deep into his shark motif covers and twisted the tattered soft strip of cloth around the base of his pudgy finger and inserted the crook of it into his mouth.
A thin strip of liquid flannel was all that was left of “Mankie,” but it still helped loosen the tightness in his chest that settled there every night after his mom turned off the light.
Mankie’s frayed edges and threadbare material pulled and strained to stay together, to keep a promise, as the boy would wrap him tightly around his free pointer. The boy liked to wrap Mankie so tight that the top of his finger would go tingly and numb. Then he would tap the top of the purpleing finger with his other hand to feel the sensation in the tip that would drain away as Mankie was slowly untwirled.
Night after night, Mankie faithfully partook in this bedtime ritual, tethering the Boy to the warmth and familiarity that came with day.
Mankie was a gift to his mother at his baby shower and came wrapped in boldly striped tissue paper set delicately in a glossy bright red box from some obscure store in Soho.
His mom got lots of blankets at that baby shower. He was the 4th child and the 1st boy in his family, and everyone wanted to celebrate and swathe him in traditional manly coverlets that would safeguard his testosterone.
The blankets were expensive - fluffy, silky or hand-knit by some relative or woman in a foreign country. They all came in some shade of blue with white trim, white with blue trim, white and blue stripes, all inevitably blue and white in some combination or another so as best celebrate the fact that this child had a penis. Or, at the very least, herald to the world that this bald, androgynous baby was of the male persuasion – a big tough man…or so to-be.
Mankie, however, was not blue and white, or fluffy, or silky, or even hand-knit. Mankie was tan flannel with bright red trim stitched around the edges. Best of all, Mankie was big. Bigger than the other blankets, and liquidy soft. The flannel was thin and malleable and the boy’s mom liked it most of all for swaddling because of it’s generous size and seeming ability to mold completely to her boy’s beefy proportions without asphyxiating him.
She would fold the pristine blanket into a triangle, lay her son in the center with the edge at shoulder height. The triangle points would be carefully folded over and aligned. The red trim lining up along the side of the triangle. She’d fold the right point first, then bring the bottom upward before taking the left point and wrapping it snugly around the boy’s body. The long end of the triangle could then be turned back down so it would cascade out the top of the bundle not unlike an ascot under the shiny wet chin of her firstborn son. He looked like a gently wrapped burrito. The soft thin flannel had a bit of natural friction that held the boy in without the tucking and pinning necessary for other blankets. The end result was perfect. To the boy’s mother; stylish masculinity. To the boy, a soft, snug cocoon of security and peace. His pliable armor against the strange and stimulating world around him.
As the boy got older, and no longer liked the confinement of swaddling, Mankie became more of a companion. A reminder to the boy of the security he had felt as a baby, and a reminder to his mother of the security she could once so simply provide.
Mankie was the boy’s favorite blanket and took him everywhere. Well, everywhere in the house. Not to the store. Not anymore.
Mankie had accompanied the boy on a recent trip to the market where another older boy saw the boy twirling and chewing on Mankie. The older boy laughed and grabbed Mankie, stuffing it on a shelf between the Cheerios and Lucky Charms. Mankie was retrieved, and the older boy received a stern scolding, but his mother thought it was best to leave Mankie home from now on. The boy tentatively agreed as the fresh hot tears dried on his cheeks.
But she wouldn’t take it away from the boy at home. Not just yet. The boy was older now – bigger. He had big boy ways and she couldn’t contain that – certainly not with a thin piece of flannel. So, at bedtime, instead of swaddling, she tucked her big boy into his big boy bed at night and placed Mankie into his outstretched eager hands so he could curl it around his fingers, feel the liquid softness moving along the webbing of his man-cub hands, and twist his blanket, and himself, into a curled up ball of contentment.
Again, one.
I love it, not just because it was inspired by my son's own "Mankie," but because it was the first time I ever really explored telling a story through the eyes of an object, and I loved the exercise.
It was such a great way to feel through a story. If you ever want a really great writing exercise, take an object from your past that's important to you and write about it. It's a great way to get started.
I hope you enjoy this (and yes...my 9 year old son still has the tiny strips of Mankie...but I'm not allowed to tell you where...)
"An Ode to Mankie"
As the boy’s mother moved to the door and said goodnight, the boy burrowed deep into his shark motif covers and twisted the tattered soft strip of cloth around the base of his pudgy finger and inserted the crook of it into his mouth.
A thin strip of liquid flannel was all that was left of “Mankie,” but it still helped loosen the tightness in his chest that settled there every night after his mom turned off the light.
Mankie’s frayed edges and threadbare material pulled and strained to stay together, to keep a promise, as the boy would wrap him tightly around his free pointer. The boy liked to wrap Mankie so tight that the top of his finger would go tingly and numb. Then he would tap the top of the purpleing finger with his other hand to feel the sensation in the tip that would drain away as Mankie was slowly untwirled.
Night after night, Mankie faithfully partook in this bedtime ritual, tethering the Boy to the warmth and familiarity that came with day.
Mankie was a gift to his mother at his baby shower and came wrapped in boldly striped tissue paper set delicately in a glossy bright red box from some obscure store in Soho.
His mom got lots of blankets at that baby shower. He was the 4th child and the 1st boy in his family, and everyone wanted to celebrate and swathe him in traditional manly coverlets that would safeguard his testosterone.
The blankets were expensive - fluffy, silky or hand-knit by some relative or woman in a foreign country. They all came in some shade of blue with white trim, white with blue trim, white and blue stripes, all inevitably blue and white in some combination or another so as best celebrate the fact that this child had a penis. Or, at the very least, herald to the world that this bald, androgynous baby was of the male persuasion – a big tough man…or so to-be.
Mankie, however, was not blue and white, or fluffy, or silky, or even hand-knit. Mankie was tan flannel with bright red trim stitched around the edges. Best of all, Mankie was big. Bigger than the other blankets, and liquidy soft. The flannel was thin and malleable and the boy’s mom liked it most of all for swaddling because of it’s generous size and seeming ability to mold completely to her boy’s beefy proportions without asphyxiating him.
She would fold the pristine blanket into a triangle, lay her son in the center with the edge at shoulder height. The triangle points would be carefully folded over and aligned. The red trim lining up along the side of the triangle. She’d fold the right point first, then bring the bottom upward before taking the left point and wrapping it snugly around the boy’s body. The long end of the triangle could then be turned back down so it would cascade out the top of the bundle not unlike an ascot under the shiny wet chin of her firstborn son. He looked like a gently wrapped burrito. The soft thin flannel had a bit of natural friction that held the boy in without the tucking and pinning necessary for other blankets. The end result was perfect. To the boy’s mother; stylish masculinity. To the boy, a soft, snug cocoon of security and peace. His pliable armor against the strange and stimulating world around him.
As the boy got older, and no longer liked the confinement of swaddling, Mankie became more of a companion. A reminder to the boy of the security he had felt as a baby, and a reminder to his mother of the security she could once so simply provide.
Mankie was the boy’s favorite blanket and took him everywhere. Well, everywhere in the house. Not to the store. Not anymore.
Mankie had accompanied the boy on a recent trip to the market where another older boy saw the boy twirling and chewing on Mankie. The older boy laughed and grabbed Mankie, stuffing it on a shelf between the Cheerios and Lucky Charms. Mankie was retrieved, and the older boy received a stern scolding, but his mother thought it was best to leave Mankie home from now on. The boy tentatively agreed as the fresh hot tears dried on his cheeks.
But she wouldn’t take it away from the boy at home. Not just yet. The boy was older now – bigger. He had big boy ways and she couldn’t contain that – certainly not with a thin piece of flannel. So, at bedtime, instead of swaddling, she tucked her big boy into his big boy bed at night and placed Mankie into his outstretched eager hands so he could curl it around his fingers, feel the liquid softness moving along the webbing of his man-cub hands, and twist his blanket, and himself, into a curled up ball of contentment.
Again, one.
