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Behind the Poem: Evil Slippery Bathtub
By Lorenalitit, age 16 (but also 8)
When I was 7-years-old (almost 8) I had a dramatic run-in with a very rebellious bathtub. Getting ready to exit, I slipped, arms flailing, pride bruised and like any emotionally-charged young writer, I immediately grabbed a pen and poured my outrage into a poem: Evil Slippery Bathtub was born.
The next day, I proudly showed my teacher at school. She loved it so much that she asked me to perform it at our upcoming talent afternoon, in front of the whole school and visiting parents. I was nervous, but excited and honestly, pretty proud. This was my debut as a serious poet.
When the big day arrived, I delivered the poem with full 7-year-old theatrical gusto. There was rapturous applause... but also a few raised eyebrows. My teacher and the deputy head were practically crying with laughter. I didn’t really get why, it was supposed to be angry and a little funny I suppose but not that funny.
Fast forward to yesterday, (3rd June 2025) age 17, when my mum finally told me the truth. Sitting in the audience that day, all she, my dad and most of the adults could hear, thanks to my passionate delivery and enthusiastic consonants, was:
“You evil slippery bastard!”
Yes, "bastard".
To me, it was a poem about injustice and soap-related treachery. To them? A wildly inappropriate and unintentionally hilarious moment of poetic protest.
The word bastard comes from 12th-century Old French, likely meaning “packsaddle child” – referring to children conceived on the road, often outside of marriage. It entered English via Medieval Latin bastardus and originally described someone born out of wedlock, with serious legal and social consequences. Over time, the term took on a pejorative tone, evolving from a label of illegitimacy to a general insult implying someone unpleasant or dishonourable. Writers like Shakespeare used it both literally and figuratively and it still carries historical weight in modern fiction. Today, while often used humorously or casually, its roots lie in a long history of social exclusion and shame.
Roots
By A Girl Finding Home In The Soil Of Her Ancestors
My roots once frayed threads,
dangling in the unknown—
beneath the earth and oceans.
Where did they start? Where do they reach?
The crossing splintered them like driftwood on alien shores.
But in the cracks, there was soil
Roots reached down,
finding their wisdom, centuries deep.
Griots, nourishing the soil with stories, infusing it with songs,
planting resilience in my veins.
Roots delved deep,
they bent, didn't break.
Roots spread wide
stretched like loving arms,
a web of strength, holding me steady
against the pressure of a world that wants me small.
They taught me to photosynthesise joy,
turning the light of their laughter into fuel.
They said "Child, you are the sunlight too",
“I am”?
“You are”!
Then I believed!
My bark is armour.
Skin thickened;
toughened by their lessons,
yet soft where their love has seeped in.
My roots hold the DNA of their wildest dreams —
the ones that reach higher than history,
stronger than chains,
broader than the small spaces the world tries to confine us to,
forcing through ceilings, wrecking the walls.
They are gardeners tending my growth.
They anchor me when I feel uprooted,
reminding me that fractured roots
can graft into new soil,
that broken branches
still blossom with time and care.
My roots are my veins, my voice, my skin, my strength -
my being.
And now I know —
Come what may -
I won't break, I'll bend.
My parents are killjoys especially my mother!