I think that’s largely true about parenting being more violent or fraught in non-Western countries. Here is an autobiographical segment from a much longer poem by the writer I studied, whose childhood was assaulted by parental death, prostitution and the projection of an evil spirit into the son, who was valued less for being “intellectual”.
He lost his arms, his legs, his trunk
All that remained was from the neck upwards
Grinning sheepishly, apologetically
He was a poem pared down to its essentials
Grinning sheepishly, apologetically, honest!
His father died in primary school
His father rose again to run the factory
Turning on his bicycle the axis of the moon
Turning in his sleep, this endless sweep of stars
Aphrodite sealed between two sides of the coin
Is it your shrieks I hear when my gold jingles?
Sword-bearing arm cleaves day’s placid leg
I cannot bear all thought to food
In the bucket is whitewash enough
To make our world realistic
“But you can’t love your sister that way!”
In every dustbin, in every rubbish heap
A teacher pleading innocence
Pleading ignorance.
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