Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Marie Howe’s "Sixth Grade" is a harrowing recollection of childhood violence, gendered power dynamics, and the complicity of silence. Through stark, unembellished language, the poem presents a moment of deep humiliation and fear, revealing how early experiences of violence—particularly sexualized violence—become formative lessons in power, gender, and betrayal. The speaker’s perspective oscillates between innocence and awareness, embodying the confusion and desperation of a child navigating a moment far beyond their control.

The poem begins with a matter-of-fact description of the event: "The afternoon the neighborhood boys tied me and Mary Lou Mahar to Donny Ralph’s father’s garage doors, spread-eagled." The casual tone, almost observational, contrasts with the horror of what is being described. The phrase "spread-eagled" immediately suggests a posture of vulnerability and restraint, hinting at the sexualized nature of the assault to come. The speaker and Mary Lou are not simply being teased or bullied; they are being physically bound, stripped of agency, and put on display.

Howe places this moment within the context of an ongoing pattern: "it was the summer they chased us almost every day." The repetition suggests an entrenched dynamic—boys pursuing girls, overpowering them, and then "lying on top of us, then getting up and walking away." This ritualized harassment, its banality, underscores the ways in which gendered violence is often normalized in childhood, dismissed as boys being boys or just playing around. But the accumulation of these moments reveals a deeper, more insidious conditioning—one that teaches girls fear, submission, and silence.

The setting is eerily empty, further emphasizing the isolation of the girls. "That afternoon Donny’s mother wasn’t home. His nine sisters and brothers gone—even Gramps, who lived with them, gone somewhere—the backyard empty, the big house quiet." There are no adult witnesses, no one to intervene. This absence of authority reinforces the unchecked power of the boys, their ability to dominate without consequence.

The arrival of "a gang of boys" escalates the situation. Their actions become increasingly violent and ritualistic, culminating in the grotesque use of "the deer’s leg severed from the buck his dad had killed the year before, dried up and still fur-covered." The leg, a symbol of male power—hunting, killing, dominance—is wielded like a weapon, first playfully ("sort of poked it at us, dancing around the blacktop") and then deliberately ("Then somebody took it from Donny and did it. And then somebody else, and somebody after him."). The repetition of "somebody" obscures individual responsibility, turning the assault into a collective act, a ritual in which each participant is complicit but none singularly accountable.

The pivotal moment comes when "Donny pulled up Mary Lou’s dress and held it up, and she began to cry." This is where the violence shifts definitively into sexual violation. The boys are no longer just tormenting; they are asserting their power over the girls? bodies. Mary Lou’s crying marks the moment of rupture—the point at which the act becomes unbearable, undeniable. And it is here that the speaker experiences a profound transformation: "and I became a boy again, and shouted Stop, and they wouldn’t."

This line is extraordinary in its implications. What does it mean to become a boy again? Is it a retreat into an imagined state of safety, an internal denial of vulnerability? Or is it an assertion of authority, an attempt to adopt the one identity that might hold sway in this situation? Either way, the transformation fails; the boys ignore the command. Power in this moment is real, not performative. The speaker cannot will herself into protection.

In desperation, the speaker turns to Charlie, her best friend’s brother, someone she believes will intervene. "Charlie! to my brother’s friend who knew me Stop them. And he wouldn’t." This refusal is as devastating as the assault itself. Charlie, like the others, participates in the violence—not actively, but through his silence. He chooses not to see, not to act, reinforcing the complicity that allows such acts to continue.

But then the speaker tries something different. "And then more softly, and looking directly at him, I said, Charlie." The shift in tone is crucial. It is no longer a shouted plea but an intimate, direct appeal—one that recognizes his individual humanity, his ability to choose. And this time, it works. "And he said Stop. And they said What? And he said Stop it. And they did." The boys comply, "quickly untying the ropes, weirdly quiet." The sudden shift from aggression to silence is telling. Their power depended on collective momentum, on unchallenged dominance. Once confronted, once told No, they retreat—not because they feel guilt, but because their complicity has been named.

Yet, even in his intervention, Charlie is absent. "And Charlie? Already gone." He does not stay to comfort, to explain. His role was minimal, almost accidental. The speaker’s reliance on him was necessary but not ultimately redemptive. He is not a hero, only a reluctant witness who chose, briefly, to see.

"Sixth Grade" is a searing exploration of power, gender, and complicity. It captures the moment when childhood innocence shatters, when play becomes violence, when silence becomes its own form of harm. The poem does not dwell on aftermath—there is no reflection on how this experience shaped the speaker, no analysis of trauma. Instead, it presents the event in its stark, unflinching reality, allowing the reader to feel its weight. The lesson learned is implicit: the world is built on power, and that power is upheld not only by those who act, but by those who refuse to see.

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