Rusty Silver Spoon

They say some are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Mine was silver too, but

rusted. As a child, I didn’t notice the rust. I was taught to be grateful, to swallow

whatever the spoon carried without question. They told me it was right. They told me it

was a blessing. But was it? Or was I only being fed rust—slow poison dressed as

privilege?

The silver spoon had once shined, long before I held it. I know this because my mother

told me stories of our family’s legacy. My grandparents were hardworking farmers,

known throughout their small town. They were honored by the mayor, admired by their

neighbors, and proud as they raised ten children. Strict and disciplined, they believed

success had only one formula: wake up early, work tirelessly, and save every coin. They

saw rest as weakness. Their ten children—including my mother—chose different paths,

from teaching to trade. Yet all carried the same relentless ethic. Laziness was not just

frowned upon—it was a disgrace. That mindset has passed down to my generation. Loud

and proud, they still call it “carrying the legacy,” but it often feels more like control—

demanding obedience, resisting disagreement, and equating authority with being right.

At least, that’s how it feels with my mother. The spoon has been passed from hand to

hand. That was the shine. By the time it reached me, the silver had dulled.

I thought I’d only see this kind of crisis on television, never live it myself. But I felt the

weight of their expectations. I know little about farming, I have no authority to teach,

and I’ve never been drawn to business. I’m a writer, a dancer, a theater artist. Yet

whenever I pause to rest—to clear my mind, to regain my creativity—I feel guilty, afraid

I’ll be branded lazy or a disgrace. I chose a different path, one they don’t always

understand. People ask what I do, and in the same breath remind me how lucky I am to

be born into this family because of its “legacy” and “money.” But what money? I don’t

have it. What I inherited instead is the rust clinging to the silver.

In many families, legacy becomes law. Hard work is noble, but when wielded as a

weapon, it stops being a gift and turns into rust. Society celebrates output and

achievement, but rarely questions the cost. Imagine a child born with a rusty silver

spoon. Growing up, they are taught to guard it, protect it, and live by it. By adulthood,

they rarely use it, yet they are too afraid to replace it. I still wander between two roads:

preserving the legacy or creating one of my own—one where I can finally rest without

guilt. Isn’t that the choice every generation must face—whether to polish what we inherit

or craft something entirely new?

Perhaps the rust can be cleaned. Not erased, but transformed. As a creative, the rusty

silver spoon I’ve inherited is not useless— it only needs reshaping—into something that

allows me to grow, to adapt, and to evolve as life unfolds. I choose to hold my silver with

awareness, to approach every moment with intention, and to protect what matters

without letting fear rule me. I allow myself to pause, to rest and replenish, without guilt.

I seek delight in the small moments, and I dare to carve a path that is truly my own. If I

carry this forward, maybe the spoon can shine again. It will take a long journey, but that

is part of creating a legacy. And perhaps, when it finally passes from my hands, the next

to inherit will hold a shiny silver spoon, not a rusty one.