Rusty Silver Spoon

Mikee

Mikee Marilla

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.
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Posted Sep 4, 2025

A personal reflection on family legacy and personal growth.

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Sep 4, 2025 - Sep 4, 2025