Saturday, December 18, 2004
Fuzzy thoughts and Laser Perceptions
From high school through everything I could afford at community college level, every psych teacher I ever had says the same thing about me: Unique. I take it as high praise.
It's quite possible, though, that the synaptic connections I make are just so freakin' weird nobody else operates their brain like I do.
That was preamble, you understand. I was thinking today about a vicious post I made a while back on a message board about Arabs. I mainly said that a people who can allow their children to martyr themselves with bombs cannot truly love those children. I still feel that way. But I was allowing myself to fall into a classic error; not all Arabs would DO that, would allow it.
I started thinking through that entire line of reasoning. I realized, especially with Arab women, what in HELL do I know about what they think? Whether it's their fault or not, and that debate goes back 5,000 years or so, there has been massive strife in their part of the world. You do, in spite all odds, fall in love and marry in combat zones, just like anywhere else. You make children, and the odds of those children surviving to adulthood aren't always good. So how WOULD I feel in a world like that? Where my kid could catch a bullet for no reason other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Do you cut off part of your feelings for them, knowing how much it's going to hurt if they get killed?
How can you teach them gentleness when their world involves explosives and bullets?
I think of how I grew up. Small Oklahoma town, where my Dad was a town cop, among other things, respected for his fairness, feared for his overwhelming physical power. Hulk Hogan, the 6'7" wrestler, has 22 inch biceps. My dad, at 5'10" tall, had 24 inch biceps. His gun was usually an afterthought. The very LAST thing you wanted was him getting a grip on you. It was an ideal world for a boy growing up. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and it was safe, because the town council wished it so, and they hired guys like Dad to ensure it stayed that way. I had no worries, no fear. The small gang of elementary school bullies who briefly threatened my friends and me never had to deal with Dad; the day our conflict came to a head, I hid at a friend's house and called my mother. Mother walked up the hill to get us, with her Jane Russell figure and hair, softball bat over her shoulder, walked into the middle of the gang and snarled, "Go HOME". They vanished. Years later, a neighbor's giant boar hog got loose and was destroying our stuff on the carport and trying to kill our dog. Mom walked out, picked up the very same bat, and hit him once in the head so hard she knocked him out, fractured his skull and crossed his eyes. The neighbor had to harness him to his tractor, take him home dangling from the forks, then slaughter him. You see? Safe.
I hope they DO achieve peace in their lands, those Arabs. I hope the young men find something to focus on besides Jihad. Education would be nice, maybe farming, desert reclamation, something USEFUL, you know? The few Arabic women who have found a way to voice their feelings, I discovered, are intelligent, sensible folks who want to raise children and live their lives without insane men being able to kill them practically at will, who want to better the plight of their people. So maybe I'll back off about them and read some more. I might learn something.
My mother, during one of her lucid periods when she declined her morphine to ease her pain, took my hand and said, "It's all about love. All that matters is love." Cancer finally took her out a couple of days later.
I was leaning against my fence the other night, enjoying a bright moon and slightly chilly evening alongside Basher, faithful mutt. No online, no phone, no talking. Just the beauty and quiet of the night. Suddenly I hear Dad inside, voice almost panicked, "Where are you?" I didn't feel like talking, I didn't feel like dealing with him, but I did anyway. Walked in the house, said, "I'm outside getting some air." I was a little annoyed with him about the whole thing.
I sat down at my keyboard, began logging on. He was silent in his easy chair for a minute, then he said, "You have to realize, son, you're all I have. If something happens to you, nobody's going to take care of me. They'll just take my money and put me in a home."
I could feel tears welling, pushed them away, but the feeling stayed. So, okay. I'll get impatient with him, annoyed at him, but he put all he had into raising me and my brother, and taking care of Mom. Mom's dead, my brother's dead, and I really am all he has. And he's not going in any damn home, even a nice one.
Besides, sometimes he's fun. He just now commented, "Why do that have to have all that cussing in movies now? They say every damn filthy thing you can think of."
Uh, yeah Dad. Them bastards cuss like crazy.
Back when he was dating Mom, they were sitting in a diner one night, and a guy in the next booth was swearing like crazy. Mom really hated swearing. Even Dad curbed his tongue around her, and us boys just didn't cuss in her presence. We didn't dare.
Anyway, after seeing Mom wince for about the 30th time, Dad gets up, walks over to the booth, lifts this guy out of the booth and is holding him by his lapels up in the air. Dad says, "We're trying to have a nice dinner over there. Watch your FUCKIN' language in front of my wife." He then gently puts the man back on his feet, guides him down into his seat, and can't understand why Mom is cracking up laughing.
Till next time, remember: good boys and girls sleep with their hands above the covers. Don't be good.
