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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: childhood

Toddlerhood Nation?

13 Saturday Feb 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

adulthood, childhood, essay, rights

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Life has phases. 

Think about it. Some life-forms, like us, move through space. Other life-forms, like redwoods don’t walk about the forest. (Only ents do that!). But, internally, they move all the time. And, over a larger time scale, they move through a larger scale of space. But insects, trees, humans, fish — we all have phases. 

When it comes to humans, the first nine months are a whirlwind of change! Perhaps, part of the reason we can “get away with” such a fast sequence of transitions is that we follow a modification of an evolutionary pathway. (Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny). 

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An evolutionary pathway is highly constrained as compared with what humans can produce. We can build an automobile-producing plant that produces finished automobiles that “work.” But at almost every point before that final assembly, the car doesn’t “work” at least as a car. Some hunks of metal, I suppose could serve as a doorstop. When it comes to life though, every single generation has to have some survivors. You can’t “invest” so much in one generation that the next one goes extinct. Well, you can, but if you do, your strain, species, etc. will die out.  

Life, of course, is extremely diverse! There is life in Antarctica. And there is life in the Sahara Desert. Life flourishes in the Brazilian rain forest, and the jungles of Hawaii and the Outer Banks  of the Carolinas and the Canadian tundra and even in boiling sulphur springs in the ocean depths at pressures that would crush you or me! 

Every single one of these life forms has phases. 

Let that sink in. 

Life forms in all these absurdly diverse environments has found it “necessary” to go through phases. 

When I consider human beings, it seems clear that we not only go through phases of a biological nature. We also go through phases in our subjective life and in our behavior. The two are related of course. When we’re born, unlike most species, we have very little clue as to how we are to behave vis a vis others of our species. 

Very soon, we are (hopefully) bonded through love with our parents, siblings, and others. But at young age, there is no reasonable expectation that we will do the “right thing” or “be considerate” of others. Very young children are capable of empathy. But they’re also capable of rage or behaving in a rigid, self-defeating way and stubbornly stick to it. 

In America, people are not deemed fully responsible to vote until they are 18, or drink alcohol until they are 21, or drive a car until they are at least 16. It isn’t that people are physically incapable of voting, or driving, or drinking at a much earlier age. It is that we realize it is necessary to learn from experience that it is better for everyone, including you, but also including people you care about.

Most people, myself included, “try out” some pretty selfish behavior in their early teens. And, most people, myself included, learn from these experiences, that it’s far better to be decent. Eventually, you discover that things like the “Golden Rule” actually make a lot of sense. As inconvenient as it may seem at first, as there are more and more people in the world, we have to make more and more accommodations to others. 

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Our bodies change over time. There are “phases” at long time scales as we go from infancy to childhood to puberty to adulthood to old age. There are phases at shorter time scales as we go from hunger to satiation and wakefulness to sleep. There are phases at still shorter time scale as we breathe and have our hearts beat. 

We have both cyclical and non-cyclical phases. Hunger, breathing, and sleep are cyclical. Our height however grows in one direction for most of our lives and then, in old age, we may shrink slightly.

Our psychological maturity generally grows in one direction, but we can “revert” to an earlier phase of life. If we identify with a sociopath who has never learned how to trust and be trustworthy and who refuses to be fair or follow rules, then we too become as a child. Ironically, as psychological toddlers, we will insist on our rights ever more strongly even as we refuse to take any responsibility.

A nation of toddlers only will not long survive.

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Trump refuses to take any responsibility for his actions in inciting a riot. He’s a toddler.

Trump’s followers who stormed the Capitol point their fingers at Trump. They are toddlers.

The lawyers who are charged with “defending” Trump give up because it’s too hard. So instead, they lie and use fallacious reasoning or no reasoning at all. They are toddlers.

The GOP Senators who don’t even pay attention to the trial are toddlers as well.

Those GOP Senators who refuse to take their oath of office seriously and who hand their souls and minds over to Trump for his personal use are Toddlers who are deluded into thinking they can hold on to power this way. They have no power. They are slaves of Trump. 

They say “too many cooks spoil the broth.” 

Maybe.

But I can guarantee you that a political party of toddlers with no adult supervision will vote for candy over healthy food no matter how many teeth fall out.

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———————————————

Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: Labelism 

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Trumpism is a new religion.

Essays on America: The Update Problem 

What about the butter dish? 

The Ailing King of Agitate

Author Page on Amazon 

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

14 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

bully, childhood, crime, criminal mind, cruelty, Dictator, fiction, psychology, short story, sociopath, story, tyrant

hamster

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“No, Donnie, I told you. You’re not getting a dog until you show me that you can handle more responsibility.”

“But Mommy! I’m ‘sponsible! Watch! Look! See! I’m not peeing my pants any more!”

She turned away from the sink and checked the front of Donnie’s pants. “I know, Donnie. That’s a good thing. Believe me, Fred and I are very proud of you for that. But neither one of us has time to take care of a dog. You have to help out around the house.”

“But, I don’t like housework, Mommy. It’s for bitches. Not for young men.” 

Mom sighed. She shook her head. “Do I have to wash your mouth out with soap? Don’t use that word!” 

Donnie pretended not to understand. “I’m not supposed to say, ‘housework’? How come?” 

Mom said, “Donnie, there’s nothing wrong with saying ‘housework.’ Or, doing it, for that matter. But don’t say ‘bitch.’ It’s not nice. If you talk like that no-one with an ounce of sense will make friends with you. It shows a lack of self-control.” 

“How about ‘son-of-a-bitch’ — is that okay, Mommy?” 

“Donnie, no. Just no. Can you dry the dishes for me? That’s something a ten year old should be able to do.”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO! I’m doing that! It’s for bitches! Sorry. I mean, it’s for pussies. Daddy never dries dishes.” 

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“Where did you get such a filthy mouth anyway? I don’t talk like that. Anyway, if you can’t even help me do the dishes, how do you expect me to think you’ll take care of a dog. I told you. It’s a lot of work.” 

Donnie smiled. Suddenly, he was afraid he was going to laugh. He stuck his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing at how stupid his mommy was. “I do lots of work!” 

Mom put the last dish on the drying rack. She turned to look at her son. “Donnie, you don’t do any work. I asked you yesterday to rake leaves. You didn’t do that. On Monday, I asked you to weed the garden. You didn’t do either one. I’m not getting you a dog.”

“I’m not peeing my pants! And I did rake the leaves. I couldn’t weed the garden because my hands would get dirty! Then what?”

Mom took town a dish towel and begin drying the dishes. “Donnie, Junior raked the leaves. Not you.” 

photography of maple trees

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“Is that what he told you? What a liar! He just told you that after I raked them! He’s a liar! Why do you let him get away with that? Why Mommy? Is it because no-one loves me?” 

She stopped drying the dishes. She wiped her hands and turned to look at her son. “Donnie, of course, we love you. We all love you. But you did not rake the leaves. Why do you say you did?” 

Donnie yelled, “HE LIED! HE LIED! I HATE FRED JUNIOR! HE LIES! HE TAKES CREDIT AFTER I RAKE THE LEAVES!” 

“Donnie. Do you see the picture window in front by the dining room table? I sat right there and polished the silverware and watched Junior rake the leaves. You went over — twice — and tried to wreck up the stack he was making. You did not help at all.” 

“That was me doing the raking, Mommy! I was the one who raked the leaves! Junior was trying to wreck up the stacks. Maybe we — I think we were wearing each other’s coats. That might have confused you. Did you have your glasses on?” 

She sighed. What the hell…? “Donnie, he’s a head taller than you. He wouldn’t even fit in your coat. I know what I saw.” 

Donnie saw it was time to shift gears again. “It may have been really foggy. I don’t know how you got confused. But you only know what you think you saw. I was there and I remember the leaves, but let’s not fight. I love you. I don’t want to upset you. I just want a dog. What do you think?” 

brown wolf

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“Donnie. No.” It was exhausting to deal with this kid. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Maybe a boarding school is the answer. Maybe a dog would teach him some responsibility. But it wouldn’t work. I’d just end up picking up the poop, feeding the dog…”I’ll tell you what, Donnie. I’ll talk to Dad and see what he thinks about getting you a hamster. If you take care of that for a year, on your own, then we can talk about getting a dog. How about that?”

Donnie thought about it. A hamster is better than nothing. Not as much fun as a dog. But maybe I could trade it for a dog. Susan might be that stupid. Or Lindsey. They’ll believe anything. Worth a try. “Oh, Mommy, that sounds great! Can we go now? Can we get it NOW! How about now!”

Mom was already beginning to regret her impulsive offer. “Donnie, I told you that I was going to discuss it with your father. If he’s okay with it, we can go to the pet store on Saturday morning. But I’m not taking care of it. You have to feed it and provide water and clean its cage. Understand?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy! I understand. I’ll do all the work. Or pay someone else to do it. I mean if I’m out of town or something.” 

—————————————

Sure enough, that Saturday, Donnie went to the pet store to get a hamster. It was teeny and pathetic. He could easily crush it with one hand. It hardly counted as a weapon of protection. But maybe if I take care of the hamster, he reasoned, they’ll get me an attack dog later. 

macro photography of mouse near brown wooden cage

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It was a bright sunny day out, so he took the cage out. Junior and Maryanne were off with their friends. Mommy had said to stay in they yard, but she wouldn’t mind if he went next door to the vacant lot. There were some things he needed to check out about his hamster. Things he wanted to do in private. He didn’t even know yet whether it was a boy or a bitch. There was a nice little grassy spot in the sun on the other side of the fence. He put the cage down and stuck his hand inside. Stupid Hamster was easy to catch. At least, in the cage it was. Maybe “Stupid” is a good name for him. Or her, he reminded himself. The pet store people had said it was a male, but Donnie had his doubts. He didn’t notice anything hanging out down there. Well, this time, he’d get a good look, away from prying eyes. 

He pulled back the fur and looked everywhere. Nothing. If the Hamster did have a thingie it was even teenier than his own. That made Donnie feel good. And feeling good reminded him of tearing apart grasshoppers. And that made him wonder whether he could get the Hamster to eat a grasshopper. Now, that would be fun to watch. He scanned the nearby area but didn’t see any grasshoppers. He could look by the tall weeds, but that was too much work. All of a sudden, it hit Donnie that while a hamster was a lot less work than a dog, it was also a much stupider pet. Not only would it not protect him. It wouldn’t fetch. It wouldn’t go on walks. What good is a stupid hamster, with such a teeny thingie you couldn’t even see it. 

He wondered if it’s little paw fingers would break off like the grasshopper’s legs. That might be fun. But the grasshopper was hard. This hamster was soft like a snot rag. You couldn’t really break a snot rag. So…? It wouldn’t be that much fun. But people could break bones. So, maybe I could break hamster’s bones. It wouldn’t be as much fun as pulling its legs off, but it would be some fun. Then, he suddenly remembered his magnifying glass! The teacher had just had one of her boring science classes but one thing was cool. She had started a fire just by focusing the Sundays onto a piece of paper. And the paper had burned to a crisp when so many Sundays all came at once. Donnie could relate. Sundays were always boring. 

selective focus photo of magnifying glass

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Donnie decided it would be fun to see how the stupid hamster reacted if he set different parts of it on fire. He took the magnifying class out of his pants pocket. He grabbed the hamster and held it tightly in his left hand. Then he took his magnifying glass and played it back and forth to focus on the hamster’s nose. That would hurt! But the stupid hamster kept wiggling and wouldn’t hold still. “HOLD STILL you stupid bitch! OUCH!!” Donnie dropped the hamster onto the grass.

The hamster bit him! How dare he! I will burn that bitch to a crisp, he thought. 

“What, in God’s name are you doing?” 

Donnie jumped and screamed in sudden surprise at a voice so near. He jerked his head and saw Junior standing there with a frown. “Junior! Just in time to help me. My hamster jumped out of its cage and it ran away. Help me look. Help me find him! Look over there by the tall weeds. I’ll look this other direction. He can’t have gone far. Please! Help me! Mommy will kill us if I lose it the very first day!” 

Fred walked casually toward the tall weeds and asked, “Why were you yelling at it?” 

“Let’s find him and I’ll explain it all.” Donny ran off across the property line and leaped up the stairs to the back porch. He flung open the door. “Mommy! Mommy! Junior threw out my hamster! He’s lost! We can’t find him! Oh, Mommy. Mommy. Come help us look!” 

Mom was growing slightly more skeptical of Donnie’s claims, but her first instinct was to believe her own son. “Why would he do that, Donnie? Are you sure?”

“Come help me look! Quick Mommy or will never find him. Junior said he never had a hamster so why should I get one. And then…”  At this point, Donnie put both hands over his face and pushed it into a sad face. But it wouldn’t stay. He’d have to keep it covered, he decided. “Then, he took the top off. I thought he just wanted to pet my hamster. But no! He threw it in the bushes! I’m scared a wolf might eat it! Or, a bear!” 

They quickly strode out to the vacant lot. When they got there, they saw Junior hunkered down staring into the tall weeds. Mom yelled out, “Junior! Why did you let Donnie’s hamster out?” 

“I didn’t let his hamster out. He dropped it.” Unlike Mom, Junior was onto Donnie’s tricks, or at least some of them. 

Mom opened her mouth, but before her lips even parted, Donnie began his fake crying, “No, Mommy. No. That’s not true. I was petting it inside the cage but Junior said he would show me. And he took my hamster and threw it over there somewhere.” 

Junior looked at his mother and shook his head. “Why would I care if Donnie has a hamster? Really? Seriously? And why would I look for it if I threw it out. And if I did throw it over here and Donnie saw me then why did he go “looking” the other direction?” 

Mom looked questioningly at Donnie who smiled his biggest possible smile. “Mommy? Can I please have a dog now?”  

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—————————————

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man! 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Donnie Visits Granny!

 

Donnie Learns Golf! 

04 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, politics, psychology, sports

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

caddy, childhood, criminal, fiction, golf, insanity, liar, sociopath, sportsmanship, story

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“I think I like baseball better, Daddy. I can’t hit such a tiny ball with such a weird bat.” 

Fred Senior snorted. “Just hit the ball. I told you before. The course is where deals are made and suckers are suckered. You can’t do that on the baseball diamond! Just watch me. And watch Junior. Do what we do.” Fred Senior took a few waggles and smacked the ball a few hundred yards down the fairway. 

Junior said, “Don’t worry, Donnie. You’ll get the hang of it.” He stooped down; he stabbed the tee into the soft ground and placed the ball atop in one smooth motion. “Besides, once you do get the hang of it, you’ll hit the ball farther than Babe Ruth ever did!” THWACK! 

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Donnie shook his head. Months of lessons and he still couldn’t do that. But he would. He would be better than either of them. He’d show them, he thought. I’ll hit it farther. I’ll hit it harder. He took the tee into his teeny hands and pushed it into the ground. He pulled a golf ball out of his pocket and placed it on the tee. He took a deep breath. He walked up; turned sideways. What did they say? Oh, yeah. Right. Tension on the inside, balance. Easy hands. Watch the ball.

Fred Senior snapped his fingers at the caddy and threw his driver to him. “Are you ever going to hit the ball, or what, Donnie?” 

Donnie’s teeny hands began to sweat. He had to push fear away. Push it away. He swung hard. “Scheiss! That doesn’t count!” His face reddened. The Freds were already sitting in the cart. Damn. He had to hurry. He couldn’t hurry. There was so much to remember. 

“Come on Donnie. Pick up your ball. You can drop it where Junior is.”  

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Junior had smacked the ball a good 250 yards into the middle of the fairway. Donnie’s face was red, but he grabbed onto the back of the cart. A few moments later, he walked out with Junior and dropped his ball a foot ahead of Junior’s. 

“Scheiss!” (This was lately one of Donnie’s favorite words. He wasn’t allowed to curse in front of Daddy. Not in English any way.) His ball had rolled into a divot. He walked over and kicked his ball ten yards father down the fairway. He ordered the caddy to hand him a five iron. He managed to whack the ball sideways into some deep brush underneath a gnarly oak tree about ten yards off the fairway. 

“Scheiss! Hey, Darkie — whatever your name is — come help me find my ball.” 

The caddy handed Fred Senior his seven iron and joined Donnie in the weeds. “Here you go.” He pointed down to a ball nestled in the weeds. Donnie walked over and took a look. “Scheiss! Put it somewhere I can hit it!” The caddy, whatever his name was — they all looked alike — tilted his head and then shook it ever so slightly. 

“Do you have a problem, Caddyman? Do we need a new caddy?” 

“No sir. I just thought you were still learning and … “

“We’re not paying you to think Caddyman. Step lively! Go fetch the ball and put it where I can hit it!” 

The large man nodded. “Strictly speaking, it’s your Dad who’s paying me. He wants you to … “

“Just do what I say, Caddyblack or I’ll get you fired!” 

two man standing beside golf carts

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The caddy put down one of the bags and leaned over and picked up the ball. He frowned again at Donnie’s choice of marks — a large black swastika. “Where you want this? Are you saying this is unplayable? That’s a two stroke penalty, you know.” 

“Scheiss,” Donnie muttered under his breath. He glanced across the fairway to see his Dad and Junior heading for the cart. They would soon be heading to the green. He looked back at the caddy, his anger and frustration still growing. 

“Sir, I have to go give them their putters. How about if I leave your bag here for you. You decide where you want to hit from.” 

“That was not my ball. Let’s look on the other side of that tree.”

clouds countryside daylight environment

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“But, sir. Your brother and daddy need their putters.”

“Screw them! Come with me!” Donnie began to stomp through the weeds around to the far side of the tree. 

The caddy, actually named Adam, by the way, sighed. Fred Senior and his son had already parked on the edge of the green and were gesturing for their putters. Hopefully, this little adventure wouldn’t take long. He followed Donnie around the tree and saw him standing there expectantly. He didn’t seem to be looking for a ball. He frowned. 

Donnie put his teeny hands beside his mouth and screamed, “DADDY! DADDY! Help me! Caddyblack is showing me his thingie!” 

The caddy stood there dumbfounded. “What are you doing! Why you say that?”

Donnie hissed under his breath: “Because I hate you. You made me do it.” Then, he screamed again, “DADDY! Help!” 

The Freds were running toward the gnarly old oak. 

person holding brown card

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Donnie was so pleased with himself that he had to work very hard to wipe the smile off his face before his Dad arrived. He replaced it with what he hoped was a very scared look. He need not have bothered. His Dad barely glanced at him and went instead up to the caddy. 

“Get your filthy hands off my son! You should be ashamed of yourself! What the hell’s wrong with you? I’ll make sure you never work anywhere as a caddy again!”  

“But sir — I never —”

“SHUT UP! I don’t want to stand here and listen to your lies! Get your filthy hands off our bags. God-damned round of golf ruined on the first God-damned hole. You are going to see some of my buddies soon. You won’t recognize us, but we’ll sure as hell recognize you! Now GIT! GIT!!” 

Donnie put his face down in his hands to hide his laughter. It was difficult, but he managed to make it sound as though he was sobbing rather than laughing. He dug his fingers into the sides of his face till it hurt. Then he pressed even harder. He had to press really hard in order to make real tears flow, but it was worth it. Caddyblack wouldn’t be making him miss any more golf shots. 

Not today. 

Not ever! 

Fred Senior barked out to the boys that they were going back to the clubhouse and get this guy fired right now. As he hitched a ride on the back of the cart, Donnie thought to himself, this was the best round of golf — ever!  

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Donny Plays Doctor Man!

Donny Plays Bull-Dazzle Man! 

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

. 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

03 Friday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, politics, psychology, story

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

childhood, Conman, crime, criminal, evil, family, fiction, sociopath, story

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{Since this is written from a “God’s eye view” it might be obvious to you that it’s fiction. But in case it isn’t, this is fiction and any resemblance to actual characters is purely coincidental. Anyway, these stories take place on the third planet around a small, ordinary star at the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy}.

hotrod die cast model on board

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Donnie was bored, and had been ever since school let out and there were no little kids to bully. Junior refused to play Monopoly with him any more. What a cruddy older brother, thought Donnie. Just because I was smart enough to hide lots of $500 bills in my pants before the game started. He’s just jealous because he didn’t think of it first! 

Donnie liked pouting. Not so much as bullying though! Bullying was fun! 

Except that time when little Billy had punched him in the nose. He hadn’t been expecting — NO NO NO! Donnie screamed in his head: IT NEVER HAPPENED! IT NEVER HAPPENED!. 

But still Donnie wanted to get back at Billy. He would probably have to wait for school to re-open though. What do do now? What to do? Maryanne and Junior were playing with their own friends. Mommy was re-organizing the attic. Hmmm, thought Donnie. 

He very carefully tip-toed into his sister’s room. He looked around. What to do? If I had some ants, I could put them in the drawer to scare her, but spiders would be better. What about a snake? Too much trouble. Wait! I know! I know! A grasshopper! I’ll go get a grasshopper! 

nature animal insect grasshopper

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Donnie grew excited when he thought about his sister opening a drawer and peeing her pants when a grasshopper jumped out at her. Speaking of peeing her pants, Donnie could see her sister’s clothes hamper in her closet. The door squeaked, he knew, but he slid it open a bit further. He found some used underwear. This gave him another great idea. I am such a genius thought Donnie. I might — no, I am the smartest person ever. 

Luckily, there was a box of Kleenex on Maryanne’s desk. She won’t notice one missing tissue. He carefully took out a tissue and turned back toward the closet. Better use two, he thought. Don’t want to get her cooties! Maybe three is even better. 

He used the tissues to carefully pick up his sister’s white panties, hand-stitched with a little heart. Next, he stuck his head out in the hall. No sign of his siblings. He could hear mom puttering around upstairs. Good. He snuck into his brother’s room and put the panties in his brother’s desk in the upper right side drawer. He closed the drawer and thought. Hmm. How can I get mommy to look in there? I know! 

He rushed into his own room and took out the Silver Dollar he had kept there. It was the first dollar he had ever earned. He earned it by beating up one of the little kids who was showing it off to his friends. Of course, the story he had told his family was that he had “won it” by being really smart at playing cards. They had all seen it. They all knew it was one of his prized possessions because it was so shiny. He put it in the drawer right on top of his sister’s panties. He chuckled to himself a little as he closed the drawer. He snuck a look outside and listened carefully. No-one coming. 

He went back to his own room and took out a book on American History. Somebody somebody something some time something. Somebody else. It was a long book and it said nothing about him. But for some reason, his parents thought he should do extra reading in the summer. 

pile of books

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How stupid! Why did books have so many words anyways? He carefully put the book on he bedside table so he could easily grab it if he needed it. Then, he went back to daydreaming. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he heard mommy descending from the attic. He grabbed the book and opened it to a random page. 

As his mom walked by, Donnie pretended not to notice she was there. Her voice rang out from the hall, “Oh, good, Donnie, I see you’re reading that history book. Who are you reading about now?” 

“What? Oh, hi, mom.” He glanced at the page, looking for something with capital letters. “Oh, I’m reading about Purchase!” 

“Purchase? Who’s Purchase? I don’t remember him. What did he do?”

“He — uh — he did lots of amazing stuff. Just wonderful things. So many things! You can’t believe all the things he did. It’s a shame — you know, nobody gives him enough credit. A lot of people don’t even know his name. Or, they forgot. Or, maybe certain people want to forget.”

“Well, Donnie, I’m glad to see you reading, but it’s supposed to rain later so you should get some sunshine now. The doctor says it helps protect against polio.” 

Donnie was annoyed. He could still get a grasshopper to annoy sis, he supposed. It seemed like a very lame prank compared with the panties. “Okay, Mommy. Great idea.” 

Once downstairs, he sauntered over to the weedy edge of the lawn. Almost immediately he saw a grasshopper. “This day is meant for me!” And as he said “me”, he slapped his cupped hands together trapping the grasshopper. He looked at it. Ugly, he thought. Look at those skinny legs. Stupid sideways mouth. It was different from him so he hated it. He hated almost everyone who wasn’t just like him. 

Anyway, it would terrify his sister and that was the point. But it was so ugly! I’ll bet it could still hop even if I took away its front leg. Or legs. I wonder if it will scream. Checking to ensure that he was still alone, he muttered, “Hey, little stupid ugly bug. I’m your doctor! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. You just need a little operation.” He chuckled.

close up photo of grasshopper

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He listened carefully every time he twisted off a leg to see whether the grasshopper would scream. He couldn’t hear anything, but it seemed clear that the grasshopper hated it, so at least there was that. Every time he twisted a leg off, the grasshopper tried more vigorously to wriggle or fly away. When he got done with the forelegs, he began to wonder whether it could hop with only one rear leg. So he twisted that off as well. But then, he thought. Now, it’s ruined. It won’t hop any more and it won’t scare her and how is that fun? It’s useless. He glanced around. No-one was near so he muttered allowed, “Hey, ugly little useless bug. How’s it feel to be so tiny and weak? Look at me, you bug. I’m going to twist your ugly little head off now and there’s nothing you can do about it. How does that make you feel? I’m your doctor, and believe me, it’s for your own good. You’re too ugly to survive.”

Donnie was so excited that he almost forgot to squash everything into the dirt. Hide the evidence and lie about it. It had become something of a mantra — so much so that he was not even aware he was saying it to himself. He considered getting another grasshopper but he saw himself doing pretty much the same thing to it. He decided he’d have to wait on the grasshopper prank till after he was bored pulling them apart. But there was still plenty of fun in store for the rest of the day, he reassured himself.

Mom called all the kids in for lunch, and they sat down to a delicious meal of baloney with mayo on Wonder Bread. Like many, all that baloney made them thirsty and so they drank lots of Kool-Aid. 

After the first pangs of hunger were gone, Donnie said, “Hey Junior! How about a game Monopoly? 

Junior said, “No! You cheat! You steal money —“ 

Mom said, “Play with your little brother, Junior.” 

Donny said, “ME steal! Where’s my Silver Dollar? Huh? Where’s my Silver Dollar?” 

Mom said, “Did you lose your Silver Dollar, Donnie?”

Donny began, “I didn’t lose it — well, I don’t know. Maybe. But I think Junior has it. He was threatening to steal it yesterday — and the day before — and the day before that. So. My guess is he did it.” 

Junior protested, “I never threatened to take your stupid silver dollar!”

Donny yelled, “Well, I say you did! You stole it and you hid it … where did you say you’d hide it? I forget. No, no. I know, you said, I’ll lock it in my desk! That’s what you said.”

Mommy looked quizzically at Junior. “Is that true?” 

Junior ground his teeth, “No! Why would I steal his stupid silver dollar? And why would I tell him where I was going to hide it? Is that hiding anything? And, by the way, I don’t lock my desk. There isn’t even a key. I don’t think there is, anyway.” 

Donny began to pretend to cry, “Mommy, I really like the Silver Dollar. You know. It’s the first one I ever earned. Can’t you please get it back from him?” Here, Donny pointed one of his teeny fingers toward his brother. 

Mommy stood up and sighed. “All right. Let’s get this straightened out right now. Come with me.” She looked back for a moment to make sure they were following. All of them followed her to Junior’s room. 

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Mom walked over to Junior’s desk and frowned. If it were her desk, she would put important things in the upper right drawer. She opened it up and her head jerked back. She had been simply humoring Donnie. She never expected that Junior had really stolen the Silver Dollar. She turned back to her kids. “It’s here. I can’t believe you did this, Junior. Stay in your room till your dad gets home.”

Junior’s mouth hung open. “WHAT!? No. I didn’t steal it. I don’t even — “

“ENOUGH! You’re just making it worse on yourself! Not another word!” She turned, and began walking to the door, her fist clenched beside her. 

Donny said, in a carefully modulated gentle voice, “Mommy? Can I have my Silver Dollar?” 

“Oh, sorry. Sure honey. I got so upset I forgot.” She walked back to the still open drawer and put her fingers down around the plastic that encased the shiny Silver Dollar. She picked up that shiny Silver Dollar … along with a pair of her daughter’s panties.

Mom had no idea that she screamed aloud. She slowly sunk to her knees and began to sob. She barely heard the screaming of Maryanne and Junior behind her. She barely felt the soft, tiny hand. Donnie was patting her gently. 

He seemed to her wise beyond his years; she felt sure that he was consoling her for the bad luck of having mothered a truly evil child. 

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c

—————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

Donnie Plays Bull-dazzle Man!

01 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, politics, psychology, story

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

allegory, America, childhood, criminal, Democracy, fiction, games, satire, sociopath, story, USA

orange excavator on brown hill

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Donnie looked outside and saw a bulldozer moving a large pile of dirt. 

“Mommy! Mommy! I want one! Get me one!” 

Donnie’s mommy sighed. The noon radio programs weren’t even on yet and this was the fourth impossible request Donnie had already made today. 

“I told you yesterday, Donnie, you can’t play in the dirt. You’ll get your hands dirty.” 

“But I want a big orange thingy! What is that thingy?” He pointed his teeny fingers at the bulldozer.

“That’s called a bulldozer, Donnie. And only big people can have one.”

“Daddy said I could have one! He said I could have a bull-dazzle! He said I could have two bull-dazzles!” 

bulldozer engine equipment heavy

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“I’ve no time for your nonsense, Donnie. You can’t have a — they’re called “bulldozers” — and you can’t have one till you’re a lot older. Look at that man. See? He’s much older than you. And, I still have laundry to fold.” 

Donnie said, “Yes, mommy.” But secretly, he was thinking about various ways to get revenge on stupid mommy. 

It was a sunny spring day, but not really warm. Snow still sprinkled the yard, so Donnie grabbed one of his sister’s jackets. That will annoy her, he thought and smiled. Outside, he couldn’t see much to do. Junior and Maryanne were up in the treehouse playing cards. They had tried teaching him a couple times, but they kept making up rules that didn’t make him win every time which was stupid. So, he threw all the cards on the ground. They hadn’t invited him a third time. 

brown wooden tree house on snow covered ground

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He walked over to where the clothes were hanging. A gentle breeze billowed the shirts and sheets. Junior and Maryanne didn’t even notice him. It seemed they never did. 

He tugged at one of the sheets. Nothing happened. He grabbed with both hands and yanked down on one corner. He threw his legs out just like he did when he had a temper tantrum. His teeny hands slipped off and he fell on his butt. 

He ground his teeth, and walked over to a nightshirt he could reach. This time, when he pulled one of the clothespins snapped off. He got the other one off too! Success! He looked up at the treehouse, but his siblings were still ignoring him. Good, he thought. He tried several more items of laundry and managed to get another nightshirt and even one of the sheets off. Time to tattle. 

white textile

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He walked back into the living room where mommy was already relaxing and listening to Abbot and Costello with her eyes closed. He wondered whether she had noticed him go out. He went to the dining room window and stared out. From there, he could see the treehouse, but his siblings were hidden by the plywood paneling. Perfect, he thought. When a commercial came on, Donnie said casually, “Mommy. Is Junior supposed to be showing his thingy to Maryanne?” 

“WHAT!?” She sprang up from her chair and came to the window. She could see the treehouse but no children. “Where are they?”

“They’re right up in the treehouse, mommy. I think they are hiding so Freddy can show his thingie.” 

Mommy went to the back door and flung it open hard enough to loosen one of the screws that held the hinge. The door flapped against the siding and sprang back violently, scratching her hand. She screamed, “JUNIOR! MARYANNE! Get in here this instant!” 

She walked out onto the back stoop and began skipping down the stairs. That’s when she noticed some of her laundry dragging on the dirty ground. 

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“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU KIDS DO TO MY LAUNDRY! GET DOWN HERE!! NOW!!” 

The puzzled faces of two kids peeked out of the shadowed treehouse. 

Maryanne spoke first, “How come, mom? We’re playing…”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU’RE PLAYING! Get down here! Now” 

She went over and snatched up one of the nightshirts and tried to brush the dirt from it. Her brushing only ground the dirt in more deeply. Crap, she thought, I’ll have to wash this again. 

“What the hell is wrong with you two!? I worked all morning on this laundry!” 

In the corner of his eye, Fred Junior could see the smiling grinning face of his younger brother staring out at the scene from the dining room window. 

“LOOK AT ME when I’m talking to you! Why did you pull my laundry down! Never mind! Get inside! Both of you. I need to talk with you privately, Mister. No. Go to your rooms. I’ll have Fred talk to you when he gets home. That new belt of his will talk to you!” 

When she had redone the laundry and stopped cursing under her breath, Donnie thought she had cooled down enough. His enemies were still confined to their rooms, Donny said, “You know what, Mommy. You’re right. I’m too young to have a real bull-dazzler. But maybe Santa will bring me a pretend one for Christmas?” 

“What? Oh, sure. Sure. Maybe.” Her mind was swirling. Should she tell her husband about the … well, she hadn’t actually seen it. But the laundry was for sure. Junior would get a beating for that. Would he really have shown … surely, he’s too young for that. Fred would go crazy though. Maybe best not to say anything. She’d just watch Junior a lot more carefully from now on, watching for signs. 

Donny stared out the window. He felt pretty proud of himself. Someday, he thought to himself, I will have a whole bunch of bull-dazzlers working for me. What fun! I like bull-dazzlers!

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———————————————

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

Citizen Soldiers 3: Galoshes in the Gutters

24 Saturday Jun 2017

Posted by petersironwood in America, family, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

bully, childhood, citizen soldier, school days, terrorism

RainWaterGutters

One of the joys of childhood is to be lucky enough to be walking home from school after the rain has abated but the storm gutters are still filled to the brim. Often, the earth smelled clean and the sky was clear. Part of the wading game was to get the water level as high as possible on your boot tops but not to over-brim and soak your feet. This danger provided one source of excitement, but there was also the sensory thrill of water’s music and the rushing water pushing against your legs with a rather considerable force. All of us kids had seen movies where people were helplessly rushed away by river currents, sometimes to be flung over waterfalls and shredded on the rocks below. If you would have asked any one of us in your all serious adult “show me how smart you are voice” whether we thought we would be swept out to sea or over a waterfall, we would have answered of course not. But secretly, it felt like a real possibility.

Here’s the odd thing. Looking back on it, I actually think this is a great strategy for learning. The problem with trying to “practice” something like swimming or floating in a raging river so as to not lose your life should you ever end up swimming or floating in a raging river is this: You’re much more likely to die in practice that you would in real life! For Navy Seals, of course, the equation changes, and may be worthwhile. But I contend that for kids, doing something completely safe, but a tiny bit like something actually life-threatening or otherwise critical could be quite a good thing. In the first place, it would help keep you from panicking. I’m not saying it would be a perfect inoculation, but it could help. Second, it could teach you a little bit about the situation. Yeah, in the case of wading in the gutters, far less force would be involved than in a life-threatening situation, but you are learning something of the way water works by wading in it and watching it flow in the gutter and seeing what floats and what doesn’t and how things tend to get “stuck” in certain places.

Imagine two kids of identical strength and temperament, one of whom had played in raging gutters a score or more times and one who had never done so. Now they fall into a raging river where there is real danger. One of them survives. Well, my money is on the kid who waded in the gutters. Every time.

There are many other childhood activities I engaged in that have echoes of life and death situations such as hunting, tracking, avoiding predators, and even war. Most sports involve acts of throwing, catching, hitting, kicking, knocking each other down. Think of kid’s games such as “Red Rover Red Rover” or “Hide and Seek” or “Freeze Tag” or “Mother May I” — each has skills that could help a child survive in a disaster or accident, or, sad to say, war. These days, many kids instead sharpen another set of skills by playing video games. These skills too could come in handy in another class of disasters. It’s hard to know which is more valuable because of the uncertainty for our future. Probably learning a bit of both would be good. Personally, I like video games but I’m very happy for having waded gutters.

riverrushing

One of those glorious afternoon wades home, however became a horror show. At that time, I was probably around ten years old. My two best friends were 9 (Bob) and 11 (Bruce). The nine year old Bob had a younger brother, Billy. We were all walking home in sight of each other, but Bruce and I were about a half block ahead, I think on Austin Street. Anyway, we heard a scream and looked back to see three teen age boys holding Billy by the ankles threatening apparently to drown him. Bob was trying to get his brother loose, but they swatted him away like a fly.

Suddenly, our pleasure had turned to pain. Our friend Bob was up there trying to get his brother loose. What should we do? I looked at Bruce and he looked at me trying to discern a clue to the right action. I am not still not sure what the best response would be. Four pre-teens against three teenagers would be an extremely one-sided contest. Boys don’t get any real strength until their hormones kick in and that wouldn’t happen for us for another few years. At that age, bigger boys do not just have more strength and range, they are also cleverer and know more. Any way, maybe we should have run back up Austin street, but what we actually did was run home to get some adults involved. (Inexplicably our cell phones were non-existent because of the linear time assumptions we all accept as truth). I am glad to report that Billy did not drown and no-one was seriously hurt. But it did ruin our enjoyment of gutter-walking. First, we wondered if those giant teenagers would reappear another time. Second, it always made us wonder whether running to inform all three mothers had been the best tack. It certainly wasn’t the bravest and we definitely had an urge to help our friend and damn the consequences. But then again, it might have enraged the biggies even more and all four of us might have been actually injured. I, at least, also felt guilty because it was a ubiquitous rule among us kids that you don’t involve parents if humanly possible not to.

One of the most despised type of kid any of us ever ran into was that kid who would go running to their parents at the slightest most trivial affront. I’m not talking about someone who gets slammed against a wall and breaks a rib and tells their parents (though even then, it’s a close call). I’m talking about someone who forgets to collect their two-hundred dollars when they went around GO in MONOPOLY and then goes running to mommy. “Mommy! Mommy! They won’t give me my $200. They’re cheating!” Mommy, who of course, knows absolutely nothing about what just happened, comes in and says, “Now, boys. You’ll have to play fair. Give Timmy his money or you’ll all have to go home.”

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The third and final unpleasantness, of course, is that it made me feel inadequate. If I had only been older, stronger, faster, smarter, bigger, then I could have charged them with such a fury they would have backed off and never darkened our gushing gutter play again! At that point in my life, I don’t think a thought such as, “If only I had a weapon like a knife or gun, then, I could have handled them.” ever crossed my mind. But I can totally understand why it might well cross the mind of many boys and young men today. It might indeed do more than cross their mind; it may well inhabit their mind and become an obsession. If I have the right weapon I will be adequate to defend those I care about.

Other folks may take a different tack and go full bore into body building. Some feeling (and not unfounded) might be, “I will be so physically strong, I will be able to defend those I care about.” Still others might mainly focus on trying to acquire sufficient resources to defend those they care about. In our society, if you have more “things”, and more money, it can make the difference between life and death; for example, when it comes to expensive health care or even being able to afford housing away from major toxic pollution sites. “I will be so rich, I will be able to take care of and defend those I care about.”

My own reaction has been somewhat a mixture, but my major obsession has been to find ways that humanity can get out of its own way and solve its problems cooperatively rather than blowing each other to smithereens. “If I can be wise and persuasive enough, maybe I can help defend those I care about.”

When it comes to “defending” there are many possible paths and all of them have value under various circumstances.

These days, it seems that there are enemies of many sorts. Computers may have brought many good things but they have also made an unending assault on our senses easier than ever. I cannot even use my own phone any more as an actual phone because I get so many spam calls. E-mail is serviceable but barely for a similar reason despite various spam filters. Social media is filled with click bait, “Do this one simple trick with a honey crisp apple and a fax machine and never die!” “These pictures of celebrity X with celebrity Y will make your hair turn white and your shoes into thousand-league boots.” And so it goes. This is an annoying enemy but only deadly in the long run.

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A much more short term threat is imminent terrorism. Everyone in America agrees that having our citizens murdered is not a great thing. However, people’s ideas about what to do about it are quite varied and probably correlated with the approaches they take toward making sure they can defend those they care about. I am not sure what the right combination of approaches is in the short term; probably all the strategies outlined above are appropriate.

I also know that over-generalizing about people being “bad people” based on their skin color, toe length, religion, country of origin, age, gender, is counter-productive. I understand it’s based on the same generous motive: trying to defend those you care about. This is a motive I share. I can imagine the following metaphor. Let’s suppose that Islam is a religion that is, at its roots, a violent, hate everyone, destroy, “my way or the high way” philosophy. Now, you could view the  plant as the ordinary people of Islam. But in the flower there are barbed seeds. When you walk through the garden, they snag your ankles. Annoying. But if you just cut out the part with the barbed seeds, the plant will simply grow a new one. So you have to get the root.

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That may be a compelling analogy, but there are several important issues that I have with it. The most important is that the religions and philosophies of the world are not like separate cans of cat food or flashlights. All the world’s major religions share many of their teachings. Christianity, Judaism and Islam are particularly tightly related. In every religion, the culture is heavily inter-twined with it. There is a huge gap between an individual being born in a particular place and therefore being exposed largely to one set of beliefs and how that individual actually practices that religion and how, if at all, it affects their decisions and actions. A thousand years ago, the vast majority of people on earth spent most of their life in a very small area. Their ideas were quite local. Today, the situation for people with access to the world’s information is that ideas from every stripe of every religion are all interconnected in a trillion ways. People are emotionally connected with each other across every national boundary, religious boundary, cultural boundary and so on.

Singling out any one group will not help you defend the people you care about. Why? Because you will alienate an ever growing circle of people. Some of those people will end up with weapons as good as yours, a body as strong as yours, resources as rich as yours, learning as great as yours. Your efforts to “weed out” terrorism actually operates more like the New England fishermen who fought the starfish that preyed on their shellfish by tearing the starfish into pieces  — each of which produced a new starfish! That’s not to say terrorists are starfish, but unless you are very careful in how terrorism is dealt with, you will definitely recruit more terrorists.

Wouldn’t you? I mean, just suppose you are and think of yourself primarily as a small business owner. You’ve been pro-US your whole life. You live in Syria and you are a Muslim. Now, people invade your neighborhood and destroy your business. Some of your close family are killed. Now, you are welcomed to America with open arms. You really think you’re likely to become a terrorist and help destroy the country who welcomed you? Not impossible, I grant, but not bloody likely.

Now, contrast this with a situation where the same businessman suffering the same civil war begs to come to America. He explains that he is a Muslim but is a big fan of America. He wants to be a productive citizen. He has a grand-daughter he’s never seen already living in the US. But no. He cannot come in because he is a Muslim. He tries as best he can to defend those he cares about. But he and his entire family are wiped out, except for his grand-daughter in America and one of his sons who survives though his leg has been shattered. He curses his father for the pro-American stance, that, at least in the son’s mind, led to the death of his family. Does he join ISIS? Damned right he does. It has nothing to do with religion. He doesn’t become more religious or more Muslim in his heart when the takes to the path of violence. It is a desire to seek revenge. He cannot defend those he really cares about because they are all dead. But he can make those who caused the death pay dearly.

Part of the difficulty of course, is that everyone is an individual and reacts differently. The same survivor above might have gone a different way. He might have decided Bashar al-Assad was at fault and dedicate his life to destroying him. He might even have decided Putin was at fault; without his support, al-Assad would have fallen long ago. It doesn’t seem quite fair to go around destroying the lives of people because they might be justifiably angry. Let’s say my neighbor’s dog attacks and severely bites and kills one of my cats. Should I be now deported? Should I be jailed because I could have the rather bizarre (but somewhat understandable) behavior of killing my neighbor? Would it matter if I told you I was a Christian? A Jew? A Muslim? An atheist? Maybe I should mention being 1/8 or 1/16 Native American so no doubt there is savage blood in there too, right? What if I’m a Jew but married to a Muslim? What if I studied the Koran, and the Bible but actually think of myself as a Zen Buddhist?

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A society that begins to punish people for what they are (which they can’t help) or for what they believe (which can never be proven or measured in detail) rather than for what people actually do is a society well on its way to destruction by its own hand. This is especially true because the actual physical threat to the citizens of the USA and many other countries, while real, is way down on the list of things to worry about. However, that could change. And one of the main ways we can make it a hundred or a thousand times worse is to start punishing people for some broad religious category that can be attached to them. This will grow the number of terrorists and terrorist sympathizers.

But there is another way to aid the terrorists and that is by over-dramatizing and focusing on terrorists events. The worst terror attack I know about is 9/11 where more than 3000 people from around the world died here in America. At the time, there were over 300,000,000 Americans most of whom were “terrorized” by the event and its aftermath, at least to some degree. I’d much rather be “terrorized” than be one of the 3000 dead, but in total, there were five orders of magnitude more people “terrorized” than killed just among Americans. Meanwhile ten to twenty times that many world wide were also more or less terrorized. The actual death of a person happens once, but a terrorist event can be relived and reported and talked about a 1000 times. Naturally, this is not to say that professionals should not investigate these terrorism attacks and try to develop increased security techniques that actually work.

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If we put stopping terrorism at the top of our agenda, and are willing to do literally anything to defend against terrorism including subverting the Constitution, then we have multiplied the effectiveness of the terrorists far beyond what they themselves are capable of. If we stop working together to find and solve problems and instead start pointing fingers at each other as the source of all our troubles — game over.

Game. Set. Match.

The carefully laid fire-cracker laid there with the intention of destroying one side has actually destroyed the other side.

Instead, we need to mostly forget about the “big kids” that hang out on Austin Street. We can’t jail them just for being big kids. But we have to develop a number of solutions to make sure they will never pull that trick with Billy again. Meanwhile, we should not let glancing over our shoulder, a necessary caution, keep us from sloshing down those gurgling gutters in our galoshes.

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————————————

 

(The story above and many cousins like it are compiled now in a book available on Amazon: Tales from an American Childhood: Recollection and Revelation. I recount early experiences and then related them to contemporary issues and challenges in society).

Author Page on Amazon

Citizen Soldiers, Part Two: What Fathers can Learn from their Kids

16 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by petersironwood in America, family, psychology, sports, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

baseball, childhood, civility, debate, dialogue, ethics, fairness, rules, school, sports

caution

 

Growing up in the semi-developed neighborhoods I did, we never had enough kids of the same age to play football, baseball, or even basketball with full teams. One upside of that was that we played modified games according to how many people showed up. For example, we often played basketball one on one or two on two. More rarely, we played three on three. One common variant of baseball we called “Three Dollars.” One person batted by throwing the ball in the air themselves, then quickly positioning that throwing hand onto the bat in order to hit the ball. The other two, three or four players were “fielders” and if they caught a fly ball, they would receive “$1.00.” If they caught it on the first hop, it was $.50 and a deftly caught a grounder netted you  $.25.  In effect, this was just a way to keep score. No money ever actually changed hands. Whoever earned at least three dollars, then got to take the batter’s position. In my experience, everyone would rather be the batter than one of the fielders. Anyway, fielders also lost this symbolic money. If you went for a fly ball and dropped it, you lost a dollar. Similarly, you would lose money for bobbling a one-bouncer or grounder. This game seemed to be pretty well-known throughout America so I’m sure we didn’t invent it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball

However, we did try tweaking the rules. For example, we sometimes played without the penalty clause. You gained but never lost “money.” But we decided to go back to the “original” rules. Then, another time, we decided to try it with a different goal, five dollars. After we tried that a few times, we all agreed it took too long to get a turn at bat. So, again, we returned to the original rules. Another slight variant that came up was that not all fly balls were equally difficult. On the one hand, a sharply curving rocket line drive is very difficult to grab! A blooper fly ball is easy; in fact, easier than many grounders. On the other hand, for us at least, a towering fly ball was again quite difficult. So, we experimented with awarding various amounts such as $.75 for an easy blooper but as much as $1.50 for a sharp line drive. It proved that there were too many “boundary cases” to make this a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. None of us really wanted to waste time arguing instead of playing baseball! That was the sort of nonsense that parents engaged in, but kids were smarter than that. On the other hand, each of us instinctively knew that we also had to “stick up for ourselves.” We could not just acquiesce in the face of injustice. Quite naturally, we would tend to see things a bit differently. Let’s say I am in the outfield and have $2.00. Now, you, as the batter, hit a looping fly ball/line drive which curves and sinks. I make a nice catch. Yay me. But now I start trotting up to the plate because $2.00 plus $1.50 for a line drive puts me at $3.50 and it’s my turn to swing that sweet honey colored bat and knock that little ball for a loop. But you say, “Whoa! Hang on there, John. You only have $2.75!” And I say, (and, please note that there is no baseball going on during this exchange) “No way. That was a line drive! That was a hard one too!” (And, I mean that in the sense that it curved and sank and it was actually quite a hard catch to make.) So, then, you say, “What? That wasn’t hard! I caught a lot of line drives that were harder than that one.” (And, what you mean by “hard” is that it was high velocity.) Generally speaking, we resolved these disputes but after 3 or four of them, we made a firm decision to revert to the original rules. In an entire season, under the “normal rules”, there might be one questionable call as to whether a ball was caught at the very end of the first bounce or just after the second bounce began. But the categories of fly ball, one bounce, two or more bounces — these withstood the test of time.

MikeandStatue

Learning by modeling; in this case by modeling something in the real world.

There are some interesting balancing acts inherent in the “design” of these rules. I am positive that this game was not invented by a single individual who used a mathematical algorithm to determine the appropriate “values” for the various fielding plays and what the stopping rule was and whether or not to extract penalties. Kids tried out various things and found out what “worked.” The rules and the consequences were simple enough (and easily reversible enough) for our small group to determine what worked for us. For example, if we make the changeover goal dollar amount too little; e.g., $1.50, the turnover is too fast. Too much time is spent running in to take the bat one minute and then running back out again later to field.  No-one gets to “warm up” in their position enough to play their best. To the batter, if feels like a real win to be able to hit the ball and, in a way control the game. Because, any half way decent batter, if they are hitting from their own toss can easily direct the ball to left, center or right field and can determine whether they are hitting a likely fly ball, one bouncer or grounder. So, for my own selfish reasons, I wanted the game to go as long as possible with me as batter. So, it made sense to hit more often to those players who had low amounts so as to “even up” the game. This also made it more exciting for the fielders because it made the game “closer” for them. An unwritten code however, also kept this from getting out of hand. For instance, if I began by hitting two hard line drives to the left fielder, and they made great catches, it wasn’t really okay to simply ignore them and never hit to them again until everyone had caught up.

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Many potential rule changes never even came up in conversation. For example, no-one ever said, “Hey, let’s count $.98 for a fly ball, $.56 for a one-hopper and $.33 for a grounder.” We wanted to spend the summer (or at least much of it) honing our baseball skills, not our arithmetic skills. And, while we soon discovered that we did not want to spend our time arguing about the boundary between a line drive and a fly ball, we knew without even trying that we definitely didn’t want to spend our time practicing mental arithmetic. And, we further instinctively knew that people would make errors of addition as well as memory. It was pretty easy for the batters and other fielders to keep track of what three people had when left fielder had $2.50, center fielder only had $1.50 and right fielder had $2.75. No way did anyone want to remember current scores such as, $2.29, $2.85 and $2.95. Then, the left fielder misses a grounder and you subtract $.33 to get to $1.96. No. Not happening.

We wanted rules. We never simply had one person bat as long as they felt like it. And, we definitely didn’t want to argue after every single strike of the ball whether it was time for someone else to bat and if so, who that might be. So, the rules were really helpful! They were simple. They were fair. And they minimized arguments. We experimented with rule changes but in every case, decided to go back to the original rules. And, there were many potential rules that we never even discussed because they would be silly, at least for my neighbors and friends.

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In addition to all the formal rules, unwritten and mostly unspoken codes of conduct also impinged upon our play. If someone “had to” bring their much younger sibling along, for example, we didn’t hit a line drive at them as hard as we could. We knew that that wasn’t “fair” even though it was within the rules. Fielders tended to “know” how far each batter could hit a fly ball and positioned themselves accordingly. Someone could have pretended not to be able to hit farther than 100 feet; keep drawing the fielders in and then bang it over their heads so they had no chance of getting a valuable fly ball. But no-one did that. It was understood that you hit the ball as far as you could. Fielders also positioned themselves far enough away from each other so that running into each other’s implicit “territory” proved rare. “Calling for” a ball occurred but not very often. We never had to say, as best I can recall, that you were not allowed to “interfere” with each other’s catches. Implicitly, even though the fielders were competing with each other to take the next turn at bat, the fielders were modeled after a real baseball game and so, in effect, the fielders were all on the “same team” just as they would be in a real outfield or infield.

A number of interesting phenomena occurred around this and similar games but the one I want to focus on now is that we experimented with the rules, we changed the rules, and if we didn’t like the new results or process, we changed the rules back to the way they were. And I find this relevant today because I find that many of my colleagues, classmates and friends seem to want to “return” to a set of conditions that no longer exist. I totally get that and in many ways can relate. It seems doable because many of us have had similar experiences both in sports and in other arenas where we try out a new way of doing things and then decide the old way is better. In my experience, this worked and with very little argument. I don’t recall spending time in my childhood screaming about whether a $5.00 limit or a $3.00 limit was better for the game. We started with a $3.00 limit, tried a $5.00 limit and then we all agreed $3.00 was better. There may well be places where the particular group of kids decided on $2.50 or $5.00 limits. But is there any group of kids who beat each other up over this? Is there even a group of kids who preferred the $2.50 limit who refused to play with the $5.00 kids? I don’t really know, but in my observations of kids whether parental, grandparental; whether familiar or professional; whether at camps I attended or ones where I was a counselor; whether in a psychiatric hospital or a school setting, I have never seen it. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, but it can’t be very common.

In our small group of neighborhood kids, we were able to “roll back” rules pretty easily and smoothly. It seems as though we should be able to do this on a larger scale, but I just don’t think that is possible. It may or may not be desirable for various specific instances, but I don’t think for many situations, it is even possible; or, at the very least, the costs are far higher than we would be willing to pay.

Consider some examples from nutrition. When I was growing up, my parents and grandparents inculcated in me that I was supposed to eat “good” meals which included meat or fish every single day. At some point during my adult life, there came to be concern about cholesterol in the diet. The theory was that cholesterol contributed to heart disease and that you should avoid eating foods like beef, eggs, and shrimp which contained a relatively large amount of cholesterol. Now, we believe that refined sugar and artificial sweeteners are both far worse sources of calories than beef, eggs and shrimp. In fact, most of the cholesterol in your blood is made by you and only a little comes from your diet. But eating a lot of sugar causes you to store rather than burn body fat and also makes your cells eventually “immune” to the regulatory effects of insulin.

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Now, people have always had differing tastes when it comes to food. Some people have completely ignored every bit of nutritional advice that’s ever been put out there. They eat what they feel like eating. Others are willing to try any new fad that comes out. Most people are somewhere in between. But because there have always been people eating beef, eggs, and shrimp, repopulating these into my diet or your diet is pretty easy. It is one case where we really can roll back guidelines.

But imagine instead of having a change in nutritional guidelines, we all subscribed to a religion which made eating any birds or bird products strictly taboo for the last thousand years. And, let’s imagine that was true world-wide. Now, a revelation comes that actually, birds are quite good to eat and so are eggs. Now what? There are no chicken farms. There are no boxes made to carry eggs. There are no companies whose business is to provide eggs. There are no egg inspectors. There are no regulations about breeding chickens or gathering eggs. Indeed, it is a lost art. There are no recipes that use eggs or chicken. People don’t realize that some people are quite allergic to eggs. People don’t realize that eggs “spoil” if they are kept warm too long. The point is, that unlike my little coterie of kids deciding to go back to $3.00 instead of $5.00 (which was easy), the adjustment of adding chicken and eggs back into our diets will be a big deal. There will be many mistakes along the way. A few people will even die of food poisoning. Still, my guess is that it would prove possible. The benefits would outweigh the costs. Even so, there would be a lot of disruption. People who sell soy products, for instance, might well claim that the religious revelation was bogus and that eggs and chicken should still be banned. Even people who are persuaded that it is not a sin to eat eggs might still think they are pretty gross because they have been brought up that way. Family stories have been passed down over generations. Perhaps Aunt Sally once tried an egg when she was little and that’s why she grew up cross-eyed. (This isn’t the real reason, but it might be the reason in a family story).

The point is that we can “change” this way of doing things, but it will be much more disruptive than changing the rules of our ersatz baseball game. Other changes are even more difficult to pull off. Partly this is because in a complex interconnected society like ours, any change away from the status quo will hit some people harder than others. Just like our “soy producer” in the egg example, whoever is “hurt” by a reversion to something older will not like it and will struggle socially, politically, and legally to keep things they way they are now. They will not want to go back to how things were (or, for that matter, into a future which is different either).

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Most of our ways of doing things are now highly interconnected and global. For example, the computer I am writing on at this moment is far, far, more powerful than all the computing power worldwide that existed when I was ten. While I know something about how to use this computer, I do not know the details of how the hardware works, the operating system, the application that I am using, and so on. This computer was produced and delivered by means of an extremely complex global network and supply chain. The materials came from somewhere on the planet and probably no-one knows exactly where every part of the raw material even came from. The talent that conceived of the computer, designed it and built it was again from all over the world. Apple does business in at least 125 countries throughout the world. Other major companies are similar. The situation is nothing like having 125 separate companies in 125 different countries. These companies are all linked by reporting relationships, training programs, supply chains, communication links, personnel exchanges, and so on. If, for whatever reason, Apple decided to become 125 different independent companies — one for each country, they would, I believe, fail pretty quickly. It would be nearly as difficult (and as sensible) as if you decided that you would no longer be an integrated human person but instead your arms, your legs, your head and your trunk would now operate as six separate entities.

We are now vastly interconnected. Certainly, WWI and WWII were deadly global conflicts. Not only were these wars costly in money and human life, but they were horrendously disruptive as well. Families were broken apart, infrastructure was destroyed, supply chains were interrupted. New hatreds flared. But even as lethal and costly as these wars were, WWIII would be much worse even if no atomic, biological or chemical weapons were used. Why? Because nearly every country in the world is now tightly interconnected with every other country. Maybe that was a great idea. Maybe it was a horrible idea. Maybe it’s a good idea in general, but we should have been much more thoughtful and deliberate about the details of how we inter-relate. Regardless of how wise or unwise globalization has been, we cannot simply “change the rules” back to the way they were 100 years ago.

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If we attempt to destroy globalization, and have each country “fend for itself,” it will be incredibly expensive both in dollars and in human lives lost. This genie, however much you hate it or love it, will not squeeze back into that bottle. If we attempt to go back 100 years, we will actually go back about 2000 years. Again, consider this computer I am using. I worked in the computing field for 50 years. And, I would be completely helpless to try to make anything like this computer from scratch. But the computer is far from the only example. Could I fix my car? Some things I could but the engine diagnostics now require a computer hook up. Could I fix my TV? Not much. My dad was an electrical engineer. The most common cause of problems with a TV in my youth was that a vacuum tube stopped operating properly. When the TV was “on the blink” we would take one or more tubes out of the TV and take them to a testing machine at the grocery, drug store, or hardware store and see which tube needed to be replaced and then buy that replacement, go back home, put in the new tube and *bingo* the TV worked again! Can I do that today? No. Can you? I doubt it. But it isn’t simply electronics and automotive industries that are global and complex. It is nearly ever aspect of life: financial, medical, informational, entertainment, sports, and so on. What about your local softball team? You know all those people personally just as I knew the folks I played $3.00 with. But where are you spikes made? How about your softballs? Bats? Mitts? The last bat I bought — a beautiful, heavy aluminum bat — it came sheathed in plastic. I think that was unneeded pollution, but there it was. Where was that plastic made? Where did the bat come from? Where was the metal mined? Where was it fashioned?

Personally, on the whole, I think the highly interconnected world we live in is more fun and interesting. In a typical week, I literally eat food inspired by Mexican, Japanese, Indian, and Thai recipes. In many cases, it is prepared by people originally from those countries. Books, plants for gardens, music, movies, games — these things are made worldwide and distributed worldwide. To me, it makes life much more interesting. If you don’t like globalization as much as I do, you can certainly stick to American authors and “traditional” American dishes (although almost all of them came originally from another country), American composers, etc. You’re missing out, but it’s your call. But no matter how you try, you cannot “disentangle” yourself completely from the larger world.

The inter-connectedness often wreaks havoc as well. Little bits of plastic micro-trash that come from the United States pollute oceans everywhere. Air pollution that originates in Asia comes across the Pacific to affect people in North America. If the Japanese kill too many whales, it affects the ecosystem world-wide. Pollutants that come from Belgium may kill bees in Argentina. A plague that begins in Thailand may kill people in New Jersey or Sweden. We cannot wish this interconnectedness away. Today’s “Citizen Soldier” needs to be smart as well as brave and loyal. You are not standing in a long line dressed in a red uniform facing a long line of soldiers dressed in blue (who are your enemy). You are going about your own business. But you must understand that how you treat people from every other country whether you are visiting a country or they are visiting your country — how you treat them will impact people globally. If you treat people badly it will impact you and your neighbors badly in the long run. We really have to think globally even while we act locally. I think it’s the “right” thing to do. It’s a little hard to imagine a serious world religion or world philosophy that justifies trying to get as much as possible for you or your tight-knit group of friends at everyone else’s expense. But even if you somehow convince yourself that it’s morally “okay” to be a complete isolationist, reality will not let you do it.

You can take your turn at bat. But you also have to go out in the field and take that turn. Kids who take their first turn at bat and then “go home” as soon as they have to go out in the field do not get called upon to play a second or third time. You might most enjoy being a bazooka shooter. But you are going to have to spend a fair amount of your time being “Claude the Radioman” (See earlier blog post) because with seven billion people on the planet, more coordination than ever is needed. It won’t work to have everyone be a “hunter-gatherer” any more. It won’t work for everyone to “do their own thing.” It won’t work to roll back the rules of the last 100 years and have every country do their own thing either. We cannot smoothly “undo” history. We cannot jam the genie of globalization back into the bottle. I have a much better chance of fitting into the pants of my first wedding suit (waist 29”).

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I mentioned that in my neighborhood, we typically did not have full teams. One day, however, while we were playing American football (five on five) in a vacant field two blocks down from my house, an older kid approached us explaining  that he wanted “his team” to play “our team.” We didn’t actually have a “team” at all. We would get together and chose captains who would then take turns picking kids for their (very temporary) “team” for that particular game. We had a football. That was pretty much the extent of our “equipment” though someone did occasionally bring a kicking tee. The vacant lot did not have any goal posts so there were no field goals. We generally played a variant of American football, wherein the defenders were not allowed to cross the line of scrimmage and tackle the quarterback until they had counted “One Chimpanzee, Two Chimpanzee, Three Chimpanzee, Four Chimpanzee, Five Chimpanzee” — and then, they could rush in and tackle the quarterback. In the five on five variant, the center was generally a blocker while the other three ran down the field and tried to “get open” so that the quarterback could hit them with a pass. Occasionally, a quarterback would try a run. If they could “fake” a pass and get the rusher (usually only one person) to jump up off the ground, the quarterback could generally sprint past them before they got back on the ground and gain a reasonable number of yards before the other defenders realized it was a run. (In case you aren’t familiar with American football, once the quarterback goes beyond the point where the ball was hiked from, they are no longer allowed to throw a forward pass).

http://www.understanding-american-football.com/football-rules.html

In any case, although five on five football was fun, it also seemed to us that it would be fun to play eleven on eleven like “real” American football. So, we agreed to come back the next day after school and face “his team.” Weather cooperated and we showed up the next day after school and so did the other team. In uniform. We didn’t have uniforms. But not only were they all wearing the same colors. These kids had helmets, shoulder pads, thigh pads, elbow pads and shin pads!  They were armored!  But we weren’t! Every time their center hiked the ball to the quarterback, a bunch of us would try to rush in to get the quarterback. No “one-chimpanzee”, “two-chimpanzee” business now. We were playing real football. And getting real bruises.

I can tell you from personal experience, that it hurt an unnatural amount to run into these other guys but we held our ground any way. It did seem unfair to us but they never wavered or offered to take off their pads or helmets. The first few times were not so bad, but once your body is already bruised, then it does hurt to run into someone with full body armor. I suppose it sometimes seemed equally unfair to Medieval peasants without armor who were attacked by armored knights. Hardly a “fair fight” as we would say. Nor does it seem a very “fair fight” for a little kid walking on some distant jungle path to suddenly have their leg blown off from a land mine. And, I suppose some would judge it an unfair fight for a village of unarmed farmers to have a rocket or drone smash their village to pieces along with many of the men, women, children and livestock. Just guessing, but that’s my sense of it.

This older kid who arranged our game did not actually play, as I recall, but served not only as coach for his team but also as the one and only referee for the game. That didn’t seem particularly fair either, but he was pretty impartial. As it began to get dark though and we were still tied, he did make something of an unfair call, at least in my opinion. Anyway, I think they won by only one touchdown. We did pretty well against these armored kids from another part of town. But we were a sore lot the next day. None of us suffered any major injury such as a broken bone though we were all pretty black and blue from the battering. None of us were very eager to have a rematch though. We talked briefly about the possibility of getting our own uniforms but we were way short of that financially. Even if we had actually collected all the pretend money we talked about in “$3.00” we couldn’t afford that kind of equipment.

Does it matter whether a game — or a war — is a “fair” fight? Or, does it only matter who “wins”? In sports, we generally have a lot of rules and regulations to insure fair play. We would consider it a gross misconduct of justice to have one NFL team denied equipment! Some readers may be old enough to recall the controversy over using fiberglass poles in the Olympics. See the link below for a fascinating story regarding the “fairness” of Olympic pole vaulting.

http://bleacherreport.com/articles/2335693-munich-olympics-1972-the-other-controversy-you-may-have-forgotten

I think it may matter more than many think as to whether a fight is a fair one. A fair loss leads most people to acceptance and adaptation; in many cases, it can serve as motivation to do better . But if they think the fight is unfair, resentment will often linger and eventually result in another fight. Chances are that this time, the party who feels they had been treated unfairly will no longer care about having a “fair fight” and do anything they can to win. Anything. So, it serves us well to think long and hard about winning an unfair fight. What will happen next?  It seems to me that when we win an unfair fight, there are many negative consequences and they almost always outweigh the benefits of the win.

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First of all, whoever loses the unfair fight will resent you. Second, people not involved at all in the unfair fight and who don’t even care about the outcome, will care about the process and the vast majority will dislike whoever behaves unfairly. Third, it makes it more likely that other people will be unfair in their own transactions.

In the days of childhood sports, we sometimes disagreed about what was fair. But we never disagreed about whether it was okay not to even try to be fair. We all assumed we were supposed to be “fair.” You must understand, this was unsupervised child’s play. We did not play baseball with parents around coaching, umping, and spectating. Of course, we had disagreements and sometimes we lost our tempers. On rare occasions, someone might walk off in a huff. But, there really weren’t that many huffs to go around back then, so it was rare. And, whoever did walk off in a huff was back the next day ready to play $3.00 again. Their huff dissolved in the cool night breezes. When they went to their closet the next day, no wearable huff remained. There may have been a few tattered huff-shreds in the bottom of the closet, but not even enough to wear as a bathing suit, let alone a three piece suit of huff complete with huff vest, huff pants, and a huff coat. I don’t think any of us even owned a huff tie.

I think part of the reason was that all of our disagreements and arguments were face to face. We never sent e-mail. And, we certainly never hired a lawyer to “represent” us. For some reason, when one person “represents” another, they feel it is more “okay” to do unfair things than the person themselves would feel comfortable with. We kids simply discovered that it was a lot more fun to play baseball, in any of the variants, wearing a shirt, sneakers and jeans. A huff suit was simply too confining and too easily torn. Kids all seem to know this instinctively, but as they grow up, they may begin to fill their closet with huffs and wear them on many occasions.

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Imagine a world in which adults all gave their huff suits to the Goodwill. In this world, they talked, solved problems, had some fun, and when they disagreed, tried to do what was fair for everyone. It sounds kind of crazy, I know. But we live in a world of miracles, don’t we? And, that world is embedded in a universe of miracles. Very slowly we are coming to understand more of it. Our understanding of this amazing universe grows and some of that understanding even sheds light on how our bodies and brains work as well as the fundamental characteristics of the universe. Maybe somewhere in this vast universe of miracles, there is a way to experiment with the rules of the game until we find a way that works for everyone who wants to play. Perhaps we could pay $.25 when someone can restate what you said to your satisfaction. If someone can think of another example of the same principle, they get $.50. And, if someone has a brand new sharable insight on the topic, they get $1.00. First one to $3.00 gets to direct the dialogue for awhile. Come dressed for serious play. No huff allowed.


 

(The story above and many cousins like it are compiled now in a book available on Amazon: Tales from an American Childhood: Recollection and Revelation. I recount early experiences and then related them to contemporary issues and challenges in society).

Author Page on Amazon

Nancy the Nurse

13 Tuesday Dec 2016

Posted by petersironwood in psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

childhood, gender, misogyny, school

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Our second grade teacher at David Hill Elementary School loved contests. She had contests on naming classical pieces of music that she played on a phonograph. I won. She had contests for knowing facts about the world and about the USA. I won. She had contests on spelling. I won. She had contests for math facts but I did not win. Why? Because even though I knew all the answers, she didn’t call on me so often as she did some of the girls in the class and one of them won. At the time, I thought this wildly unfair though looking back on it, she might have been trying to encourage some of the others not to give up. She had a reading contest. I won.

And, unlike any of the other contests, the person who won the reading contest would receive a prize from her. That prize consisted of choosing whatever Golden Book we wanted. Golden Books, for those who do not recall, were small books for kids, each bound on the edge with gold. Well, it probably wasn’t actually gold, but it was gold in color. The front and back covers were also rimmed with a gold pattern. So, right off the bat, Golden Books were pretty cool! Each Golden Book also featured, on the back cover, a list of every Golden Book!  What a clever marketing ploy. Anyway, after I won the reading contest, she handed me a Golden Book so I could pick my title from the back cover. I scanned the list very carefully. One and only one came with merchandise! Yes, Nancy the Nurse, the index promised, came with real band-aids!

In order to understand the appeal of this feature, you need to understand where my family lived. Our family’s small one-story two bedroom house sat on a busy street.  Most of the block contained other small, one-story two bedroom houses like ours although they differed in the color of the roof and the siding. Our house was white with green trim. However, as luck would have it, at the very end of my block were three vacant lots! These were not mere fields of weeds or turned up dirt clods like most of the vacant lots in the area. Huge trees! Grape vines! A few dirt paths criss-crossed this forest, this wilderness, this jungle. It was Eden. Only better because our Eden lacked any adult supervision.

And therein lay both the beauty and the danger. At the end of the block, in those ancient verdant stands of oak and beech, we lived or died by our own wits every day. Well. Every day until our parents called us in for supper when it got dark. But meanwhile, we needed to fend for ourselves and prepare for every emergency.

So, a book — that is one thing. But a book that came with *real bandaids*! That meant that I could construct an emergency medical kit for our wilderness adventures! So, of course, I chose as my prize, Nancy the Nurse!  

My teacher, Miss Hall, looked at me for a moment, paused, and then quietly suggested, “I think you probably mean Tommy the Doctor.” She slid her gnarly finger down to show me the title. Well, Tommy the Doctor did sound pretty cool. Indeed, my own nickname had once been “Tommy.” However, there was nothing in the description of Tommy the Doctor that gave even the slightest hint of real bandaids so I said, “No, thanks. I’ll take Nancy the Nurse.

My teacher, Miss Hall, paused, raised her voice just a tad and asked, “How about this one? Mike the Mechanic.”  Clever the way her voice reminded me of victorious trumpets when she mentioned the name. Still, again, there was nothing there about the book being accompanied by a toolkit or indeed even a bandaid. So, again, I repeated, “No, thanks I’ll just take Nancy the Nurse.” Miss Hall made a few more increasingly desperate attempts but all to no avail. I was puzzled by all of this. She had made it very clear that the winner would be able to chose any Golden Book.  At last, she grew weary of the game as had I and she took a different tack.  “Well, I will have to check with your parents.” And so she did. To their credit, my parents had no qualms at all about my choosing Nancy the Nurse. 

Soon the book came. I do not recall, but I am guessing that I did read the book. I read most everything I could get my hands on. But I recall nothing about the book. It did really come with bandaids however, and I found an old lunch pail to hold my emergency wilderness kit. However, as anyone knows, an emergency survival wilderness kit needs more than bandaids. For example, a method of remote emergency communication could prove vital. Kids back then did not have cell phones; mainly because they had not yet been invented. So, I needed another method. Something brightly colored would be good. In TV shows and movies, someone in danger often shot off a flare gun. Sadly, my parents did not own a flare gun. However, what they did have was a typewriter. And that typewriter had a ribbon with dark black on one half of the strip and a bright red on the other.

My parents never used the typewriter. And they had been very supportive of part one of my plan for the emergency kit; namely, the bandaids. I had no inkling they would be any less thrilled by my appropriation of the typewriter ribbon. And, sure enough the very first day, I had reason to use it. One of the kids found a gigantic caterpillar. I had already shown everyone my “flare” and explained its use. I removed the ribbon from my kit holder, took the ribbon cartridge in my right hand and gave a *tremendous* underhand throw. Sure enough, the red and black ribbon deployed beautifully, rocketing sky high. Maybe none of the other kids were looking and maybe as a consequence I had to yell to them to come see the caterpillar but that misses the point. The point is, it had worked. I carefully would the ribbon back up for another emergency.

I can’t recall how long life continued in this idyllic condition, but somewhere along the line, to my great surprise, my parents claimed an interest in using the typewriter. This, in turn, proved difficult precisely because there was no ribbon. They seemed perturbed to learn that the ribbon was intact, but meanwhile, rather than just sitting in the typewriter doing nothing for weeks, I had used it on multiple occasions to send emergency flares into the sky.

I suppose, by adult standards, none of the emergencies really “counted” because we were never really hurt, or lost, or attacked by wild beasts, but my point was that if any of those things had happened, we were prepared. Thanks to me. But thanks is not what I got. What I got was incredulity. What I got was yelling. What I got was a spanking. What I got was a lecture about not taking things that don’t belong to you, at least without asking.

The problem was that in my parents’ minds, the use of the typewriter ribbon was the typewriter, pure and simple. They had what I now know is called “functional fixedness.” They failed to see that a typewriter ribbon can serve as a typewriter ribbon when needed, but meanwhile can also be used as an excellent flare gun. They seemed to have a similar problem regarding the siding on the house. Yes, it could be used to form a wall that kept warm air in but it could also be used as a partner in a ball game if no-one else was around.

On the other hand, sometimes my parents teamed up with innovation. They didn’t seem to have any problem with my using old cardboard boxes and paper towel rolls to make castles or the use of short Lincoln Logs as soldiers. Using marbles as soldiers caused no problems. Using sticks and stones to make homes for toy dinosaurs was okay too. So, I’m not sure “functional fixedness” precisely named their problem. I think our main difference was that I saw things primarily in terms of their uses. Well — especially, my uses. Sure, the typewriter ribbon might be an important part of a typewriter, but if no-one ever used the typewriter and therefore never used the ribbon, why not let it become more useful by being an emergency flare gun?  If no-one ever actually wore the diamond ring in my mother’s jewelry box, why not give it to my girlfriend at school instead? My mother found out and marched up to school to demand the ring back, quite rightly pointing out that the ring had not been mine to give away.

Many years later, I discovered that the ring in question was an engagement ring from my mother’s first husband. My mother and dad fell in love in college. But when World War Two came to America, my dad lied about his age and volunteered. My mother was both angry and heart-broken. She married another older man who hadn’t volunteered to go off and fight a war. Yet, in life’s inimical and ironic ways, he was almost immediately drafted and went off to fight the Nazis himself. One day she had Army Officers appear on the doorstep to inform her of his death. Meanwhile, my dad was having his own trials and tribulations. He received a Purple Heart for a shrapnel wound in his shoulder but went back into combat. He and his squad were again shelled and my dad’s lower leg was shattered. His buddy was severely wounded and they were under fire so my dad hobbled them to safety further injuring his shattered leg. His fighting days were over and he shipped back to the USA where he and my mother were reunited. She still kept the ring as a remembrance but never wore it because, after all, she was now married to my dad.

At the time when my dad volunteered to go into the Army, he, like most Americans, only knew that we had been attacked at Pearl Harbor and that we were now at war with Germany, Italy, and Japan. Although people were certainly aware of Hitler’s rhetoric against Jews and his “White Supremacist” non-sense, the full horrors of the concentration camps and pogroms were not revealed until later. Even with all the alt-right propaganda panderings of Goebbels, the German leaders may have still have been ashamed to let the world know precisely what they were doing. It might seem difficult to believe that the German people didn’t know. However, we must remember that one of Hitler’s first moves was to eliminate the free press and put a “Minister of Information” as one of his top aides. Rather than having his second in command someone who actually knew how to make Germany more productive and wealthier, his primary  job was to make it seem as though this was happening, that Germany was winning the war, etc. and that any small remaining problems were due to a lack of patriotism and the “Jewish Problem.”

Of course, I didn’t know any of this in the second grade. All I knew was that to be fully effective in our corner jungle, we would have to have a medical kit and a flare. And, I suppose when my dad was under fire in North Africa and in Italy, his unit did have medical kits and flare guns and a lot more beside. But it wasn’t enough to prevent hot shrapnel from flying through the air and maiming and killing people. And, I honestly don’t know at this juncture what can help keep people safe from the clouds of hate that threaten to hurl us back into a second Dark Ages.

You don’t need a medical degree to know that some wounds cannot be staunched with bandaids. Flare guns, we definitely don’t need. Signs and signals aplenty like bombs bursting in air overhead shot out into the night sky for months and months. But people apparently dismissed them as normal atmospheric disturbances. So that now, after the dictatorial excesses of the late 1930’s and early 1940’s led to so many millions of deaths — German, Japanese, Italian, Russian, Canadian, French, English, American and others from virtually every continent, now we stand poised to do it all again. We are ready to beat every last one of our plowshares into swords. We are sick of science and making progress on disease and understanding the earth and exploring space. Instead, we want to wallow and wade in the wickedness of self-righteous bigotry. We are ready to fray the fabric of America. Something precious has been given away. And it wasn’t even ours to give away. It belonged to the heroes of other eras. And, unlike the diamond ring, this stolen gift will not be easily retrieved.

Of course, you might want to stock up an extra supply of bandaids. I doubt it will help much, but it can’t hurt. The jungle now will not be filled with oak trees and grape vines. And it won’t just be a few vacant lots of the end of the block. Vacant lots will waste away on every block as society unravels. Even the lots with massive iron-barred mansions will only populated by the vacant-eyed. Diamond rings will all have been confiscated as gifts for a chosen few.

Well, what about “Nancy the Nurse”? Well, Nancy earned her M.D. and became head of surgery at a prestigious University teaching hospital. But when it came right down to having her perform life-saving operations, the patients opted instead for Timmy the Technician. It turned out that Timmy didn’t actually have any technical or medical expertise. But he was big and brash and beige. Patients may die but no-one will be sued for wrongful death. Indeed, every death all along that long, loveless lane will be deemed as a righteous death. After all, every righteous death shall become just another … brick …  in … the … wall.

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