In The Name Of

In The Name Of Security

They’ve always called me too sensitive, always ready to take everything personally. And what of it? They are right, of course, but need they proclaim it to me as a sin, as failing some test? They say it to be insulting, as a way for me to “man up”, and quite naturally when they called me thin-skinned I would take offense, somewhat because of the sudden pride that swelled in their minds for having discerned my character or from placing me below them on the totem pole of human reasoning.

But my sole offense came from their lack of understanding that I could not change even if I wanted. Who can change their natures, successfully? In times of extreme self-consciousness I have tried to thwart and disguise my sensitivity, and wouldn’t you know, this all the more drew eyes toward me, as if the dramatic battle of my split mind were waving banners for all to see. And how much joy they delighted in by watching this struggle. I can feel their twisted grins on me right now, their gloating eyes of a domineering poker player. And I, over sensitively aware, cower in a sheepish stance, eyes flickering here and there, waiting for some other topic to assert itself and keep these eyes off me.

Yes, I am a coward. I brush along the corridors of life and slink in the silent byways. Who would understand if I were to assert myself? Who could see that, though I’m labeled too sensitive and cower under the influence of the more insensitive dominating type, I have also fallen victim to the transcendental, visions of purity, fallen under the spell of the most ordinary things that point to something beyond? To call attention to something so miraculous as a breeze sweeping through shimmering grass or how retreating waves washing over numerous small pebbles sound applause for the whole of creation? No, such things are not relatable to the majority of people. I know. I’ve tried. To assert such things leaves others dumbfounded, incredulous, cynical, and overall simply uninterested. Reader, if throughout these pages you find these pent up feelings relatable then know you are not alone…but this I doubt, in fact, I can feel some of your twisted grins on me right now. Stop reading now. You won’t understand.

I can not recall when I first became a coward. I must have been young for as early as I can remember I could not stand up for myself. Even trivial jibes at me, which in reflection were simple camaraderie teasing, would deflate me and cause my shell to grow thicker. At an early age I couldn’t understand why people bothered me when I didn’t bother them. In first grade I learned to take the back seat in class to disappear but from that familiar law in the universe the more I hid, the more I stood out. One classmate, Billy Thompson, made it his mission to torment me. He had been held back one year and being one year older was one year bigger. Not that it mattered for me to cower, all one had to do was look at me. Billy did more than look though. One time he put a thin layer of sparkling glue on my seat and for the rest of the day called me ‘fairy butt’. He also managed to swindle me of my vanilla pudding through some complicated theory: that because I had more food then it would be very mean of me not to give him some. The teacher would discover this and scold Billy “It’s not very good to take from others what you want just because you want it Billy. You won’t get far in life that way.” I tried to let the teacher know it was okay. She didn’t know that her reprimands made things worse. And her prophetic skills were off too: Today, William “Bill” Thompson manages and oversees a large branch of banks and I see him in the paper every now and then accepting some award or praise. I see him holding the award with his picturesque family by his side, smiling that same smile he had as when walking back to his seat after consoling the teacher with hollow apologies. ‘Fairy butt’...why do I remember…?

Throughout most of school I encountered many “Billys”. They all looked different but were essentially the same. As the years went by I developed a sense of pity for the “Billys” which leads me now to explain another facet of my cowardice. Sometimes there’s so much anger or pain in these individuals that I couldn’t hold their eye contact. The entirety of who they are screams through their eyes and I look away. In them I see the pleadings of a collapsed childhood. It’s all too much. Too, too much. I shrink away and feel sorry. If you asked me why I felt sorry for these tormentors I couldn’t tell you. What’s strange is how this in turn would cause them to feel pity for me (or perhaps they simply lost interest) and then leave me alone, which was all that I really wanted. By high school I was nicknamed “space cadet” due to my extreme detached aloofness to my surroundings. But if only they would listen to what I saw during my aloofness. If only there were one person, one soul to whom I could relate these experiences. If only I weren’t a coward were I to meet such a person.

Going through the motions, I finished up high school and when questioned as to my next step in life I’d respond like the majority of honest graduates: that is, I had no idea. I had some vague notions of what I could be, where I could fit in, but none seemed to take root. I postponed further education and joined the workforce. At first I took what a person of limited experience can get: factory work. This suited me just fine being that I’m left alone, though, not entirely. It seemed to me that I hadn’t left school at all or maybe, in truth, school was really the microcosm of the 9 to 5 lifestyle. There was the cool guy, the bad boy, the ditsy girl, the seductress, the nerd, and myself, the coward all moving throughout this building of complex machinery. This was an unwelcome surprise for me but something that wouldn’t have mattered anyhow for I was fired within a few weeks. As I was daydreaming I had lost focus of the conveyor belt and product began tumbling off, several pieces shattering inside. When confronted by my boss as to what happened, what could I tell him, that some other shift of perception had arrested me? He was a kind guy (could I tell him my thoughts?) I looked away from his penetrating but soft stare and shrugged my shoulders. He let me go quietly, wished me luck, and showed me the door.

In and in between jobs I’d imagine myself in some profession or another, feeling its day in and day out processes, wondering if this was where my destiny could be. I’d receive strange impulses to dive head first into a certain field, letting go of any lifeless attachments, setting off to be guided by each step presented, only a vague but extremely exciting notion of how this all could play out. But all too quickly a hundred doubts would start, with airs of concern, slowly smothering that strange naval impulse, and by their simple questioning would reason me back into a monotonous yet safe existence. “Yes-” the hundred doubts would claim, “-here we can ride this out. You work hard for this comfort. Look about you, are you not grateful? You have food and walls and a roof, a bed…and here you are floating among the clouds, dreaming, dreaming of letting it all go, not a single guarantee of safety, of food, nothing to direct you but some…hunch. Come back down to earth lost dreamer. Enjoy your present fruits then.”

Was I actually not grateful? I told myself I was grateful for these comforts and so I became grateful. But even this convincing didn’t last. Oh how my mind could not bridge the abyss itself created. Lost, permanently lost. Words written on water. How of existential despair I trudged through the days, creeping at a petty pace. It built and built upon my countenance, boulder upon boulder, and I even began to weigh the escape of suicide. And what of that then? At the risk of being echolalia (I have chosen this word to appear intelligent but cannot commit myself not to insert this confession) and needless to say, I hadn’t the backbone to follow through. Too cowardly to end all cowardice.

Failing, after years, to find any trade suitable, I decided to enter back into academics. Of no passion myself (no longer did “visions of purity; transcendence” insert into my awareness) I sought to find some in education, the power of knowledge becoming a passion over time. Within the student body I was received with acceptance, or better said, I felt included unanimously and without discretion. They seemed to accept everyone. Months passed, my studies were acclaimed by the professors, and I began to walk a little taller, though only a little. Other pupils congratulated my accomplishments with intense and unwarranted praise and perhaps for the first time in my life I felt not alone, unharassed. Had I found my family outside my family? (Not that I had any connection with my blood family in any case). With a good number of other students we would have long conversations over current events which never became heated or contentious. We all found agreement over many issues easily (oddly enough, even the fact that star-gazing gave us all great anxiety). Everyone was careful not to offend and rarely would an archaic phrase slip out from someone. These were corrected swiftly. Even so, someone would play devil's advocate, by mentioning religion or other mystical ideas for example, whether for personal amusement or with a general air of disagreement, but which in any case was met with hisses and zealous backfire. It was important to weed out erroneous thoughts, tolerating no gobbledygook. It was fun. It was exciting. We swelled with self-esteem, confirming with irrefutable morals the true and correct path for a fair and even society. The professor patted himself on the back as we navigated through various topics laying blame to those who are quite obvious to blame. Eventually, feeling directed with purpose, I could lift my eyes every now and then. Was I then gaining in courage?

It was during my second year of studies that the pandemic swept over the entire globe. I remember where I was when I heard. I was in the school library late returning ‘The Conquest for Bread’ when behind the librarian a major news outlet exclaimed the details of the infectious virus and precautions necessary to avoid huge numbers of death and a collapsing economy. Classes were canceled until further notice. In the meantime I sat at home, safe and alone, scrolling through various scientific articles and newsfeeds, feeding myself with the meager and nutritionless diet of social media. I’ll admit, there’s more productive things I could’ve done, but I needed to stay on top of the news and how much easier it was for me to communicate via social media without self-conscious sabotage. During this isolated period I became more proud of the analytic mind and its undeniable processing powers. How could one refute fact, science? How could I have ignored these truths for so long? Look about all the wonders it has created. We take it all for granted. All of us. And since those childish visions had deserted me completely, were some transcendental glory to ever sneak through my layer of rational insights I’d quickly mock its fantastical intuition and return to fact, what’s true and real. I drank in the new literature presented by various scholars and experts best equipped with explaining and finding resolution for the pandemic. It comforted me greatly to hear solutions, simple as they were. Here were the steps, plain and clear: stand 6 feet away from people when not isolated, wear a face mask, do not congregate unless absolutely necessary, and when available get the vaccination. These all I did and was proud to do my part in reclaiming our society. Eventually my fellow students and I resumed our meetings via online platforms. We discussed our role in present times, our responsibility to signal forth a just and inclusive community. Camaraderie beseeched us in a collective pool of fighting for safety and peace. I began to look people in the eye. I spoke with authority and my colleagues were quietly thrilled by my change of composure. It was then brought to our attention of a Black Lives Matter rally that was to be conducted in the coming days and how it was of extreme importance that our presence be in attendance as was necessary.

We became galvanized, our hearts beating content for our future remedial gathering and, after clarifying details of when and where, we ended our last conversation until the day that, as it will soon show, was the ever more fateful for taking my newly formed confidence and reducing me back into the coward I always was.

We agreed, as a safety measure, to ride separately and meet beneath the clock tower at precisely 1pm the day of the protest. I had washed my mask thoroughly the day before and was certain to bring hand sanitizer as the possibility of shaking hands or touching anything was of risk. I’ll admit that maintaining 6 feet was going to be impossible but since I was vaccinated and had my mask pinched tight, I felt safe. Regardless, most of the crowd appeared to caution themselves as droves of people arrived and individuals were forced, without much resistance, into close proximity. I think I wasn’t alone in regarding the whole event as direct opposition to the safety measures proven by the CDC. Then, from various individuals, it was brought to light that the 6 ft. rule was not in effect (for those with the vaccine and booster shot) Confusion began. It became apparent that not everyone was on board with this up-to-date breach of security and many sidelong glares were shot at the more jovial groups condensed together. As the throng began to increase, though, the glaring individuals formed into small units themselves and became very friendly.

It was about half an hour before the first speaker was to mount the podium that a strange urge directed me to investigate the happenings right around the corner in a small alley. I could not tell you why I followed this urge or how it bypassed my reason. It has only given me sleepless nights since.

With my feet guiding me I came around the corner and witnessed a ragged man under the care of some stranger. This stranger was on a single knee administering water to the crusted lips of a one-legged homeless man. Slowly, the stranger reclined the head of the destitute one onto padded clothes and, as though sensing something, he stood, turned in my direction, and looked into me. I faltered back slightly and caught my breath. His gaze unnerved me deeply, and though I was greatly afraid, I did not look away. In the flash of time of our initial eye contact it all came flooding back to me, the transcendence, the visions of purity, all that had abandoned me.

He smiled warmly and gently approached. His hand began to reach forth.

But just as soon as the remembrance of purity enveloped me, there came this undeniable reflexive feeling, like being treated to an unwarranted hug or an unsolicited pat on the shoulder, and with an edgy tremulous voice I commanded he stop right there.

He obeyed.

His smile waned and face became crestfallen, eyes radiating pity.

Insulted by his look of pity I growled, “Don’t you know to stay 6 feet away?”

It now seemed that his eyes were welling up.

I doubled down, “Back up. Neither of you are probably vaccinated, are you? And without a mask too. It’s people like you-”

Just then a group of protesters, among some of my group, had discovered us, and after reading the situation, scowled suspiciously at this strangers’ maskless face.

A thin pale woman pounced forward, “Well if this isn’t white male privilege! No mask cause he is ALL perfect. This is OUR day for justice! Ours! Go on somewhere!” and jeers and boos joined in her beration, her eyes wide unflinching, chin jutted out and scolding, waiting and wanting for him to joust back, until after quick searching, she noticed an American flag patch stitched to the one-legged man’s jacket, and pointing to the flag for all to notice exclaimed, “A Proud Boy, go figure! You need to leave here! Go back to your hate mongering leader!”

And a semi-circle formed around the stranger and taunts were thrown at him and the one-legged man crawled away so as not to be trampled.

And they screamed at him to leave and kicked his canteen of water over and still more protesters joined in and pieces of trash were shot at him.

And a protester, launching himself forward, lowered his mask and spat on the stranger's chest, “You’re a piece of shit!”

And with their picket signs raised they began a chorus of reprimanding the stranger and looked about themselves to signal others to join and many came running eager and hopeful.

It was all becoming too much and I, being elbowed out, began stepping back, skulking away, and what I remember last was the strangers look in my direction during parts of the tirade, where his look of pity, those pleading pupils, sought from me something I could not articulate.

It has been two months since that fateful day. Often when going to bed, those few moments before falling asleep, right before fantasies begin to melt into unconscious dreaming, those searing eyes of pity will jolt me back to wakefulness. I’ll lay there, thinking, and the eyes won’t leave…

After the rally I found myself less and less attending online classes. Eventually the professors had to drop me from the roster and the last I heard from one of my classmates was that I was a coward for abruptly leaving the rally and rarely showing face. I couldn’t disagree with them although my present cowardice wasn’t induced by leaving them.

Those eyes that expressed unearthly pity on me, I hated. The stranger whose gaze had resurrected momentarily the aspects of divinity in the ordinary, I declined. His non-resistance to the tumultuous, frenzied mob and his look at me as I inched away, hiding my face…a coward, a coward…

Now I lay awake in bed most nights, my heart panged, regretting, thinking of the hand that reached forward and how I rejected it. And how lost I still feel…

But…when in times of soaring remembrance of that day…when I can hold the gaze of those few moments in my being…and goosebumps sprout all over my flesh…and my heart settles into soft rhythmic thuds and eyes glaze over, I am reminded that the wind still blows through the shimmering grass, maybe it never stopped and never will, and somewhere, where ears can hear, waves are retreating over numerous pebbles sounding applause to all of creation.

And out my window I gaze upon multitudinous flickering stars.

And I write my name on water all the same.

The End