‘Preserve dignity in small ways.’

Help preserve dignity.

They cycled through the foggy morning on their two wheels, gliding and riding and crashing, and I laughed and then watched as through the fog, a smaller plume of smoke appeared, and a man appeared from the train tracks, a tall man.

A tall, gaunt man who had lived some tough times and had an ill-fitting jacket to wipe well-worn tobacco hands on. He puffed away and veered into the park and walked through, leaving a trail behind.

We watched tick…tick…BOOM! a few months ago with the Olders, and there’s an idea in it that really stuck out. Gist was this: preserve the dignity of others in small ways. I really loved this, and as with a lot of things, I loved it in theory more than in practice.

I’m content with the oddity of who I am - contrarian, iconoclast, long-time gender expectation-defiant odd dad - but I’m also a regular blue-blooded, old-fashioned, old-school guy in a handful of ways. One of them being that my blood boils and my adrenaline leaps at the thought of certain types of confrontation - particularly confrontation where I could take the righteous high ground,

and in good faith, strike a blow against racism or tobacco or anyone supporting those things, and feel not only morally justified, but proud that I had struck a blow for something righteous (possibly the same warm feeling of contentment that tactical vest-wearing suburb dads with big arms get when they pull out their big boy guns and prepare for a standoff with Antifa and militant BLMers, only to discover that surprise!…

…Their reconaissance failed to account for the march being heavily composed of women, children, and families. Then the warm fuzzy goes away…or actually, no…wait…maybe it doesn’t go away. It simply reconfigures itself into rationalizing another version of why this crowd actually is dangerous, because to accept any other option would be to look deep into the mirror of their own prejudices and ignorance).

Anyway. Perhaps those two things are nothing alike. I’m simply saying that I can understand the allure, across the political spectrum - yeah, that’s you too, Far Lefters shutting down speech and communication and ending any thoughts not aligning with the appropriate amount of mandated tolerance - I can understand the allure of righteous anger. It feels good. It feels justified. It feels targeted and focused and like you have the weight of history on your side. How could anyone fault you for speaking out and even acting out against the things that are…okay to do that with still? Neo-Nazis, for example. I’ve heard perfectly tolerant people casually talk about being okay with punching skinheads in the face…because of who they are.

Spoiler alert: I’ve probably said things like that. I cannot stand what so many of these groups stand for, often with the consent, assent, blessing, or support of ‘Christian’ organizations. I loathe what white power groups, regardless of whatever euphemistic alt right phrasing they’re using, represent.

Also, I am not a pacifist. But: I have a big problem with shutting down dissent or speech, especially a priori. This puts me at odds, on this issue, with plenty on the left. I feel in no man’s land. Point is: we look for situations that will make us feel righteous and justified in lashing out, whether it’s online over a Facebook post, or staring down protestors or counter-protestors at a march, or…

…trying to decide how to handle a fellow walking through a skate park smoking while I’m hanging out with my two young boys.

I don’t know. I just don’t know the rules for some stuff. Lot of the time, I don’t say anything. Just move my kids somewhere else. Other times I do say things, and I have done so rudely and aggressively before, and I’m not proud of that. But I can improve. I can do better. That’s probably one of the best things that could be said about me.

He tried, and he stumbled, and he got up again. Repeat.
He kept trying to improve. To become a better person.
I hope those are things that can honestly and accurately be said about me someday.

In the meantime, what to do?

I love the Golden Rule. I mean, I love it in theory. Again, it’s a great soundbite, and really not such a great practical bit of advice, because it’s so simple, and it doesn’t have asterisks, and it’s not really situational. It just kind of says, as a general principle: Treat others how you’d like to be treated.

I waved at him. Morning sir, how you doin? Great day for a walk!
Yeah, I say nerdy stuff like that because…I’m a nerdy nerd.

He looked up and sort of nodded. I hoped he’d veer off course, but no, looked like he was making the skate park itself part of his shuffle-walking circuit.

I took a deep breath and tried to smile, which I’m not good at doing casually, or non-smugly or non-mischievously. Excuse me sir, I said, Would you mind smoking somewhere over…there? I pointed. I know, this is a great area to walk around, but I’d really appreciate it.

Lest I make myself sound to kind or patient, trust me, I had a heart full of righteous fury and law-abiding signage to back me up, and I had already weighed the moral choice before me if he was to trip down one of the big bowls and break a leg, ciggy in mouth. Yeah, I said ‘ciggy’ as if I have the slightest idea of whether that’s a term people use anymore. Because, you know, I’m a happy naive nerd.

He looked up and said nothing I could identify as an intelligible word, but he nodded and shuffle-trotted off on a slightly-different geometric tangent, leaving behind a nicotine-filled patch of air for my boys to second-hand experiment with.

There’s no big happy ending. I didn’t do anything to really, you know, help him, and even me writing about it now is a bit self-aggrandizing, Trump-style. Look at this good thing I did, it was, like, the best and most kindest thing ever, and I am such a good person for helping a total loser. Note: I’m imagining how he might relate events.

I didn’t do anything great or even good. More than anything though, I did resist the urge to lash out, and I would like to do better at finding small ways of helping others not only passively preserve dignity, but to actively support and build up.

I don’t know what that means exactly. Maybe sometimes it’s just reciting the Golden Rule internally and remembering, alongside it, this simple and and sober reality:

Every person is the child of someone.
Many of the people who are easy to mock or dismiss might also have children.

When I think of those two things, it slows me down. Every single person I come into contact with was once a baby. A baby who had a mom. And maybe that person is a parent now. Thinking of how I would feel to lose dignity in front of my kids, or in front of my parents now…makes me feel and think differently.

It slows me down. Maybe slows enough to cool down the visceral response I have in some situations, the righteous anger or justified irritation that makes it feel okay to lash out.

I’m still not a pleasant person to be around sometimes. But I am trying to improve. And I am specifically trying to consciously think of that little idea: protect the dignity of others.

Other

Lunch

I finally figured out why our 2-year old son has only been eating half of his lunch on certain days. Yes, those days being ones where we’re eating lunch with his oldest brother at school. This is why:

He wants to show off his lunch to the ladies at the front office. His friends.

So he ate half his peanut butter sandwich today, and carefully wrapped up the remainder with his sticky little fingers…so he could, you know, just pop by his friend’s desk and show her what he ate for lunch.

Forgive me

When you hear a thud at the playground, and a scream, and you feel so so awful for the poor kid…and your brain is also telling your facial muscles not to look overly relieved that it’s not your child who just got hurt.

It feels hard to be a good person sometimes. But at least I’m owning up to occasional shallowness and hypocrisy, and I suspect I’m not completely alone. Hello, hello?…

Survival items

My youngest did take a spill on the playground; an incident that left him with some mild abrasions and a small cut on his leg. Apparently our five-year old realized for the first time that I perpetually carry a lot of stuff in my pockets, like bandages, as I patched up his younger bro, so this was the backdrop for his nonchalant announcement a short while later:

I should probably start carrying band-aids in my pocket,
he said casually.

Oh yeah? I said. Good idea.

Yeah, he continued. I should probably keep band-aids for when I go on dates with Mama.

he paused, either for dramatic effect, or to make sure I heard him.

…I go on dates with Mama, and I’ll probably be going on more soon -
(pause for sideways glance at his younger sibling) -
so I should probably have band-aids in my pocket, just in case she gets injured while we’re on a date.

I love how much he loves his mom.

Them blues

I am a big Johnny Cash fan, and I am a big fan of my children singing, and honestly, it was beautiful, but also honestly, I’m not sure that my five-year old son’s pick for which Johnny Cash song he’d race around the playground belting out lyrics to was my exact favorite choice: