The Lust of Aggression: Pious Injunctions of Pacifists Like Us

This was originally posted on my philosophy blog, and with a notable sense of aggression I said, what the hell, with a post this nice, I'll post it twice. Warning! It's wordy :-)

“How long do we have to wait before the rest of men turn pacifist? Impossible to say, and yet perhaps our hope that these two factors-men’s cultural disposition and a well-founded dread of the form that future wars will take- may serve to put an end to war in the future, is not chimerical. But by what ways or byways this will come about, we cannot guess.” ~ Freud

As a collective, human beings demonstrate an indisputable predisposition towards aggression, which as an instinctual behavior is not readily brought into submission. A primal expression that serves as an integral component of mans determination to survive, instinctual aggression may be deemed culturally unacceptable, although it is often necessary, as Freud observes when he states “ for it is war that brings vast empires into being, within whose frontiers all warfare is proscribed by a strong central power.” While distinctly cultural or theological mandates to assume a pacifist stance to ensure peace are admirable, these unattainable, chimerical goals have not proven realistic throughout history. Although Sigmund Freud declines to guess the means by which men may be ultimately prompted to assume a pacifist philosophy with the intent to ameliorate aggression and thereby decrease instances of war and warlike behavior, it is evident that instinctual predispositions towards aggression are innate.

Whereas Freud promoted “a strengthening of the intellect which tends to master our instinctive life,” Plato, for example, encouraged focus not only upon intellectual reasoning but also on the existence of the soul. This differentiation between body and soul, with all of its theological implications, remains a central theme in modern culture. Plato argued that we are in continual conflict within ourselves, as reason wars with appetite while spirit wars with the flesh, our appetites appropriately described not only as arising from hunger but sexual desire as well. As Plato compelled us to subject appetite to reason in a quest to uphold the sanctity of the human spirit and thereby appease a higher power, Freud states “thus the instinct of self preservation is certainly of an erotic nature, but to gain its end this very instinct necessitates aggressive action.”

While a predetermined “aggressive instinct” may be considered undesirable by some, it is this same instinct that can be credited to a certain extent with the propagation of the species and the continuation of life, a desire which in and of itself is sanctified by the same higher power Plato’s dualism hoped to appease. Freud aptly recognized that aggression shares polarity with desire by contrast, providing incentive for action in relation to a desired object as he states “in the same way the love instinct, when directed to a specific object, calls for an admixture of the acquisitive instinct if it is to enter into effective possession of that object.” Without an instinctual sense of aggression, love would be the ultimate pacifist spectator sport, with hate the inevitable outcome of frustrated desire. This would be a precursor to inevitable “crimes of passion,” as the sublimation of the desire nature has the capacity to incite war.

Just as erotic desire often precipitates an instinctual aggressive response, a theological desire may be fulfilled in a similarly aggressive manner. Freud observes “the simulation of destructive impulses by appeals to idealism and the erotic instinct naturally facilitate their release,” and it is such release in response to religious idealism that prompts holy wars. In this context, the One True God of the perpetrators is deemed to be “on our side,” with the natural procession of such thought being war in the name of self-righteous anger. Whether considering the atrocities of the Spanish Inquisition or the indignation of those who declared jihad on the “infidels” of the United States on September 11th, 2001, it was instinctual aggression that provided a catalyst for action, as the assassins “drew their strength from the destructive instincts submerged in the subconscious.” Although the greater percentage of people in a traditional Judeo Christian society may readily deny the aggressive instinct that would compel them to pronounce angrily that God was in fact on their side while simultaneously citing biblical mandates that effectively identify them as pacifists who “love thy neighbor as themselves,” Freud astutely observes that such pious injunctions are “hard to carry out.” With the untapped power of the collective unconscious subject to desire for war, one can imagine that little impetuous has been necessary throughout history to compel violent action, especially when considering those who have done so in the name of their gods.

Instinctual aggression, however, is far more encompassing than that which manifests outwardly in the guise of passion, war, or the anger of gods who entreat the masses to kill others on their behalf. Far more insidious is the instinctual aggression of an intellectual nature, where violence is executed in the realm of ideas. While war may manifest as casualties on the physical plane that are readily observable, it is the death of the mind, emotions, and spirit that often betrays the greatest instances of man’s inhumanity to man.

Propensity for war in the intellectual realm is wholly indicative of a distinct lack of pacifistic rational thought, wherein presumed cultural superiority assumes an inevitable moral superiority that is often a harbinger of further abuse. This intellectualism of war enables those who employ such strategies to assert an often wildly destructive bias promoted by those who assume a stance of cultural or moral superiority, the outcome of which is the oppression of those not deemed worthy of higher thought or consideration, as occurred during Kristallnacht or the Holocaust to follow, to name but one example.

When contemplating the indisputable biological model that supports the existence of mans aggressive instinct, Freud wisely observes “that there is no likelihood of our being able to suppress humanity’s aggressive tendencies.” While this perspective may initially be considered a fatalistic caveat that negates even the potential for pacifistic behavior, Freud counters by stating “in any case, as you too have observed, complete suppression of man’s aggressive tendencies is not an issue; what we may try is to divert it into a channel other than that of warfare.”

In both recognizing and respecting inherent aggressive tendencies, Freud challenges us to employ reason as a means of harnessing the formidable energy that aggressive instinct provides. Although an utopian political ideology embraces a world where threat of war gives way to reason, the diversion of indisputable aggressive energy into such channels as the study of law, science, and medicine allows us to “rest on the assurance that whatever makes for cultural development is working also against war.”

A Rejection Observed

He sat silent in a deceptively sunny class, a quiet unassuming blond with a marked lack of self esteem or notable presence.

Darryl Bauer was assigned to the seat directly behind me in what was our grade school homeroom class, and although I didn't consider him a personal friend, I wasn't oblivious to the fact that few had chosen to befriend him at all. I was nice, if casually disinterested, pleasant, if even in a noncommittal way. As kids, maintaining your coveted place in the social hierarchy was as imperative as breathing, and as a popular kid myself, I was admittedly not quite willing to validate Darryl by being overly attentive to him myself.

But I did pay attention to what had happened to him that day.

There are kids like Darryl in many classrooms in life, overlooked, underestimated, on the periphery of acceptance during a time in their development when being noticed and accepted is of paramount importance. They're the kids who don't get picked for the team, or for whom a ride on the bus is an excruciating lesson in loneliness, aside from the attention they might receive as result of a random insult or an outright assault. What would they do, what would it take, to be accepted?

For Darryl, it was the supposedly magical interest he received from Angela Cincinelli the Cheerleader that promised to put him on the map.

From an objective perspective, which was of course the luxury of those not tormented by demons wrestled by the nondescript Darryl's of this world, the sudden attraction was suspicious, at best. What could the popular and effervescent Angela, in spite of inherent homeliness both of face and spirit, ever see in the likes of Darryl? When a girl like Angela feigns interest in a guy like Darryl, one would be wise to pause for thought. Could she be sincere? Did she really like him? Or was there an underlying joke underway here, a game that only a select few were aware was being played? Say it with me everybody: yes.

As it turned out, Angela's interest in Darryl was intended simply to enable her to advance her ego in the most cruel and vicious manner. The Latin root of "cru" in the word "cruelty" is "blood", and the literal meaning of the word then is "to spill blood." And although there was no actual blood shed by this quiet unassuming person as a result of Angela's actions that afternoon, I'm fairly confident that he nurtures a wound, no matter how faint or painfully forgotten, to this day.

Angela, in spite of being decidedly unintelligent as well as unattractive, was a master of PR. By affiliating herself with other, more attractive and popular girls, she imagined that she had become desirable by proxy. She could do a cartwheel, she could make the squad, she could ridicule kids like Darryl without flinching! Fascinated, like a cobra before a mongoose, we often thoughtlessly elevate the aggressive Angela's of this world to a position of envy or admiration, regardless of whether or not there is anything about them that is genuinely unique or valuable to warrant the attention we provide.

Angela was going to have her 15 minutes of fame, and if it was to be found at the top of a cheerleaders pyramid or upon Darryl's broken emotional back, it didn't matter. In spite of her bland face covered with freckles, the large unbecoming mole on her overweight thighs, or the transient disarray of her shockingly red hair, she was notable for being rude, recognized for being brassy, and acknowledged because she accepted no less.

Angela was going to promote herself regardless of the expense to another, no matter what the cost.

It was warm outside, and summerish. With the end of the school year approaching rapidly, it was all we could do to contain ourselves and focus on the matter at hand, which was getting through just one more day . Restless and prone to intermittent bouts of chaos anyway, Angela's antics that memorable afternoon served to create a frenzy of laughter and unprecedented glee for everyone who witnessed it.

And Darryl, of course, was the unwitting source of entertainment.

Flattered by her attentions, and completely oblivious to the fact that he was undoubtedly a topic of heady conversations and unkind plans, Darryl mistakenly made his unrequited crush public by bringing Angela a gift that day. A small, delicate, and thoughtfully given ring.

Believing her to be sincere in her fawning expression of interest in him, he had painstakingly wrapped the small gift box, the paper lumpy, the tape askew. One can sadly envision him carefully folding the paper the night before, deep in thought as he wondered excitedly about his good fortune, the quiet overlooked kid now the center of attention in a world populated by cheerleaders and jocks! What would she say, what would she think, when she received his romantic and thoughtful gift?!

As it turned out, it most definitely wasn't "thank you."

I became aware of the interchange when Angela, obnoxious and insensitive as ever, boldly announced her gift to the entire room as she opened it. Apparently Darryl had slipped it to her quietly while passing her desk on his way to his own, and his attempt to remain discreet was not to be respected.

"Oh look, " Angela all but screeched, the teacher having momentarily left the class, "Darryl gave me a ring! Why would I want this?!"

The class, looking around in wonderment, thrilled to watch the show, erupted in raucous laughter.

"Hey Darryl, " Angela now called out in a sarcastic sing song voice from across the great divide, "did you want me to be your girlfriend?!"

Darryl, now mortified at his desk and red faced in humiliation, stared intently at the floor. He did not move, he did not cry. His hands folded before him, he fixed his gaze and bore the laughter in silence.

"Oh my God," Angela announced scathingly, "like I would want to be your girlfriend!"

The laughter was now more of a roar, and I suddenly opted to forfeit my stance as a popular kid myself to defend the hapless Darryl. Turning around sideways in my seat, I said in plain view "just ignore her, Darryl," the unspoken rule that seventh grade students only call each other by their last names being broken to communicate my genuine concern. "Who cares what she thinks!"

Turning to glare at Angela, I called out with all of the emotionalism of a 12 year old hero "who do you think you are, Angela? Would you want someone to do that to you?!"

The laughter subsided momentarily, the focus on Darryl's humiliation being redirected now to an anticipated fight between myself and Angela. As I poised myself to take the bullet, Darryl looked up at me for a moment with a fleeting glance of appreciation. My heart was pounding, and I recall having felt almost disassociative in my awareness that I had now become a moving target myself for having chosen to become involved. The decision to defend Darryl was an impulsive one, and although not carefully considered I knew it was the right thing to do. Remaining sideways in my chair, my eyes locked with Angela's while I momentarily patted Darryl's forearm in a sympathetic fashion.

I was most certainly not going to be on the cheerleading squad now, and not simply because I couldn't do a cartwheel.

Resenting my having interrupted her show, Angela regarded me angrily as she redirected the focus of the hunt back to her prey by marching across the classroom and flinging Darryl's ring out the window onto the lawn below. The fact that the school janitor was in the process of mowing the lawn on which the ring was now lost made her gesture all the more outrageous, and the laughter in response to this was deafening.

Looking around the room that afternoon at what were sure to be future perpetrators of various crimes and misdemeanors, I regarded the scene with dismay, although I'm sure my thoughts were not quite that philosophical at the time. What I do recall feeling was an overwhelming empathy and sadness for Darryl, a relative stranger that I had known for many years.

When the teacher returned to the uproar minutes later, and the situation was disclosed, Darryl's shoulders slumped further and his head lowered even more when the teacher himself laughed as he called out the window to the janitor to stop the lawnmower. Sending several boys outside to search for the ring, which was later found to have belonged to Darryl's grandmother, his humiliation was finally complete.

I have sometimes wondered what ever became of a kid like Darryl or a girl like Angela, and I would be dishonest if I said that I hadn't hoped fate had corrected this injustice by allowing her to grow up unsuccessful and alone while Darryl had lived happily ever after. It only seems fair, when you consider the magnitude of what was done that day.

It had been a cruel and unnecessary rejection, and it was most definitely observed.

And Justice for All: Victims of a Broken Promise

“How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others? The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.

It must be terribly exhausting to try and defend yourself continually when confronted with the prejudices and misconceptions of others. Racism prompts a natural procession of despair and hopelessness, and everyone who participates, whether from the front or the back of the bus, is guilty of perpetuating it. For countless generations, our nation has been socially irresponsible in promoting racist ideology that has greatly impacted our culture. This was particularly true in the past, when the lack of humanity inherent in racist views necessitated the non violent direct action of the Civil Rights movement followed by the slow, arduous process involved in repositioning an entire class of people to their rightful place of equality within a society that so often rejected them.

We are all created equal, but we do not treat each other as such. How many countless opportunities to meet and embrace those who are different do people discount within the confines of their prejudice?

Unfortunately, it is difficult at times to remain wholly free from the insidious perceptions of prejudicial thought for recipients at both ends of the color spectrum. As Dr. King states in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, his daughter experienced “ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky,” when confronted with petty, illogical racism, while black nationalists descended into a self imposed abyss of “bitterness and hatred,” and white moderates “remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.” It was the stance of the latter, safely ensconced within the safety of their churches, that may have enabled the suffering of those oppressed to continue unabated far longer as a direct result of their inaction, prompting Dr. King to ask poignantly “what kind of people worship here? Who is their God?”

Prejudice, defined as an irrational attitude of hostility that causes injury, damage, or disregard for the rights of others, is both spiritually as well as morally corrupt. Prejudicial thought disallows for the acknowledgment of our common ancestry as children of God, with legally mandated segregation promoting a “separateness” that is contrary to the law of God. As Dr. King so eloquently stated “all segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality, giving the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority,” a stance which was rightfully presumed to be unjust in the eyes of God and therefore necessitated abolishment. “There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the depths of despair,” Dr. King lamented. In seeking to eliminate such despair, participating in non violent direct action is therefore both a legally and morally responsible act, intended to bring injustice to light and consequently serve as a catalyst for positive change.

Historically, engaging in non violent direct action has proven a profound and effective means of encouraging individuals to “see the moral light and give up their unjust posture.” In having recognized that not all opinions are created equal, Socrates, for example, stated “the unexamined life is not worth living,” and championed the concept of philosophical enquiry via application of what is now defined as the Socratic Method. As a proponent of dialectic practice that compelled others to either further substantiate or reject their previously held beliefs as a result of posing relentless questions regarding such topics as virtue, knowledge, morality, and justice, Socrates was considered a “gadfly,” or nuisance, in Athenian society. Because virtually any thought or idea that effectively challenges the status quo may be perceived as anarchistic to those who cling to it, Socrates persistent questioning of traditional thought angered many who deemed him a harbinger of chaos, and an ultimate threat to complacent society. Following his imprisonment, Socrates steadfastly refused admonishments on behalf of his supporters and friends to escape his decidedly unjust fate as a political scapegoat, reasoning that it was not morally acceptable to do so. If he chose to escape and thereby evade the Athenian justice system, he believed he would in effect be guilty of “inflicting evil” on society by failing to obey their laws. As a pioneer of non violent direct action, Socrates, like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., remained a modicum of the virtue and justice he so diligently supported.

The tremendous communicative power inherent in non violent direct action lies in its ability to “create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks to so dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored.” In presenting himself as the quintessential living sacrifice, Dr. King embodied what Paul preached in Romans 12:1. “Therefore I urge you brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God-this is your spiritual act of worship.” As an integral part of this spiritual act of worship, Dr. King embarked upon a “process of self-purification”, wherein he repeatedly asked himself “are you able to accept blows without retaliating? Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?”It was this Garden of Gethsemane~like willingness to reflect upon the challenges that lie ahead, and his willingness to seek justice on behalf of the multitudes as mandated by his godly heritage, that enabled Dr. King to become not only a voice within his generation, but one of the most respected men of this century. By invoking non violent direct action, his words became the source of strength upon which the power of his conviction was carried, lending credence to a message far greater than any jail cell could contain.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. successfully brought to the light of human consciousness that fact that we are genuinely equal, and without the fear and strife that we allow to separate us, we are one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

At least that's the way it should be.

Candy's Bitches

And now, from the Profound Thought files comes this article regarding forming our own opinions while avoiding the psychological manipulation of relational aggression, and the lessons learned therein.

Relational aggression, incidentally, can be defined as any behavior that aims to manipulate the web of third party relationships in order to hurt a particular individual. Spreading rumors, gossip, lies, telling secrets, eye-rolling, and exclusionary tactics all aim to promote cruelty through the social networks. Janie and Susie don't like Mary, and if you are nice to her, then we won't be nice to you!

Only the weakest members of a social network, and those most in need of validation, succumb to these manipulations (or initiate them for that matter) while the strong do survive although they may find themselves eating lunch alone when they refuse to play the game.

That having been said, below is the situation where I was first directly introduced to relational aggression tactics, and how I chose to handle the situation...

Long ago and far away in a land I would like to forget, I worked in a highly political retail environment, where the social hierarchy was as clearly defined as that which may be observed amongst competitive chimps.

There were two subdivisions in this hierarchy, comprised of one clique led by an inbred, cross eyed Italian with a lisp named Candy, the second group being comprised as those I would identify simply as Other.

Being a fairly independent type myself, I gamely crossed between clique genres on a regular basis, not wholly committed to either one or the other elitist waring factions.

Recently divorced, confident, and busy, I more often than not stood bemused during my assigned mundane tasks at the Timex watch tower (not to be confused with the Jehovah's Witnesses Watchtower) labeling those items that took a licking and kept on ticking while simultaneously watching human nature unfold around me.

Never one to be unsociable, I accepted invitations from Candy's Popular Clique to sometimes go out after work or get together on the weekend, but I was always subtly aware that they were trying to sell me something, or make me be something, that I didn't particularly care to be. I always strove to keep my options open, and walked away with a smile if it got too incredibly cloying or catty, which it often did.

On the Other team, a Hispanic girl named Laura could do no right in the eyes of Candy and her cohorts. She was shunned as a veritable Untouchable, ignored with an intense concentrated effort while regarded as inferior to obviously superior cross eyed Italians with lisps. Because it is my nature to defend the underdog, I began to seek Laura out for conversation on a regular basis, much to the chagrin of Candy.

While interacting with Laura, who seemed disproportionately ecstatic to have someone interact with her in her ongoing social isolation, I was annoyed to notice that I was being intensely scrutinized by Candy's mafia. I was apparently now considered a traitor of sorts for refusing to join them in maintaining their hostile ostracism of Laura. Et tu, Brute! Back away from the Hispanic outcast!

I think not.

One of the lesser minions in this clique, a bootlicker named Marianne, approached me haughtily one morning to let my having formerly defaulted from the clique, with all of its dire consequences, be made known to me.

Like I gave a flying fuck.

"Uh, listen," Marianne pronounced arrogantly, the shock of my having disrupted the hierarchy and befriended an outcast rocking her to the core of her bootlicking soul, "Candy and I have noticed that you are like, talking, to Laura."

"Mmmhmm," I replied flatly. "I am. She's nice."

"Well, " she said slowly, drawing in a melodramatic breath and placing her servants hands on her considerable hips, "we don't like her."

"Hmmm," I observed coldly, "that's interesting. I like her."

"We don't want her hanging out with us!" she said sharply, searching my face for any indication that I grasped the fullness of her implication. If you hang out with her, than you can't hang out with us!

Oh, cry me a river.

"Listen Marianne," I said evenly, leaning towards her while making direct eye contact, "I like Laura. She has done absolutely nothing to make me dislike her. I form my own opinions, whether you and Candy agree with me or not."

Glaring, she turned on her heel and sauntered away, in an apparent rush to meet with Candy in the breakroom, where the magnitude of my insolence would undoubtedly be discussed over Diet Pepsi and potato chips.

Oh, the nerve!

I despised the mentality of these superficial, vicious people, and could not help but come to the conclusion that their need to emotionally abuse and isolate others was driven by nothing less than a deep seated collective insecurity. From my perspective, the opinions of bullies, gossips, and followers such as these meant absolutely nothing to me, and I went about organizing my Timex watches in a state of cliqueless oblivion following the exchange outlined above.

Days later, I arrived to work and casually approached Laura to say good morning. To my surprise, she observed me coolly, regarding me with the same studied indifference with which she had been treated by Candy. Looking at her quizzically, I was amazed at the strategic maneuver employed by a ridiculously vengeful Candy, who then called out to Laura to come join them in the break room, citing donuts and the unspoken gossip and ostracism factor they were to enjoy that day. Eyeing me with a momentary flash of desperation, Laura shrugged her shoulders and walked away with her newfound friends, turning her back on my kindness in her fear.

Fascinating.

Laura was in, I was out, and in spite of my loyalty and dissent in the face of injustice, I was subject to the greatest injustice of all when Laura herself turned on me.

This of course serves to illustrate that when courage prompts us to exercise the power of independent thought, we are often called upon to stand alone, as well as forgo the donuts and gossip as enjoyed by the group.

Shiny Treasures

I break for homeless people. I feel a kinship with them, and want always to reaffirm any small hope they may harbor in their broken hearts that people do care.

This has been an ongoing theme for me my entire life. I am perpetually drawn to the loners, the disenfranchised, the person slumped over on a park bench. What's wrong? Can I help you?

As a child, I was possessed of the utmost sensitivity, even attributing feelings to inanimate objects. If you didn't play with that toy, it would feel left out, and of course you can't neglect to spend time with the teddy bear. How would he feel? Everyone, and everything, had to be tenderly included and considered in my world.

Although I didn't encourage my son to project deep emotionalism on inanimate objects, I did try to teach him compassion. Years ago, while on an outing in downtown Chicago, we came across a man panhandling in a wheelchair. I told Daniel that he should give the man the change he had in his children's pockets, as an exercise of awareness and generosity. At first he pouted, but when I assured him that God would see to it that his money would ultimately be returned to him for his having recognized the need to help someone, he agreed to give the man his coveted pocket change.

On the Metra train on the way home, Daniel was enthralled to find three shiny quarters on the floor beneath his seat, which was a full twenty five cents more than he had just given, and a lesson was definitely learned that day.

I had a second opportunity to demonstrate the concepts of equality and giving to my son while we were in New York one Christmas. Walking up and down Broadway one rainy evening, the streets lit with a dishonest neon brightness that failed to illuminate all but the most shallow of eyes, we came across a homeless man sitting on the ground in a doorway. He looked young, younger than most who live their lives on the street, and he lowered his gaze as we approached him.

Taking Daniel by his hand, we walked up to the man, and I knelt down on one knee, encouraging my son with a glance to do the same. "You don't have to look down when we walk past," I said softly. "We're no different than you are." I handed him some money, wished him well, and walked away. Daniel was very quiet. I wanted him to know it's wrong to look down on others, and I think he understood.

This preoccupation with the homeless culminated in the early 1990's with my having implemented a ministry of sorts to help the homeless in Union Park. With a friend of mine from church, we photocopied fliers, shopped for canned goods, bought a turkey, rallied others to donate clothing, and set up folding tables in the field house for Thanksgiving dinner. I brought in a microphone and speaker system, and basically sang, talked, and counseled my way through a three hour service, whilst simultaneously trying to ensure the bunson burners were still operating and all the food was cooked and served. It was a lot of work. I went back again at Christmas time, and then again for several more holiday seasons thereafter. From our first group of 7 men and women, we were later serving closer to 40.

Being part of a large group such of this was cathartic for me. I always wanted to be a part of a large family, and have spent time driving through neighborhoods I could never afford to live in, looking at beautiful houses and wondering what it would be like to be a part of a home, a family, such as that.

Basically, I have more in common with the homeless, and I know it.

I was in downtown Chicago recently, and saw a homeless man sleeping on a park bench. I knew he was homeless because of his sun darkened skin, his inappropriately warm coat, and his defeated posture. I paused and thought of how ironic this was, a bereft person set against the framework of the lake, the boats of the wealthy during the summer season sure to pass him by.

I stopped on the sidewalk and opened my backpack, filled with gum wrappers, scribbled ideas, and half finished books, to search for money. Any money. In the bottom, I found them. Quarters.

There were others on the benches around this man, happy well dressed couples chatting aimlessly while someone lay broken and ignored in the midst of them. I thought momentarily of how strange I would look walking past them to greet the man on the bench.

I watched him for a long moment, in the shadow of the Drake Hotel as limo's sped by, and thought about how I sometimes feel that I am racing towards nothing, too.

I walked gingerly across the well manicured lawn, the precious quarters in my loosely clenched fist. I had $2.25, a ransom for a paupers king, representative of all the worldly goods I had to offer. It wasn't much, I reasoned, but maybe it would give him a cup of coffee and some hope.

He was sleeping, perhaps whiling away his loneliness, killing time. Maybe he was exhausted by grief as well, weary of the effort it took to continually look away from cold stares of indifference.

I tapped gently on his shoulder. "Sir?"

His eyes opened suddenly, fearfully. They were a deep azure blue, like the sky on a warm sunny day. I was surprised at their beauty.

Nervous, he tried to rise up from his prone position. "Yes, mam?"

"I just wanted to give you these quarters," I said warmly, smiling as I placed the coins in his anxiously upturned palm. "It's not much, but I thought it might help you."

His mouth dropped open in childlike excitement. "Oh thank you!" he said wondrously, regarding the splendor in his hand.

I patted his shoulder and told him to take care of himself before I walked away. When I turned to look at him over my shoulder, I could see him holding his hand full of quarters up in the sunlight, turning them over like so many shiny treasures.

An Ethical Dilemma on a Sleepless Night

De ja vu: The Sequel

I lost a friend in the recent past, as much to gossip and miscommunication as to any specific incident that would have mandated a separation.

There were countless opportunities to fill in the blank spaces in our interactions that would have helped to diffuse a rapidly deteriorating situation, and I sincerely feel that I did my personal best to keep that from happening, even up to and including driving to her house one evening when she didn't answer the phone so I could speak to her in person if that's what the situation called for.

The friendship, however unstable at times, was important to me, and I made an effort to communicate that to her with sincerity. Another person, however, had gossiped about me viciously to this friend, attributing me with comments and attitudes that I had not expressed. The agenda of the other girl, a shallow competitive type, was to discredit me with the full intention of destroying our relationship. Unfortunately, this other girl did ultimately succeeded in ruining the friendship between us, and although I consider it sad in a sense, I sincerely believe it is my former friends loss that things ended the way they did. I know I was a good friend, and in no way do I consider the outcome of this situation to be a realistic commentary on my value as a person.

Still, because I did at one point care, I talked on the phone with her one last time, with many hesitant pauses and unspoken words. To my surprise, for some reason she opted to tell me a detailed story during this call about the health issues of a co-worker. Having been seen at a local hospital for a problem that was highly personal, this was an emotionally charged story, full of embarrassing details that had prompted the person to literally beg that the nature of her diagnosis not be discussed with anyone. In fact, if I had ever chosen to repeat this story and cite my source, it would have created an interpersonal disaster for all concerned.

Because of the magnitude of the disclosure, I was confused as to why she had confided this information to me at all, and could only assume that it was a final effort to attribute me a position of trustworthiness in her life. She was forming one final bond with me in relaying this trust, and she knew me well enough to know that I would not betray her regardless of the final outcome of our relationship.

And that's where the ethical dilemma comes in.

From the time of that phone call, I have felt further hurt and betrayed by this person, and without cause or reason. Like many other people in my life, I tried to help and support her both academically and in her personal life, spending time with her socially and interacting with her and her family in a meaningful way. When she was ridiculed by others, I rallied to her side and defended her vehemently. When she would cry that she "couldn't do it," I insisted that she could, and that I would help her every step of the way. When she panicked before tests, I sat at her house until 3:00am and helped her study, oblivious to my own need to sleep. I was, in essence, incredibly loyal, and tried to always follow through on what I said I would do, and to be there when she needed me. I wanted, basically, to be the kind of friend that I would like to have had. But in choosing to believe the gossip of others, she basically communicated to me that I was not important to her, and that I was therefore not viewed as trustworthy in her eyes after all.

So, I thought sadly, why should I remain trustworthy by keeping her secret?

I have wrestled at times with whether or not to divulge what she had told me to the person it concerned. I rationalized that I would like to know if others were discussing my personal life in detail, and that it would therefore be somehow noble of me to "help" this other girl by buying her a clue concerning her having been betrayed like I was.

It sounds all well and good, but there is one small problem with this. Helping the third party is not my true motive, my motives are not pure because I am hurt and angry, and any action I might take in that direction would therefore be wrong. In trying to hurt the person who had hurt and used me, the third party involved would be little more than a unwitting victim or catalyst for a vengnance that in all fairness didn't concern her, and there could never be a positive outcome to my disclosure under those circumstances.

Might my former friend have repercussions to contend with if I did this? Yes. Would she be extremely uncomfortable trying to deflect the gossip and distrust that would undoubtedly descend on her? Undoubtedly. Would I be happy to see her in such a situation? Maybe...but just for a moment.

Ethically, the bottom line is, whenever we take matters into our own hands with the intent to "even the score," create deliberate strife and division, or advance ourselves at the expense of another, no good can come of it. It's ill-gotten gain, and it will turn to gravel in your mouth. Seeking to hurt others, even if in some instances it might seem justified as a result of how they treated you, is an unhealthy course of action to take.

No one ever gets away with anything, not really. The truth always comes out in the end.

And with that thought in mind, I'm not going to disclose what I know to try and hurt this person who hurt me. My friendship was a gift, and all that I tried to do for her will come back to me someday, if even from someone else. I'm going to do what I believe is the right thing, even though doing the right thing is not always the easiest thing. I can be trusted to keep a confidence. Hopefully she will look back someday and realize that I had been a much better friend than she had given me credit for.

It's the least I can do for someone I had genuinely cared about, and I never told anyone what she told me as much for her sake as the woman who deserves to have her privacy respected, in spite of not having been treated with anything near the consideration I have extended to all concerned.

I have been, and will continue to be, a trustworthy friend.

A Blogger Sorority Book Signing Event

I've heard of 60 second delay, or even 60 minute delay, but this is ridiculous. Has it been a week already? Time to hit the blog.

I attended a book signing at Borders in Oak Brook, which is just across the international date line, in an adjacent time zone and to the left, in the hopes of meeting authors Jen Lancaster and Wendy McClure. As usual, I got lost no less than three times on my journey, and ended up calling my ex-husband to ask for directions while parked beside a darkened unkempt trailer that undoubtedly housed three serial killers with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, so you know I was determined to get there somehow. Speeding to and fro on off ramps that quickly led to various Upramps to Nowhere, I finally found it. Borders, Taiwan.

Anxious to encourage Jen and Wendy by buying their books and just being there as a show of support, I was also hopeful about requesting strategic moves that would see me published myself by next Tuesday. Breathless and knocking over various patrons on my way to the coveted seating area, I was relieved to find an actual seat where I could observe the proceedings and interject comments without restraint (unless, as has happened before, bookstore employees were deployed to restrain me.) I'm here! I have a question! Pick me!

"So Wendy," I said coolly as I took the floor, an author waiting to happen myself, "tell me. Who are the Damn Hell Ass Kings, anyway?"

That's great, Kim. You are a powerhouse of intellectualism and wonder, especially today. Next?!

I was nervous, and I'm not quite sure why. Being in close proximity to others who are as successful as I am not tend to have that effect on me. Consequently, virtually every inane comment or inappropriately phrased question I posed to the authors inevitably created the uncomfortable physiological sensation of my ears being on fire while lockjaw simultaneously overwhelmed the lower portion of my face. My questions then were formulated more as inarticulate blatherings than those normally considered viable during actual communication.

I like books. Books are good. Will you sign my nice books? Special Ed speaks. Again.

When the books were signed and my cross examination was over (my ears now in flames and my tongue sorely cleft to the roof of my mouth), it was time for my personal favorite part of the show at any book signing I attend. Armed with my Kodak Not So Fucking Easyshare Camera, I am always determined to get a picture of whatever I was doing on any given night, if for no other reason than to appease my parol officer. This night was no different. Time for a photo op! I thus went forward to stand towering behind the authors seats, posing and ready to smile.


Now, I can usually be counted on to wait my turn and play nice, but I found myself suddenly in a little bit of a social quandary in this situation. The official Borders photographer was poised and ready to take my photo, I was poised and ready to take my photo, the authors were poised and ready to take the photo and escape having me hovering over them, and yet a petite woman with the most girlishly feminine voice I ever heard would simply not stop talking long enough for us to take the photo.

She was very friendly, but I was getting edgy, leaning on the authors chairs as I was and trying to look petite myself.

Within 3 minutes, I went from poised to annoyed (patience isn't necessarily a virtue, you know) while I regarded her with increasing disdain in the midst of her lengthy soliloquy. Dressed in what I would describe as an Aspiring Writer's Uniform of sorts, complete with a blazer and strategically placed broach, I listened to this woman go on and on and on while I loomed plus size and awkward behind the book signing table for 10 incredibly-long-goddamn minutes waiting for my photo op. Hey! It's my turn now! I think Wendy may have even thought I was loitering behind her in a deliberate effort to look down her top, which would have been fair, really, seeing as the buttons on my blouse were not quite willing to accommodate their own contents either, a fact which I tried to disguise behind my large and colorful scarf.

Pay no attention to the bra behind the curtain, everyone, and just smile for the camera puh-leeze. Obviously, I got my picture, although the sun was coming up over the Oak Brook horizon before it finally happened.


When a picture's that nice, you take it twice.

When the remainder of the people left, I was intent on detaining the authors for additional questioning. Tell me about your world (and please don't mind my lockjaw.) Where is Printers Row? What's goes on at a book auction? What's an average advance? What planet am I on? Both Wendy and Jen were extremely funny, informative, and surprisingly open about their individual experiences in having a book published, citing what it's like, for example, to read their own reviews or wait for an opportunity to appear on Oprah (Jen Lancaster's planned strategy being to jog past Oprah's studio and lob books at passers by.) It was a revealing backstage view of what goes on behind the literary scenes, and was well worth the drive to hear it.
I found Jen Lancaster to have a very witty and sardonic sense of humor, even off the cuff and on spontaneous short notice, and was left to wonder about the fashionable life I never had as I admired her harlequin sweater and fantastic black sequined shoes. Wendy, quietly down to earth and funny, was just as clever in person as she is in print, and didn't even seem to mind when I caught her off guard by presenting her with an obscure photo from her blog featuring an interview she did with FOX news two years ago.



This is a picture of Wendy McClure that I have had on my refrigerator for two years, and not only is it funny, but it reminds me not to take myself too seriously, either.

They were both patient and friendly, and talked to me and the remaining Border employee far longer than they were required too, really. And just when I had finally become really comfortable (my ears now merely simmering), having pulled up a chair and assuming that we were going to hang out until at least Sunday, I was politely reminded that I hadn't yet paid for the one book I had absentmindedly stuffed inside my purse and it was now time to go.

Refraining from imposing further by asking them with all of the eagerness of a socially inappropriate stalker dork if they wanted to go out for a drink, I eventually left with a great deal more to consider than I had known about when I first got there. Both of these women are extremely talented and accomplished, and I am grateful to have had the opportunity to have met them.

Authors to the front of me, stalkers in the back, here I am, stuck and unpublished with myself. Having met Jen Lancaster and Wendy McClure, though, I may be one step closer to my literary goals as a result of their advice and knowledge.

Either that, or maybe I'll do a jog by book toss in front of Oprah's studios, too.