Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Near Requiem For Innocence


Evil burns in this world, fact.  I am afraid of evil, fact.  I shelter my sons from evil.

Hate abounds in this world, true.  Hate makes me question faith, very true.  I shelter my sons from hate.

There is a relentless spotlight on terror in this world.  Terror makes me pity us, you, me.  I shield my sons from terror's spotlight.

Love abides in us, all of us.  I have seen and known great love.  I shower my sons with love.


What more of today's tragedy can we make?  Volumes?  Of course.  Silence?  Yes, to listen to our pain.  Remembrance?  Yes, every tear and shattered hope.  Love?  Yes, it is our collective default state of being.  I believe that.


So today, I will think of love.  And with that on my heart I will consider the day that I have to really sit down with a child, and, of my own volition and with intent, I will break his heart.

I will have to explain why, as a joke we sometimes say, "oh, the huge manatee."  And why sometimes I shudder when he says it.

I will have to explain Holocaust, and A-bomb and H-bomb (I suppose the F-bomb as well).  I will be forced to explain Manifest Destiny, a Civil War of battles brother against brother.

Slavery.  I will have to explain that, God help me...

I will have to look a bright-eyed boy in those crystal pure hazel or blue eyes and tell him that presidents and great men are murdered, because of their very greatness; that American Pie is about the assassination of a beautiful soul; that "I have a dream" is not just a catchphrase for a cheap joke on a cheaper cartoon network, but the defining words of a hallowed martyr.

I will have to help him understand The Wars, and war itself; bloody, real, putrid, violent, evil, carnage-strewn war.  My Lord, two, two, of them.  And, the hundreds of others...

I will explain the gassing of children, the hatred between cultures, the lingering stench of racism, sexism and homophobia.  And it will horrify me.

I will have to explain to a schoolboy, to innocence itself, that evil can stroll in with a gun and shatter limbs and skulls and futures and dreams in a place just like his own sacred place.  How, I weep, how?

I will someday, perhaps today, when one asks me at dinner, "Dad, what does nine-eleven mean?" have to explain the death and tragedy and courage and heroism of planes flying into skyscrapers, government buildings and lonely green fields.

I will have to explain terror.  And... that terrifies me.


So, should I put it off?  Should I wait?  Should I try to hold back the sad collective hurt, the sob of deep understanding that comes knowing evil is real, necessary even?

I have to tell them.  I must.

But I'm not going to today.  Not this September Eleventh, not today.


Today, under the seat of my truck, tucked up in a little rip, I found this:


 On the back of this:


It's Marci and me.  Oh, and it's you and your loved ones.

It's all of us, and a four-year-old loved us then.

I want him to love us a little longer, okay?

 
Thanks for stopping by.


19 comments:

  1. This is perfect. Well said (and drawn).

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    1. Thanks, Whit. Go read Whit's perfect poem today as well: http://www.whithonea.com/2013/09/11/september11poem/

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  2. Wow. This hit me on so many levels. Thanks.

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    1. I am so delighted you stopped by, Barmy. Raising kids up is so very heartbreaking, isn't it?

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  3. Bill, this is absolutely sublime. You have managed to take the sentiment right out of my head and frame it in words like I never could. Beautifully done, sir!

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    1. Thanks for coming by today, Josh. You are no stranger to beautiful words, you pen them all the time.

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  4. Weeping. Just weeping. You captured my heart but much eloquently than I could ever express. The little note at the end--well, that got me. I missed bedtime last night to go to a school meeting. There was a little note on my bed when I returned. It said, "I'm glad your (sic) my mom." There is so much power in those little notes. There is so much hope for our world in those little notes. I know you see it too, my friend. You have that way about you. What a gift that you share it with the rest of us.

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    1. Rachel, you know how much it means for parents to see through the big things and find the essence hidden in their innocence. Thanks for dropping by and leaving a "post-it." It means a lot to me.

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    1. Thanks for taking a look, Zach. It was tough to write, my heart kept cracking.

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  6. I'm not often an emotional guy. Meaningful things often hit me in the brain, the intellect. This one hit me viscerally, physically. In the heart, in the throat, in my eyes.

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    1. I know what you mean Neal. I am working as we speak on a post that is silly and stupid and meaningless and it is helping me recover from the blows or reality. I am so glad you stopped by to sit a spell, and think a spell, and feel a spell. I appreciate it.

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  7. I love your soul, Bill. Don't ever stop writing, please. You don't have to always share it with me, but do share it with your boys.

    Lovely stuff.

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    1. The feeling is mutual, DD. I still want to buy you a beer someday in my imaginary bar, in a perfect world. Thanks for coming around today. Having all my dear friends in Bloggyland stop by has really helped to take the sadness away today. As always, my very best to you and yours.

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  8. We were driving by MLK Blvd last year, and it made perfect sense for me to ask my then 4-year-old if he knew who King was. When he said he didn't, I started explaining, not realizing how deep the rabbit hole was until I was way down. Sure, King's life is full of great examples for any adult and child, but to get there, I also had to try to explain assassination, segregation, slavery...

    But maybe that's what it's about, you know? The worst person brings out the best in others. Without segregation, we wouldn't have had the example of King. Without colonialism, we wouldn't have had Gandhi. Without corrupted power, we wouldn't have had Jesus. 9/11 is a story of terror and evil, but it's also a story of selfless courage and unity. It's a story with endless lessons for children, and it's a story we should embrace and be happy we have the opportunity to teach its lessons to our children.

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    1. (Although when the right time to tell that story depends on the kids. I'm nowhere ready to tell that story to my 5yo.)

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    2. I agree, kid by kid. And, I know that rabbit hole, I've been in it myself. I appreciate you stepping into my corner here and leaving a note, or two.

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  9. That's intuitive but I don't think I could articulate it.It's visceral and yet beautiful.

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    1. Yes visceral, that's the word for this kind of fear, and this kind of love. Thanks for coming over, you came a long way.

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