Taking It Like A Man

"Don't worry, be happy!" was the fashionable cry and title of a popular tune of a generation ago from the reggae genre and traditions of West Indian music. The simplicity and especially, the gentleness of the song's atmospherics was quite appealing after years of manic (and maniacal) driving rhythms and violence-tinged rock and related lifestyles. An alternative viewpoint for coping, quite distinct from this advice from the musical world, was suggested to me by a fellow "Palace" blogger recently. It is perhaps best expressed by this aphoristic counsel: "don't worry, be catatonic!"

Often a strong, heliotropic-like pull towards justice or simply a revulsion against injustice can, "here in the real world" as Alan Jackson once reminded us, wear away the rock of one's idealism and lead to despair about slaking one's thirst for the success of righteousness. Apoplectic and other choleric responses to unchecked and emboldened boorish behavior and thoughtlessness that become indistinguishable from incivility, sloth or much worse, begins in time, to drain one's resources and eventually can critically wound a healthy mind and soul. Assuming a vibrant intellect and perceptive mind, the "Don't worry, be happy" strategy is from the get-go, a non-starter. Railing against the dark and other fulminations, as mentioned, can sap one's strength dangerously.

So how about some form of passivity? Passive aggressive behavior may be a stop gap measure on the way to a white flag of silence and inaction. But it is only a variant of being "in the game." Resistance to the intolerable is still its purpose, however subversive, and frankly, ineffective. Embracing the catatonic contrastingly, can empower one, strange as it may seem. Survival remains the overarching goal, but not necessarily the preservation of life of the body. Many a holocaust survivor (the definition of "survivor" must be expanded here to include those who "beat the odds", i.e. lived significantly longer than the average inmate of the death camps) explained his schemes to live as predominantly characterized by the determination to behave in a scrupulously not readily noticeable way and to carry oneself in a manner one might deem remarkably unremarkable: the soul of inconspicuousness. This entailed a kind of "dying to oneself", almost a Christ-like plan of eradication of the ego and all emotionalism. To no longer desire anything or anyone, emptying the vessel of one's non-corporeal self, could that be a road worth traveling? Would that not be brave or manly? Would it not bring peace to the survivalist? With a broken body, the mind can often become keener in its reckonings and the approach of death may concentrate it to handle tasks before it: knowing that one's antagonists, whether they be the pugilist, the lout, the venal, the careless or the demonic one, can hold sway only as long as the enormous energy required to hate and to ignore others' rights and needs lasts. Oppression may seem unending when choked by its grip, but that venom of the beastly overlord debilitates, more corrosively over time, he who spews such bile, rather than the intended victims. If virtue is its own reward, is not vile behavior its own punishment (the spiritual "Typhoid Marys" among these miscreants, notwithstanding)?

In practical terms and short of saintly patience, it may seem that nothing other than an insurrection will do. This presupposes a world with some resources: persons of good will in positions of power who can enjoin "bad actors" to desist in their less than neighborly habits, or persons who will provide more than just moral support to the survivalist. Sometimes the good guys are just not there, or their resources are strained and their options are limited by various "Catch 22" ordinances and other vagaries of the law that the villains in our midst are all too aware of. How many times has a long suffering resident of an urban neighborhood called the local precinct about a raucous weekend party next door that had been blasting music into the night keeping him/her and others awake into the wee hours? Cops may eventually arrive, but other complaints of a higher priority usually result in a "too-little-too-late" scenario, well established by the officers' almost polite urgings to lower the volume and backed up by nothing more than the hoped for good faith of the revelers who return matters to a mega-decibel level very soon after the policemen's departure, knowing another visit from the Law is unlikely. What of other more egregious behavior, such as lewdness in front of one's property, dumping of litter, brawling and drug dealing in the same vicinity? Another enquiry to the precinct about these situations, not unusually, results in the counter query: is anyone armed? A negative response to this question, or not vigorously reporting such a critical thing in the first place, will ensure, except for possibly reporting drugs, the dispatcher's continued somnolency and inaction.

Well, until help arrives or bad karma at last, returns the favor to the ogres in question, a kind of manna from heaven is required to nourish the sorely pressed who choose to neither murder nor self-annihilate. This sustenance is from some unfathomable well of the human psyche and one can never go to it too often. It's an inexhaustible source. One may seem catatonic when borrowing its power, but the apparent impotence enshrouds a phenomenon that is nothing other than a direct connection to the Divine. Martyrdom may be one of its culminations, but just "hanging on" is one of its prescriptions that one can follow when one has decided to "grab on." Maybe it's called Faith, maybe it's something else. But it is real and the heroes, seen and unseen throughout history, have all touched its meta-electrical pulsations and have given hope to the hopeless thereby. Gunga Din (title character of the '39 film) took a bayonet between his ribs, much like Christ did when a Roman soldier ran Him through with a spear to ensure His demise. Din, this "regimental bhisti" was a "goner" or at least headed for oblivion. He continued to think not of himself, but of his comrades-in-arms as he lay dying. All ignoble shades in the vicinity whispered to him "Stay down, you're beat (much like George Kennedy's Dragline advised his pummeled boxing opponent, Paul Newman's title character Cool Hand Luke in the '67 film)." But neither character knew what quitting meant. Luke's will to be free may have seemed like overweeningly prideful stubbornness, but it arose from the same God-given and yet human source of potential greatness that sparked Din: free will. And "Cool Hand" chose passionately if not wisely (because of his initially brief sentence as a chain gang inmate). "The Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din", unlike Luke, was not a freedom fighter driven by a perhaps low threshold of boredom. No, this member of "them black-faced crew" was impelled by love. The lowly water bearer saw his opportunity as a "real" soldier, not as a career move, but as a tremendously exciting, new path to continue living the life of abundant spiritual wealth he already enjoyed. Nearly bled out, he climbs to the pinnacle of a spire of the enemy's temple and with his last few breaths blows the bugle gifted to him by the kindly Sgt. Cutter (Cary Grant). The warning alerts the Empire's troops about to be ambushed and allows for victory and the eventual rescue of his party. Glorious, heroic? Yes, it was, especially contrasted with his humble station. But what of his brothers, cousins, neighbors, etc., the vast majority of whom would never similarly soar thanks to a Kipling or other myth maker? Well, they and subsequent generations must trod the "catatonic" path too, but a less exciting one. Okay, we know it's not truly a contrived kind of autism, but "lives of quiet desperation" are their lot and that of most of us. Take it like a man…or like a woman. This is not some manifesto of "machismo." It's a recognition of the human condition. It's not even a challenge, necessarily, to throw in with the forces of stoicism or to follow the urging to "grin and bear it." In fact, going on the offensive instead, is a valid way to interpret "take." Canadian country singer Michelle Wright's hit of the same title as this blog entry, makes this point emphatically and seductively. "Go for it!" is the oft used battle cry of recent years for any uphill climb. Whatever choice is chosen by a battered soul to proceed, the human spirit can, in the end, though dust be our apparent destiny, prove indomitable.

The anchor that represents hope is what will not allow us to drift. But we need crew members aboard this ship. Just as "no man is an island", Robinson Crusoe needed and providentially found his man Friday to survive on his literal one. Companionship is a topic for another blog entry, perhaps by another blogger. To encapsulate today's musings however, I'd offer the following. Call it a prayer, call it an invocation, call it anything but lip service: "Long live courage and human freedom!"