#only then to challenge said boys fundamental worldview so bad

[cowboysmp3]

phoenix wright was so insane for being friends with a boy for less than one school year when he was like 10, deciding to write to said boy for the next 10 years receiving 0 response and then after all that, changing from theatre to law midway through university because he saw said boy in a newspaper looking miserable and decided he needed to meet him

[onceuponabedtime]

For Shame

I thought that I was kind, though I hurt others

(in 2nd grade, when I tricked Josh Usher into drinking paintbrush rinse water; in 3rd grade when I punched Bobby Follett inadvertently while mocking him; in 5th grade, when I threw my flashlight at a summer campmate (the only black boy in camp) for being obnoxious after lights out, and then lying about it when threatened with physical confrontation, and then accepting my flashlight (and my cowardice) from him the following morning; in middle school, junior high, and high school, tormenting those I found to be weak and vulnerable to mockery for their various shortcomings).

 I thought I was a good friend, though I betrayed trust and offered meager portions of my own

(in 2nd grade, when my friendship with Jesus Islava dissolved based on our racial divide; in 4th grade, as self-appointed “Food King,” taking one item of my choosing from each friend’s lunch; in 6th-12th grades, by engaging in an on-going battle for social status by means of ridiculing and thereby weakening many of the same people who called me “friend”; in 2006, with the betrayal of my longest, deepest childhood friendship by falling in love with his (ex)girlfriend; in college, where (until I met Shea) my time was characterized by a complete lack of genuine friendship resulting from my unwillingness to trust or be vulnerable).

 I thought that I was self-possessed and morally rational, though I was easily overcome by impulse and fantasy

(in 9th grade, sniffing a pair of women’s underwear; in 10th grade, feeling deeply unsettled by untimely erections; in college, indulging in self-destructive fantasies that fed the voracious appetite of my despair; in Peace Corps, feeling so unconfident and alone that I essentially abandoned living my life, retreating into solitude (from others) and books (from myself).)

 I thought that I held liberal and enlightened viewpoints, until they were challenged unexpectedly

(by Alyssa, who found my psychological/biological explanation of casual mutual sexual objectification to be profoundly sexist, oppressive, and morally self-unaware; by my conservative acquaintances and intellectual influences, who revealed the moral poverty of liberal conformity; and by friends and family, who reacted to my shift towards a constrained worldview during the time of Trump to be a shocking betrayal and mysterious moral failing.)

 I thought that my spiritual experience and musings were a solid foundation on which to build a moral life, accepting the world as it appears to be, while comfortable in my disbelief of appearances. Now it seems this too must be examined. Has my spiritual life served as a shelter for closely guarded ignorance? To what extent do I use a vague, divine concept of infinity to hide from facing my propensity to Orwellian doublethink? I wonder how much of my morality, informed by spirituality, is a crutch for my self-esteem as I pursue more immediate objectives- wealth (of the $ variety), comfort and quality of life for my own family with essentially no real concern for the quality of life of some 7-odd billion others (not to mention the planet that supports us), and that manna of the ego which is social recognition, be it for success or intelligence or humor or “authenticity.”

 I am relieved to find that, as I write this laundry list of failings, I write not in shame but merely of shame. These memories, which have long caused discomfort, are here just a re-telling for the sake of reflection. And, reflecting, it seems there are a few reasons why such memories would not trigger their usual, automatic feelings of shame. One is that they all represent failings of an acceptable proportion. Monstrous thoughts and feelings have had three decades of opportunity to manifest as monstrous action. To date, they have not. Embarrassing, yes, but not monstrous. These unbidden, troubling thoughts and the shame they brought once caused me deep feelings of isolation. Now, they make me empathize more with others. As John Lennon once said, “You’ve got to try to work your own head out, you know. And get non-violent. That’s pretty hard because we’re all violent inside. We’re all Hitler inside and we’re all Christ inside. And it’s just to try and work on the good bit of you.”

 The second reason has to do with the implications of shameful acts on my “true character”: I know myself to be fundamentally good (or at least, not fundamentally bad). I know this because during my lowest point, I was granted a moment of self-reflection when self-deception was impossible (psychedelic drugs precluded the possibility). I asked myself, spontaneously and from a place of despair, whether I was a good person. The answer, clearly and unequivocally, was that I am a worthy and decent (and flawed) person. To have glimpsed through all layers of defense, ego, and artifice, and seen goodness during the height of my shame was an epiphany.

 The third reason I can think of to understand the absence of shame while exploring my shame, is that I am grateful for it. Especially in hindsight. My shame implies a failing, yes, but also a deeper knowing of what values have been betrayed. Shame is the voice of my conscience, evidence of an underlying moral compass which points the way even when (especially when) I deviate from course.

 I wonder what failings, and accordingly what shame, lay ahead for me? Marriage and fatherhood are two pillars of my life currently, both of which pose complex moral challenges and stress at regular intervals. I pray that whatever my failings are in these aspects of my life, they are manageable in proportion. I am reminded (and gently accept the mild shame of pride) of a poem I wrote, maybe a decade ago:

The boy rolls with the punches, amused and bemused by their feeble abuse. The young man rolls too, but now from the punches, become commonplace in his fresh cluttered life. And what of the man worn bare by fists? Let him be simple, let him be brave, and God grant him the serenity to walk calmly forward, towards his fate.

  For wearing me bare, that I may be simple, brave, and serene, I dedicate this reflection for shame.