Yesterday, the last of the American troops left Iraq. Coincidentally, the "Beloved" dictator of North Korea died in his sleep about the same time of a massive heart attack. Seems the proverbial dogs of war, or at least their scent, is around us in some form all of the time. The opinions on war and violence in general are vast and varied. Over the past nine years I have heard any number of said opinions on our country's involvement in conflicts around the globe, brought on mostly by our involvement in the whole Iraq business. But one in particular stuck with me. In fact, it stuck in my craw:
Some time ago, I found myself in a quaint coffee shop in a college town. I sat at my booth and worked on my latest novel, "Dark Gardener" while sipping away on a frozen, coffee drink. My hair wasn't nearly as long as it is now, but I guess I still had the stereotypical appearance of an intellectual. Enough so to attract the attention of a John Lennon-esk man in his early twenties. He came over, asked if he could sit and, after being given the requested permission via me nodding to the affirmative, did so. A conversation slowly grew between us. First weather. Then the book I was working on. Then politics ... Which led to personal ideology. That's where things took a turn for the worse.
"War is just wrong, man. I mean ... Violence just brings on more violence. It's like ... a vicious cycle, man. Me ... I'm a pacifist. Never been in a fist fight. Never had to. There's always a way to resolve things without violence man ... You know what I mean?"
Guess which one of us said that.
If you guessed me ... I'm sorry. That was the incorrect answer. Game over. But we have some lovely parting gifts for you. Roddy! ... Tell him what he's going home with!
No ... It was, in fact, the frail little chuckle-monkey across the table from me. His hands were slight and fragile. His brow was smooth and free of furrow. He wore one of those silly bracelets, woven from hemp with beads in the mix. The urge to smack the shit out of him crept closer to the surface of my calm exterior with each word he spoke. You get the picture.
But ... I let him finish. He regurgitated some philosophical crap he'd read and tried his best to sound like an authority on the issue ... As if to educate me on the finer points of the subject. It was measured ... practiced. I imagined he'd coughed up the same schpeal any number of times to the delight of doe-eyed schoolgirls and adoring throngs of stoned buddies. And just when he was about to slip into his closing statement ... I gave him "the look" ... The same look I'd given many a dipshit just prior to letting them have it. At first he looked confused as he fell silent. Then I think a twinge of fear might have hit him ... You know ... That feeling you get when you realize you leaned too far back in a chair and you have to catch yourself. That being the desired result, I let fly:
"Let me tell you something about war. Let me tell you something about violence. The only reason you have the freedom to sit here in this place and prattle on about this shit, is because someone, somewhere, kicked the shit out of someone, to buy you that freedom. The only reason this is America, is because someone was willing to kick some else's ass to purchase our freedom to become our own country. The only reason this is still America is because countless men and women went out and kicked people's asses who would have otherwise taken away your freedom and mine and that of everyone else who lives here. The only reason some scumbag doesn't walk in your house and take your belongings and impose their will on you and anyone else who lives there, is because they don't want to get their ass kicked, either by you or the police or some monster named Bubba in the prison they'll end up in if they get caught. The very fact that you are able to live your life as a pacifist is thanks to ass-kicking in some way, shape or form, performed by someone, somewhere, at some time in the past, to enforce the rules that protect your freedom. Hell ... I don't even think they should call it freedom. It comes at such a high price, they should come up with a more fitting name for it ..." There was more. But you get the point. I railed on him for a good three minutes straight.
At that point, I stopped speaking long enough to realize the frail, little man across the table, was on the verge of tears. He looked as though he'd have much rather been under the table ... perhaps curled into the fetal position in a puddle of his own urine ... He said nothing. He just stared at me in disbelief. It occurred to me to give him another piece of my mind. But, being a father and knowing the ignorance of youth, I relented. I simply snatched up my frozen drink and left him there, speechless.
In the parking lot, pity set in for a moment. I thought perhaps I'd been too harsh. After all, he was a pacifist and my tone had more than likely given him cause to fear I might visit violence upon him. With me being easily twice his size, I could only imagine his horror at the thought of the outcome of a physical confrontation with me. I hate bullies and in that moment, I felt like one.
But then ... I thought of my grandfather who'd been an Army sniper in WW2 then come home with a twisted mind and murdered my grandmother and then taken his own life. That was the price he paid for our collective freedom ... My cousin Jay who'd done a few tours in Vietnam and later died from the ravages of Agent Orange exposure ... My uncles and friends who'd done their respective time in foxholes and rice paddies and deserts ... And how afraid they must have been, knowing the potential price of their defense of my freedom and that of every American. And with that, my desire to apologize ... My concern for the fear I might have instilled in that little man ... subsided and gave way to indifference to his plight.
I thought, in short ... 'Fuck him'.
There are far too many people out there in other countries who go to bed every night, cowering in fear from the things they endured through the day for lack of freedom. I imagine they pray for someone to kick someone's ass on their behalf. Fear is a horrible thing. It strips people of their ability to suppose themselves anything more than animals at the mercy of their government or enemies or foreign aggression ... Freedom, bought with the currency of violence ... blood and sacrifice is the only thing that allows people to live without fear. George Orwell once said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." A simple phrase that says so much.
Well ... Enough from me. Let me know how you feel on the subject.
And, as usual:
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
No comments:
Post a Comment