Prodigy Mom: Scene 1: Second Draft

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This draft has very rough new material, which will need ruthless tightening. The existing material was slightly edited.
The last posted draft is archived here.
Jump to where new material begins in this draft.

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INTRODUCTION

I killed a whole bunch of people. Back to that later.

THE PRODIGY MOM

First thing, I want to credit the name of this act. I was watching Running With Scissors when it was a recent video release. While watching the Augusten Burroughs character interact with his mother minutes after the credits, it hit me. I stopped the movie to switch to the seat in front of the computer's monitor screen. Like myself he was his mother's adult caretaker, providing her the approval, companionship, and emotional protection she didn't feel she was getting from others. She shared with me how her limitless genius, well, except for math, made her an utterly superior being. A prodigy, no less. All she needed was the unconditional nurturing any prodigy is entitled to in order to bloom. What more appropriate place than a mother-son relationship. Certainly Mozart and Einstein had that. Of course they had mothers. It seems Mom and I had something in common. Neither of us had mothers, at least not for long.

Her early life was fine, nearly ideal as I recall. Except her Daddy went to prison when she was very young, not really a happy situation in 1930's rural North Dakota. Her memories of that time were still rosy, and I think she lived with both sets of her Grandparents at different times. I don't know whether she went back to live with her mother shortly before or after her father was released when she was eight years old or nearly so. Either way, it wasn't long before her three bothers arrived one right after the other. Trouble was Elmer didn't stop drinking, and Dorothy, my grandmother divorced him. Worse than having a man in prison in those days, was not having one. By then they were living in the projects in Seattle, and unknown to them for at least another 30 years Daddy the Bigamist had already started his second family.

Well, my uncles lived through having their teachers stand them in front of class and announcing, "This is little Jeffery, or Daniel, or Joseph. He is new to class, and he doesn't have a daddy." A very different introduction from the kids whose fathers were killed in World War II. Probably, the same introduction as kids who were bastards. I once saw my parent's birth certificates, both had boxes indicating whether their parents were married. North Dakota's was labeled "legitimate/illegitimate." Washington State was not so progressive, it simply said "bastard". At the time I thought it very humorous, because buying into the whole okie and yokel stereotypes said it should have been the other way around.

Well my mother and uncles may have had the correct boxes checked, but they were treated with the same ostracism as legal bastards. Was it because grandma was a stunning woman and the other ladies were jealous, and she didn't put out for any of the fathers? Or simple bigotry? Either way the stigma was worse than if a child were forced to where an Osama Bin Laden T-shirt every day, or you were always forced to wear a Bush T-shirt around people capable of independent thought.

Grandma did not deal with the stress of the situation well at all. She worked herself to the bone in order to support her children. She was also one of the most brutal child abusers I've ever heard of. My father was a young attorney when I was born. My Grandma Seal was in jail, and wanting to be the dutiful son he got her out of jail to visit her first Grandchild. He is now a retired Superior Court judge, and with his gained experience deeply regrets to this day his actions. Grandma Seal had beaten her fourteen year old son so badly, opening the festivities with an electrical cord, that hardened cops who were veterans in the high crime projects which where the only place she could afford to live, were literally in tears. Ultimately Uncle Jon moved across Puget Sound to our neck of the woods, spending a lot of time in our guest cottage. Having heard a few case histories over the years, it now seems likely he would have died had he stayed at home. The oldest had moved out, and eventually did a stint for armed robbery like his father. The middle son was never beaten, he was the household deity, and as a result I think the most damaged.

Uncle Joe, the oldest, died early, in the manner of Jimi Hendrix, and though he wasn't famous, he still choked to death the same way, while by himself and a bit older. He had three stepchildren he adored, but they didn't have any use for their alcoholic step dad. He was a good hearted man, but never able to cope with his upbringing. Uncle Daniel moved out of state a while back, Montana I think.

I'm not aware of Uncle Daniel ever giving another human being a heartfelt compliment. He did tell his seventeen year old son, "I don't know why I had you, I never even liked you. Oh yeah, so I wouldn't have to go to Vietnam." That son, his only child, killed himself as a very young man. Jon's daughter survived, but I nearly cried at what I saw the one time I met her as an adult. Not the precocious, brilliant six year old I took to Star Wars when it was first released, and insisted on sitting in the first row of the Cinerama. I've not seen Jon since 1984. As a child he was my hero, the only big brother figure I had, but he stopped communicating with me when I became an adult, except via vicious second hand slander about my character. I rarely saw Daniel except with Jon, so it's been longer since I've seen him. Stopped seeing my Mom eighteen years later.

Whoa, that's forcing you all into the cold water the fast way. Well, that's about it for a bit. Needed to get the background in, a little exposition for your enjoyment. It's overwhelming, and a premeditated device.

My life started out ideal too. I lived on the beach of Puget Sound on a big lot, and a year before we started kindergarten my best friends the Browns moved in two doors down on another lot the same size in an old schoolhouse. Next door to them was the old post office, where the crazy girl lived sometimes. There were old but small fruit orchards here and there overgrown with blackberries. We'd spend days making tunnels and forts among the briars, never bothered for long by the jabs and gashes from the thorns. Days eating fruit straight off the trees until we were stuffed probably weren't that common, but they are strong in my memory.

Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie came out when I was 6 and 7 years old, respectively. They were the first grown up television shows I remember watching without supervision. Then Gilligan's Island and after our parents saw it a few times Lost in Space was on the approved list. Mother was a blond knockout, Mrs. Brown a brunette bombshell. Of course, they were just our mothers. The mothers and wives in those TV shows were absolutely everyday and authentic to us. It was the life we were living.

My first day of kindergarten was also Evan Brown's first day. Going home he tried to fool me into getting on the wrong bus. I recognized the bus I needed to ride, and I got on it -- I had occasional bouts of stubbornness. I was the last one off. I had gotten on the wrong bus, and somehow the bus driver had deciphered the bizarre geolocation as described by a lost five year old. I think he probably recognized the Swan kid's names, who had a number of older children he certainly would have known, and lived on the other side of the Brown's house from the old post office. I think that is probably how I described it.

I got home and was greeted with a sharp, "Where were you young man?" I didn't understand the fuss, I'd gotten off the bus like I was supposed to. Of course Mother was a little upset at having to wait an extra hour and startled to have the school bus drive down our little loop and drop me at the doorstep, but Evan had told everyone that stupid Scott had gotten on the wrong bus. No news helicopters were called, and my Mom who panics if she misplaces a lighter or can't remember if she left the bathroom window open was only a little irritated, and had not even called Dad. The only thing I took away was that I had to get on the same bus that dope Evan Brown had already tried to trick me with. It wasn't nearly as good. The stupid thing stopped up on the highway (as we called the minor arterial connected to Cole Loop), but nobody would ever let me ride the good bus again.

I had to be in second grade, when the novelty of school itself had worn off. One of the other kids had a dentist or doctor appointment and their mother came to pick them up. I'm certain I stared mouth agape. I remember the shock I felt. She was as ancient and fat as a grandma. Well, a great grandma, because neither of my grandma's were fat, but Great Grandma was. I'd met a few other kid's mothers, including Billy Gray. He lived about a third of a mile away, and it was a daring trek the first few times, but he was another close grade school buddy. His mother was another striking blond, our fathers still talk of her. The Kirk's lived next door on the uphill side, where my sometimes girlfriend Kathleen lived. Her mother was also a lovely redhead, but we didn't care, we all had crushes on Kathleen.

So seeing this heavy set woman in her thirties, probably no bigger than Rosie O'Donnell in the 80's or 90's, with frizzy brownish hair instead of a meticulously put up doo was something I'd never seen. It was like the creature from the Black Lagoon had stepped out from under the sink in the art supply corner with Evan or Kathleen in his slavering mouth. I was scared for my classmate, and in shock when the teacher and the kid bravely acted as if everything were okay.

People say the old sitcoms were ridiculous because they had no connection with reality. They didn't live in my neighborhood. We may have been insulated from a bit of reality, and we didn't live as much in the spasms of induced terror so common today. There was a risk in that innocence, but my idyllic early years say it was well worth the risk. Of course, we were taught to beware of strangers and the media hyped fear of the day, was blasting caps as a few kids had lost some fingers after finding them in construction sites. Probably five or less cases over a decade across the entire country. We weren't immune to the seduction of media induced fear, it just wasn't as glossy or overwhelming. Looking back, the fact that every kid within several years of my age knew blasting caps were out there just waiting to get them seems ridiculous today. We didn't even now what the fuck a blasting cap was. They just looked like really technical firecrackers.

We'll always have bogeymen I suppose. Inappropriate levels of fear seem to be an integral part of the modern american psyche. Now we have pedophiles, just a more descriptive label for strangers. A creepier threat, but not a new one, nor a more common one, just more graphic and titillating for our short attention span society. Of course as the 60's rolled forward drugs were added to the phobia list. I liked the simpler phobia list, when strangers, blasting caps, and teenagers with beer were the demons of which to beware. Of course there was the whole commie paranoia, but that imaginary threat wasn't used to frighten the kiddies like today's conservatives.

Now, just to set the record straight I didn't watch Leave It To Beaver or Howdy Doody as I'm not quite that old. They were over by the time I watched TV, and didn't go into reruns much on the channels or times we watched. I did see a few Mickey Mouse Club reruns. They were on just before I got ready for school for a while. TV was limited in the morning, so I only saw bits before or after Dad watched the news. In those days households very rarely had more than one TV. Still, I lived the Golden Age of Television, and it was a damn joyful time.

[The following is intended to be a physical bit, showing both humor and the foundation of a very healthy loving relationship with an adoring sun.]
The morning ritual. "Up and Adam!" That's A-D-A-M. I never understood why my Dad said that. It made no sense at all, and it never occurred to me to ask. It was just one of those things Dad said. He was boisterous in the morning. I have no recollection of walking from my room down the little hall to the bathroom. I remember "Up and Adam." I came to hate Adam, whoever he was. I figure Cain slew the wrong guy. If he'd nailed Adam things would have gone much better. I am not a morning person. I remember the cold toilet vaguely. I remember the showers. Dad was always singing "O Solo Mio! My Heart's on Fire! La da da da. Da da da da." and gesturing and getting soap in my eyes. He'd admonish me, "You dumb bunny, close your eyes when you're washing your face!" While he was vigorously trying to rinse the soap out of my eyes I never once dared to tell him it was his him throwing suds in my face that did it.

Then, I'd stand on the stool in front of the pedestal sink and brush my teeth with Crest. Then he'd massage my head head to "Wake up the scalp!", only I knew it was really round one in the pain endurance test -- then came the comb. I had very fine but tough hair, that tangled easily, especially after the massaging phase of the pain endurance test. I'd be yelping at the acute pain as he tried to comb out all the fresh tangles, usually against the nap, and he'd bellow for me to stop my damn hollering and and quiet down. Then the whole thing would be repeated with VO5, but there weren't usually many tangles.

I never understood why the VO5 didn't go in the first time, when it would grease out the tangles. Then he'd comb my hair, gouge a perfectly straight part down the right side of my head with fat pointy end-tooth of the comb, then comb the hair straight away from part. Then, the wave. The front of the hairline would be combed back to the left in order form a wave. It took an average of ten times to get it right. By then it felt like the teeth of the comb were about to scrape all the way through bone to the brains underneath. He had the same hairstyle, and it usually took one attempt to get the wave right. His hair was jet black and curly and it looked cool. I was a straight haired towhead as a kid, and it looked dorky, and still does by comparison. Still, I looked forward to those mornings of torture. No Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing. My Dad was GOD, and while he was certainly impatient to the nth degree, it was never meanness on his part.

I adored my father. Before I started school, the ritual was for Sundays only, but I often got up to shower with him anyway. I think my folks would rather I slept in. I would wail when he left. Whether he rode in his partner's three wheeled BMW Isetta or was leaving to pick up Dick Schultheis. I'd wave from the kitchen window and cry like the world was ending.

Kids on TV shows always had my envy if they had mussy hair, and greased hard to comb doos had my sympathy. Poor Eddie Munster! I could hardly wait until I was tall enough to see more than my part in the mirror. I was the shortest kid in my second grade class. But... By the end of the year I was the tallest. Of course I totally lost my coordination until my late twenties as a result, but I finally got to comb my own hair. If you want your five or six year old boy to grow taller, just use the Maddock Instructional Hair Grooming Method. Apparently it doesn't work for girls, because my sister had a similar experience with Mother. Either that or you require a Mad Welshman instead of a Nutty Norwegian.

Then get dressed, patent leather shoes with matching socks, pants with the belt, and button down shirt, and on cold days a sweater, usually one knitted by Grandma Teal. I didn't always wear a belt, I sometimes had to wear the hated suspenders (which I kind of like now). Not for long though, even a well-behaved boy like myself was plenty active enough to break those in short order. Even without the help of other kids yanking from the back with all their might. Once outfitted for the day, it was on to the breakfast table. Napkin with fork atop on the left. Bowl of cereal or oatmeal atop a plate. To the right a table knife with the blunt blade facing the plate, then a spoon. Same setup for dinner or lunch with a salad fork added to the far left and soup spoon added on the far right if they were needed. There would be a small glass of fruit juice above the fork with my perfectly round little brick red vitamin pill at the base, looking like a gayly colored aspirin. Mother and Dad had the same kind, only they were bigger, oblong. Above the spoon was a glass of milk. My first chore growing up was to set the table. Getting the proper level of fluids, the right vitamins, the right sized glasses, being sure the sugar bowl wasn't about to run out, and if the butter was nearly out to get a new stick from the fridge so it would be softened by the time it was needed. The settings must also be pleasant to the eye. Orderly, comforting. My picture Paris through rose colored glasses.

It was a beautiful way to grow up, and my early experience in the church was just as idyllic. It's a gift very few people in this world get. There are different versions of Eden, but to live in a perfect version however briefly is rare as winning the Lottery. Maybe not that rare, but I treasure it more. That world had to end. Mom, church, school, even Dad. They all had feet of the basest clay in comparison. Yet, I still feel amazingly lucky today.

It all happened very quickly, but at that age four years was an eternity, so it was a very slow change no more noticeable than the melting of a glacier. Then one Winter you're on a hike looking at how far away the glacier is now, realizing you would have been standing on it a handful of Summers back.

It was second grade at the latest, even before my eye opening experience of an average looking mother. Over a year before my brother came along. It was a beautiful day outside. It had to be the end of first grade. Let's say April, four months until I turned seven, nine months until my brother would be born. It was the day adulthood settled on my shoulders. They weren't very big then.

I was picking up my room and Mom came in. I was quickly throwing things in drawers and under the bed so I could go play with the Browns. Was I going to have to clean a drawer or under the bed I wondered. She pulled the ottoman that served as my chair for the built in desk. I used this event for an exercise in an advanced acting class, (The Meisner Progression). At the time I only thought of it as when I was told the truth about Grandma Teal, and in relieving the scene with a classmate who was a blond knockout, I realized it was the moment childhood ended.

My mother told of how they were beaten, tortured emotionally and physically, the cigarette burns and coat hangar whippings are what I remember most. If one speck of sand was found, or one pencil was out of place in a single drawer everything they owned was dumped outside in the dirt and hosed down until it was fowled in the mud. If Grandma Teal was feeling particularly kind that day, she would not beat or hurt them again before sending them out to rescue what they could from the mud and filth, before throwing everything away and raking the dirt again and being allowed the chance to clean their room 'properly'. She of course, would never beat me or throw everything in the dirt. She might pile everything up, and if that didn't work throw it all away.

I was to clean my room. That is not what she really wanted though, and the threat to pile everything or throw it away never came to pass. I had to understand how hard it was to be in her shoes. She had had a hard childhood, and she promised never to be like her mother. But. She had to have my help to keep her promise. It was hard and with my sister and I fighting well she just couldn't handle it, I had to stop that and not bring problems to her, or let my sister either. I needed to take care of things so she could be the brilliant woman she was entitled to be and fullfil her promise.

I absorbed all of this with great pride. Think, having adult responsibility, taking care of childish issues to protect the most special woman in the whole world. Wow. And, "I sure hate that mean old Grandma Teal, I wish I could kill her."

"No!" Your Grandma loves you very much.

"But she hates you. She hit you and hurt you all the time. And Uncle Jon and Uncle..."

"But I still love her and you must too."

"You still love her?"

"Of course. And I love you for wanting to protect me, but I'm all grown up now and can take care of my Mother. You are her favorite grandchild because you're the oldest. You must never ever let her know you know she was so mean to us. It would hurt her feelings very, very badly. It was so horrible and hard for her she probably doesn't remember, and it would be terrible for you to make her remember what she did."

Yeah. You're right. The cold-blooded old bitch should have been put in prison, where she could do some hard time doing some horrible remembering. It's exactly what I thought too. I didn't understand why my mother would let her mother get away with that. Mother knew so much, so she had to be right. Well, I'd just put my feelings aside (which I did for over 35 years), and be a good grown up.

Six years old. I learned to detest my grandmother, and do absolutely nothing about it but be nice to her, the model grandchild. Oh, I hid it very well, and I remained her favorite, and I learned to love her and continue our jokes with the part of me that didn't despise her to the core of my being. Learning social subterfuge and suppressing rage, tough lessons for any adult, much less the one I'd just become.

I failed occasionally. My father's psychotic screaming and badgering when his colossal temper broke never got to me as much as my mother's quietly hurt, "Scott, I'm really disappointed in you." I was not being screamed at in a patently infantile manner by a red faced demon, but being told my whole existence and value as a function member of society was a failure. My friend's parents always went on about how I never got into trouble. But that didn't matter, and it may have been connected, but for some strange reason I didn't have many friends.

To top it off I was a weird kid. I didn't think I had that meanness most kids exhibit and understand so well, and felt left out. The only times I remember being mean, I do remember getting caught up in the mob excitement, and feeling terrible even as we picked on some poor kid. There was a little charge, some fun pack thing when it started, but within a second all I could feel is what I imagined the kid we were mocking or poking was feeling.

Of course that was through my window of the world. I very rarely teased others with things I thought important, only with things I thought were silly. I think, and maybe it's too generous but it is a nicer thing to assume, that most people are that way. Bullies stand out because they are the ones who really want to hurt others, where the average meanness is usually just kids lightly teasing or joking not seeing their actions as being anything but funny. So, I was that kind of average. The few times I was mean and knew it, I apologized. Boy that was scary, but nobody ever beat me up for apologizing. Acutally, I didn't apologize to Jacki Barto and I probably should have. We had a relationship of mutual vicious mockery and whacking each other. Dysfunctional flirting probably. I'm really sorry Jacki.

Unlike the healthy adult I thought I'd become, my social growth stopped after that little talk with mom. And, I don't think I ever cleaned my room again. There were some unreasonable expectations, and when I did chores the job was never complimented sincerely. I remember getting compliments a few times, but I always figured the other parent had made them do it. I remember sweeping the porch and getting in deep trouble because the maple helicopters were still stuck in the cracks, and I had to stay home that day instead of playing with the Browns. Then I'd get yelled at for taking too long while I was trying to get those freakin' helicopters, and grounded for another afternoon. Those are utterly normal and minor frustrations for most any kid. My pathological aversion to housecleaning started with that lecture on how my grandma did thigns. Maybe I'll finally be able to start improving now, having some clue as to when the aversion started.

The loss of trust can be gradual, and generally is when it comes from different places. I grew up in the Methodist church, which I used to be proud of. I remember the first song I ever learned, probably when I was four.

Jesus loves me! This I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong;
They are weak, but He is strong.

Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me!
The Bible tells me so.

I believed that song. I believed in a caring benevolent God, and absolutely believed that same love and benevolence was manifested in the church and it's members. It wasn't long before I learned what they really meant when they sang that beautiful song.

Jesus loves me! But not You,
For I claim it to be true.
You are weak, but we are strong;
We'll hold you down where you belong.

Yes, Jesus loves me!
Oh, He does hate thee!
Oh, Jesus hates thee!
For we do say it's so.

Both my parents taught me that the church wasn't perfect, rather it was a place for people to explore and learn how to be better people. If only it worked better. It allowed me to separate what the church stood for from what the people did. This reminds me of perhaps the best thing my mother taught me, or didn't teach me. Her family was racist, and I can only assume still are. She taught me the notion of equality and civil rights before I started school. I remember meeting a black man in Seattle for the first time. I'm positive it wasn't the first time I'd met a person of color. It was the first time since I'd learned the distinction. He was in line ahead of us at a store, I said "Hello" and he shook my hand. I thought it was wonderful. He'd been working, I remember his skin was shiny with moisture, and unlike the people I'd seen on our black and white tv, his skin wasn't black but a dark chocolate color. All I remember was he was very nice, grown ups hardly ever shook my hand, and his skin was beautiful.

I remember being a little scared, because what if he got mad at me for saying hello? I didn't understand why he would, but I didn't understand why sometimes black people and white people didn't like each other. I don't have that level of innocence today, but a bit is still there and I cling to it. Years later, when I was twelve, maybe a year younger I met Karl at the Barber Shop. He's only five years older than I, but as far as I was concerned he was a grown up. He is a little person. Again I was scared he'd get really mad at me, but I wanted to talk to him and I was genuinely curious. "Are you a midget I asked?"

"No, I'm a dwarf. See how my hands and feet are big like I was tall? A midget has small hands and feet, which kind of match. They're proportional. You know what that means?" I did now that he'd explained it. That lives with me as one of the kindest things a stranger ever did for me. Not only did he not snub a precocious child, he took the time to explain the difference in terminology in use at the time. I've met him numerous times over the years, and he is a wonderful actor I had the opportunity to work with on my second show. He plays many character roles, but is not typecast because of his size, and this in a rather provincial community. I've heard people say, "Geesh that guy was great, I forgot how short he is after five seconds." I experienced the same thing, and when someone is a casual friend it is even harder to allow your disbelief to be suspended. He is one of the people I consider a mentor in my pursuit of art. I'm sure he'd be startled to hear that, and start wondering if I was a stalker. I saw he and my Dad in several community theatre productions in Port Orchard, and their examples got me into my first acting class.

Mom was the most important person in my life for learning to appreciate what we now term diversity. One of my favorite things in high tech is sharing offices, as I usually share with people from India, Asia, Russia, and the Middle East. I've been extremely lucky, in that I've had people who enjoy sharing and talking about their culture. In fact now that I been in a full time position at Expedia long enough I qualified for a single office a year ago, but I enjoy Fahim's company so much I said I was more than happy to wait until the next bunch of office moves. The only dud I've had for an officemate was a white person born and bred in the U S of A.

I think issues of discrimination are about the only thing I asserted myself about most of my life. When I was ten I was briefly in a group called the Boy's Brigade. Do you find the name as creepy as I do, or is it just my experience that lends it the dark overtone? The Browns thought it was a great group, and even better than the Boy Scouts and they invited me. All I remember was getting into an argument with the adult facilitator at my second or third meeting. I didn't believe God hated anybody, and I certainly didn't believe God hated people that didn't share Mr. Facilitator's prejudice. I don't think he was very happy with a child saying he was prejudiced, and told me I was going to end up Hell if I didn't shape up. "If God hates anybody, I think he'd hate people who don't believe that Jesus came to the world to save it and not to condemn it." I think he was taken aback at a little kid from a liberal church accurately paraphrasing a very well known and appropriate bit of scripture. He started to explain to me why I was wrong, and I interrupted. A shocking thing for me to do to a grown up. "All you're doing is hating, you're not trying to help anybody. I think this is an evil club and I quit." The room was silent when I left. It was completely out of character for me, but my parents were both very proud. I was sure I was going to be in trouble for being rude to a grown up, even if I did see a sign from God. I was frightened when I left the church basement hosting the meeting. I couldn't believe what I'd done, and was shaking a bit. Then I saw it. The coolest falling star I'd ever seen. It looked fiery, close, and bit, and exploded into three or four big pieces that soon looked bigger than the original. I don't remember any more specifics, but I got to watch it for several seconds. A pretty impressive display. Now I didn't really think it was a sign, I've never placed much stock in them -- too subjective. But, if God was irritated with me certainly would have smote me with that streaking flaming boulder. He didn't, so he couldn't have been very upset with me. I mean it would have been easy to arrange since He already had the burning hand of vengeance at the ready if he'd needed it.

I was probably smarter when I was a kid. The Browns stayed at the meeting that night, and they never ever said anything about the incident. I was kind of curious what happened after I walked out, but not enough to try to talk them out of being mum about the whole thing. I figured the guy had told all the boys not to talk to me about what they said afterwards, and prayed for my immediate demise. Mrs. Brown was an astute and brilliant woman, and I suspect after the boys told her of my confrontation things changed. They weren't in the group much longer. It was a month later, maybe less, I realized we were all watching tv at their house during the Boys Brigade meeting.

I acutally stood up to bullies a few times, and usually talked my way out of beatings. Those times scared the bejeesus out of me, but not nearly as much as my first encounter with hate based faith, and my first encounter with a grown up bully. Hate based faith has always been around, and it is seeing a huge resurgence, such that even the Methodist Church which I grew up in and was at the time officially considered to be a subversive organization by the House Unamerican Activities Committee and McCarthy. And like the New York Times which enjoyed the same classification, they would now be considered an ally. The church for embracing discrimination and exclusion, the Times for acting as an enthusiastic accomplice to the war criminals starting an illegal, amoral, and unjustified war. Unlike the Times, they have not yet stopped embracing the fear and bigotry so integral to the advocates of hate based faith.
- posted by Scott @ 8:17 PM 0 comments