You know, sometimes I’m stunned. Sometimes I’m taken aback and I can’t find the words of response or I can’t grasp the conceit of others. And I restrain and I ruminate.
Sometimes the answers seem elusive and sometimes I think they’ll evade me. Yet I’m persistent and I’m cocky and I know I will solve the puzzle. So I chew it around for a while with the confidence of arriving at the solution. And eventually clarity creeps into my consciousness. I always know what occurred. And I always know why it occurred. Sometimes I know when it will occur. So I question the propriety of my response and the morality of my motivation.
Twice this week I was insulted. And twice this week I offered no response. And twice this week I offered no defense. It’s not that my feelings were hurt. I was stunned by the audacity. I was misjudged as more friend and less foe. That was their misstep. I assumed a more acute assessment. That was my miscalculation. Obviously I afforded them a disproportionate degree of wisdom and they afforded me a disproportionate degree of tolerance. Either way I was unprepared for their perpetrations. I won’t make that mistake again.
And it’s not that I couldn’t respond. Although I’m 6′2 and just shy of 200 lbs, I’m quite nimble of tongue, more than articulate, and deft at debate. Verbal rebuttal is rarely reluctant and is only hampered by a mind that shifts more swiftly than a tongue can tackle. So I hesitate to resort to a retort. I take the moment to remember where I am and what responsibility my response will weigh in the environment. If it ain’t my party, I rarely partake. I sparingly spar but I decimate decisively. If I wasn’t adept at an assail, I wouldn’t have to pursue prudence and I wouldn’t thirst for temperance.
I walked off the elevator on Tuesday and I encountered a man I dislike. No, I don’t hate him. I don’t care enough about him to offer him that much consideration. He’s a jealous man who slays with a glance and stabs with a grimace. Although I’m merely cordial to him and I’ve never actually touched the toe to the line of friendly, I’ve never ignored his presence nor have I been less than kind. We have mutual friends and that ripens the situation with complications. I greeted him with pleasantries on our first encounter Tuesday. I sucked it up for my buddy.
So when I encountered him for the second time on Tuesday, I was unprepared for his attack. He insulted me in front of others. Cowardice deems it necessary to insulate inside a crowd. A man looks into the eyes of his opponent and confronts by way of an affront: eye to eye and tooth to tooth and limb toward limb. Now, believe me - I’ve a vicious tongue. I have no trouble and even less trepidation telling a man what he is and what he is not and where he can go to acquire his necessities. And I have the kind of pride that is less lionhearted and more carnivorous. But I also have a conscience. So I tend to pray for my prey and chew my cheek as I turn it instead of gnawing at an enemy’s underbelly. So I said nothing. It’s not that I took the moral high ground; I’m a loyal friend. I bit my tongue and I swallowed my pride. The poor bastard misinterpreted my act of tolerance as an act of weakness. 
He thought I was weak-kneed. I could have brought him to his knees. I’m not angry with him for his offensive behavior. I’m angry with myself for questioning my behavior. I deliberated on whether or not I’ve become too kind. Jesus Christ, who can be too kind?
The second offense occurred while I waited in the cafeteria. I was engaged in a conversation with a man who enjoys the insolent and embraces the insult. I’ve allowed his actions because I knew there was intelligence behind his badgering. I hoped there was a heart behind the hostility. And I thought he possessed the mettle to settle into conversation and away from competition. Tuesday he threw his jabs that I dodged and then he turned to me and sneered, “Don’t you ever do anything you’re not supposed to do?” He said it like I’d been caught slapping the feeble. I held him in regard so I had let down my guard. I was caught off guard. I was unprepared and I stumbled over a response.
For an instant I felt ashamed. And for an instant I felt inadequate. And for an instant I felt humiliated that my answer had to be: “No. I don’t. I always try to do what I’m supposed to do.” For an instant I felt like such a jackass. And for the first time in my life I felt embarrassed that I tried to be a decent human being. I started to retaliate but I hesitated and I remembered that he was my friend and that I liked him. And I remembered that you can’t judge a man by one sentence. Many times I’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time with little motivation. So I sucked it up for my buddy. Yet my gullet has been engulfed and I’ve taken more than I’m willing to swallow. I’m a man, not a vacuum.
You know, it’s ironic he would ask me that question in a hospital. The rooms of a hospital are littered with the remnants of people who did not do what they were supposed to do. You can meander into any room and find someone in a bed or near the rail or on a table or in a chair and see the effects of someone not doing what he was supposed to do. Whether it be the obese who didn’t wane or the drunk who didn’t abstain or the contagious who didn’t contain or the smoker who didn’t refrain, they all suffer the consequences of their behavior. Even accident victims suffer the consequences of someone somewhere not doing what he was supposed to do.
I think there has to be a pursuit in life that is higher than a paycheck, a payback, or a piece of ass. Surely there is more to attain than that. What happened to honor or nobility or loyalty? Those are the passions of my pursuits. And if it makes me odd or unique to aspire to something outside my pocket, or beyond my wrist or above my waist, then I’ll carry the mantle alone. I’ve never given a rat’s ass whether or not I was liked. I have cared whether or not I was alike. But, that was then. I don’t anymore. I’ll turn my cheek when my conscience requires it. And I’ll turn my back when my face is too swollen to locate my teeth.
It’s funny that no one ever considers that a cheek can turn to offer the other side or the backside. Turn about is fair play and sometimes it’s about keeping face to make an about face. And sometimes you have to save your buddy’s face by putting your fist in your pocket and giving him the treat of your retreat.
And I’ll do all that. But I won’t compromise. I know what I am. I know what I am not. I am a human being who deserves to be treated with dignity and honored for my humanity. I am not the punchline to a poke from a prick who feels threatened by my presence. I am required to bow before my God. I am not required to grab my ankles before any man. I know the merits of righteousness outweigh the benefits of fellowship.
I’m not that kind of a man and I’m not that loyal of a friend. I have one mouth, two fists, two sets of cheeks, and two testicles. I’m not required to offer them in barter to any man for compensation, camaraderie, retaliation, or retribution. And I still have two feet that I’ll plant and I will not be moved. By God when I leave this earth, I’ll at least know that I didn’t waste my space and I wasn’t content to be remembered as a wallet, a fist, and a dick.
June 8, 2007
1. I hate sociology. I didn’t like it in college and my attitude hasn’t changed. Well, the class itself wasn’t so bad. I sat next to the one of the 10 best looking women I’ve ever actually seen and I can’t recall her name. It was Tracy or Stephanie. Hell I don’t remember. I know her name started with a letter. I don’t recall just eliciting a sound to greet her each class. And drool doesn’t prevent someone from forming letters. Babies teethe and still retain their ability to produce vowel sounds. Wow - I can’t believe I don’t remember her name. It’s as incredible to me as many of the sociological concepts I studied. Although I do recall the professor’s name and I thought he was a horse’s ass.
knife or something and frankly I enjoy this blog but that’s just asking too goddamned much) and it implies elevation for this observation which means helicopters and/or air travel, or some sort of a large scaled ant farm. And we know I’m disinterested in those. Besides, I always tend to fly by the seat of my pants. It’s cheaper than most airlines. And I’m willing to wager that American males are unwilling to slide under a microscope or crawl between two sheets of glass framed by wood. So all my observations were based on personal history, interpersonal communications, and pure all-American conjecture.
And I contend that anyone who would justify any performer who sang and wore polyester slacks and sweaters and finger snapped and shoulder swayed falls into the Paul Anka category and probably has his greatest hits 8-track in their attic. And I say God bless ‘um; this is America. But please stay out of my way.
