Early Lessons

So, I haven't blogged since Friday (and let's be honest; I really haven't blogged since Thursday ... not that we don't loves us some Mary J).

And it's not that I don't have much to say; yesterday was pretty much like any other day; I had strong opinions about any "hot topic" you could throw my way. The thing is ... I'm beginning to distrust my take on things. Not that my worldview is falling to pieces or anything, but I'm experiencing a gentle reality check that says hello, I don't know everything.

Nevertheless, given the fact that two of my favorite bloggers have decided to take a break for a short time, I feel compelled to write something, just so poor Tater has something to read (I'm lookin' out for ya, buddy).

So I'm tempted to write about Senator Clinton and her unfortunate comments about Martin Luther King Jr. and civil rights. I don't think she meant it as a racist slam, but it sure came out that way -- and though it's my knee-jerk reaction to defend anyone who I've decided I'm supporting, I have a hard time defending what she said. If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck ... does that mean that Hillary Clinton is a racist? I'll get back to that later.

I'm tempted to touch on some issues raised by The Hat over on her blog today, about the ways that children cope with heartache and abuse in ways that can be miraculous or tragic, and are often both. Because I've got some opinions about that as well.

Of course, when the chips are down, I can always gripe about the fact that I'm single. Because yes, I have some thoughts about that, too.

But in a way, all of these thoughts boil down to the same general thesis. Which I'll get to, eventually.

Yes, I think that Hillary Clinton is a racist. This might surprise you. But consider this: I think I'm a racist. Furthermore, I think that almost every white person in America is a racist. And if I think about it, most of the people of color in this country are racists, too. Racism is ingrained in just about every institution and organization in this country. All around us are subtle and not-so-subtle messages that suggest that white people are smarter, better, and more important than everyone else. We learn these lessons over and over and over. Hopefully, we grow up and realize, cognitively, that this total and utter crap -- but by then, it's too late. It's inside of us, and it's a slow-dying virus that requires constant medicine over a long period of time to beat. I haven't beat it yet. If I'm honest, I don't know anyone who has. And yes, I'll still vote for Hillary in the DC primary.

Over at The Voluptuary, The Hat announced today that she's taking a little break from blogging, but wrapped up this sad little announcement (not overly sad, in point of fact; I have her phone number) in a package of purely transcendent musings about what happens to sad kids when they are denied basics like food, security, and love. I couldn't do better than she did it herself, but I'll give you a sampling:

This is why those wild babies are so tragic, you know those kids that the FBI only seems to find trapped in their basement cages when it's too late and the parents have already ruined them? Perfectly fine little human beings that are made socially retarded because they simply were never held enough or talked to or shown proper love. Have you ever wondered why that is? It's because the triggers were never set off so the brain just worked around it. The brain will happily bypass the required neural pathways to speech and make a shit ton of pathways to, oh I dunno say, hearing. And that wild child with the tragic past can't form it's mouth to say anything beyond "buh", but it can hear a pin drop onto a pillow in the next room. That sort of thing. [...]

I have an endless hallway where a room of safety was meant to be. I have a brick wall put up where a sense of connection had been originally intended. I went hungry a lot as a child. Slept with books filled with images of food and fantasy. On and on I could relay these stories that suddenly make sense to me as an adult. But I won't. Because that's too off topic and what all of this is leading up to is that - I am a nutter because my brain at some point during those oh so important formative years said, "To hell with you neglectful, abusive people - I'm going over here to the imagination to set up camp instead". So I over-react to petty shit. I all-or-nothing myself to bits and bits. And I what-if myself to the point of indecision. Blah blah blah. Well pooh to that, I say. It's exhausting and I'm tired. And I'm going into all of this in my attempt to explain and justify myself to you all. Something that a higher functioning person would automatically know is entirely unnecessary but there you have it.

That's just a little bit o' Hat for you, but it's better if you read the whole thing.

And that's why Hat is a nutter. It's probably the same reason that all of us are nutters, if we care to admit it. And while there are always varying degrees of nutterness, we probably all have a touch of it -- because contrary to what my mother might tell you, there is no such thing as a perfect childhood.

My childhood was probably as close to perfect as it could have been. My parents loved me very much. Dad was less emotive than I might have wished, but never abusive. Mom was tougher than I might have liked, but I appreciate that toughness today. My sister was annoyingly perfect, but what can you do? And as wonderful as these people were and continue to be, I was a little gay boy growing up on a series of military bases. That's a recipe for some serious nutterdom right there. I accommodated this impossible situation by climbing into a dark cave of deep denial until the age of twenty-five. And while I deluded myself into believing that I was heterosexual, in practice I was asexual. All of my friends were girls but I had no girlfriends, and was outwardly disdainful of the boys I now realize that I was attracted to. Didn't like 'em. Hated 'em, even. Unable to deal with the fact that my desire was other than it should have been, I protected myself by twisting and bending it until it looked something like utter loathing. I would literally recoil at the sight of a cute boy. And I wonder today why I'm still single.

So ... old habits are hard to break. It's not the most groundbreaking thesis in the world, but there it is. It might be more lofty to say that the lessons we learn earliest stick around the longest. If you learn that white people are smarter, better, and more important than anyone else at an age when you're not prepared to question or contradict it, it's going to be difficult to shake off. If you learn not to expect comfort or nurturing from the big people that surround you, you get into the habit of providing for yourself. And if you learn to cope by fusing desire with derision as a young boy, it's awfully hard to allow yourself to fall in love with anyone when you grow up.