come to dislike him for his early direct work on this continent, but
I'm the forgiving kind. I want to point out where he & I agree.
In terms of culture, we human beings are ahead of every other
multi-cellular creature we know of. (I have be with Nietzsche on this
one. He said we are too arrogant, insisting to understand the world as
if the rest of creation were aspiring to be manlike. Why would a moth
want to be a man? Why would we think it any less because it wants to
be a moth? That's for another day. Remind me, sweetie!)
We enculturate children who will spend their entire lives learning
what it means to be an acceptable human being. An important lesson
that no one else can teach them, they must catch it for themselves.
They must accept themselves. So it turns out that my friend calls me
this evening to tell me that his wife just delivered their first
child. I dropped everything & relocated my ass through traffic (Okada,
we hail thee) to where they were. The way I smiled, you'd think I had
triplets & a lavish expense account (babies are expensive). I saw him,
I carried him & I realised that this was a new person. I am one of
many responsible to God by being responsible for him. I gladly take
it. He's worth every drop of sweat and concern from me. My only
problem right now, as I punch this out in the maternity ward, is his
bevy of Aunties. Don't get me wrong. They are...lovely women. But I'm
feeling a little odd around them. I mention colostrum &they look at me
like...(I'm not paranoid!) I am the odd thing in a 'spot what's wrong
with this picture' game. Maybe. But their sudden pauses make me feel
uncomfortable. So I'm being really quiet right now as I write this
down. If it's considered to be women only, I dare them to out talk me
on this matter. I'm a ready made husband (thank you reading habit and
Everywoman), I won't lose my head when my time comes, I most certainly
will not take kindly to assertions that I am not fit to contribute to
the conversations. None of them has had a baby. True, neither have I,
but still this discrimination is terribly unfair.
I want to post this before he is 12 hours old. Why?
The Fire Next Time was an essay written to a nephew and delivered to
him when he was 16 years old. I'm starting to work on his. I think
I'll call it These Are Deep Times. Or not. I figure I've got 16 to
work it out.
I love him without reserve. Just like I love his father. And I would
do anything for either of them. Anything. At all.
--
Sent from my mobile device
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