Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 2 Number 3, December 2001
_______________________________________________________________
Feathered
Spirits
By
It
was an ordinary accident, ordinary except that it blocked the road, and forced
its ugly way into my life. Two boys, on their way to high school, sped over a
hill, and slammed their small pickup under a stopped truck. Their hundred-foot
skid marks explained why it happened. Both boys were pinned in the wreckage,
with legs pointing in odd directions. The driver was convulsing thick blood.
They struggled weakly, and while the trucker watched for fire, I held them
still.
Distant
sirens eventually found us, and special equipment quickly freed the two. A
helicopter landed and took one away. The other screamed off in an ambulance.
There
was a woman on the rescue team, and I was thankful, yet vaguely uncomfortable by
her presence. The men could all remember when it was their time... the
invincible feeling... the defiant pounding rush of pure danger. There was an
unspoken acceptance as they carried off two of their own. The woman was an
outsider somehow, an intrusion of sanity... like a nun at a prizefight. I
wondered if she understood the two million years of instructions these boys were
following, when they raced along that narrow hilly road?
It
was evening before I learned any more. Among the injuries were collapsed lungs,
a fractured skull, and several broken legs; but both boys would live. Horror
turned to relief, then sadness. Mother Nature played a particularly cruel trick
on the male of our species. We are unable to understand danger at adolescence...
and are compelled to challenge it. These invincible young warrior instincts came
from our tribal past, and the combination creates this deadly rite of passage.
Those of us who survived, boast of the things we did.
These
two now have their stories; but first they will be hauled out to the skid marks;
for the lectures, and the hugs, and the inevitable loss of their keys - a
measure that probably isn't necessary. They were learning pretty good there, for
the last hundred feet. Their knees will never forgive them, and the memory of a
dry scream will remain annoying wedged in their throats, forever.
When
the young heroes finally hobble to school, their teachers will point them out,
while sternly dispensing the usual warnings. A demoralizing task, this,
explaining danger to an audience, half of whom are invincible. The drone of
rules and deadly statistics will quickly bore those at the rear - the arrogantly
fidgeting nobility, whose feathered spirits are in war paint, leaping about
ancient bonfires. Words of caution grow pale and silent in this part of the
room, to snickering taunts hurled from the beginnings of time.
The
concept of danger cannot be communicated to adolescent males, but the reason it
can't, can. They were needed this way.
*
We
evolved in tribal groups. As tools were developed, and fire was mastered; the
problems of food and predators were overcome. With no viable restraints, our
population expanded. In the scramble for limited "hunting/gathering"
resources, only the strongest groups survived. The caring and fairness necessary
for tribal strength evolved, but those qualities extended only to
"us". We developed a we/they
mentality. "We" were sacred. Everyone else was not.
Warriors
became necessary; a duty that involved dodging spears. Speed, agility, and an
eager willingness were required. Older members of the groups had families, and
compelling reasons to help in the risky confrontations; but they were slow, and
were needed for their knowledge and experience. Young females were necessary for
reproduction. Young males were the obvious warrior candidates, but with no
investment in the tribe, getting them to stand their ground, would be a problem.
Famous
for her tricks, Nature found a way. She gave young males a love for thrills and
glory, and the belief that they were invincible. Then, for good measure, she
gave everyone a love for "heroes".
It
was a cruel trick, but it worked. Tribes armed with these willing weapons were
more successful than those with cautious sensible young men. Over thousands of
generations, we males have been bred to be thrillingly, gloriously, and
expendably stupid at adolescence. Like temporary soldier ants, we weren't
designed to survive; we were designed so the rest would.
The
traits remain, but our world has changed. The grisly result pours into emergency
rooms daily, not all of it extracted from mangled vehicles. Warrior aftermath of
a purer kind is collected in the frayed areas of American cities. Here, idle
boys form teams, and enjoy a rivalry that involves shooting at each other.
Different game. Same thrills. Same glory. Same sirens. Same words angrily
scrawled on the toe tags: "terminal
stupidity."
Man,
the intelligent animal, the maker of tools and explorer of the universe, has
been alone at the top of the food chain, with no birth control, since the first
spears were fashioned. Two million years of push and shove have left us with a
fearful we/they mentality, an inane
interest in physical contests and their heroes, and sons that are dumber than
dirt.
On
a limited planet, with no viable enemies, we had to become our own. There was no
other way. The sacrificial duty fell to our sons, and the adaptation is
tragically visible in them. When not on the playing fields, their quests for
thrills and glory bring only hollow thrills, scorn, and grief. In the US, young
men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-six, die of injuries at a rate nearly
four times that of the more sensible sex.* Twenty thousand are killed in this
country each year... fifty a day... two every hour.
*
For
most of human history, warriors were revered. Young men knew their purpose, and
strutted in praise and respect. In the placid modern world, they linger in vague
and boring anticipation... battling dark forces on video games, and dreaming
their glory dreams... or performing their athletic miracles to our frenzied
cheers... none of us remembering why.
When
left together, the waiting gets dangerous. It's as if their feathered spirits
start telling war stories and the competition sometimes spills over. A challenge
is issued... courage is questioned... and young men eagerly toss rule and reason
aside, to heed the primal call. All too often, sirens are sent to find them; and
if luck turns away, pleading eyes and disbelieving fingers will be gently pried
loose, and sheets will be pulled over, and then they're gone... and all the
dreams that never were... will never be.
From
the first rush of excitement, to the wide-eyed, terrifying end; young dreams
have been violently separated from young bodies for two million years. The path
to our modern world is littered with their sacrifice. Those discarded dreams cry
out in soundless rage, as invincible young warriors discover the journey was not
for them. They are no longer needed... in truth, they are no longer allowed.
Their watch is over.
Un-thanked,
and heralded only by sirens, anguished spirits move back down that merciless,
blood-soaked trail. We pull over
and stare at the casual butchery in helpless horror as Mother Nature undoes her
little trick, and smartens up the male of her favorite species... and somewhere
in the shared soul of mankind, lives the murmuring knowledge, that a piece of
the best in us is slipping away.
*
It
was a very ordinary accident, but it has been disturbingly difficult to forget
the two boys at the end of those skid marks; eager vestiges
of another time, high on their ancient mission; flawless original
masterpieces, smashed against the modern world. Disturbing because the last few
generations of us have known about our beginnings, yet we have refused to accept
our ancestry, and explain its significance to our children.
Anthropologists
try. They lead us to the excavations, and point excitedly to our origins. We
glance at some crude tools and primitive drawings, then we look back at our
shiny things... and walk away. In cosmic irony, or divine justice, we dismiss
our parentage, while luck decides which of our sons will live.
The
boys on that road needed to know what they were passing through. They all do.
Fitted with instructions from a glorious past, fueled with excitement, and set
loose in a modern world; they are in the crimson
netherland between a place that is no more, and a place they are not ready
for... in the pitiless ambush of change. They should be told.
By
understanding the tricks of their evolution, our sons may recognize the ancient
voices, and appreciate the connection... and the honor; and when all the
gathered ghosts of nature are screaming for stupidity - these expendable heroes
may stand firm, and hold their ground in proud defiance.
It's
their call. Pitted against breeding, knowledge is sorrowfully inadequate; but
instincts, like tricks, lose much of their terrible power, once revealed. Clear
and understandable information is all we can give them, and it's all a warrior
asks.
***
Merle
Borg, 11/18/01
*The
figures are the latest (1998) US figures, taken from: Office of Statistics and
Programming, National Center for Injury Prevention and Control, Injury Mortality
Reports
http://webapp.cdc.gov/sasweb/ncipc/mortrate.html
Injury
deaths, all intents, ages 15-25,
Female - 5,341
Male - 20,183
For
questions and comments, please see http://www.angelfire.com/ca6/merleborg/
To add your comments and questions, please contact me at: lborg@sdcoe.k12.ca.us