WANDERINGS THROUGH THE MINDVERSE
The Unalloyed Joys of Harsh Judgement
Boston, 1942
As we all know from the date, our nation was at war. Despite its many factions, America was united in the earnest -and, at the time seemingly impossible- effort to defeat the German-Japanese-Italian Juggernauts. Yet, the war effort did not only involve the soldiers. Everyone who could do so contributed to the war effort by any means necessary. From what I was told, it was an era of both desperate fear but nearly universal togetherness in our country.* After all, nothing stops a family squabble as effectively as predators on the doorstep.
And, then there was my father, an able-bodied young man who was often seen walking through Boston, apparently without a care in the world. All the other men of comparable age had either joined up or were joining up. The only young men who remained were those whose infirmities precluded military service or those who had already sustained injuries in combat. As was readily apparent to the glowering citizens who placed him squarely in their focal point of scorn, my father bore no injuries at all. He walked without impediment and lived unbruised. Consequently, he was relegated to a position outside the wide circuit of sympathy encompassing our nation. One shouldn't wonder at his exclusion: nobody likes a shirker or a coward.
1942....earlier in the year
My furious father challenged an Army Sgt to a fight. With a sigh and a sharp comment about Irish "diplomacy" , the officer declined and after pushing the sheet of paper back into my father's hands, dismissed him. My father walked away in a rage and while returning home, cast furtive glances at the paper, as though hoping the "4F" stamp had vanished. You see, my father enlisted in the army and all went well until the drill Sergeant noticed him in formation. His head was tilted slightly to one side due to a slight but congenital spine mis-alignment. "Gleason!" the Sgt barked, "why are you holding your head like that?!" My father replied glibly, "I was born that way." Although his response elicited universal laughter among the recruits, the officer remained stone faced and ordered him out of the formation. Soon thereafter, Robert Gleason was rejected. A stunning rebuke that induced him to pose that uncharacteristic fight challenge. (Despite his foaming torrents of Irish blood, Dad rarely sought out a fight.)
In desperation my father went to every other branch of the service, only to be ultimately rejected by each one for the same exact reason. He pleaded with them to admit him, even if in a non-combat role, such as an ambulance driver or in another capacity. Though perhaps appreciative of his zeal, they remained nonetheless deaf to his entreaties. He was sent back home, but didn't remain long. The looks directed toward him proved to be too painful. He went to work on a chicken farm in Maine, far away from prying eyes. Who can blame him? As anyone who's been in the sight of a censorious stare can attest, another person's glance can sometimes be a tactile experience: tingling the neck, drawing hot blood to the face, and chilling the heart. We shouldn't forget the ballad of Sam Hall, the condemned criminal who, as he stood on the gallows, faced the throng of the town's citizens and defiantly proclaimed, "I am Sam Hall. I hate you all. God damn your eyes."
I am sure my father could have explained to those who fixed him in that harsh stare that he was roundly rejected by all the services and still pleaded for admission, but to no avail. Understandably, he didn't. It is unlikely that anyone would have believed him. And, besides, those who were harshly judging him were secretly enjoying themselves so much they would have resisted such attempts at disabuse.
There's the rub: harsh judgement is both rapturous and gratifying. It often tastes too good to spit out. Incidentally, this article is not a sermon: I've indulged in those judgements myself, I'm afraid. This article, like those that have preceded it, is just another clumsy attempt to try to make sense of things and to construct a healthy mind out of the rubble.
Perhaps we recognize that in a way harsh judgement isn't as personal as it seems, which might prove hollow comfort to the hanged witches and those whose self-hatred runs so deep they'll eventually die of depression. When someone judges you, it is truly all about him/her: he/she is shooting heroin, inhaling a marijuana bong or ingesting a fine wine at your expense. It is highly probable that if that person truly knew your situation, the presumption on which the judgement is based would be promptly dispelled. So, it is nothing personal. Then again, the advice, "take nothing personally," seems tantamount to someone saying, "take a piece of chalk and explain this:
It all feels so horrifically personal: to be judged, castigated, and misunderstood.
My mother cautioned me many times not to introduce the topic of World War II to my father as he found it quite distressing. Eventually, however, he did speak of it, hence the information contained at the article's beginning. The tension was palpable: he spoke calmly, albeit with pregnant pauses and the occasional clenched fist. Despite the lapse of decades, the anguish of that experience was scarcely diminished. The psychological evicersation of harsh judgement tends to inflict indelible scars.
I often feel the urge to apologize to my father: an impossibility now, as he moved on in 2004. I am sorry, though, that he went through that. When listening to him relate his story, I vowed not to judge others....and didn't live up to that vow on many separate occasions. Perhaps the next time I feel the urge to indulge in judgement, I should recall his experience and remember, especially now in our highly polarized, fractured country, that we're often damaging each other far more grievously than we realize.
Thank you for reading.
I hope I haven't wasted your time.
*Forgive me, I am not forgetting about the disenfranchised minorities. It is that my focus now is elsewhere.