MASQUERADE

A FEW OF THE GRANDKIDS were visiting this weekend. The subject of "what are you going to be for Halloween" came up. A couple of thoughts quickly rattled around my mind like a spook house skeleton: 1.) What would I "be" if I were a kid on the eve of All Hollows Day in 2025.? 2.) Wow, there are a lot more costume options these days.

Back in the day we had clowns and bunny rabbits and princesses along with the darker options like ghosts, witches, monsters. If you were lucky enough to have parents that would spend "good" money for a store-bought costume your options opened up to cartoon characters, super heros and such. The most dreaded question for those of us whose costumes were created with love from the stuff on hand was, "What are you supposed to be?" (That questions still haunts me.)

Reality broke my reverie when one of the grands asked, "Pops, what were you for Halloween when you were a kid?" I replied, "A Hobo was always my go-to."

"A what?!" I explainded the concept. They set it in the context of their world: "So, a homeless guy?" Yes, I suppose that was the idea. But we didn't mean it in a mocking way, I tried to explain to them.

For the zero percent chance that anyone under 50 is reading this, your basic hobo costume was pretty easy to throw together at the last minute. A few patches would be loosly stitched to your jeans. A sleeve would be cut from one of dad's old flannel shirts. While this was going on I would find a good stick. On the end of the stick a bandana would be tied with a few hobo essentials inside. A beard would be applied using a burnt cork. Since we were Baptists we didn't have a cork so we borrowed one from the Catholic lady who lived a few doors down, who "enjoyed an occasional glass of wine, just like Jesus probably did."

I didn't mind being a hobo, but it was hard to be incognito without an actual mask. "Aren't you the little Fuller boy?" the neighbors would ask, holding out the bowl of treats. Being unrecognized and unidentified seemed--and sometimes still seems--important although I'm not sure why.

Masks offer an air of secrecy, but those of us wearing the mask know full well who is behind our mask--if we're honest with ourselves. Masks are the essential element in any masquerade. Think about the verb version of the word: masquerading. "To assume the appearance of something one is not; an act of pretending or disguising oneself to conceal the truth about something."

Remember when masks became a cultural touchpoint: sickness and health, life and death, right and wrong, right and left, to mask or not to mask, friend vs friend, families divided, churches split. Of course the masks of the pandemic were not the masks of our childhood, unless you were masquerading as a doctor or a nurse or a biohazard first responder. Somehow masks of any kind seem like a veil of sorts, separating two things or states-of-being, along a vast spectrum; whether it's the innocent fun of a four year-old taking on the identity of a Ninja Turtle for an evening or the horrid hood of a klansman camouflaging a life shattered by hate, and wanting to shamefully hide somehow.

It's not always the bad guys that wear masks. Remember The Lone Ranger? Every episode he would do good deeds and then ride off to the horizon, leaving people to ask with admiration and wonder, "Who was that masked man?"

But now we have the masks of federal agents, camouflaged, engaged in an onslaught of the ends justifying the means, even when those ends are unjustifiable things like meeting quotas and quenching the insatiable thirsts of the power hungry. Sometimes it takes hiding behind a mask to dehumanize ourselves enough to strip the humanity of others.

I am not saying that every agent or officer or soldier is motivited by meanness. I know many of them have hearts to serve and believe their mission to be an important one. I too long to see unrepentant criminals removed from society. And, I am in no position to be throwing stones let alone casting the first one. My mask often hides a coward and hypocrite. I hope it completely hides the worst of me. I don't want anyone to see me at my worst and say, "Aren't you that Fuller boy?"

Please don't ask me: "What are you supposed to be?"

A P.S. if you're interesed. In a story on NPR about the creation of The Lone Ranger character it was decided that he would live by a moral code. Here it is:

I believe that to have a friend, a man must be one.

That all men are created equal and that everyone has within himself the power to make this a better world.

That God put the firewood there but that every man must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for what is right.

That a man should make the most of what equipment he has.

That 'this government, of the people, by the people and for the people' shall live always.

That men should live by the rule of what is best for the greatest number.

That sooner or later...somewhere...somehow...we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth, and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man.

With a Little Help

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind. And, love your neighbor as yourself.”

“And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus tells the story we call "The Good Samaritan", recorded in Luke 10, then asks this:

36 “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
37 The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

But, from whose perspective? I've always heard this "Good Samaritan" story told as if our neighbor is the guy that got mugged and lies along the road. He's the guy that we're supposed to be neighborly toward--loving him as we would love ourselves.

But wait a minute. Look at Jesus' question: "Which of these was a neighbor to the man?" Imagine for a second that you are the one left banged up and broken in the ditch. Along comes a guy, let's call him Mr. Rogers. You're surprised that he has humbly stopped to help. You say, "Won't you be my neighbor?"

My point is that maybe, just maybe, what Jesus is saying is that our neighbor is the person(s) we allow to help us, the one we become very vulnerable to. Seems to me that can be pretty challenging. I find it easier to be the helper than the helpee.

If you're still with me on this circuitous path of Pops' strange logic, let's take the next step. Let's assume I'm reading Jesus correctly and my neighbor is the person that I allow to offer me aid, then to love myself in that neighborly way means letting my inner Mr. Rogers be kind to myself, to give myself an occasional break, to lay a cold rag on my forehead, to bandage up even the occasional emotional booboo. It takes being a bit vulnerable.

That last sentence was so hard to type. I don't like the idea of vulnerability, of people seeing me in need of aid. I don't like admitting that sometimes I'm not okay, that maybe I need a little help from my friends, trusting the ones who wouldn't stand up and walk out on me even if I sang out of tune.

I just bought an e-bike. It costs more than my used VW Bus did back in 1970. The hardest part of buying an e-bike though wasn't the cost. It was admitting I need help. I've tried riding my single-speed cruiser bike around town, but there are some hills that I just can't make it up. Sometimes (almost all the time) the winds are too stout for me to peddle against.

With e-bikes there are two varieties: peddle-assist or throttle. If you choose the throttle model, you can actually ride with no assist at all, like a moped or scooter. Just get on and twist the throttle and off you go. With peddle-assist, you have to actually pedal, the motor just helps a little, sort of flattens out the hills a bit.

Salesman: "Do you want a throttle model?"

Me: "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm only 70-something. I just need a little help."

Still, I imagine that when people see me riding they may think, "Look at the old man go. He must be in excellent shape. Wait a minute! That thing has a motor!"

This post isn't an endorsement for e-bikes. It's a metaphor.

I read a column in the New York Times written by a young lady who, along with her husband, had suffered a horrible tragedy. They lost their little girl, Lucy, shortly after her birth. In the article she talked about her lifelong love of bicycling and how in the trauma after their loss she never rode. She also talked about their grief and the people who, with all good intentions, sought to offer aid. The article ends with this paragraph:

"Now with spring in like a lion, I’m back out riding. When hills come up on the horizon, I don’t let pride stand in the way. I crank up the electric-powered motor a couple of notches and allow it to give me a boost. Slowly, through every swerve and switchback, grief has given way to gratitude. But only because I have help moving through it."
-- By Jess Mayhugh April 18, 2024. New York Times.

AFTER THE "FALL"

I'LL ADMIT IT. The first words out of my mouth were not, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" They were a rapid fire of the same mild expletive, repeated thrice; the same word I have heard uttered many times by my maternal grandmother. (As if that makes it acceptable.)

I quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen the wipe out or were holding the ears of their young to protect them from this wild old man yelling obscenities into the cold, wet night. Actually I didn't yell them. I couldn't even breath. The impact had knocked the air from my lungs. Fortunately there was no one around.

Quickly I gathered myself, found a way to stand up thinking: NO ONE SHALL KNOW OF THIS!

You see I'm sort of senior-adultish. Once a senior "has a fall", the assumption is that they will fall all the time. I can remember a few times being at the ER with my parents in their 90s. Along with the typical hospital bracelet with the bar code on it that they scan everytime they hand you a Kleenex or take your temperature, they would get a red bracelet that said "FALL RISK".

So concerned about being labeled a FALLER am I, that I don't want to even call it a fall. I can just imagine the others on the playground at recess yelling, "Fuller the Faller!"--sort of like the abuse Winnie-the-Poo must of felt just because of that one time.

Here's how it went down. We went to a basketball game to watch our oldest Grand-Girl lead cheers, which she does wonderfully. When we went in the gym the weather was nice. I was wearing shorts, a Tulsa Hurricane sweatshirt, Birkenstocks and boxers. As we were leaving a cold front had come in bringing icy temps and sheets of rain. My Amazing-Missus suggested I might go get the vehicle and pick she and the younger Grand-Girls up out front. So, as if I was twenty-something instead of seventy-something, I went racing across the dark, dark parking lot, hood up, glasses covered in rain. When WHAM. I tripped on an unseen parking curb that I swear had been installed since we entered the gym an a few hours earlier.

Apparently on the first bounce I hit my left knee and right rib cage. I think the best picture I can give is of the way we used to dive head first on a Slip N Slide when we were kids. I limped to the car and quickly checked that there was no blood and that all my joints were in place and working. Good! Other than being soaking wet, covered in parking lot soot and not being able to breath, there's no way My Amazing-Missus would ever know what had happened. My first senior Fall would be my own secret. Somehow though she caught on. Maybe the fact that I would moan with each inhale of air gave it away.

I came clean and finally decided to go to the ER to have things checked out. A few hours later I left with my bar code scanned for a bunch of x-rays and a single pill that would help me rest, which I had to take with three witnesses watching.

Thankfully, I escaped without a FALL RISK bracelet, which I'm taking as the official word that I am not one--yet.

It's been a few days now. I've faithfully iced the knee and ribs and done my deep breathing exercises although inhaling is still like a kick in the ribs.

The good news is that I can still be counted on to walk on my own, to go get the car on cold, wintry nights and trusted to carry the eggs from the store to the car. Just give me a few days for these old ribs to heal.

I have to say, I'm rather proud of myself that I took the Big Wipe Out (which is my name for the incident), bounced hard, learned not to run in dark, wet parking lots, and I'm still standing and limping just a little.

NON AGE

WANT TO KNOW THE SECRET TO ETERNAL YOUTHFULNESS?

I typed "non age" for the title because I thought it looked like a more compelling title. The actual word is "nonage" —a lack of maturity, sort of being stuck in a state of youth-hood.

"Enlightenment is man's emergence from his self-imposed nonage. Nonage is the inability to use one's own understanding without another's guidance. This nonage is self-imposed if its cause lies not in lack of understanding but in indecision and lack of courage to use one's own mind without another's guidance." --Immanuel Kant

Or, as my mother would say, "If everyone was jumping off a building would you?"

I started to title this entry: "SAPERE AUDE!" But that seemed like a sure way to guarantee no one will read the first sentence and beyond. But don't click away yet. Sapere aude is a latin phrase translated: Dare to know! Or, "Have the courage to use your own understanding," which Kant called "the motto of the enlightenment."

A bunch of years ago now, around this time of year, it was "Senior Sunday" in the church where I was the youth minister. I stood in the vestibule with the seniors all lined up in their caps and gowns ready to march in and be recognized for their attainments. The first young lady in line wore the stole of the valedictorian. She said to me, "I've been meaning to ask you a question. What is it we're supposed to believe about (insert any moral ambiguity)?"

"You're the valedictorian!" I thought to myself. "And we've talked and talked about knowing who you are and what you know to be true and what values guide you."

Now, I sit here typing this and I realize that Sapere Aude is a life-long journey. Not only is it never-ending, we shouldn't wish for it to be. We should fall in love and stay in love with the beauty of discovery. As Peter Fenton says, "Be a learn-it-all; not a know-it-all." The worst thing we can do is abdicate our journey of discovery to others. Not that we can't learn from others, standing on their shoulders, but we must not settle or sell out to a "party line"; ANY party line without exploring it, testing it, and knowing it empirically.

The word Dare in the phrase Dare To Know is so appropriate because it can be risky business. It might mean standing on your own, seeing from a different perspective, disagreeing with even significant others. It might also mean you'll have to admit your were wrong about something, or that you JUST DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING.

[NOTE: What I write here at About Pops is mainly introspection. I'm not preaching to anyone (at least not intentionally). This is a personal journal with a little soapbox for ranting built in.]

Now, a little more from Kant's essay on enlightenment:

"Laziness and cowardice are the reasons why such a large part of mankind gladly remain minors all their lives, long after nature has freed them from external guidance. They are the reasons why it is so easy for others to set themselves up as guardians. It is so comfortable to be a minor. If I have a book that thinks for me, a pastor who acts as my conscience, a physician who prescribes my diet, and so on--then I have no need to exert myself. I have no need to think, if only I can pay; others will take care of that disagreeable business for me... Thus it is very difficult for the individual to work himself out of the nonage which has become almost second nature to him. He has even grown to like it, and is at first really incapable of using his own understanding because he has never been permitted to try it. Dogmas and formulas, these mechanical tools designed for reasonable use--or rather abuse--of his natural gifts, are the fetters of an everlasting nonage. The man who casts them off would make an uncertain leap over the narrowest ditch, because he is not used to such free movement. That is why there are only a few men who walk firmly, and who have emerged from nonage by cultivating their own minds."

An undeniable fact I'm discovering: that while I may be mired in nonage mentally, socially and spiritually; physically I'm marching on to the inevitable. Let's sing the last verse of Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" together:

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day
I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Not to misunderstand Joni or to question her life view, but this song does seem to reduce all to just two sides. Maybe she's acknowledging that tendency and also saying clearly life is not either/or; cut and dried.

Personally, I've been...
Republican and Democrat
Evangelist and Agnostic
Teacher and Student
Optimist and Pessimist
Liberal and Conservative
Happy and Angry
Pro Life and Pro Choice
Confused and Certain
Beautiful and Ugly
Hawk and Dove
Wishy and Washy
Pro and Con
Enlightened and sometimes living under a spell as if I had never had a thought, a belief or value of my own.

The truth is I've always lived in the gray in-between. That doesn't mean I have no certainty. I do. I tend to spend a lot of time in my own head. (Not recommending that.) And when I do, a question my self often gets asked by me is: Of what are you certain? Here's one:

Certainly moving to maturity and beyond nonage doesn't mean we forsake youthfulness. The innocent curiosity of that age is essential to the momentum, the enlightenment.

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the light surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

[verse 2 of "Forever Young" by Bob Dylan]

And, then this from the Psalmist: "Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path."

Be enlightened my friends. That's the secret.