…Or, Reflections in a Wilderness of Projection
July 7, 2012
You are what you eat, eat well.
You are what you wear, wear well.
After 20 years with juvenile delinquents, the throwaways of Americana – I tend to see the worst in everyone – because that’s what I’ve seen every day for the past…well, the past 20 years. But I digress…the other day I was parking our friend’s car which was the loosest vehicle I’ve touched since my ’66 Buick Electra and ’66 Mustang (steering and acceleration-wise) – and managed to shear off 2-of-my-sprinkler heads: which created a goddamn emergency in terms of watering my front garden, until I realized that I’m on the verge of being semi-retired, and, that Giti knows how to bypass Station #1.
So, forgetting these little factlets (because I’m programmed to panic) I immediately called my gardener, Cinnobio, who had his youngest son, Omar (whose English is much better than Cinnobio’s), talk to me. Omar told me that they would send out his older brother, Hernan (whom I’ve never met), to repair the sprinkler heads.
Hernan came out the next day (I fortunately had the day off) and I had a chance to talk to the son of the most polite gardener I have ever employed.
Most folks who hang with me know that I rarely have protracted conversations, and (even more rarely) look people straight-in-the-eye when I speak to them (to avoid projections of craziness) – but Hernan immediately held my attention as a soul worth listening to.
The kid, er, young man (dontcha just hate it when they call gang bangers or shooters or robbers and rapists ‘men’; in the media?) has a full-ride academic scholarship to Bucknell University where he is majoring in psychology. A shrink myself, I pontificated a bit by telling Hernan that psychology is probably not the best field to get into these days (unless you want to teach it) because the “practitioner pie” shrinks daily, as does funding for mental health services (which is the advice I also give my own college students). Hernan immediately replied that it is his desire to work with returning U.S. service(wo)men – whom he knows commit suicide at-the-rate of one-per-day (up from about 18-per-month not-too-long-ago [yep, war remains such a glorious enterprise]).
Hernan also survived a hit-and-run that abrogated a promising soccer career – and, while he and the family await a lucrative settlement from this accident – this factor doesn’t seem to dissuade Hernan from his #1 goal of helping psychically and physically (can the two be separated?) wounded service(wo)men.
Then Hernan turned the tables on me and asked me probing questions about my life…I…I…I…I’m not used to that from American teens…and I realized I was talking with someone who knew where he was headed – what with his bedside manner and all. And while I’m far more comfortable writing about myself than I am talking about myself – Hernan got me jealous that he was Cinnobio’s son – not mine.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my boys, but they do not exercise such a level of genteelity with their Old Man; and, I guess I can only blame myself. Still, Hernan instilled in me a new hope for our youth: there may be enough solid souls to carry us Old Farts to the next life, and, till this here garden…
Next Installment: A Tribute to Jon Lord