The Face We Show The World
I was talking with Sundance about a number of subjects as we usually talk about. We were talking about the growing unrest and I was remarking about how some people were outraged at the murder of George Floyd at the hands of white police officers. We were talking about the protests and riots, and I remarked that people resort to marching and protesting when they feel their voice is not heard. Or when something outrages them so much that they feel they need to demonstrate against it. Sundance remarked and I agreed, that the police brutality being witnessed all over has been escalating for decades, and we talked about how sad it is that what used to be a last resort for officers (violence) was now a first response. We talked about how wrong it is that people are dying unnecessarily at the hands of officers who are now trained like combat ready military. We continued to discuss the number of people that are really peacefully protesting versus how many people are really using this as an excuse for acting out or violence.
Sundance said, in terms of numbers, there are not that many protesters in relation to the population. He said, it does not affect most people. I respect Sundance’s opinion and I think in some ways he is right. I protested immediately after Mr. Floyd’s killing. I live in a middle class community and I felt strongly that I needed to show my support for the black community. I felt protesting in full view of the leaders and law enforcement of the community would send a message that things need to change. The police in our community supported us and it was a peaceful protest. So I started thinking about what I wanted to say and was it really enough to assemble and protest and chant and sing and pray. People are still marching, people are still protesting and I believe they should until real change is effected.
So back to what Sundance said and how it affected me. He might be right that it does not affect most people. It probably doesn’t. Most people go on with their lives and are unaffected by how the world changes around them. I have always wondered why. I feel I have always been somewhat aware of global unrest and communities in crisis. I do write my senators and congressmen, and have attended town hall meetings, well, you get the idea. I am somewhat active in the community. When we are outraged by something, do we speak up or do we stay silent? What face do we show the world? Do we want to help things change or do we not want to get involved? And why wouldn’t we get involved? Because it doesn’t matter and we do not really care? Or because we are feign to show the world where we stand on something in trepidation of what society will brand us.
I started to think about what people show the world and what they truly felt in their hearts. About how they show the world one face for whatever reason but really feel something else inside. It reminded me of something that happened to me when I was younger. That people have to live in the world they build, the world that is comfortable for them.
My father had open heart surgery when I was 21. It was the summer of 1977 and open heart surgery was still very new and very risky. My father was a very typical Italian father. He kept his feelings very close to the vest, not allowing outsiders to see how he felt. Hell, he didn’t even let his own kids see how he really felt most of the time. He came from a strict upbringing and in such, his father demanded he be strong and never show weakness. It was the typical mantra of the 20th century male persona, crying was for girls. I loved my father and as is typical, we had our generational differences. We also had our gender differences being his daughter. He was not demonstrative in showing affection, but I know inside him, he loved me the only way he knew how. Privately.
The biggest moment of clarity I had about how the world was and how we treated one another happened after my father’s heart surgery. He was a design engineer at General Motors and after his surgery, he was home for several months recuperating. Many of his work friends and colleagues stopped by to visit. One day, a man knocked on the door, mid-thirties, African American and very well dressed. He introduced himself and asked to see my father.
We lived in a white, middle class neighborhood and African Americans were not visible in our community. Right or wrong, that’s how it was. My father came to the door and went on the porch and he and this man sat down and talked. He worked with my dad and was visiting my dad on his lunch hour from work. He was gracious to my father, and I got them both a soda while they talked, as it was a warm day. My father and this man, whom I will call Mr. Brooks, seemed to be enjoying their conversation so I went out and asked if they both wanted to come in to the house as it was somewhat cooler (our house had a window air conditioner). My father immediately said, no we are fine, Mr. Brooks has to get back to the office soon. All of a sudden there was an awkwardness in the air. Very noticeable to me.
They talked for a minute more and Mr. Brooks stood up and shook my father’s hand and wished him a speedy recovery. My father came into the house and asked me what the hell I was thinking. I asked him what he was talking about. He said, “What will the neighbors think if I let him come in the house?”
All of a sudden it dawned on me that he was uncomfortable with this conversation. He was angry with me. I was angry back. I couldn’t believe he was more worried about neighbors, most of whom could care less whether any of us lived or died, over someone who took time out of their day to show they were concerned and that they cared. And all because his skin color was different.
My father was not a racist in the truest sense of the word, but he had prejudice like most people in that time of the world, but not a meanness or vigilant bigotry. It seems like I am trying to rationalize his feelings; I won’t do that because they are not my feelings, just my observations. I think I was disappointed in him because what he did that day was to allow public pressure to affect his decency as a human being. He allowed what other people thought, or let me rephrase that, what he thought other people thought, to affect his actions.
I came to find out more than 20 years later; during a conversation where my father and I were able to finally talk about that day and the events that had transpired; that his thoughts and feelings for this man were of respect and admiration.
So back to the situations we face today and every day, I am realizing that some people show the world the face they think the world wants to see. That even though they may be outraged by current events, or even when there is cause to celebrate, they unable to speak up, or show the world their true feelings, which in most of us, is the underbelly of our emotions. It may be that we are afraid to be vulnerable. It may be because we are avoiding criticism, or it may be how we were raised, like my father, to never show true emotions or perceived weakness.
I understood something important on the day my father and I talked about the incident so many years later; that he showed the world one face while the true man inside stayed hidden. I felt sorry for him and his apprehension about what other people thought, but I realized in that moment, it explained so many things about him and how he handled the world.
And as a friend of mine used to say to me, there are more stories I will tell you when you are grown up.
Butch