Like most of my compatriots, I still suffer from the after-shock of 9-11-2001. Horrifying images from that event loom in my imagination, even though I did not see the destruction first-hand. The media presented stark enough representations--more vivid in some ways than anything I have known in my actual experience. Pestering my consciousness is a question that has frequently been voiced by others--in my immediate milieu and on various broadcasts: "What will happen next?" Living in an information age, our media provides us with a frightening smorgasbord of answers. We are told we may be the targets of biological warfare; another incident like 9-11 could occur; Iraq may be building nuclear weapons. With this fodder for thought, our minds, already traumatized, could easily take off into the dreadful realm of paranoia. As fear of airplane travel, bomb attacks, or even breathing the air, increases, it seems our mental hospitals will soon be overpopulated. However, most of us will be saved from the disaster of insanity by that built-in protective device our psyches offer when we find ourselves completely overwhelmed; we can find refuge in, to quote a Pink Floyd song, that state of being "comfortably numb." With our thoughts and emotions muted, we can go on with our daily activities like good, brave American citizens.
Although we may feel safer, our "going through the motions" mentality may actually make us more prone to danger. As our connection with the larger picture becomes more obscure, we become less effective participants in our own lives. By sacrificing our instincts, we lose track of what our feelings are about and what we’re really experiencing. Being afraid of "terrorism" in the abstract causes us to lose our ability to recognize when terrorism occurs in reality.
Recently, I read about effects of depleted uranium on the people in Iraq. I was shocked that this story had not received more coverage in the popular press. But, when I really thought about it, I realized that many people might not want to know the ghastly truth. From my days of being a journalism major, I know that the commercial media to a certain extent yields to popular opinion. Perhaps people in charge of conveying the news have decided their audience would rather hear about our use of smart bombs and other forceful means of retaliation, than about the terror our weapons of mass destruction have perpetrated on civilians in Iraq. Nobody really wants to know about all the horrendous suffering--people dying, babies being born horribly deformed, people afflicted with severely debilitating diseases (including our own veterans)--that have occurred since the Gulf War.
Since most Americans were emotionally hurt by the 9-11 attacks, maybe we have a psychological need for revenge. News coverage which focuses mainly on American concerns supports our primal need to see things in terms of "us and them," where the bad guys only come from foreign countries. Yet, how will this limited view of world affairs ultimately affect us? I can’t help but wonder if we go on with this trend, won’t this cause us, as a people, to become "comfortably dumb"?
Terrorists win when they debilitate their victims through fear. Panic creates pandemonium, a barrier to responsible action. The old Roosevelt maxim comes to mind about the negative force of "fear itself." Once in a state of fear, a person becomes trapped by his/her insecurities.
My pondering about 9/11 have compelled me to remember incidents in my past when fear got the better of me. In junior high, girls from neighboring Hispanic communities who called themselves Cholas became players in my world. During my previous years of growing up in Los Angeles County, an area of great racial and ethnic diversity, I never considered myself prejudiced. But, after the first few weeks of seventh-grade I lived in fear of people whom I assumed hated me for being white.
Physical Education (PE) class became the setting for my torment. Never a great athlete, I found myself in junior high, one of those awkward girls who not only was the last-pick for teams, but became the butt of many jokes. At the bottom of the pecking-order, we--the ugly ducklings of the sports realm--were definitely a source of entertainment for our more lithesome peers. We endured daily taunts from our classmates, such as "Hey Bozo! This isn’t a freak show!" Or, "Where’d you learn to play ball? At clown school?!" As an adult, I’m disheartened as I recall how we just adapted to the harassment, in the way that we had adjusted to other unpleasant situations, like showering in the group stalls. It was all part of the shock of growing up and being thrown into the hormonal horrors of adolescence. We learned to go through the motions like somnambulists, since we intuitively knew we were better off anesthetizing our feelings. Things being as they were, it seemed wise not to live life to the fullest during PE. Rather, we learned to suck it up and lay low, careful to avoid eliciting any extra negative attention.
Occasionally, one of us would receive a brutal "cussing out" after a particularly clumsy play, perhaps one that caused our team to lose the game, or some all-important point.
But, I never remember our teacher, Ms. Carter, interfering in such unsportsmanship-like displays. Perhaps, she actually condoned what she may have dubbed "healthy competitive attitudes." She, herself, with the body of an Olympic athlete, and the short cropped hair, looked like the female version of Hercules. In the beginning of our class period, she’d run past us as we performed our perfunctory laps yelling, "Get the lead out, ladies!" It always seemed to me that it was enough degradation to have to wear the polyester button-up blouse with either baggy, gray sweatpants or shapeless, kelly-green shorts. But she apparently did not agree, as on some occasions she was known to shout "Get the lead out of your butt" directly at people like me who in their last tortuous lap, sweating and panting, struggled desperately to maintain even a slow jogging pace.
Ms. Carter communicated only minimally with most of us, seeming to think we were unworthy of anything more. The routine she set up consisted of leading us in running laps around the track, calisthenics warm-ups, then directing us to the teams she had arranged for whatever sport we were playing.
While watching us play her expression revealed her contempt for our imperfect efforts, because, as a group, our entire class was not especially gifted. The best athletes took sixth-period PE, the training-ground for after-school sports. Undoubtedly, Ms. Carver felt impatient with the likes of us, maybe even thought we were a waste of her precious time. I imagined she looked forward to the last period of her day, tolerating her other classes like a fan who suffers through a mediocre performance of an opening act, counting the seconds until the real stars of the show appear.
I became incredibly adept at skills such as keeping my eyes averted and my physical body out of other people’s space. If one of my teammates verbally chastised me on the court or field, I would not look up for a second from my firm gaze at my neatly laced gym shoes. When others groomed themselves in front of the mirror after showering, I stayed by my locker, and surreptitiously caught a few conservative glimpses of myself--just enough to fix my hair. Luckily, my height (while I was already one of the taller students in my class, I had just shot up three inches) allowed me to see myself from a distance above the crowd who sometimes pushed and shoved their way into the best spots.
To make matters worse for me, there were a number of Cholas, that group I soundly feared, in my PE class. Their powers of intimidation never lost on me also worked effectively on the other girls; for instance, they had no difficulty getting the most coveted places in front of the locker-room mirror. They’d simply knock aside anyone standing where they wanted to be. Nobody challenged their behavior. We simply learned our places.
Their Anglo counterpart were the Surfers, who were, by contrast, under-represented in my PE class, because they were more likely to be involved in after-school sports. Surfers enjoyed fighting as much as Cholos (members of the male gang) or Cholas; but they also enjoyed other forms of physical competition, whereas Cholos or Cholas rarely went out for sports, I noticed. Other notable differences between the two groups came from socio-economic factors. Surfers, who were known for wearing name-brand OP* attire, were usually from more affluent families. Cholos, who wore black T-shirts and khaki pants, as a rule, came from economically depressed neighborhoods. Cholas wore thick layers of make-up. Their dark shades of eyeshadow and rouge reminded me of war-paint. By contrast, female surfers liked to look tough by not wearing much makeup and sporting healthy, beach-bum tans. One group wore dark, mysterious colors, while the other group wore bright, sun-worshipping shades.
The event that finally broke me free of my torpor also brought me into direct confrontation with the Cholas in my PE class. We were playing locker volleyball for the first time. To my surprise and gratification, I found I had a natural aptitude for the game. My long arms most likely made the difference. I amazed myself and my teammates with numerous slams over the row of lockers which served as a net.
Maybe because it was a rainy day activity, for once Ms. Carter had allowed us to choose our own teams, before retreating into her office, where she could see but not hear us.
Consequently, the Cholas were all on one team, and everyone else (including Hispanics who were not Cholas) was on the other. We were winning because of my new-found athletic ability; my arms flailing wildly managed to meet every ball and send it spinning with impressive force to the other side.
"Lurch, Lurch," the other team began to call me. But, since I was used to name-calling, their ridicule just egged me on. Sure, my vanity cringed at being compared to the tall, ugly member of the Adams family whose Neanderthal arms extended almost to the floor, but my sudden reckless state of mind made me forget the unspoken rule I had heeded up to this date. Ever since I saw one of my friends beaten up by a gang of Cholas, I knew that in order to survive junior high, you had to be careful not to piss off certain people.
Slam. Fiercely, I sent another missile to my opponents. Bam. It smashed into the metal lockers behind them after two of them ducked. "Wow," I thought, "I guess I don’t know my own strength." One of the girls who ducked, a Chola with beautiful, long hair and an enviable physique practically spit out her war-like challenge, "Hit one more like that," she said in a low voice, "and we’ll see you after school, bitch."
Suddenly drained of energy, I stood frozen. My worst fear, realized. She, on the other side of the lockers, obviously a leader in her group, faced me without flinching. I, who had learned my place in junior high, as one of the less popular, even "geeky," students, had nobody to stand behind me. My posture caved in on me, and my gaze shifted to the cement locker-room floor. My teammates, having heard the threat, were silent. It was our serve. After an eerie pause, the server sent a foul ball toward the shower room. Another teammate, then, obligingingly went to fetch it in order to surrender it to the other team.
For the last ten minutes of the period my entire team played badly. My usual listlessness returned, making my own efforts weak, even impotent at times. The Chola team, imitating my former slams, beat us royally. They put extra zest into congratulating each other at every score. "Hey, Chica. You’re all right." "I know, man. Ha-ha." Their fun was clearly at our expense. They knew they had us; that, even before the final score verified it, they had won.
Now that I am a couple of decades past this incident, I have to ponder why I never told my parents or teachers about being threatened. I suppose at that age I would have been mortified to voice evidence about what a loser I was. I felt it was better to quietly endure such shameful episodes, rather than vocally acknowledge them. Perhaps I also doubted whether they could actually help me; they seemed to have no conception of the dangers we children faced. When my friend was jumped a block away from our school, a teacher seeing the initial commotion drove by, rolled down the window of his car, told the gang of girls to "Go on home!" They made a big show of saying, "OK. We will." But as soon as he drove off, they pounced again, pummeling my friend with their fists while holding me against the ground so I couldn’t help her.
Yet, just as in the case of global terrorism, information about oppression and abuses must be made known before problems can be solved. As adults, we cannot afford to give into our fears, but must work toward resolving them. My adolescent experience taught me about cowardice. I knew only that I was afraid to take on a large number of street-fighting girls, and so I opted for paralysis.
Later in my life, when working as a receptionist for a company in my hometown, I had a chance to redeem myself. I became friends with a sister employee who had once gone to my junior high and high school and who had been one of the notorious Cholas. On our lunch breaks we were able to share some of our experiences. She hated "the whole gang thing" by that time, and felt sad that some of her younger cousins were still involved in it.
I regret now that as an adolescent I failed to see the Chola girls as real human beings; to me they were nothing more than stereotypical bullies. Circumstances, of course, did not facilitate better relations. We did not have the tools given to young people today in schools with conflict mediation programs. Our parents didn’t watch Oprah programs or read pop-psychology books that might have given them a framework in which to talk to their children about these tough issues. Our teachers also seemed oblivious to the causes of the violence in our world. Finally, the deeper issues responsible for creating the "gang" mentality were rooted in larger, sociological problems.
Some years after I graduated, I went back to visit my former high school. Fences had been erected, and security guards hired. I felt dismayed. I knew gang violence had continued to be a problem. My younger siblings told me some hair-raising stories. Still, I couldn’t help but be unnerved by the military atmosphere imposed on the school I once attended. Back in my day, we students felt safe enough to walk downtown at lunch-time or even use the underground tunnel that linked the two street-divided sections of our school. Yet, according to my siblings the "gang violence" had become "so bad" that now the school had a closed-campus policy.
In trying to grapple with current issues in my personal life (that sometimes mirror the terrors of my youth) along with the current state of global affairs, I’ve decided that communication may be our only hope. Tensions between groups of people arise easily enough--but how to cope with these tensions will make all the difference in how well our human race survives this current world crisis. Call me idealistic, but I believe that opportunities for change can emerge from a healthy flow of ideas. More than once in my life I have seen negative situations completely transformed when people simply talked things out. Constructive interaction, in my opinion, works much better than suspicious secrecy. However, we have to work on our individual perceptions first. We need to not only see ourselves as members of the same team, but recognize the value of each individual’s unique contribution to the whole.
No comments:
Post a Comment