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| From On the Waterfront |
Oh well.
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As I’ve discussed at great length on a number of occasions on this blog, I have had life-long struggles with mental illness (mostly my own). I bear no shame in sharing my experiences especially as I am able to proudly point out that I’ve managed to lead not only a normal life, but a rich one that includes a successful marriage and two children. I have been seeing psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors since I was a teenager (and dinosaurs roamed the earth). Last September I terminated my relationship with my latest shrink. This was, as I explained to him, no reflection on him, I thought he was an excellent doctor, but more a result of my belief that I’d gone as far as I could in the process. I occasionally reflect on some of my sessions with this doctor and others and contemplate some of the insights gained and lessons learned. But I recently remembered an occasion that was all too typical of my sessions with this and other members of the psychiatric community. It happened when I discussed my love of running. (Up until last Spring I used to run regularly but had to quit due to irreversible ligament damage. I now rely on other forms of aerobic exercise such as fast walking, the stair master and the elliptical machine.) The doctor speculated that perhaps I was “running away from something.”
Sounds great doesn’t it? Profound even. I’m running physically because I’m mentally — deep in my subconscious — trying to escape something, perhaps a hard truth about my life. But when you break it down it’s a rather sizable load of crap. I ran to stay in good physical condition, I ran to keep the excess pounds off, I ran because it was meditative, I ran for the endorphins. And what might I be running away from? I was in analysis for chrissakes, you don’’t show up once a week and talk about yourself if you’re trying to avoid facing something. You don’t look your past and all the demons that lurk there square in the eye if you don’t want to face something. It was a ridiculous statement, further given the lie by my continuing to vigorously work out even when I couldn’t run. (Maybe when I’m on the stair master I’m trying to climb away from something.) But it is the easy sort of thing that psychiatrists do in order to justify all the time they spend sitting across from you nodding in stoic silence. Head shrinkers are always trying to conjure up connections where they don’t exist. Perhaps, my doctor once suggested, I had a panic attack because of the particular street I was on, never mind that I’ve had panic attacks on many different streets and that I always have them in the early afternoon when facing a bright sun.
I would not discourage anyone from going to a psychiatrist, but I would caution anyone going to a shrink not to let sessions get bogged down by their doctor looking for false equivalencies. It can be a bad misdirection of time. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
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Earlier in the week on this very blog I wrote about watching A Face in the Crowd (1957) directed by that notorious squealer, Elia Kazan. Though I’m no fan of the man I do admire some of his films, none more than On the Waterfront (1954) which I watched that evening. On the Waterfront serves as social commentary and yet has a film noir quality to it. It is also a vehicle for some of the finest acting performances you’ll see in a film, most notably Marlon Brando as Terry Malloy whose character, unlike Kazan in real life, snitches against bad guys to good guys in a good cause.
Because it depicted working class stiffs, the film got me to thinking about my roots. My father was a skilled blue collar worker and a proud member of the carpenter’s union. My nearby uncles included another carpenter and a machinist. My maternal grandfather was a carpenter and in fact virtually every adult I grew up around was in the working class (the women were almost all housewives including my mom). In my house the union was sacrosanct. Unlike the corrupt union that Malloy helped expose, it was always on the level and took care of its members. My dad made enough to support a family of four, own a home and invest. We were never without.
It was a big deal in our world when someone bought a new house or had one built. It was a big deal when someone bought a car or a boat or took a long-distance vacation. These were important events that everyone shared. Of course it was especially significant in my family, extended family and family friends because, like my dad, everyone came from Finland and a hard knock early life (the times they have changed and indeed practically reversed). Great books were not discussed. (Newspaper were thoroughly read, as were a few magazines such as Life and National Geographic). No one went to plays, few adults took in movies and when they did it was never to see an art house film. Philosophical discussions were limited and on a pretty basic level and while everyone was a Christian and many went to church (at least the women did) religion was not discussed. Political issues were bandied about, usually as they directly related to lives. Most everyone was a Democrat and voted the straight ticket though not a lot of our circle went into much depth on most issues. The status quo was not challenged or questioned (excepting Republican presidents, governors etc.) and the Civil Rights Movement was looked at askance as it seemed to be questioning the very systems that had made these immigrants so successful. The Vietnam War was accepted as a necessity since the government said it was.
Most of my contemporaries among the Finnish working class families were good lads and lasses who said “yes sir” did their chores, got passing grades and went into conventional lines of work, eschewing entirely or only having a dalliance with a college education. Then there was me. I was an ingrate and a loud mouth. I loved my dad and all my other relatives but I was not going to toe the line. I not only listened to that crazy new music coming out of England, I believed in it and reveled in it. I embraced the Civil Rights Movement, protested long and loud against the Vietnam War, grew my hair long and didn’t settle for getting drunk, I experimented with drugs. As much as I loved my dad and other older relatives I thought that they were all hopelessly square and unenlightened. They were relics of a dying age and I was the latest and the greatest. I was tolerated first because I was cute, later because I was funny and finally because I was a soccer superstar. It didn't hurt that I was whip smart and despite my bohemian views and ways could still turn on the charm.
I didn’t know how good I had it. I never fully appreciated how my dad let me be who I wanted to be. He may have fought with me over my long hair, he may have bristled at my radical politics, he may have winced at my rock music, but he loved me unconditionally and never denied me anything. I was a spoiled brat.
The working class had it good back then, unions were strong and there was no question but that while the government would take its fair share of taxes said taxes would be invested back into communities and for the general welfare and that the economy would remain robust for everyone. No one needs to tell me -- life long student of history that I am -- that there was vast corruption in those days, the government was supporting heinous actions by the military and the CIA all over the world, that while legal discrimination was being dismantled it was still being practiced — and not just in the South. But there was then a respect for unions and workers and both were proud of themselves and their country and grateful for the well-paid work and benefits packages. The gap between the poor and the obscenely rich was nowhere near what it has become today.
I looked at my dad and other working class stiffs as simple people. I never realized that there can be beauty in simplicity and these hard-working souls were happy — really happy. Their parties, their barbecues, their picnics, their camping trips, fishing trips, hunting trips, frequent visits to all manner of sporting events, their family gatherings and holiday celebrations were a testimony to how greedily they supped from life. They were happy and knew why. That’s plenty right there.
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I've recently been reading -- for the first time -- the poetry of Robert Pinsky. The preceding sentence compels me to add: what the hell took me so long? I'd like to recommend his works and since the particular book I'm reading is Robert Pinsky Selected Poems, I'll recommend it. You can thank me later.
A sample:
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined
A second sample:
The forgetting I notice most as I get older is really a form of memory
The undergrowth of things unknown to young, that I have forgotten
A Final Sample:
Air an instrument of the tongue,
The tongue an instrument
Of the body, the body
An instrument of spirit
The spirit a being of the air
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