Читать книгу Full Circle - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 11

I often tell my first-year students that when attempting to understand history, it’s crucial to ask yourself what the defining moments are. They nod in agreement, as if this is something they themselves have stated repeatedly to their friends. Then I ask them to name some of these moments. Inevitably, they rattle off a predictable list of battles, or discoveries, or inventions, and label these the points at which civilization took the next great leap forward: the harnessing of electric power, the ascendance of George of Hanover to the throne of England, the bombing of Hiroshima. These, they tell me with confidence, are the pivots on which the course of history has turned.

I then inform them, gently but firmly, that they are wrong. I tell them that the examples that they’ve listed are the manifestations of the turning points. The actual points themselves occurred earlier, probably in unremarkable places and under mundane circumstances, and will in most cases never be publicly known. They occurred in laundries, on trains, and in the holds of ships. They occurred while someone was standing on a hilltop in winter looking at the falling snow and thinking that it might provide excellent cover for an early-morning assault on the camp of the enemy below, in a bed where one or the other of a pair of sated lovers suggested that life might be more agreeable if an inconvenient spouse were done away with, and during a tedious sermon when an uncomfortable congregant’s attention turned from the glory of God to the problem of ill-fitting trousers.

These seemingly unimportant moments, noticed by none but those to whom they happen, are the real history of the world. The parts seen by the rest of us, the results documented in artworks, written about in poetry, and celebrated in songs and statues, are the outcome of individual decisions. The bombing of Hiroshima, although spectacular and dreadful, would not have occurred unless someone somewhere had decided that the best way to get the attention of Japan’s leaders was to present them with a display so terrible as to wipe away every trace of hope they held of victory, regardless of the human loss. The instant that decision was made and steps were taken to realize it is the instant at which history was made, not the well-documented moment when bombardier Thomas Ferebee pulled the lever that released Little Boy from the belly of the Enola Gay.

My students, when I tell them these things, look at me in either surprise or anger. It has never occurred to them that their field of interest is based almost entirely on moments they can never truly be witness to. They resent this deeply. They are bitter over the fact that although they can read numerous and lively accounts of the French Revolution and the role of the sans-culottes in bringing the monarchy of Louis XVI to its bloody, headless end, they can’t possibly know the exact moment when the first laborer decided enough was enough and chose to do something about it. They cannot, no matter how much they read, know what possessed the first person to eat an oyster to suck such a peculiar creature from its shell, or what sequence of events (the sudden desire to go for a walk to escape the tedium of a boring text? an invitation from a friend? an attempt to impress a love interest?) led to Tycho Brahe’s observation of a solar eclipse in 1560 and inspired him to abandon his studies of philosophy and law for a journey through the heavens. They want what they call history to be comprised of things that can be measured, about which they can write theses and dissertations, about which there is proof.

But history is not really about such things. It’s about the inner workings of the human heart and mind that steer individuals in new directions, resulting in action and reaction. Wars are not really about armies and guns and strategies so much as they are about the motivations and fears of the people who wage them. The rise and fall of civilizations, while of course affected by natural disaster, plague, and other tangibles, are ultimately brought about by the greed and honor, the dreams and neuroses, of the populace. Who really knows how many cities were razed because some ancient warlord, rebuffed by a pretty girl when he was 15, sought a direction for his shame and cloaked it in the glory of territorial expansion. Or how many symphonies were written when a composer, frustrated at a rival’s accolades, was spurred to compose what he later claimed was an ode to joy instead of the teeth-gnashing expression of irritation at the fickleness of success it truly was.

What holds true for generals, kings, and countries holds true for ordinary boys. That morning of November 23, 1963, was the first major turning point in my personal history, not because of any event that could be documented, photographed, or studied, but because I realized, for the first time, that something dangerous lived inside of me. I couldn’t, of course, give it a name. I only knew that it frightened me with its power, and so I chose to pretend that it didn’t exist. After half an hour, during which I thought doggedly about the tragedy of Kennedy’s death and not about the mess in my pants, Jack woke up and went off to the bathroom. I quickly got out of bed, changed my pajamas, and went downstairs to the kitchen. When Jack joined me a few minutes later, I was deeply involved in a bowl of Rice Krispies. Jack, thinking it a morning like any other (excepting the president’s death) poured himself a bowlful and, in imitation of the cereal’s Chinese cartoon character spokesperson, So-Hi, said, “Prease pass the mirk!”

He laughed. I couldn’t look at him. I pushed the milk toward him and stared into my bowl. Oblivious, Jack splashed milk onto his cereal and began crunching. “What do you want to do today?”

I shrugged. What I wanted was for him to go home so that I could be alone with the boy I’d become sometime during the night. I wanted to not have him sitting across from me, to not hear his voice, to not think about how badly I’d wanted to put my arm around him. I resented him for not seeing how much my perception of myself had been altered by his touch, although if he had noticed, and asked what was wrong, my heart would have stopped. Instead, I told myself that I resented him for his continued cheerfulness in the face of my growing misery.

I was rescued from further humiliation by my mother, who entered the kitchen and informed Jack that as soon as he was done with breakfast, his mother wanted him to come home and help her clean out the garage. Jack rolled his eyes and sighed, as if the entire weeklong break had just been co-opted. I prayed he wouldn’t ask me if I wanted to help.

He didn’t, and when he left not long after, I retreated to my bed, where I pulled the sheets up and tried to distract myself by helping Frank and Joe Hardy unravel The Viking Symbol Mystery. Solving it long before the brave but maybe-not-as-clever-as-they-thought Hardys, I closed the book and looked under the bed for the Fantastic Four comic I’d secreted there a day or so earlier after defying my mother and using my allowance to buy it. When I did, I discovered that Jack had left behind a T-shirt, dropped the night before while getting ready for bed and forgotten in his haste to get home.

I picked the shirt up and held it to my face. The smell of Jack filled my nose, a mix of sweat, Ajax laundry soap, and his father’s Bay Rum aftershave, which he’d recently begun applying from time to time. Shucking off my pajama top, I slipped the shirt over my head and let it fall around me. Then I pulled the sheet and blanket over my head and closed my eyes. I imagined Jack beside me, our legs touching. I slid my hand across the mattress in search of him, half expecting to feel him there. Instead, my fingers met cool, empty sheets, and suddenly I was crying.

Once started, I couldn’t stop. I cried out of frustration and fear, out of anger and the deepest sadness I’d ever felt. My chest heaved as sobs poured from my mouth. The sheets seemed to trap all of the grief inside, my tears and unhappiness mingling with the scent of Ajax and aftershave until all the air had been used up and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. Still I stayed there, hoping I might drown and be free of the new emotions I couldn’t define but which filled my heart near to bursting.

Preoccupied with misery, I didn’t hear my mother come into my room, and when the sheets were suddenly pulled back and I saw her looking down, I saw there an angry god demanding explanation. I cried harder, and covered my face with my arm. My mother sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair.

“We’re all upset,” she said. “This is a sad time for everyone.”

I heard her words and didn’t understand. How could she know what had happened to me? I wondered, especially when I didn’t really know myself. Being my mother, had she sensed some change in me, some horrible defect that had somehow gone unnoticed all these years?

“Imagine how little John John must feel,” she continued.

Then I remembered. The president. She was talking about Kennedy, not about me. She thought my sorrow was for a man I didn’t even know. True, I was sad about that. But did she really believe my feelings were so strong as to result in uncontrolled weeping? For a moment, I was irritated that she would think me so sensitive. Then relief flooded me. She didn’t, as I’d feared, sense something more alarming in me. I sniffled again, softly.

“Besides, they’ve caught that murderer Oswald, and I’m sure everything will be all right. Your father says Vice President Johnson is a good man. Not as good as Kennedy, but a good man.”

She patted my arm. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure me or herself. Politics had never interested her, but I knew she’d loved John Kennedy, with his movie-star face and Boston accent. She’d seen him, as had most of America, as a symbol of hope after the frigid foreign policies of Eisenhower. Now, with his death, everything was once more uncertain. I feared she might start hoarding sugar again.

“It will be all right,” she said, standing up. “Try not to worry so much. Thanksgiving is coming up.”

She smiled and left, glancing at the comic book lying crumpled beneath my arm but saying nothing. She shut the door, and I breathed a sigh of relief. She had been witness to history but was completely unaware of it. What she thought she’d seen—a boy caught up in the emotion of loss and patriotic devotion—was nothing of the sort. Like so many before and after her, she saw one thing in place of another, and the real history was obscured by a more plausible scenario.

I don’t tell my students this story. It would mean nothing to them, lacking as it does intrigue, heroic figures, and a casualty count. A 13-year-old boy crying in his bed and being comforted by his well-intentioned mother, moving as it may be, does not make for vivid history. But it is history nonetheless, particularly as it changed the entire course of my relationship with Jack and, ultimately, my life.

Like the richest history, this unfolding of events did not occur all at once. The impact of that awakening of my desire would take many years to be fully realized. In fact, for some time I would do everything in my power to stop it from happening. My first attempt was simple. I tried to ignore it. I told myself that the feelings I’d had for Jack were momentary, caused by my dreams and by the treacherous machinations of my changing body. At 13, I had been acquainted for some time with the possibilities for self-pleasure. I was also, of course, sure that I was the only boy in Pennsylvania, if not the world, who indulged in such behavior. Alfred Kinsey’s shocking news that 92% of all American men did so regularly had been delivered fifteen years before, but somehow its arrival in suburban Philadelphia had been greatly delayed.

It would, in fact, be another year before myself, Jack, and the rest of the eighth-grade boys were gathered in the gymnasium one rainy Wednesday when outdoor activity was impossible and informed by Coach Stellinger that we were becoming men. He told us that our penises might become engorged with blood from time to time, and that it was nothing to worry about. However, we should refrain from touching ourselves because it might lead to mental illness and infertility. Coming far too late for most of us, this news was deeply unsettling, and I’m sure more than one boy spent the next week or so desperately trying to keep his hands away from his crotch before inevitably giving in and risking insanity and sterility.

By then I was already familiar with the pattern of resistance followed by failure. It began in earnest that Thanksgiving week of 1963. I pledged then that, no matter how difficult it became, I would not give in to the thoughts that were beginning to crowd my mind, clamoring to be given voice. Instead, I would think of sports, or math, or even the Lone Ranger, who I was sure would never be so depraved as to have thoughts like the ones I had. Like him, I needed to be filled with moral resolve.

I lasted until November the 27th. Four days. During that time I kept busy, constantly volunteering to help my parents with one chore after another. I raked and bagged leaves until the lawn was bare. I polished the silver. I emptied the trash and assisted with the baking of cookies. What I didn’t do was spend a lot of time with Jack. I saw him, of course, but as infrequently as I could manage, using my chores as excuses for my unavailability. Fortunately, he was also kept occupied by his mother, who saw my enthusiasm for household activity and willed it upon Jack.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jack asked during a break in the day on Wednesday, when our mothers shooed us outside so that they could finalize the menu for the Thanksgiving feast.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

Jack grunted. “Thanks to you, I’ve spent all week cleaning.”

“I just thought I should help out,” I said. “My mom’s been all upset about the president and all that.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, brightening but clearly still unforgiving. “Did you see that news footage of Ruby shooting ol’ Oswald? Bam! He walked right up to him. Man, I’d like to have been there.”

I nodded. Everyone had seen the footage. It was played over and over on the evening news, as had the images of the funeral, which had taken place on Monday. Now it was the day before Thanksgiving. I wondered what Jackie, Caroline, and John John were doing. How could they sit down to a turkey dinner after what had happened? I thought about it while Jack continued to talk enthusiastically about Oswald’s assassination.

“Hey, my mom said you can stay over tonight.”

Jack’s remark startled me from my thoughts. “What?”

“Tonight,” Jack repeated. “My mom says you can stay over tonight.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It would never occur to Jack that I might say no. And I didn’t. Besides, I was sure that whatever had happened to me during our last night together had passed. The feelings had faded quickly once I’d decided to turn my back on them, and despite purposely avoiding Jack for the week, I was almost certain that it was safe for me to be around him now.