The Terror Within

Projection is so casually . . . projected these days, that it's relatively easy to miss when projecting yourself. I confess to projectile tendencies in yesterday's mini-post about public fear. While I'm sure there's plenty of dread and insecurity across our fruited plain (along with insanity, aggression, ignorance), I realize that I was ranting about my own terror, which I attempt to keep in check on a daily basis. It's not an easy task, especially when mixing with my fellow Americans at various public outlets. Indeed, I don't know how those who read as much if not more than I do about this violent world can keep it all together. There are moments when I want to scream for mercy and run for the nearest hiding place.

This personal madness hit me again last Friday when I took the boy to a local water park out in the boonies. First and foremost, a lot of Michiganers are fat. I mean, almost bizarrely out of shape. You see this all year round, but it really shows in the summer, for obvious reasons. It's one thing to see an adult let him or herself go, but it's incredibly sad and depressing to look at kids, mostly preteens, but teens as well, sporting huge guts, flabby arms, several chins. And the eating doesn't stop, evidenced by the long line at the park's concession stand where hot dogs, chips, soda and ice cream were doled out to the pale, plump mass. I say this not to be mean or denigrating but to set the actual mood. At a time when our "liberation" of Afghanistan has done zilch for the starving and dying there, obese Americans, some of whom were wearing pro-war or pro-military t-shirts, cramming junk food into their mouths was a pretty sickening, if standard, sight.

But the boy was having a ball. He focused solely on the many watery diversions, laughing and leaping (yes, actual leaping) with pure, uncynical joy. So I tapped into his happy vibe and it served as a protective bubble of sorts as we flew down slides, rode large waves, got hit with numerous kinds of water sprays and showers. The bubble protected for only so long, however, as we kept having to deal with rude, obnoxious adults, some of whom encouraged their kids to cut in line and laughed as some of the more aggressive youth punched and put in headlocks smaller or thinner kids -- all in good clean fun, of course.

"Great," I thought to myself. "Another generation of stupid, violent rubes." The boy has another year before he attends middle school, a savage place where social hierarchies are crudely established, with the older kids picking out and bashing the younger, more vulnerable students. My son hasn't a violent bone in his tall body, and he doesn't understand why other kids would prey on those like him. Needless to say, he and I have much work to do in the coming months.

The boy and I were diving through a chlorinated waterfall running down a faux rock face when I surfaced and saw a Nazi tattoo on a big white arm. I couldn't believe it. Open militarism is one thing, part of Americana, a disease you somewhat get used to; but an actual swastika is a deeper statement. The guy wearing it was large and muscular, looking like a bodyguard or bouncer, his head shaved, his goatee closely trimmed. The swastika was surrounded by two tiny American flags with an eagle atop. I simply froze and stared at it. The guy paid me no mind, but his wife glared back at me as she rushed their little blonde boy along to the water slides.

Cheque please!

By this point, we'd been swimming, sliding and splashing for nearly three hours, so I told the boy we had to leave. Naturally, he groaned and pleaded for another round of inner-tube riding, but I insisted. He smiled, grabbed his towel and t-shirt and walked out by my side, his eager eyes still on those water slides.

We moved through the parking lot choked with SUVs, Hummers, and pick-ups, many boasting "Support Our Troops," "These Colors Never Run" and "USA Number 1" bumperstickers. I couldn't wait to get home, lock the door, and drain a stiff drink. But my son strolled along, oblivious to the raw nationalist sentiment on all those gas-guzzling symbols of our collective arrogance and greed, and thanked me for taking him to the park, saying "This is one of the best days ever. I had a blast, Dad!"

This filled me with happiness, love, and fear. Poor kid. Look at the world that awaits him.