I mentioned in an entry yesterday that I have embarked on the writing of the story of my early boyhood. Today, it occurs to me to publish it in serial form on The Buddha Diaries, just to have a record of something that might never see the light in book form. Here's the first chapter.
1
WHY NOW?
At the time of
writing, I am (rapidly!) approaching eighty-two years of age. When people get
to be as old as I am, they tend to find ways around using that dreaded word; we
fall back on the familiar clichés, “You’re only as old as you feel,” “The
numbers don’t count,” and so on. But the truth of the matter is, the body ages.
Throughout your seventies, you can fudge things a bit. At eighty, no matter how
fit and strong you are, you are undeniably old. So why write about boyhood now,
at this advanced age? Well, because it is never too late to make an account of
your life, to conduct not simply the narration, but the deeper work of
accounting for it all; to reflect, and take responsibility.
I have long been
fascinated with my own boyhood, both as a writer and as the man that boy grew
into. As a writer, I have made a number of attempts to get to the truth of it.
My first chapbook of poems, titled “Aspley Guise” and published in the late
1960s, was focused on the church and the rectory of that village where I spent
my early years, and their effects on my developing psyche. Back in the 1970s,
as I recall, I finished the never-published manuscript of a book I called
“Sticks & Stones,” looking back at the sometimes traumatic events that
shaped me. “While I Am Not Afraid,” a memoir published in the 1990s, was a
still deeper attempt to come to terms with the joys and tribulations of my
boyhood. And most recently, wishing to engage others in my interest, I started
a “Boyhood Memories” project, asking friends of all ages and from all walks of
life to write down their “most intense of boyhood memories.” I now have quite a
collection of those stories, including several of my own, and am currently debating
how they might be put out into the world.
My intention in
all this is to find out more about the man I have become today and the route I
took to get here. I have made many missteps, taken many detours, and have
fallen too often from the path of true integrity, which I understand to be the
full and proper functioning of four co-equal elements of our nature: the
intellect, the physical body, the emotions and, for want of a better word, the
spirit. For far too many years—and like many men, I suspect—I lived exclusively
in my head, abusing the body with the insouciance of youth and using the armor
forged in boyhood to shut myself off from my emotional life: I had learned in
my years at boys’ boarding schools that it was dangerous to show evidence of
pain, or fear, or anger: to do so was to expose myself to bullying or ridicule.
As for the spirit, having been brought up by an Anglican priest father and sent
to schools steeped in the Christian heritage, well, by the age of 18, on
leaving school, I was happy to walk away from all that and into the realm of
material pleasures.
It took me many
years to learn that I could not lead a life of integrity without embracing those
three neglected attributes. I learned about my emotional life the hard way.
Past fifty already and at a moment of trouble and confusion in my life, I
signed up, despite the “better judgment” of what I’d always credited as my
superior intellect, for a men’s training weekend and was confronted
uncomfortably with the disconnect in my life between head and heart. I was
later described by those who met me on arrival, not incorrectly, as a
“shrink-wrapped” Englishman. Bless my tormentors! They cracked me open like an
egg, and left me on the path to the kind of self-discovery I had so long evaded
out of fear of what it might bring to light. It was not long after that
weekend, and surely thanks to the experience, that I found myself on a
different, but related path—a spiritual path that led me to the Buddhist
meditation practice I pursue until this day. Both asked me to look past the deceptive
surfaces I had used as camouflage and into the depth of my psychological and
psychic being. This present task I’ve set myself is no more than an extension
along the path on which I started out some twenty-five years ago.
Looking back at my
boyhood from where I stand today, it’s not hard to realize how much of the
upbringing and education I received was intended to mould me into a
“gentleman”—and an English gentleman at that. To this day I recognize that
gentleman in myself, just as others recognize him in me. They say as much, with
the understanding that they are offering me a compliment. What I have come to
understand, however, is that no matter how charming, no matter how considerate,
no matter how well-mannered the gentleman, there is always a price that has
been paid. The foremost characteristic of the gentleman, as I see it, is deference. In order to be unfailingly
polite, we learn to defer to others in matters great and small. I am
constitutionally unable, to take a perhaps trivial but telling example, to walk through a door without first standing
back to hold it open for everyone else, man, woman or child. I catch myself considerately
deferring to my wife on the choice of a movie or a restaurant, even when I know
I have a preference myself.
It’s all very
“nice,” of course. But too often deference masks something much darker:
resentment, anger, fear, or even rage.
As a child, I
learned I should consider myself last amongst everyone around me. In part it
was the tired old Victorian adage about children being seen and not heard. But I
also learned to behave myself, to be a good boy, to follow the rules, to do as
I was told. Failure to do so could result in anything from a parental reprimand
and a frown of disapproval to what we referred to, in school, as “six of the
best” on the backside with a leather strap or cane. I learned, as I noted
above, to hide my feelings: to cry, even in the direst of circumstances, was to
invite ridicule; to show fear, to invite the attentions of the bully; to resort
to anger, to expose myself to taunting or retribution. So I learned, with
considerable skill, to create the armor I needed to protect me. It served me
well at the time, but proved a hindrance in my later attempts to create
relationships with my fellow human beings. The downside to being perceived a
gentleman is being perceived, also, as aloof, unreachable, and cold.
And there is this:
I have grandsons, both of them at different stages of boyhood. My older
grandson, now sixteen, has spent all the years of his young life at a far
remove from his grandfather: he lives in England, I in Southern California. I
have been unable to know him as well as I would like. My younger grandson, six
years old, is a different matter. He lives fifteen minutes from our house. I
have watched him grow from infant to toddler, from toddler to young boy. His
boyhood, of course, is much different from mine. Times have changed since I was
his age, as have the cultural expectations around children. He is much freer
than I ever was—free to be a brat as well as a charmer. And yet I see much in
him that reminds me of my own boyhood: his enthusiasms and his curiosity, his
interest in his body—though mine was mostly shame and his is mostly pleasure.
So I learn about myself from watching and being with him, and his beginning
boyhood brings to mind a great deal about my own, now so long in the past. He
inspires in me the desire to go back and take another, deeper, and perhaps more
unflinching look at who I was and how it shaped the adult life it presaged.
And finally there
is this deep impulse to communicate, to share stories, to connect with others.
At this stage in our human history we need desperately to understand more about
each other. Our very survival as a species depends on it. The first step along
that path, I have learned, is to understand more about ourselves. It’s my
belief that we share a common humanity, even with those most distant from our
own culture. We men have all been boys, surrounded by adults who tower over us
and dominate our lives; who treat us well or treat us ill; who provide with
safety and security or deprive us of it; who love us or neglect us; or, more
commonly, provide us with a unique blend of all these. We all have the same—well,
similar—equipment down between our legs and all must experience the joys and
pain associated with it. We survive our boyhood as best we can, and grow into
adults ourselves, lugging our childhood along in our hearts and memories.
Tell me who you are. I believe that to
be the impulse that drives all human creativity, a basic human need that, when
ignored, can lead to turmoil, personal misery, even conflict. It’s why I have
known since the age of twelve that I wished to be a writer. It’s why I choose
to make yet another exploratory journey through these memories and write them
down. Again.
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