Introductory Text
How much of the real story actually survived?[]
The Author's Narrative Part 07
72nd Post
Posted 29 May 2016 at 03:07:00 EDT
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A friend from rehab invites me to an H.A. meeting. Shooting boy was never among my vices, but I go with him. The meeting is out in the suburbs, and it is packed. Every bit of floor space is filled with folding chairs, and every chair is filled. I want to leave as soon as I sit down. It is like being in a crowded elevator for an entire hour. I can feel the coffee breath on my skin.
It is disturbing to look around at all the kids in the room. How are they all so young and fresh faced? The alcoholics tend to be much more beat up. All those years of excess capillary dilation give our faces a meaty quality. These little heroin addicts, on the other hand, come into the rooms at 19 with the glow of childhood still on their skin.
My friend's arms have no track marks. They are smooth and doll-like, no major veins left. He is 21. I've been roommates with kids like these for the past few months. They don't know who Norm from Cheers is. They don't know how to empty a dryer filter or take care of a teflon pan. But they know how to cook up black tar. They know how to find veins.
It quickly becomes apparent that one of the meeting's regulars died last night. Everybody is upset. People start crying. My desire to not be there grows exponentially. I didn't know the kid. I feel like I've stumbled into the wrong funeral.
The kid's sponsor talks. He's an older man with a gray goatee. He was guiding the kid through the steps. The room looks at him to say something comforting, something with the ring of authority and wisdom. The room is full of children in the grips of a problem that their parents cannot understand. Here is a grownup who can understand.
He talks about meeting the kid's parents at the hospital. His eyes grow damp. He recalls haltingly that the parents were very polite. They thanked him very politely for trying to help their son. He looks down at the floor. There is no more to say.
Later, I relate this story to my roommate Shawn. He says that this has been going on with the blacks for years, but nobody cared until it came to swallow up all the little white children. He says that most problems come to visit black people first because black people are God's chosen people. They must be chastised.
The program tells us to be more open-minded and less judgmental. I am trying to be more open-minded and less judgmental about Shawn's beliefs. At first glance, his beliefs are paranoid, ahistorical, conspiracy theory hogwash. At second glance, they are appallingly anti-Semitic cultural appropriation. But my sponsor says it is not my place to enlighten him with my views. I only need to be a decent roommate to him.
When the Jews were sold into captivity, their narrative survived. This was not so for the slaves of America. At least, nothing like the Torah was passed on. The American system of slavery worked to destroy the history of millions of people. But I wonder, how much of the Jews' history really survived? There are certainly parts of the Torah that don't have the resounding ring of authority and wisdom e.g. the talking snake or the talking bush or the Nephilim or 90% of everything else. How much of the real story actually survived?
It must be tempting to place oneself into the context of a mythical narrative that goes back thousands of years, that extends forward to the end of history. Instead of just being this lost little individual, you become the inheritor of a grand spiritual legacy, part of a grand struggle, one of the chosen people.
A new roommate moved into the house a few days ago. His name is Donnie. He's in his mid-forties, and he's a former Marine. I show him the Iwo Jima segment of my story and ask him what he thinks.