Swimming in the Pensieve

We had a bit of a birthday party in the backyard, yesterday, for daughter #5.

At some point during the festivities daughter #4 instigated a turn in the flow of conversation; which I didn’t hear, but clarified after the fact. It was something that was substantially similar to a verbal exchange that took place a few months back; upon which, since I have a greater familiarity with the earlier event, I’ll base my comments.

Anya had, in a discussion with some of her friends, mentioned the name ‘Horace’ in a very peculiarly punny way. As her friends attempted to fathom the significance of this, mulling over how Horace Horsecollar or Horace T. Morris might come to bear in the humorous construct, it became quite evident that they were very far off-base in their brainstorming of the matter.

Out of sheer frustration she finally explained that she was not referring to ‘Horace’, but had, in fact, been referring to the complicated, multi-formed Horus, son of Isis and Osiris; an Egyptian deity possessed of one of the most extensive possible mythologies. Her construct was genuinely funny, you know.

The reactions this nine year-old received were interesting.

Confusion was, of course, chief amongst the reaction mix. Mild aversion was there as well. There were no overt critical remarks, but it was easy enough to see that they were there, circulating below the children’s facades. Subtlely-flitting expressions of fear and discomfort were obvious enough to me.

As I watched this exchange unfold, I involuntarily turned back my mental clock to a time when, very early in my life, I learned that somebody whom I had considered to be my best friend didn’t want me around any more because he couldn’t understand what I was talking about. This knowledge was gained, unfortunately, via a very loud argument between his mother and himself - on the other side of his front door - after I rang the door bell one day.

After she opened the door and informed me that Greg was sick and couldn’t play that day; I left and never returned to the Martz home again. At some six or seven years old, that seemed like the only right thing to do. I never discussed it with my parents, because I really didn’t perceive the situation as being anything but my fault.

After several more aborted friendships which largely resulted in my being patseyed, or drained of any possible benefit and discarded, I accustomed myself to being essentially alone.

Friends, per se, simply weren’t worth the bother and, usually, those who would call themselves my ‘friend’ were anything but.

My lessons in friendship, through high school and college, taught me that the majority of the people who professed friendship were only interested in homework or test answers - freely given - or the expectation that I would ‘throw an exam’ in those classes wherein the instructor graded on a curve. I formed an unapologetic disdain for weak instructors and academic sponges alike.

I learned very quickly to tell them what they wanted to hear, and get my high marks anyway. “If they are too stupid to study for themselves, that’s not my problem. To Hell with them.”

Life, back then, was very close to Hell on Earth, and I always wondered why it had to be that way. Maybe I now have my answer.

I’m glad that I have the opportunity to intelligently and empathetically guide my children through these times of their lives, when they will discover that their capabilities will make others uncomfortable…even fear them. They will learn, in a better way, the lesson that came to me through only much difficulty and confusion: that they should never compromise who and what they are for the mere approval of others.

They will know that it’s not their fault, and that they should be proud of who and what they are.

Intellectually speaking, they are the best of the best.

They are my babies, and I love them all dearly.