Non Serviam

Once upon a time there were two little boys.  
Both were young, sensitive and vulnerable; they were just starting school.

The first little boy came in like a whirling dervish.  All that natural energy had been infused with anger.  He was furious and could barely contain it.  Yet he longed for connection, he wanted and needed friends.  We’ll call him Peter.  

Peter’s father was a totalitarian influence in his young life.  Peter had been told that he was just wrong, in every way.  
How does one make friends and find peaceful connection with others when at core level one feels bad?  
Utilizing the violence to which he had been exposed, Peter lashed out at everyone.  And yet, he was accessing his emotions and I met him on this plane.  The language of emotion is universal, it transcends mundane expression.  

While Peter often raged, he also laughed and smiled, his eyes shone with hope.  
We worked through boundaries, gradually navigating the new environment together.  The older boys acted as Peter’s guides.  They never hit back, they stood strong and made it known that violence was not our language.

Peter wanted to be like the big boys.  He carried a whole menagerie of dinosaur models under his arms and requested their participation in project work.  If Peter reacted to internal frustration, I was there in a heartbeat, and we worked through those feelings without disrupting the class industry.  

Often, Peter would come up to me and brightly, if a little tentatively, ask:
‘Am I a good boy?’
The answer was yes, always yes.

Within the daily waves of activity and lulling calm, Peter began to harmonize his energy to that of his environment.  He laughed, he engaged wholeheartedly, we were there for him; he balled his fists and roared, he wailed and cried with full abandon, we were there for him.


In contrast, Paul cautiously entered the classroom.  
He was more than quiet, he was subdued.  Friends were not his first priority, he viewed everyone with suspicion.  
Paul spoke eloquently, he had command of language.  Already he had built a high, invisible wall around himself.  
Paul’s father was traditional, yet gentle.  His mother, however, was not.  She was a tiny, slight woman devoid of maternal warmth.

The classroom became a place where Paul felt safe to push the boundaries of his upbringing. He had a thirst for knowledge and a keen intellectual intelligence soon shone out.  Paul liked the work, yet he had great difficulty in concentrating on one task at a time.  
Often, Paul would challenge my words and I understood where that came from.  He tested and rebuffed even the most mundane observation.  The other children looked at him quizzically.  

Paul longed to do art, yet he feared the mess.  
Within the industry of art time, when children moved around to collect their requirements, Paul continually flinched and shook.  
Once, when I came up behind him to return a child friendly scissors to its rightful place, he shuddered.  And I understood.

Paul never asked me if he was a good boy.  He did not laugh, rarely smiled and often spoke harsh words to his fellow students.  
Paul was bereft of joy and hope.  
Sometimes I noticed him watching me move around the classroom and when I met his gaze, it was filled with pain.


I wish that I could have done more for them, yet I know that I did my best.  I gave them all that I had.  I believed in them and still do.
I send them love; it’s all I can do.  I send them love and will do this till the end of my days.

Did you know that when I ask a large class of eleven and twelve year olds to raise their hand if they think they are a good person, I consistently get a room of children who freeze at the request?  No one raises their hand.  Truly, it happens all the time.

And there I was thinking that the next generation have it so much better...

How do we get to that place of self acceptance?

It reminds me of my uncle.  He spent his life rebelling against conformity.  
I hold fast to his memory, he remains my guide.  
Imagine a young lad who believed in Socialism so wholeheartedly that he risked his university scholarship?  There was no safety net back then.  Regardless of adversity, he became a teacher, an academic and a consummate troublemaker!

Throughout the course of his life, my uncle managed to challenge and rattle more than one conservative society.  In the Republic of Ireland at least, this was a relatively easy accomplishment :)

What was his motivation?  

He wasn’t bothered by fame or wealth, in person he was a big shy bear who talked about history with boyish enthusiasm.  He actively listened, indulgently noting every shared daydream and quiet observation.  His world was that of the imagination, the heart, the spirit.

Yet I always knew that publicly, my uncle did his best to challenge and foster greater understanding, he battled prejudice and fear wherever he found it.  This got him blacklisted.
In Ireland, you don’t openly question the status quo without consequences.

So, his motivation was spurred by a deeply felt rage against injustice.  It was more than academic; it was personal.

Recently I studied the treasured books and objects he collected, which remain in place, cared for by the woman he loved, and I searched for answers.  Always, it’s the same, I get the sense that he was trying to bring unity to all that was broken or separated.  
From the land he honoured to the minds he researched, my uncle wished for wholeness and integration.

And he didn’t hide behind books; my uncle lived and worked within the Troubles.  
Perhaps he needed to be there, it actively echoed his upbringing!  
The rage on the streets may have mirrored the fury and passion within his soul.  

On the most intuitive level, I know that he moved from being fear based to liberation.  He did this through his work and his personal life, yet he had only just begun to really feel it.  Although an academic, he thought like an artist.  He rebelled.

In the last years of his life, my uncle talked to me about creativity.  

We explored the idea that creativity liberated the individual from pain.  
Somehow, by trusting one’s own voice above all the indoctrination of family and society, each person can free themselves.  
It’s not a quick fix, it takes time and perseverance.  
If a person can believe in their own goodness and work from there, new perspectives may be gained.  
He gave that to me and I trusted that rebellion is possible (without the world bursting into flames!).

We need to fight for self acceptance.  
We must believe in it.  
Let freedom and unlimited potential be the goal.

Oh, for about a hundred years (my entire childhood), my father called me gullible.  

He equated my day dreaminess with all that a human should not be.  
Being trusting was a very silly thing indeed.
It went deeper than that, of course.

I did not know how else to be, so I accepted his condemnation and retreated inwards.  For a long time, I believed in his narrative.
Over the years, I went from being crushed to searching for others who resonated; it was an intuitive endeavour.  
Still, I internalized the sense of lack; things were not going very well.

At ten, while doing the washing up, I looked at a steak knife and thought ‘this is a way out.’
Then something happened.  
One day the father of one of my fellow students brought in his peregrine falcon.  He sat comfortably on a class table and held her on his arm while discussing how best to care for a rapture to a group of stunned children.  I came in late and was instantly mesmerized.  Totally out of character, I made my way towards the front of the class.  

The man was young, he had a different kind of energy and he seemed to be one with his falcon.  She was so beautiful. The man explained that he would fly her in the mountains, in that magical place far above the city.

The falcon looked at us all with perfect serenity.  To me, she was the absolute embodiment of power and beauty.

At the end of the talk, he placed a hood over her eyes and asked who would like to take her out to the Range Rover.  There was silence.  Without thinking, I stepped forward and he welcomed me with delight.  He asked for my arm and covered it with a thick leather glove before transferring the bird onto my right arm.  I still remember her weight, she felt so good.

I walked her through the school, focused entirely on keeping her safe; only as I reached the car did I get this surge of pride.  It came from deep within, from my core.  It filled my whole body.

The man was very kind.  He praised my handling, telling me that not many people would do what I had just done.  Jovially, he transferred her into the car and thanked me for my help.  I was speechless.  Apart from my revered uncle, adults didn’t give positive attention to children back then.

In the next academic year this same man taught a group of us all about photography (he was an artist).  Once a week, for about an hour, he guided us through the process of taking photographs.  He remained consistently kind and attentive.

I think back now and realize: this man changed everything.
In his world was where I wanted to be.