Meet the Skywalkers

---

When I lived in Byfield, MA, years ago, I would take our household trash to the transfer station every Saturday morning. Sometimes one or both of my kids would come along. One day my daughter came with me, and a near catastrophe happened.

I took a barrel of garbage out of the back of our station wagon. She got out of the car with me, and we both walked up to the big machine that compacted the trash. It had a large square opening to hurl the trash into. I tipped the barrel and chucked, and as the trash flew into the compactor and down the chute, she spotted her black vinyl Monster High purse flying through the air and into the abyss. She shrieked and watched helplessly as it vanished into the darkness.

I saw it, too. I was very angry, because I knew why the purse had been in the trash. Her Mom had thrown it away. She did that when the kids did not keep their rooms clean, holding them to a standard of neatness and organization that I felt was too strict and unchildlike, given their ages. She and I had made an agreement to maintain a united front on things in front of the kids, so I didn't verbally object or do anything obvious when this happened. Instead I quietly went into the garage after she did that to pull their toys out of the trash and bring them back to their room. 

That's how I am. How I have always been, from the beginning. One of those types. The quiet ones.

The purse was not worth much, monetarily, and I was making good money at the time, employed as a software architect, so I could have replaced it for her, no problem. But it was HER purse. And she was upset NOW. Right then, in front of me. Besides which, purses contain things. She no doubt had trinkets and small toys and probably slips of paper with her delightful primitive writing or little drawings on them. For me personally, those are the types of things I have always valued the most. And I knew that for kids, and for her, this was true, as well. I still value those types of things the most, because I am a child.

The compactor was idle, not crushing the trash. So there was hope.

A button next to the chute is what triggered the compaction. So I checked with the attendant to make sure that the compactor was not going to start on its own, then glanced at my girl - I got this - and slid down the chute to fetch her purse. It wasn't that deep, like six feet down, maybe. I slid down there, and looked back up into the mouth of the chute. It was a sunny day. Summertime. My daughter's small, round face was captured in the rectangle like a photo in a frame, backed by blue sky and clouds. What I saw there almost made me start climbing right back out of the chute. She was, all of a sudden, very nervous, scared, watching me down there, in a machine she had previously seen mashing and munching things, crushing them and sending them down further into some unknown underworld.

I told her it was OK in a calm voice, a casual tone, quickly sifted through the trash, and showed her the purse, telling her I'm coming right back out. And I did, climbing up the metal slope of the compactor. A few people were standing around, kind of like, really, did he just do that. I handed my daughter the purse. She was delighted and, while this is not a word used often to describe the state of the minds of little children, obviously moved. Relief flooded her face. Gratitude. Some admiration toward me, And much more importantly, love. Her face was truly radiant with love. She loved her purse. She loved her Dad. She felt loved, loved, loved. I could see it, plain as day, right on her gorgeous face. All was right in her world.

Those who show mercy and kindness are shown mercy and kindness. This is the meaning of that Beatitude. It's not a promise, just an observation.

I did what I did because I acted instinctively. I thought very little about it. Or more accurately, I noticed very little thinking occurring. It was only upon reflection that I realized some of my line of thinking, which happened too fast for me to figure it out at the time.

First and foremost, it was always important to me for my children to know that they were first and foremost to me. They were and are more important to me than I am. That's how it works. Period. Anything else is fucking stupid. Obviously. A brain dead rat could figure that out. Yes, it was possible something could have gone wrong. The machine could have started up somehow, and I could have been hurt, maybe severely hurt, possibly killed, I guess, maybe. And yes, part of what allows me to take risks like this for people is because I have had a death wish since at least high school due to trauma, abandonment, abuse, Irish secrecy about my shameful origins, and an undiagnosed disability that left me feeling very different from everyone else around me, and also very confused about the nature of that difference, who I was, everything. I have lived in a vague, ambiguous, hellish fantasy world for as long as I can remember, never certain of what is true, or of people's intentions, hypersensitive to environmental stimuli and constantly suppressing (or trying to suppress) behaviors like stimming (hand flailing, facial ticks, etc.) which might bother people, because I felt so unwanted from the beginning that I did not want to make it worse by becoming a nuisance in any way. In first grade, I pissed myself in class because I couldn't speak up to ask to go to the bathroom. As an example.

This type of individual makes an excellent target for sadist bullies. Their little peckers, metaphorical or otherwise, get all tingly when they see someone like me coming. Vulnerability is what entices them, you see. A safe target who seemingly can't fight back, with no one to protect them. 

The fact that I was raised by women who taught me nothing about manhood and therefore am a sensitive man who likes talking about feelings, with occasional quirks like twirling my hair if it is long enough, sitting on the toilet to piss sometimes, and crossing my legs a certain way when I sit in a chair makes me delicious prey for hardcore, deep misogynists, too, men with a real reason to hate, to truly despise women, because they hate their own mothers, wives, etc.

Anyway, as a young person, I self-diagnosed myself as being bad, wrong, or evil, and interpreted something my grandmother said to me once as confirming that diagnosis, and just waited for the sword to fall, knowing for sure that I would die young, that I should die young, always always blaming myself for everything that happened. No matter what, I turned the knife inward. No matter how awful the other person had been, how obviously evil. I later found out, once I learned about the mind, that this kind of thinking can be a consequence of being a victim of sexual abuse, which is also something I am familiar with.

So risking my life is easier for me to do than it is for other people. But the context is critical. For example, say you think about going skydiving at some point after you have become a parent, or are awaiting the birth of a child. My thinking on it is, why risk that when I have a kid who depends on me? If you throw my little girl's purse out of the plane, fine. Down I go. Otherwise, what message does it send to my kid or kids? It might seem like an example of some kind of courage, and on some level it is, but it is also implicitly and more importantly saying, my thrill-seeking is a LOT more important than being here for you. I don't like that message. 

What is more important to say to your kid? 

"Be brave"? Or "I love you more than anything else in the world, including my own need for entertainment, recognition, reputation, thrills, achievement or whatever else I would get from skydiving, like hiding various inadequacies I might fear I am suffering from"? The fact is, if they don't believe the latter, following the former advice will be incredibly difficult, painful, and maybe even impossible for them to do. 

First things first, I say.

If the child is old enough to grasp the risks of skydiving, which are intuitively available to humans who can look up and reason, the time period between the parent leaving to skydive and returning safely is likely very distressing. It is my belief that to the extent maximally possible, childhood should be barren of such emotions and the brain chemistry involved. Later in life, some event with similar characteristics can re-trigger this fear due to the mind's pattern-matching functions, and cause all kinds of problems for the former child and other people. 

It's kinda stupid. IMHO.

If something goes wrong, and the parent does die, what is the kid left with? Why would it be worth it?

Obviously this wouldn't apply to things like paratroopers in the military or others who have a purpose for skydiving. Just like fetching a little girl's purse from the garbage compactor. 

All of the above is a true expression of my thinking on the matter, but what it really boiled down to, in the moment, was that it was important to my daughter, so I did it. The fact that an adult would not value a Monster High purse in the same way makes no difference, because of the importance it held to her at her age. It was truly important to her. It mattered a lot. It would have been a heartbreak for her to suffer. And it would have ruined more than just that day for her to lose that purse. I knew that because I knew her. 

So down the chute I went. Like a simple human being. Or like a dim-witted elephant. Duh. Just following my heart down the rabbit hole for my girl.

And it did provide an example of courage. Courage when something was important to do. Doing dirty work and something difficult and scary and risky and unpleasant, when there was an important enough reason to do it.

The staging was important, too. The physical setting. She was above, and I was below. She was enthroned. I was her servant. She was a queen. And I was doing her bidding. 

I looked up at her from the trash heap, bathed in sunlight, and there she was.

My lovely and beloved daughter. An actual Skywalker.

Best of all, it made her feel something that she liked. And would like to feel again. So my hope is that, as these things go, when she looks for people in her life to choose, for people to be important to her, whether that be mates, partners, or close friends, she seeks out those who will do likewise. People who go down chutes for her or others when the time comes, instinctively, naturally, without consulting a lawbook or a Bible or some set of rules or asking if they will get proper credit or a reward, because she is more important to them than they are. And I can say, because I have seen it, that she does the same. I have seen my son do it as well, repeatedly.

That is the life I want for my daughter. and my son, about whom I have other remarkable stories to tell. And everyone else as well.

Other people parent and treat others...differently.

We can talk about that, too, eventually.