When I Think of Courage

He was the kid that everyone picked on in grade school.  He dressed funny, had shaggy hair, was socially awkward, and his smell was a weaponized friend repellant.  He tried to make fun of the way I walked once, and then I teased him till he cried.

It happened during recces in fifth grade.  A group of us were playing four-square and when I ran to get a stray ball the damage in my knees was made manifest through my gait.  In a moment I’m sure he intended to use as a way to pull his own social status from the gutter, he pointed at me, laughed, and made an attempt in humor at my expense.

But no one laughed.  Even if it had been funny none of the other kids would have laughed because snickering at his joke would have lessened their own popularity.  Yet I still felt enraged; infused with anger at the conceit with which a socially inferior child had made fun of my own obvious disabilities. So I fired back, and I kept firing my seething insults until the poor child retreated in humiliation and in tears.

The others on the playground praised my refutes with approving smiles.  With the innocence of childhood they laughed at my demeaning jokes concerning the boy's personal appearance and egged me on through my harsher criticisms of his family’s poor economic circumstances.  When my tirade of eloquent lies and half-truths concerning his shortcomings had ended I felt appeased.

I felt accomplished in the evil I had done by bullying a child, but now I don’t see why.  Now I see an episode of disgrace when my courage failed me.  I see an instance when I could have included instead of discounted; when I could have uplifted, not corrupted.

That boy and his family moved the following year and by the time I realized my cowardice concerning him it was too late to repair the damage done.  My absence of courage in this thing has haunted me since.

In this instance my courage failed me, or I failed it.  Since then and even before, a deep fascination revolving around courage and its meaning developed within me.  Many of my pondering thoughts of quiet meditation through the years have been occupied with this notion of what makes courage courage and what motivates people into courageous acts.

My well-articulated lies and disparaging observations of another boy in my grade school class reflected cowardice, not courage. But other examples from humanity show that there is true courage among people.  Courage of the quality to do what is right even at the expense of their very lives.

Like the courage of a friend of mine in later life who chose to succumb to the painful distresses of cancer for nine months so as to grant life to her yet unborn child.  She held her newborn once, and then passed away. 

Or the courage of a posthumously awarded Medal of Honor recipient in Afghanistan who chose to charge the enemy by himself so that his Special Forces team members could safely retreat from the ambush they had stumbled into.  This action caused every enemy weapon on the battlefield to be directed at him.  At the cost of his life he saved his unit. 

So what causes a mother to give her life for her child or a soldier to sacrifice mortality for his friends?  And will an honest answer to that question provide the answer to what drives real courage?  Philosophy is not my strong point, but I believe there is a fundamental difference between bravery and courage and that that core variance is love.  A brave act can arise from a multitude of motivations, but the courage to uplift, protect, enrich, and defend must all stem first from love.

Les Petit Miserables

The fourth grade classroom rested in tranquil silence, each student but one reading from their favorite book or short story.  I sat stone-faced and defiant at my desk; my little four foot two inch frame shaking from pride, fear, and a concrete conviction.  “Carver, why aren’t you doing your reading?  It’s reading time.”

Miss Kraft’s voice, I always thought, sounded like a repressive dictator’s howl.  Low in tone for a woman, and blubberish, her voice matched her despotic personality and appearance.  Hers was a voice of cruel injustice, demanding far more from her students than I thought prudent.  Assigning homework every day?  What gall and arrogance.  It was more than my fourth grade soul could bear.  And the others were with me, but lacked the courage to resist, to revolt, to rebel.

“Carver?”  Miss Kraft asked again.

A hot fusion of blood rushed to my head, blushed my checks with courage, and with my eyes closed I silently mimicked Kevin from Home Alone, “This is it, don’t get scared now.”

“I’m not reading, Miss Kraft.” I said with my eyes still closed and head bowed. 

A hushed gasp raced through the ranks of my classmates.  I could feel their eyes nervously shifting from me to Miss Kraft and back to me again.  Slowly, deliberately, I started to speak.

“You tell us every day to read and I’ve had enough. I am an agent of my own choice and action.  So today I choose to no longer follow your tyrannical laws of education, but instead to make my own path to freedom!“  Energy surged through me.  Turning in my chair I met Miss Kraft’s burning glares with stiff resolve.  I found myself slowing rising from my chair, fists clasp in haughty disobedience, voice shaking but ever increasing in volume and force.

“Send me to the corner, to detention, to the principal’s office itself, but I am not reading today!  Too long you have reigned over us in prejudice and inequality.  Too long has your despotic arm stretched its stinging shadow of pain and homework over our nights and weekends.  And too long has your undisputed power been left unchecked to ravage and pillage our childhoods!” 

I was no longer shaking.  The fear had dispelled and I spoke clearly while anger wisped from my lips. “Well I say no more!  I say no more reading, no more history, no more science, and for mercy’s sake, sweet heavens above, no more math!”

I was on top of my desk now, all eyes fixed upon me in awe.  Out of breath, chest panting, I scanned the room and saw glimpses of hope and courage in the eyes of my classmates.  Now was the time if ever there would be one.  I gathered what remained of my resilience, looked at Comrade Frau Kraft sitting behind her imperial desk, and boldly shouted to those in my periphery, “Who’s with me!?”

The children were now rising too from their seats.  First to his feet was Ben, my ever faithful colleague and my brother in arms.  Then Alice, my sweetheart to the end, stood beside her desk.  All arose; all threw down their texts of lies, their images of discrimination and deceit, and joined together in united opposition against the secret society of repressive grade school education.

“Carver?  I said, why aren’t you reading?”

Miss Kraft’s voice shook me from my day dream.  Her repeated question slowed Alice and Ben from their flirting just long enough to glance my way before continuing their disgusting display of juvenile romancing.  “I am reading, Miss Kraft, I promise.”  I opened a random book and hung my head in submissive defeat.  Maybe tomorrow I’d find the courage.  Maybe tomorrow I’d find my words.

Authors note:  While the rebellion of fourth grade is a true story, and while I did sponsor many reading-time silent protest as well as outspoken delinquent dissertations, I thought it prudent to change the name of the overly strict teacher.  Oh, and Ben and Alice are completely made up.