Procession of the Youngest King (Lorenzo de' Medici), Benozzo Gozzoli, between 1459 and 1460
"An ounce of respect counterbalances a ton of manure."

My father told stories about his older brother Dan, who was headstrong like his dad. The two boys lived with their Old World grandfather, who subjected them to severe punishment should they misbehave. Dan couldn't seem to help himself and almost daily ended up receiving a whipping and a lengthy time-out in a dark cellar room. Their father had been disowned and disinherited after acting out as an adult, though he might have known better since all but one of his siblings had been likewise disowned and disinherited before him for similar infractions. My great grandfather was doubtless a tyrant, but tyrants above all else respond poorly to perceived disrespect. My dad would plead with Dan, reminding him that things just went easier if he would at least pretend to comply instead of continuously defying. My dad grew to become a humble and deeply respectful guy, and I suppose I sort of naturally lie rather more low than I otherwise might. Dan never learned.

I will admit to a few memorable attempts to stick my thumb into an eye of authority. These adventures mostly turned out badly for me. I learned, painfully and slowly, to at least attempt stealth when I felt a need to act in opposition to authority. Some authorities seem cocked and ready to lose it with even the faintest whiff of disrespect. My Junior High School principal seemed endlessly paranoid, ending most of his first-thing-in-the-morning broadcast announcements with some threat, memorably insisting that, "This is a promise, not a threat." We all knew a threat when we heard it, and most of us slinked between classes, not so much out of respect, but out of sheer terror, though, gratefully, that principal couldn't seem to be able to distinguish one from the other.

The neighbor kids tromped through one of my gardens yesterday while romping in the snow. Though their folks and their kindly neighbor Mr. David had cautioned them many, many times to pay closer attention to where they were romping. I felt disappointed but also disrespected, though I suspect that the snowfall had enthralled them. Inattention seems indistinguishable from disrespect, so I believe that inattention amounts to disrespect in practice. Distracted drivers as well as distracted walkers exude an offensive disrespect, so do the coal-smoking diesel drivers thumbing their noses at their fellow drivers and their environment, and pushy people in line, and dismissive checkers. Indifference seems supremely disrespectful. I've taken to calling those who serve me "Sir" or "Mam", though this convention seems dusty and old school, because I intend to explicitly show my respect for their attention.

The pandemic seems an authoritarian presence, demanding respect. Like every authoritarian, it cannot distinguish between fearful and respectful responses, and responds equally well to either, and poorly to hubris. Like my Uncle Dan, though, some quake at the prospect of showing respect or fear when encountering any powerful immovable anything. They respond self-destructively, apparently to show The Man that he cannot cow them. That guy who walked into the pizzeria before me to fetch his to-go order last night was not wearing his prescribed face mask, showing a flippant disrespect in my eyes. I wondered what he thought he was gaining by so blatantly disrespecting epidemiological law. Perhaps his own self-respect was dependent upon publicly demonstrating a certain personal independence from the common good. What good could possible result?

When two authoritarians confront each other, sparks always fly, producing electric pissing contests (pardon my painful metaphor). The most popular spectator sport, with the present absence of televised team sports, seems to have become Our President's daily news briefings, which unlike millions worldwide, I cannot bear to watch. Petulance demeans a presidency, especially one convinced of his own inherent superiority when confronting a clearly superior force. So far, The Pandemic's kicking his ass. His sole remaining refuge seems to be the old Uncle Dan response, which was to insist that the beating didn't hurt and that the dark room in the cellar where he served his time-outs didn't terrify him, a wasting defense. The laws of epidemiology bow before no man, no government, no known force except a few well-placed ounces of respect, which hardly seems a force at all. One need not enjoy bowing down to understand that it constitutes their best defense.

I some days feel like a timid lamb in the face of this damned Pandemic. If I were a real man, the spirit of my Uncle Dan whispers, I'd take my own stand and continue doing whatever I damned well pleased, if only to demonstrate my liberty. I'd switch the exhaust mix on my diesel dually and smoke out the bastard. I'd, I'd, I'd, … Well, I wouldn't hide myself away. I'd spend my days however I damned well pleased. How very self-destructive of me. Most days, I understand when I'm beaten. I can see that I have no natural defenses against this novel adversary, and that it's ultimately tougher than me. I do not have to like this state of affairs, but I might be much better off if I acknowledge and even begrudgingly respect it. An ounce of respect counterbalances a ton of manure.

©2020 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #WhatNow?, #PureSchmaltz