One
of the most enduring stories from ancient Greece is that of Troy.
It
occupied all of seven acres.
A
humble patch of ground may become the scene of a mythical exploit; experience
may start small to become a monumental tale.
When I learned of this I was taken aback. I was tutored in the compulsory public school
system; where heroes were grandiose; and everything spectacular came from extraordinary
origins. I was particularly fond of Disney fables; I was somber when I learned
why children were consistently duped by those they trusted; I was told it was
because children couldn’t comprehend the complexity of truth. Oddly, I’ve been handled in pretty much that
same way ever since. I never got
comfortable with the notion that children were unable to identify their natural
surroundings. It wasn’t long until I
realized that it was the parents who couldn’t handle the truth. They were the
ones grappling with the fact that they were powerless to protect what they
cherished. The stout hearts navigated
those shoals without assigning a personal narrative to the practice of
deception.
For the rest of us, we were relegated
to either resign or embrace a cynical interpretation of the nature of Santa and
the rest of those purveyors of compassion.
Those who resigned did so unemotionally and move on to make pragmatic-logical
choices when engineering their lives; the cynical ones got their feelings hurt
and committed themselves to convincing any who would listen the stupidity of
trusting anyone; they usually ended up becoming journalist or government lobbyist.
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