FEEL LESS AND THINK MORE

Feel Less and Think More

The affluent youth of the nineteen-sixties felt guilty when they peered over their suburban hedges and discovered poverty in America.

Frantically, they gathered on college campuses, used drugs to induce a state of “heightened awareness,” and demanded that others—those who worked for a living, earned income, and paid taxes—foot the bill for placing the poor on the dole.

What was there to think about when something felt so right?

Armed with rhetoric gleaned from their introductory courses in philosophy, political science, and metaphysics, they pressed the bewildered generation that gave them birth with all manner of tantrums until they prevailed.

The sobering and tragic outcome of their endeavor was to institutionalize poverty in America.

One lesson in all this, of course, is beware of anyone in a drug induced state of “heightened awareness,” especially guilt-ridden and tantrum-prone youth. Another is feel less and think more.

Fannie Louise

Fannie Louise is often ill at ease and a bit withdrawn, but always polite and pleasant. She would never make a spectacle of herself. She believes restraint is a virtue and that visibility is something one earns by being right.

She is known as kind and caring, which is mostly true. Kindness is her currency. It buys her validation, and with validation comes the confidence to be morally certain about herself and others. That certainty steadies her. It tells her she matters.

She was raised on poverty and ignorance, and the quiet shame that clings to both. From this, she learned tight, small-town boundaries where faith steps in when evidence grows inconvenient. Her education at a small, religion-affiliated university in the Midwest confirmed what she already suspected, namely that doubt is dangerous and questions are best answered before they are fully asked.

She thinks and acts within these limits faithfully, even when others object. Objections are not signals to reconsider. They are tests of resolve.

In her personal relationships, especially with her brothers, her moral certainty finds its fullest expression. Alleged immorality in others does not merely concern her, it obligates her. She judges and exposes. Punishment, after all, is a form of care. And she does not see it as interference. She sees it as truth, bravely revealed, and moral responsibility.

She involves herself in family research with diligence and persistence. Documentation reassures her, even when the context is thin or nonexistent. Methodology is unnecessary when conviction is strong. Wishful thinking, conjecture, and inference do the heavy lifting, although she would never call them that. To her, conclusions precede evidence, and evidence exists to confirm them.

Her politics follow the same moral geometry. It is right, she insists, for the government to coerce Peter into paying Paul if Paul is in need, especially if she is Paul. This is fairness. This is social justice. This is morally correct. But if she is Peter, the geometry shifts. Then the coercion is at least questionable if not wrong. And disagreement with all this is intolerable.

Her appearance is practical, often unfeminine, signaling seriousness and not appeal. She does not intend harm. She believes she is being helpful, honest, and responsible.

What she lacks is not care, but doubt, and not certainty, but depth. She cannot free herself from moral certainty long enough to ask whether it is a substitute for understanding rather than its reward. She is what life, unexamined, has made her.

She is not cruel. She is worse than cruel. She is morally certain.

Self-Crowned Rule

She moves in short, quick steps, stooped
slightly with her small head and skinny
neck nervously bobbing like a pigeon on
the prowl. Her hollow face is drawn tight
with deadpan eyes, a boney chin, and
no smile to soften the edges of her reign.

From table to table, she searches her
domain, salad bar to beverage counter,
a restless patrol. Her sharp eyes miss
nothing, a napkin askew or a placemat
smudged. She sees herself as the pulse
of the room, required and irreplaceable.

At the kitchen doorway, she leans halfway
in and flings words at the cooks. They’re
not orders exactly, but clearly suggestions,
sharp as a knife’s edge. The cooks nod,
smile, and continue their work, laughing
off her meddling once she has gone.

Diners wander in and settle at tables, and
the quiet ballet of chaos finds its form.
The servers sidestep her efforts to claim
her throne with smiles and nods, similar
to those of the cooks in the kitchen, as
they rush to make ready, serve, and please.

She makes the rounds to tables and chats
with the oblivious diners in a voice full
of practiced warmth, convinced the room
would falter without her meticulous care.
But whispers trail her as the staff jests,
mocking her attempt at self-crowned rule.

Values of Poetry

When poets assess the value of their verse,
I wish them well, but when they seek to exchange
their verse for something of value to me,
then together, we assess value in exchange.

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com.