WelcomeIt Wasn't What It Wasn't
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☢American nuclear family being culturally irradiated☢ |
"Things that make life tolerable for normal people have always been at best of no value to me when they did not harm me." (BMcC[18-11-46-503])
My (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) childhood wasn't what it wasn't: what it should have been, could have been and needed to be, but it wasn't because my childrearers were what what they were, not what they should have been and needed to be, but were not. It was what it was....
And I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) don't think it was necessarily a matter of anybody not having enough money, although, obviously, I would have done better in a wealthy home (the family in Vittorio de Sica's film "The Garden fo the Finzi-Continis", with its research library "where a visiting doctoral student would find everything he needed", please). No: What was missing in each case was what should have and needed to populate the space between these people's two ears. The spirit of The Bauhaus instead of The Split-level American Dream.
That was a pathetic and sick dream and surely still is: "Keep America beautiful: get a haircut!" The lust to purchase a mort—gage ("Mort" means death, of course) and a lawn to mow, but sex was something to be kept away from children's, esp.: my knowledge of it, and who knows what my parents did in shame and maybe trying to think about seeing the USA in their Chevrolet (Ford...) while doing it because these people had to do it in order to have their highly publicized and celebrated "blessed events" and having 3 of them was normative. How sick were these people? What they considered the most taboo word named what they had to do to achieve their highest good in life: motherfuck. So they were what they were. I was missing out on life because I was a deprived-of-siblings "only child". I wasn't deprived of siblings; I was deprived of Rrose Sélavy.
Compare: Marcel Duchamp made his "Fountain" sculpture in 1917: He displayed a standard issue male urinal in an art show but presumably himself was modestly clothed. In my childrearing much later, in the 1950s, urinals were hidden from public view but men [not homosexual!] publicly exposed their genitals to each other in their locker rooms and had the students do this to each other and for them, too. But 2 boys in my class in 7th grade who had oral sex in the boys' toilet room got expelled for that. Sick people – no not the boys, who are not very bright, but the adolts who expelled them but looked at their genitals in the locker room. I never exposed my genitalia to either fellow students or teachers, but I got no sex, either.
Let's get it straight: The teachers were perverts: grown men looking at nude boys (child pornography). But it was worse than that: one of these sick adult males had been conscripted to teach 7th grade English class and there he tried to break my spirit. I have that documented, no need to repeat it here except to repeat the threat's name again and again and again...: 𝄆Mr. Mike Rentko, Mr. Mike Rentko, Mr. Mike Rentko𝄇∞: here.
Back to "obscenities" — no, not Mr. Rentko whowhich must have weighed over 160 pounds, but a mere word which had no weight at all. They subjected me to an Inquisitorial Proceeding for writing in winter's condensation on a school transportantion vehicle's window the word the referent of which is the only way the school would ever have got any tuition money: "FUCK". If nobody copulated the school would have had no students, so why did they persecute me for merely expressing the name of the act the teachers depended on for their paychecks? I think my translation of the adolts' watchword at the time time is right on target: "in loco parentis" means: parents are insane.
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What did I need instead of what I got? First of all, for my warders to respect me as their equal: as a member of the faculty, who happened to be paying them for the privilege of being what they got paid for. They should have been grateful. And what should I have had to do? Not take tests but teach younger students. They were interested in my "social adjuctment"? I agree that I was one messed up kid. They could have helped me "adjust" to helping younger children learn: Helped me "adjust" to being a teacher, not adjust to them jerking me around as a student (object of pupilmetric management, measurement and disposition).
A synoptic presentation of what I got versus what I should have got and needed is: here. As for the school, if they may be excused for not knowing anything about John Dewey, all they had to do for me if not for other kids was read and practice Luke 2:41-52 in "The Good Book".
Like mos American middle class adult females at the time, my mother had nothing she needed to do much of the time: she was a housewife who wasn't getting pregnant again to make more work for herself than I already was. She had to clean the house, do laundry, cook and what else? A lot of this was "make work", just like for the school their athletic teams were entirely unnecessary. Instead of precticing head-butting, the school could hav ehad the kids really learn a foreign language by having them converse in it for the last hour of each school day → not the rote drudgery of homework but the fun of cracking scatological jokes in the language.
Boys" are said, so I hav eheard, to like to imitate their fathers. If the father is shaving, the young lad pretends to shave beside him beaming in pride and adoration; like father like son. Huh? Maybe I was a big disappointment to my father since I wa a wimp not a "man"; but getting straight "A" grades in school had to do as a consolation prize, and, of course, he never ever crossed with my mother, of whom he may have seen me as an extension (she had no "boundaries"). I was not going to win a varsity letter. Boo, hoo!
My parents were phenomena in my surround, my father apparently moreso than my mother although she was omnipresent and he was absent during the week but maybe I've jus "repressed" her more. I had zero interest in being anything like the few things I saw my father as being. He lined up long rows of shoes to shine on the low wall next to the driveway on the weekend. What was the point of that? I wondered if shining them was necessary to make the shoes last longer. Saturday morning haircutting was obligatory and entirely unwanted by me to have any involvement with that. The best was the one time when my mother took it in her head to wash my hair under the kitchen sink faucet (barbering left lots is itchy little specks of hair on me), and she jammed my head so hard under the faucet that it's lucky she didn't break my neck which would have rendered me paralyzed from the neck down for life but would have been just desserts for her. My mother was determined to wash my hair under that faucet. Like she was determined to do every thing she was determined to do. When, all other times, she washed [what little wa left of...] my hair under the bathtub faucet, I was scared I would be suffocated by the water (realtime inline free-association: "Waterboarding"). She would also take scissors to perfect what the barber had not done exactly to her ideal of my – another realtime inline free-association: circumcised head (they had cut my penis at birth but foreskin does not grow back. (Why do males get upset about "losing their hair" when they discard much of it in the garbage at the barbarian shop anyway? Barbers are eternally sweeping up the cuttings off their shop floor.)
