Writing. Me?

I don’t know about you but I really think I have something important to say so that’s why I write.  I don’t do it just to pass the time of day, the morning, or the night.  What a waste of time that would be.

Like this story here:  I am assigned to take part in the police response to college students who have swarmed the administration building and chased the rightful people out of the building.  The mob can’t be allowed to run the institution, right?  Right said the government’s leaders from the top on down.  But be careful how you do it is the repeated instructions by the superiors  After all, these are just kids acting out.  Don’t hurt anybody.

So we line up and chase the tumult away from the entrances and clear a path for the removal teams to enter the building and take out the kids one by one.  This may take hours upon hours as there are estimates that 400 kids have set themselves up in every office in the building.

Before much was accomplished the unruly throng began getting violent.  Throwing rocks and pieces of broken asphalt came flying through the air.  Unfortunately for me a sizeable missile hit me in my left ear.  It had the effect of a thunderclap and seemed to go right through my head.   Mental anguish, physical retaliation, and “fight” never “flight” surged immediately.  Immediate response was needed, justified, mandated by the uninvited cruelty thrust upon me.

But the mantra, “these are just kids”, quickly returned.  But I have to get even.  I cannot just let this assault go with no response.  No turning of the other cheek will do.  Turnabout is fair play.  So I “played” with the nearest group of kids.  They were on the high wall surrounding the building topped by a walkway.  Below were thickets of bushes to discourage climbing and scribbling graffiti.  So, with my three foot long riot baton, (I love that name, baton) I pushed several of the kids flying into the bushes below.  I know I smiled inside but my business like face did not betray my delight.

To this day, some fifty years later I still suffer from hearing loss caused by that missile.  “Just kids”?  Forgive them for they know not what they do.

So that’s why I write.  Just to tell you of the important things in life.  My life.  Don’t we all do just that?  Write about “important things” we think you or somebody, anybody ought to know?  Just thinking about these events doesn’t get the job done.  Talking about these events only lasts as long as the hearers next thought enters his or her mind.  But writing puts a degree of permanence into what is important.

Now you know why I write.  At least one reason why, anyhow.