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Writer's picturecaty.everett

JERK Reflex ― a.k.a. The Things We Carry

Updated: Jun 18, 2020

"Ring the bells that still can ring... forget your perfect offering.  There is a crack in everything... that is how the light gets in."

Leonard Cohen, Anthem


For many years now, my father has taught an English Lit senior elective course focused on some of the incredible fiction and literature that came out of the Vietnam war.  One of the main items on his syllabus is Tim O'Brien's novel "The Things They Carried." The book has always struck me as a tour de force of that era even if inappropriate to call it that - it sounds somewhat snobbish and far too New England prep school when I put it that way. Regardless, I loved his book when I first read it.  The narrative itself was gripping, but what has stayed with me most is the very title. What do we all carry with us underneath the surface of things?  Who among us at any given time is undergoing their own personal "battle"... and how, and when? And why? 


When we interact with each other as relative strangers, across the divides of race, money, geography, education, upbringing, how much do we ever know - or even care to know - the stories we each carry with us?  What power there would be in finding that out before we move on to our own interests and indignations.

Charlie's mother spelled me last night in the hospital so that I could get some real sleep. I met an old dear friend from college for a quick late dinner on the way to my brother-in-law's house in Newton, MA - a cathartic reconnection that felt wonderful and supportive as an ironic byproduct of the reality we find ourselves in right now.  I came back outside after dinner to my own mother's car, as she brought it to me here in Boston to dutifully take my place and fly home to help parent Grace in these early days of balancing her start of school and 8-year-old needs with James's diagnosis and acute medical needs.  As I started the car to head to the haven of a warm non-hospital bed, I saw an envelope on the outside of my windshield.  I thought it was a parking ticket, and couldn't believe that I had been subject to parking meter hours at that time of night. I also knew I'd been well within the boundaries of the parallel parking spot at hand (a skill which my whole family rightfully claims as far superior to most).

It wasn't a ticket.  The judgement it rendered was far more visceral, and jarring in a way - written in angry capital letters on the outside of the envelope were the letters "J.E.R.K.". I still have no idea why. I must have boxed the poor bastard in.  Oh, the horror!  I will admit to benign but distracted driving in general, and likely more so since James' diagnosis a week ago.  I was within my prescribed spot, but the SUV behind me must have been slightly inconvenienced.  Again - oh, the horror.


I am embarrassed to admit that it affected me.  In light of whatever transgression I was being judged for, I read it and felt slightly shaken, starkly juxtaposed with all the overt support I have felt in the past week from friends and connections old and new.  I felt all of a sudden like I had somehow risked my rightful place in the universe.  And then, after a few heartbeats, something shifted in my default guilt-ridden response ... and I got angry instead. WTF?  Who dares pass judgement on my well-meaning presence in and claim on this world?  Do you have any idea how much pain I am in right now?  At how much pain my child is in, 2 miles away from us on the 6th floor of a well-meaning concrete, pulsing medical prison?  For shame, you self-righteous asshole.  Keep your judgements to yourself.

Of course, I am as guilty as the rest of us at righteous indignation when I think someone has done me a bad turn.  So - shame on me.  What power I can yield to default to kindness, to compassion, rather than judgement when I feel annoyed.  I vow to respect the fact that no matter how different I may feel from the person next to me, across from me, even akin to me - we are all human, we are all fallible, we are all worthy of being forgiven. We all have stories, and scars, and battles still to be fought.

As for the things we carry with us?  This painful human experience that is unfolding now with James will be my cross to bear for a long time. A different kind of battle than Tim O'Brien's, but a fierce one. And the majority of the people I interact with in this world will never know it. The brave testaments on NPR's StoryCorps remind me of the depth of humanity everywhere, in everyone. But sweating the hostile note that a stranger left on my windshield?  I will crumple that up and toss it away - that kind of burden is not to be carried in this moment of soul triage.  Forgive yourself even when others don't.  Let it go.

James was supposed to start kindergarten today.  Let it go, Caty. Let go.

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