6.9

I walked out into one of those early morning mists. The dog pulled at his lead and wouldn't listen; he was too exited. I don't know what he was excited about, because he didn't get to visit Mount Rushmore. They don't allow pets. That seems draconian to me--I mean, what's a dog going to do to a hundreds-foot high granite butte?--but I wasn't going to miss out for him. The park was open and the day was burning away.
Delight came to take the dog back to the room and I grabbed my camera from the car. I would capture a president's likeness, if it were the last thing I ever did. As I walked to the car, a van ripped out of the mist and came to a shuddery stop a hundred feet away. A young man leapt from the vehicle and called to me: "Help! Can you help me find a way?" I loved his accent: thick, like hummus on pita, and just as spicy if you make it right. I could understand him, of course, but I immediately started rolling his words around my mouth as if I could have his accent, too.
"Sure. Where are you going?"
"I am going here." He held up an envelope, gesturing to the address. I pulled out my phone, to get at the GPS, when

I stopped short.

He looked imploringly at me. "I know I am in the right town, here, but there is no number for the place." He was utterly exasperated, clutching his summons to the culmination of years of hard work and waiting as the gears of bureaucracy ground his patience into paste. I could read the address well enough.

Amphitheater, Mount Rushmore National Monument, Keystone SD 57751

How am I going to explain how to find four enormous heads, carved into existence over a few dozen years by a few hundred men and left, forever unfinished in the weather and glory of endless time? I turned to him. "Oh! This isn't . . . you're right down the road. You follow this same road, take the first big right, and then just up the hill. There will be a big sign with this on it."
"I can't miss it?"
"It's not a house. It's the big heads, carved into the stone? You know, it's on the quarter and stuff."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you!"
I was worried about my directions. You say "Mount Rushmore" to any American and they look at you, stiff-limbed and dull-eyed and just nod, but say those same words to a man summoned for his swearing in as the newest citizen of our country and he'll be two-and-a-half hours early and still lost. I think he made it. I hope he made it. The fog was practically peanut butter when Dad and I finally made it to the monument. We climbed the steps to see up the great men's noses, and even so we got mysterious shapes and not much else. The hundreds of almost-new citizens, early and eager, were milling around waiting for the clouds to clear. As we got to the car, however, the wind picked up. The sun pushed through, and for a few glorious minutes the quadrolith broke free into a new day.
What a way to join a country.


I have to talk about something related to but unrelated to this blog. I like the story as it stands on its own, but I need to say something passionate, and for that I need italics. The comments section will not suffice. I suppose this is me warning those who anger easily to chill or leave. I curse in this.

Christen, to whom I am eternally indebted for breaking my mental molds and somehow being my friend, once told me that I am a hurtful person. I speak too soon and too loudly, and the opinions I share are often better locked away. My point of view is too often only my own, and more often offends the people I share it with. In short, I am rude. I think that's too short, personally (there's more to me than that), and I'm prepared to share another unwanted opinion. I think everyone is an immigrant to others' headspace, ignorant of the customs and monuments. I don't automatically know what you hold sacred and what I should do. We learn how to navigate until suddenly the system breaks and we face a problem that we cannot solve.
I do not know your Mount Rushmore, but: why is it my problem?
Let me avoid my obfuscation. I would say I try to offend people as infrequently as anybody else. I get mad, yes, and I recognize it and work to minimize what I do. I make mistakes and say mean things and have to apologize for hurting someone. But when, by being tall and loud, I make someone afraid or tearful, why is it my problem? When, by being forthright, I cross some invisible line, why is it my problem? I will forever try to sit when someone is angry at me. I will forever have to re-re-relower my voice. I will forever apologize when I do screw up. But being offended doesn't entitle you to anything. I cannot even begin to run through the list of otherwise innocuous words that will offend a select slice of humanity. I suppose the Oxford English Dictionary is the only group that's currently compiling the words to avoid. Angry sarcasm.
I am my own person. I have sovereignty over exactly one thing: myself. And I will be damned if I will hand that power over to you just because you are hurt. There's a reason Aeropagitica is still (at least moderately) famous: pre-speech censorship is actually wrong. If I find you valuable or wonderful, I will pay whatever consequence you require of me for it just so I can keep you around. But. I will not give you my will. I can and shall insult your beliefs, make a casual reference to rape, defend a murder, use a vulgar term for your body parts, and likewise deal with the hateful words and vile things you say.
I am utterly sick of trying to avoid stepping on people's toes and being cut off at the knees when I do. I am disgusted that I have had so many people try to modify my behavior before they ever set about changing themselves. I am nauseated by the entitlement behind the single-word command "apologize!"

I feel kin to Stephen Fry.

It's now very common to hear people say, 'I'm rather offended by that.' As if that gives them certain rights. It's actually nothing more . . . than a whine. 'I find that offensive.' It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. 'I am offended by that.' Well, so fucking what.

So fucking what?