I was struck early on in life by the nonsensical nature of of power. As a teen, I marveled at Shakespeare’s brilliant observation, “Man, proud man, dress’d in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d- his glassy essence- like an angry ape plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven as makes the angels weep…”
Now, I naturally object to power, but I think that’s primarily because of all the extremely flawed authority figures I’ve had. I can really only think of one or two supervisors that I could stand, in forty five years of working. I was born a rebel, but I really think I would have been perfectly respectful if I’d been managed by Huey Long or John F. Kennedy types. When you’re young and naive, you expect those in power to be consistent and fair. It didn’t take long for me to recognize that this just wasn’t the case. I saw far more evidence of favoritism than competence. People with power abusing it, against the advice Uncle Ben gave Peter Parker. Perhaps others had different, more positive experiences.
The dictionary defines “meek” as “quiet, gentle, and easily imposed on.” That doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Don’t we all like gentle people? It takes a quiet person to mesh with extroverted talkers like me. Meek people don’t know how to say “no,” thus are “easily imposed on.” Salespersons lick their chops at the prospect of pushing them into buying whatever it is they’re selling. Even if they figure out they’ve been ripped off, or taken advantage of, the meek won’t complain. They certainly won’t file a lawsuit. The meek are never on offense. When forced to react, they do so as submissively as possible.
I unhappily discovered as a child that those in charge, of families and workers, and voters, were seemingly all hard-hearted. Tough. Strict. I learned this from personal experience, and reading too many fairy tales. The works of Charles Dickens- whom I consider the greatest writer to ever lift a pen- are replete with this. Oliver Twist, David Copperfield and company spent miserable childhoods being shuttled between one abusive adult or another. Where was the kindness in the adult world? Why did it seem confined to the likes of the middle-aged laborer trembling over an undeserved tongue lashing from his bellicose boss, who was somehow said to be his “superior?”
Authority figures are valued for their non-meekness. Think drill sergeants. Has anyone at the top of any organization ever said, “I want to give authority to someone who is kind hearted and fair minded. Who will wield power responsibly and in an even handed manner.” Who values tenderness and generosity in a person? Who in power prefers diplomacy to confrontation? Who stresses leniency anywhere now, except on the occasions when it isn’t warranted? It’s a sad fact that the majority of the spectators, let alone the powers that be, prefer the victimized to the victim, the bully to the bullied, the sinner to the faithful, the wrongdoers to the whistleblower.
I’ve met many meek people in my life. The kind that the wonderful Sermon on the Mount assures us will one day inherit the earth. That’s an inspirational prospect, because the meek live their lives on the present uninherited earth as largely second- class citizens. No Affirmative Action for them. The meek are by far the most likely to be bullied as children. Read my book Bullyocracy for endless true anecdotes. This scars them to such an extent that they become even meeker adults, providing perfect targets for the non-meek, who almost always have some kind of authority over them. There are other disparaging terms for them; from wallflower to weird.
I’ve always been drawn to the meek. To me, it seems like what should be the natural state for man. Or woman. Or, I suppose, transgender. From childhood to the present day, I feel uncomfortable around those who exude a threatening aura. A suggestion that things could get physical if they took exception to something you said. Obviously, there is no threat of anything like that with a meek person. They literally won’t even raise their voice. I worked with a meek guy for years, who used to take out his frustrations on himself. He might beat the wall, or throw his watch off and stomp on it. But he would never do anything (or really say anything) to those tormenting him.
Clearly, I was most influenced on this issue by my brother Ricky. He was absolutely the meekest person I’ve ever known. If they had a Hall of Fame for meekness, he’d certainly be inducted. Ricky never fought back. Against the bullies who tripped him up in the high school cafeteria. Or the employees who beat him up regularly during the years he worked at the old People’s Drug store. Or the family members who only gave him negative attention, in the rare moments they stopped ignoring him. And at me, who spent far too much time ranting at him over behavior he just couldn’t change, including ironically not fighting back at those who harassed and ridiculed him.
I was too little to try and defend him from the high school bullies, or the vile co- workers at People’s Drug. But I tried later. It was never easy. He had some insane roommates. One threatened to stab him several times. The apartment management, naturally, sided with the roommate. I attempted to talk with him, but he was clearly out of his mind. I feared he might try to stab me, too. Another one assaulted him, and we had to take out a restraining order. The housing program he was in forced Ricky to move, not the mentally disturbed roommate. I defended him to countless employers, who would fire him for the most absurd reasons. Reasons reserved for meek people like him. That was basically Ricky’s life story.
Maybe that’s why I’m writing about this. I still think about Ricky every day, and the way he was murdered by hospital protocol. He exemplified what so many meek individuals go through. Treated insensitively by everyone. Laughed at by everyone. Never given a fair chance. Never given a break in life. I loved The Andy Griffith Show, but I could especially relate to the episode about a character, Henry Bennett, whom Barney Fife insisted was a “jinx.” That was Ricky. Like Henry Bennett, if they’d tried to rig a contest for him to win, he would have picked the size tag out of the hat, too. The only defender, or support system, Ricky ever had in life, after my mother died, was me. And I was a very, very flawed defender.
