Ours is an intrusive society. A fellow can’t turn around today without being asked what he feels about this, how he feels about that. Dinner time at my house has become unplug the phone time as it seems every evening is interrupted with a call from some poor zhlub after my opinions on – I don’t really know what, as we never get that far. But my thoughts and feelings sure must matter to somebody out there. Here at school I am often being asked to take part in a “small group discussion,” where I am again asked to reveal my thoughts, but mostly feelings, on a wide range of topics introduced by someone I know professionally but with whom I would not ordinarily be having this sort of conversation. To further add to my consternation I am told that my thoughts and feelings will be recorded and later taken and shared with the whole group. There’s a real selling point.
This in one of the reasons I love the Anglo-Saxons. And the Vikings. They didn’t care what you thought; they didn’t care how you felt. They especially didn’t care how you felt – unless you were soft and could be used as a pillow. (Not really.) They cared only what you did, what you had done. That was what mattered – what you did. They were, on the whole, a private, close-mouthed bunch.
I offer as my hero of the month the girl in the following story, a story my brother tells about his time teaching on the Tohono O’odham reservation in Sells, Arizona.
On the first day of class he would ask his students to write a one page essay, about anything. At the end of class she dropped her essay on his desk and followed her classmates toward the door. He called her back. She had written only two sentences – beautiful handwriting, perfect grammar and spelling – but had said simply “My name is (her name). I live in (such and such) village with my parents and my brother and sister.” That’s pretty good, he told her; good spelling, good grammar, nice handwriting. “But I asked for a page.” “Everything else I know is private.”
My hero.
