Connection Refused

Jay stared at the stark wording on the screen.  He kept hoping that somehow against all odds, the result would be different.  Yet there the simple words appeared again:

     Could not connect to smtp.host (Connection refused)

He had already retried the application three times.  Yet in desparation, he pressed "connect" once again.

Still, the same forlorn results: Connection refused.

So much of society had become automated and interwired with electronic connections.  It had been so since the end of the Twentieth Century.  Jay had heard stories of what life was like before all this modern technology.  Old-timers, if given a chance, would regale the unsuspecting with tall tales of deprivation and great inconvenience in the era before instant communications.

But now!

Jay slapped the desk in frustration.

The interconnectivity has become increasingly sporadic.  Those in charge of the connections all pointed to a vague and mysterious threat that grew in complexity and depth, tying up the online connections thus multiplying the time it took to make a connection.  If a connection was made at all.

He had to get this information through to his reporting agency.  They were all counting on a timely brief of the situation under his care.  He looked at the clock.  He had five minutes before the information was due.

Again in desperation he pressed "connect" one more time.

Again the dispassionate wording came back on the screen: Connection refused.

Finally he pressed "print" then walked to the lone printer in his office.  Printers were a vestige of an ancient technology.  Nearly nothing was printed any more.  Everything was read on screens or electronic tablets or projected onto the field of vision within special interconnected glasses.  Printing anything was considered bad form, bad manners, and bad environmentally.

Yet, the nonconnectivity left him with no other choice.

He picked the paper up from the output tray then walked across the hallway to the reporting agency office with a minute to spare.

Reginald's Announcement

Reginald finally had a smile as he went off to school.  For that, his mother was grateful.  The last three years had been tough for the whole family and especially Reggie.  Three new job locations for his father meant three new schools in as many years.  Each new dislocation brought new worries and new fears.  Each new school brought new challenges as well as small victories.

Reggie barely remembered the victories.  To his third grade mind, the challenges were always huge and barely surmountable.

Each new school brought a new group of classmate to meet.  And each new class had its own dynamics and interpersonal synergy.  The school that he came from had more than its share of dominant girls and bravado-filled boys.  He would have preferred to stay in a corner and not be noticed at all, except he was the new boy, the sudden center of attention as he joined the class mid year.  The alpha dogs and the queen bees all made it their business to ride rough shod over him, each deriving some pleasure out of climbing a nonexistent social ladder by placing the new boy lower.

Reggie didn't see it that way nor did he ever use such language to describe it.  The school nurse had talked with the lead teacher and then Reginald's parents, explaining that Reginald was a good student but he was far too passive and timid.  Reginald needed to exert himself without actually provoking a fight.

Reggie's father talked to him and encouraged him, and when they had to move yet once again, his father made sure that Reginald started the school year in the new school with everybody else.  That seemed to help a little.  By the end of October Reggie told his mother that Freddie was his friend.

Those simple words brought great joy to his mother.  She noticed that Reggie began first not dreading school, then actually looking forward to going most days.

"Mom, Mrs. Snyder is so cool," he would begin and then proceed to explain what new lesson or demonstration or event his third grade teacher  had done that day.

Usually.  But not every day.  There were some days that he had a long face and reported that some of his classmates were jerks.  "They're stupid!" he would add.  Reggie hated when his classmates acted up in class.  It made the teacher angry and it also meant that the special things that she would do were not done.  It also meant that the whole class suffered under some form of the discipline whether it be loss of recess or held in at lunch.  But what bothered him the most was the loss of learning and seeing the cool things that Mrs. Snyder might have shown them.

Reggie was far too shy to express any of that to anyone except his parents and even then it was only obliquely inferred.  His mother became a master at understanding things that he felt or thought.  She was able to give words to the deep insights that he only vaguely grasped.

His mother was very surprised, however, at his response when they broke the news to him that they would have to make one more move.

"When?" was all that he initially asked.

"We'll leave the week before Christmas and then be in our new place in time for the start of school after the new year," his father replied.

"Then I can get something for Mrs. Snyder?" Reggie asked.

"Yes, that would be a wonderful thing," his mother answered.

Within a week, Reggie knew what he wanted to give Mrs. Snyder.  He and his mother planned it, shopped for it, wrapped it, then carefully set it to one side.  Reggie knew that he would give it to her on his last day of school.  He was adamant with his parents that they not tell the school that he was leaving yet because he hated the fuss and attention that was given him the other times he left mid year.

Reggie counted off the days until he would tell Mrs. Snyder himself that he was leaving and that he would miss her.

Finally the his last Friday came and he was filled with anticipation.  No one knew the big news yet.  He was going to announce it.  He was going to leave in a bit of style this time—not bedraggled and tail-between-his-legs like he had felt before.

He wanted to make the announcement in the afternoon so he would not have as much time dealing with the sudden attention his way.  He planned it out and reasoned that this would be the easiest.  No, he finally admitted, easiest would be to say nothing and just leave.

All through morning recess he toyed with the idea of letting Freddie know secretly, but he decided not to.  At lunch he wondered if he should just quietly let Mrs. Snyder know and give the gift to her then.  He realized that he couldn't do that because the gift was in his backpack and that was in the locked classroom.

So he fell back on his original plan.  He would make the announcement and give the gift  shortly before school was out.

The afternoon after the lunch period, however, was particularly vexing.  Tommy Jones and Max Grundy decided that playing paper football between their desks would be better than listening to Mrs. Snyder explain the art project.  Sally Higgins sat near Betty Park showing off her new pencil case which had a mirror on the inside of the top.  Several other students were either watching the two pairs or talking amongst themselves.

Reggie could see that Mrs. Snyder was trying hard to keep the class in line but joy had disappeared from her expression.

Suddenly Tommy made a loud noise as his paper football made a goal over Max's fingers.  Mrs. Snyder spun around.

"That's it," she yelled.  "Put your papers away.  No more talking for the rest of the day."

The class immediately quieted.

"If there's any more noise from anyone, I will hold you five minutes after school is out," she went on.

Her voice was filled with righteous anger.  Her eyes glowered, back and forth across the classroom.  Reggie noticed that Max had quickly hidden the paper football out of sight.  Sally quietly hid her new pencil case within the depths of her desk.

They class sat silently staring forward for at least fifteen minutes.  Mrs. Snyder had not moved.  All eyes were on her.  At least they were mostly on her, because a few glanced at the clock.  Reggie also glanced at the clock seeing that his time was running short.  There was less than fifteen minutes now before the end of school  Only fifteen minutes left to announce his leaving.  A mere fifteen minutes in which he could tell Mrs. Snyder just how much she meant to him.

Maybe he could wait until a couple minutes before the end.  He bided his time and carefully slipped the gift from his backpack and placed it in the shelf of his desk.  He thought about how perfect a gift it would be.  He knew that Mrs. Snyder loved coffee.  She talked about it sometimes and mentioned that the teachers actually had a coffee pot in their teacher's room.  That was a surprising piece of information to him and probably others in his class.  No student had ever been in that secret room—at least no student from the lower grades.  Once he had accidentally caught a fleeting glimpse into that sacrosanct room as he walked to the office.  All he saw were various chairs as would be found in his living room with teachers seated around, laughing.  He did see Mrs. Snyder holding what looked to be an old mug.

That is why he had his mother help him pick out a new coffee mug.  It was emblazoned with the words, "My Favorite Teacher!" along with a picture of an apple.  He didn't care if the apple was there or not, but he was really happy with the words.

Suddenly Max brought out the paper football and decided to "kick" it with his finger toward Tommy.  He missed and the paper football flew past several students toward Mrs. Snyder's desk.  She spun around at the noise of it hitting the floor.  Her eyes blazed with fire.

"Who threw this?" she asked in deadly, measured words.

No one answered even though more than half of the class knew.

Reggie's heart sank, knowing his opportunity was fast slipping away.  The clock showed less than two minutes left.

"You will tell me who threw this," Mrs. Snyder said, "or you will all stay late after the bell."

Reggie knew his time was gone.  He felt an absolute driving impetus to deliver both his message and his gift.  She needed something nice to make her day better.  He raised his hand.

"Yes, Reginald?" Mrs. Snyder said.

"I have an announcement," he began.

"This is not the time for announcements," Mrs. Snyder quickly cut him off.  "I am dealing with a class that is rude and does not care at all about learning.  We don't have time for your special announcements today."

Reggie had never felt the brunt of her anger before.  He knew that she was upset, and rightly so.  But it wasn't his fault.  He was suffering just as much as she was because those jerks were keeping him from the things that he loved.  He thought that somehow a nice gesture was what she needed then.

He felt his eyes begin to smart and sting.

"No," he chided himself.  "No crying."

The clock read only a half minute before school would be out.  His mother and father would be waiting for him to take him away to a new house and then a new school.

He stood up.  He knew that he had to leave.  His parents were waiting for him.

"Reginald, you sit right back down now!" Mrs. Snyder barked at him.

"I'm leaving," he said.

He initially meant that he was leaving the school and that town and would never be back.  Then he realized that it meant that he could walk out and never come back.

"You sit right back down now!" She repeated louder.

He picked up his backpack from the back of his chair then snatched the gift from his desk.  The bell ending school sounded.  His actions had surprised the other students who normally would have been jostling to leave.

"I'm leaving, never coming back," he declared and walked to the coat rack to find his jacket.

"Get back here now!" Mrs. Snyder shouted.

"School's out," he answered.

He walked to the door and threw the gift into the trash can hard.  The sound of breaking ceramic pleased his anger.  He opened the door and left, not even turning around for one last glance.

The class sat still long after the door had slammed shut.  Finally Mrs. Snyder spoke.  "We will talk more about this on Monday.  Dismissed."

For the first time that year, the students quietly filed out of their desks to retrieve their coats.

The principal stopped by Mrs. Snyder's room some twenty minutes later and found her sitting at her desk.

"I just checked out Reginald," the principal began.  "His parents stopped by to announce that they were moving.  Today was his last day."  The principal stopped and looked carefully at Mrs. Snyder.  "Are you okay?"

She shook her head and pointed at pieces of a shattered mug that she had placed on her desk.  "He had an announcement to make."

 

The Department of Truth & Reconciliation

 

Gabriela sat down behind her desk and looked over her reading glasses at her office once again. She allowed a small flicker of pleasure to rest on her lips as her eyes rested on the award and picture once again. It was an impressive display and a very important honor. It was an honor that few achieved—especially so early in their career.

Gabriela Pridthi Portilla-Nahn 

is hereby recognized 

as Top Reconciliation Officer.

That had a distinctive ring too it. She knew it; her department knew it; now the big-shots up the ladders knew it too. This Department was the most important part of a well-greased society. She was indeed best at what the department did.

She turned back to her tablet to review new items for the day. One minor issue had been dealt with already as she rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Two regions on opposite sides of the continent were found to have differing font requirements for official documents. Normally that would not have even been an issue since it should have been caught years ago at the beginning of standardization and reconciliation. Except in this case, the official fonts had never been compared side-by-side.

“The document cases to which these apply are extremely rare,” her undersecretary informed her in the elevator. “We have searched and found that these are the only two regions to which this case would apply.”

“What case is that?” Gabriela asked.

“Regions that have capital cities with salt water access and marine aqua-farming of kelp.”

“Yes, a narrow subset,” Gabriela replied. “Which region chose the font first?”

“It's a tie. It goes back to the early days of kelp farming and each region had its own regulations.”

“Which region has the older kelp farms?” Gabriela asked.

“Again a tie.”

“Then which region is older?”

“The one on the east coast,” the undersecretary replied.

“There is your answer,” Gabriela stated.

The elevator door opened and Gabriela moved out gracefully—she made sure that her movements were graceful, purposeful, and authoritative. Her undersecretary followed a few seconds behind.

“You have your telecon with Dr. Gupal at ten thirty.”

“Thank you, Lanique.” Gabriela smiled at her undersecretary then stepped determinedly into her office and closed the door with a practiced shove. Nothing should be left to chance. All must be practiced, rehearsed, and executed with precision to achieve the best effects and to leave the best impressions. Indeed, she mused, best impressions often are the best effects.

The Department of Truth and Reconciliation was established a number of years before to ensure that all citizens were given access to the same knowledge and historical data. Of course, some citizens would take greater advantage of these resources than others and thus would be far more knowledgeable than the average citizen. However, by having a standardized set of facts, there would be no variability in the overall account of what the citizens understood. Infighting and tribal bickering would thus be kept to a minimum. Differences would arise, but they would be over mundane issues of which sports team was preferred or which musical entertainment ensemble provided the most delightful sonic and visual presentation. Indeed, the Department of Recreation and Events oversaw those annual competitions. So popular it had become that there were now several such tournaments throughout the year, each with its own brackets and rules and judges with the general public providing a collective vote for the final four.

Gabriela nodded appreciatively as she knew this season's Ensemble Event would be starting this weekend. She would be watching not just for entertainment value, but because she would be monitoring the content of each ensemble's lyrics. No group would ever be allowed to perform in a public setting without a thorough vetting of their songs, lyrics, and stage banter. Yet, being a live venue, there was always the chance that random non-truths could slip out. Non-truths that would have to be addressed, corrected, or—if egregious enough—punished.

It had been years since there was a debacle like that. Gabriela Pridthi Portilla-Nahn felt a certain amount of professional pride that her vigilance and skills had been a large part of that success.

She looked over her tablet again:

☼ Meeting a ten thirty to discuss internal calibration metrics and pedagogic rubrics. She set her alarm to go off after one hour to force a diversion. Such dry meetings had a tendency to contribute to their own longevity. “Inertia,” a colleague had called it. “Objects and meetings not in motion tend to remain unmoving.”

☼ Request to review history cleanliness. She sighed. More arcane sniping at semantics and syntax with a large helping of self-aggrandizement on the side. Absolutely essential, she granted, but it was looked forward to like a promised root canal.

☼ A new item caught her attention: “Technician reports family had unfamiliar details on child's computer lessons. Social services called to deal with potential trauma.”

“This is serious,” she whispered to herself as she opened the electronic file.

Scanning the details she felt a shiver run through her body in spite of the pleasantly controlled room temperature in her office. That this happened in the suburbs of their capital city struck hard against decorum and the uniformity of knowledge. If widely known, this could be perceived as an attack on their very way of life and the underpinnings of their modern society.

She pressed the connect button on her communication device. A moment later another voice spoke.

“Saiko,” Gabriela began. “We need to talk about this technician's report from last night.”

“I'm on my way.”

As Gabriela waited for Saiko to come to her office, she stood up and looked out the large window. Saiko was a trusted associate. Gabriela smiled wryly as she recalled that a number of years before the term would have been “subordinate” but had since been changed because it sounded so demeaning. “Sub”— something that is under, or lesser, or of inferior worth. Yet, in spite of the modern rhetoric and verbal platitudes to the contrary, the position of “associate” merely became a replacement term with no diminishing of the correlated connotations of higher and lower on a ladder.

A quick knock on the door brought Gabriela back to the immediate problem.

“Come in.”

Saiko Ayame Nishimoto-Fuentes entered with professional dignity and an air of confidence that sometimes put others in a defensive posture. Gabriela merely saw the air as a put on necessity in the bureaucratic world of offices and cubicles. What annoyed her most though was just how lovely this young, up-and-coming associate was. That could be an asset and a troubling liability.

“Saiko, have you read the technician's report from last night?”

Saiko nodded. “I was just re-reading the details as you called. The initial report came through last night. I received the call early this morning.”

Although it galled Gabriela that she had not been alerted of the situation prior to coming into the office, she realized that the timeline left little room for notification before the morning situation list.

“I see.” Gabriela carefully chose her words. “What has been done so far?”

“After the technician received the report,” Saiko began, “he stepped through the decontamination procedure with the family.”

“All done on-line?”

“Yes, this was a remote service call along with the standard phone support.”

“I'm afraid that some key points may have been left out of my summary,” Gabriela finally said. “What was found on the family computer that required such an escalation including counseling services?”

“It started with a mention of guns,” Saiko began, “then ended with access to details of prohibited religious rites and words.”

“Gracious!” Gabriela exclaimed. “How did the computer user find all that information?”

Saiko looked at her tablet. “The parent units report that their child had been reading an older book which included an outdated term.”

“Was this a physical book or a digital?” Gabriela asked.

“Physical.”

“First mistake right there.”

“Except it is one of the approved physical books that the Education Department has authorized for learning about the old days.”

“What was the outdated term?”

Saiko looked again at her tablet. “The phrase was, 'he gunned the engine and the boat leaped forward quickly.”

“So the child looked the phrase up?”

“Yes. The child entered the word 'gunned' into the family computer and a list of weapons appeared. The report says that there were many different types of weapons from throughout history.”

“Those lists are not approved for common viewing,” Gabriela replied.

“True. But there was not just a list presented. Instead it was a pictorial history of weapons.”

Gabriela pursed her lips then sat down again. She picked up her tablet and re-read the summary of the event. Many of the details that Saiko had provided were missing from the overview. She understood that executive summaries were hurriedly put together and often missed facts that the person in charge wanted to know or even needed to know. But how did this escalate from guns to religion so quickly? How did the normal protocols and filters prevent the family from being traumatized like that?

Gabriela turned her tablet toward Saiko to read. “Little of that is here.”

Saiko passed her tablet to Gabriela. “Here is a better summary. We are still working on the full write up.”

“More to be done?”

“Yes, an official visit with the family will probably need to take place.”

“How far known is this?” Gabriela asked.

“Very contained,” Saiko replied. “Our technician was quick to involve outreach from Community Standards and Unity Principles. They were the ones who met with the family and recommended, in conjunction with the parent units, Social Services be brought in.”

“Gracious,” Gabriela whispered then began reading the other's tablet. “The child kept clicking?”

“Yes. Multiple links and multiple articles appeared, each more troublesome than the ones before.”

“There's is so much here to digest,” Gabriela began. “First of all, do we know where these breeches in protocol came from? How did these prohibited references make their way into the normal data stream for this child's education?”

“That is under investigation. I have been apprised that this particular breech has been fixed. I have instructed our Data Purists to review all levels of the educational paradigm as well as the master repository of accepted truths. We must ensure uniformity of knowledge and understanding.”

“Good. I appreciate the quick response,” Gabriela said. She noticed that Saiko had remained standing so she added, “Please. Have a seat.”

Saiko sat down and said, “I will let you finish scanning the summary. There are some serious issues to address.”

“Yes, I see,” Gabriela replied. “This explanation of weapons and guns led to an article detailing the 2A position?”

“Yes, but that's not all.”

Gabriela continued reading. “2A” was an old reference to the “Second Amendment” which was held to be hallowed by people of the late Twentieth Century. Certain radicals had imbued those words with nearly mystical powers and held that the Government should be held in check by the citizens even to the point of the citizens being armed, legally and morally responsible to thwart Government from becoming tyrannical and oppressive. But the series of links did not stop with a detailed account of the Second Amendment.

“So the child, following her intellectual curiosity, clicked on a definition of what the Constitution was?” Gabriela asked, still reviewing the write up.

“Yes, and the child actually is nearly fourteen years of age,” Saiko answered.

“Troublesome,” Gabriela replied.

It was troublesome because it was a well-established fact that young teens were capable of synthesizing connections and scenarios and even formulating questions. That is why their intellectual development was so carefully shepherded to mold their character and thought pattern to serve the greater good of society in the best and most harmonious fashion.

But it was also troublesome because the child, or the young teen, had read a non-sanctioned analysis of the Constitution and its Amendments and then clicked further to read “1A”—the troublesome provision that allegedly gave everyone the right to think, believe, speak, and write as they themselves saw fit. Such unrestrained lawlessness in community principles would, of course, give rise to differences of opinions, then factions, then dissent, and then in severe cases even fighting.

“How much did this child, er, youth, read of 1A?” she asked Saiko.

“It seems that the child, or youth, spent about forty minutes on the computer from the time that she initially asked the question about gunning an engine.”

“Did she read things in detail?”

“It appears so. Background checks of this youth show that she is remarkably bright and gifted in reading and logic.”

“Bothersome, to say the least,” Grabriela replied. “But I see there is more potential damage?”

Saiko nodded as Gabriela quietly read the remainder of the write up.

Gabriela was not only digesting the bare facts of the recap, but she was trying to formulate a way of dealing with the family and especially this young teen to mitigate any losses, forestall any psychological damage, and win the whole family over to the side of the community and truth and unity once again.

“But this teen click once more?” Gabriela quietly repeated in shock.

She was simply amazed at how many records and unsanctioned articles this student had been able to access. Such things simply should not happen. But then they kept happening! She was also shocked that the student had simply followed curiosity and did not halt once things started sounding differently from the proscribed. Clearly this bright student needed to have remediation to understand the importance of Unity and Community Principles as well as listening to voices of reason.

“Why didn't she stop?” Gabriela asked.

“Social Services asked that question,” Saiko replied. “The youth replied that her teacher had taught them it is good to question authority.”

Gabriela nodded. That indeed was an important lesson, but she made a mental note to include additional parameters as that adage was taught: There must be limits to the questioning; there are some things that must never be questioned.

Gabriela scrolled the write up to the last paragraph then gasped. “This child, or youth, clicked on the definition of religion?”

“Yes.”

Gabriela knew how religion was officially defined: It was any mystical or non-substantiated belief in things that could not be accounted for by science along with any system of beliefs that subjected the believer to emotionalism or irrationalism. She knew that synonyms included unsound, foolish, brainless, and quarrelsome. So many fights and wars happened over religious ideals.

“Unfortunately,” Saiko went on, “the computer gave the old, unaccepted definition of religion.”

“I see,” Gabriela replied, not quite knowing yet how to respond.

“And as the report states, that is when the parent units entered the room and saw their child reading an online version of the old religious book.”

“How?”

“We don't know. All these copies and their links have been removed again, but there is another source or sources that keeps asserting itself on our computer networks and in our data repository.”

“What old religious book did she read?” Gabriela felt a foreboding yet knew she had to know.

“It has been called The Bible.”

“That doesn't mean much.” Gabriela knew that many things that were considered important and instructional were called The Bible of such and such.

“No, it was the original,” Saiko answered. “The original book that called itself The Bible.”

“Is there any chance that this child, this youth, was the source of the contraband?”

“That avenue was considered,” Saiko replied. “But there is no record of the material coming from this student. Instead, we see the material going to the student.”

“Might we use this student as a plant to see how far this nefarious infection goes?”

“That is a good question. However, my first thoughts are to be cautious. We've already made too big of a deal over it. Whoever started this obviously knows that we are involved. Anything further from this contact would be treated as highly suspicious.”

“Hmm, good point. Perhaps we should flag further events to treat them differently so as to infiltrate and find the source.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Saiko replied. “Are you anticipating something further?”

Gabriela shook her head. “No, but we can't be caught flat-footed either. We are aware of a new strategy, we should prepare as well as brain-storm to think of other possible avenues that need to be guarded.”

“What about the family?”

“We will have to watch this student closely,” Gabriela began. “Make sure that she doesn't deviate off the prescribed learning pathway at all. That will help prove to us that this indiscretion was an accident and not part of a long-term and growing rebellion against Unity and the Harmonious Community Principles. I myself will reach out to the family. I will have Lanique set up an appointment where I can go visit them, express my sympathies over the event, and assure them that because of their alerting us, we know that such events are not likely to occur again. I will also use that time to assess the emotional and psychological state of this young teen.”

“Very good,” Saiko replied. “Anything further?”

“No, I appreciate your report,” Gabriela replied, moving the tablet back across the desk to Saiko. “I believe that we are in a good position now. We have quashed this potential disruption of our Community Harmony and Unity.”

Saiko stood and smiled. “I'll see you then at our ten thirty telecom.”

Gabriela stood and smiled, dipping her head slightly in the accustomed ritual of acknowledging an equal or colleague.

As the door closed, Gabriela sat back down and rubbed her eyes. Far-flung disaster had been averted, much of it without her direct intervention.  Saiko had assumed an initial leadership role and had done well.  Gabriela supposed that she could ascribe it to her leadership and training that gave her associates the skills, the tools, and the vision to deal effectively with the potential threat. Truth was again reconciled with the vision and purpose of the Community and the greater good of the people.

Of course, if things went wrong, much of the blame could fall on Saiko before it shifted up to herself.  She shook her head.  She knew how dangerous it was to play that game.

Quickly she sent a note to Lanique to set up a visit with the family that had been disrupted by the computer debacle. Before the telecom with Dr. Gupal, she wanted to flesh out some notes for her meeting with that family. She also needed to review the notes on metrics and rubrics for the morning's meeting. “This was definitely going to be one of those mornings,” she sighed to herself. “But we have again stamped out the impropriety of religion and extremism.”

Not even ten minutes later, her tablet announced an urgent new message.

She glanced at the header then gasped. “Several reports of contraband knowledge on home computers. Questions about religion and Bible filling network query engines.”

There would be no rest for anyone in the Department of Truth and Reconciliation that night.

 

Through His Eyes

Raymond felt her hand again. Kathleen, his wife of fifty years stirred slightly. He smiled as her eyes looked into his. It was her eyes that fascinated him. More than fifty years had passed since he first saw her coming out of a freshman English lecture. Her eyes were bright, full of life, sparkling as he held the door for her. He made sure to be at that door every day before noon that week, just for her. Soon they were studying together, sipping sodas, walking hand-in-hand. They were an item.

He recalled winning her father's approval: “Son, I don't take lightly with someone who doesn't finish the job. If you're interested in dating my daughter, you will have to prove to me that you have the desire and the means to support her and the drive to support her until the end. You start? You finish.”

Raymond closed his eyes again and thought about Kathleen's father: Hard-working, old school, blue-collar worker who had saved up enough to send Kathleen to college. He was also a deeply religious man, though a bit gruff. He eventually warmed up to Raymond once he realized that Raymond played sports in high school only to pad his resume when going off to college. Being an engineering major proved he was serious about school and his future.

“You're smiling again, Love. Thinking of our first date?”

Kathleen's voice brought him back to the present.

“Uh-huh. And....” He didn't finish; she'd know. He saw it in her eyes again just as when they had in the light of the simple burger joint, twinkling brightly with the neon lights above and the flashes of car headlights from the road outside.

“What?” she had asked then laughed. He loved that laugh.

“I like your eyes,” he had replied. “They're full of life!”

She laughed again then looked away.

“Would you like to take a walk after this?” he asked.

Her eyes glowed brightly. “Sure!” Then she picked up her burger and drink.

Raymond laughed. “That's what I like about you, Kathleen.”

“That I pick my burger up and start walking?”

“No, that you can have fun and play right along.” He paused and wondered if he should say what else was on his mind. “That and your eyes.”

“My eyes? You've mentioned them twice tonight.”

“You have two of them.”

She smiled then looked away. “It takes more than eyes for a good relationship.”

“Yes, through my eyes I can see your eyes are honest and caring; truth be told, I'd like to see more of you. If you'd like that.”

Kathleen was silent for most of a block. “You'd have to ask Daddy,” she finally said. “And we'd like to know more about you—especially how you set with God, religion, and all.”

He knew what she meant. He had started attending the same church where she went but her family had not observed him very closely yet. From that point on he made sure that he was in the center of activities at that church. Two years later her father had given his blessing on their engagement. Life was sweet but transpired so quickly! Children, then grandchildren! Now they would be separated?

Raymond closed his eyes and set his thoughts on God. “God will take care of Kathleen; he will take care of me too,” he whispered silently to himself. “Watch over us, Lord.”

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

He stirred as he recognized Kathleen reciting a favorite passage of Scripture. Her voice seemed far softer than before; the past weeks had to be wearing on her. They both needed rest.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures...”

“Yes,” he thought. “Quiet pastures—wonderful. I'll just close my eyes and imagine Heaven's bright fields: the Lord, my shepherd, my rest.”

Kathleen continued reciting the psalm then realized the hand she held grew limp and cool.

With a start she checked his pulse and then his eyes. His eyes, once bright, now stared vacantly beyond.

“Dear Lord, he's gone home! Oh, to see through his eyes now!” Tears gathered in her eyes as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek one last time. “Good-bye, my love. For you it's morning.”

D. Benning (c) 2018

Public Transport

by D. Benning, ©2018

 Roy walked along in typical fashion: eyes averted yet noticing as much as possible. He knew his place; he understood his position: not pariah, but not elite. His kind was looked down upon but tolerated to some extent as long as the boat was not rocked.

He sat down in the back of the public transport, making sure no eye contact was made with any others in the car around him. However, as they started, he did notice through peripheral vision six other people sat in the car with him: an older woman, two nondescript men, a lone person of indeterminate gender, an olive skinned man, and a woman of darker skin.

Suddenly he hated himself for noticing skin color and supposing genders of others. He couldn't help it though, he thought. That's just the way that ignorant, cis-gendered, white males always looked at things. He shook his head quietly to himself then stared at the floor.

The car stopped and the doors opened to the outside. The older women left first—he noticed that immediately. The two nondescript men followed her. Again he berated himself for assuming gender and preferred pronouns.

Now only the brown-skinned man and the dark-skinned woman were with him in the car. He didn't know how to categorize them; initial perceptions were often faulty. An acquaintance had incorrectly classified someone with the wrong designation and was quickly slapped with a debilitatingly stiff fine. Roy would thus never voice any assumptions.

The transport lurched forward and they began their tired journey again. For the third time that day he reflected how much he hated his name. "Roy!" It reeked of European ethnocentrism and elitism. The name itself meant "king" and such hubris lay at the root of his illicit privileges! He thought of petitioning the courts to change his name but hadn't settled on a new name yet. It would have to be soft and neutral in an unassuming fashion.

Roy sat quietly for several long moments, absently staring at the stark street lamps passing by outside their car. Finally he became aware of the others' terse conversation. It was not as though he had purposely tried to listen in on their words, but they spoke in a language that he had studied in school—back before studying other languages was finally deemed demeaning cultural appropriation. He didn't completely understand how it was demeaning, yet he appreciated that it was an appropriation to try to use something from another culture that was not his—especially his being from such an historically advantaged group.

Nevertheless, the words came through to him in spite of the horribly inappropriate insensitivity of using a culture not his own. The woman repeatedly rebuffed the man who kept coming on rather forcefully.

Roy closed his eyes, reviewing the latest sensitivity training that he attended:

"Remember, you must never assume someone's gender," the non-cis-embodied, inclusively-woman reminded those in attendance. "Let them inform you how they identify. If you find that you have initially assumed that someone is female, try, instead, imagining that person as male or non-binary gendered."

Roy did then try to imagine that it was a woman with a deep, gruff voice being the aggressor. That almost brought a smile before he checked it. He knew better than to let emotion or any visual hint about his thoughts escape. A college classmate, just as white male cis-gendered and privileged as he, had let his thoughts run too free once. They took him to a training facility to help him identify reality correctly, in terms of how others saw themselves—not in cis-gendered white oppressive terms that disparaged and restricted opportunity, potentiality, and growth. Roy saw him almost a year later: stoic, lifeless, soulless—a stark reminder to play the game the way they want you to play it.

The transport slowed and he stood up to leave, facing the door as he waited for the vehicle to stop. It was the polite thing to do—yet he still heard her whisper sharply in her own language: "Please help me!"

He almost turned to look, but that would have been impolite, inviting questions of how he knew. He didn't need to know; knowing only brought problems. He did the one safe thing left for him: Before the vehicle completely stopped, he pushed the door open and left, walking underneath a darkened street light, never looking behind.