The bed in my hospital room was comfortable and I had several interesting books to read, and so I prepared myself for a happy night of quiet entertainment. At midnight, hot on the trail of the murderer in a murder mystery, I heard the room door open and a youngish nurse, all arch tiptoeing, head-tiltings and enormous white teeth, invaded my room. Oh, darling, why wasn’t I asleep? Did I hurt? Could she get me anything? Was I comfy? I looked a little, little tired …
While this soft monologue went on, the nurse began to shift my well-arranged pillows, to smooth the sheets, to flutter her hands over my hair, actually to pat my cheek. I suddenly felt slimy. I got rid of the creature with a few unladylike words, and irritably lit up another cigarette. At 3 A.M. I turned off the light and went to sleep. Then, coming from the dark depths I was confronted by a brilliant flashlight, and another creature was bent over me, grinning, smoothing, patting, and squealingly demanding to know if I was all right. I was so shaken that I brought up oaths I hadn’t used for years and routed her. It took some time to get calm enough to fall asleep again.
Before I was fully awake once more—and it was early morning and blasted sunlight was pouring into the room—my consciousness was aware of my hair being lovingly stroked, and also my cheeks and shoulders. I sprang up in bed with a yell, and still another nurse was smiling at me with simpering affection. “Morning, morning!” she trilled. “Time for our breakfast!” Apparently she caught some emotion in my face for she stopped suddenly, and fled. Wrathfully I waited for the doctor.
When he arrived I told him of my experience, and asked to be informed of the mental condition of the night-invaders. He was surprised. “Why,” he said, taken aback, “there’s nothing wrong with the girls! That’s our new Tender Loving Care philosophy; it’s supposed to lift the depressing atmosphere of a hospital.”
I left an hour later. I now know why I had been suffering such belly-aches over a period of time and such intense irritability. I had been subject to Tender Loving Care in practically every area of my life, with the exception of my family, of course. It had been going on, it seemed, for years. It was the real cause of my nausea and acidity.
Now I recalled that I could not shop without having the saleswomen coo at me, smooth my arm, pat my back, or throw an arm about my shoulders. This had all embarrassed and annoyed me. Nor was this confined to shops. Waitresses and waiters had taken it up, hovering like parent birds over the tables, smiling, beaming, peeking archly into one’s face, solicitous and twittering. Had I been the only one who had felt annoyance and embarrassment? No; I recalled tight expressions on gentlemen’s faces and looks of discomfort in the ladies’ eyes.
Not long ago, loaded with luggage, I was stupid enough to stumble and fall flat on my face in an airplane on the way to my seat. Did the passengers and the stewardesses considerately avert their faces to spare me mortification, and allow me to pick myself and the luggage up and slide inconspicuously into my seat? They did not. Instantly warm, warm hands thickened the air about me; arms yanked me to my feet; the stewardesses cooed sweetly at me, assuring me that I was perfectly all right, darling, sure you are. Sick with humiliation, and enraged with myself for bringing all this “warmth” and “love” upon my person, I pushed away the clouds of helpers and found my seat. Did they let me alone? Not at all. The stewardesses took turns all during the trip to pat me, to flare their handsome white teeth into my face, to assure me that I was alive and uninjured. But I could have killed them in my outrage. During a quiet and unattended period a gentleman across the aisle looked at me sardonically.
“How do you like all this Tender Loving Care?” he asked me. He informed me that he was a physician employed by the airline company. “They’re teaching the girls all about being motherly to the passengers,” he said. “Hard on the girls. But the public laps it up, like syrup.”
Maybe the public does “lap it up, like syrup.” But only that part of the public which has a mendicant soul, a prideless and dependent character, a craven solicitude for its physical body, a maudlin desire to be petted, like a dog, by all and sundry. And this, by the way, is true only of America. Other peoples have more self-respect and would respond to such vulgarity with adult anger.
My husband, who blissfully believed he was a swimmer, was taking a dip on a British beach some years ago. Coming to shore, in about a foot of water, he tripped and fell on his knees. At once the well-bred people on the beach politely averted their faces and talked to each other animatedly, thus sparing Leander humiliation and embarrassment. But I saw the same thing happen on an American beach, to a lady who was a remarkable swimmer. Instantly, with cries like mother birds, men and women surged into the knee-deep water, “rescued” the red-faced lady, and carried her in their arms to “safety.” She tried to appear grateful, but I saw her eyes and grinned. It was so evident that she was indulging thoughts of violent mayhem on her rescuers.
Do your friends come up to you for a pleasant word when you are dining out? Ours don’t, not any longer. They fall upon you with exclamations of affection, putting their hands on your arms, clutching your shoulders, playfully butting your chin with their fists. They exude “warmth.” They know in their hearts that they are hypocrites, but it is all the thing now—this Laying on of Hands.
All this is the result of the social-worker psychology in this country, full of the desire to “help.” Even the magazines have taken it up. Women don’t buy their special magazines to learn how to cook or to read some light story. They buy magazines because they “care.” It is never made specific what you are to “care” about. “Caring” is enough, and “being warm.” What vomitous phrases!
My fellow conservatives are afraid that Big Brother is loose in the land now. This is bad enough. But Big Mama (of both sexes and the neuters, too) is infinitely worse, infinitely more dangerous to the national character, infinitely more demoralizing. She invades our privacy and reduces our dignity. Big Brother carries a club. Big Mama carries a bottle of stupefying and poisoned syrup. Let’s send her back, all three sexes of her, to Washington, with a kick in her rump.
13 Luv and the Law
While writing on my novel about Cicero, the great orator, patriot and lawyer of Rome, I decided I needed some forensic experience, and so visited several civil courts, there to watch spectators, jury, judges, lawyers, plaintiffs, and defendants—not to mention the feverish comings and goings of social workers and psychiatrists. After a few sessions in various cities I know that I might just as well have stayed at home and read still more volumes on Cicero. The courts I visited were little different than the old Roman courts during the terrible decline of Rome from a republic into that democracy which was on its swift way to despotism.
Among many cases which appalled me was that of a burly teenager who had gone out on the street one night and beaten and almost killed an elderly and inoffensive old man. The “child” was well over six feet tall, weighed close to two hundred pounds, and had enormous hams on him and the face of an ape. The victim was frail and small, and his face was covered with healing scars and he trembled uncontrollably when he saw his assailant in court.
Little Billie, it came out during the proceedings, was “only” sixteen years old and an “unfortunate” school dropout. He also came from a “broken home,” i.e., his old man had “taken it on the lam” after a prolonged session with the bottle. Mama worked as a waitress, and looked worn out and woefully thin and drab of face. But did Mama receive any understanding from that jury, judge, or those spectators because she had a worthless lump of flesh for a son who had never done an honest thing in his life and who, from his earliest childhood, had been uncontrollable? Did the victim of Little Billie’s vicious assault receive pity and consideration?
No, indeed. The sobs and sympathy were all for little Billie. Social workers spoke of his “lack of self-esteem,” the result of having a mother who insisted on working outside the home, and a father who had an inordinate love for the stuff that did more than console. Little Billie, it was ob
vious from his size, had never lacked for groceries, milk, or vitamins, and his clothing was quite good even if off-beat in the usual manner of the young. One witness, a teacher, testified that Little Billie had always been incorrigible. With obvious disdain, the judge demanded, “Just what do you mean by that?” She testified that not only had Little Billie never manifested any respect for authority but that he had created constant disturbances in the schoolrooms, that he had once attacked another teacher, that he generally victimized children younger than himself, that he stole, lied, and never studied, and that he appeared generally unwilling to learn anything whatsoever. In short, though she did not say it, Billie was a slob.
The audience in this little courtroom drama was not with the teacher. She had disturbed their picture of a suffering infant who had been “underprivileged and disadvantaged” from birth. The teacher, who looked as worn as the mother of the slob, nevertheless showed considerable and admirable spirit, and was obviously no fool. Under an acid stream of mocking questions from the court, the public defenders, and the social workers, she did not quail or blush or retire. Did she know Little Billie came from a broken home? Yes, but so did many other kids! Did she know that Little Billie’s Mama insisted on working outside the home when so many welfare agencies were “eager” to assist her with public funds? “Yes,” said the teacher, wryly, “but she has some pride and sense of decency in a generally decadent society. My own mother was a teacher and a widow and had to leave five of us children at home, and we behaved ourselves.”
Little Billie’s still-trembling victim had been the recipient of unfriendly and murderous glances. Now the intrepid little teacher came into her share. One of the social workers accused her. “You don’t understand children! You have no heart!” Restoring some measure of order, the judge asked the teacher if she had any suggestions about Little Billie’s rehabilitation. Yes, she answered bluntly. A good, sound, severe reformatory where he would be taught to respect law and order and life. The courtroom growled into an uproar, and the judge scowled at her.
Little Billie was now led out of court, whimpering, hand in hand with a social worker half his size; and in disgrace, the teacher, the mother, and the forgotten victim walked slowly out together, huddling close to each other as if for protection. I stopped at the door, and said to the teacher, “What will become of that huge monster now?”
“He’ll be pampered and petted, scolded sweetly a little, and then let loose on society to be an endless burden, or, most likely, he’ll murder someone one of these days and thereafter be tenderly treated by a psychiatrist,” she replied with some concern. “I don’t know what’s wrong with America these days! I see this sort of thing all the time.”
In another court I encountered a far worse situation. A man of thirty was being held for molesting a five-year-old girl. He was married and a father himself. The child, brought into court to identify the criminal, screamed at the sight of him and had to be removed. But the molester sat in his chair and sobbed, and slowly those about him began to sob, too. I knew the routine by now. A psychiatrist testified that the molester had never had a chance. He had always been poor, never earning more than one hundred dollars a week in his life. He had never had what President Johnson declared “the basic necessities of life”—such as a new car, a television set, and household gadgets. His wife, he said, was unsympathetic. (She was under the incredible delusion that her husband ought to be a good father and show some manhood.) His parents had not “truly loved him” when he had been a child. Once he had wanted a pony and his father had cruelly declared that he could not have one. His mother had expected him to help out with household chores and the younger children. He had never been “permitted” to go to college.
At this point the angry lawyer for the parents of the abused little girl rose to ask a question. What in the hell, he seemed to be saying, had all this to do with the fact that the accused had molested a child? “Everything,” the psychiatrist said firmly. One had to consider the “unfortunate” background of the accused; he was not less a victim than the little girl. The lawyer persisted. The accused had not been “permitted” to go to college. Why? Well, well. It seemed that he had been unable to do the work in high school because he had been “disturbed” as a child.
Would you believe it, the case was dismissed. The rapist was set loose, and he smiled smugly at the parents of his little victim as he was borne off in triumph by social workers. The slobs had won again.
14 Dolts and Love Cultists
The American insanity for Loving Everybody is ruining my good temper and delivering my stomach to enormous bouts with acidity.
I don’t love everybody. There are in this Best of All Possible Worlds certain creatures who actually provoke my gentle and kindly nature to fits of genuine rage.
I was taught as a child to love and revere God, to love my country, to do my duty as a human soul in this world to which I had been committed. I was taught both spiritual and financial charity towards the feeble-minded, the permanently crippled, the hopelessly diseased, the blind, the halt, the aged who are unable to work, and orphans. But I was also taught not to be a malingerer, a weakling, a dependent on anybody—and I was taught to despise the Dolt.
On one occasion, recently, the House Committee on Un-American Activities met in the city where I live. It was immediately picketed by the students of the tax-supported university here, and some of their instructors. I took time off to study them. One and all, they presented a picture of spiritual and physical uncleanliness. It is possible that they occasionally wash and comb their straggling hair, but they did not give that impression. The days were cool and rainy, yet male and female wore sandals loosely tied over soiled bare feet; their clothing was drab and untidy; their faces were pallid and appeared strangers to to sun.
They came to frenzied life when they screamed at the investigating Congressmen. I am glad to report that there were few or no colored young people among them. I saw one, and he looked embarrassed. At last he drifted away, leaving only the “white folks” to parade and wail and denounce, and demand abolition of the harassed Committee. Of what are they afraid? That they may be compelled to be human, to be patriotic Americans, to be responsible men and women?
One of the deeply satisfying sights of that disgusting occasion was the appearance of some hardy construction workers—picketing the pickets! They had their own placards: “I am an American. Support the Committee!” I saw their strong hands, their firm and masculine walk, their rugged faces. By contrast, those picketing students, and their instructors, suddenly lost sex and became neuters, unkempt, and alien to work and to soap. They are the shame of America, the cultists of doltishness.
The Dolt believes that the world owes him a living, and particularly his more intelligent and industrious brothers. That is why he is always against the lowering of taxes. A cut in taxes might affect his precious dole from Washington or from local government; it might threaten the free lunches his children eat; he might have to pay to go to the zoo or art gallery or to a park. His kids might have to walk a few blocks to school instead of riding in tax-supported school buses. His favorite expression, uttered righteously, is “I gotta rightta—.”
A few weeks ago a prominent politician wrote me frankly: “The Dolts hold the balance of power in the United States today. If I told them to go to work and stand on their own feet and behave themselves, and ask their neighbors for nothing, I’d never be elected again. I must yearn over them, assure them that they have the right to live at the expense of society, and that they have been ‘abused by society,’ and that they are ‘underprivileged.’ I must pretend to be a Liberal, slopping over with ‘love’ for them. It makes me feel dirty, sometimes … I am seriously considering not running for re-election next time. But if I don’t, perhaps the Dolts will elect one of their own kind. They’ve already elected dozens in Washington as it is. I can at least help to stop some pending bills.
“Or, they have elected sinister men who are using them for the
ir own purpose which, as you wrote me before, is their lust for power over a whole country. These Senators and Congressmen know exactly what the Dolt is, and they cater to him for his vote. But often they mutter in the cloakroom: ‘Comes the day.’ That day, I infer, is the day of a Soviet America.”
If we are to survive as a nation we must shake the Dolt from out flesh, and cleanse ourselves of doltishness. It is time to rid ourselves of mendacious “love.” It is time that we become angry. Angry at pusillanimous ideas and people, angry at liars and the degraded politician, angry at the panderers to the feeble, the hysterical, the traitors, the exploiters of our sentimentality. It is time that we truly loved—loved the manly and the brave, the steadfast and the true, the free and the proud, the patriotic and the just. Lest we choke to death on saccharine.
Many of the younger folk in their thirties are under the misapprehension that this nauseating love-cult began around the time Roosevelt was first afflicting the country. No. It began around the turn of the century.
I’ve never forgotten my first encounters with “love” on a wholesale basis, without discrimination, without dignity, without respect for privacy, without decency. And each time I’ve come up against its massive stickiness, its outrageous impertinence, I’ve been freshly sickened. It has spread through every area of American life, an insipid and creeping huge aspic, blurring the edges of heroism and responsibility, setting awash weak millions in a sea of drifting sweetness, melting away standards and principles and virtue.
Worst of all, the most disastrous people in America have taken it up, and the curious thing about this is that the love-cultists do not extend their yearning passion to God, to the suffering millions in Russian slave-labor camps, to murdered Hungary, to Tibet, to the tormented satellites of the Soviet Empire. A hungry Spanish child does not move their love-bubbling hearts, but a Castro brings a beam to their eyes. The misery of the East Germans does not inspire them with manly indignation, but they write furious letters to Washington about the inhumanity of the white man in South Africa.
On Growing Up Tough Page 11