I know quite a bit about Group Think, as I know about those controlling the narrative and vocabulary. It gives one a sense of righteousness which unfortunately is as fake as the Russia hoax. But when the media is on a continual and relentless attack it invariably grabs the weak’s attention.
Hence the following personal story.
Yesterday I got a text message from a friend who’s in real estate in Orange County and wants to start at his new office by showing people he cares about others. For this special occasion, he is offering a French breakfast, and flowers and accepting donations of clothing for fire victims in Orange County who recently lost everything.
The offer is irresistible as Hervé and his wife are exceptional fun and good-hearted hosts with tons of good taste.
This morning, Susan and I went through all sorts of clothing and decided to donate most of it all which includes loads of designer pieces. It felt so good on many levels but what felt unique and brought tears to my eyes was a personal experience I remembered that happened when I was about 8 or 10 years old back in my native city of Oran in Algeria.
No, back then we were not affected by any disastrous fires or any other natural plague, but our family’s financial family situation was akin to total calamity with a father out of work, no good prospect looming, and a mother struggling with three children at the time and a fourth one on the way. The future was bleak, there was no food on the table and no clothing to speak of. In addition, family relations between aunts and uncles, brothers-in-law, and their wives were tense, competitive, and disdainful for the ones who for whatever reason could not provide for their family.
My uncle Vincent was constantly badmouthed by many members of our very tribal family. Not because he could not provide but to the contrary. He was very successful.
He was smart, had a knack for good deals, took risks and I suspect by the little bit I can recall, took great care of his employees and worked at his trade non-stop. He had a basic secondary education, difficult in his day to acquire, and was relentless about achieving success for himself and his own family.
He was accused of being a “Jew” with all the pejorative connotations that such an insult carried, accused of being heartless, of being… whatever you wish to imagine because he was a successful entrepreneur.
In a typical sick French / Spanish / North African type mentality, the idea of others other than self-being financially well off was not too easily swallowed by most. I must say as a parenthesis that in my numerous relatives who were for the most part extremely hard-working people, my father also wanted to make a living by other means than manual labor but that too was frowned upon. The man had unfortunately had too many character flaws that probably were the reason why he really, never succeeded financially, nor for that matter in his personal marital life. However, true to life, the man brought me to this world, and for that alone, I’ll be grateful to my grave.
Anyhow, as we were approaching Christmas one evening an Arab person knocked on the door. He was carrying a large cardboard box and said to my surprised mother that Vincent wanted us to have it. My mother asked the man to place it on the kitchen table. I remember that my little brain was in ebullition as I thought that the box would be filled with toys and food. I could not hide my disappointment when my mother opened it and began pulling out all sorts of used, second-hand clothing.
I was shocked, felt insulted, and felt beyond angry. My older brother felt the very same way and threw the box to the floor. My mother was in tears. Was I angry at my uncle? Or was I really angry at my parents?
For many, many more years, I joined the family chorus in bashing my uncle Vincent. How did he dare?
A few years later after going through tons of vicissitudes, wrecking events, experiencing becoming a homeless refugee in France after the war in Algeria, and having starved, I decided that this would not be me. I would work hard and never again be penniless. So my life began.
It did not evolve as I had wished but along the way, I encountered many failures and many successes. Funny enough I eventually realized I was a mixture of both my dad and my uncle.
Meeting Susan in Los Angeles, the woman who was to become my wife and who would open my eyes as to what is important in life, forced me to slowly introspect and look at who I was and which those values a chaotic life had etched in me were.
So I begin this story as a tribute to my Uncle Vincent. A man way too often maligned by other family members but a man who in his lifetime, because of his entrepreneurial spirit has probably fed many thousands of mouths, more than the rest of my vast relatives put together have ever done.
This is also a recognition that it takes an enormous difficult amount of soul searching and humility to recognize one’s mistakes and challenge oneself.
As a kid, on that fateful day, at the view of all these used garments, I felt so ashamed and insulted, in tears, I locked myself in the bedroom I shared with my older brother and I swore, in front of a crucifix that, one day I would piss on my uncle’s carpets. As a very young boy, I was a devoted believer. Today? Well…..
Years went by. I had married Susan. A no-nonsense high school teacher who only believed students should only be rewarded for their hard work. A super compassionate but exigent high school teacher who believed, hard as a rock that if people enjoyed, savored, took time to appreciate, and have a discriminating palate for all kinds of foods, other types of discrimination would not exist.
Boy, I resisted that woman. For years, I would cling to those beliefs I grew up with. I carried those like one carries a suitcase on a train trip. They were with me and I wouldn’t budge. However, gradually and because of Susan’s unconditional love, I saw that perhaps it would be a good idea to review and revise how I interpreted life.
To begin with, one had to recognize that culture, language, and belonging to a ‘Tribe’ had a lot to do with the way one thinks. It is indeed extremely difficult to self-analyze because you have to accept that perhaps you’ve been wrong and therefore question what and who you are all about, as yourself. Nonetheless, I gradually and painstakingly decided to take on the hard tasks of introspection.
The results came about as one day we found ourselves in Nice, France, where we visited uncle Vincent. Susan had heard all about him and could not understand why I would wish to visit him.
That day, Vincent and my aunt, could not have been any more gracious as they were receiving my wife and me. In a way, I was shocked by such a cordial and filled with good feelings, intentions, and expressions of love we both received from this couple of elderly people we had heard, and I had said, so many bad things about and upon whom I had in my early youth vowed to take revenge on an affront I could not let go of and so to speak Piss on their carpets.
I looked at my aunt and uncle and suddenly, like a ton of bricks, I felt my whole world of resentment collapse. It was like a tsunami of guilt. An earthquake of melancholy had shattered me. So I had to say it.
As we were drinking coffee and buttering our croissants on the patio under the early morning sun of the French Riviera, a few yards away from the blue Mediterranean sea, I said to my mesmerized uncle, aunt, and Susan,
- “ Dear uncle. I have to apologize”
He was shocked as was my aunt, looking at Susan and me with a panicky look on her face. My uncle was too, looking at me with incredulity, a questioning face with tears in his eyes
- “Why? What are you apologizing for? What’s wrong?” They had not seen me since the exodus from Algeria in 1961.
The pain in my aunt’s questions broke my heart and I went on explaining what had happened to me when I was only 8 or 10 years old. Needless to say that both my relatives were dumbfounded at the confession and revelation, but also could not understand it at all.
However, I could and I sincerely meant my apology and recognition that one has to perform a sincere Mea Culpa to eventually cleanse oneself of false beliefs. I know my uncle was profoundly sorry, I endured pain for so many years on a totally misguided interpretation of his only good intentions. Susan for her part was pleased I finally gave credit to a man she felt, after hearing many negative stories, was not deserving of contempt even though he knew nothing about it. In fact, she had often pointed out to me that it seemed to her that, knowing the rest of the family she had detected a ton of misplaced bitterness, envy, and even jealousy towards those who work hard to make a life for themselves.
For that reason, I can today write about my observations of American life and politics, knowing full well that my life experiences and readiness to try to redeem myself gave me the wherewithal to be as impartial as one can be. Thank you, uncle Vincent.
I tell this very personal story to fellow Democrats who hate Trump (I did not vote for him) without having ever questioned themselves or even really knowing anything about the person but are constantly bombarded by negative messages that perhaps stop them from thinking for themselves for a moment.
I simply hope it will help some of them.