by Mark Antony Rossi
I am eternally skeptical of folks who wax philosophic about their parents. No one is that perfect. Especially parents. Somehow these overworked, under slept babysitters can dodge back stabbers at work, deal with cranky significant others at home but still find moments with you to dispense cosmic wisdom.
Stop dreaming. Stop smoking that urban weed. Parents are meant to disappoint. Partly because we expect too much. Partly because they are in middle of their lives trying to figure it out. They are flawed figures who brought us into the world between a box of wine and a bag of chips. Zeus and Athena are stories; not your parents.
It’s easy to see why people insist on minimizing the deficiencies of their parents. If you look down on their parents you will likely look down on them. Failure like any other trait is passed down through a family. Dysfunction is as common as green beans and twice as cheap. Half of the self-help books sold blame family for your problems. The other half blame society. So relax, you are not responsible for mindless decisions. It’s someone else’s fault.
You have children now. And you don’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. Few do. It’s pretty damn hard to be a saint and pay the mortgage on time. And how can you be right on every occasion with an audience and people snapping photos until the transgender cows come home.
Smart phones allows us to swim neck deep in unfiltered knowledge. But a billions facts do not build a truth nor do a trillion bytes create courage. The heart and soul of a vibrant society is lost to freedom deniers who are zealously committed to a safe ideal world even if they have to cut your throat to make it happen. Even if they have to pollute the landscape with battery acid to stop you from drilling fossil fuel.
It all comes back to unhappy people disappointed in their human parents. They seek superheroes in entertainment mainly because their parents did little to improve the world. They preach green to forget their father’s dirty face from factory work. They are restless suburban rogues wary of martial bonds and moral edicts. If only an electric car or an electric guitar could solve a single issue on the planet. The myth of middle class stability might become a reality. Just don’t hold your breath.
About the Author:
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