A Buddhist Looks at the Olympics

I am thinking tonight about the Olympics.  Earlier, I was going to title this "Why I hate the Olympics," but that was the hyperbole of high summer fire.  Actually, under that anger I am sad; what I hate is to be in a room where sports is on TV, including the poor young gymnasts who try so hard and often land so badly.  Last night we saw teenage boys cry on camera while the coach glared at them. 

I was hanging out in the living room and Tom had the Olympics on the TV.  So I saw an exhaustive exploration of how badly Michael Phelps, formerly known as the Greatest Olympian ever, had failed.  And right there is what I don't like about sports:
Somebody wins.  A lot of people lose.

Ryan Lochte Grillz

Poor Phelps.  Four years ago he won eight gold medals and was King of the Mountain. He was way too young for such adulation.  He went through a depression and decline, finally got back in training, but lost badly.  To the left is the guy who won, whose humility is evidenced by the diamond mouth jewelry he put in for the cameras.

Phelps is better off than the Chinese gymnast Wang Yan who landed on her head in a fall in 2006.  You can find a video of it if you have the stomach for it.  A report from June 20 of this year says she has not walked again.  Somehow it reminds me of Michael Jackson's death; poor kid, trying to be as good as ever.  No, better.  He bought that story.  He couldn't sleep nights for the terror of not surpassing himself.

It is the nature of contests that a winner soon starts to sweat the future - can she do it again?  All novelists face this.  One good novel is not enough; the next one has to be better (and seldom is).  I myself have won a couple of awards and honors for my writing, and it felt good, though the elation got briefer each time.  I remember being high for over half an hour when I won a grant for my poetry. 

But my win meant a hundred people didn't win.  I know how that feels, too.  The wins empowered me, but not as much as the encouraging words of one professors, one poet, one listener who were moved by my poetry.  We do not need contests to encourage people to pursue what excellence in what they love.  In fact, I'm sure they dis-courage a great many people at the expense of a lucky few. 

The Olympics pit nations against each other.  Team sports - like college football, say - pit smaller tribes against one another, and people gather and scream, identifying with their warriors.  One school wins - maybe Penn State, where a winning football program was much more valuable than protecting children from a predatory coach. 

Joe Paterno's statue being removed

Just forget about the problems of brain damage we now realize are caused by concussions, and think about this me/you, My Team stuff in terms of human development.  I think I understand the psychology of it.  People who may be a big disappointment to themselves, men who don't earn as much money as Steve Jobs, women who were never thin or beautiful, these people pay to watch surrogates beat a fictional enemy.  It is, someone told me, a form of ritualized warfare.

Is warfare necessary?  Maybe sometimes it is.  But is this necessary?  I don't think so.  I don't think it is helpful to our growth as human beings, and as civilizations, to indulge in fantasies of winning by proxy.  I think human beings can do better than this. I would like to see our children be taught to say no to harming themselves in the pursuit of winning.

All this made me recall the poem by A.E. Housman that beautifully paints the real situation of the young athlete who's on top of the world for that one instant, that gold medal.  I'll paste it in below.  And I'd like to comment that, speaking as a poet and artist, and as a Buddhist, I wish I lived in a civilization of nonharming, in which poets were valued more than quarterbacks and nurses admired more than entrepreneurs.

The first verse of this poem imagines the young man being carried through town on people's shoulders.  The second verse pictures his coffin carried on the shoulders of pallbearers.  The last lines draw a connection between early fame and youthful beauty.  The rhyming couplets make it is an easy poem to memorize.

To an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race   
We chaired you through the market-place;   
Man and boy stood cheering by,   
And home we brought you shoulder-high.   
   
To-day, the road all runners come,     
Shoulder-high we bring you home,   
And set you at your threshold down,   
Townsman of a stiller town.   
   
Smart lad, to slip betimes away   
From fields where glory does not stay,  
And early though the laurel grows   
It withers quicker than the rose.   
   
Eyes the shady night has shut   
Cannot see the record cut,   
And silence sounds no worse than cheers  
After earth has stopped the ears:   
   
Now you will not swell the rout   
Of lads that wore their honours out,   
Runners whom renown outran   
And the name died before the man.  
   
So set, before its echoes fade,   
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,   
And hold to the low lintel up   
The still-defended challenge-cup.   
   
And round that early-laurelled head 
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,   
And find unwithered on its curls   
The garland briefer than a girl's.

You don't want to read this post

This is what a sex offender looks like

But not as badly as I don't want to write it.  But I have to, having read the disgusting details of the charges against Sandusky in today's Maureen Dowd column.  I sort of wish I hadn't read it - you never get over this stuff.  Having been an abused child is like having a war wound that aches from time to time.

I am talking about the huge sexual-abuse scandals topping the news today.  You know who they are, the football coaches, the political candidate who is trying to get you to believe eight women are conspiring against him.  Two different kinds of abuse, but both about men in positions of power forcing themselves upon the younger and weaker - the child in the locker room, the female job candidate.  Men above them in the heirarchy protecting them, dropping the ball, letting it slide.  Catholic church.  Penn State.  Politics.

As long as we valorize high testoserone, this is going to happen.  As long as we let men build masculine forts in which they all protect one another, this is going to happen.

Okay, but I'm not here to write the theory but just to say one thing I wish each reader would listen to:  there are probably children in your life.  Your own, your grandkids, your nieces and nephews.  Your younger brothers and sisters.  Protect them. They are powerless to protect themselves.

How?  When you see a child change, a behavior change that doesn't quite make sense, get interested.  A child should not suddenly develop insomnia or night terrors, should not suddenly get dark circles under her eyes or become listless or misbehave at school or take up drugs.  Don't see these things as "discipline problems" and lower the boom.  Talk to that kid.  The closer you are to them, the more important that you listen to them deeply.  If you just don't know what's happening, set that kid up with a counselor they might feel free to talk to.

I'll tell you just one little story and then I can't stand this.  When I was 11, I stood with my mother in their bedroom and said to her softly, with great embarassment, "Daddy has bad breath."

Believe me, my mother could not possibly go where that should have gone.  It could have gone to Why honey?  When did you notice that?  Not a chance.  She could not imagine a father violating his daughter.  Dependent on her husband as she was, caught in romantic illusions, she couldn't have any distance from him, couldn't see him as he was.  She lived in a sort of dream. And we do.

So she said, "I don't understand that.  If his breath gets bad, I say to him, 'Ed, I think your pyorrhea is acting up again."  (This was called trenchmouth in the war.)  And it was never mentioned again. 

My father was a scoutmaster, in fact rose to be a regional director in Boy Scouts of America.  He was a white-collar worker, a defense engineer.  We went to a high-class Congregational Church, where they contributed to the building campaign.  My parents kept a nice house, he painted it, mowed the lawn.  He wore nice suits and good shoes.  Him?  Abuse his daughter?  Never.

Your own husband can do it to his own children.  So can the kids' stepfather or your boyfriend.  The kid's grandfather or grandmother, sad to say, the coach, the priest, the teacher, the guy at the candy store or pizza shop.  A neighbor.  Take care of your children and the children you know, be watchful.  They can't protect themselves.  You don't want to think you live in a world like that.  Neither do I.  But we do.

It is upsetting me to even have this guy's face on my blog.  But I think it's important to look at him, look hard.  Believe it.