I grew up on a relatively unhealthy afternoon post-school diet of bowls of Fruity Pebbles consumed while studying televised Scooby-Doo cartoons interrupted regularly by saccharine, moralistic commercials like the one above. For those of you who know all too intimately of my ongoing fascination with the Mormon faith, it will come as no surprise that the song and message of this advertisement have stuck with me lo these many years.
Watching again (and again) this young boy confess to the accidental breaking of a neighbor's window, I was sent immediately to a foggy day in Daly City, one of our many visits to cousins Israel and Lila, when an errant red rubber ball I had rocketed high above the sloping street during a heated game of kickball veered ominously toward the bay window of a lime green house and, with a shattering pitch I hear even now, smashed an enormous pane to smithereens. I recall our group instantly bolted to Aunty Estie's house (no one needed to yell, "Run!"), raced through the door past a warm gathering of parents in the living room, landed in Israel's room in a pile and proceeded to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, acting as nonchalantly as a guilty group of non-plused adolescents could muster.
I must admit I continue to shrink from taking responsibility for many of my major misdeeds, a fear I find both enervating and atavistic. While I pour implausible excuse upon improbable subterfuge I can't help but wonder why I expend such copious amounts of psychic energy to cover, when simple transparency and penitence would do the trick in moments.
And now I turn my gaze to the state of our union as the election quickly approaches and note with dour concern that broken windows abound -- splintered economy balancing on valueless Credit Default Swaps, shattered health-care system held together with threadbare band-aids, battered Afghanistan looming as our next military investment, unsustainable deficits that force our state to steal from city coffers.
Who among those responsible for this mess is strong enough to step forward and sing, "I broke your window with my ball, and I've come to confess"? And when the penitent uncover their guilt will we greet them as heroes ("for you have displayed honor") or shackle them in manacles on the town square for all to stare upon and spit? And when the unpenitent are finally brought to justice claiming, "I would have gotten away with it had it not been for those pesky kids" will we simply laugh and turn the channel or chuckle and wait for the coming episode to unfold its formulaic plot before our sugar-satiated bellies?
Watching again (and again) this young boy confess to the accidental breaking of a neighbor's window, I was sent immediately to a foggy day in Daly City, one of our many visits to cousins Israel and Lila, when an errant red rubber ball I had rocketed high above the sloping street during a heated game of kickball veered ominously toward the bay window of a lime green house and, with a shattering pitch I hear even now, smashed an enormous pane to smithereens. I recall our group instantly bolted to Aunty Estie's house (no one needed to yell, "Run!"), raced through the door past a warm gathering of parents in the living room, landed in Israel's room in a pile and proceeded to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, acting as nonchalantly as a guilty group of non-plused adolescents could muster.
I must admit I continue to shrink from taking responsibility for many of my major misdeeds, a fear I find both enervating and atavistic. While I pour implausible excuse upon improbable subterfuge I can't help but wonder why I expend such copious amounts of psychic energy to cover, when simple transparency and penitence would do the trick in moments.
And now I turn my gaze to the state of our union as the election quickly approaches and note with dour concern that broken windows abound -- splintered economy balancing on valueless Credit Default Swaps, shattered health-care system held together with threadbare band-aids, battered Afghanistan looming as our next military investment, unsustainable deficits that force our state to steal from city coffers.
Who among those responsible for this mess is strong enough to step forward and sing, "I broke your window with my ball, and I've come to confess"? And when the penitent uncover their guilt will we greet them as heroes ("for you have displayed honor") or shackle them in manacles on the town square for all to stare upon and spit? And when the unpenitent are finally brought to justice claiming, "I would have gotten away with it had it not been for those pesky kids" will we simply laugh and turn the channel or chuckle and wait for the coming episode to unfold its formulaic plot before our sugar-satiated bellies?
If you could cure what drives us to cover up mistakes, misdeeds and feelings you could solve every parents problems (or at least this parents problems) and maybe the whole worlds problems. On the flip side the world could just end up being a very dull place. For me the key is to enjoy the beauty in the imperfect and not to strive for perfection. Our Democracy is not even close to perfect, but it is a heck of a ride.
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