In a previous post, I called myself as a small child a "natural philosopher." That is, I believed implicitly that the world possessed an inherent, unseen order, which I could eventually discern -- or perhaps others would make it known to me. This latter possibility suggests that I was not only philosophically disposed but also predisposed to religious belief – if we take religious belief to be that which is revealed by God and handed on by those who already believe, while philosophy is an activity of the intellect, seeking out the truths of the universe, rather than expecting them to be revealed. At any rate, although still having little understanding of anything, I had an inchoate desire to be wise and to be good.
I certainly was not naturally wise or good. I was easily led by any child older or more authoritative than myself, and got into all sorts of mischief as a result. (I was so deferential to anyone older than myself that once, when I was seven, I startled a nine year old boy by calling him “sir”.) My older brother was my first leader, but he apparently did not share my inborn desire to be good; in fact, he delighted in telling me things that he knew to be false, because he knew I was so credulous as to believe him unquestioningly. He knew I would mindlessly follow any command he gave me.
Once, when I was four or five years old, a little friend and I were watching some workers patch an asphalt street with hot tar, which had a tantalizingly beautiful shiny gloss that I found almost irresistible. After the road crew moved down the street to work on the next crack in the pavement, my brother happened along with one of his little pals and saw me gazing with fascination at the glossy surface of the cooling tar. He assured me that chewing tar would give me bright, white teeth and urged me to take some before the tar hardened. My conscience pricked me, reminding me that tar is very sticky and messy – more than once I had tracked tar on the bottom of my shoe after stepping in it on a hot day – but my brother kept insisting that I should trust him on this. He could see my natural urge to touch that beautiful tar and impishly egged me on; I liked the idea of white teeth, since mine were naturally yellowish, and I knew that soon the tar would cool, harden, and lose its beautiful, glossy sheen, the surface puckering and wrinkling as it shrank in cooling. My desire to touch the tar before it dulled and wrinkled, reinforced by my brother’s commanding reassurance, overcame my conscience and experience, and I reached out to scoop up some of the beautiful tar on my fingertip.
Of course, the tar was just as experience had taught me: devilishly sticky and difficult to manipulate (also, unexpectedly hot -- I burned my fingers). I managed to get some into my mouth, but wasn’t able to chew it as if it were gum. I also manage to get tar in my hair and, when I tried to wipe it off, smeared it all over my clothes. A little friend who was with me followed my lead and got even messier, and we knew – too late – that we should not have let ourselves be persuaded to touch the tar. We also knew that we would be in trouble if our parents saw us in such a state, so we sneaked into my friend’s house to wash off before I went home. The other child’s mother found us in the bathroom, wet and soapy from head to foot, still covered in tar, as were all the towels within reach. The woman called my father to take me home and said she would never let me play with her child again, as I was obviously a bad influence. But, of course, I was not malicious, merely foolish, taken in by a beautiful appearance and a willingness to be persuaded against my better judgment when it suited me.
I imagine that Eve in Paradise experienced a similar kind of temptation. I’ve always suspected that the Serpent’s lies persuaded her because they spoke to some inchoate desire in her to taste the forbidden fruit even though she had it on good authority (indeed, the best!) that eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil would proved deadly. Perhaps that fruit was as beautifully enticing to her as the smooth, glossy surface of the tar was to me; certainly, she was more easily persuaded than I, because a talking Serpent’s testimony is certainly less credible than the assurances of one’s older brother. At any rate, like Eve, I had drawn another into my own crime and we both hid ourselves when we realized what we had done.
I may not have been thrown out of Paradise as a result of my misdemeanor, but there certainly were inevitable painful consequences for my actions. My father took me home and spent the better part of an hour trying to get the tar off me with turpentine. While the turpentine was effective in removing the tar, it also burned my skin, and the tar in my hair had to be cut out. Burning red skin and a ragged haircut were the natural punishment for my foolishness, but it remained to be seen whether my parents would impose a punishment of their own. When the ordeal was over, my parents asked me why on earth I had gotten into the tar, and I told them that I wanted to chew it because Brother had told me it would give me nice, white teeth. Realizing that my brother had deliberately duped me, they punished him instead of me.
I’ve often wondered if my brother ever regretted misleading me, but I know that my adulation of him began to wane that day. I think, though, that I felt more betrayed by the intractability of the tar than I did by the mischievous urging of my brother. I felt, somehow, that the tar should not have been so beautifully smooth and glossy if it would not allow me to take it and enjoy it. Beauty is good, and authority, rightly exercised, is good, but that day I felt betrayed by both. That day, I got my first inkling that the world is not as well-ordered as I had implicitly assumed, and for perhaps the first time I began to feel the existential dis-ease of living in a world out of kilter.
I certainly was not naturally wise or good. I was easily led by any child older or more authoritative than myself, and got into all sorts of mischief as a result. (I was so deferential to anyone older than myself that once, when I was seven, I startled a nine year old boy by calling him “sir”.) My older brother was my first leader, but he apparently did not share my inborn desire to be good; in fact, he delighted in telling me things that he knew to be false, because he knew I was so credulous as to believe him unquestioningly. He knew I would mindlessly follow any command he gave me.
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| Tar Baby and Brer Rabbit |
Of course, the tar was just as experience had taught me: devilishly sticky and difficult to manipulate (also, unexpectedly hot -- I burned my fingers). I managed to get some into my mouth, but wasn’t able to chew it as if it were gum. I also manage to get tar in my hair and, when I tried to wipe it off, smeared it all over my clothes. A little friend who was with me followed my lead and got even messier, and we knew – too late – that we should not have let ourselves be persuaded to touch the tar. We also knew that we would be in trouble if our parents saw us in such a state, so we sneaked into my friend’s house to wash off before I went home. The other child’s mother found us in the bathroom, wet and soapy from head to foot, still covered in tar, as were all the towels within reach. The woman called my father to take me home and said she would never let me play with her child again, as I was obviously a bad influence. But, of course, I was not malicious, merely foolish, taken in by a beautiful appearance and a willingness to be persuaded against my better judgment when it suited me.
I may not have been thrown out of Paradise as a result of my misdemeanor, but there certainly were inevitable painful consequences for my actions. My father took me home and spent the better part of an hour trying to get the tar off me with turpentine. While the turpentine was effective in removing the tar, it also burned my skin, and the tar in my hair had to be cut out. Burning red skin and a ragged haircut were the natural punishment for my foolishness, but it remained to be seen whether my parents would impose a punishment of their own. When the ordeal was over, my parents asked me why on earth I had gotten into the tar, and I told them that I wanted to chew it because Brother had told me it would give me nice, white teeth. Realizing that my brother had deliberately duped me, they punished him instead of me.
I’ve often wondered if my brother ever regretted misleading me, but I know that my adulation of him began to wane that day. I think, though, that I felt more betrayed by the intractability of the tar than I did by the mischievous urging of my brother. I felt, somehow, that the tar should not have been so beautifully smooth and glossy if it would not allow me to take it and enjoy it. Beauty is good, and authority, rightly exercised, is good, but that day I felt betrayed by both. That day, I got my first inkling that the world is not as well-ordered as I had implicitly assumed, and for perhaps the first time I began to feel the existential dis-ease of living in a world out of kilter.
