Little Boy Lost

Turning toward new ideas was easier for Plato’s prisoner who was dragged from the allegorical cave into the light, than for the rest of us, who have to drag ourselves into the light, often not even knowing which direction that might be.

My town’s approach to education was more like the cave itself than the light; we were forced to attend and comply with the rules of those in authority, as well as adhere the social norms of the other children. My culture calls that education.

Somewhere around fifth grade, I knew for a fact that this education was not in my best interest, but by then it was too late. I was stuck and didn’t have a say in the matter. It seemed the only way to win my father’s love was to make an A in math, or at least a C, and I ran away from home in fifth grade to avoid his wrath when report cards came out.

I learned a lot that day. Looking back, I think that was the day I became my own person, the day I truly began to separate from my parents and their values. I could call that independent thinking and the action that went with it being educated, but no. I was scared, not thinking at all.

I got home before either of my parents did, report card in the mailbox, and I sat on the kitchen floor with mom’s bread knife, contemplating what it would take to kill myself. I knew that warriors who had been disgraced killed themselves this way; a thrust into the stomach with the blade, then over, and up.

That would do it, and no more disappointing my father. He would be upset to find my dead body in his kitchen, but he deserved to be upset. I just couldn’t get that first thrust. It was definitely sharp enough, but I didn’t have the chutzpah to drive it all the way in. Still, I knew I had to die. I just couldn’t do it myself.

I was sure I could get a car to run over me at high enough speed to do me in. I stood at the crosswalk of a busy street, watching cars speed by at 45 or more miles per hour. Certainly enough to kill a small boy with a bad report card, but I couldn’t just be injured. I didn’t want to be crippled and still have to go back to school.

I would have to help the car the same way I would have to help that knife. If I aimed my head at the car bumper, then the impact would be sure to do me in. I couldn’t just die without taking some decisive action on my own. I took a deep breath, ready… steady… here came a fast one.

This is it. One… getting closer… two… aim for the bumper… I could see the driver now. A blonde woman in her twenties or thirties, hard to tell. Three... Wait. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She doesn’t deserve to kill a little boy. That would certainly ruin her day. I thought about her shock as she hit me, her tears as she realized what she had done, her life going on as someone who had driven over a little blond-haired boy on Olympic Boulevard.

That’s just not right. I let the car pass, and I realized something: I don’t want to die. I’m just mad at my old man. There is more I want to do in life.

I went home, got on my bike, and rode to the next county. With no plans and no money, I was back home a day later, but the point was made. Years before that, Camus posited, “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.” I answered this question of philosophy without knowing it when I ran away from home in fifth grade.

I became my own person that day because I decided life was worth living, even though it may be hard, and I decided to live it on my own terms.

No one dragged me into the light. I broke those chains myself.

I became what another philosopher I had never heard of, Nietzsche, called a Dionysian pessimist. One who “does not retreat, but rather advances willingly into hostile territory, not to die gloriously but instead to live dangerously and die necessarily.” I can’t claim to have seen Plato’s light, but I have seen the hostile territory Nietzsche speaks of.

Venturing into hostile territory can be invigorating. Crawling on the razor’s edge and surviving has made me a stronger and wiser person.

Running away from home when I was ten-years-old was my first escape from the cave, and I admit that I went right back to it in less than 24 hours. But I came back with new vision and new strength, and the next time I ventured out, I went a little further and stayed out a little longer.

Curiosity and perseverance, or the motivation to learn something new and the discipline to follow through with it are marks of a good thinker. Unfortunately, the education system I grew up with tends to destroy curiosity by placing too much emphasis on discipline. I love mathematics, but the combination of Mr. Sloane and my father made me hate it.

Camus, Nietzsche, and Plato learned from their elders and then ventured into unknown or hostile territory. I’m still trying. I learned a lot from my father and Mr. Sloane, but my best teacher has been experience itself. I just wish I had been a better student.