Drifting Toward Disturbing

Ice cream is my go-to comfort food. I remember the first time I tried the hand-churned version—the Real Thing—at a neighbor's backyard cookout. I was ten, and I didn't care for this strange-tasting stuff that was so unlike the processed and preserved store-bought product.

When post-pandemic society first began to reopen, sampling our restored freedom felt a little like my introduction to homemade ice cream. Those initial encounters with the hustle and bustle of the Real World seemed somehow unpalatable compared to my cozy reclusive routine. This was odd to the extreme, since I'd long been yearning for company. I believe there's a warning embedded in this response to the shut-down.

There are tales of feral children growing up in the wild. They recoil at human contact and have difficulty adapting to the expectations of civilization without instructive guidance. Such a scenario seems implausible; after years of deprivation, who wouldn't hunger for companionship, or for the warm touch of another person? But the recent experiment in extended forced quarantines provides a vivid example of how quickly isolation can warp our perspective, rattle our sense of belonging, and break the bonds of shared values.

Now that we've been "un-caved" for a while, some authority figures remain puffed up with the power they assumed during the health crisis—itching to dictate who we can trust and how we're supposed to relate to each other. Based on recent cultural trends, this troubles me.

I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and by the 90s had observed that America was a far more inclusive, accepting, and enlightened place than it had been. There was legislation in place to protect those who had once been the victims of outrageous prejudice and unfair practices. Things were looking up; this was a better place to live than it had been, and loving concern for our brothers seemed to be flourishing.

Then something unsettling happened. Over the next few decades, certain "influencers" advanced the alarming message that modern society was a wretched morass of hatred and injustice. That it was crumbling under the weight of the very wrongs that my generation and others before us had fought so hard to set aside, compensate for, and move forward from. That the color of our skin was our only identity, and the content of our characters had little significance.

I worry about the dictatorial extremism I see blossoming around me. I pray daily for the courage to stand up against misinformation; to decry the distortion of our history, the destruction of our present, the dooming of our future.

This blog is one place where I am still free to share these opinions. Unless, of course, some self-proclaimed censor doesn't like what I'm saying. Then my personal views, formed over decades of living through cultural evolution, could be erased with the mere tap of a computer key somewhere. Cancelled.

I may need three scoops of comfort to deal with that unnerving reality. Jamoca Almond Fudge, anyone?