Our present day computer knowledge-based internet age gives added
impetus to our questions: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?
And, what happens when we die? Suggestions there are a-plenty from
accountants, judges, army officers – commissioned or otherwise, mystics,
assorted reverends and well-intentioned folks from flocks of faithful
of every colour and creed…
Yet, who am I to mock? Long before I’d arrived at the point of
wondering what life was all about I’d learned the meaning of the phrase
“Know your place!” Actually I realised that ‘Know’ had two meanings: the
first meant “Shut up!” or “Speak when you’re spoken to!”; the other
concerned really awkward questions about
it,
you know,
puberty, contraceptives and male members. In fact it took some time
before I realised that these ‘members’ did not belong to mens’ clubs.
They concerned all males, and more pointedly, me personally. Various
awkward words. assimilated naturally in or out of school, caused most of
my problems because I knew how to say them but was ignorant of what
they meant and when not to use them. At first they brought only looks of
mild disapproval. Later they were accompanied by a clout round the
ear’ole or the toe of a boot aimed at my behind.
So, I learned that these questions were better raised when nicer
grown-ups were present, then their reception, and the subsequent reply
to them, had the chance of being softened by a seemingly good-natured
laugh or smile. Yet even when I grew older, I never knew whether to
blush or duck when I raised those questions again. Like most youth of
those times, learning about me and my body meant I was doomed to a world
of frustration, humiliation and continued mystery.
If the innocence we are supposed to possess was given in order that
it might be lost, my loss would have taken place while I was in the
British Army. Not that the sergeant in the Education Corp who took us
for a series of lectures was any help. His embarrassment was obvious as
he mumbled things about condoms, and screened slides of terrible
diseases with horrible names that were just waiting to pounce on the
likes of us. But I did admire the way he sidestepped questions that
belligerent lads from the cities threw at him, until I realised they
were the same questions as mine. As usual, they remained unanswered.
Enlightenment came at a training camp in North Wales with an
advertisement in a local paper for a certain booklet by a “René Mac”, or
some such name. I blushed as I read, “Sex and the young man,” followed
by a short list of words that sent my pulse racing. You would not
believe how quickly I made up my mind, with my letter and postal note in
the mail the very same day. Perhaps a few of my close mates noticed me
breathing more quickly when he parcel in plain brown paper was passed to
me at mail call the following week.
Opening it later on my own, my eyes
at last told the rest of me what I needed to know. It was such a relief
reading that explanation in black and white. I mean, there’s no denying
things in black and white, is there? As I read them, I was sure I’d
known instinctively what they’d said would happen, wouldn’t happen, as
regards my sight. I’ve worn spectacles since I was seven and my
eyesight’s just fine. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been on much
friendlier terms with myself since then.
However,
where ignorance is bliss it can be folly to be wise. I wasn’t wise when
it came to know who to trust. Twenty-four hours had elapsed before I
let one of my mates into the secret of René’ booklet. The following day
it had disappeared from under my pillow, never to be seen again. At
least, not by my eyes. The teacher in me now suggests it probably did
the rounds, passing through many hands and minds, bringing enlightenment
before it finally disintegrated. The thought also encourages me to
think more highly of myself whenever René surfaces in my mind. Indeed in
my musings of late (regarding
what happens at the end...) I’ve
begun to visualise myself seated in the reserved section of Cloud Nine.
I entertain the belief that if the higher level of Cloud Seven exists, I
may well have the hope of being invited there in due course. I dream
on.
Dennis Crompton © 2000
