A Blessing For Pride
Paul Dunion
Some ways down a country road winding its way around Berkshire Hills, I met pride. His gate lumbering as he shuffled from side to side, seemingly unable to sustain a forward motion. His advance slowed as he approached me, suggesting some form of greeting. He paused within touch, as an old friend would, but this was an uncomfortable distance for me. Feeling startled, I steeped back, gathered myself, shoulders raised, not concealing my need to give measure to his presence.
He wore shoes revealing extensive pounding of the pavement. He wore baggy, brown trousers, one pant leg cuffed, and the other slightly torn. His upper body seemed sturdy enough, tucked beneath one of those old WW II flight jackets with a faded green insignia. His weathered grey soft hat pitched over his left eye suggested the presence of something hidden.
Before I could speak, he leaned forward placed an index finger on my chest, and said, “The name is pride, and I’ve got something to tell you about me and about me and you. I was the voice in your head when your old man shamed you at the Sunday dinner table, remember, “The old man doesn’t know shit”. You felt my buoyancy when your girlfriend decided to leave for the Peace Corps rather than stay with you. I pointed you away from your broken heart, reminding you that you were too good for most of the women you encountered. I was the one rushing in to bolster you against feeling left out and excluded. I made the in-crowd not worth hanging with. Even in the checkout lane at the supermarket, I directed you to pass judgment on the guy carrying some excess body weight. Shit, I even distracted you when you’re impatient. I encouraged you to see any man’s strength as simply a compensation for some weakness. In the absence of caring for yourself, I pushed you to the front of the line, grabbing a fleeting moment of feeling okay. My relentless task was to separate you from others over and over again. As if the separation could render you some semblance of being special. Hey, I was always there, puffing you up. It was me that did not allow you to remain collapsed in self-loathing. Come on now, it’s time for an endearing self-love to replace me. I’m tired. Besides, I no longer have several of my key tools. You’ve lost strength and agility, and that loss of hair doesn’t help matters much. Face it; you’re not the looker you were 30 years ago. How about it, give both of us a break, and give yourself the love you deserve.”
“I guess I didn’t realize how helpful you’ve been along the way,” I responded, aware that each time pride was pulling me up, I would shame him and me.
“That’s right. You could say that I was the one getting you ready for real love. I can be there acknowledging a job well done, but I’m no substitute for love,” he yelled with a voice much larger than his stature should allow, and with a quickened step I was sure he didn’t have within him.
