I know a lot of you know that I’m a psych major and write a lot about people and environmental stimulants. I have noticed, and invited your notice, that we are not major managers of ourselves. We do not awake in the morning and assign breath taking and blood circulation, or completing digestive needs. We don’t flip any switches for sight or even awareness. It is all done for us. We are mere passengers. We are allowed to decide what to eat and where, but something inside says, hey you, we are hungry for mozzarella. Or maybe peanut butter toast. And you obey, thinking it is you talking. I have to invite you, if you are still reading, along to Merced in the early 60s. I and my friends are early 20s and even old teenagers. We have been cruising 17th from Cecil’s Raw Chicken, to Vernon’s Drive In. Sometimes we stop and shoot the shit at Vernon’s at the parking between it and the gas station. There was a new kid amongst us, who wanted to join up. He was tall and goofy looking, and wore canvas tennies that were then popular, Converse. He talked about being part of the San Diego crowd. He seemed okay. Then a couple of hitchhikers appeared an the curb facing 16th. They were in Navy uniforms. The tall guy, I’ll call him Robert, walked over to hassle the kids in uniform. Then out of the blue, he punched one. What the hell we said, and a bunch of us walked over, and some picked up the Navy kid, and Robert was smiling, like he’d done something cool, a San Diego thing. He saw the look on our faces. He casually walked over to his car and drove off. We showed the Sailor where the restroom was so he could wash off the blood.. Then a strange thing took over. We were all furious at this tall kid named Robert. We clambered to our cars and went looking. We found him at Cecils. My friend Dick Baptiste walked up to him and pulled a knife out of his pocket. I thought, wait, no way. Then I looked at the crowd of our guys moving in an arc to trap Robert. Everyone was chanting something, “Get him. Get him...” and the look was zombie like, a glassy eyed frown on everyone’s face. I told Mike my brother, we had to stop this, and we started pushing our friends back, saying “Hold it! Don’t do this!” It was worse than the chickenshit hit of the Sailor. Our pushing seemed to shake the sense back into people, and Robert ran through the opening we made and got away. Many times I have thought about that night and wondered, what is it makes people go into mob rule? Sometimes you see it at games, especially football games. The “make noise” syndrome is odd. The home crowd doesn’t want the opposing team to have a fair chance, and if they can’t hear the quarterback, they’ll lose. Yay. Humans have dress and behavior codes...as a group! Some 50 years ago and before, it was socially acceptable to not like other races. People who dressed differently were shunned, especially if it was clothes from another country’s style, and turbans and gowns. We don’t decide that on our own. We are then slaves to our need to be part of a group...or gang and dress similarly. I’m hoping that readers join in and express their reaction to our self imposed loss of independence and crowd conformity..
Posted on: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 16:23:29 +0000
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