NOTES FROM A WEEPING RADICAL BEHAVIORIST 2014-09-27, 27th Anniversary of Mother’s Death Irritated when that reminder popped up on my computer screen, because I was having so much fun writing really cool shit on FaceBook, so that my FaceBook friends could see how really cool I am. But I owe Mother at least two minutes of commemoration, don’t I? (Note this is all about me; and in review, I see it’s a chance to review my life, since her death.) No new memories, but I can add a few I sometimes think of: The two times she spanked me. First was when I returned from Keetha Kay’s, from on the other side of the dirt road in Oklahoma City. We’d just been playing husband and wife by my lying on top of her, at her suggestion. She had given me her gold ring so I could use having it as an excuse to return after dinner, and which I lost on the dirt road, but which was found later, and the loss of which may have been the nominal reason for Mother’s beating my bare butt with a spatula. Later I understood that she was taking out WWII on my tender ass, as a few hours before, Dad had been shipped off on his circuitous route to the Philippines. [And, even though I’ve finished reading all the earlier anniversary notes, writing about WWII is the first time I’ve managed to get any commemorative tears.] The other time she spanked me was for swimming in Pike Creak, when in fact, I’d swum in the even more forbidden Massy’s Gravel Pit. Again, there may have been a little WWII in that one, as Dad was still in the Philippines. And here’s another WWII memory I sometimes recall: Christmas morning. Little Dick runs down stairs to the Christmas tree to see what Mama has for him. And there’s a bike parked next to the Christmas tree, as well as Mother and Uncle John standing nearby. Shocked, I immediately ask, “Who’s old bike is that?” (Though the bike had been freshly painted, it clearly didn’t have the gloss of a new bike.) My loving Uncle John was so proud that he’d bought a scarce bike and had carefully refurbished it for me as my Christmas gift. And I felt like a complete shit, when I realized what was coming down. and 69 years later, I sit hear crying my ingrate ass off, as I write this. Talk about weird! Notes 1. And here’s how disgustingly about-me this is (not really about mother): With the aid of my iPhone calculator, I compute that Mother was 79 when she died, and I’m only 77, and I can hardly wait until I’m 80 and have defeted her in living a longer and more healthy life. Really! Jesus, that’s bad! 2. And all the time I’m writing this, I’m debating whether to post it on FaceBook, so all my FaceBook friends can appreciate what a loving, insightful, person I am. Which makes even more impressive, the difficulty Kelly, Jenn, I, and the whole field of behavior analysis are having in establishing powerful social reinforcers for our autistic kids when we’ve done everything the books say we should do, calling in to question our field’s understanding of learned reinforcers. 3. And this whole posting raises the FaceBook issue: FaceBook is the favorite whipping boy of the WWII and post-WWII generation and whatever generations calling into question the superficiality of the millennial generation. But, in fact, I think FaceBook serves a valid social-interactive/communication function. How else would Motoko and I be able to communicate?
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 14:51:30 +0000
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