| 25 September 2005 Threat, Stimulation and Identity So, it is Sunday and the fourth day of autumn and the storm is ashore and the assessment of the damage has begun. It could have been worse, is the first word. The disaster of Katrina got everyone's attention, including me. I hauled a couple cases of bottled water back to Big Pink in the back of the truck, and some assorted dry goods to augment the supply I laid in when the terror scare began. I am pretty far up on Maslow's triangle of need; but increasing age has caused me to forget some of the finer distinctions. I know that happiness doesn't appear on the chart. The best you can hope for is something called “self actualization,” which I confess I don't understand. Robert Ardrey is a writer on the behavior of animals and humans. He has simplified things, and that appeals to my diminished capacity. He claims there are only three basic human needs: security, stimulation and identity. He says that the absence of security serves as mechanism to stimulate , leading to identity . The model has been used to describe the creation of terror-bombers and liberation movements. It is a useful paradigm, I think. When humans feel threat, in combat or disaster, they do not face the challenge of losing their identity. The displaced of New Orleans have a stimulus to their sense of belonging to a distinct community. And it is mutable. There is a nice piece in the Times this morning by a young Houston matron. She described how her town responded to the displaced of the Katrina, and how they felt a sense of community in the effort. After the wrenching decision to evacuate herself and daughter and dogs from the city, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw what she looked like. No shower. Nine hours at the wheel. No air conditioning to conserve fuel. Hair matted, T-shirt stuck to her skin. She looked just like the refugees she had been helping three weeks ago. I thought that the model was reflected as I listened distractedly to the New Orleans benefit concert broadcast live from New York City . It was an all-afternoon event, and I listened in segments as I plowed into two months of deferred housework. The weather had been so nice, and the pool had been so inviting that I spent every possible moment basking in the sun. Now I have a fading tan, and appalling floors. There was so much handing in the balance on Friday. Rita's wrath was building, and demonstrators were filling up the town. The big protest was to be held on Saturday, but even at mid-week the police convoys were roaring up and down the avenues in preparation for their arrival. By Saturday I was resolved not to set foot on the other side of the Potomac . I was surrounded by piles of clothing that needed to be laundered or carted to the Good Will, or both. There were piles of books and magazines left over from the summer reading list that went unread. A panoply of the usual celebrities appeared on stage to sing their praises to the drowned city, and to help celebrate her eventual re-birth. I don't know if that makes sense, but I am willing to contribute to a massive public effort to try to save the place, even as Rita's water overwhelmed some of the fragile levees and the 9 th Ward began to flood again. I bought the water and gas early, before the crowds appeared, and had the truck washed by a Marine unit who were conducting a fund raiser at the Fort. Their tattoos were remarkable, elaborate and bright, almost tribal in their exuberance. They were new, still infused with vibrant color: red and yellow and midnight blue. An old man stood waiting for the young men to complete the wash. His arms were covered with old school blue ink, faded ghosts of his war, the one that threatened his security, and stimulated his commitment to being a Marine. The protestors were across town, speaking and shouting at the White House, even though the current occupant was off confronting the storm from a command post in Colorado with fighter planes overhead. They were vibrant in their anger, and I began to get confused in the radio updates that interspersed coverage of the concert for The Big Easy. They paraded on the Elipse, and shouted that the president was squandering resources that could have been used for hurricane aid. The organizers claimed there were a hundred thousand people in attendance, but I doubt it. The National Park Service used to provide estimates of the actual numbers of demonstrators, but they were accused of racism after low-balling the Million Man March, and they have stopped the practice. Now the crowds are whatever anyone wants to say they are. Rallies held elsewhere reported considerably smaller crowds. Maybe they were doing what I was. Listening to Jazz and lamentation on the radio. Cindy Sheehan, poster mother, and the usual people were there to harangue the crowd. Reverend Jesse Jackson appeared, and actress Jessica Lange. I don't know if she is he one who thought she was a seagull once. Ralph Nader spoke, the man who gave us President Bush, and former Attorney General Ramsey Clark. He was appointed to that office by Lyndon Johnson, and his credentials were mostly that his father Tom was serving on the Federal Appeals bench and Ramsey's appointment would mean that the old man would step down. Thurgood Marshall got the job when he did, incidentally, which is how politics can work sometimes. Ramsey was an undistinguished AG, just like his Daddy was. He had been appointed to the office by President Truman, who confessed to a biographer that "Tom Clark was my biggest mistake. It isn't so much that he's a bad man. It's just that he's such a dumb son of a bitch." I was moderately surprised to learn that Ramsey was still alive. The Times said there was a sign in the crowd reading "Make levees, not war." I felt a twinge of deja vu, of old times and other wars. The New Orleans concert wound up just as I finished remaking the bed, stuffing the down quilt into the duvet cover. I was exhausted, but ready for terror attack or natural disaster. I turned on the television and collapsed into one of the folding chairs. Michigan was playing at Camp Randall Stadium against the Badgers; I wasted the next three hours watching them stumble to defeat, the first time in six years. I feel I am walked backwards through Ardrey's model. Defeat challenged my identity as an old Wolverine, which stimulated me no end, but left me feeling less secure. Two losses already, and the season so young. I am considering barricading my television until next year, or perhaps finding a constructive hobby for Saturdays. I have told my boys that this is something that you eventually get over, but I know that I lied to them. The younger boy went to South Bend to watch his Spartans win in overtime, and I know that he is as addicted as anyone. Next week my bedraggled Wolverines play in East Lansing , where my money goes to support a Big Ten education. Whatever happens will have sadness associated with it, and a mild depression. It is absurd to feel that way, I know. But the model works. Threat and stimulation and identity. But at least the apartment is clean, and I am ready for the storm. Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra www.vicsocotra.com |