Letter to a Blind Girl

Just outside the Humanities building,
you were trying to kick your dog.

Fury had smashed your face. The dog
kept wrapping itself around your legs.

Closer, I saw how your irises
had shot up into your head,

how your head was thrown back
as if dog were something in your skull,

as if you had to arch to reach it, as if
if you couldn’t kick the darkness,

you could kick the dog. 

--Don Welch

We’ve all kicked the dog when we really wanted to kick the darkness. In our frustration, we’ve punished what we could. Call it scapegoating. Call it projecting. Call it being human. In my father’s poem, “The Blind Girl,” he reminds us that, in our distress, too often we kick what is closest and most available to us.

Our continued struggle with the darkness is embedded in the monomyth or hero’s journey. Made popular by Joseph Campbell in his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the monomyth outlines a common pattern found in many stories and myths. In this pattern, heroes set off on adventures–sometimes willingly and other times not–leaving the safety and familiarity of the known world for the unknown. As they enter the unknown and descend into darkness, they experience trials, overcome obstacles, and fight battles, so that they may return home victorious and changed. After the dragon is slain, the enemy vanquished, the treasure or lands returned to their rightful heirs, a hero’s return is the ultimate destruction of darkness and restoration of light and order.

We know this story well, for it’s ingrained in our movies, video games, books, and television series. We revel in heroes who set the world right again, destroying the dangers that threaten to subdue or undo us. We never tire of tales of such heroism and restoration, for the darkness may take different forms, but it’s a clear and present danger in every age.

Whereas the monomyth hero engages in direct battle with the darkness, confronting the enemy face-to-face, we’re often left to battle indirectly. That is, because we can’t confront employers, legislators, experts, lobbyists, or spokespeople directly, we’re often left to write letters or emails, to attend meetings or assemblies in hopes of voicing our concerns. Now, I fear our battles have become even more removed. In our desire to drive out the darkness–whatever form it may take–we often attack the people most available through our social media posts and conversations. We know they’re not the source of the darkness, but in our frustration and powerlessness, we kick the dogs in our literal and digital proximity, unleashing our fury on them any way.

Certainly, there are times and situations which call for civil disagreement and disobedience. One of the most powerful examples of this is “Letter from Birmingham Jail” written by Martin Luther King, Jr. In this letter, King refutes the claims of eight Birmingham clergy who argued his acts of civil disobedience were “unwise and untimely.” Using biblical examples and reasoning they’d understand and respect, he constructs a logical and spiritual argument in defense of the Civil Rights Movement. He doesn’t kick the dog by attacking these clergymen personally, by name-calling or hate-mongering. He understands these men aren’t the source of the darkness but rather symptoms of it. And even as they nip at his heels and threaten his work with misguided, ill-formed arguments and criticisms, he refuses to unleash his anger directly at them.

I recognize that some who criticize others for the political, social, cultural, and theological views believe they’re engaging in legitimate civil disagreement. As such, they argue they must speak up, for to remain silent is to passively accept the darkness. I suspect some contend they must “school” other less informed folks, arguing that if their means are harsh, their desired ends are righteous. I confess there are times when I’ve read social media posts, and my fingers have hovered dangerously above my keyboard. In my rural Iowa home, far removed from the legitimate source of the darkness, I’ve yearned to kick the dog before me. As every synapse twitched, I longed to type responses that would bring some immediate relief. Thankfully, I’ve stepped away from the computer many times, as I recognized my struggle to distinguish the dog from the darkness.

By nature, I suspect we’re all at risk of some dog-kicking. In rereading my dad’s poem, I’m reminded of how vulnerable I am and how I must seriously consider how I battle the darkness. Like many, I’ve often failed to fully consider the sources of darkness and to employ ethical battle strategies to confront them. In failing to kick the darkness, I’ve projected my anger and fear onto whomever and whatever was closest and most available. I’d really like to do better.