The search for maturity

When I was growing up in my little, isolated, village in Canada, a car was everything. If you had a car, you had a girlfriend – or so the myth went among “the men.” Now a car was expensive. I had the money because of my part-time job, but then there was my father. A car represented a sense of liberty that he was unwilling to grant — so, no car!

Now, we were studying communism (collective property) in social studies. At the same time, someone donated a car to the school’s shop. In high school, we had a strict segregation of the sexes — the boys had to study the industrial trades (mechanics, woodworking, etc.) and the girls home economics (cooking, cleaning, sewing, etc.). The thought began: “Why can’t we share a car?” the girlfriend aspect was never articulated, but it simmered below the surface. It is to be noted that perhaps our lack of female companionship was not only because of the lack of a car — we were also “losers,” but didn’t know it. Together, we worked feverishly to ready the car for its presentation. A rumor began to circulate in the school that the, let us say, less vivacious men, we going to own a car.

It was to be presented on a given Friday. On that fateful day, the available young women began to assemble outside the front of the school. The shop doors opened onto one end of the schoolyard. I remember that special morning; everyone took great care to look their very best: hair brushed, shirts pressed and shoes shined. After a great fistfight to show dominance, which disheveled the image, to say the least, one lucky chap became the chauffeur. This was the age of the four-shift transmission — think Fast and Furious Ten (1). The driver screamed the machine out of the garage. And then, for maximum effect, he paused and “revved up” the transmission, dropping her into gear and hurling the testosterone-fueled rocket across the expansive terrain of space.

Sadly, someone had forgotten to tighten a screw. It began with a slight pop and a shudder, followed by a bang. Then something exited from the back of the car – the transmission, or pieces of it. We were, unfortunately, going too fast to stop. But halt we did, right in front of the available girls.

They were now laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their cheeks. To add insult to injury, the single young ladies were seated with their committed girlfriends who had brought along their boyfriends. No one would crawl out of the car first. After five very long minutes, I did, thus sealing my relationship isolation for the rest of high school. It was a seminal time in my life. Maturity, the search for the inner self, was more complicated than it first appeared. The theologian Paul Tillich (2) leaves us with a thought: The awareness of the ambiguity of one’s highest achievements (as well as one’s deepest failures) is a definite symptom of maturity. (Parts of this essay were first published in 2017)

A closing thought: I think, for the most part, we all strive to grow and blossom. Unfortunately, maturation in men has historically been associated with war and violence. In this holiday season which, in the Christian tradition, is associated with love and peace, we would hope that wiser models are brought forward in the future. As Tolstoy (3) tells us, we need to find peace within.

To sum up: This week, we spoke about the need to mature, and yet develop properly.

To be noted: From Oscar Wilde (4) — Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.

Just for fun: