MAY 19, 2019 – According to the notable behavior scientists, Robert W. Mitchell and Nicholas S. Thompson, many animals are capable of various forms of deceit. No creature, however, outdoes humans when it comes to selling—and buying—a bill of goods. Think, “[truthfully] fake news.” Or look at the founder—and followers—of any cult. Consider too the millions of advertisers—and billions of consumers—of stuff we’re convinced we need, however bad for us and earth.
No other animal issues press releases—and more to the point, no other animal believes its own press releases.
Sometimes humans deploy a small, subtle device to achieve a big-scale self-deceptive effect. I once stumbled across a perfect example of this inside an old, small, olive-colored, metal box in the attic of my parent’s house.
Mother and Dad had been savers and collectors and in their home of 60 years, they’d saved and collected a lot of stuff. Plus, my dad was an only child. Thus, after his saver/collector parents died, all their stuff was moved to my parents’ house.
Eventually, my parents moved on.
Much of the contents of their house turned out to be dumpster-eligible, recyclable, or found-treasure for estate-sale buyers. However, a large volume of interesting letters, papers, books, photos, and mementoes filled the house, from spacious basement to cavernous attic. The sheer quantity of these “interesting” items—mixed among the not-so-interesting—mandated the meticulous approach of an archeologist.
One evening in the attic I uncovered . . . that metal box. My grandfather’s initials were on the outside. Inside I found pins and postcards, a patch off an army uniform, and . . . a soldier’s medal. These things were the tangible reminders of Grandpa’s experience in World War I.
Over time he’d told us about that experience. Based on Grandpa’s civilian profession as a professional violinist, the army induction sergeant handed Grandpa a bugle. “You’ll be the first soldier up every day,” said the sergeant. To Grandpa’s burning question, the officer answered, “Yes, soldier. Your violin can go to war too.”
Grandpa was assigned to an ammunition company, responsible for transporting munitions to staging areas behind the front lines. He said that his violin had saved his life; that because he could provide string music for army brass, he’d be invited to play in the chateaux where they were quartered, out of striking range of German artillery. Other members of his company weren’t so lucky, and, he’d witnessed terrible suffering among the wounded.
The war of nearly 40 million casualties had made a deep impression on Grandpa—and vicariously, on me. On more than one occasion, he’d ask and answer his own question. “Do you know what war is? It’s grown men crying out for their mamas.”
As to that small device of self-deception inside the metal box—it was the preposition among the words of commemoration embossed on Grandpa’s medal:
“The Great War for Civilization.”
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
