How Rural Areas Bathe Children in Blood to Usher Them Into Manhood

There’s a lot of work that needs to be done in order to heal America. If you support this work, please consider leaving me a tip :)I remember witnessing my cousin bathed in the blood of an animal he'd just killed. My uncles were all beaming. Blood lust was upon them. It was odd how they were standing there, almost as if they were numb. Normally they were crouched and ready, waiting for a moment to whip off their belts and beat us with them.Have you ever seen an overweight, unathletic man whip off his belt and start beating on a kid? They always thought they were doing us a favor when they grabbed it by the buckle and hit us with the strap instead. They saved the buckle for when they got really mad.These pathetic men who could never get a date, who never read a book, who spent their days being angry. They worked on cars. They wore flannel shirts. They wore work boots. They breathed loudly and glared whenever they heard the sound of children laughing.“Keep it down in there!”The imitation wood paneling. The orange furniture. The scratchy couch. The tube television. The Victorian era table with the peeling paint on the legs.They'd corner you in the coat room and beat the s**t out of you in there. You learned quick not to run to the coat room. You learned to be fast. These out of shape, entitled old men couldn't run that hard or long. They'd start to blow wind and that would take the fight out of them. After a time, they’d cool off and you could go near them again.We went near them again.We had to. They were our parents and we were children. Outside it was winter. We needed shelter. We needed food.But standing and watching them gather around the kill, the atmosphere was different, almost festive. The men looked as if they'd experienced some sort of release. The hot blood pumped everywhere. It was sticky. It was up to my cousin's elbows. He had his arms in the animal's chest cavity.I found myself looking at the face of the deer.It reminded me of a dog's face. It looked kind and beautiful and sleek.These fat old unathletic men could have never chased down this animal. So, they shot it with a gun somebody else had invented. The gun operated on all the principals they'd mock as they talked through a mouthful of food, spitting flakes across the table.I couldn't eat in their presence. They made me sick.Mom said, “You have to eat.”So I tried. But I knew if I couldn't keep it down around them, I'd be beaten again.“You'll be next,” one of my uncle's said. “You need to get your first kill too.”His eyes twinkled like this was some sort of rite of passage. I shifted the rifle on my shoulder. The strap hurt. I'd prefer to be somewhere else, anywhere else. I wanted to read a book. I wanted a book about elves. I wanted to read something about how elves were the stewards of the forest and they made friends with the deer.They didn't blow a hole in their neck and then violently shove their hands into its body.The snow melted from the heat. The men were standing around, and now they were engaging in soft petting. They were slapping each other on the shoulders. The hands lingered.I watched this. I didn't understand it. I'd never known these men to offer a soft touch. All they did was hit. All they did was grab. They never offered comfort.Seeing them offer comfort now almost tainted the thought of comfort.Now? Now, while they celebrated a kill?“You have to kill something too,” my dad said.“I don't know if I want to kill anything,” I replied.As one, all the men turned to look at me. The fleeting illusion of satisfaction was gone. The familiar rage had returned. That, at least, was something I had experienced before. I scrambled for an excuse.“It's messy,” I said. “All that blood.”“Oh, don't worry,” an uncle said. “If you kill something, I can gut it for you.”“If you can't take it…” another replied.My dad looked skeptical. “Fellas, we have to teach accountability. A man owes it to the animal to gut it himself.”Owes it to the animal?That made no sense to me. All of a sudden we owe the animal something after we'd taken its life? How did we fulfill that debt by desecrating its body? Why couldn't we show a bit of reverence or respect?Oh, that's right, these men had renounced reverence and respect a long time ago. That had become their prime directive. Everything else in their lives revolved around supporting the cognitive dissonance that prevented them from examining that choice.“He has kill something, killing is what makes you a man.”It is huh? Killing...I resolved in that moment not to do it. I didn't want to. I didn't want to become like them, not like any of them. I'd heard their arguments a thousand times. They laughed about people who thought meat just magically appeared wrapped in plastic at the supermarket. They called the people who thought that “irresponsible” and “bleeding hearts.”Everything they did and said was right and true. Everything anyone else did was wrong, wrong, wrong, and deserved to be corrected with the slap of a belt.They'd corner you in a coat room and beat you senseless if you tried to have a conversation.The relationship was obey.Only in the presence of death, did they stand around looking as if they'd experienced a release. What the hell was it in that moment that pacified them?I could smell the blood. I could feel the heat. I saw the glimmer of fear locked into the animal's eyes. But these men were pacified. Why?They'd been waiting all morning to kill something, or at least see something dead. Something beautiful. Something athletic. Something wild and free. They woke up waiting for it to die. They thought it inevitable. Death comes to us all.They didn't even have to kill it themselves. They just needed to be in the presence of death. It must reinforce the presence of death they felt within themselves. Nothing could be beautiful in their lives. Nothing could be kind. Nothing could experience joy.We were all fated to end up in a pool of blood with our guts at our side, and seeing that in person reminded them that they were right—I guess.“It's inevitable. See? See? Do you understand now? You have to kill something and then you will.”Dwell in death.Alternately, I could celebrate life. I'd rather show the discipline to improve myself. Maybe I could never catch a deer just by running, but I could try. I could run and dance through the wilderness as they do. I could cuddle my offspring. I could laugh and experience joy and life.They'd laugh and tell me it was futile because it all ends the same.But though it might all end the same, we don't have to all live the same. We don't have to reject beauty and kindness and compassion. We don't have to kill something outside ourselves to kill something inside ourselves to purge ourselves of everything that makes life worthwhile.I didn't throw my gun away.I walked back to the shelter with the awful men. We carried the body we'd killed. They called it a “harvest.”I resolved not to be like them. If they wanted death, they could have it. I resolved to live instead.I don't beat my kids. I don't chase them and corner them. I don't make them kill. Instead, we laugh, we play, we create. We don't seek out moments of release because we feel joy... every day.You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! 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