She just reappeared at my door, still dressed in her guerilla apparel, still with the gun slung over her shoulder. There’s a steeliness about Buffalo Springsteen, a rock-solid something that stabilizes her even in her softness moments, so I should have known the change would not come with great heaving sobs. She just came home.
“I’m done,” she said, looking in my eyes after we finished the long, warm hug of greeting. “Done killing.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” A pause. “I just got to thinking.”
No, there were no close encounters with enemy combatants; a sniper’s nest, it seems, is a quiet and even lonely place – a place well suited for thinking.
We were right, her hunting skills served her well picking off the enemy from a distance. She was able to cut rather deeply into the ranks of the peacekeepers. But in between kills, she had plenty of time to think.
“I started to think about the lives I’d snuffed,” Buffalo said, keeping a steady gaze on my eyes, perhaps to make sure I was still with her. “I started to imagine them living normal lives. The family back home, the friends waiting for a reunion that’s not going to happen now, the big plans they had for their lives, maybe they were married, maybe they had kids who called them in their bunk every night. I thought about how you’d feel if they got me; I thought about how I felt when I heard about the guy with the gun, the guy Johnny tackled for you, the guy who wanted to take you out.
“And I started thinking you were right, that killing them wasn’t going to end it. So I quit.”
“You walked away from the sniper’s nest?”
Now she laughed. “Not that simple, but I let them know I was done, and soon as they could spare me I left. Didn’t need to kill anyone the last few days anyway.”
I held her close. I thought about saying she had taken a big step to stop the cycle of violence, but the moment didn’t call for theories and philosophical statements. At least I didn’t think so, until she took me by both arms.
“You’re right, Ray,” she said. “That’s how you beat them – not by killing as many as you can – just stop living their vision and start living yours. And our vision is about leaving each other alone to live out our natural lives.”
No, no heaving sobs, but a single tear did find its way down her cheek.
Entry 67
Showing posts with label Buffalo Springsteen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Buffalo Springsteen. Show all posts
Friday, September 28, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Entry 65. Homecoming
Entry 65. Homecoming
I guess I should have known that Buffalo and I would eventually be together again and that she would accept the path of non-violence. Well, if I must be precise, she accepted that killing is not the path to peace. I never have convinced her on the matter of what she calls a pre-emptive first strike when violence seems inevitable.
John Hemlock was right; we are too much alike not to come to similar conclusions about core values. Our coming together again, however, was not quite as I envisioned.
I expected drama. I even imagined how she would come to the conclusion that war is no solution. She would be caught in some kind of combat that ended with only two survivors, herself and a gravely wounded Earthian soldier. With the heat of battle raging around them, Buffalo would get to know her combatant more personally; perhaps they would save each other’s lives somehow and forge a tentative friendship. It’s easy to kill “an Earthian,” not as easy to kill a friend.
When the other person died, Buffalo would come to understand the toll of war, the stupidity of war, the uselessness of war. Tears would be shed in great quantities as the enormity of what she had done weighed on her conscience.
There was no drama and few tears. One day Buffalo simply ended her combat career and came back. The circumstances were dramatic in a different way than I’d imagined.
Entry 66
I guess I should have known that Buffalo and I would eventually be together again and that she would accept the path of non-violence. Well, if I must be precise, she accepted that killing is not the path to peace. I never have convinced her on the matter of what she calls a pre-emptive first strike when violence seems inevitable.
John Hemlock was right; we are too much alike not to come to similar conclusions about core values. Our coming together again, however, was not quite as I envisioned.
I expected drama. I even imagined how she would come to the conclusion that war is no solution. She would be caught in some kind of combat that ended with only two survivors, herself and a gravely wounded Earthian soldier. With the heat of battle raging around them, Buffalo would get to know her combatant more personally; perhaps they would save each other’s lives somehow and forge a tentative friendship. It’s easy to kill “an Earthian,” not as easy to kill a friend.
When the other person died, Buffalo would come to understand the toll of war, the stupidity of war, the uselessness of war. Tears would be shed in great quantities as the enormity of what she had done weighed on her conscience.
There was no drama and few tears. One day Buffalo simply ended her combat career and came back. The circumstances were dramatic in a different way than I’d imagined.
Entry 66
Friday, September 7, 2012
Entry 60. Off to the war
“My father is descended from a famous singer around 400 years ago, near the middle of Earth’s 20th century,” Buffalo smiled at me over a glass of Beaujolais Ptolémée.
“I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Didn’t he write that old folk song, ‘If I Should Fall Behind’?”
“It’s possible. I probably should know more about him than I do, family ties and all, but I really don’t, it was so long ago,” she admitted. “And then my mother can trace her family back to another singer from around the same time, who once belonged to an ensemble called Buffalo Springfield.”
“What was his name?”
“You’d think I would remember. I’d have to ask Mom.”
“So your name is a 400-year-old musical pun,” I said, and she giggled shyly, which was completely out of character but made her adorable. “With a pedigree like that, I can see why you don’t want to shorten it.”
And that sort of chilled the moment. “No. I don’t want to shorten it.” As in, we’re not going to discuss that nickname any further.
“Have you ever heard any of the music your ancestors recorded?” I steered the conversation back on track.
“A little, not much,” she said. “It’s pretty dated, it’s quaint, but you know, it’s ancient music. And Earthian – hard to relate to.”
We finished the wine over laughter and more discussion of Earth music from centuries ago. And now, a few weeks later, she was standing at the door to my home with a rifle slung over her shoulder.
“I can leave it outside if you want,” she said awkwardly, indicating the gun.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said, ushering her in with a kiss on the cheek. “Just because I don’t use them on people personally doesn’t mean I object to their presence.”
She had been taking some training as a sniper, and it turned out she was a natural, a simple evolution from her hunting skills. She was anticipating that she would soon be sent out on the field to dispatch Earthians.
“I know you don’t approve,” she said slowly. “But I have to do this.”
I nodded. “You have to do what you think is the right thing, Buffalo. It’s not what I would do, but this is your choice, your life.”
“We’re still, well, we’re still what we are, aren’t we?”
My Lord, the confusion in my soul over this. Everything in my being screamed that we were designed to be two halves of a whole, but how could I make a life with someone who rejected my most deeply held core belief? It felt like a choice between tearing out my heart or cutting off my head.
After a few moments of trying to form something to say, I finally managed, “Let’s get this revolution out of the way, and then we’ll see where we stand.”
That was where we agreed to leave it. A few minutes later she went off to kill Earthians, and I retreated to the darkest loneliness I’ve ever known.
Entry 61
“I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Didn’t he write that old folk song, ‘If I Should Fall Behind’?”
“It’s possible. I probably should know more about him than I do, family ties and all, but I really don’t, it was so long ago,” she admitted. “And then my mother can trace her family back to another singer from around the same time, who once belonged to an ensemble called Buffalo Springfield.”
“What was his name?”
“You’d think I would remember. I’d have to ask Mom.”
“So your name is a 400-year-old musical pun,” I said, and she giggled shyly, which was completely out of character but made her adorable. “With a pedigree like that, I can see why you don’t want to shorten it.”
And that sort of chilled the moment. “No. I don’t want to shorten it.” As in, we’re not going to discuss that nickname any further.
“Have you ever heard any of the music your ancestors recorded?” I steered the conversation back on track.
“A little, not much,” she said. “It’s pretty dated, it’s quaint, but you know, it’s ancient music. And Earthian – hard to relate to.”
We finished the wine over laughter and more discussion of Earth music from centuries ago. And now, a few weeks later, she was standing at the door to my home with a rifle slung over her shoulder.
“I can leave it outside if you want,” she said awkwardly, indicating the gun.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said, ushering her in with a kiss on the cheek. “Just because I don’t use them on people personally doesn’t mean I object to their presence.”
She had been taking some training as a sniper, and it turned out she was a natural, a simple evolution from her hunting skills. She was anticipating that she would soon be sent out on the field to dispatch Earthians.
“I know you don’t approve,” she said slowly. “But I have to do this.”
I nodded. “You have to do what you think is the right thing, Buffalo. It’s not what I would do, but this is your choice, your life.”
“We’re still, well, we’re still what we are, aren’t we?”
My Lord, the confusion in my soul over this. Everything in my being screamed that we were designed to be two halves of a whole, but how could I make a life with someone who rejected my most deeply held core belief? It felt like a choice between tearing out my heart or cutting off my head.
After a few moments of trying to form something to say, I finally managed, “Let’s get this revolution out of the way, and then we’ll see where we stand.”
That was where we agreed to leave it. A few minutes later she went off to kill Earthians, and I retreated to the darkest loneliness I’ve ever known.
Entry 61
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Entry 58. Sides are chosen
And so it was war. True was not going to sit by and let the natives blow up his troops. Curfews were set and a force was sent after the people considered most likely to have set the bomb. But the force was met by a greater one, and Lt. True lost more personnel – and so did the natives.
The eye-for-an-eye escalated. and it was not long before we had a full-fledged series of battles on our hands, with men, women and children dying and property being destroyed.
By the time my class met for the next time, the idea of noncooperation was well on its way to dying of neglect. Somewhat painful was the identity of the student who led the argument against me.
“What option do we have?” Buffalo Springsteen said, her eyes flashing but her voice betraying an almost apologetic tone. “When the tyrant invades your home, you have to repel him, and people will be hurt.”
“People will die,” another student said – I should have noticed who, but I didn’t.
“Yep, people will die, maybe some of us, maybe even me,” she said. “But that’s the price of freedom. That’s been the price of freedom through the ages.”
I value the right of disagreement, and so I love it when students listen to me carefully and form their own opinions anyway. But the applause that greeted Buffalo stung a little.
“Dying for a cause is a noble thing,” I said. “And defending yourself against a violent attack often requires a return of force. But going so far as to take lives is a very serious proposition.”
“What else are we supposed to do?” cried Carson McGillicudy. “They started this thing.”
“And with every death their will to finish it becomes more secure,” I said. “You may convince them to leave eventually, but they die and they fly away more convinced than ever that Sirius 4 should be an Earthian possession. And we have maintained the precedent that killing for a noble cause is acceptable. When does the cycle of violence stop?”
“‘When it’s kill or be killed, there must be a third alternative,’” Buffalo quoted me. “You said the alternative would present itself when the time comes. Well, time’s up, they’re killing people, they’re coming for us – what’s the third way?”
“I’ve told you – noncooperation. They can’t force a whole planet of individuals to recognize their authority if we choose not to.”
“What, just ignore them?” Carson said. “What do you do when a soldier sticks the barrel of a gun in your face and tells you to obey?”
“You refuse. You push the barrel aside and tell him no. You defend yourself if you must, but you stop short of killing him,” I said. “If he dies, he dies believing you were wrong, and his survivors will believe the same even more, and they’ll be back to punish you, and then your survivors will punish them and on and on. The only way to stop the cycle is to make your case without killing.”
“You have a great theory and maybe someday humanity will be ready for it, but this is not that day,” Buffalo Springsteen said, and her eyes had softened. “There’s a time for theories, and there’s a time for taking up arms. I’m taking up arms.”
I presume there was another burst of applause and more conversation before the class broke up, but my memory of that day ends there for the most part. When the flames of war are rising, the Great Cause is seen as more important than the concerns of a young couple, but that rarely softens the pain of separation. And in this case, I didn’t see how she and I could ever be the same.
Entry 59
The eye-for-an-eye escalated. and it was not long before we had a full-fledged series of battles on our hands, with men, women and children dying and property being destroyed.
By the time my class met for the next time, the idea of noncooperation was well on its way to dying of neglect. Somewhat painful was the identity of the student who led the argument against me.
“What option do we have?” Buffalo Springsteen said, her eyes flashing but her voice betraying an almost apologetic tone. “When the tyrant invades your home, you have to repel him, and people will be hurt.”
“People will die,” another student said – I should have noticed who, but I didn’t.
“Yep, people will die, maybe some of us, maybe even me,” she said. “But that’s the price of freedom. That’s been the price of freedom through the ages.”
I value the right of disagreement, and so I love it when students listen to me carefully and form their own opinions anyway. But the applause that greeted Buffalo stung a little.
“Dying for a cause is a noble thing,” I said. “And defending yourself against a violent attack often requires a return of force. But going so far as to take lives is a very serious proposition.”
“What else are we supposed to do?” cried Carson McGillicudy. “They started this thing.”
“And with every death their will to finish it becomes more secure,” I said. “You may convince them to leave eventually, but they die and they fly away more convinced than ever that Sirius 4 should be an Earthian possession. And we have maintained the precedent that killing for a noble cause is acceptable. When does the cycle of violence stop?”
“‘When it’s kill or be killed, there must be a third alternative,’” Buffalo quoted me. “You said the alternative would present itself when the time comes. Well, time’s up, they’re killing people, they’re coming for us – what’s the third way?”
“I’ve told you – noncooperation. They can’t force a whole planet of individuals to recognize their authority if we choose not to.”
“What, just ignore them?” Carson said. “What do you do when a soldier sticks the barrel of a gun in your face and tells you to obey?”
“You refuse. You push the barrel aside and tell him no. You defend yourself if you must, but you stop short of killing him,” I said. “If he dies, he dies believing you were wrong, and his survivors will believe the same even more, and they’ll be back to punish you, and then your survivors will punish them and on and on. The only way to stop the cycle is to make your case without killing.”
“You have a great theory and maybe someday humanity will be ready for it, but this is not that day,” Buffalo Springsteen said, and her eyes had softened. “There’s a time for theories, and there’s a time for taking up arms. I’m taking up arms.”
I presume there was another burst of applause and more conversation before the class broke up, but my memory of that day ends there for the most part. When the flames of war are rising, the Great Cause is seen as more important than the concerns of a young couple, but that rarely softens the pain of separation. And in this case, I didn’t see how she and I could ever be the same.
Entry 59
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Entry 40. Conflict of interest
I should have seen it coming. In fact, I did see it coming: You may recall that when I first proposed meeting Buffalo Springsteen outside of the classroom, my opening words were, “Buffalo, it’s extremely inappropriate for me to ask given our teacher-student relationship, but –”
She expected nothing from me in the classroom that would be based on anything that happened between us outside the classroom, and I expected nothing from her that would motivate me to assess her performance as a student differently. We set those boundaries long before we envisioned romantic walks along the beach or kisses that delved into untapped emotional crescendos. Well, perhaps we envisioned them, but we discussed the limits long before we acted on the impulses.
I might add, for people still appalled by age gaps between lovers, that there was no significant age gap here. I was a young professor, and she was a final-year student. I was 27 years old, and she was 23 – perfectly acceptable behavior for the usual couple.
But there was indeed this classroom setting where we met three times a week. And so our conversations and clear fondness for each other gained the attention of the obtrusive.
“A word, Raymond,” Ian Yensen said one day after the customary exchange of greetings. Ian chairs the History department at the University of Sirius 4.
“Something wrong, other than the obvious?” I asked. It was the day after the news broke that the reason Earth’s moon dissolved was a weapon that Earthians planned to use to terrify our independent little world.
“Oh, yes, the imaginary bomb. Terrible business, that,” Ian replied. “No, this is not quite that earth-shattering” – a pause while he pondered whether to acknowledge the inadvertent pun – “Have you been seeing a student socially?”
I blinked and grinned, then upon seeing the look on his face swallowed the grin. “As a matter of fact, I have,” I admitted, seeing no reason to misrepresent the plain truth. “We’ve discussed the potential conflict of interest, and I think we each understand that nothing outside of the classroom can affect what happens inside the classroom.”
“That’s a lovely theory, and of course it’s admirable that you’ve discussed it, but you do understand that ethically speaking, you have placed Ms. Springsteen in a compromising position – and yourself of course, and perhaps the university.”
I recalled Buffalo Springsteen snarling at Carson McGillicuddy and coming within an inch of committing petty violence in my class, and suppressed another grin. “I think she is capable of handling the relationship in a reasonable and mature manner.”
“Well and good,” Ian said, “but we need to discuss this further. I’m afraid we’ll have to schedule a formal hearing with the chancellor, dean and myself. I’m not saying this is a major issue, but formalities, you know. You’re certainly not the first professor ever to be enchanted by a student.”
“It’s a little more than that, Ian,” I said, finally a little testy.
“It always seems to be in these cases,” he said. “A week from today, early afternoon?”
With just enough of a pause to indicate he had irritated me: “Fine.”
“Irritated” is the right word. I wasn’t particularly upset or angry or defensive about my friendship with Buffalo, which was well on its way to becoming something deeper. And I understood all of the ramifications that accompany a professor becoming “involved” with a student. It was just a tad annoying to have to defend my integrity and hers in front of officious busybodies.
We never did get around to that hearing, Ian, the chancellor, the dean and I. Life intervened.
Entry 41. The governor
She expected nothing from me in the classroom that would be based on anything that happened between us outside the classroom, and I expected nothing from her that would motivate me to assess her performance as a student differently. We set those boundaries long before we envisioned romantic walks along the beach or kisses that delved into untapped emotional crescendos. Well, perhaps we envisioned them, but we discussed the limits long before we acted on the impulses.
I might add, for people still appalled by age gaps between lovers, that there was no significant age gap here. I was a young professor, and she was a final-year student. I was 27 years old, and she was 23 – perfectly acceptable behavior for the usual couple.
But there was indeed this classroom setting where we met three times a week. And so our conversations and clear fondness for each other gained the attention of the obtrusive.
“A word, Raymond,” Ian Yensen said one day after the customary exchange of greetings. Ian chairs the History department at the University of Sirius 4.
“Something wrong, other than the obvious?” I asked. It was the day after the news broke that the reason Earth’s moon dissolved was a weapon that Earthians planned to use to terrify our independent little world.
“Oh, yes, the imaginary bomb. Terrible business, that,” Ian replied. “No, this is not quite that earth-shattering” – a pause while he pondered whether to acknowledge the inadvertent pun – “Have you been seeing a student socially?”
I blinked and grinned, then upon seeing the look on his face swallowed the grin. “As a matter of fact, I have,” I admitted, seeing no reason to misrepresent the plain truth. “We’ve discussed the potential conflict of interest, and I think we each understand that nothing outside of the classroom can affect what happens inside the classroom.”
“That’s a lovely theory, and of course it’s admirable that you’ve discussed it, but you do understand that ethically speaking, you have placed Ms. Springsteen in a compromising position – and yourself of course, and perhaps the university.”
I recalled Buffalo Springsteen snarling at Carson McGillicuddy and coming within an inch of committing petty violence in my class, and suppressed another grin. “I think she is capable of handling the relationship in a reasonable and mature manner.”
“Well and good,” Ian said, “but we need to discuss this further. I’m afraid we’ll have to schedule a formal hearing with the chancellor, dean and myself. I’m not saying this is a major issue, but formalities, you know. You’re certainly not the first professor ever to be enchanted by a student.”
“It’s a little more than that, Ian,” I said, finally a little testy.
“It always seems to be in these cases,” he said. “A week from today, early afternoon?”
With just enough of a pause to indicate he had irritated me: “Fine.”
“Irritated” is the right word. I wasn’t particularly upset or angry or defensive about my friendship with Buffalo, which was well on its way to becoming something deeper. And I understood all of the ramifications that accompany a professor becoming “involved” with a student. It was just a tad annoying to have to defend my integrity and hers in front of officious busybodies.
We never did get around to that hearing, Ian, the chancellor, the dean and I. Life intervened.
Entry 41. The governor
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Entry 27. Buffalo on the beach
I wrote two days ago of walking along the beach where Buffalo and I first kissed and spent many wonderful days together. I am aware that I haven’t yet recorded the circumstances of that first kiss.
It’s an odd tradition, this writing of memoirs. My public actions comprise the reason why anyone might care that I tell my life story, and yet the reader feels cheated if the memoir doesn’t delve into my private life.
Not that I don’t understand or acknowledge the connection. We are not compartmentalized machines; we are unique and whole individuals. The face we present in public is the same face that stares us in the mirror in the privacy of our homes; our soul does not change between public arena and private quarters.
I, Raymond Douglas Kaliber, would not be “The” Raymond Douglas Kaliber without the remarkable human being named Buffalo Springsteen, her insights and encouragement – as well as the many ways she touched my heart that will always remain private, obligation to the reader be damned, thank you.
But there came a time when the need to kiss those beautiful lips could no longer remain unfulfilled, and I love to share this part of our story, so:
A few weeks had gone by since the day she first said, “I’d love to,” before I’d had a chance to invite her out. Our times together had been stimulating and fun and challenging. This was not even the first time we had walked along that beach, but something felt different this day – different, and yet as familiar as my very life.
I often feel a special sense of peace along that beach near the oxygen generator. A vast machine designed to create just the right mix of oxygen and nitrogen to sustain human life, the imagination-fueled generator can have an intoxicating effect if you wander too close. Perhaps that is the biochemical explanation why I felt an inordinate joy walking next to this woman: The additional jolt of oxygen simply made me more receptive to the pheromones she was discharging in my direction.
Or perhaps it was the visual clues of the spark in her eyes or the glint of the red shining sun off her scarlet-tinged hair. Or the way she laughed at my feeble attempts at humor. Or the part of her lips.
Oh, we had kissed before – a little peck at the end of a day or evening together. But this moment, we wanted to drink of that wine more deeply. Something in the moment, the look in her eyes, what we had been saying to each other, just said, “Now.”
I’d love to tell you exactly what clever things we had been saying to each other that made the moment right. I’d love to explain how the tilt of her head gave me permission to let my lips linger and press harder against hers. Truth be told, the only thing I remember about the moment is the sense of certainty that this was the time when we were to become something other than teacher and student, something other than friends or colleagues, something more like one soul, one flesh.
And so it was. Everything changed in that moment, and yet everything had always been this way. I have no memory of living apart from Buffalo Springsteen, and yet I have plenty of memories from a time before that moment. It’s just I can no longer imagine a time when I was not a part of her, and she a part of me.
I never again needed to imagine what freedom feels like.
Special entry: Independence Day
It’s an odd tradition, this writing of memoirs. My public actions comprise the reason why anyone might care that I tell my life story, and yet the reader feels cheated if the memoir doesn’t delve into my private life.
Not that I don’t understand or acknowledge the connection. We are not compartmentalized machines; we are unique and whole individuals. The face we present in public is the same face that stares us in the mirror in the privacy of our homes; our soul does not change between public arena and private quarters.
I, Raymond Douglas Kaliber, would not be “The” Raymond Douglas Kaliber without the remarkable human being named Buffalo Springsteen, her insights and encouragement – as well as the many ways she touched my heart that will always remain private, obligation to the reader be damned, thank you.
But there came a time when the need to kiss those beautiful lips could no longer remain unfulfilled, and I love to share this part of our story, so:
A few weeks had gone by since the day she first said, “I’d love to,” before I’d had a chance to invite her out. Our times together had been stimulating and fun and challenging. This was not even the first time we had walked along that beach, but something felt different this day – different, and yet as familiar as my very life.
I often feel a special sense of peace along that beach near the oxygen generator. A vast machine designed to create just the right mix of oxygen and nitrogen to sustain human life, the imagination-fueled generator can have an intoxicating effect if you wander too close. Perhaps that is the biochemical explanation why I felt an inordinate joy walking next to this woman: The additional jolt of oxygen simply made me more receptive to the pheromones she was discharging in my direction.
Or perhaps it was the visual clues of the spark in her eyes or the glint of the red shining sun off her scarlet-tinged hair. Or the way she laughed at my feeble attempts at humor. Or the part of her lips.
Oh, we had kissed before – a little peck at the end of a day or evening together. But this moment, we wanted to drink of that wine more deeply. Something in the moment, the look in her eyes, what we had been saying to each other, just said, “Now.”
I’d love to tell you exactly what clever things we had been saying to each other that made the moment right. I’d love to explain how the tilt of her head gave me permission to let my lips linger and press harder against hers. Truth be told, the only thing I remember about the moment is the sense of certainty that this was the time when we were to become something other than teacher and student, something other than friends or colleagues, something more like one soul, one flesh.
And so it was. Everything changed in that moment, and yet everything had always been this way. I have no memory of living apart from Buffalo Springsteen, and yet I have plenty of memories from a time before that moment. It’s just I can no longer imagine a time when I was not a part of her, and she a part of me.
I never again needed to imagine what freedom feels like.
Special entry: Independence Day
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Entry 20. Breaking the cycle
“I think you’re full of crap,” Buffalo Springsteen said one day. The bemused eye twinkle was there, with the hint of the smile, but the challenge was unmistakable. Because I happened to be talking about my favorite subject – nonviolent passive resistance – the statement was a stab of adrenaline to my fight-or-flight response.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said, dabbing a napkin at her lip and tossing it down next to the coffee cup. “You’re full of crap.”
We were not far into our relationship; this was perhaps our second or third visit over coffee or lunch.
Everything had gone swimmingly so far – I found her as sharp and intellectually stimulating as my eyes found her a delight to look at. She was athletic, a skilled hunter and free-spirited. At some point in the not too distant future, I intended to test the waters of “Would you like to stop by my apartment after this?” and was getting strong signals the answer would be in the affirmative.
But first, it seemed, I would have to leap the hurdle that she thought I was full of crap.
“How so?”
“Are you kidding? ‘In a kill-or-be-killed situation there must be a third alternative?’”
“Isn’t that self-explanatory?”
“If it was, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?” Again the twinkle. “What third alternative?”
“Well –”
“Guy comes after you with a gun. No time to talk. He’s aiming, going to pull the trigger. OK, you duck out of his way, and then –?”
“I’m –”
“He’s coming in your direction, he knows you’re unarmed, you’re famous for that. He means to kill you, and he’s not going to stop until you stop him.”
“Stop him, yes, but –”
“He means to kill you. Maim him, disable him, but he’s going to keep coming.”
“I’m not going to kill him!” I said emphatically. “There must be a way to stop him short of killing him.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Then he’s going to kill you,” she said matter of factly. “The nonviolence movement ends there.”
“I can’t accept that. There must be a way to defend myself without taking a life.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when it happens. It will depend on the situation.”
“And if there’s no choice but to kill the other guy, you’re willing to let him kill you instead?”
“There’s always a choice.”
“I don’t see it. I think sometimes you’re backed into a corner and you have to fight your way out.”
I had to think long and hard before speaking again.
“Yes,” I said finally.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, if I couldn’t escape, I would have to let him kill me. Well, I wouldn’t let him kill me – I’d defend myself to my last breath. But I couldn’t kill him. The cycle ends with me.”
“So, kill or be killed, you choose to be killed.”
“No – I choose to figure out a third way. I just don’t know what it is yet. I do know it takes us to a better place as a species.”
She looked me over in a way that made me curious about the taste of her lips.
“It’d be a waste,” she said.
“No one wants to kill an opponent who won’t fight back,” I offered.
“Now you are kidding,” Buffalo Springsteen laughed. “That’s a pretty dumb statement coming from a history prof.”
True. History is awash with the blood of victims unwilling or unable to fight the oppressor.
“There’s always a third way,” I repeated. “Take an option off the table, and another alternative will present itself.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said. “But I still think you’re full of crap.” And she laughed so musically I wanted to live forever.
Entry 21
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Entry 13. After class
I don’t remember much of the rest of the roll call from the day Buffalo Springsteen first appeared in my class, except that the boy who made fun of Buffalo’s name turned out to be named Carson McGillicudy, so I guess he knew something about lightening up over his parents’ naming decisions. In fact the laugh over his name was bigger than the one over hers, given the circumstances.
The dustup between Carson and Buffalo gave me a good opportunity to segue into the class themes.
“Now we had a little incident here a minute ago, and before I get into the syllabus, I’m going to use it as what we educator types like to call a teaching moment,” I told the class. “Buffalo here had a difference of opinion with young Mr. McGillicudy, and she chose not to use diplomacy in resolving those differences.
“I’m going to make the proposition that Buffalo Springsteen accomplished nothing by going after poor Carson here physically. No, actually, I’m going to say that she produced exactly the opposite of what she hoped to accomplish. What do you think, McGillicudy?”
“I don’t know, Dr. Kaliber,” Carson replied ruefully. “I don’t think I’m ever going to call her Buffy again.” We all laughed at that.
“Yes, but here’s the most important thing about that — did she change your mind about whether ‘Buffy’ is an appropriate nickname for someone named Buffalo?”
“No, of course not.”
“You’ve got it precisely correct,” I said. “She didn’t change your beliefs in any way, shape or form — in fact, I believe even after she did her best to persuade you, you used the word ‘psycho.’” Even she smiled.
I went on to mention a quote from Thoreau's Resistance to Civil Government — the one about how the state “is not armed with superior wit or honesty, but with superior strength.” I outlined my core belief that people will use force to win an argument, especially when they have a government at their command, but they don’t actually ever win the argument.
“My point is that violence might force people to change their behavior, but it can’t change their minds,” he said. “The most brutal regimes in the history of humanity have all faded to dust eventually, because you can’t brutalize an idea out of existence.”
“Hang on a second,” McGillicudy persisted. “A lot of those brutal regimes were overthrown violently. I mean, how else do you get rid of violent oppression if not by violence?”
“Good question. That’s a big chunk of the syllabus, and we’ll get into that in depth as we go along. For now, let me suggest that you recognize the names of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King faster than the names of Nathuram Godse or James Earl Ray. The names of the men who fought for freedom without raising a hand in violence live on in our memories more than the names of their assassins.”
“We remember Hitler and Raynoldizon, too,” Buffalo interjected.
“True,” I sighed, “but we sure don’t admire them the way we do Gandhi or King or Thoreau. No one wants a Hitler or Raynoldizon in charge — in fact, the nastiest insults politicians usually throw at each other are comparisons to tyrants like that. They never shake their fist and say, ‘My opponent is just like Gandhi.’ Tyrants are the bad example; nonviolent resistance is the good example.
“I’m off on a tangent. My point is simply that you can force Carson not to call you by a nickname, but you can’t force him to change his mind. Changing minds is a more complicated process. That’s why so often you’ll find that a violent revolution only results in a new violent regime, sometimes more violent than the old one.”
I’d like to say I was bold enough to stop Buffalo Springsteen after class that first day and launch into what now seems to be an inevitable courtship, but truth be known, it was a week or two into the semester that I caught up with her as she walked purposefully across the campus – she always walked as if she knew exactly where she was going.
We exchanged greetings and small pleasantries, and then I came to the point.
“Buffalo, it’s extremely inappropriate for me to ask given our teacher-student relationship, but –”
“I’d love to.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re asking me out, right?” she said with the hint of a smile, a shake of her flaming red hair and a twinkle in those remarkable sea-green eyes. “I’d love to.”
We worked out a time and place to meet for coffee the next afternoon, then she leaned up, brushed my cheek with her lips, said “See you then,” and glided away, looking back once more to share that knee-buckling twinkle.
Entry 14
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Entry 6. Buffalo Springsteen
Truth be known, I don’t know why she doesn’t like the nickname “Buffy.” I have always associated that name with women who will do what it takes – assertive women who inspire loyalty, whose friends will go through hell for them. But she clearly doesn’t share that impression.
As a young college professor I admit you’d have to be dead not to notice the beautiful young women who passed through my classroom. Sometimes that beauty arouses a passing fantasy, but it never occurred to me to act on the attraction until Buffalo Springsteen took her place at a desk.
It was the first day of the semester in S4Y 140, and I was going through the roll. I don’t care to do things in alphabetical order – go figure! – so the third or fourth name I picked was near the end of the alphabet.
“Buffalo Springsteen?”
“Here.”
Now, others who have written about that moment – because it has achieved some place in history now – say that I paused because I was surprised to see the name belonged to a woman. Well, that’s not true, because the screen clearly said “Springsteen, Buffalo – F,” so I knew to expect a female voice.
What I didn’t expect was to have my breath taken away by the face that owned the name. The sea-green eyes, the flaming red hair, the lips that, well, any man would willingly kiss those lips with just the slightest hint of permission from those eyes. And everything south of those lips fit the societal norm of what makes a woman desirable.
So yes, I paused, but it was because I didn’t expect to be filled just that moment with an nearly uncontrollable need. You don’t know how thankful I am that this woman who hit my “lust” button at first sight turned out to be the love of my life.
“Do you go by Buffy?” I inquired, innocently enough. Now, that was the wrong question, and the suddenly seething look on her face told me pretty much right away just how wrong the question was.
“No. I prefer Buffalo,” she said in a tone intended to close the issue once and for all. There was a titter or two among the other students.
“That’s an interesting name for an attractive woman, if you don’t mind my saying so,” I said, bypassing my usual self-censor.
“Thank you,” she said, looking a bit flustered by the “attractive woman” reference. “Some people think my parents were crazy, but I’m proud of the name just as it is.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she said, starting to sound irritated again. “The buffalo is a strong and noble animal, a force to be reckoned with. I like being called ‘Buffalo.’”
“All right, then, Buffalo it is,” I said, and that would have been that, except —
“Oh, come on, ‘Buffy,’ lighten up,” said a male student nearby — near enough that it wasn’t particularly hard for Buffalo to reach out, grab him by the front of the shirt, and draw him so close that the only thing in his field of vision was an astonishingly gorgeous face that a man would die to see that close if it weren’t twisted into such an extremely vicious snarl.
“I really can’t emphasize this strongly enough,” she hissed with polite menace. “Don’t — call — me — Buffy.”
“Hey now, hey, hey,” I strode over and pulled on their shoulders to separate the two students gently. “OK, Ms. Springsteen, you’ve made your point. Let’s have a little more decorum.”
“Jeez, what a psycho,” said the young man, which caused the passionate young woman to lurch in his direction again. Fortunately for him, my hand was lingering on her shoulder and I could pull her back, so she was unable to complete the lurch. She flushed almost as if it felt nice having my hand there. Truth be known, I wasn’t in a hurry to let go.
“I think you’re a little more thin-skinned than you need to be,” I said as I resumed my place in the center of the class. “But I do promise to call you Buffalo, when I’m not calling you Ms. Springsteen.”
By the end of that first class, I had a pretty firm idea who would be spending the rest of her life with me – if this noble, powerful force of nature would allow it.
The great-great-great-something-son of a musical legend had met the great-great-great-something-granddaughter of a musical legend, and they made a baby girl. The name is an homage to their ancestors’ legacy. Not the choice I would have made, perhaps. But she loves her name.
Entry 7
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