Coward

Re-reading what I wrote the other day, I realise how often I mention cowardice. Two names I never wanted to be called: Liar or Coward.

To not be a liar is a matter of choice, something I can decide for myself.

With all honesty I can declare myself not to be one.

But how can I know whether or not I am a coward?

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The fear of being a coward goes back a long way, as far back as I can remember, in fact. I believe it has to do with those years of my childhood in London after WW2.

Although the war had been over for several years by then, I walked to school every day past the ruins of houses that had been bombed. As I looked at torn, stained wallpaper on the ragged remains, my active imagination conjured images of the families whose lives had been upended, or worse. I was born after, so I had never been tested that way and I was certain I would have been frightened witless.

So, determined to not be a coward, I resolutely maintained a stiff upper lip whenever possible. Skinned knees and other childhood catastrophes did not upset me. Going off to boarding school did, but I stoically put on a brave face.

Such things were not a test of fortitude. I merely became “good old Carolyn”.

Just before coming to live in the States, aged 16, I went to visit my parents who were in Laos which was in perpetual political turmoil. Next door to our house lived an army major.

One night I was awakened by gunfire. I had heard it before, in the distance, but this was nearby and there was much activity next door. Curiously, my parents slept through the noise and when I mentioned it at breakfast, they seemed to think I must have dreamt it.

Mum’s shopping expedition, however, was cut short when we met a crowd fleeing in our direction from the market.

Was there cause to be afraid? Foreigners who were careless were liable to get into trouble, but I felt it was unlikely anything would happen to us.

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Being unafraid is not the same as being brave. Courage is only expressed when one is confronted by something one fears.

Going back to the war – the thought of being in the Resistance would have paralysed me.

Mercifully much less challenged, I fear: appearing to be inadequate, uninformed, stupid.

Dealing with passengers delayed by bad weather, I was quite often at least the first two. There was no choice but to get on with the job, but days like that made me feel ill.

Handling over-sales was worse. There were no adequate excuses or remedies.

Underlying all this was a deep fear of anger.

As a child and even growing up, I was afraid of my father who at times was very angry. It was never physical. I think I could deal with that. It was the viciousness of his words and the tone of his voice that made me cringe. Perhaps that early fear became ingrained and magnified as I later witnessed the destruction angry people can wreak.

To confront a fear, you need first to understand it and much anger is entirely understandable. It is its manifestation that is more difficult to grasp. Sufficiently angry, people lose control. I’ve done it myself, though I manage to take it out on cheap inanimate objects thrown at walls.

There are few things as terrifying as a rioting mob, in my view.

Should I come upon one, I’d run the other way.

Which probably makes me practical rather than cowardly.

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It is a bit late in life anyway, to be worrying about whether or not I am a coward.

As I write, it is November 4th. I have my window open because it is 72F/22C.

Mail is taking so long these days, I feel I should get Christmas cards written and posted, but it’s the last thing I feel like doing.

The election results were pleasing. It is a start.

But there is a long way to go.

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