A Sideways Glance: No faculty rage, but rage nonetheless

By RICHARD BOGARTZ

Published on September 05, 2008

Recently, Max Page, president of the Faculty Union, sent out an email urging UMass faculty to tell Gov. Deval Patrick that the faculty are furious that the parameters for negotiating a new contract have not yet been set.

I did not see how I could speak to the fury of my colleagues. And I was quite sure that I myself was not furious. In fact I was rather proud of not being furious.

I thought, "I never get furious. Not even at George Bush. I'd remove him and his cronies in a flash if there were a button to press, but I'm not furious at him." I engage in cathartic s-s-s-s-ing when I see Cheney on TV, but I am not furious. I thought how good it is that I never get furious, never fill my system with the chemical consequences of fury such as adrenalin and cortisol, and how good it is that my clarity of judgment is not lost in a haze of rage. I was so proud of me.

Twenty-four hours passed before I realized that there is something I do get furious at. The Iraq war and its financial ramifications into every aspect of our lives angers me but doesn't make me furious. The pointless killing brings me to tears but doesn't make me furious. The shredding of our Constitution impels me to fantasies of sitting down in the middle of the intersection in the center of town and getting myself arrested in protest, but doesn't make me furious. So what does?

I often walk along the Mill River. I go to the Mill River recreation area, walk to the east end, and follow the path into the woods. It always surprises me how few people I encounter in this beautiful piece of Amherst. To get to the east end I have to pass a little ball field. Sometimes on the field there are young children playing baseball. The game is organized and has adult officials. The children are in uniform. Assembled beside the ball field are adults, sitting and watching. I infer they are parents.

My walking partner has had to restrain me because here I do get furious. Here I jump up and down and begin to tear at where my hair used to be. I want to scream at these sideliners and officials, "What the (expletive) are you doing here? Get away from these kids. Take your fat bellies for a walk. Go read a book. Whatever! But leave these kids alone."

When I encounter this unseemly voyeuristic parasitic vicarious enjoyment of play, I remember my childhood. After school and on weekends, I played with my friends. We played all sorts of games. My parents would never have thought of being where I was playing. And I would never have wanted them there. They had a life. I had a life. At our games, kids ran the show. We made the rules and settled the disputes. We learned to regulate our interactions and thereby acquired social skills. We chose up sides, knew the hierarchies of ability for each game, and didn't feel undone by inequalities of skills. And we didn't need no stinking adults around. If they did come around, we'd have thought they were perverts.

And nobody, not us and not our parents, dreamed of becoming millionaires by playing pro sports.

We played to enjoy the playing, to be with our buddies, and of course to win.

I recently watched the Women's Collegiate Softball World Series and the Olympics.

Sure enough, there in the stands were parents, still getting in on the act. In this day of people living and staying active longer, I picture parents still getting out to watch their 60-year-old kids hitting the ball out of the park. Cradle to the grave parasitic vicarious cheap thrills.

Parents. Get out of your kids' games. Get your own!

It makes me furious.

Richard Bogartz is a professor of psychology. He lives in Amherst.