FORGOTTEN PEOPLE FORGET THEMSELVES FIRST

The forgotten people need a reminder about those feelings.

You’re not forgotten just because someone who you listen to and worship tells you you’re forgotten.

Find a mirror and look into it. That’s you, remember?

But you live a small town life in a global world and it makes you feel smaller and smaller just saying those words.

That was one of the excuses used to explain the events of Jan 6, 2021. Dispossessed, forgotten, ignored, deprived, and angry?

Don’t forget ANGRY. Forgotten, ANGRY, and motivated to do something about it.

But what?

Only a small town-raised writer can explain, and I know one: Me.

Before social media, small town guys had to figure things out on their own, and it started early.

Call it luck of the draw, fate, or last resort, but when I faced a challenge as a kid in my small town I knew what I had to do:

Either quit trying, or try harder.

These words echoed in my decision making process: No one likes a quitter, and When The Going Gets Tough The Tough Get Going.

You’ve heard the same thing, or variations on the theme of being a loser, because what’s more damning than being called a loser?

I’ve been called worse, but never took it to heart.

If you’ve got a little self-esteem you never take poor opinions from others to heart. What do they know about you?

Consider The Source Of The Message

If a proven attention whore tells you something that gets your attention, you’re being played.

If they say “You Are Forgotten,” and for the first time you think, ‘He’s right,’ you enter the spiral of, “Then tell me what to do.”

The story of Tell Me What To Do takes a sharp turn when they hear, “You are the forgotten to everyone but me and only I care.”

For the best proof look at the results of the U.S. Capitol riot crew. They listened devoutly to their leader who promised to be with them in their quest.

Except he wasn’t.

People died. Will he remember them? Will he remember the people arrested on his behalf? I hope so, they hope so, but really, will he remember them at all?

From The Washington Post:

In D.C. Superior Court, 40 defendants were charged with unlawful entry of public property and were notified that prosecutors are reviewing evidence of an additional charge of curfew violation. Most of the defendants came from outside of the Washington region — including Oregon, Florida, Wyoming, Connecticut and Pennsylvania — though some were from the District, Maryland and Virginia.

One person arrested was charged with possessing a “military style automatic weapon” and 11 molotov cocktails, prosecutors said. Another defendant was charged with assaulting a police officer with a hockey stick. Yet another, who needed a Russian interpreter, told a judge, “I don’t know what unlawful entry you are referring to.”

From the images in the media, which didn’t look fake, a lady was shot once and died; a law officer died from a fire extinguisher beatdown; the group wanted to know where VP Pence was, where Nancy Pelosi was.

It wasn’t for a social call on their scheduling calendar.

Remember Who You Are By Doing Hard Things

I was forgotten at fifteen, an injured football player on a bad team. Hurt guys tend to get ignored during the season.

Like all injured athletes with dreams of greatness, I looked forward to the next season. Not next football season, but the season following football. Basketball.

That had been my yearly routine since fourth grade. We were that kind of family, but the basketball team was as bad, or worse, than the football team and I already felt like a loser without adding to it.

The school had one stellar coach, but it was a sport I’d never considered doing:

Wrestling.

My adolescent brain was stuck on loser when I decided I’d quit all sports. The wrestling team would be my last dance after I healed. If that failed I’d buy a pack of Winstons and hang out in the parking lot after school and make new friends.

Beginner high school wrestlers have one thing in common: humiliation. Not only are you a scrub, you get called names like pit-smeller, gay, and you get thrashed by little wimps you’ve seen around.

Looks were deceiving, to say the least.

Much later as an adult with kids, I encouraged them and their friends to wrestle. It was a hard sell. Hey Alex.

Wrestling Room Stinkfest

The high school wrestling room would have been smelly without wrestling. The funk of sweaty guys and forced farts just added another layer to the aroma profile.

The odor hit me in the face my first time there, a prelude to what my face would go through in that first pre-season practice.

An assistant coach showed me the basics.

“Hold my leg to your chest and put your head in my crotch.”

“Like this?” I wasn’t putting my head anywhere near someone’s crotch.

“No. Like this.” And he jammed my face into his crotch.

Oh. My. God. I was ready to leave, run out, when he sprawled and smashed my face to the mat. Best thing that could have happened.

Apparently that was the drill for newbies. Hold a leg and get smashed flat.

I wasn’t going to stick around after that, but I had to do something before leaving: Get even with the assistant coach.

Since I knew how to play football, I knew how to tackle.

“Let’ try it again,” I said.

This time I lifted his leg slowly, tentatively, and when he started to respond I ran him backward into the wall as hard as I could.

Since it was a wall near the steps down into the room, I had my escape planned. I got up expecting to be thrown out.

Instead, Coach Fred Lucas gave me an attaboy. He walked over to talk to Coach Dave Abraham, then came back to show me some more technique.

I got even, got some unexpected attention, and didn’t leave for the next three years.

Forgotten People Need To Work It Out

Social media platforms give everyone insight into other lives. Forgotten people following a fancy dandy’s advice on how to be tough look around and see themselves left out.

Without the personal reckoning of overcoming humiliation in all of its grandeur to earn respect, forgotten people wallow in their grief of forgotten status defined by someone who has never had those feelings or lived that life.

Ask yourself if your freedom is reclaimed by following the lead of a man whose freedom has never been challenged asking you to give up yours.

If I had to guess, it’s better to be forgotten people in a small town, big city, on a farm, a suburb, or a swampy trailer park anywhere, than doing time in a federal lock-up.

But that’s just me. How about you?

Try this instead. Improve yourself by reading good books, listening to others with empathy, and avoiding the spewing bullshit steaming from those who have no idea who, or what, you go through.

You’re good enough not to need the special love of manipulators and liars. You’re better than that and you know it.

Luckily you’ll have time to work those feelings out.