Morals
Patience. That’s the key. You need the precise amount of patience. Otherwise, you can’t fit the lock. I should know. I have many keys. I know when to use each key to my benefit. It’s why I choose to plan everything in advance. Sometimes even months ahead. Once I planned an event a year in advance. I can lift my head high and say that plan had the most perfect execution. However, patience sometimes splits in my head. These smaller pieces constantly knock around, nudging me, tackling me, reminding me what to do. I pace restlessly in my home, wishing to do the designed task already. I know sometimes the key isn’t molded perfectly to my liking in these scenarios. Impatience likes to grab this unfinished key, taunt me, and then bring it to me. In my rapidity, I feel not myself. I leave a slovenly mess. It takes me more than one try to fit the key. Eventually, I do, but by then the event has not happened as I would like it to. That is when I throw my keys about the house in a blind fury. My senses go awry and I lose my head for fleeting moments throughout the day, remembering all the things that had gone wrong. Then I recall I need my keys, so I calm myself as I collect them all. I organize my brain, my keys, the way I know them best. Only then am I at peace.
Today is Tuesday, which means I need to prepare for my weekly speech at Westerhedge College. I’ve been doing this gig, if that’s the term for this, for just under a year. I got this through an online job application for “motivational speaker”. They are the length of TED talks, relatively speaking; they are not meant to be long at all. This will be the third time going this fall semester. I make these speeches to various students, giving them insight into how people work, types of disorders, why they feel a certain way; topics that interest me. Listening to the students’ stories of their own struggles should make me feel empathy for them. Thing is, I feel neither pity nor empathy for any of their stories. In a way that makes me a hypocrite. Here I am speaking about my topic of interests to students, who then tell me their stories and how they connect to such things, only to care less about what they are going through.
I stand in the bathroom, giving myself a quick inspection. My black hair is somewhat neatly parted slightly to the right. My white t-shirt is crisp, and the thin teal denim jacket on top has a few wrinkles but it’s not a concern. The faded jeans are already three years old but they fit. The sneakers are plain white and blue in color. I didn’t see the need to wear fancy shoes to casual college discussion. I make my way to the kitchen, where a folder containing papers I prepared the night before lay on the wooden table. I scoop it up with my right hand and then head to the front door, grabbing my phone and keys on the way.
I live in a relatively small house: two bedrooms, one bathroom, about a thousand square feet of space in all. All the walls are white, and each room has two paintings; some have great detail to them, such as a darkening storm over a sea painting I have in my bedroom, a personal favorite. The ones in my living room are less so, blurs of colors really. I keep a fern in the living room as well; that is the only plant I have. I have never seen the need for so much decoration to be put into a house. Block coloring rooms, putting backsplash tiles in the kitchen, posing a fountain outside for house appeal; the intentions aren’t worth the effort in my mind.
I get into my car, a silver Ford Focus, and make a quick drive to the college; I’m there within ten minutes. Parking here at Westerhedge isn’t a problem unless you get here around noon or one in the afternoon. Once again I gather my supplies and then walk into the building. I maneuver my way around wandering students that seem to be in a haze and just moving wherever their muscles tell them to. When I arrive at the auditorium door, which is a rustic dark wooden door, a hand raises toward me; instinctively I do the social thing and shake with my own hand.
“Thank you for coming as always, Mr. Tomlin,” the man says. He’s one of the psychology professors here. He probably has been here for twenty years or more; I’m not particularly interested in knowing his history here. I take in his serious yet elated expression of my arrival. His thinning grey hair seems to decrease each time I see him, but his eyes are somehow always a bright amber, still full of life.
“It’s no problem, Mr. Byrne,” I reply, giving a half-smile with some effort. “I’m always happy to enlighten people who take an interest.”
Mr. Byrne gestures to the auditorium doors. I take it as my cue to enter. I stroll down the main aisle, getting glimpses of the students. Mostly female it seems this time. The audience differs each time at these discussions. I make my way to the podium and test the microphone, making sure it is securely attached to my shirt and won’t fall off. Instantly the room quiets, all pairs of eyes on me. I give a few moments of silence, partly to build tension, partly to keep gazing around my surrounding, wondering who thinks to attend such a talk. I put the folder of papers down and then take out a single sheet. I lift my eyes and with a sharp, clear voice, begin my lecture.
“What the hell are morals?”
Faces blankly stare at me as I begin to pace the stage, their eyes questionable with a note of intrigue.
“Are everyone’s morals the same? Different? Are they just ideas to keep us in check? Make sure we don’t do something we regret? When do we begin to lose our morals?”
I make my way across the stage slowly, wondering whose voice could break the deafening silence that usually comes in the beginning of these talks. Then, a girl in the front row speaks. She’s a regular at my discussions, and I only know this because she sits in the front. I don’t care to recognize the faces of students that sit beyond the third row. Today she has her blonde hair pulled back in a standard ponytail, her green eyes attentive.
“Morals are what we consider good or bad behavior. For example, the need to kill a person isn’t a moral anyone should have. Feeling empathy and showing love towards others is a moral we all should have,” she says with a loud vibrant voice.
“Compassion,” I say, nodding slowly. I raise my head and squint my eyes as I’m blinded by the lights temporarily. “That’s a good moral to have. Can it ever be a bad moral?”
Silence ensures as I saunter about the stage, clasping my hands behind my back.
“Too much compassion may be seen as a bad thing to others,” the same girl speaks up, prodding my interest in her. I nod for her to continue.
“If you’re enemies with someone, and after all they put you through, you help save them in a life or death situation. Your enemy might not be so happy to leave you alone because you helped,” she continues.
“That is an interesting point,” I say, momentarily tapping my chin. “Any other voices?”
“Compassion is what also can change a person’s mind,” a guy in the third row speaks up. I glance over at him. He’s wearing an oversized dark green jacket and his square glasses are ever so slightly crooked. He’s shaking subtly, I note; he must not speak out loud much.
“Change enough to where their enemy would redesign their own morals?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“It’s a possibility,” the guy says.
I nod and glance upward, uncrossing my arms. “Fair enough.” I walk back to the podium. “Now, what about those who have lost the sensation to feel empathy? Serial killers and psychopaths? Could compassion ever change them?”
I see a few people horizontally shake their head.
“It is almost certain that they won’t change,” I say and lean on the podium, tapping my right foot on the ground. “Those people develop different mindsets than what they’ve had before.” I pause. “What kind of morals do serial killers and psychopaths have?”
“They don’t have morals,” the girl in the front says. “Or if they have any, they are poor representations of themselves.”
“Poor in what way?” I question, walking over to her as I stuff my right hand in my pocket. The girl falls silent, her head tilting down.
“They could have good morals,” the guy from the third row speaks up, his voice resonating more strongly. I glance at him and gesture for him to continue. “While they may have a moral to kill, for say revenge, they could also have their own personal morals like no robbing or no killing pets.”
I give an approving nod. “Those do seem like good morals, even for a killer to have.”
“That doesn’t excuse them from whatever crime they may commit or perhaps have already committed,” the girl says bitingly, her green eyes sharp as she stares at me, her posture straighter.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say airily after a moment of silence. My eyes search through the sea of people as I choose my next question.
“Can killers be forgiven?”
The silence that the students are so good at crafting remains like invisible dust. I glance expectantly at the girl or the guy to answer, but they are silent as well, glancing down at their feet. I walk back to the podium, my footsteps too loud for my liking.
“There is no judgment here,” I say, glancing about from left to right. “Speak your opinions freely. I will not judge your opinions; likewise, you should be respectful of the opinions you hear.”
“If they feel no remorse for what they’ve done then why should we forgive them?” A new voice speaks up. My eyes travel to who has spoken. A beach guy, stereotypically speaking: blond hair, blue eyes, sunglasses on his head, recent tan, and wearing sandals.
“A reasonable argument,” I say, nodding and give a wave of my hand. “We can feel all sorts of emotions when something unscrupulous happens to us. Anger, fear, sadness, confusion; the list goes on.” I begin to walk across the stage again to the edge. “So, if we rightfully should feel resentment to those who commit a crime without a care in the world, how can some people still forgive them?”
“Sometimes you have to forgive,” the girl from the front row says. “When we feel strong emotions, such as anger or sadness, we don’t have a clear state of mind. We may say something down the line we will regret. We may lash out at our friends or family, and drive them away without realizing it. Then we’ll be truly alone.”
“How do you work past that sadness and anger?” I press. “How can a person seem to dismiss what has happened?”
“I don’t think it’s that they choose to dismiss the situation,” Beach Guy interjects. “I think it’s more the case that they put their sadness or anger into a different form to cope.”
A wave of silence falls over the auditorium. I purposefully remain silent, eyeing a few students.
“What different form do they use to cope, then?” the girl in the front row asks, turning her body to see Beach Guy.
From my peripheral vision, Mr. Byrne steps slowly onto the stage. I turn towards him, then down to my watch. Time’s up. I turn my attention to the group of students and snap my fingers. “As lovely as it would be to continue this, I must inform you that this discussion has to come to an end.”
Mr. Byrne walks over to me as the students are packing up their belongings. He lowers the microphone on the podium to address the students.
“Well, that surely was a gripping talk, wasn’t it?” Mr. Byrne asks the class as I stand beside him, hands behind my back. “I am sure you will have another riveting discussion for us next week, won’t you Mr. Tomlin?”
“But of course,” I answer, giving a nod. “I wouldn’t come if I didn’t.” I raise my hand in the air to wave to the class. “I shall see you all next time.”
Mr. Byrne and I stand in place while students begin to leave rather quickly from the auditorium to get to their next class, or wherever they go after my speeches. I take the moment to take the microphone off my shirt and place it back on the podium. A flicker of movement catches my eyes and I glance down to see the girl from the front row standing by the stage.
“May I have a moment to speak with you, Mr. Tomlin?” the girl asks.
Mr. Byrne waves me goodbye and then walks off. I jump down to the floor and turn to the girl. “What do you need to talk about?”
“Where do you get the topics to talk about?” the girl asks. “Do you choose them ahead of time, or do you come up with them on the spot?”
“A bit of both. Sometimes if I’m invested in a research topic I’m already doing, I plan to make a discussion about it. Other times, I make a discussion about a recent topic of interest. Why do you ask?” I respond, raising an eyebrow.
The girl ponders her own response for a while. “I wanted to prepare for next week’s discussion.”. In all the speeches I’ve given, not one person has ever come to ask to see what next week’s topic will be. I suppose she finally has made a change of confidence and she feels the need to ask.
“I don’t know at the moment,” I reply, folding my arms across my chest, then rack my brain for any topic. “Denial seems like a good topic to discuss. I can’t be for certain that will be the topic, however.”
The girl nods and gives me a smile. “That will be enough for me. Thank you, Mr. Tomlin.”
I nod back at her, unfolding my arms. “And thank you, miss-?”
“Ms. Rosalie,” the girl says. “Or you can call me Ava.” She holds out her hand.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Ava,” I say, and shake her hand firmly. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Tomlin!” Ava shouts and then dashes off. I glance about the auditorium, making sure it was empty and then walk out the auditorium and make the trek back to my car, all the while relishing in the fact I didn’t have to give any more speeches for the day. Besides, when I get home, I can finally start a plan to open a new lock. A lock I have never tried to open before.
