Civilian Police Academy

and helicopter parents

Over the weekend, I was commenting on Gary Sharpe’s recent article

Fight, Flight, Freeze, Fawn... and Feud

which is an excellent read. I love Gary’s writings about how humans develop bizarre ways of dealing with trauma, and then he assigns interesting and rather fitting terms to these responses.

In my comment, I told Gary a story that was related to the concept of censorship and cancel culture.

Earlier that day, my husband was sharing about an audio podcast he was listening to, in which a mother described a horrific experience. Her children were playing outside and a neighbor called Child Protective Services because (wait for it) . . .

THEY WERE UNSUPERVISED.

The mother tells her story in this video (I have not watched it, but it was linked from the LetGrow.org website, which I think has a great basic concept about this “supervision” aspect of parenting). From what my husband told me he heard her say on the podcast, CPS did a full investigation on the family, turning their lives upside down. They wanted to know every detail of this family’s life, and while the investigation came up with precisely zero instances of child abuse, it was traumatizing for the whole family. All because some fear-filled nosey bitch decided to draw conclusions based on her own mental illness.

This notion of people freaking the fuck out when they see unsupervised children playing together outdoors and then notifying An Agent of The Nanny State is another aspect of the Mind Virus.

The Mind Virus gets in through repeatedly watching the television and/or scrolling the FaceBorg/MetaMonster/InstaGhoul and, in between all that mind-controlling crap, wondering which psychopathic tyrant to “vote” for so you can abdicate making decisions, and attending appointments with lab-coat-wearing “experts” who rarely if ever look at your actual medical chart, who perpetrate medical errors which as of 2021 was reported as "the fourth most common cause of death" (see more information here), and who prescribe a wide variety of petroleum-based chemical concoctions that are supposed to “cure” diseases despite people just getting sicker and then taking more pills, suppositories, scans, injections, serums, radiation, and other invasive procedures.

This Mind Virus successfully penetrated the fatty mental field of billions of people the world over, baring its fear-fangs with pictures of body bags (filled with dummies) and projecting laughable mesmerizing spinning cartoon spikey-balls and rising death counts, 24/7/365. The screens were soon filled with interviews of teary-eyed crisis actors moms and dads and children telling stories of [non-exixtent] family members dying or dead from contracting cooties. Viewers craved the tales of death and destruction, and, maybe more so, the possibility of getting on TV. (Isn’t that why people worship idols become fans of celebrities and athletes and politicians and other limelight characters? To hopefully BECOME one of them?)

The Mind Virus got in SO EASILY because giving one’s attention to artificially elevated psychopathic tyrants returns Attention Cookies*** which are rewards for being in step with the PROGRAM everyone else saw on tv/internet. If you “get” “covid,” you get an Attention Cookie. If your loved one “died from covid,” you get an Attention Cookie. If you “test” “positive” for “covid,” you get an Attention Cookie. If you wear a mask, you get an Attention Cookie. If you get the cooties cocktail, you get an Attention Cookie (and maybe a real cookie, too). If you force or otherwise coerce others to get the cooties cocktail, you get an Attention Cookie.

***Consuming Attention Cookies all day every day all year long for over four years makes you mentally fat. A fat mind is the perfect pudding for the Mind Virus to slip into and get its tentacles hooked into your entire being.

This Mind Virus won’t go away until the viewing/voting/virtue-signaling for Attention Cookies STOPS, and the heart takes over. Courage, people.

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But wait, I was talking about children learning about their world without soul-sucking squid drone parents and FREAKED OUT mentally ill neighbors.

Okay, I am not a parent. But you know what? I was a child for many years. And when I grew up (“here we go, old lady”), my parents actually encouraged us to play unsupervised. As my mother would often say, “Get out of the house and do something!” And we did.

We learned a lot about ourselves, about Nature, about solving disagreements with our siblings and friends. Yeah, we got into trouble sometimes. We even occasionally got hurt or hurt others (or almost burned down the damn barn, hello my older brother). But you know what? We learned, we healed, and we built confidence in our strengths and limitations.

What is super-cool is that our parents back then trusted us (in stages, of course) to start navigating the world on our own terms. They knew — because that’s how they grew up — that we would be wiser for those experiences, and that if we refused to learn in the moment, well, we would hopefully learn our lessons down the line.

Maybe we’d get into a recess brawl and end up in the principal’s office with a black eye and a detention (but don’t get me started on government indoctrination centers). Maybe we’d end up in the hospital for six months after one too many poorly constructed skateboard ramps built over the empty concrete swimming pool (but don’t get me started again on the med-tech-kill-cartel). Maybe we’d be fired from our fast-food job for lighting our — or someone else’s — farts in the men’s room, or demoted from that executive secretary position for being a little too sassy with the supervisor, or kicked out of college for getting drunk and doing doughnuts with the Dodge Dart on a professor’s lawn. Maybe we’d spend all our money betting at the racetrack and end up losing our wife and our home, too. But, our parents trusted us to figure out some shit on our own. And when we failed, they didn’t always rush to our rescue to try fixing the mess we made.

Children who are coddled endlessly have no wisdom and no courage because they have no genuine experiences upon which to develop wisdom and courage.

They are told they are special and that is why their parents must protect them at all costs. I see these children in my day-to-day life, with their parent(s) literally sitting next to them at the piano and giving them prompts when the children falter or outright fail to play their assigned lesson. I saw the older ones when I returned to college at the age of 50: Classrooms populated with a large percentage of falsely entitled smart-ass young adults who couldn’t think properly and so would often default to eye-rolling, bitter sarcasm, and backstabbing. In Media Criticism class, the instructor did a week-long exposé of Disney films. Now, this was liberal academia, so there was nothing about the really depraved stuff which is the inverted, perverted Luciferian extremist foundation to the stories in those films. Still, there was plenty of genuine critiquing of characters and relationships, of sexual innuendo, of hidden sexual words, gestures, and images, and of other harmful messages whether subliminal or overt. Every day during that segment, at least a few students would start crying — both men and women, I kid you not. And every day, at least one student would walk, or run, out of the classroom, never to return.

These weaklings also tend to have zero useful skills, because their parents condone wasteful time as they are bedazzled by the babysitter: Watching cartoons on the BooTube, playing video games, viewing TikTok videos, jacking off to unconscionable porn, and worshiping demonically possessed trans-gendered Hellyweird characters. They have no chores to do. They’re not even encouraged to learn to cook, or fix a broken toy.

These children also have authentic no sense of humor. Why? Because they only learn what’s funny from the internet and tv. And knowing the kinds of shows that children are watching, that’s fucking scary. You can’t expect to see the humor in life by watching made-up crap on the black-screen-box; you’re must mimicking someone else’s idea of what is funny and then all your friends are laughing about the same dark, depraved, retarded truly un-funny stuff. It’s different once you’ve done some really stupid shit as a child or a young adult, and you live to tell about it, because you can then laugh about it, and your parents can laugh with you. But if you don’t have any real-life experiences outside of your parents’ and friends’ black-screen-box-addled purview, aren’t you just mirroring their limited view? Isn’t the idea of parenting to bring children into the world who will learn more and do better than you, the parents? Which means the children need to exert some fucking effort to push past limiting thoughts and behaviors. Again, I’m not a parent, so maybe my perspective is at odds with the “follow tradition, do what you’re told, don’t ask questions, and definitely don’t embarrass us” model.

True Story:

In my sophomore year in high school, I completed Driver’s Education —which was actually a semester-long class in regular curriculum — and I logged the necessary pre-license driving hours. My 16th birthday occurred in mid-December. I had just passed the written test, and then my mom immediately scheduled my driving test for early January. (She was SO READY for me to start carting myself, my younger sister and brother, and my friends around instead of her doing it).

My dad took me to the department of motor vehicles. It was a crappy day as far as the weather: Gray and snowing, with bitter winds. But hey, welcome to Wisconsin. Have a cold beer with your hotdish. We went into the office and the examiner greeted us (small town, everyone knew everyone).

The driving test commenced outside. I got in the super-cold Chrysler Newport along with the examiner and his clipboard. I buckled in and started the car. I checked all the mirrors and turned my head to look all around. I stepped on the brake and put the transmission in reverse. I depressed the accelerator pedal and started backing up. Suddenly, BAM! The front passenger side of my car hit the driver side back panel of neighboring parked vehicle. I was so shocked and embarrassed that I didn’t know what to do. The examiner just told me to put the car in park and turn off the engine. I was shaking, and I said, “Should I move back into the parking space?” He looked at me and said, “No. You failed the test. Get out of the car. Go inside the office and see your father.”

GO SEE YOUR FATHER.

I knew I’d better not cry in front of my dad and the other adults (big girls don’t cry, you know). I reluctantly opened the heavy metal door and Dad turned to see me, with the examiner a few seconds behind. (Because of the quirky angle of the two “accident scene” cars, the passenger side car door could not be opened, so he’d had to crawl over to the driver side to get out. Add that to the “laughter” part later!) The examiner walked past me quickly and redirected my dad several feet away. They spoke in hushed tones, so as not to disturb the pin-drop quiet of the office. Then my dad walked over to Joe Chandler — a local fellow who was waiting for some kind of motor vehicle appointment — and said a few words to him, then they both walked outside. I just sat in a chair, wanting to disappear. Meanwhile, the examiner — now on early break — chatted with the office ladies.

My dad and Joe returned. Joe came to me, smiled sweetly, patted my arm gently, and said, “It’s okay, honey.” I realized at that moment that it was Joe’s car that I had hit. Despite him being a big, soft, teddy bear of a black man, his kindness was too much. I wanted to die.

Dad motioned for me to leave. The car was in a new location in the parking lot; it was already running and it was very warm inside. We got in and neither of us said a word on the five-minute drive home. I went immediately to my bedroom and stifled my crying, while my sister kept asking, “What happened?” I felt unable to speak until Dad went back to work. I knew that he would be telling Mom every detail when they both got home that evening. Adding insult to injury, I’d have to tell my friends the next day that I failed to acquire my driver’s license, which is a major initiation into post-modern pre-adulthood.

The next morning on the way to school, Mom told me that Dad had offered Joe $50 (the equivalent of nearly $200 today) to get his car repaired, which Joe said was too much but my dad insisted. Of course, there was also a pretty good-sized dent and scrape on Mom’s Newport (add another $200 to the bill), and she was literally seething with anger at me for costing Dad so much money. She grounded me for two weeks. Sure, make my new living hell as painful as possible. I knew that my mom had “issues” with “the coloreds,” which played into her anger. She also harbored great envy of me and my sister. Plus she was pissed that she’d have at least another six months of playing chauffeur. But none of that mattered in the moment because SHE WAS DRIVING, and I was still just a passenger, with no privileges whatsoever.

In my short life, I had ever felt so much shame.

The good news is that I got my driver’s license six months later at the next available appointment. School was out, and I was in the hot seat. Damn, I love summer.

But that’s not the end of the story, because REMEMBER, this part is about learning and laughter.

First, the learning. I became a really good driver! When prepare to drive, I look around, check out the environment, and ask important questions. “Are there potholes or ice patches?!?!” Then, when I’m behind the wheel, I DRIVE. I’m not “eating while driving”; I’m not “texting while driving.” Heck, I don’t even like “talking while driving.” Nope. I drive while driving, with my eyes on the road, on the gauges, on the mirrors.

Now, to the laughter.

Years later, my family and I gathered at our ranch one last weekend before the property was sold. My sister and I were upstairs in the farmhouse, packing boxes to put in Mom’s car, and we started telling our “car” stories. It was then, nearly a decade later, that she told me the reason I had hit Joe’s car was because of a fucking iced-over pothole. The examiner had told Dad that when he got out of our car after my failed test, he saw that the front passenger side tire had clearly slid into a deep pothole because of the thick ice and so our car slid into Joe’s car. He said there was really no way to get out of that parking spot — with a car parked on both sides — without going through the pothole. But, he still had to legally fail the test, and reported it as a “failure to properly use all side mirrors, resulting in a potential automobile or other accident.” He also told my dad that he would not report the actual “accident” if my dad made mutually agreeable “contribution” to Joe.

So, all along, my dad (and my mom) knew it wasn’t completely my fault that I failed the test by having my first car accident.

In the end, that whole ordeal was just ONE MORE REASON that winter kicked my ass OUT of Wisconsin, and I made my way to sunny California!

This is a good example of how experiences — even if they are misconstrued — can bring about self-reflection that leads to great care. It sucks that the world works this way, but we MUST use our mind-heart connection for betterment. This is the refinery of our consciousness, of our entire being. We MUST explore in order to learn and grow beyond what people or the media tell us to be true, or to be satisfied with. We need to create our own reality within the larger context, otherwise, we’re just a bunch of fearful, stupid, screeching mockingbirds, foisting our anger and frustration onto others, and making things hard for people who don’t deserve it.

Look, I know it’s difficult to imagine your children having horrible experiences. But they will more than likely have them — with or without your supervision. So I say, teach them right from wrong, and then let them.

LET YOUR CHILDREN EXPLORE.

LET YOURSELF EXPLORE!

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💝As always, I wish you excellent health, well-being, wisdom-from-experience, and creativity that brings life-affirming joy to you and others!💝