The Richness of the Mongoloid Experience
The kid’s face took me by surprise. It was red with rage, but beneath the rage I sensed an unmistakable loathing. He was one of a carful of teenagers; he was the driver. He saw Michael and knew him instantly for what he is: a retard. Michael wears what he is in every feature of his chubby, Mongoloid face. The teenager recognized him — what makes Michael different — and reacted sharply.
Of course, it wasn’t as if the incident was unprovoked. In a sense, Michael was asking for it. Their car had been weaving down the long hill, honking exuberantly; they happened to lurch to a stop at a red light, next to us. And Michael, with his funny Mongoloid solicitousness, had kindly — if officiously — volunteered the insight that they ought to be going slower.
Michael, like so many of his kind, minds his own business — and everyone else’s too — with a patient, generous conviction that everyone is happier when some sort of social order prevails. Creativity and individualism aren’t really his strong suit; he likes a predictable universe (in some ways he is very much like the rest of us). It’s kind of ironic, though, since Mongoloids can be so unpredictable themselves. Michael is certainly unpredictable.
But predictably enough, the teenagers took off like lightning when the light changed. As a farewell, one of the backseaters made a strenuous effort to moon us out the rear side window and then they were gone. Michael turned to me in shock at the farewell rite.
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