When I was a boy my neighborhood would have yard sales every weekend during the summer. Once in a while my mom would let me put my very own table out near the sidewalk and watch over it all by myself. I would haggle with the neighborhood kids over scratched up GI Joes and headless He-Men. I was a collector, too, and so could be found the odd pile of baseball cards, comic books, and even rocks. One time I set out some old postage stamps that I'd been getting bored with. I didn't even put a price on them, but I imagined they couldn't be worth more than a couple of Boba Fetts.
Rob was one of the shadier kids in the neighborhood, and often made my life hell. So I was really excited when he offered me a whole dollar for the stamps. He took the stamps without so much as a casual fat joke or other half-hearted insult. As he walked away I was feeling pretty good and I thought of the four packs of Garbage Pail Kids I could now buy.
About a half hour later Rob came back down the sidewalk with his older buddy, Mark, another shady kid who wasn't as mean as Rob. He was quiet, though, and I think I was more scared of Mark BECAUSE he was quiet. The two boys approached my table with wild faces, obviously very excited to tell me something. Rob was holding the stamps and he blurted out, "My dad looked these stamps up in a book and he said they're worth a lot of money!"
"Really?" I said. "I guess I have had them for a long time. I don't even remember where I got them."
"Yeah, they're old. My dad said they're worth about a hundred dollars!" My heart sank. I was no longer thinking about the Garbage Pail Kids I was going to get. I was thinking about the GI Joe aircraft carrier that I COULD'VE got with that hundred bucks. Mark must've seen my expression change, and he seized an opportunity.
"Hey, Rob. I bet he would trade you all the rest of the stuff on his table if you gave him back the stamps." Rob slowly turned to look at him as if Mark had just said he'd found his dad's dirty magazines.
"I never thought of that. I guess if he really wants them back." He turned to look at me and shrugged, waiting for me to make a move. I did want them back. I wanted them back so much it burned. I couldn't stand that I'd let one of the biggest bullies in the neighborhood get away with MY stamps for a lousy BUCK. YES, I wanted them back! There's no way all the stuff on my table was worth a hundred bucks and he was giving me a chance to get my stamps back out of his filthy clutches. I wanted to yell, 'Aha, now I've got you! I'm gonna get back what's mine and for once you won't have the power over me!' But I didn't say a word. I just tensed my lips together, held out my hand, and nodded. Rob laid the stamps in my hand and then he and Mark loaded up their arms with action figures, squirt guns, and even a clock radio.
As they walked away I watched them exchange curious expressions of satisfaction and after they were out of earshot I saw them banter excitedly. I looked down at the tiny pieces of paper in my hand and I knew it. I knew in my heart that these stamps weren't really worth a hundred bucks. I knew I'd been duped. What happened that day was never talked about again, but every time I saw Mark and Rob they had a twinkle in their eye and just the start of a malevolent grin.
Some of you might be wondering what this story has to do with freedom. We often think of freedom as something that is taken from us, something that we are forced to give up by an oppressive government, or even an oppressive or abusive relationship. Rarely do we think of freedom as something that we would ever willingly give away, later to realize that we've been duped. These bullies could have easily beaten me up and taken everything I had. But by manipulating me, they took so much more. How much more satisfying it must have been for them when I GAVE them what they wanted. Not only did they have my stuff, but they had CONTROL over me. Leaving me with the stamps was not just a tactical leverage for their scheme, but also a rather poetic way to remind me that I had received precisely what I'd asked for.
The key word here is permission. Yes, there are times when freedom is taken from us. But those situations are historically preceded by countless incidents, sometimes generations' worth, where freedom is given away willingly. Pay close attention whenever you're in a position to grant permission. The next time you're asked to sign something, read the fine print again. Don't worry about being polite, the person standing in front of you WILL wait. The next time you're about to say, 'yes', think long and hard before you open your mouth. It's okay to have an uncomfortable silence; there are far too few of them, anyway. And especially remember this: the next time you have a chance to speak up for yourself, speak up. Ask a question. Say what you're feeling. Be very careful of just silently nodding, your hand held out to accept your reward.
