Large Fierce Mammal

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions

Meaning:

One meaning of the phrase is that individuals may have the intention to undertake good actions but nevertheless fail to take action. This inaction may be due to procrastination, laziness or other subversive vice. As such, the saying is an admonishment that a good intention is meaningless unless followed through.

A different interpretation of the saying is wrongdoings or evil actions are often masked by good intentions, or even that good intentions, when acted upon, may have unforeseen bad consequences.

In the first category listed in the definition above, we have such examples as claiming one’s purpose is to “raise awareness” of the cause du jour as evidenced by the acquisition and display of a coloured ribbon. George Carlin put it best, so I’ll leave it to him to address this aspect.

As to the second example, therein lies the homeland of the zealot, and we have an entire spectrum of expressive methodologies ranging from calling 911 because an 8 year old was seen walking the three blocks to home without adult escort, to torture and murder in the name of the cause. In short, and certainly in keeping with historical precedent going back into antiquity, the expression of “good intentions” easily becomes a justification for compelling others to behave as you would have them behave. To live as you would have them live. That you are entitled to make them suffer and die for daring even the appearance of nonconformity with what you would have.

True zealotry springs from the belief that the zealot is one of the chosen. That the opinions of others are wrong and must be driven from the face of the earth, by as much force as necessary. All manner of action may be justified to silence opposition because the will of the chosen is the only will that matters. If you can work a supporting deity in there too, it’s all the better, but not really necessary.

My poem The Zealot ends with this verse:

When hatred cleaves itself to “faith”,
And sad it is to tell it,
There’s no religion in the world
Exclusive to the zealot.

While the poem was inspired by the dogmatic zealotry of a devoutly Catholic woman I once knew, my choice of the word “faith” in the last verse holds a broader meaning. Let it not be forgotten that secular zealots abound, and their willingness to take the fight to the door of unbelievers is as profound as that of the most twisted jihadi. While the world gapes at the evil being done in the name of Islam, it gets forgotten that it once gaped at and feared the Nazi. The Communist. Only the names, the banners, the locale, and the victims change. The “chosen” of the day spout the same rhetoric in their own translated version, and somehow it’s treated as different even though it’s exactly the same.

Some zealots are more methodical, preferring not to be so overt in pursuit of their goals. For example, let’s look at the well known “animal rights” organization generally referred to by its initialism as PETA – People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Who couldn’t get behind anything that espouses the ethical treatment of animals? Well, nobody really, as long as we’re all working with the same definition of one critical word – ETHICAL – which, in PETA’s case we are most decidedly not. Their agenda equates ethical treatment with a rather simplistic set of notions aimed at an outcome that would see them swept from the face of the earth were their zealotry seen for what it portends – no more zoos, no more meat, no more service animals, no more working animals, no more pets. No more animals in anyone’s life, under anyone’s care, for any reason, ever.

Here’s an irony for you. Both lines of my family run straight back to German immigrants to settled in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia in 1753. My Maternal Grandmother was British, coming here to settle in Montreal with my Grandfather as his “war bride” in 1919. Nevertheless, while my Mother had a plethora of excellent attributes as a Parent, she was also an unrepentant bigot. She openly espoused the belief that white Anglo-Saxon Protestants (such as she held us to be) should marry “their own”, meaning exclusion of all non-whites and all non-Protestants of any colour. She was absolutely against immigrants, referring to anyone who came to Canada in the wake of the late unpleasantness of 1939-1945 as “DP’s” which she inaccurately and ignorantly defined as “Deported Persons”. Human garbage. My Mother would have made a most excellent Nazi, but – and I make this comment free from any attempt to excuse her position in this – she was a product of her formative years. A time in which, the anecdote goes, a Canadian immigration official was asked how many Jews displaced from what was left of Europe Canada would accept as immigrants, and was said to have replied, “None is too many.” Whether or not the story is true in its placing the speaking of those words in the mouth of a single individual, the sentiment was widely held at the time, notwithstanding 21st century attempts to expunge it from the history of peace loving, cosmopolitan, all accepting Canada.

“Yes, our family has been having trouble with immigrants ever since we came to this country,” I would say, and bask in the scowl my Mother would give me.

I can assure you that had she lived long enough to meet beautiful, brilliant, Polish, Catholic raised Mrs. LFM, my Mother would have devoloped an immediate blossoming of hatred of the sort that inevitably rears its head when the zealot meets up with clear proof that the dearly held framework of their faith has holes in it. Big, ragged, gaping ones. My Father on the other hand, who had none of these shortcomings, was ready to embrace everybody who wasn’t an asshole (and even a few who were), would have LOVED my Wife and would have raved about her at every opportunity. That would have made it all the worse, and if there is one scenario that makes me wish my Mother had lived longer, that is it.

Anyway, I started out promising that I had an irony for you, and here it is. While I am entering text on my cellular phone for any reason, it prompts me for words it anticipates from past usage and the grammar of what I have just typed into it. Secure websites that require a user name and password to access, routinely request that a series of security questions be set up for authentication when the user is logging in from a mobile device. One of those questions is often your Mother’s maiden name, and while I would normally eschew such an insecure question, I have encountered websites that don’t offer a choice. What the hell. My user names and passwords won’t allow anyone other than me to get as far as an authentication question anyway, so who gives a shit. My Mother’s maiden name was Zinck, and the first time I was asked that question, entering the first letter of the answer – Z – brought up an interesting suggestion from the phone: Zealotry. Not correct on its part, but a pretty damn good guess, don’t you think?