It's long been a tradition of mine to excoriate Valentine's Day, a holiday marinated in manufactured merchandise or the moroseness of the malcontent. Indeed, it's difficult not to think that its creators were malicious sadists hellbent on either undermining existing relationships with soulless materialism or making those without them acutely aware of their oh so dolorous deficiencies. (My grapes aren't sour, they're raisins!) But while such pontification makes for a great way to stick it to The Man, it doesn't do much for the lonely and the lovers still trying to negotiate the strange dynamics of the day.
So if we do not attack this Valentine's Day with all the bitter vitriol and disdain we can muster, what do we do with it? There is, of course, the time-honored approach of copious alcohol consumption coupled with ye olde drunk text (or, as its practitioners refer to it, yedoldtxk). There are S.A.D. parties which, try as they might to prove their monikers misnomers, succeed primarily in doing the same as the former approach but with one's friends around to add their own tears to the pool.
Those in relationships likely succumb to one or more of the monstrous heads of the grim jewel-colat-ower triumvirate. Then they probably do what they do every night (Pinky): try to beat back the ennui! Your exact mileage on this expedition may vary, but your destination of Vague-Sense-of-Disappointmentropolis will still read Population: You by morning.
I snark this not just because I'm cynical (and, predictably, single), but also because I do honestly believe that Valentine's Day, or the discourse that surrounds it, sets up peculiar expectations upon those in relationships and those single, expectations which blanket condemnations of the practice or uncritical obedience to its prescribed principles do little to avert. If you are in a relationship, you must honor and adulate your loved one on this day or be found lacking in sufficient affection, and even if you succeed the choice to do it was made for you, cheapening the gesture. If you are not in a relationship, you already are lacking and this simply reminds you that Everyone Else is Having an Awesome Time At Life Except You. Moar ice creamz and pity hook-upz plz!
This is not a celebration of love. It's a beauty pageant without the bikinis (and that's just because February don't do midriffs, yo). Those of us unlucky enough not to even make the initial cut watch the others trot on stage and, yeah, someone does win, but even the rest of those competing look at those few winners and instead see what is missing in themselves.
Love is always difficult. It is difficult in inception, difficult in sustenance, difficult in dissolution. This is poignantly true in romance but no less applicable to its familial and friendship variants. It is difficult because we are all beautiful, mundane, mediocre, messed-up people who need each other in order to lift ourselves up and guard against our darknesses and despairs. And yet, when we do love, we find that those we turn to turn out to be, in one way or another, just as good and bad as we are.
But love has some indescribable appeal, some inherent necessity that, at least for me, makes life a thing more than a meandering march towards oblivion. To love, to care is the antidote to our apathy, our alienation. It is not an equal exchange of affection, mere insurance against isolation; it is a passion greater than its parts and participants, a meaning in and of itself.
And yes, this may be romantic excess, and, yes, love is many things to many people. Yet I cannot help but ponder, but wish for a day that would celebrate love in all its sundry shades. Or, perhaps, we need not a day or a month or a year, but a lifetime. Certainly, we can use reminding. But we don't need it in the form of lacks and lackings. Instead of buying and crying, hug a friend. Call a sibling. Kiss your significant other. Do it now, do it then, do it every day. Let Valentine's Day be a mere reminder among a million more that you are loving, you are loved and you are surrounded by others who need love just as much as you do. Now that would be something worth celebrating.
Feb 13, 2010
Aug 28, 2009
August Bonus Column
(Why yes, this was inspired by a facebook status update. What do you want me from me, I'm freelance now!)
I'm back! Well, for a week at least. Of course, some say I never truly left, and, indeed, stories of my haunting of UT's campus are as rampant and lascivious as they are all completely, verifiably true. Indeed, in your dormant, idle moments, you just might hear my wavering voice, as if from beyond the grave, softly reminiscent of failed first dates or the comeback you only devised in the early hours of a sleepless night. Is it a supernatural event, an astral projection gone dangerously awry? Or could it be the rumblings of a collective campus subconscious, ill at ease and rife with psychological phenomena as likely to paralyze with trepidation as it is to evoke some long forgotten trauma of semesters past?
Maybe. Maybe. Or it could actually be the Real Deal-an, since I haven't, like, actually left or anything. No, I decided to leave behind the vacant expressions and worldweary cynicism, the taciturn apathy of today's contemporary college student and trade up. I'm teaching high school! Sunshine and unicorns all around, my friends. Every single gosh darn day. Nothing says “I'm a happy and adjusted member of society, eager to be productive and forward-thinking” like living with your parents but not being old enough to retain at least some dignity by drowning your sorrows in alcohol and X-Box Live.
You know, like the Nazis used to do. “But Mr. Meggs!” you cry, having easily adjusted to my new state-enforced moniker with nary a twitch. “The Nazis didn't have X-Boxes!” Color me unconvinced. I have many a speciously dubbed youtube meme that proves otherwise.
Even if your wildly fallacious objection had the faintest hint of veracity, don't you think that if Hitler COULD have had an X-Box, he would have? I do. And that's as good as fact, as far as I'm concerned. That's why I only play PC games: because I, in a bold and unprecendented stance that few would dare emulate in our politically correct, everybody-love-everybody culture, hate Nazis.
I hate Nazis for sssooooo many reasons. For instance: remember when Hitler claimed that Poland had weapons of mass destruction and pre-emptively invaded them back in 1939? Probably not. BUT IT HAPPENED AND IT SUCKED. And then he listened to the phone conversations of people with funny names without, like, asking first or something. He was all up in the frehrs' and the frous' business, yo. It was not cool.
Another example: Remember when Hitler implemented socialized medicine and everybody could afford healthcare? Probably not. BUT IT HAPPENED AND WAS EVEN WORSE. You couldn't choose your own doctor, you couldn't choose your own medicine. You couldn't even choose your own state-mandated execution! And the lines. Oh, lord the lines. If you think Canada is bad today, just imagine what the lines must have been like at Auschwitz. To see the doctor, I mean. The lines for the executions were actually quite brisk. That execution department really had its act together! Somebody should have promoted the guy in charge of that. You know, reward efficiency and hard work. But nooo, that would have been too much like the free market for these socialist jerkfaces.
And, finally, they were responsible for the mass murder of millions of individuals merely because they were easily scapegoated minorities, victims of a genocide done not in the frenzy of battle by undulating barbarians but by a cold and calculating bureaucracy run by average, patriotic, “salt-of-the-earth” citizens resulting in a brutally destructive war and unfathomable horrors that left generations after it scarred and fundamentally cynical.
But, man, those lines were wicked! We sure learned a lesson from that kerfuffle, amiright?
I'm back! Well, for a week at least. Of course, some say I never truly left, and, indeed, stories of my haunting of UT's campus are as rampant and lascivious as they are all completely, verifiably true. Indeed, in your dormant, idle moments, you just might hear my wavering voice, as if from beyond the grave, softly reminiscent of failed first dates or the comeback you only devised in the early hours of a sleepless night. Is it a supernatural event, an astral projection gone dangerously awry? Or could it be the rumblings of a collective campus subconscious, ill at ease and rife with psychological phenomena as likely to paralyze with trepidation as it is to evoke some long forgotten trauma of semesters past?
Maybe. Maybe. Or it could actually be the Real Deal-an, since I haven't, like, actually left or anything. No, I decided to leave behind the vacant expressions and worldweary cynicism, the taciturn apathy of today's contemporary college student and trade up. I'm teaching high school! Sunshine and unicorns all around, my friends. Every single gosh darn day. Nothing says “I'm a happy and adjusted member of society, eager to be productive and forward-thinking” like living with your parents but not being old enough to retain at least some dignity by drowning your sorrows in alcohol and X-Box Live.
You know, like the Nazis used to do. “But Mr. Meggs!” you cry, having easily adjusted to my new state-enforced moniker with nary a twitch. “The Nazis didn't have X-Boxes!” Color me unconvinced. I have many a speciously dubbed youtube meme that proves otherwise.
Even if your wildly fallacious objection had the faintest hint of veracity, don't you think that if Hitler COULD have had an X-Box, he would have? I do. And that's as good as fact, as far as I'm concerned. That's why I only play PC games: because I, in a bold and unprecendented stance that few would dare emulate in our politically correct, everybody-love-everybody culture, hate Nazis.
I hate Nazis for sssooooo many reasons. For instance: remember when Hitler claimed that Poland had weapons of mass destruction and pre-emptively invaded them back in 1939? Probably not. BUT IT HAPPENED AND IT SUCKED. And then he listened to the phone conversations of people with funny names without, like, asking first or something. He was all up in the frehrs' and the frous' business, yo. It was not cool.
Another example: Remember when Hitler implemented socialized medicine and everybody could afford healthcare? Probably not. BUT IT HAPPENED AND WAS EVEN WORSE. You couldn't choose your own doctor, you couldn't choose your own medicine. You couldn't even choose your own state-mandated execution! And the lines. Oh, lord the lines. If you think Canada is bad today, just imagine what the lines must have been like at Auschwitz. To see the doctor, I mean. The lines for the executions were actually quite brisk. That execution department really had its act together! Somebody should have promoted the guy in charge of that. You know, reward efficiency and hard work. But nooo, that would have been too much like the free market for these socialist jerkfaces.
And, finally, they were responsible for the mass murder of millions of individuals merely because they were easily scapegoated minorities, victims of a genocide done not in the frenzy of battle by undulating barbarians but by a cold and calculating bureaucracy run by average, patriotic, “salt-of-the-earth” citizens resulting in a brutally destructive war and unfathomable horrors that left generations after it scarred and fundamentally cynical.
But, man, those lines were wicked! We sure learned a lesson from that kerfuffle, amiright?
Apr 24, 2009
Final Beacon Column
When I was nearing the end of my group therapy dealing with my depression, during my sophomore year, one of my counselors made a point that still poignantly impacts me today. He said that, as a culture, we have a difficult time saying good-bye. He didn't mean that it was emotionally difficult, because that ought to be self-evident. What he meant, though, was that we don't actually do it. Of course, we say it. But there's always the idea that somehow, someway we'll see each other again. It's not like we're dying, after all, we're just parting for awhile. There will be reunions, lunch dates, casual meetings, facebook updates. Good-byes, for us, don't have to be forever.
Ironically enough, I never got to say good-bye to that counselor. It was unfortunate, for me, because he had been one of a great many people who had a significant role in helping me get over my depression (for the most part), after three years. I forgot to attend his final meeting, something I'll always regret, but I took it as a sign that I no longer needed therapy like I once did. It was good, in that respect, but I still wish I had told him thanks. He was, after all, one of the many, many people who have made a significant impact upon me over the course of the last four years.
That anecdote notwithstanding, I think he had a good point. We generally don't say good-bye. Instead, our friends and acquaintances tend to fade away. We gradually lose touch, bit by bit, until you think someday, months or years later, “I wonder whatever happened to …?” Maybe you even see the person again, say you'll “do lunch” or something like it, and, even if you do, it's all different. Your friend is gone, replaced by a different person with a different life who knows of you but doesn't really know you.
This means that many of the people we most cherish in our life leave us without ever really knowing how much they mean to us. The joy they've brought us, the impact their care and companionship has had for us, and the almost certain hole their absence will create once they're gone are never really acknowledged. It seems somewhat maudlin, sure, but sometimes I think I'd rather risk letting people know too much that never letting them know at all.
Of course, I say that. And yet I doubt I will actually do it myself. For better or worse, our culture just isn't accustomed to such displays of affection. It makes people uncomfortable and awkward, not to mention nostalgic and sad at a time meant to be celebratory and happy. Perhaps it’s for the best, I really don’t know.
Even if I don’t do it individually, though, I’d still like to thank and say farewell collectively. I’ve grown a great deal over the past four years. I guess it’d be pretty hard not to. But I know I didn’t do it alone, and, in many different ways, there have been scores of people who have led me to be the person I am today.
Of course I can't help but feel saddened that my college experience is just about over. There's so much I never did, so much I'll never do, so many people I'll never meet, never love, never know. There are so many things I could have been. In many ways, I leave as I came: imperfect and confused (and, naturally, pants-less).
But I've improved, too. I’ve matured in intellectually and emotionally, in ability and interest. I never got to know many people to the extent I would have liked, but I've certainly known a few. I've loved fewer, but they were worth it (for different reasons). And even those more casual acquaintances have made my life so much richer for their presences. I'll always miss standing in presidential court, at midday, seeing so many different people with disparate paths and disparate purposes all wave to me as they pass. Whatever the level of intimacy, they all helped change the anonymous banality of a large university into something like a real community.
So, to all of you whom I've known and loved and played so many days away, thank you. I’m sure I’ll see plenty of you again, but even so, best wishes wherever the future takes you (cardboard box or otherwise).
To the ones I never knew, I hope you have your own community to thank.
To everyone, I don’t know if this is the end, but, just in case, I really do mean thank you.
But, to my undergraduate studies, I have no qualms when I finally, finally get to say
Good-bye.
Ironically enough, I never got to say good-bye to that counselor. It was unfortunate, for me, because he had been one of a great many people who had a significant role in helping me get over my depression (for the most part), after three years. I forgot to attend his final meeting, something I'll always regret, but I took it as a sign that I no longer needed therapy like I once did. It was good, in that respect, but I still wish I had told him thanks. He was, after all, one of the many, many people who have made a significant impact upon me over the course of the last four years.
That anecdote notwithstanding, I think he had a good point. We generally don't say good-bye. Instead, our friends and acquaintances tend to fade away. We gradually lose touch, bit by bit, until you think someday, months or years later, “I wonder whatever happened to …?” Maybe you even see the person again, say you'll “do lunch” or something like it, and, even if you do, it's all different. Your friend is gone, replaced by a different person with a different life who knows of you but doesn't really know you.
This means that many of the people we most cherish in our life leave us without ever really knowing how much they mean to us. The joy they've brought us, the impact their care and companionship has had for us, and the almost certain hole their absence will create once they're gone are never really acknowledged. It seems somewhat maudlin, sure, but sometimes I think I'd rather risk letting people know too much that never letting them know at all.
Of course, I say that. And yet I doubt I will actually do it myself. For better or worse, our culture just isn't accustomed to such displays of affection. It makes people uncomfortable and awkward, not to mention nostalgic and sad at a time meant to be celebratory and happy. Perhaps it’s for the best, I really don’t know.
Even if I don’t do it individually, though, I’d still like to thank and say farewell collectively. I’ve grown a great deal over the past four years. I guess it’d be pretty hard not to. But I know I didn’t do it alone, and, in many different ways, there have been scores of people who have led me to be the person I am today.
Of course I can't help but feel saddened that my college experience is just about over. There's so much I never did, so much I'll never do, so many people I'll never meet, never love, never know. There are so many things I could have been. In many ways, I leave as I came: imperfect and confused (and, naturally, pants-less).
But I've improved, too. I’ve matured in intellectually and emotionally, in ability and interest. I never got to know many people to the extent I would have liked, but I've certainly known a few. I've loved fewer, but they were worth it (for different reasons). And even those more casual acquaintances have made my life so much richer for their presences. I'll always miss standing in presidential court, at midday, seeing so many different people with disparate paths and disparate purposes all wave to me as they pass. Whatever the level of intimacy, they all helped change the anonymous banality of a large university into something like a real community.
So, to all of you whom I've known and loved and played so many days away, thank you. I’m sure I’ll see plenty of you again, but even so, best wishes wherever the future takes you (cardboard box or otherwise).
To the ones I never knew, I hope you have your own community to thank.
To everyone, I don’t know if this is the end, but, just in case, I really do mean thank you.
But, to my undergraduate studies, I have no qualms when I finally, finally get to say
Good-bye.
Apr 17, 2009
3.26 (Unpublished, Uncensored, Director's Cut!)
The following column is a desperate plea for hate mail. In my three years at the Beacon, I have had an incredible dearth of vitriol, polemic, and general ire sent in my direction. I can only assume this means that, as an op-ed columnist, I am a failure. In a desperate attempt to redeem myself in these twilight hours of my Beacon experience, two weeks ago I decided to try to attract the animosity of those who I think would write the very best hate mail: creative writing majors. I did this not only because I assumed they could write well, but also because they almost certainly have nothing better to do with their sad, wasted lives.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. I don't understand! What's a brother got to do to get some premo-quality animosity up in this grill? Time is running out, you jerks. It's time to take out the big guns. Having read plenty of source material, in this and other papers, I am going to attempt to be as nasty and insulting as I possibly can. If the media is any indication, hate and rage sell. And I’m all about the selling. So I needs the hatemails! I needs them!
In that spirit of unbridled condescension and contempt, get ready for some player hateage like you ain't never seen!
So, um, how bout those black people? Pretty stupid, amiright? They should, like, get smart and get jobs! Oh right, they can't because they are black. Here's some advice black people: Be white!
And women! Walking around all day with their boobs and pretty dresses and what not. Who do they think they are? Heck if I know. All I know is I am hungry and the house is dirty. Whose fault is that? Theirs. Collectively. Get with the program, ladies!
You know what else sucks? Freedom. Voting? Pretty lame. And don't get me started on guns! I don't think anyone should have guns. Even the army. Screw 'em! The troops can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned. Or, better yet, they can stay in Iraq. With all the terrorists. Who are AWESOME. I totally bet all on terrorists the other day. I'm going to make a killing!
In related news: Abortions. Discuss.
So I was watching the news and Presidon't O-bum-a was giving more money away to banks. I was totally cheering him on, even though he is a terrible Muslim black stupid head. Good thing the Republicans are going to have tea while the nation is burning down! Who do they think they are, French? What a bunch of racists!
Oh, here are some undisputed FACTS:
1. Pixar blows chunks. My 6 year old cousin can draw better than you, and she's retarded. And black. And a girl. Go back to your etch-a-sketches, nerds!
2. The GDP of the United States in the year 2003 was over 9000. It is now 3. OBAMA DID IT.
3. The capitol of Iowa is San Francisco. Wikipedia FTW.
4. Omg u guyz hanna montanaz n I luv edward cullen he is my bf grrlz lawllolololo!!!!!1!
5. As alluded to in the above sentence, I, as a male, love Edward Cullen, who, although a vampire, also qualifies as a male, thus making me a homosexual. I AM COMING FOR YOUR CHILDREN NEXT.
That comment up above? About betting all on terrorists? That's a Counterstrike joke. I got it, so I'm better than you. Also, I play games where I shoot people and like it. You should too!
Sex. It's awesome and/or terrible. Whenever someone asks me, “Hey Dylan, how much anonymous and irresponsible sex do you have without condoms or the remotest inkling of love?” I always respond, “I don't know, your mom doesn't give receipts.”
Finally, you. You are, like, dumb. All of your ideas? Totally worthless. You're going to grow up to be a loser, living in your parent's basement thinking about how all your exes are beautiful and attractive and rich and totally turned their life around after they realized they had hit rock bottom by dating you. You probably don't even know what you're going to do with your worthless life. Even if you do, it's going to be terrible and/or you're going to be terrible at it. God is dead. I went to the coroner’s office the other day and IDed the body. He’s probably better off for it. Because life is miserable and pointless, all the moreso because you’re in it.
You, um, stinky fart smelling stupid face?
HATE PLZKTHX.
[I think I’m going to be sick.]
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. I don't understand! What's a brother got to do to get some premo-quality animosity up in this grill? Time is running out, you jerks. It's time to take out the big guns. Having read plenty of source material, in this and other papers, I am going to attempt to be as nasty and insulting as I possibly can. If the media is any indication, hate and rage sell. And I’m all about the selling. So I needs the hatemails! I needs them!
In that spirit of unbridled condescension and contempt, get ready for some player hateage like you ain't never seen!
So, um, how bout those black people? Pretty stupid, amiright? They should, like, get smart and get jobs! Oh right, they can't because they are black. Here's some advice black people: Be white!
And women! Walking around all day with their boobs and pretty dresses and what not. Who do they think they are? Heck if I know. All I know is I am hungry and the house is dirty. Whose fault is that? Theirs. Collectively. Get with the program, ladies!
You know what else sucks? Freedom. Voting? Pretty lame. And don't get me started on guns! I don't think anyone should have guns. Even the army. Screw 'em! The troops can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned. Or, better yet, they can stay in Iraq. With all the terrorists. Who are AWESOME. I totally bet all on terrorists the other day. I'm going to make a killing!
In related news: Abortions. Discuss.
So I was watching the news and Presidon't O-bum-a was giving more money away to banks. I was totally cheering him on, even though he is a terrible Muslim black stupid head. Good thing the Republicans are going to have tea while the nation is burning down! Who do they think they are, French? What a bunch of racists!
Oh, here are some undisputed FACTS:
1. Pixar blows chunks. My 6 year old cousin can draw better than you, and she's retarded. And black. And a girl. Go back to your etch-a-sketches, nerds!
2. The GDP of the United States in the year 2003 was over 9000. It is now 3. OBAMA DID IT.
3. The capitol of Iowa is San Francisco. Wikipedia FTW.
4. Omg u guyz hanna montanaz n I luv edward cullen he is my bf grrlz lawllolololo!!!!!1!
5. As alluded to in the above sentence, I, as a male, love Edward Cullen, who, although a vampire, also qualifies as a male, thus making me a homosexual. I AM COMING FOR YOUR CHILDREN NEXT.
That comment up above? About betting all on terrorists? That's a Counterstrike joke. I got it, so I'm better than you. Also, I play games where I shoot people and like it. You should too!
Sex. It's awesome and/or terrible. Whenever someone asks me, “Hey Dylan, how much anonymous and irresponsible sex do you have without condoms or the remotest inkling of love?” I always respond, “I don't know, your mom doesn't give receipts.”
Finally, you. You are, like, dumb. All of your ideas? Totally worthless. You're going to grow up to be a loser, living in your parent's basement thinking about how all your exes are beautiful and attractive and rich and totally turned their life around after they realized they had hit rock bottom by dating you. You probably don't even know what you're going to do with your worthless life. Even if you do, it's going to be terrible and/or you're going to be terrible at it. God is dead. I went to the coroner’s office the other day and IDed the body. He’s probably better off for it. Because life is miserable and pointless, all the moreso because you’re in it.
You, um, stinky fart smelling stupid face?
HATE PLZKTHX.
[I think I’m going to be sick.]
Apr 3, 2009
3.25
For most of my collegiate “career” (for lack of a more derogatorily appropriate word), I have held in my heart something of a resentment, even disdain for Creative Writing Majors. It's not because they smell (particularly) funny. Nor do we have any sort of “Bloods v. Crips” turf war going, as one might experience in, say, the sciences (“Chemistry be straight trippin' with that new research grant; we biologists gotta represent, yo!”). No, my lukewarm animosity is partly envy, partly ideological purity, partly flat out player (or playwright) hating.
To me, the very idea that one would be a “creative writer” implies that one has some ambitious notion that they, themselves, have a well, nay, a keg of mindblowing creativity waiting to be tapped. These bountifully pent up wonderjuices can, presumably, be bottled in wordstuff form and shipped for mass consumption. Theoretically, this results in extravagant meals, giant homes, one's name and works praised throughout the blog-o-sphere and blog-o-rectangularprism alike, and all kinds of other progressively ludicrous rewards gushing forth for the taking. Or maybe you just get to have fun; heck if I know.
Naturally, the realities are much more cardboard-and-fastfood related. And while I'm sure there are many “writers” with much more humble assessments of their capabilities and futures, I still say that a will-be-hobo is a will-be-hobo whether they know it or not.
Now, as a member of the “English Literature” crowd, I certainly cannot make the assertion that inevitable homelessness is a deal-breaker. Admittedly, it is no less ridiculous to think “Well, I like to read. Maybe I could, like, do that, but with money.” Whether it's redeeming that I'm headed to teach high school instead of waxing philosophical in my corrugated mansion, I leave to you to decide.
Suffice it to say, Literature, to me, is a tool, a springboard used to dive into philosophy, politics, ethics and empathy, with the Lit Major's role being that of pushing and prompting that which most engages and challenges to the fore. Creative Writing is just an attempt to clamor for the Lit Major's highly refined (coughpompouslyinflatedcou
But that's all inside baseball (which is still more entertaining than actual baseball, but so is pocket lint, so there you are). The larger, more pertinent point is that, despite my snark, as I near my escape towards career-shaped horizons, I sometimes worry about the path I've chosen. I look at Creative Writers with envy, desiring their capacity for grand creation, their potential, their chance, albeit infinitesimal, to truly make something of themselves (in the conventional sense).
Like so many aging young people, ridiculous in their secret ambitions, yet still desiring the insane caliber of achievement that seems so fallaciously within reach, I'm becoming fearful. The fear of an artist, a would-be CEO, a politician, and any individual with ambition is largely a fear of failure, a fear that one's best try won't push the “extra” onto that “ordinary.” But I think the fear for many of us opting for degrees of practicality over ambition, sooner or later, is a fear of mediocrity, a fear of accepting “reasonable” outcomes instead of aiming for the highest goal possible.
This is the sort of realization that prompts grown adults to buy extravagantly fancy cars, date people decades younger than them, and inspire legions of creative writers (particularly of the white, middle class variety) to pen text after text about how much the suburbs suck. It's a matter of mortality, of the impossibility of a perfect ideal gradually revealed as unattainable. It's compromise. And it's a losing battle worth fighting every inch of the way.
So, sure, like many people, I would like to write the “Great American Novel.” But I don't think I'd enjoy it (or get paid) as much as what I'm planning on doing now. Whether I enjoy that or not is a better fear, but that's a problem for next year.
For now, creative writers (and all of you with ambition), you have my envy. It's not some grave sin to reach for the stars; I sometimes just wish I could talk myself into doing it, too.
To me, the very idea that one would be a “creative writer” implies that one has some ambitious notion that they, themselves, have a well, nay, a keg of mindblowing creativity waiting to be tapped. These bountifully pent up wonderjuices can, presumably, be bottled in wordstuff form and shipped for mass consumption. Theoretically, this results in extravagant meals, giant homes, one's name and works praised throughout the blog-o-sphere and blog-o-rectangularprism alike, and all kinds of other progressively ludicrous rewards gushing forth for the taking. Or maybe you just get to have fun; heck if I know.
Naturally, the realities are much more cardboard-and-fastfood related. And while I'm sure there are many “writers” with much more humble assessments of their capabilities and futures, I still say that a will-be-hobo is a will-be-hobo whether they know it or not.
Now, as a member of the “English Literature” crowd, I certainly cannot make the assertion that inevitable homelessness is a deal-breaker. Admittedly, it is no less ridiculous to think “Well, I like to read. Maybe I could, like, do that, but with money.” Whether it's redeeming that I'm headed to teach high school instead of waxing philosophical in my corrugated mansion, I leave to you to decide.
Suffice it to say, Literature, to me, is a tool, a springboard used to dive into philosophy, politics, ethics and empathy, with the Lit Major's role being that of pushing and prompting that which most engages and challenges to the fore. Creative Writing is just an attempt to clamor for the Lit Major's highly refined (coughpompouslyinflatedcou
But that's all inside baseball (which is still more entertaining than actual baseball, but so is pocket lint, so there you are). The larger, more pertinent point is that, despite my snark, as I near my escape towards career-shaped horizons, I sometimes worry about the path I've chosen. I look at Creative Writers with envy, desiring their capacity for grand creation, their potential, their chance, albeit infinitesimal, to truly make something of themselves (in the conventional sense).
Like so many aging young people, ridiculous in their secret ambitions, yet still desiring the insane caliber of achievement that seems so fallaciously within reach, I'm becoming fearful. The fear of an artist, a would-be CEO, a politician, and any individual with ambition is largely a fear of failure, a fear that one's best try won't push the “extra” onto that “ordinary.” But I think the fear for many of us opting for degrees of practicality over ambition, sooner or later, is a fear of mediocrity, a fear of accepting “reasonable” outcomes instead of aiming for the highest goal possible.
This is the sort of realization that prompts grown adults to buy extravagantly fancy cars, date people decades younger than them, and inspire legions of creative writers (particularly of the white, middle class variety) to pen text after text about how much the suburbs suck. It's a matter of mortality, of the impossibility of a perfect ideal gradually revealed as unattainable. It's compromise. And it's a losing battle worth fighting every inch of the way.
So, sure, like many people, I would like to write the “Great American Novel.” But I don't think I'd enjoy it (or get paid) as much as what I'm planning on doing now. Whether I enjoy that or not is a better fear, but that's a problem for next year.
For now, creative writers (and all of you with ambition), you have my envy. It's not some grave sin to reach for the stars; I sometimes just wish I could talk myself into doing it, too.
Mar 20, 2009
3.20
Of late, in our modest little paper, there have been ripples of discussion regarding the “gay marriage” debate. I was tempted to weigh in with a defense of the thing, but I rather doubt that I’d add anything of substance to the discussion. Nevertheless, I'd like to take a peek at marriage not from the angle of homosexual advocacy (outside of a framing device) but instead from the vantage of contemporary heterosexual attitudes.
Fundamentally, in my opinion, the problem with gay marriage is the problem of the church getting involved in state affairs (so to speak). Marriage is, at once, a social contract, a financial contract, and a religious contract. It is recognized in various laws from taxes to childcare, and it is this realm that is often cited as a foremost concern among advocates of gay marriage. The religious aspect is, in many ways, an unfortunate one because the rights and privileges associated with marriage necessitate religious involvement (or at least invoke a tradition that is seen as religious). The two cannot be easily separated, and the resulting mess shows, yet again, the perils of tying religious matters too close to state matters.
However, it seems to me that the gay marriage debate serves two functions that are not so frequently discussed. One, it serves as a proxy war of homophobia for those too “polite” to openly condemn homosexuality in and of itself (this might be a relatively small portion of those against “gay marriage,” but it's a portion that is difficult to deny). Perhaps more importantly, though, it's a convenient distraction, a way to avoid talking about heterosexual marriage and its gradual deterioration (or, at the very least, change in social status).
The causes are many, of course, but secularization is high on the list. Anecdotally, if anyone I know talks about a wedding, the only matters of importance seem to be the size, cost, or other relatively superficial concerns. I can't really remember the last time “God” was brought up in the context of marriage (by a heterosexual intending to have one, at least).
Actually, I suppose I can. I, like many of my peers, received abstinence only education in high school, a practice which is, at best, questionable in intent and efficacy, with a track record of significant failings whose sole victory is temporarily delaying the inevitable. At worst, abstinence only education turns marriage into a license for sex signed by God or, more literally, a local judge. Either way, abstinence only education has, in my mind, done more to degrade the concept of marriage than gay marriage ever could.
Likewise, easy and frequent divorce is another blow to lofty ideals of marriage (especially among those who would seek to lecture others about the importance of marriage while being unable to follow through on their own). It reveals the folly of devoting an entire life to another person who, like all people, will change and grow, significantly changing from the person to whom you committed to someone else entirely.
So what are we left with? Deprived of God, commitment and significance of love, we have little but a state contract with a few social benefits and a social tool for childrearing. I could go on, but you can see my point that heterosexuals need no help (and, indeed, have never needed it) when it comes to harming ideals of marriage.
One could argue that this is my own interpretation of modern marriage. Even then, if one is to use the logic of many opposed to gay marriage, the way one private group deals with marriage apparently affects the way it is treated across society. And the phenomena I've listed are hardly the exclusive domain of select private groups.
There is some validity to the argument that marriage helps raise children, but even then it is often a lesser of evils rather than a clearly superior alternative.
Ultimately, I'm not of the opinion that these are bad things. As a culture, we are still getting used to the advent of available and effective contraceptives which fundamentally changed the “sex equals babies” equation that has dominated ideas of sexuality since, well, forever.
So, in many respects, we are left with marriage not as the apex of a relationship but merely one step in a long process. However, that long process is increasingly not a negotiation focused on God and forever, but rather a negotiation focused on love and now. Whether this is a superior model remains to be seen, but it seems to be one we’re increasingly stuck with. For better or worse.
Fundamentally, in my opinion, the problem with gay marriage is the problem of the church getting involved in state affairs (so to speak). Marriage is, at once, a social contract, a financial contract, and a religious contract. It is recognized in various laws from taxes to childcare, and it is this realm that is often cited as a foremost concern among advocates of gay marriage. The religious aspect is, in many ways, an unfortunate one because the rights and privileges associated with marriage necessitate religious involvement (or at least invoke a tradition that is seen as religious). The two cannot be easily separated, and the resulting mess shows, yet again, the perils of tying religious matters too close to state matters.
However, it seems to me that the gay marriage debate serves two functions that are not so frequently discussed. One, it serves as a proxy war of homophobia for those too “polite” to openly condemn homosexuality in and of itself (this might be a relatively small portion of those against “gay marriage,” but it's a portion that is difficult to deny). Perhaps more importantly, though, it's a convenient distraction, a way to avoid talking about heterosexual marriage and its gradual deterioration (or, at the very least, change in social status).
The causes are many, of course, but secularization is high on the list. Anecdotally, if anyone I know talks about a wedding, the only matters of importance seem to be the size, cost, or other relatively superficial concerns. I can't really remember the last time “God” was brought up in the context of marriage (by a heterosexual intending to have one, at least).
Actually, I suppose I can. I, like many of my peers, received abstinence only education in high school, a practice which is, at best, questionable in intent and efficacy, with a track record of significant failings whose sole victory is temporarily delaying the inevitable. At worst, abstinence only education turns marriage into a license for sex signed by God or, more literally, a local judge. Either way, abstinence only education has, in my mind, done more to degrade the concept of marriage than gay marriage ever could.
Likewise, easy and frequent divorce is another blow to lofty ideals of marriage (especially among those who would seek to lecture others about the importance of marriage while being unable to follow through on their own). It reveals the folly of devoting an entire life to another person who, like all people, will change and grow, significantly changing from the person to whom you committed to someone else entirely.
So what are we left with? Deprived of God, commitment and significance of love, we have little but a state contract with a few social benefits and a social tool for childrearing. I could go on, but you can see my point that heterosexuals need no help (and, indeed, have never needed it) when it comes to harming ideals of marriage.
One could argue that this is my own interpretation of modern marriage. Even then, if one is to use the logic of many opposed to gay marriage, the way one private group deals with marriage apparently affects the way it is treated across society. And the phenomena I've listed are hardly the exclusive domain of select private groups.
There is some validity to the argument that marriage helps raise children, but even then it is often a lesser of evils rather than a clearly superior alternative.
Ultimately, I'm not of the opinion that these are bad things. As a culture, we are still getting used to the advent of available and effective contraceptives which fundamentally changed the “sex equals babies” equation that has dominated ideas of sexuality since, well, forever.
So, in many respects, we are left with marriage not as the apex of a relationship but merely one step in a long process. However, that long process is increasingly not a negotiation focused on God and forever, but rather a negotiation focused on love and now. Whether this is a superior model remains to be seen, but it seems to be one we’re increasingly stuck with. For better or worse.
Mar 6, 2009
3.22
Continuing my discussion of modern discourse from last week, I’d like to focus on a point I made that may have been lost in the politics. Specifically, the idea that we, as a society, have problems to fix, not battles to win. I’m hardly alone in this critique, but I think it bears mentioning because it’s a point that we continually forget as we’re swept away in polemics and partisans.
I would argue that, more often than not, the goal of our modern discussions is persuasion. Successful persuasion, in many minds, this is equivalent to “victory.” This is somewhat inevitable in a democracy, because if a person changes who or what they intend to vote for, that side literally gets another “check in their column.” In many ways it is comparable to a sporting event, with two sides (at least in our political system) battling it out, pushing and pulling until one eventually wins the tug of popular opinion war.
Indeed, that’s how I began to watch the 2008 elections, as sporting events. The polls went up and down, and my emotions went with them. I knew they didn’t mean much, just like the score in the second quarter of football means little once the fourth quarter ends, but I rode the rollercoaster all the same. One side wins and exults, the other nurses its wounds and vows to show Tim Tebo- er, Barack Obama who’s boss next time.
Even the way we’re taught essay writing and argumentation lends itself to less emphasis on “truth” and more emphasis on method and entertainment appeal. “There are no wrong answers, just poor arguments” goes the teacher’s refrain, and we take this to heart. I know I’ve written essays where my sole purpose has been to argue a point I don’t entirely believe or agree because I have to for an assignment. Pages of wishy-washy nuance aren’t helpful while writing a 45-minute essay, and the result is, in common parlance, little but “B.S.” in terms of content and value.
Comparably, in debate teams (one of the few outlets of intellectual challenge in some high schools, aside from the trivial pursuits of quiz bowls), the focus is on argumentative technique, not on ascertaining “the truth.” The person who makes the best argument wins.
This mentality carries over into popular culture. Political talk shows meant to inform generally devolve into any given program putting on a Democrat and a Republican and saying “go at it, our job here is done!” It is a contest, a war that may not have a clear victor but with no doubt that little but fighting is going on.
Such a framing of debate was famously skewered when Jon Stewart went on the now defunct Crossfire and pointed out the absurdity of having people yell at each other for an hour and then claiming “we’re informed!” Two sides do not an accurate understanding make.
Indeed, some (arguably many) people have little interest in “the truth;” they simply want to be right. Or rather, they want to feel as if they’re right. This leads to an embrace of Stephen Colbert’s illustrious “truthiness:” the idea that if something feels right, it must be right. As a result, we have situations where individuals are convinced of the rightness of their ideas before debate even occurs, leading to the aforementioned battles and focus on style and persuasion.
Unfortunately, a successful alternative is something of a tough sell (so to speak) when profit, not providing information, is the primary motivator and arguably necessary supporting evil for popular news and discourse facilitators.
I can't help myself, though, in wanting a world where individuals were humble enough to doubt they could ever completely know “truth” but ambitious enough to constantly seek it. A discourse that was satisfied with “I don't know, but I'm eager to learn” as an acceptable alternative to an opinion itching for a fight. A level of debate that was about mutual exploration and growth, not a vicious desire to assert one's own opinion as dominant and inescapable.
In this ideal, two people meet for discussion with the intent of mutual growth, not of proving something or arguing for the sake of arguing. One person offers their view, the other offers theirs, the views counter, critique, augment each other, growing and challenging but not, as a matter a purpose, defeating each other.
Such a wish is, admittedly, unrealistic and, ultimately, unlikely to prove more “productive” than what we have. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't, at least occasionally, give such changes a try.
I would argue that, more often than not, the goal of our modern discussions is persuasion. Successful persuasion, in many minds, this is equivalent to “victory.” This is somewhat inevitable in a democracy, because if a person changes who or what they intend to vote for, that side literally gets another “check in their column.” In many ways it is comparable to a sporting event, with two sides (at least in our political system) battling it out, pushing and pulling until one eventually wins the tug of popular opinion war.
Indeed, that’s how I began to watch the 2008 elections, as sporting events. The polls went up and down, and my emotions went with them. I knew they didn’t mean much, just like the score in the second quarter of football means little once the fourth quarter ends, but I rode the rollercoaster all the same. One side wins and exults, the other nurses its wounds and vows to show Tim Tebo- er, Barack Obama who’s boss next time.
Even the way we’re taught essay writing and argumentation lends itself to less emphasis on “truth” and more emphasis on method and entertainment appeal. “There are no wrong answers, just poor arguments” goes the teacher’s refrain, and we take this to heart. I know I’ve written essays where my sole purpose has been to argue a point I don’t entirely believe or agree because I have to for an assignment. Pages of wishy-washy nuance aren’t helpful while writing a 45-minute essay, and the result is, in common parlance, little but “B.S.” in terms of content and value.
Comparably, in debate teams (one of the few outlets of intellectual challenge in some high schools, aside from the trivial pursuits of quiz bowls), the focus is on argumentative technique, not on ascertaining “the truth.” The person who makes the best argument wins.
This mentality carries over into popular culture. Political talk shows meant to inform generally devolve into any given program putting on a Democrat and a Republican and saying “go at it, our job here is done!” It is a contest, a war that may not have a clear victor but with no doubt that little but fighting is going on.
Such a framing of debate was famously skewered when Jon Stewart went on the now defunct Crossfire and pointed out the absurdity of having people yell at each other for an hour and then claiming “we’re informed!” Two sides do not an accurate understanding make.
Indeed, some (arguably many) people have little interest in “the truth;” they simply want to be right. Or rather, they want to feel as if they’re right. This leads to an embrace of Stephen Colbert’s illustrious “truthiness:” the idea that if something feels right, it must be right. As a result, we have situations where individuals are convinced of the rightness of their ideas before debate even occurs, leading to the aforementioned battles and focus on style and persuasion.
Unfortunately, a successful alternative is something of a tough sell (so to speak) when profit, not providing information, is the primary motivator and arguably necessary supporting evil for popular news and discourse facilitators.
I can't help myself, though, in wanting a world where individuals were humble enough to doubt they could ever completely know “truth” but ambitious enough to constantly seek it. A discourse that was satisfied with “I don't know, but I'm eager to learn” as an acceptable alternative to an opinion itching for a fight. A level of debate that was about mutual exploration and growth, not a vicious desire to assert one's own opinion as dominant and inescapable.
In this ideal, two people meet for discussion with the intent of mutual growth, not of proving something or arguing for the sake of arguing. One person offers their view, the other offers theirs, the views counter, critique, augment each other, growing and challenging but not, as a matter a purpose, defeating each other.
Such a wish is, admittedly, unrealistic and, ultimately, unlikely to prove more “productive” than what we have. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't, at least occasionally, give such changes a try.
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