My family and I just returned from seeing the movie Avatar and I have to say that in spite of being thoroughly entertained I was also slightly disturbed. And as I write this blog I find myself still trying to work out why. So in an effort to make this discovery I will begin with the obvious. Everything about this movie from the smallest detail had “ginormous budget” written all over it. I will admit from my pedestrian point of view that most of the money was tastefully spent. This movie my finance’ likes to remind me was the most expensive movie ever made. This and the fact that I couldn’t get tickets to see it until tonight are what really made me want to see what all the fuss was about. When I finally saw it I began to realize that it was not only quite entertaining, but it was also an exercise in audacity (more on this later). I reached this conclusion right around the first half hour when the plot was revealed. I thought to myself this is Dances with Wolves in outer space. It was the story of how one colonist with a moral dilemma decided to take pity on a thriving yet clearly different civilization from his own. In the process he falls in love and decides to save it from his evil countrymen who are only concerned with the profit that comes from robbing the land of its natural resources at the expense of the mortal and spiritual lives of its inhabitants. Sound familiar?
With that being said however, I have to give respect where it is due. Cameron did an excellent job of including all the ingredients of a good science fiction story. He demonstrated yet again that there is and always will be an ongoing struggle between the forces of industry, the military and science and the values of simple folk. Of course the savior of this civilization always finds out that these simple folk aren’t that simple at all. The problem that I always have with these stories is that savior always ends up being braver, nobler and in the end more spiritually enlightened than the men of the society who have lived there for centuries. He also in the process emasculates the native who is next in line for the coveted position of leader AND gets his girl to boot! Maybe I’m just being picky here but there seems to be something slightly wrong with this motif.
These are some of the obvious splinters that I stumbled across on the road to deciphering this flick. However, the most disturbing blow that Cameron and his cohorts dealt was one that many won’t even feel. If the devil has any thing to do with Hollywood, (and those of us who believe in the devil know that he does) he is most definitely gloating right now at how often humanity chooses comfort and entertainment over change. I overheard two guys having a conversation about the movie at its conclusion. They were questioning the morals of a film which motivates its viewers to cheer for the “good guys” when in fact the good guys happened to be aliens from outer space slaughtering American soldiers. These people prior to viewing this movie probably didn’t know the amazing parallels it would make to real life soldiers in real life wars and will probably choose to conveniently forget by the time there heads hit their pillows. I also had a conversation that was directly aimed at me at the end of the movie. Some random stranger announced “I guess since the natives in this movie stood up for themselves everything’s ok now” and as a response to the confusion on my face explained that she was of course sarcastically referring to the bloody history of colonialism in this country. As I listened I found my self wondering how much of her sarcasm might be the remedy for a guilty conscience. At this point when I began to acknowledge my own sarcasm internally, I reached the conclusion that she and I were no different than the people having the first conversation. We have been given the luxury of dealing with the atrocities of war via Hollywood and in 3D! And whenever we find it necessary we can and will forget. Which is why Hollywood can audaciously release a movie which indirectly gives the message that maybe every once in a while Americans do some fucked up shit but since they only really want to be entertained with special effects and shit it won’t cause too much controversy. And even if it does all anyone will ever do is talk or maybe blog about it. The devil is always in the details but his greatest trick has always been to convince us that they don’t exist. I mean after all Avatar is just movie right?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
WTF!!??
This is something I picked up on Salon.com. I'm interested
in what folks think. I think how I feel is pretty obvious.
Editor:
Updated: TodayTopic:
Facebook Sunday, Nov 29, 2009 18:01 PST
Facebook, the mean girls and me
At 34 years old, I finally feel like a popular seventh-grader. How sad is that?
By Taffy Brodesser-Akner
I sit at my computer and wait for Barbara, who once poured yogurt on my head in front of the entire field hockey team, to tell me the details of her breakup with her current boyfriend. While I wait, I chat with Alison, who, years ago, stole my pants during gym and cut a hole in the crotch area, and who needs advice on how to sleep-train her baby. Still, while all this is going on, I play online Scrabble with Rachel, who, when I was 12, told everyone I had faked getting my period for attention.
I am someone with a life. I have a career, a son, a husband, an active volunteer life, and many current and real-life friendships that need maintenance. I have a work deadline in three hours, plus dinner isn’t ready. The laundry remains unlaundered. Why, then, am I sitting at my computer, concerned to distraction over the activities of the people who were cruelest to me during my formative years?
They weren’t always horrible to me. I loved fifth and sixth grades. I had a clique of friends, complete with secret nicknames, passed notes, knowing looks, friendship bracelets, friendship pens, friendship songs. We moved through the school as a group and took turns slumber-partying at each other’s houses.
We traded the title "best friend" regularly among different pairings in our group. Nancy and Barbara had spent two weeks together in Nantucket over the summer, and though Nancy and I had been best friends prior to that, apparently they had decided that their time had come to be best friends. They made this announcement to me via conference call the week before school started. I took it OK; after all, I’d been meaning to get to know Amy better.
Late in sixth grade, something changed, and I wasn’t a part of it. One day, all my friends came in with matching training bras. “I didn’t know we were getting bras,” I said. They looked at each other, a shared glance I used to be on the comfy side of, and my heart sank with the unspoken answer: We weren’t. They were.
Seventh grade began, and I found out we had grown out of things like changing best friends. I met a girl named Emily who had transferred to our school. After a good day of getting to know her, I asked if she wanted to be best friends. “You’re such a loser,” she spat. I looked around one day, and my group of friends had wandered away. Adults like to generalize and say things like, “Aren’t kids cruel?” But we kids, the ones who are left out in the cold, have a role in what happens to us. Not necessarily a fair one, but the facts of our unpopularity are not mysterious. We get fat, we say the wrong thing, we wear outdated clothing. Me, I was too needy. Long after my friends stopped needing superlative titles to know how much they meant to each other, I still did.
I did not go quietly into that lonely and unpopular night. Each morning, I tried to assume a casual air of friendship. Big mistake. My efforts backfired, and my former friends’ apathy toward me turned to hatred. Soon, I was not just ignored at school. I was tripped as I came out of the shower. People made flatulent noises when I sat down in class. My locker was magic-markered with the word "loser." We are tempted to remember this behavior and make light of it. Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad, we said. But I remember it well. It was that bad.
Now, all these years later, there’s Facebook, allowing us to put the past to rest, to erase the mystery that used to be inherent in the subject of wondering whatever happened to those people you once knew.
After accumulating college friends and ex-boyfriends, as we all do when we join Facebook, I took a chance and looked up Barbara. With the nervousness that accompanied me on every bus trip to school following my fall from grace, I pressed the button that would send her a friend request. Immediately, I received confirmation: She had agreed, finally, to be my friend. Brave now, I found Alison, then Amy, then Nancy. I was euphoric. Here I am, back in the inner sanctum. I sort through their pictures, their posts, their lives. I cheer their triumphs, their babies’ birthdays, photos from their ski trips. I cobble together the story of how life has been since we knew each other, deliberately, forcefully forgetting how it was we parted.
I check their updates and their statuses with eagerness each day. Like an addict, I am euphoric when I am practicing my addiction, remorseful and self-hating when I’m not. I am shocked at how easily I have forgiven these people. I am filled with the warm light of acceptance; I am wrapped in the cozy blanket of belonging.
In my imagination, my old clique’s renewed friendship tells me that they know they were wrong, that they were just being cruel. They’re sorry, they say with every LOL or emoticon. We were wrong, they say when they press the "like" button on my status update. If I’m honest, I bet they don’t think about it. I bet they regard me as a name that is familiar -- a new person in their lives, more than an old one.
There is no way to go back in time and undo things -- not the insults, not the humiliations. We can pretend some events never happened, though we are always still a little plagued. But, sometimes, we can also find a way to make what happened in the past right. I’m not saying you can do that with everything that haunts your past. But some things, you can. Maybe the way women in the '90s took back the word "bitch," calling themselves and each other by the ugly slur so that it wouldn’t hold power when men said it, maybe that’s what I’m doing with my former friends.
Why do you need to be loved by people who rejected you a hundred years ago, asks my husband, though I have explained it. He believes I have Stockholm syndrome, that I have fallen in love with my torturers. I tell him that these are just old friends, that I’m over it, that it’s nice to be in touch with a piece of my past. But I’m not exactly over it, am I? What I am, though, is someone who has finally found a way to put my life’s ugliest social chapter to rest. Maybe I didn’t come by it the honest way -- through a true reckoning with my past, a fearless inventory of what happened that year and why I can't get over it. But who is to say that we shouldn’t try to find peace any way we can? Who says it always has to be so hard?
Whatever my intention was when I contacted my former friends, it’s different now. I no longer want validation; I no longer am testing the waters to see if they now find me worth their time. These women are not who I thought they’d be. They’re people having a hard time in the economy, people who are struggling through their days, their relationships. I don’t have enough in common with them to think that, had we not fallen out, our friendships would have survived. But here, now, I am someone who also struggles with these things. I have stretched across a social divide that was narrower than I thought, and I found community where I least expected it. Am I pathetic? Maybe. But what I also am, finally, is a popular seventh-grader. I think of my younger self, eating her lunch alone, wondering when this agony will be over. I wish I could tell her I haven't forgotten about her. I wish I could tell her I've made it OK.
in what folks think. I think how I feel is pretty obvious.
Editor:
Updated: TodayTopic:
Facebook Sunday, Nov 29, 2009 18:01 PST
Facebook, the mean girls and me
At 34 years old, I finally feel like a popular seventh-grader. How sad is that?
By Taffy Brodesser-Akner
I sit at my computer and wait for Barbara, who once poured yogurt on my head in front of the entire field hockey team, to tell me the details of her breakup with her current boyfriend. While I wait, I chat with Alison, who, years ago, stole my pants during gym and cut a hole in the crotch area, and who needs advice on how to sleep-train her baby. Still, while all this is going on, I play online Scrabble with Rachel, who, when I was 12, told everyone I had faked getting my period for attention.
I am someone with a life. I have a career, a son, a husband, an active volunteer life, and many current and real-life friendships that need maintenance. I have a work deadline in three hours, plus dinner isn’t ready. The laundry remains unlaundered. Why, then, am I sitting at my computer, concerned to distraction over the activities of the people who were cruelest to me during my formative years?
They weren’t always horrible to me. I loved fifth and sixth grades. I had a clique of friends, complete with secret nicknames, passed notes, knowing looks, friendship bracelets, friendship pens, friendship songs. We moved through the school as a group and took turns slumber-partying at each other’s houses.
We traded the title "best friend" regularly among different pairings in our group. Nancy and Barbara had spent two weeks together in Nantucket over the summer, and though Nancy and I had been best friends prior to that, apparently they had decided that their time had come to be best friends. They made this announcement to me via conference call the week before school started. I took it OK; after all, I’d been meaning to get to know Amy better.
Late in sixth grade, something changed, and I wasn’t a part of it. One day, all my friends came in with matching training bras. “I didn’t know we were getting bras,” I said. They looked at each other, a shared glance I used to be on the comfy side of, and my heart sank with the unspoken answer: We weren’t. They were.
Seventh grade began, and I found out we had grown out of things like changing best friends. I met a girl named Emily who had transferred to our school. After a good day of getting to know her, I asked if she wanted to be best friends. “You’re such a loser,” she spat. I looked around one day, and my group of friends had wandered away. Adults like to generalize and say things like, “Aren’t kids cruel?” But we kids, the ones who are left out in the cold, have a role in what happens to us. Not necessarily a fair one, but the facts of our unpopularity are not mysterious. We get fat, we say the wrong thing, we wear outdated clothing. Me, I was too needy. Long after my friends stopped needing superlative titles to know how much they meant to each other, I still did.
I did not go quietly into that lonely and unpopular night. Each morning, I tried to assume a casual air of friendship. Big mistake. My efforts backfired, and my former friends’ apathy toward me turned to hatred. Soon, I was not just ignored at school. I was tripped as I came out of the shower. People made flatulent noises when I sat down in class. My locker was magic-markered with the word "loser." We are tempted to remember this behavior and make light of it. Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad, we said. But I remember it well. It was that bad.
Now, all these years later, there’s Facebook, allowing us to put the past to rest, to erase the mystery that used to be inherent in the subject of wondering whatever happened to those people you once knew.
After accumulating college friends and ex-boyfriends, as we all do when we join Facebook, I took a chance and looked up Barbara. With the nervousness that accompanied me on every bus trip to school following my fall from grace, I pressed the button that would send her a friend request. Immediately, I received confirmation: She had agreed, finally, to be my friend. Brave now, I found Alison, then Amy, then Nancy. I was euphoric. Here I am, back in the inner sanctum. I sort through their pictures, their posts, their lives. I cheer their triumphs, their babies’ birthdays, photos from their ski trips. I cobble together the story of how life has been since we knew each other, deliberately, forcefully forgetting how it was we parted.
I check their updates and their statuses with eagerness each day. Like an addict, I am euphoric when I am practicing my addiction, remorseful and self-hating when I’m not. I am shocked at how easily I have forgiven these people. I am filled with the warm light of acceptance; I am wrapped in the cozy blanket of belonging.
In my imagination, my old clique’s renewed friendship tells me that they know they were wrong, that they were just being cruel. They’re sorry, they say with every LOL or emoticon. We were wrong, they say when they press the "like" button on my status update. If I’m honest, I bet they don’t think about it. I bet they regard me as a name that is familiar -- a new person in their lives, more than an old one.
There is no way to go back in time and undo things -- not the insults, not the humiliations. We can pretend some events never happened, though we are always still a little plagued. But, sometimes, we can also find a way to make what happened in the past right. I’m not saying you can do that with everything that haunts your past. But some things, you can. Maybe the way women in the '90s took back the word "bitch," calling themselves and each other by the ugly slur so that it wouldn’t hold power when men said it, maybe that’s what I’m doing with my former friends.
Why do you need to be loved by people who rejected you a hundred years ago, asks my husband, though I have explained it. He believes I have Stockholm syndrome, that I have fallen in love with my torturers. I tell him that these are just old friends, that I’m over it, that it’s nice to be in touch with a piece of my past. But I’m not exactly over it, am I? What I am, though, is someone who has finally found a way to put my life’s ugliest social chapter to rest. Maybe I didn’t come by it the honest way -- through a true reckoning with my past, a fearless inventory of what happened that year and why I can't get over it. But who is to say that we shouldn’t try to find peace any way we can? Who says it always has to be so hard?
Whatever my intention was when I contacted my former friends, it’s different now. I no longer want validation; I no longer am testing the waters to see if they now find me worth their time. These women are not who I thought they’d be. They’re people having a hard time in the economy, people who are struggling through their days, their relationships. I don’t have enough in common with them to think that, had we not fallen out, our friendships would have survived. But here, now, I am someone who also struggles with these things. I have stretched across a social divide that was narrower than I thought, and I found community where I least expected it. Am I pathetic? Maybe. But what I also am, finally, is a popular seventh-grader. I think of my younger self, eating her lunch alone, wondering when this agony will be over. I wish I could tell her I haven't forgotten about her. I wish I could tell her I've made it OK.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
What if...
What if a person could gain intimate knowledge of his neighbor by the simple act of sniffing his arse. I know it sounds kind of odd, but we have become a nation that is so completely obsessed with decorum in the midst of utter chaos, that it would be interesting to see how we would react if we could suddenly bring peace to the world by simply mimicking cats and dogs. And since I have never seen a poodle drop a bomb on a pit bull, I would say that they must be doing something right. I know it sounds crazy but what if sometime in 1000A.D. some king decreed that arse sniffing was uncivilized and that those who were caught doing it would be burned at the stake. I think that would be enough to make me walk upright. And maybe this king made this decree because he knew that performing this act would be the alternative to war and atrocities which would bare him more profit than peace on earth and decided that he and his knights would be the only ones worthy of the infinite wisdom that arse sniffing yielded. Therefore, it is possible that every high official in government who went to an ivy league school was in an arse sniffing fraternity and if they were ever caught sharing their arse sniffing secrets would be assassinated. Who knows? Maybe Kennedy was an arse sniffer who decided to blow the whistle on the whole arse sniffing conspiracy and was silenced in Dallas on that fateful day.
Just think if arse sniffing was legal, women would be sayin' shit like: I'm sorry, I don't arse sniff on the first date. And men would be sayin' "but I bought you dinner at an expensive restaurant, I think that deserves at least one arse sniffing"!? When applying for jobs, employers would not only require references and a credit check but a healthy sniff as well. (of course any use of tongue would be considered sexual harassment). On prom night fathers could put away their shot guns and sniff their daughter's dates instead. But would they? Absolutely not!
It seems that most of the masses are quite content with their mediocrity. Everybody says that they want infinite peace and wisdom but they'd rather not have to sniff arse to get it. What is confusing about this realization is now I don't know whether or not to be proud of the masses because of it.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Word
Yesterday A student asked me why he had to learn English "if that's what we speak". It took me a day to articulate it but I came to the realization that speaking and writing is how we not only survive but evolve as a species. And since we speak English it is essential that we speak and write it well. If we cannot successfully express ourselves than we are subject to insanity. Nations live and die by the word. If we were never given the chance to hear King, Kennedy or Obama speak, they would only be mere men instead of the icons they have become. There are some who say that actions speak louder than words but people are called to action by the words of passionate and articulate men and women alike. Even if the words are "boy you ain't ever gonna amount to nothin" there are those who will be motivated to prove otherwise. Positive words just make such motivations easier to realize.
This goes out to all of the hard working people out there who sometimes can't find the words to express the fear, frustration and uncertainty that you feel in these challenging times. I personally have faith that you will find them. And when you do, make sure they are motivated by hope and love.
Here's to you and here's to "the word".
This goes out to all of the hard working people out there who sometimes can't find the words to express the fear, frustration and uncertainty that you feel in these challenging times. I personally have faith that you will find them. And when you do, make sure they are motivated by hope and love.
Here's to you and here's to "the word".
Thursday, November 12, 2009
'nuthin tragic...just news
If there is an art to being a grown up, I still have yet to master it. About 4 months ago when Devasha and I were finally closing on our new home it seemed as if our moment of Zen was approaching, but then the bills came and the promise of future bills followed. It was as if the issues that come with adulthood tapped us on our shoulders and with a wink and a smile informed us that the fun was just beginning. The good news is that nothing tragic has happened (knock on wood). Now don’t get me wrong. I am in no way wishing for tragic events to unfold. I am only acknowledging the fact that with the issues that come with home ownership one must always be mindful that stress is what comes with trying to make house a home. Anguish is what comes when that mission fails. There is something surreal about getting an astronomical bill for something that you have never had to pay for like water. The good news is that I now have a greater appreciation for water. My friend Sol put it best: “This stuff is just news…if it ain’t tragic news, it’s just news” even if it means I have to pay a high ass water bill, it’s just news; even if it means that because of said water bill I can’t buy the treadmill and the new snowboard equipment I wanted, it’s just news. . He also reminded me that sometimes even the most beautiful news can come with its own brand of stress. Hint: It’s the kind of news that can make a person both excited and terrified at the same time and takes 9 months to arrive (ok I will now pause for applause). Lucky for me all I have to do is to be stressed. The other stuff is all on Devasha (bless her heart). Maybe she can write her own blog on that subject. I’m sure she would do a much better job than I could ever hope to.
The last time I embarked on this journey to fatherhood my stress was from a more selfish place. I wondered how I could handle all of the challenges of being a father and still maintain a sense of self. My daughter Autumn came on the scene when I was sure I was on the road to being a rock star. I was hell bent on making every moment an adventure whether it was traveling, meeting new people or taking more personal journeys internally with the help of a cookie or two. I have since learned that being a dad is a quest unlike any I have ever experienced. Every moment I live now no matter how mundane is a fight against mediocrity. The demons, goblins and fire breathing dragons that I battle now are fiercest when I am most fatigued. Only a dad can know how tough it is to help a child with her homework after a long day’s work when all he wants to do is crack open a cold one and watch T.V. In fact, I’m STILL working on that one! Lucky for me we have a DVR. Now if I could just keep the cable on everything will be golden. And if not, it’s just news.
The last time I embarked on this journey to fatherhood my stress was from a more selfish place. I wondered how I could handle all of the challenges of being a father and still maintain a sense of self. My daughter Autumn came on the scene when I was sure I was on the road to being a rock star. I was hell bent on making every moment an adventure whether it was traveling, meeting new people or taking more personal journeys internally with the help of a cookie or two. I have since learned that being a dad is a quest unlike any I have ever experienced. Every moment I live now no matter how mundane is a fight against mediocrity. The demons, goblins and fire breathing dragons that I battle now are fiercest when I am most fatigued. Only a dad can know how tough it is to help a child with her homework after a long day’s work when all he wants to do is crack open a cold one and watch T.V. In fact, I’m STILL working on that one! Lucky for me we have a DVR. Now if I could just keep the cable on everything will be golden. And if not, it’s just news.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Comic rant to be continued...
Every angel is a potential devil whenever the devil calls him a bitch ass. Whenever I read a Superman or Batman comic I find The Joker or Lex Luthor in so many words taunting their enemies with the same idea: "The two of you are bitches because you are too scared to do anything for yourselves". And whenever you do you end up feeling extremely guilty about it. Even though Bats plays this rouge/playboy role, secretly he's not really having any fun at all. The funny thing is The Joker knows that somewhere within his arch enemies' heart there is some regret that he can't live a normal life. So he taunts him and in so many words calls him a bitch every time. I think I would laugh my ass off if some writer in the comic universe allowed The Joker to call him a bitch. It would be classic because most readers know that this is what he was thinking and doing all along. Lex on the other hand would take a much more refined approach. He'd probably never say it but his assistant Mercy probably would.
Ok so I guess it's evident now that I have a fixation with super heroes. I guess the most interesting thing about them is that in reality they're not that super, especially when you put them in the most modern of contexts. In this land of smart phones and i-pods which have made people almost sinfully self absorbed, a heroes story would grow to be a little insignificant, especially after CNN is done with it. I guess this why I'm so fascinated with comics. It takes a special kind of writer to create characters such as these specifically because they are freaks. And the most freakish thing about them is their undying optimism even when the enemy calling them a punk ass.
Ok so I guess it's evident now that I have a fixation with super heroes. I guess the most interesting thing about them is that in reality they're not that super, especially when you put them in the most modern of contexts. In this land of smart phones and i-pods which have made people almost sinfully self absorbed, a heroes story would grow to be a little insignificant, especially after CNN is done with it. I guess this why I'm so fascinated with comics. It takes a special kind of writer to create characters such as these specifically because they are freaks. And the most freakish thing about them is their undying optimism even when the enemy calling them a punk ass.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Genius of Imperfection
"Better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven"
- J. Milton Paradise Lost
Let us assume that there is a god. Let us also assume for the sake of argument that this god is a perfect god. From this premise it could be deduced that in an imperfect world populated by individuals who each in their own unique way fall short of perfection, our very existence is an act of genius (more on this later). As I gaze across my classroom observing my anxious students toiling through an exam this notion is quite evident. Every day I watch these young men and women who have been labeled special ed. struggle with the fact that they are not perfect. Because of this often debilitating concept their study habits, concept of time and outright desire to attend school suffers on a daily basis. This is all because somewhere during their development someone informed them of their imperfections in very harsh ways. In fact, they are constantly informed not only by outside influences but in their subconscious minds. I have one student in my 8th period class who blatantly, reports to class late, and when he arrives makes it his mission to be especially disruptive. When I asked him the reason for this destructive routine he replied that he might as well have fun now because he may die tomorrow. He is only 15.
What this student unwittingly described is the dilemma of human existence on a very basic level. Imperfection has been the engine that drives us since the invention of the wheel. It constantly places us mortals on opposite sides of a dichotomy where we are forced to strive for our highest good or be content with mediocrity. For example, each day I wake up and do 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups to start my morning. This routine stems from my drive to be as aesthetically perfect as possible. Although I know that this is impossible, I achieve solace in the very process of it because helps me feel a sense of order (even if it is an illusion) to my life. Some would say that this is a fruitless venture because sooner or later age will catch up to me and I will eventually look like a man who has become comfortable with his own physical existence, which is a solace of a different kind. On a larger scale this example could also be applied to a monk who meditates for hours at time and lives a life of temperance and necessity. This type of existence is of course a far cry from the average person whose mind is steeped in western thought. We could also apply this example to the more (ahem) respectable professions of our society such as medicine, law or finance. At the purest level, the major element that these professions share is that not only do they have the ability to inspire but to deter as well almost unwittingly. For example, the drive and discipline that is needed to be successful in the professional arena is of no consequence to my 15 year old student. In fact, in his mind, it is all just a waste of time.
The genius of this dichotomy is that societies have been run by it for centuries. Our society, which is probably one of the best examples, is predicated on the pursuit of happiness [or perfection] and the contentment of mediocrity. Those of us who pursue perfection/happiness get to manipulate those of us who don’t. Although he may be fully aware what side of the dichotomy he is on, what my student doesn’t know is that his reluctance to reach perfection creates a crisis. Crisis is a by-product of mediocrity and is what fuels the engine of this society. The crisis of illiteracy is what pays my salary and could potentially pay the salaries of the alternative school that may accept him if he continues on his current path, the public defender who could potentially defend him if he decides to commit a crime, the staff of the penal system if he is convicted and countless others whose primary purpose is to serve and profit from the imperfect. And since we are all imperfect someone always gets paid.
On a more personal level, i.e. my obsession with push-ups, we also stand the risk of disillusionment and boredom when we don’t pursue personal goals of perfection. We then fall into the routine of creating our own personal hells in which issues of self-esteem and lack of self-actualization come in to play. It is possible that my student has learned how to make the best of his hell. It is possible that he is the classic example of the Miltonian demon in the above quote who is content with his current position in life. It is also possible that many of us have become slaves to the pursuit of perfection and if you asked him, he is free. If so, then I suppose this perfect god of ours truly blesses the imperfect perfectly.
- J. Milton Paradise Lost
Let us assume that there is a god. Let us also assume for the sake of argument that this god is a perfect god. From this premise it could be deduced that in an imperfect world populated by individuals who each in their own unique way fall short of perfection, our very existence is an act of genius (more on this later). As I gaze across my classroom observing my anxious students toiling through an exam this notion is quite evident. Every day I watch these young men and women who have been labeled special ed. struggle with the fact that they are not perfect. Because of this often debilitating concept their study habits, concept of time and outright desire to attend school suffers on a daily basis. This is all because somewhere during their development someone informed them of their imperfections in very harsh ways. In fact, they are constantly informed not only by outside influences but in their subconscious minds. I have one student in my 8th period class who blatantly, reports to class late, and when he arrives makes it his mission to be especially disruptive. When I asked him the reason for this destructive routine he replied that he might as well have fun now because he may die tomorrow. He is only 15.
What this student unwittingly described is the dilemma of human existence on a very basic level. Imperfection has been the engine that drives us since the invention of the wheel. It constantly places us mortals on opposite sides of a dichotomy where we are forced to strive for our highest good or be content with mediocrity. For example, each day I wake up and do 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups to start my morning. This routine stems from my drive to be as aesthetically perfect as possible. Although I know that this is impossible, I achieve solace in the very process of it because helps me feel a sense of order (even if it is an illusion) to my life. Some would say that this is a fruitless venture because sooner or later age will catch up to me and I will eventually look like a man who has become comfortable with his own physical existence, which is a solace of a different kind. On a larger scale this example could also be applied to a monk who meditates for hours at time and lives a life of temperance and necessity. This type of existence is of course a far cry from the average person whose mind is steeped in western thought. We could also apply this example to the more (ahem) respectable professions of our society such as medicine, law or finance. At the purest level, the major element that these professions share is that not only do they have the ability to inspire but to deter as well almost unwittingly. For example, the drive and discipline that is needed to be successful in the professional arena is of no consequence to my 15 year old student. In fact, in his mind, it is all just a waste of time.
The genius of this dichotomy is that societies have been run by it for centuries. Our society, which is probably one of the best examples, is predicated on the pursuit of happiness [or perfection] and the contentment of mediocrity. Those of us who pursue perfection/happiness get to manipulate those of us who don’t. Although he may be fully aware what side of the dichotomy he is on, what my student doesn’t know is that his reluctance to reach perfection creates a crisis. Crisis is a by-product of mediocrity and is what fuels the engine of this society. The crisis of illiteracy is what pays my salary and could potentially pay the salaries of the alternative school that may accept him if he continues on his current path, the public defender who could potentially defend him if he decides to commit a crime, the staff of the penal system if he is convicted and countless others whose primary purpose is to serve and profit from the imperfect. And since we are all imperfect someone always gets paid.
On a more personal level, i.e. my obsession with push-ups, we also stand the risk of disillusionment and boredom when we don’t pursue personal goals of perfection. We then fall into the routine of creating our own personal hells in which issues of self-esteem and lack of self-actualization come in to play. It is possible that my student has learned how to make the best of his hell. It is possible that he is the classic example of the Miltonian demon in the above quote who is content with his current position in life. It is also possible that many of us have become slaves to the pursuit of perfection and if you asked him, he is free. If so, then I suppose this perfect god of ours truly blesses the imperfect perfectly.
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