Underemployed and Inarticulate

Earlier this week, an academic acquaintance of mine made a passing joke about a plot for a new television drama, parodying Breaking Bad, that follows "the story of an uninsured English adjunct who gets a terminal diagnosis and then starts cranking out really bad free verse that no one will publish. He'll die in the first season, underemployed and inarticulate." It takes being within the adjunct ranks to appreciate the subtle, stinging humor behind such lampooning. Such a boring, repetitive plot would be abysmally terrible viewing for anyone not suffering from some sort of long-term memory disorder. But I'm also a tremendous aficionado of scathing, self-deprecating humor. It's the primary reason why I love Woody Allen films and it's the most consistent critique of myself that my closest friends vocalize to my face.

While trying to justify my lot in life through comically bad poetry would make for absurd black comedy (think Louie without the reprieve of occasional stand-up sequences), the universe also delivered a much darker plot to my virtual doorstep this week. Margaret Mary Vojtko, an 83 year-old adjunct in French at Duquesne University, died on September 1st after a 25-year university teaching career. Normally, such a story wouldn't be cause for much notice, but Vojtko's story is different because of the conditions of her life just before death. Despite her long service to her university employer, she died penniless, trying to recover from cancer while on the verge of being turned over to social services. With no benefits and no retirement, she was virtually homeless while still serving as a college professor. You can read more about her story here. It's a sad affair, filled with a stunning lack of gratitude or an abundance of pointless hand-wringing, depending on one's personal perspective. It also reminds me of one possible fate, were I to stay the current course and sail onward into the sunset.

Her story motivates parts of my soul to rise up with the other lumpenprofessoriat and demand more gratitude from our employers. It also motivates another part of me to pull up the tent stakes I've carefully hammered in place and move on to more fertile tracts of land. Aside from those large scale, life-altering contemplations, such a story gives me pause for reflection. Our lives, which we spend so much time carefully and meticulously constructing, look very different to outside observers. Some might see the potential for self-referential laughter, where we all chuckle nervously when the humor hits a little too close to home. Some might see the unfolding struggle of a lonely soul, impossibly disadvantaged by decisions that didn't work out, against the cold, monumental indifference of reality. Some might see nothing of value whatsoever, while others might settle into earnest fandom. Whatever the audience's response is to the performance of our lives, it's almost certainly not quite what we're hoping the play will engender.

That statement, depressing though it may seem, is a subtle reminder of the folly of trying to live to make the audience fall in love with you. They will or they won't. You cannot control their reaction to or interest in your life any more than they can yours. The true answer is to play the scene you're in as well as you can, in the best way you know how. In the spirit of that, and in the spirit of cranking out really bad free verse that no one will publish, I think I'll share something I've kicked around lately. I make no claims to its relative quality and I don't expect anyone to like it or critique it. With my spouse's birthday coming and going this weekend, I feel like it's appropriate to share something about the best gifts we've ever given each other. Judge all you like and feel free to make snide, clever remarks to your heart's content. I'll be here, playing the scene I'm in the best way I know how. Here's hoping this isn't a herald of my impending doom.



BEHOLDEN

I cannot imagine loving more
Any other souls, ancient or potential,
In a more pure, unspoiled way
Than I love both of you.

Yet I know, undoubtedly,
Your ever-flowing streams and

Your delicate blackbird wings

Will carry you to places I cannot conceive.

So I enjoy the momentary respite
When you babble and run past my tree and
When you bring bright blue ribbons
To my dull, grey nest.

Stay longer, sing longer, be not so quick
To devour my admiration so fully and
To flee, fat-bellied and pleased,
Without kissing me goodbye.

Carpe Calamum

In a recent conversation, a colleague of mine stated that he had already grown weary of "these Generation Y Millennials" because they're all "self-absorbed, over-privileged narcissists." Aside from a litany of criticisms about work ethic, unrealistic expectations, and obsessive parents, he also derided Generation Y for their incessant blog posts and status updates that pose each individual as "grand protagonists in their own unfolding epic." In reality, he pointed out, these Millennials are decidedly unremarkable and boring. The conversation, as is often the case in my life, shifted into a one-sided diatribe about a particular topic. I tend to let people spill their thoughts and this moment was no different.

Now I'm not one to advocate for such an agonistic attitude towards other generations. As a society, we're already divided along lines of class, gender, political orientation, religious belief, and even regional crypto-fascism. Generational gaps are part of the human condition, but stoking the fires of resentment by throwing fuel upon them is no way to reconcile one's problems with the oncoming future generations. Having been born in the late 1970's, it's often hard for me to know if I'm an extremely young Gen-X'er or if I'm among the eldest of Generation Y. I'm not even certain these sorts of groupings matter in a larger context. The old seem to distrust the young, regardless of specific sociological terminology.

What struck me as memorable was his insistence that seeing oneself as the protagonist of one's own life story was unquestionably self-centered and therefore wrong. To be sure, focusing on one's own life to the exclusion of the reality of social living is not wise. Valuing yourself far above all others, seeing other individuals as means to an end, and admitting no responsibility for one's bad decisions are all undesirable personality traits. They're not generationally specific, however. They're sociopathic, but not generational. The assertion that reverberated from our conversation was that seeing oneself as the central character of one's own life was egotistical and conceited.

I thought back to my post last week, where I tried to consider and respect the unimaginable complexity in the minds of the sea of strangers passing through my field of vision in a given week. I thought about my acquaintances and if our interactions were sincere or simply polite exchanges. I thought about my friends. There are, of course, some that I care for more deeply than I do others. There are some with whom I share a great deal in common. There are others that I see often and for whom I hope I'm good company. There are some that I regrettably see only once every four years or so, but for whom I still nurture the glowing ember of friendship. There are a few that I will never see again, for whom the ember glows eternally. There are some that want more from me than I can give and there are still others that would probably like me better if they could selectively forget certain moments. In addition to this perplexing array of faces, there those with whom I share bonds of blood and irrevocable circumstance. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the variations within those relationships.

I once owned a calendar from Despair Inc., a company that mocked motivational posters by providing dark parodies of those products. That calendar featured a variety of deeply satirical quips set below stock photos. This image, in particular, was one of my favorites.

 

While I'm not interested in deconstructing the depressing message of the parodied poster, the concept of being the common feature of all one's relationships seems relevant. I recognize the caveat that my colleague probably wanted to provide: That self-absorption is a terrible trait, worthy of disdain. On the other hand, I reject the notion that it's somehow wrong to take agency and ownership in one's life, as the central character. I have no other frame of reference for the world than my own and I'm not convinced that the ascetic life one would have to lead to eliminate personal agency is even a possible way to live.

For better or worse, this is the only life that I am allowed to have. It could end on the way to work today or it could persist, if the technology is available to me, for a hundred more years. I want to be free to live it as I like, within reasonable boundaries. Living amongst others and interacting with other self-interested parties urges me to consider others in my actions. I have no problem with that, on a conceptual level. That being said, there's more than a subtle line between being the captain of one's own life and being a vain, narcissistic sociopath.

Such a recognition isn't evil and we're not doomed to experience profound disappointment "when the flower of the world doesn't open for them", as he eventually claimed all Generation Y would be. As an individual person with self-interest and agency, living in a equal society filled with other similar types, I'm allowed to let that self-interest guide me to new relationships and away from old ones, if the moment presents itself. It isn't a sign of conceit to envision myself as an individual, even if I am simultaneously part of a much larger whole. If my life is part of a long-term struggle towards some resolution, shouldn't I most confidently be the protagonist of that long tale? At the end of the day, the story is my own and I am its primary author.

Being the author of one's life allows one the opportunity to not only have agency in one's decisions, but also to make use of the ability to write certain people out of our story. The true narcissists, the true sociopaths, and the true malcontents are not people we must always suffer gladly. Some people pass through our lives to enrich us, while others intend on impoverishing us of something, whether it be our time, our energy, or our individualistic spirit. It's not unhealthy to prune back a tree's branches and it's not unhealthy to rationally look at one's metaphorical "friend list" and click a few red Xs.

But more than that, it's not unhealthy to envision oneself as the pilot of one's own craft. The world in which one lives guarantees that none of us have total authorial control, as situations emerge that are beyond our ability to shape. Knowing that, why surrender any more of that authorial control to whims of chance and coincidence? Take out your favorite red pen and start making a few edits here and there. If it's time to write someone or some place out of the book of your life, seize the pen from the hesitant hands of resigned submission and start writing with purpose. If the time has come to write someone or some place into your story, set the scene for the moment with your own intuitive imagination. If the time is ripe to tack in a bold, unexpected direction, permission is only a few pen strokes away. Seize the pen. Carpe Calamum. Keep on writing, with great intelligence and sincerity, until the ink runs dry.

 

On Hearing an Old Song for the First Time Again

A few weeks ago, while disinterestedly stumbling around the internet, I found a video of Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” on YouTube. Now, I’ve heard this song a thousand times. I grew up with a mother who enjoyed Motown and played it often. Marvin Gaye’s music is enduringly popular and thus easy to find on the radio or internet. This video was different than the standard version of the song. 

The session musicians were nowhere to be heard. There were no horns, guitars, pianos, or any accompaniment whatsoever. The video had edited out everything but Marvin’s vocals. I’ve heard other isolated vocal tracks before, but they usually feature layered editing to enhance the tone of a singer’s voice. There was none of that here. Marvin’s voice stood out, hauntingly perfect in its pitch. Stripping “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” of its backing track didn’t cripple or mangle the power of the song. It unbound the song’s power. Listen for yourself and see what I mean.

http://touch.dailymotion.com/video/x6kjcv_marvin-gaye-i-heard-it-through-the_music
(for mobile users)

I won’t say that it’s better than the original, but the simplicity of his vocals dramatically altered my reaction to the song. The dark, mysterious undertones of the accompaniment are gone, leaving behind the immensely powerful core of the song. Marvin’s voice echoed through my mind with the gravitas and timbre of a betrayed god seeking retribution. Though I had heard the song a thousand times before, it was as if I heard it for the very first time. 

Goosebumps registered my excitement at hearing such a distilled, flawless, natural performance. I felt a wave of satisfaction wash across my mind, having just been reminded how marvelous human music can be. It made me think of how it would sound to hear Marvin sing these words around a midnight campfire, a hundred years in the past. The famous version Motown released is a classic, to be sure. This version, stripped of its complex arrangement, allowed me to hone in on the crushing admissions in the song’s subject. With no other distractions to scatter my concentration, I could feel new life radiating from an old, well-worn thing. Additionally, it made me think of the virtues of simplicity.

When my daughters were very young, I was always surprised by the simplicity of their thought processes. If they enjoyed a book or movie, they wanted to watch it often. There weren’t any concerns about wearing a story out or whether or not it was obsessive to be so enthralled. If they wanted to build a fort made of blankets and pillows, they cared little for the aesthetics of the design or whether or not other people could fit comfortably within the structure. If some dissatisfying occurrence upset them, tears flowed. If they wanted a cookie in the midst of dress-up playtime, off they went, clomping to the kitchen in uncomfortable plastic heels. 

The landscapes of their lives were noteworthy for the lack of nuance and subtlety. Good books are read often. Blanket forts need only accommodate the spatial needs of its occupant and no one else’s. Injustices were clear and the appropriate response was obvious. The delicious allure of a freshly baked cookie overcame all boundaries of circumstance and sartorial resistance.

The reassuring simplicity of childhood is a state of being, at the sunrise of life, through which we pass too quickly. I’m aware that this state of being is provided by a certain set of first-world privileges and that clinging to such a self-centered consciousness is ultimately incompatible with society’s expectations. Yet, those moments echo in my pensive mind now, as both daughters are blossoming in the springtime of their own lives. Their worlds are increasingly beset by complicated relationships and an increased recognition that the sphere of experience around them is fraught with indifference and imperfection.

I think back to my own childhood, which is regretfully less vibrant in my memories with each passing year. I remember much more than most people give me credit for, but I also recognize now how self-centered and nearly solipsistic my perspective was at that point in time. I lived, quite happily, to satisfy my own desires. Fears were tangible and attached to objects in the environment. People around me had roles and responsibilities, but I didn’t need to concern myself with seeking their approval. They were, for all intents and purposes, part of the scenery.

If I wanted to watch cartoons at 6:00 a.m. on the only television in the house, I did. It never occurred to me that someone’s sleep might be disturbed by the volume of an episode of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe or my undeniable need to hold a cereal spoon aloft and imagine that it could become a fabulous, power granting sword by just simply calling out “By the power of Greyskull!”

Over time, thin tendrils of complexity began insinuating themselves into my world. My rambunctiousness elicited more punishment from adults than it did excited interest. Classmates began organizing themselves into increasingly distinct cliques, which inevitably led to a recognition of one’s status. The façade of parents, not just mine but my friends’ as well, began to crumble and reveal complex people with complicated personal difficulties. 

The phenomenal rise in the number of divorces amongst Baby Boomer couples intersected this period of my life. At first, this was a personal problem that left me with feelings of isolation. Those feelings weren’t solely mine to bear for long, as several other children went through the same experience. Before I knew it, our bodies began changing and complexity had inextricably invaded even the deepest recesses of my existence.

I say all of this now because of the recognition that my daughters, with each passing day, sink further into the swampy reality of adulthood. Where I had once only seen a series of adult faces as part of a generic whole of caregivers and bit role players, there eventually emerged an impossibly long dramatis personae with rich backstories and personal conflicts. It occurs to me now, more than ever, that I am a part of that list. 

Adults seem so boring and dull to children. This is due, in equal parts, to the fact that children are focused on themselves and to the fact that the unspoiled mind of a child doesn’t possess the sensitivity to detect the drama infused in the bleary eyes of the tired adults in their lives. Adults just look tired and worn out, comparatively.

This may not seem like a realization worth sharing with anyone, but it is one that crosses my mind frequently. I still struggle with seeing other people in my life as individual possessors of a consciousness as riddled with complexity as mine. Too often, the people I see are faces, drifting in and out of my view like human flotsam on a flowing stream. We’re not allowed, and nor should we try, to have deep connections with each person that passes through our frame of experience. It is a beauty of communal existence that two expansive consciousnesses can pass each other like ships on a channel, without the need to hail or acknowledge the other’s presence. People become scenery, hastily painted on the ever-changing canvas of my mind.

In fact, we stratify the people in our lives based upon how much we’re willing to insinuate ourselves into their own complex consciousness. Some friends become closer than siblings and take up residence in our very hearts before time and necessity move them to other places. We grow to passionately love, resent, and appreciate spouses. Our family members, both distant and close, either preserve or sever connections with us based upon their level of satisfaction with our choices. Waxing and waning, we move elegiacally downstream.

This is the normal way of all things. It is what helps us to highly value those rare relationships whose constancy is a pole star in the firmament of our experience with the world. It doesn’t take any sort of magically phrased prose to convince us of why those intimate relationships matter. What we do need a reminder of, from time to time, is the complexity in the consciousness of each person that passes through our lives. Ironically, this is achieved through an appreciation of simplicity.

Marvin Gaye’s voice, when unbound by the absence of a backing track, redefines our perception by its simple power. The people around us, even those perfect strangers walking the opposite direction down a sidewalk, live lives of unimaginable complexity. A simple realization of that, stripped of pretenses and stereotypes, reminds me that my world isn’t a cleverly disguised solipsistic fantasy. 

My world is full of a hundred thousand other consciousnesses, struggling as silently and deeply as I am. A hundred thousand other minds, considering the next move. A hundred thousand other minds, perceiving the world through wholly different perspectives than my own. It’s not my job to save them by smiling at them. It’s not even incumbent upon me to reach out to help them. These are good and kind actions, but the belief that I’m someone’s potential savior can negatively affect my relationships at times. 

My obligation to these cohabitating, complex consciousnesses is to respect their inviolability. We’re all struggling with life until we’re not. The least we can do is appreciate that the people around us, even our enemies, have complex lives. That foundational assumption can unbind our sympathy toward the world. That assumption places us on a footing for increased understanding, instead of persistent confusion. That assumption builds common ground instead of erecting higher walls. That assumption allows us to hear someone’s song for the first time, even if we think we’ve heard it a thousand times before.