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On heroing

Once upon a college-time, I found myself so useless–to myself, to others, to the world–that I wanted to die.

I challenged myself to find one thing I liked about myself; if I didn’t, I’d kill myself. If I could find one thing, though, I figured I could probably find more … with some patience.

I decided my calves were pretty rad. Seeing that one good thing paved the way for my sticking around to see more, so that one little thing meant everything: choosing life, as opposed to suicide.

Over time, I came to have faith in words. I understood them and became adept at shaping them to express precisely what I meant.

Then I began reading Neil Postman, who helped me understand some of the biases in words and word combinations, particularly English ones. Nouns are especially appropriate to represent some physical items (table; car; sandwich), but help create the illusion of stasis in some more dynamic “things” (language; people; school).

There’s a lot to this, but some of the biggest questions Postman opened for me were about this illusion of stasis, or unchangeability. By referring to “language” instead of “languaging,” English speakers may perceive language as an unchanging behemoth instead of sets of ongoing processes. By referring to people by individual, set names, we tell ourselves each person is one relatively stable unit instead of a changeable, changing entity who does the hard, ongoing work of “personing” in a rapidly changing world.

Some statements presented as fact aren’t, really.

“Projection,” as the term is used by semanticists such as Korzybski and Hayakawa, means that we transfer our own feelings and evaluations to objects outside of us. For example, we say, “John is stupid” or “Helen is smart,” as if “stupidity” and “smartness” were characteristics of John and Helen. A literal translation of “John is stupid” (that is, its most scientific meaning) might go something like this: “When I perceive John’s behavior, I am disappointed or distressed or frustrated or disgusted. The sentence I use to express my perceptions and evaluation of these events is ‘John is stupid.'”

When we say, “John is stupid,” we are talking about ourselves much more than we are talking about John. And yet, this fact is not reflected at all in this statement.

Language might actually be used to conceal more than it reveals.

At first, it felt liberating to be able to see some of the processes behind purported “things” I’d wrongly perceived as more or less stable. Slowly, though, it destroyed my faith in something that had almost always been a bedrock for me: that I could set forth words that showed precisely what I meant to almost everyone who read them. But if meaning is projected onto words by a perceiver instead of simply absorbed as stated, what I stated was far less important than the meanings being projected onto my words by readers/hearers.

With everything apparently objective revealed as potentially quite subjective, then, I lost faith in my ability to English-language … or that there was much merit in bothering to even try. I was especially disturbed by one kind of illusion I began seeing everywhere, especially in my own words: one of scale. Words can help things I’d consider enormous seem small, and can give small things an illusion of comparative enormity.

For example: If it’s a “disaster” when I flub an important meeting, what is it–apart from, of course, a crime–when hundreds of thousands of people lose their homes and retirement funds due to the bad behavior of a small number of extraordinarily powerful bankers? When those bankers aren’t even held accountable, but slapped on the hand by having less-than-incremental fees effectively taken from investors … as punishment? (How is that “punishment”? How does that deter abuse of power?)

If it’s “crushing” to remember a particularly bad memory, what is it, then, when entire villages are literally crushed by American-sold (and, often, -dropped) bombs? Especially when many of those bombs are “gifts” that keep giving for decades to come?

If an especially tasty hot dog can be “awesome,” then what’s the feeling you get standing and looking upon grand portions of the Grand Canyon?

If it’s “amazing” to get a great bonus at work, what is is when a family is granted asylum … and thus given a chance at life when they’d have almost certainly died had they stayed in their (prior) home?

With so many hard-to-see flaws in tools of meaning conveyance, words, I stopped seeing the point of trying to negotiate them.

If I was no longer a(n effective) worker-of-words … what was I, even?

Last week, I was fairly bludgeoned–multiple times daily, each day–by a word that I’d always translated as representing goodness. Read more…

two bicycles

this morning,
my two-year-old
awakened me with his howls

it was too early
to be awake, but also
too late for me to fall asleep again

in the darkness,
i thought two words
that jolted me out of bed:

two bicycles

i’d read, as many now have,
about a (now former) stanford swimmer
found guilty of rape and yet
barely sentenced
because his life
should not be ruined
for “20 minutes of action
out of his 20 plus years of life” Read more…

The true hero

I used to say Superman was my hero. Heroes took superhuman actions for the good of the entire world, and they also had really big muscles.

I gradually understood the word “hero” to mean something else to me. Sometime in my mid-teens, I started saying my godmother was my hero. She’d demonstrated tenacity and love not in some single heroic act but in action after loving action throughout my life. Neither laser beam vision nor the ability to fly seemed especially powerful by comparison.

My relationship with my mom was more complicated, so it took me many more years to describe her as one of my heroes. Now I see her as a hero every day. I mean that literally, since this drawing of her as Thunder Thighs (together with me, and Li’l D) hangs in my living room.

thunder thighs sg Since my mom died, I’ve seen how people often shy away from talking about death and subtly encourage others to speak of the deceased only in passing platitudes. I’ve countered that by writing more about my mom, as well as by reading stories of those grieving. I want those grieving–whether after one day, one month, or one decade–to know not only that I see their grief, but also that I see the love behind their grief. I see their loved ones through the stories they share, and in so seeing become a small part of how their loved ones live on.

This feels especially important when a child dies. It’s hard to face that children can and do die. Many friends quickly fade away. I continue to believe this response is borne not of ignoble things, but of helplessness sprung from incorrectly believing that grief is an ailment to be cured, and that: This grief is stronger than me. I am powerless to fix it, which means I am useless to my friend.

It’s important to me to witness people’s love shining on after death of their loved ones, and to acknowledge that I’m moved by the people who inspired that fierce love.

I’ve been reading about now forever teenaged Nolan for a few months. I daren’t boil his life–or death–down to a sentence; you can read his mom’s blog to learn more about him.

I read Nolan’s last essay while feeding a hungry baby at 2 o’clock this morning.

Nolan’s mom, Amy, had to work to find someone who could and would grade the essay impartially. She did the work because she knew it would have been important to Nolan.

I’m glad Amy shared his essay through ugly sobs. His perspective on heroes is one the world would be better for adopting more universally … and one I must, in honor of both him and Thunder Thighs, point you toward today.

As a society, we have masked the meaning of a true hero by suggesting that they are immortals that slay monsters and soar through the skies in search for evil, while the true heroes have been in front of us our entire lives.

– Nolan Berthelette, “Nolan’s Final Essay

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