My friend recently reported that he received this terse bit of advice from a friend he admires and respects, which got me to thinking about passivity and cynicism (and the phrase “man up,” which means what, exactly?)
I cannot deny that there is a certain truth in this line of reasoning. The people we deal with every day rarely behave in ways that we’d like them to; we acknowledge that there is a weird justice embedded in the purely random way that the world will just slap a pretty face, at any moment, for no reason. Nice people get cancer; idiots win elections; dedicated teachers get t-boned in intersections; criminals live in spacious beachfront homes; young college students are robbed and shot dead while sitting in their cars; beautiful babies fall asleep every night, hungry and alone. Damn, don’t tell me that life is unfair.
These examples are extreme, I know, but they are honest, demonstrably so.
My personal injustices might not be so big, yet telling me that life is unfair/deal with it, is equivalent to telling me to shut up, that I have no power to change my circumstances — the grip that injustice has on my life is real. Beyond personal injustices, I share in the larger ones if I just observe them and do nothing, apply the “life is unfair” dictum, and so accept them as our lot in life.
And telling me to “man up” is to suggest, in some perverse way, that acceptance of this bitter truth is mature? masculine? It certainly elevates “masculinity” above all else, implying that to talk about injustice, however small you perceive it to be, is somehow weak, whiny, or “feminine,” perhaps? Counselor, I must object.
I do not understand why this line of thinking is not more transparent than it is, why strong minds do not see the oppression packed in this small phrase.
On the other hand: I get the futility of enumerating the opportunities and the breaks that we did not get, or perhaps lamenting the fact that we are just not good looking enough — and not rich enough, not intelligent enough, and not lucky enough either. Boring.
THIS IS WATER. It is easy to fall into a pattern of criticizing the world — and taking the time to bitch about it when it’s merely your turn just spreads misery around. It’s like the “I’m so busy” game. You complain about your to-do list, and suddenly two or three friends are standing in a circle, commiserating, trying to outdo each other with tales of how tall their stacks are, how little sleep they are getting, and so on. When I find myself in those moments — well, first, I secretly think that no matter what anybody else says, my stack is probably bigger, and second, although those conversations may be relief for some, they make we feel worse.
Did I just write myself around in a circle? Am I suddenly seeing the wisdom in “shut up”? Maybe. “Life is unfair — deal with it” is a way of acknowledging that this narrative is not the only narrative — quit complaining, take a breath, and share the world with the other folks who occupy this scintilla of history with you. For god’s sake, shut up.
(But I still won’t say “man up.” I just cannot.)
You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine… -Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman’s tea cup. But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.
My dear friend and colleague Kristy always starts the new school year with Starburst…she gives the kids a Starburst candy, and then the kids respond to speaking prompts that are associated with each color as a way of introducing themselves. It’s a pretty common practice; my daughter and her friend Hannah report that they have both encountered this in college classes — Cal Poly SLO and UCSB respectively — so. It’s not a new idea…and that is part of its beauty. There’s familiarity coupled with the capacity for surprise. I saw a big box of Starburst at Costco, and I threw it into the cart.
The thing is…I don’t know what the questions are. No problem, though; I’m smart enough, aren’t I, to make up questions of my own? But as I began, my dark and twisted self took over the task:
PINK: Describe a law that you have recently broken, and discuss the circumstances. RED: In what ways have you been a disappointment to your parents? YELLOW: When was the last time you betrayed a friend’s trust? ORANGE: Discuss a time that you made your mother cry.
I recently created a lesson and Powerpoint presentation from They Say, I Say about appropriate ways to integrate the ideas of others into our essays. My kids are writing the Value of Life essay, and I looked at drafts last week. Am I tired? Stressed out with holiday hoopla? Why else did I want to put my head in my hands and weep? Several kids — despite all we have talked about — wrote dutiful little reports: Intro about difficulty of quantifying value of life, Par.2 what Hamlet said, Par.3 What Lance said, Par.4 What Human Life Calculator said, Par. 5 What the Sept. 11 report said, Conclusion about difficulty of quantifying value of life. Argggggh!
But I smiled at them. Thanked them for getting this far right before a holiday. Told them that this is a decent way to prewrite — to summarize everything they heard — but that essentially, what many of them they had so far amounted to an 8th grade report. I read some intros out loud from the better writers. Invited them to be philosophical, to add their voice to the conversation, and to use the pieces from the other writers as touchstones — something to riff off of. Have a happy break, I told them, and go think about life — talk to people over the New Years holidays about this topic.
My most recent birthday was my 50th, and although I hope to have many years ahead of me, I must acknowledge that a fair sized chunk is already behind me. (I have some junk in my cosmic trunk.) I always get a little reflective around my birthday, but this one was signficantly different. And New Year’s always gets me to thinking and writing. Also different: I’ve attended three funerals since October: a colleague was killed in a car accident, our school board president suffered a heart attack, my friend’s elderly father died. My own father is living out his last years in a hospital bed in our living room. I have spent a fair amount of time thinking about life recently. This value of life essay is an essay I could WRITE.
Another thing about this unit: my colleague came in my classroom to observe me on the day that I had the Human Life Calculator up on the wall via LCD projector, and we plugged in his numbers: 32 year old male, 35 year old spouse, both expect to retire 60-65, he earns $52k, she earns $35k, no kids: his life valued at $976,000. We plugged in my numbers: 50 year old female, no spouse, expect to retire 65, earn $62k, 1 child 19 years of age: $276,000. Then when my daughter turns 20 in March, my life’s value drops to $169,000. This just pissed me off. Not that it matters. Not that I don’t understand it. But it pissed me off anyway. And that anger gave me some insight into the 9/11 article.
The kids then said some very sweet things about my value to them, which almost made me misty-eyed, so to avoid a maudlin moment, I started thinking about doing push ups.
Then we plugged in hypothetical numbers, and just changed genders: here were the parameters without gender figured in: 27 years of age, spouse 25 years of age, earning $50k and $40k respectively, retirement at 65, 1 child. The male’s life was valued at less than the female’s! This surprised everyone for a moment, and then the males in the classroom theorized that their lives are worth less because they die sooner. That has to be the correct reason.
That money day was a strange day in class.
