When you really truly think about the "modern," "Westernized" world and all of its innovations and conveniences, it's difficult to comprehend. In fact, it's probably incomprehensible to most. As an example, our globalized socioeconomic system is so complex and convoluted that it's oftentimes cheaper to manufacture products overseas because resources and labor are so much cheaper (even heavier items that cost a lot to ship). And, as consumers in a post-industrial, hypercapitalistic world, inexpensive and abundant consumer items are what we have come to anticipate as the norm. As a person who has grown up in such a world, I find it a difficult habit to break out of, even knowing the consequences of buying, for example, shoes costing $14 - someone got paid very little to make them, said shoes will not last very long, their ultimate resting place in a landfill may leach chemicals into the soil, water, etc. And paying $125 for Nikes isn't much better, as most of the cost is actually going straight into the profit margin for the transnational corporate giant, not higher wages for the workers stitching those shoes together. "Fast fashion" is only one drop in the seemingly unending stream of convenient practices we engage in on a daily basis with little passing thought as to how our actions might be affecting the world at large.
Globalization is not a phenomenon new to the world for the 21st century. Humankind has been moving toward the degree of globalization we experience today since...always. As a species we move, adapt, interact, create and destroy, but never in a bubble. For instance, the endless obsession white nationalists have with Europe is predicated on a wholly bizarre, cherry-picked version of history. Sure, the Ancient Greeks and Romans had mighty civilizations...which were influenced by the Egyptians and Persians and other groups who coexisted or *gasp* even predated their advancements. The Renaissance, Scientific Revolution, Enlightenment, Industrial Revolution, et al, would not have been possible if Europeans were solely looking to themselves for inspiration. Their GLOBAL connections to great empires elsewhere, like the Middle East and China, helped rekindle learning and innovation on their continent. Of course, development is not something that happens worldwide in one fell swoop. Different areas may benefit initially, with others lagging behind. Sometimes, the places lacking development may actually be at the mercy of the more "advanced." The imperialization of land and labor occurs even today. It's what makes $14 shoes possible for us Target shoppers. And, as beneficiaries, we just accept it. Turn a blind eye to it? Well, more likely, what's out of sight is out of mind so we don't have to really confront the people (inclusive of children) employed for dollars a day to make our lives more comfortable and "rich" with goods.
My favorite novel (really a novella) of all time is Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I read it in high school, and despite all of its flaws and the critiques leveled at it, to me, it still holds up as one of the best descriptions of the psychological horrors of modern life. Instead of existential dread brimming over each page, as in Kafka's works, Conrad's depiction of a journey down the Congo River to retrieve a lost European, Mr. Kurtz, begins much more straightforwardly. Yet, as the narrator, Marlow, edges closer to and finally reaches his destination, his experiences in the Belgian colony has already begun to change his outlook on not only his mission, but on Europe's place in the world as well. The disturbing realization he comes to is this: what everyone back home in England referred to as the "heart of darkness" wasn't the supposed unknowable and wild truths of the African continent, but instead the unsettling ambiguity within all of us. The supposed "cannibals" he was to fear treated him respectfully. The "uncivilized" laborers were actually the ones subjected to cruel treatment by his fellow countrymen. When he finally finds Kurtz, he's living as a "savage" and yet can still carry on a conversation with Marlow regarding his outlook on life, what he's learned and why he cannot return to Europe. Marlow, clearly shaken by his time in the Congo, does not return to Europe wholly changed. He still lies to Kurtz's fiancee about the conditions under which he died. He upholds the lie of the modern world - that the "modern" and "civilized" are somewhat better than the rest.
Its no wonder a novel that highlights the ambiguous morality of power and progress became the underpinning of the movie "Apocalypse Now." It puts the American role in Vietnam into sharp question. Were we there to "do right" by these people? Or was the ultimate geopolitical goal of the presidents and military top brass who presided over it at odds from what was drilled into the heads of soldiers and the American people? The Vietnam War era on the homefront was the end to American innocence in many ways; it exposed that the American establishment followed the same patterns of thought as so many other imperialist nations had previously, belying our own foundational ideology. It also seeded a deep mistrust of the government on the part of many Americans which has blossomed into the anti/alterna-fact orgy we are dealing with today.
Ultimately, to bring it full circle, the message of this story, written over 100 years ago, still rings true today. The modern world, with all of its development and progression comes at a price. As consumers living in the "first world" we are often not aware of the horrors that occur elsewhere in the name of providing the luxuries and comforts we take for granted. In an ever-globalized, highly connected world, the communication of such horrors as child labor, wage slavery and deplorable living conditions (among others) becomes more and more difficult to ignore. And yet, we feel powerless to effect real change. So I'm often left grieving for the way things are with a real sense of powerlessness about how to go about making them different. I often dream about running away to some mountaintop and washing my hands of all of it, but in the end, the same practices will go on whether or not I drop out. So it's vital to stay and think of ways in which to ameliorate the current system, if it's not possible to tear it down quite yet. The biggest threat to even those basic steps being taken is apathy. It's an everyday struggle to stay inspired and vigilant, but without even the attempt, all we have in the end are a bunch of hollow lies.
“Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence--but more generally takes the form of apathy” - Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Showing posts with label impermanence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label impermanence. Show all posts
22 April 2017
Appreciating the In-between moments
Admittedly, I am obsessed with transience. It winds itself through most of my posts as the common theme - from the discussion of Japanese aesthetics to criticism of the transhumanist movement, the fleetingness of life fascinates me to no end. I have 8 tattoos currently and most of them relate to transience in some way. Funny, since permanent marks on my body represent the impermanence of all things. People often point this out to me, but I guess they forget I'm not too permanent myself.
A few years ago, I took a small class of students to experience a Japanese tea ceremony. We traveled to a rural area of western NJ to a large, old farmhouse. The ceremony's master led us to a small tea house in the backyard, nestled in a quaint Japanese-style garden. The tea house was seemingly no larger than a shed, but we were able to fit 8 people comfortably (?) inside, seated on the floor. Two attendants appeared from behind a paper screen to begin the ceremonial boiling of the water and steeping of matcha tea. The tea master began by making a cup of tea, drinking it and then passed the empty cup to the next patron, so they could inspect his cup for its beauty and imperfections. They received a separate cup to drink from, which they subsequently passed, empty, to their neighbor. The flower display on the mantle was a small raku vase with a sprig of cherry blossom. The tea master also noted to the children that they should take in this sight, as if they came back tomorrow, that flower arrangement would be different and would represent a wholly new scene.
The students sat rapt in attention, their quiet filling the small space. As the ceremony continued, they began to politely discuss the taste of the tea and the sweets offered to them. Going last in the procession, I noticed how the students' behaviors adapted to the new, unusual situation. Unlike most every American experience, the ceremony's rituals were understated. With no cell phones in hand and having no literal space to escape to, the students had to confront each other (and themselves) in that small tea shack. Either we made polite conversation or we didn't. And either way, it was OK.
In the aftermath of the experience, the students wandered lazily around the Japanese garden, lounged around a small reflecting pool with koi, sticking their hands into the water to try and pet the fish. The tea master and his partner laughingly encouraged their attempts. As we spent a good portion of our day at the estate, I came to appreciate the break from the schedule of our regular day, and, from their relaxed behavior, I could tell the students did as well. Even the short break from their phones while we were in the tea ceremony seemed to help them focus more. Those in-between moments, the ones we usually fill with silently staring at our own personal devices were now brought back to the forefront through this trip. These students will likely not change their patterns of behavior in any real way due to this experience, yet I do hope that it had as much of an impact on them as it did me.
As a person who grew up without a computer until late high school and without a smart phone until a year ago, I am still not ready to give into the temptation of constantly being able to be connected. Perhaps it is due to my introvert nature, but constant contact feels like an obligation I don't want to fulfill and see little positives in. Most of my students tend to be on an extreme end of this spectrum - constantly in contact with everyone and anyone through social media apps and texting. They will often claim that this is unhealthy as they scroll through endless posts, compelled to see more. What are they missing by looking down into their screens all of the time? Well, they end up missing some of those more unusual moments in life. Again, as an introvert, I have a habit of people-watching and appreciate what I see ("people are strange, when you're a stranger...). Are these moments life-changing? Most definitely not. But they do remind you, more than anything, that we are fallible creatures that are somehow both amazingly similar to each other and utterly unique at the same time. As we become more accustomed to seeing the same type of edited posts and pictures that people share about themselves online, it can be jarring to realize that no one is that put together in real life.
This week, a friend recommended an album to me, which, in one of those weird moments of aesthetic attraction, has become an immediate obsession (very occasionally, I will buy an entire album on a gut feeling after hearing one track. This was such an album and I haven't regretted that decision). The lyrics to this song, "Southern Gothic" relate to this feeling I often have - that I am speaking of things no one cares about anymore - but here's the real rub - I think they really do care about them, but have been conditioned not to. About a month ago, the NYT magazine ran an article about a website where people write in with descriptions of books they read and cannot recall the author or title (oftentimes, children's books). Bizarrely, this dead-end for memories led to a poignant essay about the humanity encapsulated within all of us, "The posts on Stump the Bookseller are far more utilitarian than they are sentimental, but...[they] routinely bring tears to my eyes. Each one forces an overwhelming rediscovery of just how real other people are. a confrontation with the fact that everyone's mind is cluttered with images that are incidental, almost partly lost, affecting in ways that are subtle, unpredictable and impossible to explain." And, I think, when we let our guards down long enough to talk to each other, like really sit down and talk face to face, or engage in a shared experience, we'd actually feel better not only about ourselves but about the world in which we live.
A few years ago, I took a small class of students to experience a Japanese tea ceremony. We traveled to a rural area of western NJ to a large, old farmhouse. The ceremony's master led us to a small tea house in the backyard, nestled in a quaint Japanese-style garden. The tea house was seemingly no larger than a shed, but we were able to fit 8 people comfortably (?) inside, seated on the floor. Two attendants appeared from behind a paper screen to begin the ceremonial boiling of the water and steeping of matcha tea. The tea master began by making a cup of tea, drinking it and then passed the empty cup to the next patron, so they could inspect his cup for its beauty and imperfections. They received a separate cup to drink from, which they subsequently passed, empty, to their neighbor. The flower display on the mantle was a small raku vase with a sprig of cherry blossom. The tea master also noted to the children that they should take in this sight, as if they came back tomorrow, that flower arrangement would be different and would represent a wholly new scene.
The students sat rapt in attention, their quiet filling the small space. As the ceremony continued, they began to politely discuss the taste of the tea and the sweets offered to them. Going last in the procession, I noticed how the students' behaviors adapted to the new, unusual situation. Unlike most every American experience, the ceremony's rituals were understated. With no cell phones in hand and having no literal space to escape to, the students had to confront each other (and themselves) in that small tea shack. Either we made polite conversation or we didn't. And either way, it was OK.
In the aftermath of the experience, the students wandered lazily around the Japanese garden, lounged around a small reflecting pool with koi, sticking their hands into the water to try and pet the fish. The tea master and his partner laughingly encouraged their attempts. As we spent a good portion of our day at the estate, I came to appreciate the break from the schedule of our regular day, and, from their relaxed behavior, I could tell the students did as well. Even the short break from their phones while we were in the tea ceremony seemed to help them focus more. Those in-between moments, the ones we usually fill with silently staring at our own personal devices were now brought back to the forefront through this trip. These students will likely not change their patterns of behavior in any real way due to this experience, yet I do hope that it had as much of an impact on them as it did me.
As a person who grew up without a computer until late high school and without a smart phone until a year ago, I am still not ready to give into the temptation of constantly being able to be connected. Perhaps it is due to my introvert nature, but constant contact feels like an obligation I don't want to fulfill and see little positives in. Most of my students tend to be on an extreme end of this spectrum - constantly in contact with everyone and anyone through social media apps and texting. They will often claim that this is unhealthy as they scroll through endless posts, compelled to see more. What are they missing by looking down into their screens all of the time? Well, they end up missing some of those more unusual moments in life. Again, as an introvert, I have a habit of people-watching and appreciate what I see ("people are strange, when you're a stranger...). Are these moments life-changing? Most definitely not. But they do remind you, more than anything, that we are fallible creatures that are somehow both amazingly similar to each other and utterly unique at the same time. As we become more accustomed to seeing the same type of edited posts and pictures that people share about themselves online, it can be jarring to realize that no one is that put together in real life.
This week, a friend recommended an album to me, which, in one of those weird moments of aesthetic attraction, has become an immediate obsession (very occasionally, I will buy an entire album on a gut feeling after hearing one track. This was such an album and I haven't regretted that decision). The lyrics to this song, "Southern Gothic" relate to this feeling I often have - that I am speaking of things no one cares about anymore - but here's the real rub - I think they really do care about them, but have been conditioned not to. About a month ago, the NYT magazine ran an article about a website where people write in with descriptions of books they read and cannot recall the author or title (oftentimes, children's books). Bizarrely, this dead-end for memories led to a poignant essay about the humanity encapsulated within all of us, "The posts on Stump the Bookseller are far more utilitarian than they are sentimental, but...[they] routinely bring tears to my eyes. Each one forces an overwhelming rediscovery of just how real other people are. a confrontation with the fact that everyone's mind is cluttered with images that are incidental, almost partly lost, affecting in ways that are subtle, unpredictable and impossible to explain." And, I think, when we let our guards down long enough to talk to each other, like really sit down and talk face to face, or engage in a shared experience, we'd actually feel better not only about ourselves but about the world in which we live.
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