Not Writing for Power

Scott Horton recently interviewed Chinese playwright and activist Sha Yexin. One exchange particularly stuck out for me:

5. At the recent Beijing meeting on Chinese drama and literature, you said that playwrights should never forget the role of literature and the aim of writing, and that they should never write for power. Could you elaborate on that?

Why shouldn’t one write for power? Here are my reasons:

First, power corrupts. The British historian Lord Acton said: “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” This famous quotation has now become political common sense. Its correctness has been borne out by the intensifying corruption in China, where power is exercised without oversight or restraint. When corruption and power exist in co-prosperity, how can people fight corruption? In present-day China, anti-corruption is kept at a certain level to ensure that people will not revolt while power will not get out of control. In some districts, corrupt elements have become leaders of the anti-corruption effort. Undiscovered corrupt officials are fighting those already exposed.

Second, power makes people stupid. By using mathematical theories, the American scholar Jonathan Bendor proves the great value of independent thinking and the limitations of decision makers. When leaders are too busily occupied with myriad state affairs, institutional methods can be used to ease their cognitive constraints, by seeking wise solutions from among the people and encouraging independent thinking in government officials. But in a totalitarian country, such institutional methods do not and cannot exist.

Most power-holders in such countries are fond of dictatorship. Each of them puts forward his “ideas” and “theories” when it is his turn to rule the country, hoping to see his thought adopted as the “guideline” to unify the thinking of the whole nation. Acting in this way, they deprive themselves of the kind of wisdom and talent that are needed to solve the thorny problems facing the country. As a bunch of dumbbells, they can not help becoming an object of ridicule among the people.

Third, power brings flip-flops and hence suffering to the people. Since power has reduced the wisdom and intelligence of the power-holders and their think tanks, setbacks caused by repeated policy changes including the adoption of reactionary measures are bound to occur. Frequent ideological reversals and repeated changes in ideas and policy bring about great social instability. It becomes very difficult to attain a truly harmonious society and avoid more flip-flops in the future.

Fourth, power produces cruelty. Those who hold power can be overwhelmed by the glare of the spotlight that accompanies power. They may experience a peak period in which they feel accomplishment, happiness, or pleasure. But according to Abraham Maslow, the American psychologist, this peak period does not last long. The powerful had problems coping with the end of this period. Once they reject oversight, checks and balances that come from outside, they immediately become completely irrational and inhuman. If someone wants to share power with them or seeks to replace them with new power-holders, they become mad and cruel, and have no scruples in resort to guns, cannons, and tanks, producing huge social disasters.

If you are a writer who writes for power, objectively you are working, directly or indirectly, for corruption and stupidity, for more suffering and cruelty for the people. You may have some excuses if you are forced to write for power. If you write for power out of your own will, how can you evade your responsibility as an accomplice?

As may be easily understood, what I am speaking about is power in a totalitarian state. It is power without oversight and constraints, as compared with power born from democratic elections. Refusing to write for power also means refusing to write according to the will of those in power, or to promote their ideology in one’s writings.

One may choose to write for any other purpose: to write for art, for life, for oneself or others. But he or she must not write for power.

I haven't read any plays by Sha Yexin yet, but now I want to seek them out. There are many different reasons to write, but over here in the States it can be easy to take the freedom to write for granted. The stakes for Sha Yexin are higher.

When I briefly studied in Russia, my group was told harrowing tales of how artists of all sorts were treated in the Soviet era (The Great Terror has a good chapter on it). Some stories were absolutely heart-breaking. One of my favorite writers, Mikhail Bulgakov, was basically tormented by Stalin, despite Stalin's love of Bulgakov's play The White Guard (also known as Last Days of the Turbins). Bulgakov's masterpiece, The Master and Margarita, was passed around for years in underground samizdat copies after his death (he died at age 48 before he could fully revise the second half). Decades later, an abridged version was published, and eventually, a full version. (The German film The Lives of Others captures a similar samizdat dynamic very well.)

I'll pass on some other images. An arts patron we met temporarily renamed his restaurant "Speak Out" after the end of the Soviet Union, because it felt important to him at the time. And our lead teacher – who was more brilliant even when drunk (a rarity) then almost anyone I've ever met - showed us with his lectures and conversations that simply surviving, remembering what had actually happened in the Soviet era, and telling it to others became an act of conscience. I had a movement teacher (who used to design nuclear missile silos!) who once lived in a border town where he was able to get records of jazz and rock music, which were banned or restricted. To escape detection, he and others would set up their record players in their basements, and dance away to the music, often alone. This guy had crazy moves – he had a tall, lanky build and could move his hands and legs to different rhythms in different time signatures - and I've always loved that image of secret dancing at night in the basement.

In general, what I value the most from my time in Russia is coming to understand that many Russians have much deeper expectations for their art. I had an acting teacher who said he had mixed feelings about a new production of Chekhov's Three Sisters we saw, that it was beautifully staged, but that "it wasn't life." At first, I thought that was a bit harsh, but by the end of my stay, I understood what he was talking about. (And he was a phenomenal teacher – the best audience for a monologue you could ever hope to have, living and dying with every line. He was the Michael Chekhov expert, stressing: zydes, ceychas, civodnya - here, now, today.)

It's not as if every act of writing is political or needs to be profound, though. For instance, The Master and Margarita is quite profound, but it's also a comic novel, witty and entertaining. Use whatever metaphor or motivation for writing works for ya - Annie Dillard's "living like weasels," Natalie Goldberg's "writing down the bones," Lanford Wilson's "burn this" or something else altogether. But I appreciate Sha Yexin's great observation above about not writing for power, and it's a good one to remember. It also makes me think of one of my favorite pieces on writing, William Faulkner's Nobel speech (although it seems a crime to quote just a section). The last line below is my favorite:

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Carl Barks

One of the most important things parents can do is share their loves and joys with their children. My brothers and I grew up in a home where both our parents were voracious readers. (We continued nighttime read-alongs past the age when it was really needed mainly to humor our mother because she enjoyed it.) Our dad introduced us to soccer and took us to films (including a remarkable number of art house flicks). He also shared his comic book collection with us.

He hadn't cared much for the Marvel line, but had a solid number of DC titles, mainly Batman, Superman and some crossovers. He also had plenty of EC horror comics and some early Mad books and comics. The real treasure, though, was his old Disney comics, most of them written and drawn by Carl Barks.

Back then, many comic book writers and artists were not credited, at least not at Disney, so our dad and his friends only knew Barks as "the good artist." Barks' artwork was a cut above, but he was an even better storyteller. His stories were funny, creative, and often stealthily educational while being very entertaining. For instance, rich Uncle Scrooge decided he needed a new coat befitting his wealth, so he hired his nephew Donald Duck and Huey, Dewey and Louie to help him locate the fabled Golden Fleece to make his coat. They encountered harpies, the minotaur and other creatures from Greek Mythology along the way. Huey, Dewey and Louie often saved the day, aided by the ridiculously invaluable Junior Woodchuck Handbook (boy, we wanted one of those – the Boy Scout Handbook isn't nearly as extensive). The stories of Carl Barks fall into the same category as the various muppet movies, Pixar films, and The Simpsons - they're just good stories that kids and adults can enjoy at the same time. (Floyd Gottfredson's Mickey Mouse comic strips are also superb, with some great yarns, although I'd give the edge to Barks. I also shouldn't slight Tintin, Asterix, and in a somewhat different vein, Pogo.)

Carl Barks had Uncle Scrooge, Donald and the boys search for the Fountain of Youth, the Seven Cities of Cibola, Shangri-La, a lost Incan city, the lost crown of Genghis Khan, the Flying Dutchman, head deep below the earth's crust and visit many other exotic and fantastical locales. One of the classics, Donald Duck and the Golden Helmet, has Donald and the gang racing rivals to archeological sites to find the titular item, and fighting for ownership of… North America. Come to think of it, the story hits the same themes of greed and the intoxication of power found in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, only it's comedic, and features one of the most memorably slimy, suck-up lawyers you'll ever see. Another tale had Donald, who often made horrible decisions, inventing "Flippism," flipping a coin to make choices. Part one of the story had Huey, Dewey and Louie playing hooky from school (Barks had several stories like that). Despite their best efforts to shake Donald, he continued to hunt them down, aided by his uncannily accurate coin flips. Uncle Scrooge and Donald were often vain, greedy and prideful, but lovable despite that, while the kids were generally much more sensible. Carl Barks had a great feel for the kid point of view.

Many characters in the Disney duck-verse were created by Barks (who was born in 1901 and died in 2000). I only ever saw a few episodes of the Duck Tales animated series, but some episodes were based on Barks' stories and many of its characters were originally created by him. As the quite good Wikipedia entry on Barks explains:

He surrounded Donald Duck and nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie with a cast of eccentric and colorful characters, such as the aforementioned Scrooge McDuck, the wealthiest duck in the world; Gladstone Gander, Donald's obscenely lucky cousin; inventor Gyro Gearloose; the persistent Beagle Boys; the sorceress Magica De Spell; Scrooge's rivals Flintheart Glomgold and John D. Rockerduck; Daisy's nieces April, May and June; Donald's neighbor Jones, and The Junior Woodchucks organization.

People who work for Disney generally do so in relative anonymity; the stories only carry Walt Disney's name and (sometimes) a short identification number. However, through the sheer quality of his work, people started realizing that a lot of the stories were written by one person, whom they started referring to as the Good Duck Artist. Later it was discovered that the Good Duck Artist went by the name of Carl Barks.

Barks' stories (whether humorous adventures or domestic comedies) often exhibited a wry, dark irony born of hard experience. The 10 pagers showcased Donald as everyman, struggling against the cruel bumps and bruises of everyday life with the nephews often acting as a Greek chorus commenting on the unfolding disasters Donald wrought upon himself. Yet while seemingly defeatist in tone the humanity of the characters shines through in their persistence despite the obstacles. These stories found popularity not only among young children but adults as well. Despite the fact that Barks had done little traveling his adventure stories often had the duck clan globe trotting to the most remote or spectacular of locations. This allowed Barks to indulge his penchant for elaborate backgrounds that hinted at his thwarted ambitions of doing realistic stories in the vein of Harold Foster's Prince Valiant.

Here's a few things I didn't know:

Barks' Donald Duck stories were rated #7 on Comic's Journal list of 100 top comics; his Uncle Scrooge stories were rated #20.

For the opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas have acknowledged the rolling boulder booby trap was inspired by the 1954 Carl Barks Uncle Scrooge adventure the Seven Cities of Cibola (Uncle Scrooge #7). Lucas and Spielberg have also made comments that some of Barks' stories regarding space travel and the depiction of aliens had an influence on them. [3] Lucas wrote the foreword to the 1982 "Uncle Scrooge McDuck: His Life and Times." In it he calls Barks’ stories "cinematic" and "a priceless part of our literary heritage."

(The boulder in the Cibola story, scanned by Kit's Comics. Click for a larger view.)

Gladstone Publishing reprinted many of Carl Barks' stories starting in the 80s, and also printed some superb new stories in the Barks tradition by Don Rosa and others. They're out of business now, unfortunately. (The story I heard at the time was that Disney didn't want to renew their license when they realized the cash to be made directly.) Apparently, this Gladstone site still offer back issues, collections and lithographs, both the Barks library and reprints of the old EC comics. Some editions are pricey and aimed more for collectors. Me, I just liked the stories as a kid, and was excited to find some new tales as a teenager through Gladstone (including an elaborate and funny spy story set in Europe, where Donald and the boys were on vacation) Like other readers of Carl Barks, I remember his work fondly, and appreciate being introduced to it. So thanks to Carl Barks, and thanks to all the parents out there who pass on good stories, encourage imagination, and share their joys with their kids.

Post-Postmortem Post

(Oh, great. Not another nomination post!)

Over the course of the last week or so, I've been writing a piece looking back over the whole nomination process from my perspective, focusing especially on all the insanity of the last few months. But it was growing very long, and although I was getting close to finishing it, now I feel like taking a different tact. Here's how the original post opened:

Postmortem Confessional

Or, I fully expect to be able to resume a diplomatic mode fairly soon, but here's why I've been a bit pissed off.

I know a fair number of liberal bloggers who tried to avoid diving too deeply into the fracas between supporters for Obama and Clinton, myself included. When the race was between just those two after Edwards dropped out, I had been planning to link a number of others' posts making the case for and against each candidate, in the spirit of discussion. But right about then, a significant number of blogs just got nastier, and to my eyes, surprisingly irrational. This past month, and the past two weeks, have gotten especially bad. Some people I'd read or linked in the past became increasingly unrecognizable to me. I had some more detailed critiques in the works I shelved because I thought they might be redundant or inflame things — although there are some benefits to being relatively off the radar. Perhaps my timing's awfully bad, especially as I'd have liked to have had this post up several days ago, but I wasn't able to finish it before now. Clinton's speech this past Saturday accomplished much of what her Tuesday speech certainly did not, and I do appreciate it, as I know many folks do.

Kyle Moore suggested an air your grievances day, in the spirit of getting everything out and then moving on, rather than letting resentments fester. Many bloggers have done some sort of version of this, or offered olive branches, all good moves. After trying to play peacemaker most of the time for several months, I found my patience was increasingly strained this past month and found myself surprised by how genuinely upset I was last week. So my apologies in advance. This is a very long, cathartic and self-indulgent post, even more so than usual. Feel free to skim or skip over it all, as is your wont.

I'm going to write from a personal perspective more than usual, because the Rashomon effect has been in full force throughout much of the fracas as well as here in the aftermath. The quality of reasoning, the soundness of arguments and level of respect during the fracas remain issues, especially since there's a great wonky tradition in the liberal blogosphere, but I feel the biggest divide right now is in understanding others' perspectives and feelings.

So I don't need to write a disclaimer after every sentence, let me issue a few upfront. As always, anyone is free to disagree with me. This is my perspective. When I opened my Blogger account, I received a pair of Super Goggles of Penetrating, Flawless Insight, but the funny thing is, the damn things don't always work. I'm writing this in the spirit of airing grievances and moving on. If, in that process, you in good faith feel I still cross an unacceptable line, by all means, leave a comment or feel free to email me.

Rest assured that despite that rocky start, the post was brilliant, you would laughed, you would cried, you would have received a personal epiphany and achieved a new level of consciousness, all aggrieved parties would have had their wounds healed, and I even would have discovered a cure for cancer. Maybe I'll still bootleg parts of it in the future. Admittedly, there's still some part of me that hates those bastard people and their ass faces. But the thing is, while writing the whole damn thing, the political landscape has changed, however slightly, I'm less upset, and I received at least a partial catharsis through writing it. I do trust that overall, cooler heads and kinder hearts shall prevail, despite some legitimate grievances. So I'm only going to adapt and use part of the original post for now:

And Now That I've Smacked You in the Mouth, Can't We Be Friends?

Jack: Maybe he wants to stay. You want to stay?

Homeless Cabaret Singer: Oh, yeah, sure. I just love bleeding in horseshit. How very Gandhi-esque of you.

— The Fisher King

I've been writing this in the spirit of airing grievances and moving on. But, if you've actually made it this far, you may be saying, "Hey, blogger-guy with the silly name and the stupid blog name, that's all well and good, and maybe you feel better now, but while I agree with a few (only a few) of your points, there are some things you said that really piss me off, and I was just getting over some of this whole thing, and now I'm more upset!" And if you sincerely feel that way, you're absolutely right.

Let me tell a story, which happens to be true. When Schindler's List came out, I went to see it with two friends. We weren't extremely close, but the film had gotten strong reviews, we had heard some good interviews, and we all wanted to see it. The theater wound up being a packed house.

We all found the film powerful, and came out of the theater a bit in shock. As we walked along, we talked about it a little, but weren't at all articulate because we were still trying to process it all.

A silence. Then, to break the tension, my first friend told a joke, of the funny-but-in-horribly-bad-taste-especially-given-the-timing variety. He laughed nervously.

I think we all laughed nervously, because it was a bizarre remark, and we were still trying to process our experience watching the film. But my second friend stopped and looked at my first friend, aghast.

My first friend laughed nervously again and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just that humor is one of my coping mechanisms!"

And my second friend said, "I know, but your coping mechanism is interfering with my coping mechanism!"

And that's it. That's it in a nutshell.

Among people of good will, who generally like each other, perhaps love each other, or maybe just tolerate each other to work on a common cause in a community, it really just comes down to that.

We all have our experiences, and some of them are powerful or overwhelming and not easy to process. We sometimes say or do things we may later regret.

We all have different coping mechanisms. And sometimes, our coping mechanisms interfere with someone else's coping mechanism.

Or, as I prefer to put it: Deep down, in some small way, all of us is an extremely large, bearded, occasionally cross-dressing Jewish man coming out of Schindler's List and making an inappropriate joke.

The world can be cruel. But life is beautiful.


(Edited very slighty for clarity.)

(Cross-posted at The Blue Herald)

A Philosopher Fool and his Tooth are Soon Parted

LEONATO
…Brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air and agony with words:
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man's virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

ANTONIO
Therein do men from children nothing differ.

LEONATO
I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods
And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Much Ado About Nothing, 5.1, 21-39

I've always loved that toothache line, and the preceding speech is so great it couldn't resist quoting at least a little. (And I've played or read both the characters above, actually!)

I haven't been blogging much recently, due to some dental issues and a dying computer. That's my excuse this time, anyway. The wisdom teeth are now out and a new computer is on the way, both of which are good, but insurance companies always find creative ways to charge ya for necessary procedures, so my bank account is far from happy.

Still, dental pain is just nastier than several other types, so I'm happy to move from fairly excruciating to soreness and dull aches with some happy pills (actually, I haven't needed many). But damn, you'd think I was in a nursing home for all my health whining the past month. I feel bad for those with no insurance, and I know that plenty of people have it far worse off than I. Gotta keep it in perspective.

Well, at least I provided some Shakespeare, and now continuing the dentistry theme, we'll go to film, specifically Marathon Man (1976). It's an odd, uneven film, but features a few memorable scenes, and a script by William Goldman, based on his own novel.

The late Roy Scheider is good as always, but the stars are Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier, who had very different approaches to acting. There's a famous story most actors will have heard that Hoffman went "method," and stayed up all night on a bender to get into character, and came in looking bedraggled. When Oliver saw him and asked him what happened, Hoffman explained. Olivier responded, "My dear boy, you really should try acting," or something to that effect. According to IMDB, Hoffman has since denied this story, although he says he was indeed up late many nights because he was going through a divorce from his first wife and was depressed. As to the credibility of Hoffman versus Goldman, I've heard enough tales about both (and have heard Goldman speak three or four times), I have to trust Goldman much more, even if he might get details wrong here and there. Goldman sometimes does the cranky old man shtick, but entertainingly so, since he's not interested in sucking up to anybody. He's refreshingly candid, and frequently tells tales on himself.

In any case, on to the clips! In this first one, the sound goes out at one point, alas. But for sheer evil, it's hard to beat a Nazi dentist! Man! If you have severe dental anxiety, you won't want to watch these:



What makes this is a great scene for study for me is Olivier's vocal performance. He says "Is it safe?" several times, but each time he means something slightly different. My first director/acting teacher described this as saying a line with "intention," a tool for attacking the subtext. Using "neutral scripts" is also a neat acting exercise for highlighting this approach: playing the lines, but in specific circumstances, with specific dynamics (which may shift). There are many effective methods of acting, and I've found most good actors develop a grab-bag of techniques they find work for them. Still, I've always really appreciated good voice work, and most British training spends a great deal of time on developing one's voice and reading the text carefully. (Peter O'Toole was just on Charlie Rose, and was talking about this; O'Toole goes off to his study and memorizes the whole script, feeling the words aloud for a few weeks, as the first step of his process.)

The IMDB trivia page claims the filmmakers trimmed down the dentistry scenes because they were just too much for the test audiences. On that note, here's a slightly later scene:



Like Stephen King (and Goldman adapted Misery, actually), Goldman often puts things that scare him into his scripts. Hence the Nazi dentist. Goldman's told the tale that once he had some pain and reluctantly had to go the dentist. This was after Marathon Man had come out. The dentist asked Goldman if he wrote "that movie." Goldman had to admit he did. The dentist said he didn't want to treat Goldman, because then everyone would assume Olivier's character Christian Szell was based on him!

In any case, while smoke from a drill or seeing a fairly fit man yank with all his might as he struggles to pull a tooth from your mouth are both rather unsettling, dentistry is much less fearsome than it used to be. Well, other than the bill.

Six Word Memoirs

It's the hot new meme sweeping the blogosphere! Amy tagged me, so here we go. The rules are:

1. Write your own six word memoir

2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like

3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere

4. Tag five more blogs with links

5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

I'm told this all stems from Hemingway, who apparently met the challenge of writing a novel in six words with: For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Umm, okay, so no pressure, then, to be brilliant like that or anything. I went through several versions of the memoir:

Seven states. Three countries. Much art.

Immaturity? I call it reverent irreverence.

I sound my yawp against corruption.

Dude, you take things too seriously.

Comedy where possible, action where necessary.

Drama's great, but more bawdiness, please.

Carl Barks to Kurosawa to Orwell.

Learning, acting, teaching, filming, writing, moving.

Alright, done with that. What's next?

Hey, riffing is my thing, baby. (Damn! Another one!) Anyway, for my "official" entry, I decided I'd go with something a little more, um, abstract:

Oooh, look, shiny! Socrates and Godzilla!


(Click for a larger view.)

To be more serious, lacking Hemingway's gift, I'd say the challenge for memoir is picking which defining moments of many to use, which aspects of one's life or personality are most salient. As Alice says in Wonderland, "I could tell you my adventures beginning from this morning, but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." I actually don't feel my personality is that different from when I was a kid (shades of 49 Up), but successive waystations have invited or demanded different aspects. The truth is, I've always felt every person is many people inside, or has many sides to him or her. (For that matter, I also think the best relationships are those where you can show or explore the most sides, or where the other person accepts, encourages or draws out the best aspects of you.) But as to the basic mix, as Wordsworth put it, "the child is father of the man."

I don't know how many other people have done some version of a "Who am I?" exercise (we did that sort of thing at the school where I taught), but I found the most accurate approach for me was to define myself as the tension between different aspects. Zen appeals to me because I can be so impatient and annoyed. I admire compassion in others in part because I can be self-absorbed. I feel compelled to call bullshit, but also like to make people laugh. Of course, those last two especially can intersect.

(And ain't nothing like a gadfly breathing nuclear blue flame. You'll wipe that smirk off your face, Bill Kristol, when your bloodthirsty hack ass is on fire.)

And on that note... Many of the blogs I'd tag have already done this, so if you haven't, and you'd like to participate, have at it! As Glen Hansard would say, T'anks!

This I Believe, on Faith and Grief

I've been meaning to do a post on the NPR series This I Believe for some time now. If you're not familiar with it, here's their own description:

This I Believe is a national media project engaging people in writing, sharing, and discussing the core values and beliefs that guide their daily lives. NPR airs these three-minute essays on All Things Considered and Weekend Edition Sunday.

This I Believe is based on a 1950s radio program of the same name, hosted by acclaimed journalist Edward R. Murrow. In creating This I Believe, Murrow said the program sought "to point to the common meeting grounds of beliefs, which is the essence of brotherhood and the floor of our civilization"...

In reviving This I Believe, Allison and Gediman say their goal is not to persuade Americans to agree on the same beliefs. Rather, they hope to encourage people to begin the much more difficult task of developing respect for beliefs different from their own.

There's plenty of installments I haven't heard, but of those that I have, "My Husband Will Call Me Tomorrow," by Becky Herz, is easily the most powerful and moving. It speaks of the role faith can and does play for many people. For me, it's a secular faith, and one consciously chosen. (There's far more to write on the subject, but just listen to the piece.)

The second piece that's stuck with me is "A Way to Honor Life," by Cortney Davis, a nurse practitioner sometimes faced with upset or grieving people, and here I shall roam far a field. I'm including it because I'm grateful for the realization she shares in it. Honestly, when I first heard Davis describe how she used to act, I felt a bit annoyed, because frankly, I've had to deal with such people my entire life. As she writes/says:

Once, I would have rushed to comfort these people. Uncomfortable myself with their grief, I'd want to ease their sadness with my cheer and consolation. I'd hug a patient and tell her to "try to get pregnant next month." I would reassure the widower, telling him, "Your wife had a long life." I'd enter the burned child's room in intensive care with a smile, rather than encouraging the mother to weep in my arms.

That dynamic makes me think of a scene from Shakespeare's Hamlet:

KING CLAUDIUS
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

HAMLET
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

HAMLET
Ay, madam, it is common.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?

HAMLET
Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

[1.2, 66-86]

I've always loved Hamlet's "I know not seems," and I've found it resonates with a fair number of teenagers, actually. Many are familiar with others' focus on appearances, and how a given emotional state of theirs can be seen by others primarily as an inconvenience. There's a difference between treating someone as a problem to be solved versus a human being who needs to be listened to, someone who might need a genuine moment of connection. The latter requires vulnerability, and risk. "Attention must be paid," as the line from Death of the Salesman goes.

I mention all this because Davis, in her former way of doing things, was interacting with others to make herself feel better, not them.

That's not to say she was a bad person, and clearly she meant well. She's also working in a job that requires a certain amount of emotional armor for most people, because otherwise burnout is inevitable. Some folks use gallows humor to cope, some go cheerful like Davis, and others take a still different route. I heard a doctor lecture on AIDS once, years ago. His delivery was surprisingly flat. However, I also knew that he was a very good man and doctor, who had dedicated his life to helping others. Because of his specialties, he had treated AIDS patients starting in the 80s, when little was known, little could be done, and the survival rate was poor. Perhaps some of his delivery was due to his own personality, but I suspect that dealing with as many terminal cases as he had just took a toll. I believe he had to create a persona or emotional space to deal with that much death and still do his job effectively.

All that said, I feel grateful when Davis says, "I no longer comfort others with false cheer," and feel sympathy when she describes dealing with the death of her parents. I also agree with her when she says:

When I grieve, when I stand by others as they grieve, even in the midst of seemingly unbearable sorrow, grief becomes a way to honor life — a way to cling to every fleeting, precious moment of joy.

That, too, like Herz, expresses a type of faith. Both pieces are lovely, thoughtful and thought-provoking.

Everyone grieves in his or her own way, and in his or her own time. I've never thought that America, which possesses a heavy amount of "if you don't feel good, take a pill!" in its culture, deals with grief that well, or depression, or perhaps simply emotional non-conformity. I find, dealing with the death of my father a year ago now, that there are times I want to keep busy, that it's fine to laugh, and there are times the grief sneaks in — or strides in quite directly! — and I need to honor that. Attention must be paid. When I hear a family member's been told s/he really should move on despite it being less than a year, I want to slug the advice-givers, or at least curse them out. It's not quite as bad as the trite platitude a friend and colleague of mine diagnosed with cancer was told by someone "trying to be helpful." But no one chooses their feelings, only how they react to them, and grief doesn't plot neatly out according to a locomotive's timetable.

For example, I had a high school classmate who was killed by a drunk driver the day after we graduated. It was a freak occurrence, completely random, as he and a friend were driving to pick up a pizza. We're weren't close friends, but we knew each other quite well, as did everyone at that school and in our class. He had been a guy I just knew I'd run into later in life. His death was brutal on his family, of course. Personally, I was stunned, I was devastated, I thought and wrote about it quite a bit, and talked about it with classmates. I was trying to deal with it consciously and pretty directly. Still, almost two years later, it struck me how much I was still carrying it, and how much it had colored my thinking on an unconscious level. That realization was significant for me. But that process couldn't have been rushed, not even by me. Likewise, my current feelings do and will take their own course, and I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Since I've shifted into a more personal post, I should mention that I personally haven't felt much of the annoyance I've felt on others' behalf regarding grief over my dad's death. Some people fumble for what to say, but that's fine. The gesture is what's important, not the words themselves, and it's all appreciated. After witnessing some true vileness in the political sphere these past several years, I'm concerned at times about becoming too hardened in reaction, since it's not something I'd like to let spill over to allies and friends. ("Battle not with monsters" and all that.) As Davis used to in her professional field, it can be tempting to offer the easy answer versus the honest one in the personal realm, to give the pat response versus the riskier, genuine one. It's important for me to remember sometimes what all those people who showed up for the viewing and funeral and before and since have demonstrated. Death touches us all. And people are kind. They can be very, very kind. This I believe.

In Memoriam

It's now been a year since my dad's untimely death. Needless to say, my family and I still miss him terribly, most of all my mom.

I had been debating writing a longer, personal post, and/or posting the eulogy I wrote. However, at least one family member felt a bit uncomfortable with that, so on top of my mixed feelings, it didn't feel completely right for this year. I will say that among the many legacies my dad left, I'm most grateful for his sense of humor, love of cinema, music and other arts, commitment to fairness, insatiable curiosity, puckish sense of play and generosity of spirit. I hope to honor those best qualities in my own life, and to improve on my own faults.

The specifics differ from my own life, but I think the following poem is one of those quintessential Father's Day picks for a reason. I've met many people who, like me, couldn't read it without thinking of their father:

Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Meanwhile, this was one of my dad's favorite classical pieces. The video skips a bit and the fidelity ain't the greatest at points, but there's a depth of feeling, and for this, that's really what's most important.



Rest in peace.