She Kills Monsters is another of the offbeat
productions that local theater, The Empty Space,
puts on as part of its season. I was not familiar with it, but it sounded
interesting - and the sort of thing my two eldest teens would enjoy, so we
went.
The basic premise is this: Agnes Evans is a young teacher
reeling from the death of her parents and younger sister in a car accident.
Going through their things, she finds a mysterious book written by her sister
Tilly. This book turns out to be an “adventure” for Dungeons & Dragons that
Tilly put together before her death. (As we find out later, Tilly had hoped
someday to bring Agnes into her world using the adventure, although she
expected to be alive and play along in person.)
Agnes takes the book to the local D&D type store and
enlists the seriously nerdy Chuck Biggs (“I’m big where it counts!”) to serve
as dungeon master and walk her through the adventure. The adventure comes to
life on stage, though, with Tilly and the other characters - and the monsters -
portrayed by the actors. In the process, Agnes learns about the sister she
never really knew - or cared to know. So, feels and things. But also monsters,
sword fights, and a lot of humor. While the premise is inherently
tragic, the play is a comedy, or at least a comedy-drama,
and the laughs come early and often.
The dramatic elements were kind of predictable. Brownie
points if you guessed that Tilly’s sexuality would be a discovery, that Tilly
was beloved by the marginalized kids but tormented by the popular girls, or
that Tilly had a love/hate relationship with Agnes. More subtle was the
handling of normal teen stuff. Tilly used the adventure to play out her own
fantasies - and those of her friends. “Kaliope” (I can’t remember her actual
name in the play, just the character) gets to overcome her disability. “Orcus”
gets to be scary and powerful rather than hopelessly dorky. Tilly gets to cast
her high school nemeses as “bosses” to be destroyed - and also Agnes’ innocent
and unwitting boyfriend Miles.
If the plot was a bit predictable, it was a serviceable
vehicle for the humor, which was, in my opinion, the best part. Even my second
daughter, who is pretty cynical (she was that way as a toddler, and teenhood
hasn’t made her less so) laughed the whole way through. After all, D&D is fundamentally
hilarious. As my older daughter said, if you think about it, the whole premise
is pretty funny and ludicrous. That isn’t a bad thing. Fantasy is fun, and we
humans have always had imaginations. The fact that the Society For Creative Anachronism exists is
both amusing and awesome. So we both admire and laugh at things like
D&D.
The humor fell mostly into two categories. First was the
general “dorks are funny, and non-dorks trying to be dorks are even funnier”
kind of joke. The second was the fact that fantasy is a fertile ground for
sexual innuendo. Then, combine dorkage with double entendres, and you have
twice the fun. (Case in point, Chuck Biggs and “I’m big where it counts”: he is
referring to his brain, but, well, you get the point.)
I’ll just mention a few of the best jokes. The first is when
Agnes is trying to figure out how to play the game, and keeps fighting against
the dorkiness. She is expected to choose a proper name. She insists on using
“Agnes.” Eventually, Tilly (in the game) tells Agnes to stop being such an
asshat. The narrator then explains that “Thus she came to be known as ‘Agnes
the Asshatted.’” From then on, whenever Agnes is in the game, she wears a
beanie with “#ASS” on it.
Another series of hilarious moments come when poor Miles
walks in on Agnes and Chuck playing, and thinks they are cheating on him. Chuck
makes it infinitely worse by his “explanation” which makes sense in the D&D
world, but is naughty as hell in the real one.
I also laughed when “Lillith” walked in, and Agnes takes one
look and says, “What the HELL is she wearing?!”
As usual, The Empty Space brought high artistic values to
this play. The set was minimalist but effective. (Basically, a broken brick
wall at the back, and paving stones resembling a D&D module painted on the
floor. And a counter and two chairs.) The actors brought the usual intensity
and commitment to the dialogue.
The lead, Agnes, was played by Claire Rock. One reason I
wanted to see this was that Rock was fantastic as Tybalt
a few years ago. This time, playing the straight (on multiple levels) woman,
she nicely captured the experience of a “normal” person jumping into D&D
unprepared.
As Tilly, Stevie Mcnabb was also compelling. I give her
further bonus points for outstanding fantasy hair.
Thor Reese (which, ironically, is a better fantasy name than
his character, Chuck Biggs) was hilarious as Chuck. It can’t have been easy to
deliver all those unintentionally funny lines with a straight face and an
innocent air. Also, Reese’s bio in the program is outstanding:
Thor Reece (Chuck Biggs) was born in the back alleys of the
city of Waterdeep. Thor learned the art of stealth at a young age. As a member
of the deadly assassin group “All The King’s Players,” Thor did many
unspeakable acts. In order to practice and hone his ability to blend in Thor
would take on the task of assuming the identity of a common pastry chef. Soon
Thor would move on and do battle with the army of zombies raised by the wizards
of Thay. Finally, to complete his training in the art of blending in Thor would
take on the role of a clothing merchant. With all of this training, Thor has
truly become a force of nature in the battlefield and in all adventures he
takes on.
Special mention to the others in the cast, TES regulars
Cheyenne Reyes (Lillith), Jenna Fernandez (Kaliope), and Breanna Alcala
(narrator and Vera, the world’s worst high school guidance counselor.) There
were a number of new names in bit parts as well, plus a whole crowd of
multipurpose monsters and villains. Well done, one and all.
Agnes the Asshatted (Claire Rock) and Chuck Biggs (Thor Reese)
The hapless "redshirt" Steve (Connor
Wilson), Miles (Richard Van Horne), and Vera, the world's worst guidance
counselor (Branna Alcala)
This show runs this weekend as well, so if you are local, go
out and see it.
***
My history with Dungeons & Dragons.
I have mentioned a time or sixteen that I was raised
somewhat Fundie. This is one area in which it manifested. My parents were
really into Jack Chick and
his propaganda tracts. (Among other things, they are anti-science and viciously
anti-Catholic.) I wince when I see them at their house, and have had to have
conversations with my kids about them.
Anyway, Chick did a few on the supposed demonic nature of
Dungeons & Dragons. The game would give you demons! It would make you
commit suicide! It would make you nerdy! Okay, I made the last one up - and it
is the only one that is true. Later, in law school, a friend explained how the
game worked, and a light came on. It was nothing more than a sophisticated and
highly imaginative social game that happened to contain elements of “magic.”
Which was, I guess, witchcraft by definition. Ugh. So yeah, changed my mind
once I discovered the facts.
We have played a few adventures, set up by a couple of
friends who are more into it than that. The kids had fun. It was cool. Thanks,
Erik and Darren!
This does fall in the category of “outright lies I was fed
by Fundies as a kid.” Which is one reason I really don’t believe a thing Fundies
say anymore.
Source of book: I own this in both print and audiobook form.
We listened to the audiobook on a recent trip.
I have read quite a few of Wodehouse’s books over the years
- he is my favorite humorous author. One can usually count on his books to be
entertaining, witty, and utterly ludicrous. In any event, here are the books I
have reviewed on this blog, along with an introduction to the author himself:
This book, like many in the Wodehouse universe, comes with
two names. The original name in Great
Britain was Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen, while the American edition was re-named The Cat-nappers. Whatever you wish to
call it, this book was the last one Wodehouse finished before his death,
capping nearly 75 years of writing.
Aunt’s Aren’t Gentlemen
is a Bertie and Jeeves novel, featuring the hapless aristocrat Bertie Wooster
and his brilliant valet Jeeves. An unexplained rash leads to Bertie being
advised to seek rest and clean air in the countryside. He meets up with his
Aunt Dahlia (not to be confused with the terrifying Aunt Agatha), and sets out
to have a relaxing time. This, of course, does not occur, because hijinks
ensue.
It turns out that, in addition to Aunt Dahlia, others of
Bertie’s acquaintance happen to be in the neighborhood. His schoolmate (now a
communist agitator) Orlo J. Porter has come to court Bertie’s ex-fiancee
Vanessa Cook (now a feminist protester in her spare time). Vanessa’s father
disapproves of Orlo, which is why she has been ordered back to the countryside
by her father, who also takes a strong dislike to Bertie.
Mr. Cook also has a rivalry with Colonel Briscoe, a friend
of Aunt Dahlia’s, over their racehorses, who are set to race in the near
future. Aunt Dahlia has foolishly bet a large sum on the Colonel’s horse, and
needs to be sure of her victory. To this end, she hires a local poacher to
steal a certain cat (friends with Cook’s horse) so as to disrupt the training
process. Naturally, this goes very badly, in part because cats go where they
want once you let them free. In the meantime, Vanessa, frustrated with Orlo’s
timidity, breaks it off with him and gets engaged again to Bertie, who does not
want to marry her, but, well, he is Bertie and that’s how things go.
It will be up to Jeeves once again to unravel the tangled
web and set things right.
As with all Wodehouse books, there is sparkling dialogue,
witty repartee, a ludicrous plot, miscommunications, and slapstick humor. One
thing I did notice is that Bertie seems a bit less stupid in this book - he
actually manages to avoid trouble in some cases, and isn’t completely reliant
on Jeeves for survival. I guess even he grew up a tad. Well, not that much,
perhaps, but he isn’t stealing police helmets any more. To compensate, there is
more equality in the witty exchanges with Jeeves, and the two seem partners in
the sport of laughing at everyone else in the book.
Because Aunt Dahlia is a key character, the nature of
Bertie’s interactions are a bit different as well. While he is always trying to
stay away from Aunt Agatha and her schemes to get him married, he is rather
fond of Aunt Dahlia, despite her tendency to need rescuing from her own
overreaching. Thus, you get lines like, “a hearty good morning to you, aged
relative.”
When it comes to Wodehouse audiobooks, there are really only
two choices: Martin Jarvis and Jonathan Cecil. I have listened to both, and
they both outstanding. Perhaps I would lean toward Cecil for Jeeves, but Jarvis
for Lord Emsworth. But that is a matter of taste. You simply cannot go wrong
with either of them. Aunts Aren’t
Gentlemen was read by Cecil, and was predictably delightful.
We greatly enjoyed this book, and can recommend it as a good
place to start with Wodehouse.
This book is part of out not-particularly-systematic
exploration of the Newbery Award winners and honor books. Hello, Universe is the most recent winner, from 2018. In addition,
this book is part of my personal project as homeschool dad and aspiring decent
human being to introduce my kids (and myself) to books written by non-white
authors. Kelly is the daughter is the daughter of a Filipino immigrant mother,
and started her fiction-writing career rather later than many.
Hello, Universe is
a story told from four different points of view, those of four middle school
kids. Virgil Salinas comes from a rather sports-crazy Filipino-American family.
He is painfully shy, quiet, and unathletic, which makes him the odd kid out in
his family. Fortunately, his grandmother understands and supports him. Valencia
Somerset is mostly deaf - she can hear a tiny bit with aids, and can combine
that with lip reading to understand people, as long as they talk slowly and
look directly at her. She is smart and strong and familiar with the natural
world. But she has been dumped by her friends because they couldn’t be bothered
to accommodate her deafness. She puts on a brave face, but she is lonely. Kaori
Tanaka is an aspiring entrepreneur who fancies herself a psychic, although she
mostly seems to be a good listener. She is largely responsible for her little
sister, Gen, who follows her around and insists on being involved in
everything. Chet Bullins is the school bully, who torments Virgil and Valencia. He
has his own problems, though, with a dysfunctional mother, an uninvolved yet
pressure inducing father.
Virgil has been consulting with Kaori about his problem: he
is too chicken to say hello to the girl he admires in his study hall - namely Valencia.
Kaori, looking to expand her business without her mother stopping her, puts ads
at the store, one of which is seen by Valencia. Virgil and his pet guinea
pig set out through the patch of woods to visit Kaori, but is set upon by Chet,
who steals his backpack and throws it down an abandoned dry well. Virgil
becomes stuck in the well trying to rescue the backpack - and his guinea pig.
(In the “weird coincidences file: this is a parallel to The
Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I just read. Although Kaori would be
quick to assert “there are NO coincidences!”) Eventually, Kaori realizes that
Virgil has disappeared, and sets out with her new client, Valencia, and
Gen, to find him.
In addition to this main plot, there are, interspersed
throughout, stories from Filipino folklore told by Virgil’s grandmother. While
Virgil is stuck in the well, he is visited both by a malevolent creature, and
by the plucky heroine of one of the stories - his ancestor. In this sense, the
book contains elements of Magical Realism, although the book remains firmly
grounded in this world.
There are elements of this book which I really liked. In
general, the characters are interesting. Virgil is portrayed with the most
detail - one could say the book is mostly about him. It is his experience of
the Filipino legends and his internal struggles against the disapproval his
family and the cruel world fling his way are the core of the story. Even Chet
gets some nuance, despite being generally from the ACME villains catalogue. Valencia is
very relatable. She is naturally strong and tough, but has trouble admitting
that she is lonely and sad. Kaori is the comic relief a lot of the time,
although on her part, the comedy is unintentional. She takes herself just a bit
too seriously.
Also rather funny was the episode involving Chet and the
snake. We hike regularly, and have seen plenty of snakes, venomous and not, out
on the trail. Like Valencia,
and unlike Chet, we know how to treat snakes - with respect. (I appreciated
that Valencia’s
advice on snakes was accurate, by the way.)
The weaknesses of the book as I see them are twofold. First,
despite Chet getting to narrate, and getting enough backstory to be more human,
he never gets the chance to grow or develop. He gets a bit of a comeuppance,
but we are left without knowing if he learns anything from the experience. His
narration is the shortest of any of the characters, and it feels a bit out of place,
in my view. It would have been a better book had he been given some manner of
growth or at least a final word after the events to reflect on the meaning of
his experience. Instead, he just kind of fades away.
The second weakness is the abrupt and too-neat ending. We
are given the impression that Kaori and Valencia will be fast friends. And
we know that Virgil, having failed to even say thank you after the rescue,
finally screws up the courage to text Valencia. But it would have been
interesting to add a little to the story and see what happens next. I mean, you
have a big event that clearly had an impact on all the characters. The book
isn’t that terribly long. Why not add just a bit more and let us see the
aftermath and how the characters have changed?
I’ll end with the best line in the book. Valencia is
reflecting on the unpleasant way she was dumped by her former best friend. Valencia
actually likes the book, but the thought behind it bothers her.
“[O]n my tenth birthday, this girl
Roberta gave me a book called Famous Deaf
People from History. I would have never given Roberta a book called Famous Blond People or Famous People Who Talk Too Much.”
This is, in a way, related to another strength of the book.
The characters are diverse. Virgil is Filipino-American, obviously. Kaori and
Gen are Japanese-American. Valencia
is deaf. But as Booklist pointed out,
the diversity isn’t treated as a plot point. It just is a fact. I mean, in the
one sense, the deafness is important to the plot as it unfolds, but it is a
case where the character exists as a fact, and thus will respond to
circumstance exactly as she naturally would. The plot serves the characters,
not the other way around. (Actually, Kelly said that the book started with a
kid in a well, then found characters, and the plot flowed from there.)
Overall, this is a worthwhile book, and my kids found it
interesting.
***
The audiobook was read by two narrators, Ramon de Ocampo,
and Amielynn Abellera. I am not familiar with either of them, but apparently
they are veterans of television and audiobooks. They did fine, with Ocampo
clearly at home with the Filipino accent. (My father was born and raised in the
Philippines,
and I was involved in a Filipino-American church in Van Nuys for a number of
years as a teen. And, I can cook Pancit and Adobo pretty darn well.)
This book is part of out not-particularly-systematic
exploration of the Newbery Award winners and honor books. Kira-Kira won the award in 2005. In addition, this book is part of
my personal project as homeschool dad and aspiring decent human being to
introduce my kids (and myself) to books written by non-white authors.
Cynthia Kadohata was born in the 1950s in Chicago. Because her father was of Japanese
heritage, he was unjustly imprisoned in a concentration
camp in Arizona during World War II. This, and her experience of racial
prejudice, influenced her treatment of the American experience in her books.
Kira-Kira is her
first childrens, or perhaps young adult novel.
To start with, let me note that this book is achingly sad.
The central event is the death of the narrator’s older sister from cancer. A
dying kid is not the easiest topic to address, clearly, no matter how well
written the book is, it is rough. (I particularly speak as a parent here, in
that the death of a child is an unimaginable horror - even though I have
friends who have experienced it.) In addition, the book looks at other rather
serious and unpleasant realities. Racial prejudice - particularly in the
American South. Exploitation of workers. Trauma in general. These are heavy
topics for a kids book, and make for a book which isn’t exactly “pleasant.”
That said, I have been thinking a lot about this book after
listening to it on our most recent vacation. There are so many truly
outstanding things about the work that make it a worthy Newbery winner - and a
good choice to experience with kids.
First, last, and most important is the voice of the
protagonist, Katie Takeshima, the middle child in the family. I think the
highest praise I can use here is this: it was easy to forget that this book is
fiction, because Katie feels so incredibly real. She narrates the book
throughout, and starts with memories as a toddler, progressing as the book goes
on to her middle school years. She is utterly believable and human, never
lapsing into “angelic” territory, being “wiser than her years” as a stand in
for her adult self, or (and this is a huge thing) having some epiphany which
makes everything better. She is, at all times, a human child, feeling fully
human emotions - and ambivalence, and responding to trauma in the way we all
tend to: with a mix of healthy and unhealthy reactions.
In this sense, I think the cover blurbs and most of the
online promotions rather gloss the point of the book. The title refers to a
Japanese term for “glittering” or “shiny.” But the doomed Lynn means a deeper idea: the way that water,
the stars, and human eyes shimmer and both reveal and conceal depths of
meaning. This idea runs through the book, from Katie’s earliest memories to her
determination to seek a positive future in the wake of devastation. In the
blurbs, the impression is given that Katie takes this inspiration and is
enabled to put her broken family back together. That’s not really the way it
goes down. Katie and her parents all
have to reconstruct their broken lives after the devastation of Lynn’s death. And Katie is
as injured as anyone and has no magic that the others lack. Rather, they all
have damage and yet a will to carry on.
There are some particular moments which stood out in this
regard. First, while it is obvious that Katie worships Lynn, who is (I believe)
4 or 5 years older, Katie also struggles greatly with living in Lynn’s shadow. Lynn is the “genius,”
outstanding in school, beautiful, so very kind to her younger siblings, and the
most promising of the kids. Katie is so very ordinary by comparison, and this
reality dominates her life.
The next moment is related: when Lynn
becomes a teenager, Katie realizes that Lynn
thinks of her as a “little kid,” not the equal friend that Katie believed she
was. (And, to be fair, the way that the relationship worked before puberty.)
This is where I believe the book is exceptionally realistic. There is no true
epiphany or even reconciliation between Lynn and Katie. Their close
relationship is never the same - even at the end. Life imposes changes, and our
original nuclear family becomes secondary to our later bonds, whether
friendship, marriage, or children. This particular transition was not entirely
successful in my own family, and a lot of heartache has resulted from
expectations that new spouses and children-in-law would become an extension of
already dysfunctional family dynamics.
Also highly realistic is the denial of catharsis when it
comes to Lynn’s
illness and death. Lynn
never becomes the Victorian “dying angel,” a blessing to all around her.
Rather, she is angry and difficult - she is a teenager dying in an unfair twist
of fate, and she isn’t happy about it. She deals with her pain like most of us
do. Sometimes by withdrawal as we lack the emotional strength to do more than
survive, sometimes by lashing out at whoever we can. There is a devastating
scene near the end where Lynn and Katie - once the inseparable Takeshima
sisters - tell each other they hate the other. There is no cute reconciliation.
They both are exhausted, as are the parents, and life goes on. They do talk
again, but Katie remains haunted by what went down, and has no chance to really
fix what she said, because Lynn
is gone. Again, thoroughly realistic - painfully so. And, mind you, this is in
the context of sisters who genuinely DO love each other and are trying.
Like the children, the adults are human, flawed, and
complex. There is a lot of nuance in this book, and Kadohata, despite telling
the story from a particular point of view, shows empathy for the various
characters and the way they are buffeted by circumstance.
There are other hard realities in this book. The
Japanese-American kids (in the 1950s) are never really accepted into white
Southern society. Lynn’s
white friends abandon her as it becomes clear she is dying. (They don’t even
bother to come to the funeral.) The older generation never really gets a chance
to integrate - even as they resist cross-race friendship and the real risk and
vulnerability it would require. Medical bills threaten to bankrupt the working
poor. The abusive labor practices continue - although unionization is on the
horizon. Workers are indeed expected to wear diapers because toilet breaks are
not allowed. Hard work and cruelly long hours lead to subsistence, not security.
(Ah, the good old days of capitalism…)
There are some more optimistic notes, however. Katie’s
uncle, Katsuhisa, is a force of chaos and energy, who ends up helping Katie
more than her own parents can. The relationship between Katie and Lynn is
beautiful, even in its sad and troubling end. Katie does eventually make a real
friend - a white girl who comes from poverty and deprivation herself and can
love without judgment.
The writing itself is very good, evocative of the best in
psychological perceptiveness, and artistic in its descriptions. Kadohata
somehow made aching sadness beautiful in the way only true artists can.
One final thought: I hinted at this earlier, but I think the
bravest part of the book is that Kadohata denies the very idea of “closure.”
There is no true closure or catharsis in grief. This is true whether it is the
loss of a person to death, the loss of a relationship, or even the loss of a
community. (Such as my own losses of relationships and the loss of my faith
community.) Life goes on. We carry on. But there is a hole which will never be
filled. Katie (and her parents) will never be the same after Lynn’s death. And Kadohata makes that crystal
clear. We don’t so much heal from trauma as we learn to compensate for it. Like
a tree struck by lightning, we continue to live, but the scars remain, and our
shape will never be symmetrical again. That’s life. And that’s being human. You
can’t just make margaritas out of lemons. Kadohata gets this, and incorporates
it into this book. This is not the voice of despair or depression - it is the
voice of an optimistic realism. Even in tragedy, there is beauty. Indeed,
beauty itself isn’t the lack of flaws, but, as Keats said, the presence of
truth.
***
As I often do, I want to mention the audiobook. The narrator
on our edition was Elaina Erika Davis, a television regular, and frequent
audiobook narrator. (Perhaps the most famous was Memoirs of a Geisha.) She seems rather at home both with Japanese
words and with Southern dialect - a fascinating combination that was definitely
necessary in this book. She had to strike a delicate balance, as the book
itself notes that Lynn and Katie end up talking with a Southern accent, but
most of the narration isn’t in dialect. Thus, most is read “straight,” with the
southern accent used only where dialect is used in the book.
Ovation Theater had a special for Father’s Day
weekend, so we decided to take a chance and go see this. The basic premise is a
send-up of 1970s disaster movies, built around iconic music from the era. Make
no mistake, the lines are cheesy, the dialogue silly, and everything is way
over the top. There were some flaws in the execution. But it was fun.
The musical takes place on a casino
boat, run by the shady Tony (Jason McClain). A variety of characters
happen to be on board. Reporter Marianne (Nichole Michelle) tries to uncover
illegal operating conditions on the boat. Dour disaster expert Ted (Rikk
Cheshire) attempts to warn the passengers and crew of impending disaster.
Sister Mary Downy (Renee Cleek) tries to warn everyone they are going to hell -
even as she fights her own gambling addiction. Faded Disco star Levora Verona
(Caitlin Wolfenstein) hopes to banish her debts with a lucky chance. Older
couple Maury and Shirley (real life couple Adam & Terri Cline) are hoping
to celebrate retirement. Also featured are dancer Jackie (Erika Kimmel) and her
twin children Lisa and Ben (both played by Ellie King), waiters Chad and Scott
(Derrek Reed and Dominic Demay), and assorted minor crew and guests.
Never exactly explained is how the combination of poor
pier construction and disco dancing is expected to trigger an earthquake and
tsunami - the idea is supposed to be silly of course. But disaster does come,
and the characters must find a way to survive...or not.
The plot itself exists primarily to set up the songs.
Which are used mostly in completely inappropriate ways. For example, “You’re My
Best Friend” by Queen, sung by an impaled and dying Scott. Or “Torn Between Two
Lovers” sung by Sister Mary Downy to describe the call of religion and the slot
machine. Or a dispute about whose watch is more accurate (while the boat is
sinking, of course) leading to “25 or 6 to 4.” That’s to say nothing of
“Feelings,” or “Knock Three Times.” Part of the fun was trying to guess which
song was being set up by the dialogue. (It’s rather like trying to guess the
punchline of a terrible pun.)
As I noted, there was some unevenness to this
production. One of the good parts was the use of a live band. (I also knew some
of the musicians - it’s a close musical community in this town.) The downside
to this was that disco beats (from my former community college orchestra
director Robbie Martinez) can only be played at a certain volume level. With a
small space and limited backstage, this meant that sound levels were
challenging. Additionally, we had a very enthusiastic person behind us,
who laughed or cheered during dialogue or songs - which we then missed. Keeping
the vocals audible was a challenge - I appreciate that, having been there
myself. The other issue that the mixing posed was a certain disconnect between
the band and vocals. They couldn’t see each other (except, presumably on
video), and the singers had a bit of difficulty finding the pitch with the
drums and bass louder than the midrange.
On the plus side, the actors didn’t mail this one in,
but really bought into the cheese. Performances were rather over the top and
exaggerated - exactly what was needed in this case. I particularly thought
Derrek Reed as Chad was hilarious during his musical numbers. In general, the
others were somewhere between decent and excellent.
Just a few other things to mention. The ongoing gag of
Ben and Lisa - with quick hair changes being the only way you could tell them
apart - including some visual gags involving hands - was pretty funny.
Likewise, the use of disembodied arms and legs. And piranhas.
Anyway, we found it entertaining in a silly way. As
did the kids. If you are a Kern County local, the show runs the next two
weekends.
Confession: I actually wanted to read one of Murakami’s
other books, Norwegian Wood, but our
library system’s only copy had gone missing. So I went with my second choice.
In any case, this is the first Murakami book I have read. Since I do not read
Japanese, I read the Jay Rubin English translation. (More about this later.)
The Wind-Up Bird
Chronicle is a somewhat peculiar book. It definitely has the classical
elements of Magical Realism - Murakami is considered a major figure in the
Japanese version of the tradition. The story is in a modern setting, and deals
mostly with real life and historical events. However, parallel to the “real”
world is a supernatural, or perhaps metaphysical world which the characters
inhabit. The fantastical elements run alongside the realistic ones, yet the
characters seem to take the bizarre things which happen to them without much of
a shock. As in most Magical Realist works, the supernatural element is never
really explained. Much mystery remains.
The protagonist is Toru Okada, a rather unambitious youngish
man, who is supported by his wife Kumiko. He has just quit his dead-end job,
and isn’t sure what he will do next, other than search for their cat, who has
disappeared. Soon, however, things start to go both wrong and crazy. Kumiko
disappears, and her wealthy, powerful, and creepy older brother, Noburu, says
she has had an affair and wants a divorce. But he won’t let Toru see or speak
to her directly.
A psychic Kumiko hired to find the cat contacts Toru, and
the psychic’s daughter alleges that Kumico’s brother violated her. Toru gets
weird phone calls asking for him to have phone sex with the caller. He meets a
teenage neighbor, and ends up having disconcerting discussions about death and
trauma - and she helps him discover a dry well in an abandoned (and seemingly
cursed) house nearby. Toru spends a couple days at the bottom of the well, and
has some sort of a supernatural experience which leaves him puzzled, and also
with a bizarre new birthmark on his cheek.
The old man who Kumiko’s family introduced him to - a
veteran of the portion of World War Two which took place between Japan and Russia - dies and leaves Toru an
empty box - delivered by a fellow veteran who tells Koru a series of harrowing
stories about his role in the war.
Later, a mysterious woman sees him randomly, and recognizes
his birthmark as identical to that of her father. She and her mute son recruit
Toru into their psychic healing business.
Somehow, all of these are connected. The war in Manchuria,
Noburu’s successful political career, Kumiko’s childhood trauma, Malta and
Creta Kano (the psychic and her sister) and their stories, “Nutmeg” Akasaka and
her mute son, the cat, and the cursed house. Everything fits together somehow,
and Toru, who is one of the most passive heroes in literature, finds himself
having to endure all of the fallout from these interconnected threads, and
absorb all of the traumatic stories, before he can find his way out of the
labyrinth.
Murakami uses a number of ideas, themes, and objects to tie
the threads together. The title is one: a mysterious bird which sounds like the
winding up of some toy or clock. Nobody ever sees it, but certain people can
hear it before a momentous change in their lives - some catastrophe. It is
never stated outright, but it is implied that the sound is Fate winding the
gears of the universe, and that the characters are about to be carried along by
events and destiny out of their control.
While the Wind-Up Bird may not be an actual bird, real birds
are prevalent throughout the story, culminating in a family of ducks in the
last section.
The book was originally a three volume set - and the
divisions have been retained in the English version, although it is in one
volume. These are, in order “The Thieving Magpie,” “The Book of the Prophesying
Bird,” and “The Book of the Bird-Catcher Man.” Classical Music fans will
recognize at least two of the references. The first is obviously Rossini’s
opera, the overture of which figures prominently in the narrative. (Toru is a
fan of classical, as is the mute man, and music runs throughout the book.) The
last is a reference to Mozart’s opera, Die
Zauberflöt, specifically to Papageno, the bird-catcher. The middle one is
much more obscure, and I had to look it up. It references a set of piano pieces
by Schumann, Waldszenen, “Forest
Scenes,” which has a movement entitled “Bird as Prophet.” There are many more
references that tie in with the mood or theme or character at a particular
time. Apparently Murakami does
this in his other books as well. For a Classical buff, the book is a bit of
an easter egg hunt.
There are themes that run through the book too. Alienation
is definitely the core idea. Toru becomes increasingly isolated as time passes.
After his marriage, his life revolves around her. With the loss of his job and
her departure, he sees very few people - and nobody really “normal,” in the
usual sense. In the central turning points in the story, he intentionally
isolates himself in the dry well, depriving himself of sensory stimulation in
an attempt to access the metaphysical realm and push through the labyrinth that
holds him.
Desire and power are also central to the book. Neither is
viewed as particularly good, as both result in sickening results. Ultimately,
however, Toru has to go beyond his default passivity and find the power in
himself to seek his desire: to have Kumiko back.
Even objects end up connecting the threads. The cat is to a
degree a metaphor for the life which Toru and Kumiko have built together, but
it also connects the characters, and finds a parallel in the big cats at the
zoo who are killed by the soldiers on the eve of invasion. A baseball bat
connects a rebellion by Chinese troops, a murder in a Soviet gulag, an fight
between Toru and a mysterious musician and magician, and a metaphysical
confrontation between Toru and Noburu. Clothes take on significance. Baseball
uniforms, military uniforms, a garish red hat, anachronistic fashions, Toru’s
slovenly outfits, Nutmeg’s impeccable outfits, a dress at the dry cleaners,
Kumiko’s abandoned clothes - all of these take on a significance in the plot.
The well too becomes a theme. The old man mentions a well to
Toru, Lt. Mamiya nearly dies in one in Mongolia, and Toru must find his
epiphanies there as well. The past and the present become less distinct as the
book goes on.
It is difficult in any translated work to know exactly how
much of the writing is that of the author, and how much the translator.
Certainly, translation is an art of itself - and translation is by definition
interpretation. Disentangling the work from its translation is perhaps an
impossible task for those of us who are unable to read the work in the
original. However, I think it is fair to say that the writing is excellent,
which probably means that both Murakami and Rubin write well. I found the
language enjoyable, the metaphors surprising yet fitting, and the mystery
baffling. Despite its 600 page length, it seemed to go quickly.
I do have one quibble with the translation, however.
Apparently, under orders from the publisher, Rubin cut about 60 pages from the
book. You can find a summary of
the missing material on Wikipedia - and you should definitely read that
after you read the book. I really wish that the cuts had not been made. While
you can guess at what is missing, it would have been nice to have had some of
those gaps filled in. Just as one example, the story mentions that the cursed
house was torn down - but the scene in which May and Toru watch it come down is
omitted. In any event, I am irritated that financial constraints led to an
unfortunate alteration of the author’s intended art.
Despite this, the book was enjoyable. Let me quote the
opening, which is excellent.
When the phone rang I was in the
kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast
of the overture to Rossini’s The Thieving
Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.
There were a couple of other lines that I can’t resist
quoting. One was from Lt. Mayima’s narrative of the war, specifically the
run-up to hostilities.
Taking Outer Mongolia would amount to
sticking a knife in the guts of the Soviets’ development of Siberia.
Imperial Headquarters back in Tokyo
might be trying to put the brakes on, but this was not an opportunity that the
ambitious Kwantung Army General Staff was about to let slip from their fingers.
The result would be no mere border dispute but a full-scale war between the
Soviet Union and Japan.
If such a war broke out on the Manchurian-Soviet border, Hitler might respond
by invading Poland or Czechoslovakia.
Wait, what?! It is always fascinating to see a completely
different perspective on an event that you think you understand. I mean, Hitler
annexed Czechoslovakia and
invaded Poland
and that started the war, right? Well, not from the Japanese perspective. With
the American-centric, or perhaps Euro-centric point of view we learn our
history from, the entry of Japan
into World War Two is often an afterthought at best. But the world was indeed a
powder keg in the aftermath of the first world war, between the humiliation of Germany and the crumbling remains of the
Colonialist European empires, Japan
saw a chance to become a world power - and go after longstanding enemies in China and Russia.
A note here may be appropriate: while this book isn’t
non-stop horror (like, say The
Garlic Ballads), there are some gruesome scenes of violence in this
book, mostly centering on the war. Nobody is innocent either. The Japanese,
Mongolians, Chinese, and Soviets are all brutal and horrifically cruel, given
the upper hand. Fortunately, these scenes are brief. Still, they may stick with
you more than you wish. Murakami makes a pretty solid argument for the
stupidity of war. One might even say that residual collective guilt and trauma
from the war reach into the present in this story in so many ways, the book
might be said to be about that as much as the other themes.
Another fascinating line came in a series of letters which
May (the teenager) writes to Toru, who never receives them. In one, she muses
on the question of causality - she is basically David Hume, seeing no reason
why the world should be logical or
make sense. This is in contrast to her parents.
Those people believe that the world is
as consistent and explainable as the floor plan of a new house in a high-prosed
development, so if you do everything in a logical, consistent way, everything
will turn out right in the end. That’s why they get upset and sad and angry
when I’m not like that.
This one hits a bit close to home - I mean, the whole point of cults
like the one my parents joined is go guarantee results. Follow the formula,
and you are guaranteed things will turn out like promised. But the world isn’t
like that - reality isn’t like that. And, despite being a definite Order Muppet
(if you don’t get the reference, here
is Dahlia Lithwick’s classic work on the topic), the order of MY life - and
of my family - doesn’t fit. And that has, alas, caused a certain amount of
upset and sad and angry.
The final line I want to mention is another one from Lt.
Mayima’s story (which is told in pieces throughout the book.) He ends up
involved with a ruthless Soviet prisoner with ties to the Secret Police, who
advises him that if he wants to get out of the Gulag alive, he should avoid
imagination. However, evil and cruel and loathsome this man is, he has a pretty
good grasp on the realities of Stalinism. Marx had ideas, Lenin took a few of
them and used them for power, while Stalin, who had little understanding of
either, used what he grasped to multiply his own power. But here is the killer
line:
The narrower a man’s intellectual
grasp, the more power he is able to grab in this country.
Damn. How true is that in our own country (and throughout
much of the West) these days? That someone as ignorant and intellectually
challenged as Trump could leverage a combination of general stupidity and
incompetence with brilliant demagoguery into power is sad, but perhaps
shouldn’t be surprising.
This line comes very near the end of the book, and it
serves, to a degree, as inspiration to Toru. For much of the book, he has been
puzzled by the psychic’s description of him and Noboru as polar opposites, as
inhabiting different metaphysical worlds. It is Noboru’s obsession with power
and glory which makes him an empty vessel, not really human, but reflecting
what the demos
wants to see. Although this book was written in the mid 1990s, Noboru seems to
be a familiar popularist/nationalist sort. In contrast, Toru’s passivity and
lack of ambition is his strength. He in his own way has to become an empty
vessel himself to allow his true self to repossess himself, if that makes any
sense.
One final thing I thought I might mention regards the
criticism of Murakami from within the Japanese literary world. He has been
accused of being “too Western” - or “not Japanese enough,” whatever that means.
I am hardly equipped to resolve that question - although Murakami sure has sold
a lot of books in Japan,
not just abroad. What I can say is that to me at least, his writing has more in
common with other Japanese or Japanese-born authors I have read than with, say,
British or American authors. Sure, there is a difference between his writing
and that of Junichiro
Tanizaki (who Murakami cites as an influence) - but no more so than between
a contemporary Brit and, say, E. M. Forster. I saw striking similarities in
themes and styles between Murakami and Ishiguro
as well. Whatever the case, I find such distinctions as silly as the dispute between
the fans of Borodin and Tchaikovsky over who was more authentically “Russian.”
Good music is good music, and good writing is good writing. Murakami writes
well, and this book was good. I definitely want to read more.
***
Music, because of course.
Rossini is fun to play - this one is a staple of youth orchestras for that reason.
Schumann is underrated in my opinion. Even if the Scherzo in his 2nd Symphony is proof he hated the 1st violins.
And, of course, Papageno's aria:
True story here: for years, the Bakersfield Symphony Orchestra did an annual opera concert, where we had soloists associated with USC come up and do a concert version. (Recitatives replaced by narration, no sets, but usually costumes.) We haven't done this in a few years - I wish we could do them again, because they were a ton of fun, and my kids liked them. (Particularly Don Giovanni - go figure...)
Anyway, something like 15 years ago, we did The Magic Flute. The part of Tamino was sung by Kevin Courtemanche (he was a regular in our productions for a number of years.) He is a fine singer - I particularly remember "La Donna e Mobile" as a fine performance of his. But, I confess that as Tamino, during the scene when the maidens find him sleeping and extol his extreme beauty and manliness, it was really hard to keep from laughing. It wasn't his fault, of course - it is the injustice of the universe that short guys with bald heads get no romantic respect. (And, let's be honest, The Magic Flute is almost as silly as Cosi Fan Tutte...except it is trying so hard to be serious. Unintentional comedy factor: very high.) Anyway, this brought back memories of those good times. Kevin Courtemanche, if you somehow run across this post, here's a hello from Bakersfield, California. It was a pleasure making music with you back in the day. All the best.
“As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have
its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be
popular.” ~ Oscar Wilde
***
One of the most bizarre phenomena of the Obama presidency
(2008-2016, for those of you not immersed in US politics…) was the horrified
pearl clutching about thoughtful ideas that didn’t seem particularly partisan.
Basically, President Obama would mention some respected (and often centrist)
academic sort whose ideas had influenced him, and suddenly, that innocent
person would be branded as the next coming of Stalin, and his or her ideas
spoken of the way one tends to speak of human sacrifice or cannibalism.
Probably the most famous, of course, is Senator Elizabeth
Warren (before she entered politics), for suggesting ideas - and detailed plans
supported by evidence - which would have been uncontroversial to, say, Horace
Greeley, Theodore Roosevelt, JFK, or FDR.
Or, for those of us with a legal background, the first we
noticed was probably Cass Sunstein. Who is, if anything, center right (at least
by 1980s standards) and not even in the same zip code as a communist.
[Side note here on Sunstein: Why
Societies Need Dissent made my
list of most influential books - for good reason. Both the modern American
Right Wing and white Evangelicalism have purged those who refuse to bow down
and worship the political dogma, and have thus become increasingly extreme and
f-ing crazy over the last few decades - and Sunstein explains why. Likewise, Nudge
is a powerful look at some ways to work for the common good through incentives
and default settings, rather than regulation - a conservative approach for
sure. And Constitutional
Personae is a fun exploration of judicial styles and the US Supreme
Court. Seriously, unless you are a blind ideologue, Sunstein is a delight to
read - but Obama liked him, so he has to be evil, right?]
Another unfortunate victim of the “everything Obama likes is
evil” thing was Kwame Anthony Appiah.
Appiah was born in London to
a British mother and Kenyan father, but was raised in Kenya. He has
taught at such august institutions as Cornell, Yale, Harvard, and Princeton. He currently teaches at NYU. As far as I can
tell, his philosophical and political leanings are what most would characterize
as somewhere between center-right and centrist - at least by more global and
historical standards. (It is weird to have to point it out, but the current
American Right is actually radically reactionary and nativist, not
traditionally conservative in any recognizable way, so I use the alignment that
makes sense for most of the 20th Century, not the present.) I would say Appiah
would be recognizable to the likes of de Toqueville and Burke as being in the
generally conservative tradition, with a bent toward “liberalism” in the sense
of human rights.
The Honor Code is
a fascinating book. Appiah’s basic premise is that human society throughout
history and geography, has tended to be governed more by “honor” than morality
in the abstract sense. We care more about our reputation, so to speak, than our
actual goodness. Christ put his finger on this a bit with the idea of “washing
the outside of the cup.” We care about looking
good more than we care about being
good.
But this perhaps doesn’t quite capture the idea of honor. It
is hard to describe something this abstract in words - and Appiah does it
better than I do. While cultures vary greatly in their concepts of what is and
is not honorable, the basic ideas transfer well. Certain actions or inactions
are honorable, and others are dishonorable. If a person who is entitled to
honor does not receive it, he (usually he…) is entitled to retaliate - often
violently. Someone who adheres to the code of honorable conduct gets honor,
while he or she who fails to do so is dishonorable, and thus loses honor.
As Appiah notes in his concluding chapter, honor isn’t good
or evil. It can be either depending on the circumstance. On the one hand, as
the book points out, honor can be a source of utterly stupid violence and
oppression. On the other, it can be a powerful counterbalance to economic and
social power. It can work to control the worship of profit (something we sure
need in our times), and it can temper the abuse of power. Honor is a tool of
human psychology (like religion, which is related), capable of good or evil.
But honor is in many cases far more powerful than the force of law - and often
operates in defiance of the law.
To explore this theme, Appiah looks at four moral issues,
past and present, where he believes that honor was or is a determinative
factor. In the first three - the historical cases - he shows how honor went
from preserving a violent injustice to being turned on its head and being used
as a powerful weapon in ending the practice.
I quoted Oscar Wilde at the top of this post - as does
Appiah. Because that is how a matter of “honor” goes from being a serious
problem to the sort of thing one laughs at. Appiah doesn’t quote Dorothy
Sayers, but I will, because I can.
“The idea that a strong man should
react to great personal and national calamities by a slight compression of the
lips and by silently throwing his cigarette into the fireplace is of very
recent origin.”
The first practice that Appiah looks at is a perfect example
of this: the duel. From the perspective of the 21st Century, the practice of
dueling seems somewhere between laughable and horrifying. Why would anyone bother? Why take the risk?
For true defamation, file a lawsuit, and for the rest, just laugh, right? But
it was not always so.
Appiah points out that dueling was an upper-class practice,
related to the military tradition. Well, the military tradition back when the
martial arts were limited to the upper classes. (Again, in an era when most of
our soldiers are working class, this seems bizarre.) Only a gentleman was
entitled to a duel in a case of honor: a commoner who insulted a nobleman would
just be horsewhipped. It was when dueling expanded beyond the nobility that it
became gauche. When ordinary tradesmen (who may well be wealthy, but lack
titles) and {gasp!} those vulgar Americans
started doing it, it lost its lustre.
By the mid-19th Century, dueling was on its way out, and
Evelyn Waugh could note that the response to a challenge would be derisive
laughter.
Fun additional note here: Lin-Manuel Mirada didn’t come up
with an original idea for his song in Hamilton, “The Ten Duel Commandments.” In
fact, there were multiple “codes” that governed duels, which had a number of
commandments that were supposed to apply. Miranda borrowed from these codes
(and from the late Biggie
Smalls, of course) for his song. Which is fantastic - there is zero shame
in borrowing and reimagining in art.
But where Appiah gives a profound insight is in this: duels
were roundly morally condemned - and outlawed - for literally centuries before
they died out. Wait, what? All the moralizing and even criminalizing didn’t
stop them? Nope. Because ultimately “honor” trumped all. Need some proof on the
moral side? Well, there is Shakespeare,
writing a few hundred years before dueling ceased. The two “fools” - who
can speak their mind - Touchstone and Jaques - give a hilarious riff on the
rules of the duel.
Despite all this, though, it wasn’t until the meaning of
“honor” changed that progress was made in ending the practice.
This segues into the second practice which Appiah examines: footbinding.
For those who don’t know, during over 1000 years of Chinese
history, the feet of well-born Chinese girls were bound until the bones were
broken and the feet irreparably damaged. There were a variety of reasons for
the practice. Some were aesthetic (and a bit similar to the use of high heels
for women today.) Some were sexual and fetishistic. But Appiah also notes two
connections to honor. First, because
honor is often connected to class, it was about class signaling. Working class
women didn’t have bound feet, because it made manual labor difficult to
impossible. A woman with her feet bound was a decoration, so to speak - she
didn’t have to work.
But even more than that, footbinding was a symbol of
chastity. A woman who couldn’t walk far couldn’t (theoretically) exercise
sexual self-determination. She must remain pure until marriage, and faithful
thereafter. And thus, for the upper classes, a footbound woman was “honorable,”
while an unbound woman was dishonorable - a slut.
It isn’t difficult to see why the practice persisted. Once
it because bound up with family honor, that consideration would overrule law
and morality. The moral arguments against the practice were made for literally
hundreds of years. And various rulers attempted to outlaw it. Again, Appiah
shows that, while moral arguments and legal restrictions were part of the
process of change, what really made the difference is when China started
caring about the opinion of the rest of the world. Once footbinding was seen as
a national shame, it ceased to be “honorable.” And this ended it.
The third section is on the transatlantic slave trade. This
should not be confused with slavery itself, as the Unitied States needed a
vicious and bloody war to end slavery, and far too many today are still not happy about the outcome -
that’s how you get a white supremacist elected to the presidency. Appiah
focuses instead on England -
because England
abolished the slave trade by legislation decades before the American Civil War.
Appiah points out once again that there were abundant moral
arguments against slavery and that these were made continuously for years and
years. It wasn’t until the trade triggered an honor reaction that progress was
made. In Appiah’s view - and he may be right - it was the working class Brits
who turned against slavery. Unlike in America,
where a poor white man could always say “at least I’m not a n----r,” in England, poor
whites were at the bottom of the heap. Visionaries like Wilberforce hit on a
successful strategy by showing that slavery meant that manual labor was treated
as dishonorable, and that by permitting slavery, working people were being
dishonored as well.
The other successful tactic - and one that I have been using
for the last few years - was to point out that England’s reputation as a so-called
“Christian nation” was undermined by its thoroughly unchristian actions. We
need that more than ever - to point out to those who support family separations
and concentration camps for migrants are in fact dishonoring our country and
our faith. (Yep, I have family and acquaintances who defend this evil - and are
not happy when I point out that they are dishonoring Christ by doing so.)
The final practice addressed by Appiah is one which is more
or less ongoing: honor killings. Appaih starts off by looking at the practice
in a less familiar setting. There is nothing inherently religious about the
practice of honor killing, and it has been pretty widespread throughout rather
divergent religious cultures. So, Appiah first looks at how it was practiced in
Sicily. Who
knew, right? Well, there was a complex system of “honor” surrounding female
sexuality which required varying levels of violence to restore honor to a
family dishonored by female sex. In some cases, this meant killing, but in
others, it meant that a woman would be forced to marry her rapist - even if she
was engaged to someone else. (Hey, that is actually in the Bible, by the way -
so don’t make it an Islamic thing.)
Appiah then looks at it in the context of Pakistan, which
is the Islamic country where honor killings are the most problematic. He points
out some things which get lost in the miasma of Islamophobia that taints our
discussion of so much in our country. First, honor killings are part of a
particular culture - and have been part of that culture for hundreds of years before Mohammed was born. Second, honor
killings are and largely have been illegal in all the places they are
practiced. Third, honor killings are considered morally wrong and downright
un-Islamic by all mainstream branches of Islam. (In other words, honor killings
are like polygamy in the FLDS cult - they are not part of mainstream LDS, let
alone Protestant Christianity. Ditto for honor killings and Islam.)
So why are they still all too prevalent? Well, because of
“honor.” That idea trumps morality, the teachings of Islam, and the law itself.
Appiah makes a fantastic point about the root issue - and he
draws on a movie made about Scicilian honor culture. A character says, “It’s a
man’s right to ask and a woman’s duty to refuse.” Or, as Appiah notes,
“Self-restraint is unmanly; resistance is appropriately feminine.”
Yep, the old sexual double standard. Men are expected to be
hopeless horndogs, and women are solely responsible to stop them. And if a man
rapes her, the woman is at fault for failing to do her duty. (Or die in the
attempt.)
You might notice that this isn’t too different from
“Christian” purity culture here in America. Or too different from the
rhetoric surrounding abortion right now. That’s because it comes from the same
belief system about gender roles and female sexuality.
I mentioned them above, but want to touch on a few of
Appiah’s observations about honor. He closes the book with a look at the
positives and negatives of honor, and how it might be directed to support moral
and ethical behavior, and not its opposite.
As an attorney, I appreciate his mention of us - along with
other professionals (teachers, nurses, doctors, accountants, etc.) who are
bound by more than the law breathing down our necks. We have our codes of
honor. Sometimes, people misunderstand that (particularly those who don’t get
why we are bound by our professional code to represent people with unpopular
cases.) But because of our ability to cause great damage to society if we act
dishonorably, those standards work to keep us on the right path where mere laws
might not. In that sense too, Appiah notes that honor can work to mitigate the
profit motive - and it is the sign of our disintegrating society that profit is
now seen as trumping (pun intended) all duty to our fellow humans and the
fabric of society.
Appiah also looks at the unfortunate connection between
violence and honor. But he notes that in the three cases where honor has been
turned to the good, honor doesn’t have to be about violence and pain. It can
work against those oppressive hierarchies instead of supporting them. (For more
on the progress that has been made, and the factors that helped bring it about,
I cannot recommend The Better Angels of our Nature by
Steven Pinker enough - it is a fantastic book. And thus, one which the
Right has decided to hate…)
I want to end with a couple of thoughts. First is this quote
from a book by J. M. Coetzee, which Appiah uses to illustrate how we can push
back on evil using the language of honor:
Demosthenes: Whereas the slave fears
only pain, what the free man fears most is shame. If we grant the truth of what
the New Yorker claims [regarding torture during the gulf wars], then the issue
for individual Americans becomes a moral one: how, in the face of this shame to
which I am subjected, do I behave? How do I save my honor?
Appiah suggests that we will have more success in changing
the world for the better if we work to reshape the meaning of “honor” than if
we “simply ring the bell of morality.” Rather than asking people to be good, we
may do better to wield shame and “carefully calibrated ridicule.” It isn’t that
morality and justice and human rights are irrelevant - they are crucial parts
of the discussion. But all too many people will not be moved by these abstract
concerns so much as they will be moved by understanding that others see them as
dishonorable and shameful.
Whether or not one agrees with everything Appiah says in
this book, he makes an interesting case. Clearly, he has thought his thesis
through, and supports it throughout with citations to primary sources. In
particular, his description of how moral and legal arguments alone were
insufficient until the code of honor changed is as compelling as anything I
have read as an explanation for how societies make major changes in the course
of a single generation. I think we are seeing a similar shift right now regarding
a constellation of human rights issues (gender equality, racial equality,
economic equality, immigration, and gay rights), and I am reasonably confident
that after the Baby Boomers shuffle off, there will be revolutionary - and long
overdue - changes.
I feel I haven’t done justice to this book, alas. But I hope
I have given a bit of a picture of what is in it. It’s not that long, but it is
a good read, and it raises some intriguing ideas about how to fight injustice.
***
On the “anything
Obama likes is evil” phenomenon:
Initially, I figured this was just raw partisanship. And it
is that. The polarization happened on the Right long before it spread to the
Left - and honestly, the Left is far more open to a range of ideas right now.
But there is more to it. Obama “tainted” others far more
than Bill Clinton did - or for that matter, more than any white male on the
Left has done during my lifetime. And I think that is part of it. Before Obama,
I did not realize just how deeply and viciously racist white people still are
(on average) in this country - and particularly white people on the Right. Both
the Obama era and the Trump
whitelash made that abundantly clear. For someone like Appiah, he is doubly
tainted by being liked by Obama and being of African descent himself.
But perhaps another level applies here too. I didn’t realize
it until the Trump era: for the most part, the American Right is terrified by
reality. Anything that smacks of actual evidence, consistent ethical thought,
or in any way challenges their political theological beliefs (including
unregulated Capitalism, Social Darwinism, White Supremacy, and Christian
Nationalism among others) is anathema, no matter how well supported by
overwhelming evidence. Which is why they have been willing to remain in denial
about climate change, cascading income inequality, and anything that smacks of
sociological or economic research. The dogma is all that matters, and who cares
if it destroys civilization? Our theology (I use that in the secular sense too)
is right, the evidence be damned.
“Who you gonna believe, me or your own eyes?” And that is how legitimate
thinkers like Sunstein and Appiah get tarred with the “pinko” label, while the
village idiot can say obviously ludicrous things and be defended to the death.
I don’t even know what to say anymore.
I am rather horrified by the way that anti-intellectualism
and anti-reality thinking took over my former religious and political tribes.
And how quickly conservative ideals were abandoned as soon as a more (dare I
say it?) pure form of racism and hate
presented itself. I left both the GOP and Evangelicalism because I refused to
check my brain and my conscience at the door.
