Class and Names in Pygmalion, Act I

One of the most interesting aspects of the first act of Pygmalion is that of class, and it’s relation to characters’ names.  It is fascinating not because it is there, but because it is so pointedly obvious– arguably to the point of being satirical.

The characters in Act One represent a stereotypical cross-section of English society at that time.  There are the Aristocrats– Freddy, his mother and his sister– as well as the middle class academic Henry Higgins.  There is Colonel Pickering, whose academic and military experiences allow him to span a gap between the aristocratic and the middle classes, and then, of course, there is Eliza Dolittle, the lower class flower girl.

The importance of class in the play is illustrated by the fact that all of the characters are initially known by epithets that either directly or indirectly point to their social statuses.  The Mother and the Daughter, being upper class, are known solely by their familial positions, because those are their only places in society.  The Flower Girl, being lower class, must work for a living and is therefore known by her job title.  The Gentleman, obviously, is exactly what his name indicates, while the Note Taker, while middle class and therefore known again by his activity, is also an academic, as the act of taking notes suggests.  Only Freddy seems to be immune to the classification– a fact which proves significant as more about his character is revealed later in the play.

Even the characters’ proper names seem to have social significance.  Henry Higgins is a name for an “Everyman” if I’ve ever heard one, yet the surname Higgins means “Intelligent.”  Eliza’s surname, Dolittle, can be taken as a descriptive for the stereotypical view taken by the English of the period toward the lower class.  The poorest in English society at that time were typically viewed as lazy and idle.  Colonel Pickering’s name is especially interesting.  Firstly, the combination of a officers’ title with the name speaks of both high birth– because at the time only aristocrats became officers in the English military– and of intelligence– because of two famous Victorian astronomers, Edward and William Pickering.  Freddy, who falls from aristocrat to shopkeeper during the prologue of the play, seems destined for his change in fortune due to the fact that his name, as Eliza explains during Act I, is a common term for an unknown, average man.

The Irreplacable Books

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”
― Marcus Tullius Cicero

In his article "Books and Other Fetish Objects," James Gleick describes the thrill a bibliophile or historian can get from handling an old text.  He is quite right-- It is a thrilling experience.  However, merely handling any book can be an experience in itself.  There is something that makes one feel comfortably blissful while holding a book, and despite the good qualities of digital texts, this feeling is something that they cannot replace.  Gleick wonders in his article if the ease of e-texts are "an example of 'be careful what you wish for?'"  I am inclined to have the same concern.

Recently, I was scandalized when someone said he couldn't wait for the day when libraries focused on ebooks and were fully online.  Libraries?  Entirely digitized?  No more books?!  I found the thought so horrible that it actually made me a little sick to my stomach, and I replied to my acquaintance that I hoped I never saw that day. 

I can't imagine a world without books.  I agree fully with Jorge Luis Borges that "...Paradise will be a kind of library," and by that same token I believe a world without books would be a living Hell.
  

Don't misunderstand me.  I believe that digital books certainly have their uses.  An e-reader would be exceptionally useful on a long airplane trip, for example.  Digital sources can be more easily searched, and therefore are a blessing and a boon to any student or researcher. However-- despite my working as an IT tech-- I do not agree with the common philosophy that newer is always better.  I don't think books ought to be completely replaced.  The idea of a world without them is both distasteful and frightening to me.  I believe that libraries would loose a lot of their beauty and charm in they became no more than E-Book Rental Stations-- if, indeed there was any need to have a physical building at all.

The fact is that while, as I've said, digital texts have their virtues, they also have their drawbacks-- which most people foolishly tend to over look.  Besides the fact that e-readers lack the comforting presence and stately appearance of books, they are also short-lived.  Technology, by it's very nature, moves forward quickly, and thus the e-reader one pays $300 for will be out-dated within only a few years.  A person who bought an e-reader five years ago, when nearly every MicroSoft-related gadget was compatible with Windows XP, may find that their e-reader will not work with their new Windows 7 laptop.  Beyond that, their is the fact that machines-- all machines-- wear down over time.  E-readers and computers are no different.  Even if they do not become obsolete, they will eventually crash.

Of course, I might be a little bias.  Bibliophile is a very accurate term for me, as I am admittedly addicted.  I simply can't get enough books.  I love them not only for their content- though that, of course, is a a great source of joy- but for their look, their feel and their smell.  There are few sights I find more comforting and uplifting than a book shelf- and in fact I dream of having a library in my home.  If there is any better way to spend a cold, rainy day then curled up in an easy chair by a fire with a good book and a cup of coffee, I haven't found it.  If there is any more pleasant activity for a mild spring or autumn afternoon than sitting out door reading, I have never heard of it.  Books are my constant companions, and make the most excellent of acquaintances- quiet, unassuming and amiable.
  

Employees at the local Borders, as well as at both my county and campus libraries, know me by sight.  My favorite haunts, however, are used bookstores.  I often tell friends that books are never really "used," just "pre-loved."  "Besides," I'm likely to add.  "Books are like people; It's what's on the inside that counts!"  There's something fundamentally endearing about used books, and, of course, the prince increases their appeal.
  

You see, I am a re-reader.  I can't help it.  When I find a really good story, a book that touches my soul, or just an interesting tome of knowledge, I read it again and again.  (There are some favorites, like J. R. R. Tolkien's the Lord of the Rings that I read almost annually.)  This, combined with my love for the mere presence of books, leads me to buy a great number, and to almost never discard any of them.  (I've been known to purchase as many as 50 books from a single library sale.  As I said previously, I am truly addicted.)

I read nearly everything; From histories to fantasies, from true crime and mystery to sociology and politics, I love it all.  A well written book on any subject is always a welcome addition to my collection.  I'm afraid I've become an infamous know-it-all, especially on certain favorite subjects, due to my constant reading and research.  I try not to be, but I seem to fail often enough to spawn a number of good-humored jibes.
  

True, I could find much of the same information online, and honestly it would probably be quicker and easier to locate in that format, but nothing can ever replace the gentle weight of a book in my lap, the whisper of turning pages, and the distinct, soothing smell of a bound tome.  Reading, I think, is more than an activity.  It is an experience to be enjoyed and savored; something unique that both provides tranquil solace and draws readers together.

The Gift of Books

“I don’t think I could live without reading.” ~Alberto Manguel

                Anthropologists place a great deal of importance on the advent of written language– so much to that there is a branch of the study called Linguistic Anthropology.  It is, they believe, one of the things that divides our nomadic, hunter-gatherer ancestors from our modern society.  Human culture developed when we settled down, tamed the world around us, and began to write.

                Since then, reading has evolved into a skill vital to our society.  All children are expected to learn it, toiling over trite phrases like: “See spot run.”  It is a major mode of communication, constantly surrounding us in the form of ads, signs, magazines, menus and packaging labels.  In fact, the written word is so important that it has developed and maintained a connection with social status; to this day, a room filled with books is taken as a sign of education, refinement, and prestige.

                From the earliest Sumerian cuneiform and Chinese shell writings, to the first English translations of the Bible, to modern advent of eBooks, reading has shaped our world.  The words penned by various authors over the centuries have changed the way we think, challenged our beliefs, and taught us new understandings.  Without the works of Livy, Claudius and Plato, the democratic government of the United States would have never existed.  Without the wicked Malleus Maleficarum the European witch hunts would have been little more than a few isolated incidents.  Without Michael Faraday’s Experimental Research in Electricity, we might still be burning oil lamps and coal stoves.  Written words have been stepping stones to move society forward.

                More than all of this, however, reading is a joy that millions of people share.  It is an invigorating workout for the mind as well as a fascinating escape from the mundane.  It is an open door in the psyche that us leads to new worlds, and a road that takes us on life-changing journeys without us ever leaving out chairs.  It connects us, through ideas, to kindred spirits and to generations who have gone before.  The resounding and irreplaceable love of books is, perhaps, the greatest gift that written language has ever given the human race.

Sources: Alberto Manguel.  A History of Reading.  New York, NY: Penguin Books.  1997.  Pgs 3-123.

The Importance of Ghost Stories

Upon recently re-reading Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, I began to consider that the book can be described as many things: a gothic novel, a classic, and even a romance.  Along with these things, however, it is also a ghost story.

I have long held the belief that myths, fairy tales, and ghost stories hold great importance for society.  They are the telling-tales: stories spoken around firelight, generation after generation, that gather listeners together in communal wonder.  They help to bind groups of people together, and each has a particular important purpose.  If fairy tales serve to “tell us that dragons can be beaten,” as G. K. Chesteron acknowledged, then ghost stories exist to remind us to look back.  For, amid the thrills and chills of a ghostly tale, there is always a different sort of narrative: a story about someone’s life.  There is nearly always a description of how someone lived, or a guess about who someone was, that seems to offer some reason for the haunting in the tale.

After all, although Catherine’s ghost only appears once in Wuthering Heights, and appears to have possibly been a figment of the protagonist Lockwood’s imagination, it is that apparition which drives his investigation into the past of the manor house forward.  If the ghost had not appeared, Lockwood’s other discoveries– a diary, and three names written on a wall– would have been curiosities to consider, but nothing more.  It was the ghostly turn of events that really pushed him to scrutinize beyond idle pondering the lives of the house’s departed dwellers.

That, of course, is the importance of ghost stories.  While histories make us curious about great personages and events, ghost stories make us curious about regular people and daily life.  Without them, very often the past would stay buried along with the dead.

Places with Personality

I love unique places.  Places with Heart, that seem to have a personality all their own.  I enjoy  discovering wonderful little hole-in-the-wall venues like hidden treasures.  I relish in the spirit of independently owned places, where the love and characters of the owners and workers seems to have seeped into the walls.  Places that are out of the ordinary- from parks to art galleries- and places that speak to my own personality.

Some of my favorite places in the U.S. are Savannah, Little Five Points and Warm Springs, all in my native Georgia, and Colorado Springs (or rather certain areas outside of it, such as The Garden of the Gods and Mountaindale.)  I love the scenery of the Rocky mountains, and the culture- a mixture of Native American, Celtic, Mexican- that underlies the place.  I love the woods, the mountains, and the rivers.  I love the wildness of the land and the free-spirited, open people.  However, other places hold equal portions of my heart.  I love historic towns.  I love the unique, elegant yet flamboyant soul of Savannah, the close, friendly, lost-in-time feeling of Warm Springs, and the colorful, artistic storefronts of Little Five Points.  I love the old bed and breakfast inns that mingle refinement with relaxation like a kind, old, matronly aunt.  I love the colorful charm and quaint beauty of Riverstreet and the Market Square in Savannah, and of down town Warm Springs.  I love the unconstrained, lively, new age viberance of Little Five Points.

In fact, my idea of paradise is something of a blend between such places.  Imagine a beautiful terrain of forests and mountains, in which there nestles a historic little town filled with unique shops, restaurants, art galleries, small theaters and friendly denizens. Where there is a huge, old fashioned bookstore between a new age coffee shop and a laid back Irish pub.  Oh, and did I mention that this would be an Otherworldly place? Magic would be real, and elves, fey, and other such beings would be included in the population- though perhaps unknown to most.  Perhaps such a notion is foolish, but perhaps not.  Sometimes I wonder if some of my favorite places might hold such denizens.  It seems somehow fitting that creatures of faerie- who are connected so much more to the spirit and heart of things than humans- would feel my same attraction to unique and beautiful places.  Sometimes I wonder if the place I dream about exists in some quiet little corner of the world, or if my job is to create it- to dream it, write it, paint it- and to make it real?

Or is this place only in my heart?

Lost Cities

Lost cities-- indeed, all ancient ruined cities-- are fascinating, sobering, beautiful, mysterious and strange.  They easily lend themselves to curiosity, imagination, and pensiveness.  A certain thrilling disquietude can be found in feeling the breathless stillness and hearing the echoing silence of a place that once bustled with life, and the mind almost trembles with the sense that somewhere, just below the mundane, glimmers vestiges of those who once walked the forgotten streets.  Such places seem dreamlike, as if they reside on the borders of our existence and the Otherworld.

I have never been to a true Lost City myself, but I have had the chance to see a couple of ruins.  Some peoplemseem to feel that my fasenation with them is rather morbid, but I can't bring myself to agree.  For me, they are places to think and learn about the past.  Exploration of ruins awakens child-like natural inquisitiveness, which in turn prods the mind with itching questions.  Who lived here?  What became of them?  Were the really so different from us?  Will someone one day stand in our own hometowns and ponder these same enigmas?

In a way, lost cities answer some of the same riddles they pose.  It's invigorating to watch a historical documentary and witness archeologists and anthropologists assembling clues with the skill and fervor of the most dedicated sleuths.  Piece by piece the puzzle is constructed until a clear-- though often incomplete-- image of an ancient people emerges.  With breathless wonder researches realize the ancient Minoan citys like Knossos had running hot and cold water, flushing toilets, and earthquake-resistant walls. (For more information, see http://santorinitravelguide.com/?p=p_67&sName=santorini-historical-guide)  They note with similar awe that the Greeks built the first "analog computer," (http://www.antikytheramechanism.org/) and that the ancient Romans invented many of our modern surgical tools. (http://www.hsl.virginia.edu/historical/artifacts/roman_surgical/)  They marvel that the lost Indian city of Dwarka-- said to be the home of the god Krishna, and long believed to be a myth-- actually exists.  (http://www.epicindia.com/magazine/Culture/the-lost-city-of-dwarka)  With equal wonder they uncover a previously unknown ancient city in China's Taklamakan desert whose mummified  residents are not Mongolian or Cantonese, but Celtic. (http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/a-meeting-of-civilisations-the-mystery-of-chinas-celtic-mummies-413638.html)

The uncertainty we feel concerning the one-time glory of lost cities opens the doors to endless possibilities and gives our imaginations whole new landscapes to gallop in.  The inhabitants might have been anyone.  There could be unfathomable wonders to discover.  As a fan of Tolkien's great works, I look at Knossos and see a real life version of Gondor.  As a devout studier of mythology, I look at Dwarka and see a god's lost domain, and I look at the Taklamakan "Beauty of Loulan" and see a descendant of Scathach.

Despite the undisturbed and soundless tranquility of lost cities and ruined cities, they are a place where the mind comes alive.  They are places to make dfiscoveries, let our imaginations soar free, and remind ourselves that these ancients were intellegent and inventive-- no different from us.  Lost cities remind us that by looking at our oast we may also be looking at our future.  They remind us that all we build, no matter how great, will one day crumble and rust.  They bid us to live while we can, and to never forget that nothing in this life is truly eternal.

Creativity

Do you feel places?  Do you walk into some locales—like Walmart, for instance—and feel surrounded by still lifelessness?  By contrast, do you walk into a creative, individually owned venue and feel the personality of the place itself?  Do you feel the huge, almost overwhelming, breathless and free presence of nature when you walk out into the woods, climb a mountain, or walk along a quiet beach?  When you stand in the ocean, do you feel the strange, nearly electric tingle of life?


If so, you may understand what I mean when I say that creativity is far more than inventiveness for me.  It’s a state of being, a way of looking at the world, and something sacred and indefinable.  The closest I can come to describing it is to call it a simultaneous connection to the creator of the world—whatever you wish to call that creator—and a reflection and expression of one’s own spirit.
In several cultures, people with great creativity and talent were once viewed as somewhat otherworldly, and to an extent I think this may be an accurate perception.  Those who are blessed with a great deal of imaginativeness and artisiticness are connected to something that's both deep within and so external that it's rather alien.  That unfathomable "something" is not accessible-- or fully understandable-- to others.  Of course, nothing comes without a price, and we tend to be rather eccentric-- sometimes entirely crazy-- but that only makes life more fun.  :)

I cannot speak for others, (though I suspect they feel similarly,) but, for me, writing, sketching and such are more than hobbies.  I need to create.  I often feel that it is as great a necessity as food and shelter.  True, I could probably continue surviving without making or enjoying pieces of art, but something inside of me would die.  And that something is a massive part of my personality as well as my purpose and joy in life.  To put it plainly, food, water and warmth are imperative for life, but art, music, literature and theatre are what make life worth living.  Since I first began writing and drawing as a young child, I have never had the ability or desire to stop.  In fact, I don’t believe a single week has passed since I was five or so that I did not create something.

So yes, when I see an empty cigar box, I see an opportunity to create a new purse or jewelry box.  When I look at people, I wonder about their lives and sometimes begin spinning silent tales about them.  I notice details and emotions and fine undercurrents, and I like to seek out unique places and soak them in.  I look beyond the surface, and find magic and wonder in the mundane.  I enjoy taking full delight in the small pleasures my existence has to offer.  Most of all, however, I love to unbind my spirit from the confines of daily drudgery, follow my inspirations wherever they may lead, and create.
 

What is Kitsch?

            When it comes to paintings there is some debate about exactly what Kitsch is.  Some, taking the view expressed by wealthy art collectors in the Victorian era, say that it is any soft, feminine work of art.  This, however, would mean that the work any artist from the Rococo period is kitsch, and that certainly isn’t accurate.  Some say that it is any reproduction of artwork.  This, however, is a thoroughly elitist view, as it rules out anything that average citizens can afford.  Besides that, it is certainly incorrect.  The artistic value of a painting is placed on the work itself, not on its monetary value.  While there is certainly something awe-inspiring about standing before the actual canvas that was transformed into art by the loving strokes of a master artist’s brush, I would argue that the actual artistic value of a painting lies in the emotions it produces, the contemplations it instigates and in the creative skill it embodies.  The wonderment one feels when gazing at the original is of a more historical nature, and is derived more from the thought that this is indeed the painting that the artist actually touched.  One would feel much the same way when gazing on the sword that William Wallace wielded, or the flag that inspired the Star Spangled Banner.  When prints of a painting are made, the historical value may not apply to the copies, but the artistic value remains intact.

            What, then, is kitsch?  After careful thought, I have formed two opinions on the matter.  The first is simply that kitsch– if there truly is such a thing– must apply to the original work.  There must be something about the painting that lessens it in some way.  As an illustration, I have chosen two artists.  I like both, both offer prints of their work, and both have soft, “feminine” styles, but I believe one may be considered kitschy while the other is not.

            The first is Thomas Kinkade.  Now, please understand that I mean no offence when I say he is a bit kitschy.  I think that his paintings are beautiful, but the fact is that they are not thought provoking, they do not inspire a range of emotions, and they are, frankly, a little repetitive.  Google the term Thomas Kinkade and you will find a lot of beautiful paintings that are all basically the same.

            The second artist is Josephine Wall.  While she has a unique style that is evident in all of her work, each of her paintings is unique and seems to tell a story all its own.  Different Josephine Wall paintings carry different emotions and provoke different ideas, though admittedly they all tend to be of a pleasant sort.  (In my mind this is no bad thing.  I resent the idea that something has to be controversial and unhappy in order to be art.  That is like saying only somber aires actually count as music.)  There are multitudes details that draw one in– faces peer out from the landscape, clouds take the form of dancers, figures dissolve into scenes– and viewers begin feeling like they are falling into a dream.  In many cases, these details contain symbols that hint at the personification or myth the painting is meant to portray.  If one has a background in Paganism, Mythology, New Age Philosophy, or all three, one is likely to recognize important or sacred symbols in Josephine’s work.  Even if one knows nothing about the aforementioned things, however, one understands that there is a deeper meaning hidden in the artwork.  Any person who truly stops and looks at a Josephine Wall painting cannot help but wonder what significance or story is masked in that veil of paint.

A Founatain of Inspiration

There are a lot of differing ways to view life.  I agree with those who say it is a test- I believe it was pitcher Vernon Law who said "Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterward"- and I agree with those who liken it to a journey- I view all decisions, small and large, as forks and paths which determine our future roads and destinations.  However, I have another metaphor for life, and for reality as a whole, which seems to be fairly unique.  I view life and the world as a large sculpture.

To many, this may not initially make sense, and in fact it probably sounds utterly insane.  Before you begin searching the phone books for a good psychologist, however, allow me to offer an explanation.   Let's imagine that a certain tourist- I think I'll call him Bubba Billy-Bob Hacker- travels to Rome to see Berninis' famous Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi.  If he stands at a single point- we'll say it is the eastern side of the fountain- and admires the view, then walks away, he will have only a partial understanding of what the fountain actually looks like.  If, when this individual returns home, he's asked to describe the fountain, his portrayal, while accurate, will be incomplete.  Let's say that Bubba was accompanied by a friend who chose to walk around the fountain and appreciate it from every view- as he obviously had more sense than his companion, I think I'll name him something nice and normal, like Joe.  When Joe is asked what the fountain looked like, he'll be able to offer his listeners a complete description- unless, of course, he suffers from memory loss.  But that is hardly the point.

Every system of belief, every world view, and every cultural understanding has a portion of truth in it.  No one idea is wholly and unarguably right- though it may be that some hold more truth than others.  I suppose it could be said that I view understanding like a puzzle- pieces of axiom and actuality are garnered from various world views and then pieced together into one coherent image of life.  Those who seek to understand life from multiple, differing view points are likely to have a clearer and more complete picture.

An example of such a "puzzle" is my view of the universal force which appears in many religions.  The Hindu idea of a Universal Energy is extremely similar to the Druidic idea of Awan and the Christian idea of the Holy Spirit. In fact studying Hinduism in an Eastern Philosophy class helped me to understand the other two concepts better. I suppose it could be said that I looked at the sculpture from all sides. Likewise, my exploration of differing ideologies and beliefs has led to the discovery of my own personal understanding of spirituality- a blend of Christianity with Celtic Druidism and Native American Shamanism that fits my soul perfectly and echos with a ringing truth in my heart.

I am neither wise nor perfect- in fact I am miles removed from both- but I believe that looking at life and existence through multiple views has enriched my understanding and endowed me with at least a small glimmer of sagacity.

Pagan Holy Wells in Catholic Tradition

            It is no secret to anyone who has even a basic knowledge of Celtic history that Catholicism, when it reached Brittany, Cornwall, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, did not so much replace Pagan beliefs as superimpose itself over them.  Robert Scheer states, in an article published in the online magazine New Age Travel, that:

“Pagan worship was not actually destroyed by Christianity, but rather was overshadowed by it… Christian chapels were built over pagan holy wells and springs.” 

The same can be said for many holy sites in lands populated by people of Celtic descent.  Standing stones on the Island of Iona were carved with crosses.  The historic St. Mary’s Church was built within view of the even older ruins of a temple of Nodens-Nuada in Lydney, Gloucestershire, England.

            Perhaps one of the most interesting forms of Catholic adoption of Celtic Pagan aspects is that of holy wells.  There are hundreds of holy wells across the United Kingdom and Ireland– many of which are frequented by Catholics today and most of which were originally Pagan holy sites.

            That, however, is not what makes these wells interesting.  There are multitudes of holy wells around the world, many of which have been adopted by Catholics and dedicated to saints.  No, what is truly fascinating about these wells is the fact that Pagan ideas and practices concerning the wells have been adopted along with the locations.

            According to Holy Wells Sligo, a website maintained by St. John’s Parish in Sligo, Ireland, the Tobernalt Holy Well was originally a Pagan site.  Every year on the last Sunday in July parishioners celebrate Garland Sunday at the well.  The web page admits that this is a Christian version of two Pagan traditions– Lughnasa, which is celebrated by Pagans on August 1, and Domhnach Crom Dubh, which is celebrated by some Pagans shortly thereafter.  Even the idea of Garland Sunday has its roots in Pagan traditions.  According to Holy Wells Sligo, at one time unmarried women made garlands of vines, flowers and apples, which were then carried by unmarried men and women to the nearest burial place.  If an apple fell from the garlands on the way there, it was an ill omen for those carrying it because apples often represented love, fertility, and the goddess.  Once the parade reached the burial ground, they broke apart the garlands and scattered them on the graves while weeping and keening.  After they returned from the burial ground, there was dancing, feasting and merrymaking.  Although Garlands are no longer typically carried, Garland Sunday is still a day for visiting holy spots.  In fact, it is the official day of pilgrimage for Irish Catholics.

            Another Pagan tradition adopted at Tobernalt, as well as many other holy wells, is that of tying ribbons and small offerings to trees near holy wells.  Tying prayer ribbons to trees is a tradition that is still practiced by Pagans today.  (In fact, according to the magazine Blue World Gardener, the Pagan tradition of tying ribbons to trees is the basis for the modern tradition of decorating Christmas trees.)  The practice is still very much alive among Catholics who visit holy wells in Ireland and the U.K.  Ribbons, rosaries, and small offerings are tied to trees near holy wells, such as Tobernalt, in reverence of the saints who have all but replaced the Pagan deities once worshiped there.

Offerings tied to a tree near a holy well is Sligo, Ireland

Experiencing Catholocism

            Typically, any sort of commutation that is begun with a phrase like: “a Pagan and an Agnostic walked into a Catholic church,” might be expected to end with some sort of tasteless religious joke.  In this case, however, it is merely a statement of fact.  Recently a Syncretistic Pagan (myself) and an Agnostic (my sister) actually did enter the cathedral of St. John Vianney Catholic Church in Lithia Springs, Georgia.

            The first thing I felt, before even entering the building, was acute nervousness.  This was only to be expected, I suppose, as no human being enjoys walking into a large group of strangers with the foreknowledge that he or she is very different from anyone else present.  I was terrified that I would accidentally offend the congregation– something that would oppose my principles of open-minded tolerance and empathic respect– and I was equally worried that someone would realize that I was a not Catholic, not conservative, and not a conformist.  I insisted to myself that these ideas were stereotypes– I don’t doubt that there are plenty of liberal, free-spirited Catholics in the world– and reminded myself that if I wanted an example of a progressive Catholic that followed her heart rather than following the rules, I needed to look no further than Mother Theresa.   Nonetheless, the concern remained.  (For the sake of fairness, I should mention that I attended a Christian high school, and was badly ostracized there, so my fears were not entirely unfounded.)

I admit that I had prepared myself by questioning my younger sister’s boyfriend, who was raised in a Catholic household, and by dressing myself more conservatively than I typically would have.  I felt it was only polite to try to follow Catholic customs as closely as I could, but nonetheless I almost laughed when I saw myself.  Catching a glimpse of my unfamiliar ensemble in a car’s side mirror as I transversed the parking lot, I realized that the cliché had just gotten worse.  I was now an incognito Pagan walking into a Catholic church.

            Having been raised in a Baptist church, I found some aspects of the Catholic chapel to be familiar, and that comforted me a great deal.  The outer doors opened to reveal the same sort of formally-decorated vestibule that is common to Baptist churches.  Respectable looking old men stood just inside, handing out paper programs detailing the planned church service, just as would have been done in my childhood church.  The organ notes of a vaguely familiar hymn drifted out of the opened sanctuary doors.

            There were quite a few differences, however.  Upon entering the sanctuary, members of the congregation crossed themselves with holy water.  I silently blessed my sister’s boyfriend for explaining how I should cross myself.  There was a large crucifix hanging behind the pulpit, along with smaller statues of Mary and a saint– whom I assumed to be Saint John Vianney– in the front corners.  My sister and I took an empty pew in the back, where we felt unobtrusive, and found a couple of nearby hymnals just as a procession walked through the door.  There were a few alter boys, a priest, and two other men who appeared to be his direct subordinates.  (They may have been ordinans or simply lower-ranking priests.)  This procession was very familiar to my Pagan understanding, and incense, processions, and ritualistic entries and exits are fairly common.  The priest greeted the congregation formally, much as a Pagan priest or priestess might, though the words were, of course, different.  The congregation answered back with ritual words, just as a Pagan gathering would. 

I was surprised that some of the hymns were in Latin, which gave my sister hope that a part of the service might be in Latin as well.  I felt a little queasy.  I had purposefully ensured that this church would have their service in English for fear that I might misinterpret something when my sister asked.  (She, of course, had wanted to find a traditional chapel downtown so that she pester me for translations and see if I could actually manage it.)  I was glad I at least spoke the language well enough to understand most of the hymns, and was thrilled when the priest began the first prayer in my own native tongue.  Everyone kneeled as he invited us to pray– something I was not used to– and my sister and I realized why our pew had been empty.  Most pews had been fitted with little cushioned, folding metal stools, so that church goers could pray more comfortably.  Ours pew, however, had not been so lucky, and the industrial carpet did little to soften the hard, cold floor.

            The prayers may have been quite different from my old church, the time of fellowship was much the same, except that individuals said: “Peace be with you,” each time they shook one another’s hands.  (Once again I was quietly grateful to my sister’s boyfriend as I repeated the proper phrase over and over.)

                        There were several more prayers, hymns, and repetitions of ceremonial phrases.  At last the father stood at the pulpit and read from his Bible.  The congregation responded with an appropriate hymn, and the priest read some more.  There was one more song before he delivered a sermon very similar to one that I might expect to hear in the Baptist church I was raised in.  After that, communion was given– which thrilled my sister until I reminded her that our “inside informant” had said that we couldn’t take communion since we weren’t Catholic.  She did, however, get in line and cross her arms, as our sister’s boyfriend had instructed, and received a blessing.  Then the offering plates were passed in a very similar manner– though the men passing them wore robes rather than plain suits.  There were more songs, more prayers, and then the service was ended.  I remembered to cross myself with holy water on my way out.

            Odd, how so much of the experience wasn’t so strange and nerve-racking as I thought it might be.

Pretty Lies: TV Housewives of the '50s

            The next time you see your friends, try this little trick.  Tell them: “I want you to touch your finger to your chin– like this.”  As you speak, touch your forefinger to your cheek.  Watch your acquaintances to see what they do, and I guarantee that, ninety percent of the time, they will touch their cheek rather than their chin.

            The fact is that we emulate what we see, not what we hear.

            Any good parent can tell you that this is true.  There have even been articles concerning behavioral psychology that have come to the same conclusions.  It’s an undebatable fact that the phrase “Do as I say, not as I do,” is an empty and useless expression.

            Given humanity’s predisposition to learn by observation, is it any wonder that we are powerfully influenced by what we see on television?  The portrayals of race, gender, and class broadcast across the country greatly influence how we view reality, and this influence has, in some cases, helped to mask or even cause social issues.
           Television families have been America’s measuring stick for what it “normal” and “real” for decades.  This is not to say that we believe these fictional families actually are real, or that we think they accurately portray actual reality, but rather the fact is that we feel these TV households are an entertaining commentary on what is real.  They might be more perfect, more interesting, more dramatic or more farcical than the truth, but we perceive them as being based either on what is or what should be.

            Take, for example, the role of women in the household in 1950’s programming.  June Cleaver personified the perfect mid-twentieth-century television housewife.  She always looked immaculate, she never frowned or became angry, she was too incompetent to do practical things like driving a car, and she got a huge kick out of cleaning, laundering and cooking.  To see June at work, one would think that life as a wife and mother in the 1950’s was heaven on earth. 
            The reality is that housewives in booming suburban America were isolated, stressed and bored out of their minds.  As families moved out of close-knit city neighborhoods and into new suburbs, women found themselves cut off not only from old friends, but also from shops, parks, libraries and such.  In an era when families only owned one car, which was used by husbands to commute to work, and bus lines rarely serviced suburbs except to bring men to and from jobs, housewives were stranded in the midst of sprawling residential wastelands with little access to the outside world.  They had nothing to entertain themselves with other than housework, and shirts can only be ironed so many times.  As women were not expected to take particular interest in things like history, politics, economics and foreign affairs, there was little of substance to occupy minds and conversations.  A housewife’s only friends were usually other housewives in the same suburbs who, like everyone else, had nothing to talk about besides laundry, children, and gardening.  It must have been a lonely existence.

            Nonetheless, TV mothers like June Cleaver were held aloft as the role models for housewives everywhere.  This is how women were supposed to act.  This is how life was supposed to be.  Indeed, these characters were often aimed at women.  It was common at that time for characters and TV personalities to advertise sponsors’ products during the show, and whether by accident or design, the message was sent to women that these products, or the lack thereof, was what separated them from the contented, picture-perfect ladies on the screen.

Hello, My Name is Career: The American Search for Self in the Professional World

            I have always known I wanted to be a writer.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  As a very young child I wanted to be an artist.  I can still remember standing at a child-sized easel in three-year-old preschool, covering a large sheet of paper with clumsy streaks of primary colors and imagining I was a great painter creating another wonderful masterpiece.  Then I discovered the written words, and found my true love.  Books!  What glorious, magical things they were!  And to think that I could become one of the people whose thoughts were turned into pages!  To think I could be the one to bring a book to life!

            In kindergarten I taught myself to spell new words so that I could write books about them.  (I distinctly remember using a fairytale-themed alphabet border, which ran along the classroom wall, to teach myself “unicorn,” “dragon,” and “castle.”  I couldn’t spell more ordinary things like “said” correctly, writing “sayed” instead, but, being only five years old, I felt that mythical creatures were more important that little things like verbs.)  I wrote stories for every writing assignment, regardless of what that assignment was.  I quickly became an expert at finding ways to connect writing prompts like “summer vacation” and “my best friend” with fictional plots.  After all, the unicorn queen had to take a vacation sometime, didn’t she?  And no one had said my best friend couldn’t be an imaginary friend.

            So let us say that I knew I wanted to be a writer from a very early age.  It’s a good thing, too.  In my freshman year of college I watched many fellow students scrambling, suddenly realizing that high school was over and that they were expected to have bigger goals than being crowned prom queen.  The race was on for these suddenly disenchanted young adults to decide what they wanted to do with their lives.  Some had some idea, some had none at all.  A few, like me, had always known.

            “It must be hard,” one of these, a friend and fellow English major, said to me.  “I can’t imagine it.  Think about it, it isn’t like you’re just choosing a job, it’s more like you’re choosing who you are.  I can’t imagine having only a year or two to make that decision.”

            I confess I had never thought of things that way, but I realized she was, to an extent, quite right.  In America, and I suppose in much of the rest of the modern world, a person’s career is a large part of their social identity.  When two people are introduced, one of the first questions that usually arises is: “so, what do you do?”  The answer, I have noticed over the years, varies depending on whether the proverbial collar around one’s metaphorical neck is blue or white.  Non-professionals are more likely to keep their job and identity separate, and will respond with something like: “Oh, I work in retail.”  A professional, however, will say something such as: “I am a lawyer.”  Not “I work as a lawyer,” but “I am a lawyer.”

            Professionals have a lot invested in their careers.  Even as a mere undergraduate student I find this to be obvious.  By the time a professional enters the work force, he or she has already spent a great deal of time and money pursuing his or her chosen career.  The degree which states that this person has been sufficiently educated to fulfill a particular position in society represents a great commitment on the part of the professional.  This is not only because of the commitment necessary to earn the degree, but because of the commitment imposed by the degree.  A pediatrician cannot one day decide he would rather be dentist, or an architect, or a museum curator.  It doesn’t work that way.  His degree says he is a pediatrician, and he cannot change that without returning to school and obtaining another diploma.  Similarly, that pediatrician fills a role in society that cannot be filled by any other professional.  His friends and family– those that accept him on the first level of socialization– may know him as good ol’ Danny, who loves fishing, live theater, dogs and chocolate pound cake, but as far as the rest of the society is concerned, he is Mr. Pediatrician.

            It is, perhaps, only natural that a professional’s career becomes a part of who he or she is.  Such careers are purposefully chosen because, for one reason or another, the individual wanted to become a professional in that field.  Nonetheless, it can sometimes be hard to balance identity, or perhaps I should say pre-career identity, with one’s profession.

            In Neil Gaiman’s humorous fantasy novel, Stardust, which was later produced as a feature film, Captain Shakespeare, an infamous pirate, is revealed to be a likeable, flamboyant, and good natured cross-dresser.  This is extremely funny to both readers and audiences– partly because of the character’s ostentatious actions, but also largely because of the disconnection between his profession and his self-identity.  Society has a particular perception of what a pirate is, and that perception does not include someone who dresses in frilly ladies’ undergarments and dances the can-can.

            This example is both fictional and hilariously extreme, but it makes the point.  For a professional, career and identity are inevitably connected.  Forget being what you eat, you are what you do.  Perhaps the only way to maintain our identity, or at least to partially reconcile who we are with who society thinks we ought to be, is to choose our professions carefully.  It is not something that should be chosen on a whim, or based solely on potential income.  It is something that should be based on our love for the thing, and on our personalities.

            As I said, I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer.  It’s a good thing, too.

Suburbia: Selling a Dream

            We have all heard of the American Dream– the ideal that the economic and social equality of America offers everyone a chance for prosperity and happiness– and we are all aware of its connection with the suburbs.  The suburbs are America’s mythical Place Between Places, where the convenience of city dwelling meets the wholesome pleasure of rural life.  These are places that were based on dreams– such as the Rural Ideal– and could in fact be argued to be dreams themselves.  The Rural Ideal is, according to an article written by Larry D. Barnette for the Journal of Biosocial Science: “… the strong desire to live in areas of low population density and close to nature.”  It is an idea largely based on pastoral beliefs prominent in American society.  Consider this: When is the last time you saw a commercial advertising laundry soap or children’s vitamins that centered around a happy, healthy inner-city family?  Chances are, you’ve never seen such a thing in your life.  If a commercial wishes to project an image of a wholesome, family-friendly product, it is likely to be set in a rural or suburban home.  It may display images of children gallivanting through a green meadow or freshly washed clothes blowing on a clothesline, but it will not involve kids playing in an apartment while their mother tosses the laundry into the dryer.

            This is all part of the dream of suburbia– an ideal family life that many Americans chase throughout much of their adulthoods.  When Americans buy mini-mansions in manicured neighbourhoods, it is a dream that is sold to them, not merely a house.  The suburbs are thought to be a place for families, and a place where wholesomeness and happiness are supposedly easier to come by.

            Nothing I have said thus far is surprising, but what I write now may be.  I will admit to experiencing a certain amount of shock when I discovered how long suburbs had existed.  In the 1850’s architects began designing a new sort of dwelling– “picturesque enclaves.”  The word picturesque needs no explanation, but the word enclave may be unfamiliar to some.  It is defined in Merriam Webster’s dictionary as “a distinct territorial, cultural, or social unit enclosed within or as if within foreign territory.”  The term could be applied to many suburban neighborhoods today, as they are walled communities with internal social structures and rules.  The enclaves of the mid-nineteenth century were similar to suburbs in another way as well.  In her book Building Suburbia Delores Hayden describes these Picturesque Enclaves as being “borderlands” between cities and rural areas, which supposedly gave residents the best of both worlds.  They were refined and fashionable like city dwellings, but provided landscaped gardens and little yards which gave the illusion of being closer to nature.  Anyone who has ever seen a modern upscale suburban neighborhood will likely agree that this all sounds very familiar.  In fact, Hayden asserts that these enclaves were, indeed, the predecessors of modern suburbs.

            Perhaps it is merely human nature to chase unattainable perfection, or perhaps our society has long demanded that we try to balance the natural existence we crave with the necessary modern reality of city life.  Perhaps variations on the suburban dream have existed since the first cities were built.  I cannot be certain, but I am sure that as long as there are young families in America, people will keep seeking the “perfect suburb” as they chase the suburban dream.

Heart Homes: Place as a State of Mind

            Jack Weil, entrepreneur and owner of Rockmont Ranch Wear, said: “The west is not a place; it is a state of mind.”  He was right, of course.  Anyone experiencing the wonder of the Garden of the Gods or the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains will undoubtedly agree that there is something undeniably unique about the American West. 

            Mr. Weil’s mistake was not in his statement itself, but in his limiting it to the West alone.  There are many places that become a state of mind when one spends time in them.  There are many places that get under the skin and slip into the psyche, making themselves at home and forever changing the outlook of their bearer.  Yes, the American West, from Yosemite to the Bad Lands, has the capacity to invade one’s soul and make itself a permanent part of them, but it is not alone in that aptitude.

            In his book The Gary Snyder Reader: Poetry, Prose and Translations, philosopher and naturalist Gary Snyder remarked: "But if you do know what is taught by plants and weather, you are in on the gossip and can feel truly at home.  The sum of a field's forces [become] what we call very loosely the ‘spirit of the place.’  To know the spirit of a place is to realize that you are a part of a part and that the whole is made or parts, each of which in a whole.  You start with the part you are whole in."

            Novelist Charles de Lint calls this “part you are whole in” a Heart Home– a very accurate term, when one considers the human tendency to prefer one landscape over another.  (Some people prefer mountains to beaches while others are the opposite.  Some find the greatest inner peace amid sun-bathed plateaus while others find it deep in sheltering forests.)  This is not to say that an individual cannot appreciate the awe-inspiring loveliness of multiple natural landscapes, but, as Gary Snyder suggests, most have a true love among the treasures of the natural world.

            And each of these landscapes can be said to be a state of mind.  Let us play a theoretical matching game.  Let’s say that you have before you six photographs.  On the left-hand side are three pictures of three individuals.  The first is dressed in fitted jeans, calf-high, pointed-toed boots made of hardened snakeskin, a practical button-down shirt and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat.  The second is dressed in somewhat looser jeans, a khaki-green t-shirt, and a worn brown leather jacket.  This person is also wearing boots, but these are made of a water-proofed canvas-like material and lace up past his ankles.  The third person is wearing outdoor khaki pants, a light-weight shirt, sun-glasses and sneaker-like slip-on shoes.

            On your right-hand side are three pictures of natural landscapes. The first is a photograph of Cloudland Canyon.  Forest trees stand sentinel near the mossy bed of a mountain stream.  They dip their woody toes into the flow, casting green tree-shadows across the water as it bounds along its stony course.  In the background a waterfall tumbles from a rocky height.  The sky winks cool blue eyes through woodland branches.  The next picture captures a view of Cumberland Island.  A white, sandy beach stretches up from grey-blue Georgia coast waters.  Like a continuation of the sea, the sand rises into dunes– motionless tides that break against banks of grassy hills.  Driftwood curves into graceful, statuesque forms.  Behind that a beautiful tangle of live oaks rises to form a dream-like maze beneath an azure sky.  The final picture is an image of the Garden of the Gods in Colorado.  Sandstone cliffs and plateaus soar and twist into fantastical shapes.  Sunset dyes stony faces rosy-orange and casts a patchwork of vibrant color and dusky shadows on the rough, scrubby ground.  The painted sky seems to stretch one forever.

            Now, I would like you to guess which person matches which landscape. 

Even without actual photographs, most readers would doubtlessly be able to complete this task easily.  Any American person would be likely to associate these three people with a particular type of place.

Why?  The theoretical photographs of the three people could easily have been taken at a shopping center or on a college campus.  I think most people living in the American South can recall having seen individuals in similar clothing as that described above walking down average sidewalks or through normal hallways.  So what associates these people with a particular landscape?

The answer is simple.  They have, to one extent or another, connected themselves with the state of mind that is a particular place.  The way in which they have chosen to present themselves to society is a reflection of who they feel they are, or perhaps who they want to be.  This is an indicator of certain landscape– or maybe even the idealistic notion of that landscape– has wound its way into them and made itself a part of their self-perception.  A place or certain sort of place has become the setting in which each individual person feels whole.  In essence, it has become their Heart Home.

How the Railroad Built the American West

Bring in the workers and bring up the rails
We've gotta lay down the tracks and tear up the trails
Open her heart, let the lifeblood flow
Gotta get on our way 'cause we're moving too slow

            ~Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Railroad Trilogy

            The railroad built modern America, especially the American West.  It was, in many ways, the greatest reason why the West was lost and won.  Don’t believe me?  Well, then, consider this: You’re fresh out of college and you’ve been offered two jobs– unlikely in this economy, I know, but let’s imagine it’s happened anyway.  One job is more lucrative, and offers seemingly limitless opportunities for anyone willing to put in the work.  This position, however, is in… Oh, let’s just say it’s on Fire Island, New York.  It’s a tempting employment opportunity, but, as there are no cars allowed on the island, you’ll have to walk.  And the ferry drop off is on the opposite side of the island from your potential place of employment.  That means that to reach your destination, you’ll have to walk twenty-one miles.  As is the case with most islands, shopping and entertainment options are limited.  To get to the mainland, however, you'll have to hike back to the distant ferry landing. 
            The other position is in a nearby city, with plenty of modern comforts and unrestricted automobile use.  This position, however, doesn’t pay very well, and offers little or no chance for advancement.  In fact, this position is terrible, and about the best you can say about it is that it’s a job.

            Now, which of these two employment opportunities do you think you’ll take?

            Most of us would agree that this is a tough decision.  What if you whimp out, don’t go to Fire Island, and later discover that the golden opportunity of a lifetime has passed you by?  On the other hand, what if you get to Fire Island and discover you hate it?  It isn’t as if you can simply turn around and walk back on a whim.  Pondering this theoretical predicament may give you a slight inkling of what our ancestors might have felt like when they considered the choice to move west.

            Now, imagine that the state of New York decides to build a passenger train rail on Fire Island.  It’s not much– just a single train that runs back and forth four times a day– but it makes travel on the island far more efficient and far less difficult.  Getting from the ferry landing to your potential job now takes about half an hour rather than two days.  Even better, this train also carries cargo, so if you order something by mail or online, you no longer have to make a long trip to pick it up from the nearest post office.

            Your decision just got easier, didn’t it?

            The railroad had much the same effect on the American West.  In his September 2006 six article in Railway Age, William L. Withuhn meantions that railroads been popping up all over the country since the 1830’s.  Many of these were fairly local, however, traveling from city to city within a single state.  Once the construction of the Transcontinental Rail Line was complete, people and supplies were able to move between the savage west and the dignified east with speed and ease that had never before been seen.

            This drastically affected population.  A study of U.S. population history published by the Public Purpose gives some excellent examples.  San Antonio, California, for example, grew from a population of four-thousand in 1850 to sixty-nine-thousand in 1870– one year after the Transcontinental Railroad was completed.

            The railroads also offered employment in the young West, both directly– men were hired to work for the railroad– and indirectly– increased trade caused industries to grow, which created more jobs.  William L. Withuhn mentioned in his article that “railroads changed the logistics of industry.”  He goes on to say that, though the increase in freight could be argued to be a direct result of a growing American economy, it must be accepted that, with out the railroad, the transportation of goods never could have kept up, and the economy would have faltered.  Thanks to rail lines, the western United States not only became settled, but lucrative.

            So, one can argue endlessly about whether the West lost or won in the end, or about whether the white men who traveled west were settlers or invaders.  But this much is certain: without the railroad, it never could have occurred.