Why am I writing?
Because the bubble of my youthful idealism just burst.
I just graduated from college with an admittedly unmarketable degree in literature. It took me longer than it should have to do it, in large part because I was still clinging to all the things my generation heard as kids: that you can do or be anything you want, and never to settle for less.
Well, you can. That is true, I suppose. They failed to mention that you'd have to do a lot of other shit first, distasteful shit, worthless shit, meaningless crap. Only if you're extremely lucky will you have the privilege of working at a job that you like and feel connected to. We should have known better, but we were raised in a fantasy world. Ours is a generation of applause. Do you remember, back in school, how every time you gave a report or shared something in class, people clapped for you? Even if it was shitty? Remember when failing was okay, as long as you tried?
It seems stupid now, that we ever believed in any of this. But there's no sense in feeling sheepish about being a kid, about being innocent (or is it ignorant?). My generation has a sense of entitlement and expectation that seems to have been lacking in previous generations. Then again, maybe this is just a sympton of being a middle class American of Generation Y. Maybe it's just the desperate desires of the bourgeoise to be something they aren't: that is, rich.
When I got into college and felt the pressure to decide the rest of my life according to what major I would pick, I refused to be pragmatic. I decided to study English, literature, something I loved and valued as a source of enrichment. I knew then, as I know now even more keenly, that there was no money to be made in that field. I could teach, and that's about it, unless I was lucky enough and brilliant enough to make it as a writer (maybe luck is more important in this equation--there are a lot of stupid people writing stupid shit and making lots of money out there). But I wanted to be cultured, I suppose. I place(d) great value on art of all genres and forms, and consider(ed) creativity to be the greatest testament to the human race. Genius, after all, shows itself in art.
But you know what I've figured out? Those who have historically studied the arts--studied literature, painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, philosophy--they could afford to study these things because they were rich. They didn't have to study something that would score them a job afterward. They didn't need vocational education because they came from money, and that sort of money takes care of itself. Art is an extravagance. Gone are the days when art and daily, material life were indissoluble.
Well, I'm not rich. In fact, I'm poor. I came from an upper middleclass background, so this is a new frontier for me. I do think that poor people know things that people with money do not or cannot know. So this new economic status is educational for me. Particularly, I'm learning about the middle class, whose culture is hegemonic--well, for me anyway, who hasn't really strayed far from middle America. It's so pervasive on TV, on the radio, in books, in magazines, on the internet, that it's hard to see the trees for the forest.
I definitely saw this in college. I went to a fairly big state university. Very few people were there to get an education; most people attended because they wanted to make money. College was a means to an end for them, it was not an end in itself. Maybe that sort of idealism is nothing more than the rhetoric of the rich, which has been handed down to all Americans, whether it's remotely attainable for the majority or not. Or of the artist, whose very being relies on pushing boundaries and violating the norm. But artists tend to suffer greatly for their transgression of social norms; rich people would suffer, except they are insulated from suffering by money.
And if I had to classify the majority of students at the university, I would say that they were largely middle class people with middle class ambitions. This caused me a lot of distress when I was in school. I wondered why people didn't value the classes that challenged their values, their cultural indoctrination, hegemony. Why weren't more people questioning what they were doing, the mechanisms of the "real world?" Because they weren't there for that reason, I discovered to my chagrin. They were there because they were chasing money.
I used to condemn that. I used to have contempt for those people. But now that I'm out of college, I cant' be so judgmental. I was hypocritical to judge them, because I was being supported by proud capitalists, i.e., my parents. And not just capitalists, but funeral directors, whom many people would condemn for profiting off of the death of their loved ones. I have judged my parents for a lot of things, but not for that, I realize. There are some things for which you can't get paid enough. and I think being a funeral director (particularly a funeral director who services a small community) falls into that category. But that's not the point, I suppose.
The point is, I have no choice anymore but to be pragmatic. I don't judge myself for that, and I'm no longer standing on my hypocritical pedestal and judging others (well, not as much anyway). I still think that the American condition largely results in people being distracted or dissuaded from considering certain aspects of existence. Americans are largely addicts--addicted to work, to exercise, to food, to drugs (caffeine and psych meds, particularly), to alcohol, to TV, to the internet, to their phones, to anything that will take their minds off of the absurdity and meaninglessness of so much of human congress. And even more than that, to distract themselves from realizing their own mortality.
There's nothing more Americans hate than to be faced with the fact that they will have to die one day. The "granola democrats" only eat foods that are certified organic, because the marketing execs have convinced them that anything else will give them cancer. People take pills for all sorts of made-ailments that are nothing more than human nature throwing a wrench in the cogs of the American machine. Being human, after all, isn't very efficient, and few crimes are worse than inefficiency in this country.
Why is it so difficult for us to realize that humans are programmed to self-destruct? It isn't the corporations that are killing us, or the processed food, or what have you... it's LIFE. Everything has to die. I suppose this fact is scary because it makes so much of what we do every day, so much of what we care about, meaningless. It's absurdity, not death, that terrifies people. It's far scarier to think that everything one does in life is meaningless, than to imagine one's imminent death.
Well, as for me, despite the absurdity, there are still meaningful choices to be made. Even if my idealism has gotten a little less radical, even if I've traded some of it for pragmatism, there is still hope for happiness. I can still find something satisfying in making my own choices, even if they are choices about work and money and spending.
I guess I've finally confronted my own material desires within myself, rather than pretending to be above them. I don't want to be poor; I don't want to be rich, either. "Privilege is a headache that you don't know you don't have" (Ani DiFranco). I have enough philosophical headaches as it is. Constantly worrying about money and debts and credit and what have you is something I'd rather avoid, so I can have time to worry about my soul. That seems to be a more worthy source of worry. I guess.
Well, this was my first post, so I guess I won't be too hard on myself for the fact that it's really disjointed and rambly. What can you do. I enjoyed it at any rate. Maybe someone out there in the universe will stumble upon it and find something even remotely enjoyable in it.
Maybe.
No comments:
Post a Comment