Best and Worst Jan. 19-25

The first couple of weeks back from break haven't been great for me. Doubts, indecision, confusion, frustration, stress, have all plagued me in equal measure. What am I doing? Am I making the right decisions? I'm never going to be successful. What the hell do I want to do with my life? Is that really what you want, or just the way to a bigger pay check? I envy those people who never seem to worry about the future, and yet everything still seems to fall into place for them. They're smart, they know what they want now, and it leads to what they want in the future. Maybe this is just my jealous perception.

Anyway, all of these doubts manifested themselves in the last week in the form of Broccoli Project auditions. I only went to one night of auditions, changed my mind immediately after about the show I wanted to audition, but only read once for that show. As a result, I didn't get cast, which I expected but still came as a blow. I was humiliated. Who was I if I can't even do this; this thing that now was such a huge part of my self image? I was also ashamed of these feelings. You weren't right for any of the parts, now get over it and find a different use of your time. I decided to dive into Texas 4000, something I was extremely excited about doing. The problem was, there wasn't much to do there yet. If there's anything I abhor, it's feeling stagnant and unproductive. I even debated adding another class. All this fixation and distress made me realize that I didn't know who I was when not extremely busy, I didn't want to find out; the very thought was terrifying. I prayed about it, tried to let it go and settle in to an unpleasantly easy semester.

My best came in a very unexpected way. A few days after all of this, I got an email from a cast member from last semester asking if I wanted to audition for Foot in the Door's production of Agamemnon. Yes. Yes I did. So now I'm playing Agamemnon and the Watchmen. I'm honestly a little embarrassed at how relieved productivity made me feel. The director, Imogen, was very complimentary, and this was a much needed confidence boost after about a month of perceived inadequacy, and a lot of soul searching. It was just what I needed. I'm not a devoutly religious person in the Church-going "Power of Christ compels you" sense, but I am a Christian in my own way, and believe that someone looks out for us when we need help, call him God, or whomever/whatever you choose to believe in. (To me they're all the same, but I won't get into that here.) Once again I felt a modicum of security in my situation and in my self image.

Side Note: Another best for me this week was the visit to SARA. I'm sure this is true for a lot of us, which is why I wrote on something else. But I found it to be an inspiration and an awakening.

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves Part II

In class last Thursday, we talked a lot about how difficult it can be not to anthropomorphize an animal, to project human characteristics onto a non-human being. This is a tricky concept, because we have no other baseline of innate character and motive to work from. Yet it seems to be a lack of respect for the "otherness" of the animal, a failure to realize that we have absolutely no idea how their mind works. When Lowell visited Rosemary, he talked about his father's research. "Here's the problem. . . Dad was always saying that we are all animals, but when he dealt with Fern, he didn't start from that place of congruence. His methods put the whole burden of proof onto her. It was always her failure for not being able to talk to us, not ours for not being able to understand her." (Fowler 202) Rosemary's father tried so hard to project human characteristics onto Fern, that he failed to recognize her intelligence any other way. Becoming more like a human became a yardstick by which he sought to understand her. No matter how hard he tried, Fern would never be human. Even if she herself believed that she was. When he finally realized this, he had Fern sent away, to a place for other chimps. But Fern did not act as a wild chimp either. Attempting to force her into this box of humanity made her ill equipped and unaccepted in both environments, the human and the wild. The same could be said of Rosemary. Growing up with a primate for a sister, she too lived in Fern's world, in some ways seeing experiences through Fern's lens. This is why they understood each other so perfectly, why their separation was so devastating, and why no one can ever fill the void left by the other's absence. From birth, they were tailored for the other. In a way, this may have eventually solved the issue of anthropomorphism, but the only end result was pain, and a lack of understanding for their own separate societies. 

The recognition that Fern and any other animal should not be measured in relation to their humanity is one that will lead us to a greater respect for other life, yet that doesn't mean they can't feel pain or longing or depression or happiness or contentment as we do. The may not always exhibit the same signs, but the emotions are there. "Her is what I thought it meant. I'd thought Fern was apologizing. When you feel bad, I feel bad. . . My sister, Fern. In the whole wide world, my only red poker chip." (Fowler 203) So there it is. Empathy and compassion. As distinctly chimp as it is human.  A few days ago, at our first to SARA, I met a very large, very muscular, and very intelligent pit bull named Axel. The woman in charge told me that he had a tendency to protect and parent the other dogs there, but I would've recognized that without any explanation. He cared about the animals around him. I was completely blown away. I sat down for a minute and simply looked at him. He stared back at me, not defensively, but almost in mutual respect. Never until that moment had I felt that a dog was truly wise, but that's the only word I could use to describe it. Strong, silent, caring, and wise. I hope that's not me playing the hypocrite, and seeing what I wanted to see, but it wasn't so much a thought as a gut feeling. He licked my face, I scratched his ears, and we sat. That is of course, until he saw another dog acting up and went to examine the situation. He and Fern may not be human, but they feel, they understand, and they love. That's all we need to know. 

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves Part I

From when I first began this reading up until about 75 pages in, I had absolutely no idea why we were spending the time on it. Sure, I liked the author's honesty, but what exactly was the point? Consequently, I had to reread the opening to Chapter five of Part II at least three times before it sunk in. Wait, Fern was a what? Oh. Lightbulb.

That being said, I appreciated even more from that point on the honesty of the characters and the author's experiences. However, it did take me a while to wrap my mind around the implications of having a chimp for a sister. Fowler was correct in thinking that, "I tell you Fern is a chimp and, already, you aren't thinking of her as my sister." (Fowler 77) In light of the frankness with which Fowler speaks, I'll attempt to do the same.  At the outset of this course, I was nothing like most of my classmates. I loved animals, of course, but was raised in a very southern household. I'm not a vegetarian, I've hunted on more than one occasion, and I unabashedly enjoy a great cheeseburger. I apologize if that sounds callous, it was simply what I assumed to be normal. In my family and among the majority of my friends back home, I am the "dirty liberal"(as ignorant as that may seem), but here I am something different. Somewhere between their perception and their own beliefs. I have a lot of respect for the commitment of vegetarians, but see no harm in the consumption of meat if I know that the animal has not been treated poorly. Prior to this class-this novel- animals were animals and humans were humans. Yet now I am forced to rethink. After reading that Fern was a chimp, I had to go back and reread certain points. "Anyway, Fern was not dead. Still isn't." (Fowler 67) Obviously at this point I was very confused about Fern's situation, because it seemed like if she wasn't dead, she'd run away. Yet Fowler had already stated that Lowell had done so. Why wouldn't she have done the same for Fern if that was the case? Because Fern was a chimp. A chimp. The world inverted, and suddenly I understood everything. Why she refused to connect with her father, why this was so invariably connected with his profession and why Fowler's education was "wide but not deep". Fern to her was a sister, but to her father was an experiment, and thus she became an experiment as well. Her ENTIRE life up to the point of Fern's disappearance was studied for the purpose of science. Not just her life, but Fern's as well. To Fowler, her sister was taken from her. My previous self would have thought, "she wasn't her sister". But she was; not only a sister, but a companion in growth and self exploration. I cannot describe how drastically this altered my perception of what once was the definitive line between human and non-human. Both parties were equally traumatized by the separation (or so it would seem thus far), and having a father that reacts with cool detachment and objectivity, such as in an intellectual exercise, was degrading and hurtful. It made me angry. Never before have I felt such emotion for an animal I'd never met. And this drew me to the obvious next step: that all life, human or animal, deserves the same respect I wish Fern had been given. I'm sure this is the desired effect, dammit. No one should be subjected to a lifetime of observation, and to relegate another's being to that purpose alone is to value one's own life above all others. No. Veil lifted, perception altered, I''m done.

How Can I Help Part III

When we are faced with opposition from another person, our immediate tendency is to become defensive, to react angrily or even with violence toward those who disagree with us. In the story given by the man on a train in the presence of a drunkard, the narrator prepares himself to fight the man in order to protect the others on the train. However, he never was given the chance, as a small Japanese man on the train found a way to calm the man down by connecting with him, asking him why he was so angry. For most, finding compassion in ourselves for those who oppose us is no easy feat. Why should we help someone who hates us? If someone appears violent, you don't ask how they're doing, you react with violence in turn. And yet throughout history, we are given countless examples of how treating opposition with respect leads to reconciliation; a long lasting understanding and acceptance of one another. The Civil Rights movement, one of the greatest upheavals in recent American history, was grounded in the thought that reacting without anger would accomplish one's aims far more successfully than violence. "So the nonviolent approach does not immediately change the heart of the oppressor. It first does something to the hearts and souls of those committed to it. . . Finally, it reaches the opponent and so stirs his conscience that reconciliation becomes a reality. -Martin Luther King, Jr." (Dass, Gorman 181) This concept is so difficult because it feels so counter intuitive. An eye for an eye justice seems a much easier course. But hatred solves nothing, and is as painful to us as those we choose to resent. Acceptance and understanding fulfill us, make the world somehow simpler and less imposing. We all must learn to step back, be aware of this human shortcoming, and condition ourselves to instead react with compassion.

A way that Dass suggests that we learn to do just this, to step back from what we feel and observe without judgement, is called the Witness. This process allows us to "reperceive" a given situation, "that stance behind experience in which we merely acknowledge what is, without judgement of ourselves or of others." (Dass, Gorman 187) As Dass explains, planting ourselves in situations wherein we wish to help others can lead us to take failures in doing so much too personally. What before was an act of service suddenly becomes selfish. In the same way that we take opposition too personally, we then have a tendency to react with anger, frustration, or to give up- something Dass calls "burnout'". The Witness is a way of alleviating this internalization of frustration, guilt, or mounting prejudice by taking an issue for what it is, rather than allowing our perception to cloud judgement. For me, these thoughts had the profound affect of self-realization. Whether it be a personal issue, or one that involves another, my constant evaluation of "how I'm handling this" leads to so much stress that I can no longer view the situation with a clear mind. My mother calls it "not seeing the forest for the tress": a saying shes very fond of when it comes to my reactant tendencies. Even the smallest matters can become over complicated due to my constant analysis. Burnout ensues. It feels as if a solution has finally presented itself in a way I can connect with. I hope that in my relationships and in service, I will remember the Witness, and try to step back. To react with compassion and understanding rather than anger and prejudice. And to be a little less hard on myself.  

How Can I Help Part II

Since I began this reading, I’ve found that I approach the most basic of human interactions in very different ways. I’m becoming a more involved listener, in simple recognition of the desire for people to feel heard. In situations wherein someone I know is suffering, I attempt no longer to give into the helplessness I often feel about not being able to find them a solution. Yesterday, I found myself in a car with a friend, hearing about the many difficulties she was experiencing in a new job. She was thrust into her position with very little training, the job’s inner workings apparently undergoing a major transition. She felt she was being treated unfairly for not yet understanding the ins and outs of her position. Hearing about her situation, I immediately began searching for some sort of solution. She should talk to her manager or another superior. She should request more training. I constantly do so in an eagerness to help. I got caught up in “Reckoning, judging, evaluating, leaping in, taking it personally. . . the helping act has any number of invitations to reactiveness and distraction.” (Dass, Gorman 98) In light of this, I checked my reaction this time, trying instead to make her feel heard and understood. In doing so I realized that she had never wanted a solution from me, just someone to hear her out. Cue light from heaven, I’ve had an epiphany. Well, a Ram Dass influenced epiphany.

Another issue Ram Dass talked about that altered how I view my everyday reactions is the fact that people rarely act in service for others without some ulterior- even subconscious- motive. It reminded me of an old episode of Friends, wherein Joey challenges Phoebe to find one “completely selfless good deed.” We also talked in class about how it is something conditioned in us. When we’re young, there’s always that canned food drive, or Toys for Tots push in school, that we’re rewarded for participating in. “Once we come to associate it with rewards, we start to use helping in the service of a wide range of personal motives other than the expression of natural compassion.” (Dass, Gorman 126) This seemed a depressing thought. Are we all just completely selfish creatures, unwilling to do anything unless there is some form of return? It might be naive to shout no, but also too cynical to say yes. Either way, It challenged me to look more closely at my motives for an act as simple as holding open a door, or offering to pay for a friend’s dinner. I suppose to an extent our motivation may not matter, as long as the act helps another. But I do believe that for an act of service to truly be meaningful, it must come from love for others alone. Only then is the act organic and effective for the helped and the helper.

How Can I Help Part I

Ram Dass speaks in his work How Can I Help about the nature and differences between pain and suffering, and the way we treat the two within ourselves and with others. At first, the contention between these two words escaped me completely: they were synonyms, not separate concepts. However, I came to realize he meant that while pain was an experience, suffering was a decision. This subtle difference was especially important in how we treated our own inner pain. As human beings, and I would say even more so as Americans, we have a tendency to resist or push away pain, whether physical or emotional. We are conditioned to carry unpleasant experiences inside of us without release, to bottle up our reactions and shove them downward. In doing so, we supposedly are acting with strength and maturity. But never dealing with painful experiences or physical ailments only makes them both worse as time goes on. In fact, Ram Dass states that according to the Buddha, “if we could break that link between painful conditions and the reactiveness of mind there was hope of liberating ourselves from the continuous experience of suffering. . . pain alone is not the enemy; the real enemy is fear and resistance.” (Dass 79) I was very taken with this notion, and as is wont to happen, suddenly became aware of this very habit within myself. The thought of simply allowing pain to envelop me seemed counterintuitive, but I hope to “recondition” myself to do so.

What I found most disconcerting, however, was not that we tend to bottle up our own emotions due to fear, but that this selfsame fear can keep us from helping others to the full measure of our potential. “Will we look within? Can we see that to be of most service to others we must face our own doubts, needs, and resistances?” (Dass 14) Reading this, it was as if someone lifted blinders from my eyes, leaving me altogether naked. Is that really why I blind myself to others’ needs? I’m unwilling to help people because I’m afraid of them and myself? Absolutely. Confronting the pain of others is terrifying, because in doing so we must also confront our own fears, our own pain. When we are near someone who is suffering, our immediate reaction is to help them, to do something, when in reality what they need is compassion and companionship. They notice that while we help, we never really look them in the eye, afraid of what we might see there. Therefore what we must strive for is a true connection with those in pain: to realize that we are all connected and all equal. “Unity, not separateness, is our starting point.” (Dass 40) In doing so, our fear is diminished, replaced by compassion.  If we can force ourselves to confront our own suffering and the suffering of others, we will still feel the pain, but also true empathy, acceptance, and contentment. 

 

I apologize if the image disturbs anyone, but this is true compassion.