"Each one of us, in his timidity, has a limit beyond which he is outraged. It is inevitable that he, who by concentrated application has extended this limit for himself, should arouse the resentment of those who have accepted conventions which, since accepted by all, require no initiative of application. And this resentment generally takes the form of meaningless laughter or of criticism, if not persecution. But this apparent violation is preferable to the monstrous habits condoned by etiquette and aestheticism."
—Man Ray, The Age of Light, 1934
So last night I realized my navel was green. In actuality, my entire body was green but it was my navel I was staring at, so that’s what I noticed first. As I contemplated what might have caused my skin to change colors, I scratched the side of my head* and was startled to find my ears had relocated to a spot close to the top of my skull! My ankles and fingers had also become swollen and my face felt like it had been suddenly gifted with Angelina Jolie’s expensive lips.
“Holy shite! What in th’ bloody blazes is ‘appenin’ ta meh?” I don’t need to tell you the Scottish accent was a most unwelcome addition to this nightmarish surprise. I mean, I could hardly understand what I was saying!
I was so stunned by all that was happening, I didn’t even notice the dwarfed pack animal that had materialized before me until it was speaking to me in a voice that sounded remarkably like Eddie Murphy’s.
“You OK, Shrek?” said the talking donkey.
“Aye. ‘tis either a lousy side ‘fect of me meds or I’ve just come ‘round teh find meself in f’cking Toon Town.”
“Aw, Shrek, this ain’t Toon Town. This is Duloc.”
“Th' diff’rence, donkey?”
“Well, not much, I’m afraid.” The donkey looked at the ground for a moment; then his ears pricked up again. “But hey! Why don’t we go mess with Lord Farquaad? You always enjoy that.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, yeah! You’re always Farquaad’s a fucktard this and Farquaad’s a fucktard that.”
“Ah’m a ‘ateful and nasty person, then, is that wot yer tellin’ meh?”
“Naw, Shrek,” replied the annoying burro (whose teeth, by the way, were freakishly HUGE). “You’re a hateful, nasty ogre. Big difference.”
“But how did ah get this way?”
“Been that way long as I’ve known you.”
“But I’m NOT an ogre!”
“Uh, Shrek, you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Are people ah-frehd of meh?”
“What?” The donkey seemed genuinely confused by the question. “Hell yes, people are afraid of you! You. Are. An. Ogre! Get it?”
“Why don’ they jus’ tell meh ah frighten them?”
“Because they’re, oh, I don’t know, this is just a guess really, but, MAYBE THEY’RE AFRAID TO! What the hell’s wrong with you today, Shrek!?”
“Ah don’t want t’ be a nasty ogre, donkey.”
“Too late.”
“Ah want t’ be tha ‘appy, excited boy ah was yesterday.”
“Hate to break this to you, Shrek old friend, but you were an ogre yesterday, too. And the day before that. I don’t know that you’ve ever been happy or excited…” The donkey paused mid-thought. “…or a boy, for that matter.”
“Ah was a boy once.”
“Well, you’re green and mean now, so can we cut this sentimental crap out and get back to doing what we always do?”
“An’ wot is that, donkey?”
“Fucking with the asshats! Taking power away from people like Farquaad! Kicking the shit out of all things stupid!”
“To wot end?”
The donkey was so confused this time he couldn’t even speak. Just showed me those gigantic chompers.
The bells of Duloc Castle began to ring then. Strangely, they sounded a lot like the rock band Muse.
I awoke to my cell phone ringing. The ringtone being “Plug In Baby,” told me it was time to get up and get ready for work. Rubbing the sleep-goop from the corner of my eye, I stumbled into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. A few minutes later, it occurred to me that my skin had not even the slightest tinge of green to it.
“I’m not an ogre,” I said aloud.
To my great relief, no talking cartoon animals offered a reply. My normal-sized lips formed a weak smile. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
*A symbolic gesture, I assure you; I don’t have fleas.
All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.
–James Thurber
Thurber was right. We definitely should strive to analyze those things to the deepest degrees possible. The problem is that it requires a deliberate interest in understanding even those parts of ourselves we don't particularly wish to acknowledge.
I've gotten pretty good, actually, at staring long and hard into the enormous trough of things I hate about myself. Yet, for all its life-altering power, a terribly low self-esteem can’t show me exactly what it is I’m afraid of, nor can it automatically reveal what ends would provide adequately comforting solutions.
It’s almost as if, in order to identify my innermost fears and subsequently determine where I’m going (or should be going) to evade them, the “why” of the matter must be dealt with first. Then, of course, it’s entirely possible I’d eventually conclude I'd missed Thurber’s point to such a degree that I’ve been foolishly focusing on the “why” of a completely different, far less significant matter altogether!
And if I’m so crippled by these lesser doubts, what chance do I have up against The Ultimate Specter of Lifelong Dread?
A better chance than most, by the look of things.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a small amount of comfort from the political farce dubbed the “birther movement” because, of the deep-seated fears I have identified in myself to date, none are anywhere near as objectionable as the obvious source of distress among the birthers.
Racism is considered an entirely unacceptable and unintelligent practice by pretty much everyone save for a faction of knuckle-dragging imbeciles with shaven heads and piss-poor taste in tattoos. As a result, those out there who lack the courage to wear drab shirts and jackboots but still want some other ethnic group wiped from the planet have to find a way to achieve their vicious goals without admitting to them.
And so we get this birther thing. We get a group of cowards so upset about a black man being President of the United States they’ll tenaciously cling to the stupidest, most laughable “controversy” in American history because it's all they have.
It is truly laughable, though, and as the reality slowly starts to dawn on them as to just how stupid they look, they simultaneously realize that in order to successfully jump ship without the act being seen as an admission of racist hatred, they’ll need to contrive some way of blaming the entire movement on Obama’s supporters. Just like that, their once adamant insistence that Oily’s forgery is an authentic Kenyan birth certificate suddenly goes soft, flops over, and feebly tries to stand back up as a half-baked accusation of left-wing Photoshoppery. They've come full-circle and never once caught a glimpse of the outdated and pointless phobia they used to fuel the journey.
Makes my fear of dying alone and unloved seem downright prosaic…
…which serendipitously begins to illuminate the “why” of those fears for me. I suspect those poor people who are so bothered by something as superficial as the amount of melanin in another person’s skin will never find comfort. Anyone who can ignore all the evidence disproving the ludicrous assertions surrounding Obama’s citizenship and still claim to be seeking the truth is lying to themselves as much as they are to anyone else. It’s basically the same thing as what I described at the beginning of this post; they’re unwilling to cast their attention to those things about themselves that make them uncomfortable. They tell themselves they have no problem with their innermost demons – that they’re perfectly happy with who they are, thank you very much.
And yet, they don’t seem happy. Ever. They’re angry and mean and appear perpetually exhausted. They’re on the ‘net 24/7 such that they have no time for sex or ice cream or Scrabble or guitars. Their entire existence is consumed by archaic animosity.
As for me, I think I probably have quite a bit more meditating to do on the Thurber quote, but at least I can confidently rule out my fear that I am unknowingly a member of the lunatic fringe.
