Failed flight in a fallen world

“Intertextuality” wasn’t discussed around many Thanksgiving dinner tables. Nor did shoppers use the term as they jockeyed for parking spaces on Black Friday. But the word is nonetheless salient.

Oxford Languages defines intertextuality as “the relationship between texts, especially literary ones.” It was first coined by critic Julia Kristeva in 1966, although the concept has been in existence since the first time a creator referenced another work.

One example of intertextuality is “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,” a painting from roughly 1560, perhaps by an imitator of Pieter Bruegel the Elder. (The provenance is complicated.) It depicts a busy pastoral scene — plowman in the foreground, shepherd gazing up at the sky, mountains and cities and sea in the background.

Tucked away in the bottom right corner, almost as an afterthought, is Icarus, his waxen wings melted by the sun, sinking to his death in the waters near a masted boat.

One could enjoy the painting without knowing the myth of Icarus and Daedelus and their failed attempt to fly. It is, after all, an arresting piece. (Daedelus is unseen, but critics conjecture that the gazing shepherd looks up at him as he plummets earthward to join his son.)

The painting means more, however, when the viewer appreciates the allusion, the intertextuality between myth and art.

In 1938, W.H. Auden ratcheted up this intertextuality by making the painting the subject of his poem, “Musee des Beaux-Arts.” By describing the nonchalance of the plowman toward Icarus, Auden underscores how one person’s tragedy can mean little to somebody else: “how everything turns away / Quite leisurely from the disaster.” For the plowman, the sun is shining and seeds must be sown. For the boat’s passengers and crew, a journey awaits. Nobody has time for the drowning of a stranger.

A similar observation could be made about the daily news, where even the most horrific reports elicit little more than a shaking of the head and a clucking of the tongue. Robert Frost’s “Out, Out—,” about the accidental death of a rural boy, ends with a similarly stark observation: the survivors, “since they / Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.” It is a moment that we, much like the ancient plowman or shepherd, can relate to. Not callousness exactly, but rather a recognition of both our inability to reverse the outcome and the pressing nature of our own concerns.

I am ruminating on intertextuality in part because it is central to an essay I assigned to my students this week. Yet I’ve also come to realize that my preoccupation is a clumsy way of groping toward some understanding of tragedies like the one in Waukesha, Wisconsin.

The quick dissemination of news has transformed all of us, to some extent, into either indifferent plowmen or passively observant shepherds. We are witnesses to tragedy who lack the agency to do much, if anything, to help. The staunchest security procedures are not guaranteed to stop somebody from driving through a parade and killing the participants, and no amount of empathy can restore the fallen to their families and friends.

The solution is not to cancel parades or institute draconian procedures before all public events. The takeaway may be simply that tragedies are part and parcel of life.

When they occur as a chapter in our own stories — with our own people and in our own communities — we mourn more keenly and help more directly. But when they occur outside our sphere of influence, to other people in other places, our responses are, of necessity, more proscribed. We recognize, of course, our shared humanity. We can donate to causes that will help. Those with a belief in the power of prayer can certainly direct their efforts there. Yet few of us can drop our plows or reassign our shepherding duties to intervene in other ways.

Perhaps this real-world intertextuality — the confluence of outside tragedy with our own lives — is a reminder to cherish what we have today and to recognize its fragility and preciousness. After all, we aren’t always the plowman or shepherd.

At some point, we are Icarus, our wings aflame, the harsh sun burning hot above us, the bottomless sea below.

Memories of Black Fridays past

This Black Friday column originally ran in 2012.

Next year, let’s just call it Black November and be finished with it.

I mean, really, retailers started Christmas pitches in September this year, and Santa, elves and tinsel have shared shelf space with jack o'lanterns, American flags and Hallmark-style pictures glorifying the genocide of Native Americans ever since, depending on whatever “minor” holiday was in vogue while the Christmas carnival of capitalism (to borrow a headline from the New York Times) rolled on.

It would be more honest to forget other holidays altogether and celebrate Christmas all year long -- Fourth of Christmas July and Valentine’s Christmas and Memorial XMas and the 12 Labor Days of Christmas and so on, ad nauseum.

This year, retailers steamrolled right over Thanksgiving to get to Black Friday, our new secular celebration, with some stores opening Thanksgiving morning and then closing, only to open later on Thanksgiving night and then closing so they could open again before the chickens -- but after the turkeys -- the next day.

And, hey, I’m just as guilty as the next guy. My wife and I were out Thanksgiving night, when I thought that maybe only a few dozen other stalwart, nigh-near heretical souls would eschew the hypnotic glow of televised football to sully the memory of the feast day by shopping. Surprisingly, we were two of thousands who did the same thing.

There we were, outside the local Big Box in a line that stretched sinuously down the sidewalk, across an access drive and into the strip mall next door. My wife, naively thinking that management would let valued customers wait inside the building before taking our money, didn’t bring a coat, so I gallantly offered mine, making a cacophony of chattering teeth the soundtrack for the 50-minute wait.

Once we were granted access to the showroom by off-duty police officers who acted as though they’d rather be raiding a neighborhood crack house instead of maintaining law and order among value-hungry hordes, we found ourselves waiting in still another line.

Make that two lines. My wife went in one direction for the cheap blu-ray player, while I took up residence near the instant potatoes, behind 200 or so other people waiting for the cheap TVs.

That’s where I met Flatulence Man, who must have devoured some bad Butterball earlier in the day based on how he used a sales circular to fan his deadly fumes throughout the aisle.

“Better stay back,” he warned, after a particularly loud blast. “I’m blowin em out.”

Meanwhile, his partner, Motorized Scooter Woman, zipped in and out of line to pick up more bargains. She returned once with barely enough room to stay on the scooter. FM dutifully stacked it all in his cart.

Somewhere in the second hour of waiting, FM and MSW began squabbling about his selfishness. (Other customers were handing him items they didn’t want -- a GPS unit and some walkie-talkie-looking things among them. Hell, I got into the spirit myself and gave him a pair of portable DVD players just to see if he’d take them. He did.)

As the line began to move, a guilt-stricken FM divested himself of merchandise like a stripper removing unwanted clothes. He handed some items to unsuspecting store clerks and dumped others on the floor and shelves. Nothing appeased Scooter Woman, though, who angrily revved off to parts unknown, leaving FM one person short for the two TVs he wanted.

Somewhere in there -- maybe between the stale turkey farts and the malfunctioning scanner in Checkout Lane 20 that made checkout last another hour -- my Christmas spirit died. Not that I had much to begin with.

I’m sure a lesson can be found about conspicuous consumption, how we Americans -- many of us, anyhow -- allow ourselves to be treated like cows in a slaughter chute to save a few bucks on junk we don’t really need or want just because Big Business has successfully preached the Gospel of Greed and converted us to the Church of Consumer Science -- can I get an amen? -- or how we should protect the sanctity of Thanksgiving and refuse to shop on that day.

But, frankly, I’m too tired from all that line-waiting and box-carting and spending to be too profound.

All I can say is that once I was back in the parking lot, I looked up to heaven, shook my fist at the glowing neon of the Big Box sign and swore, “Never again.”

Until next year.

chris.schillig@yahoo.com @cschillig on Twitter

Less attitude with the gratitude this Thanksgiving

I often suggest headlines to my editor. My suggestion for this one was "Beware toxic gratitude this Thanksgiving," and that 's the one that was used. But I should have gone with the headline I used here instead. Oh well. 

The dangers of toxic positivity are well documented.

Society at large is starting to understand that we cannot wish away other people’s problems by coaxing them to smile, telling them things aren’t that bad or urging them to play happy music on the radio.

Julia Wuench, writing earlier this month about “Toxic Positivity in the Workplace” for Forbes, lists a plethora of platitudes used in just this way. Among them are “Stop being negative,” “everything happens for a reason,” and “tough it out.”

In full disclosure, I’ve used all of these with family, colleagues and students. My heart was in the right place. I believed I was helping, but I wasn’t.

For the longest time, I thought I was the only person who got annoyed if somebody tried to cheer me up when I was wrestling with a seemingly intractable problem. Turns out I’m not.

Unsolicited, toxic positivity causes me to grit my teeth, grin and say thanks, or walk away before I throttle the unwitting advice giver. I’m sure my impromptu pep talks have inspired similar reactions.

A better alternative, says Wuench, is to “flip the script.” Invite the person to explain their challenge in more detail. Then, express true empathy and offer to actually help them, if it’s in your power to do so.

As we approach Thanksgiving, I wonder if we won’t see the kissing cousin of toxic positivity. Call it toxic gratitude.

You know the drill. Everybody around the table has to say one thing they are thankful for, and it can’t be that Uncle Festus, the handsy pervert, is seated far enough away that he can’t caress your forearm during the meal.

Again, the intentions are good, but the results … not so much. Forcing somebody to dig deep for a moment of gratitude can be as problematic as the seemingly innocuous comments to “cheer up” and “look at the bright side.”

For one thing, you risk learning just how materialistic your family is, as Grandma raves about her Mercedes or cousin Lindy gushes about his over-performing stocks.

For another, the practice threatens to capsize the fragile détente around the table when some (half)wits express gratitude for their MAGA support group and others are glad that the family Karen didn’t melt down in line at the grocery store the day before.

More importantly, however, in a year that has taken a toll on mental health like no other, some guests may not be in the proper frame of mind to demonstrate gratitude. Much like telling a coworker to “suck it up” or “put on your big-boy pants,” pointing out blessings in other people’s lives isn’t going to instigate an epiphany. If anything, it will make them feel worse because they now know their family thinks of them as ungrateful schmucks.

Plus, for some people, Thanksgiving isn’t such a grand holiday even in the best of times. Many Indigenous peoples don’t find much to celebrate about a day that ignores or sugarcoats the senseless slaughter of their ancestors by Euro-Americans, whose descendants will somehow convince themselves that naming sports teams after these tribes is an honor.

For others, this holiday — or any holiday — is a reminder of happier times with people who are no longer in their lives, separated by death, distance or dissatisfaction. They can put on a happy face and mumble the right things, but not easily.

Since I run the risk of being branded an Eeyore or of trying to cancel Thanksgiving, I hasten to add that I plan to enjoy the day by consuming unwholesome amounts of turkey, dressing and noodles in the company of family. If that’s what you do too, then have at it.

All I’m saying is that maybe we could skip the pre-meal humble-brag. Or at least tweak the wording so that we ask if anybody has something they’d like to share. No pressure, coaxing, or reminders about how we have it so much better than Person X in Place Y or Situation Z.

And that maybe we could spare a moment, somewhere among the Macy’s Parade, football and food, to recognize and validate other perspectives, including the ones that find nothing in particular to be thankful for at present.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig

This article originally appeared on The Alliance Review: Chris Schillig: Beware toxic gratitude this Thanksgiving

Better to be ignorant than ill-informed

I don’t know.

Three little words that are hard to say, and arguably getting harder.

For some people, admitting ignorance — in the purest, most non-judgmental sense of the word — when so much information is literally in the palms of their hands, is slothful. Far better to Google it. Or say “Hey, Siri.” Or ask Alexis.

The proliferation of so much knowledge means never having that nagging sensation in the back of the brain, like an itch that can’t be easily scratched, about the name of a particular song, TV show or historical event.

Used to be, you had to wait to get to a library or to a friend who could tell you the first Elvis single, the Twilight Zone episode where Burgess Meredith breaks his glasses at the end, or the date of the Hindenburg disaster.

There is humility in “I don’t know,” a concession of uncertainty, an admission that you don’t have the time, inclination or capacity to understand. Followed by “but I’ll find out,” it’s also an invitation to further learning and discussion.

Nowadays, however, “I don’t know” is often followed by a few taps on the computer in your pocket and an answer. That it may not always be the right answer is sometimes overshadowed by the sheer number of searches through the endless filing cabinets of cyberspace — some 5.6 billion inquiries a day on Google alone — and the speed with which such searches are made.

This convenience may be to blame for the degradation of another expression: “doing my own research.”

Once upon a time, “doing my own research” meant reading books and magazine articles on a topic and perhaps consulting with somebody in the field. The expertise accrued by self-taught individuals rarely extended past their own three feet of influence; many would have been comfortable building their own sheds, for example, but few would have the moxy to build a skyscraper, where people outside their own families could be jeopardized by shoddy architecture and construction.

I can remember my great-uncle “doing his own research” before taking a pledge in church not to see R-rated films or before deciding which truck to buy. He relied on finding somebody who knew more than he did, either in print or in person, and then weighing that person’s judgment.

Today, though, far too many people who are “doing their own research” seek validation for what they already believe, usually among like-minded people with little expertise on social media. One of the more accurate memes of recent months shows “vaccine research” conducted by a white-jacketed worker in a high-tech lab, contrasted with “anti-vaccine research,” conducted by a woman sitting on the toilet, smartphone in hand.

If the latter were reading the research of the former, the problem wouldn’t be so acute. But the implication is that the potty-squatter is relying on professional football players, disgraced politicians, and the like, many of whom are similarly operating in an echo chamber of misinformation, building online skyscrapers atop shaky foundations and filling the suites with gullible tenants.

What “doing my own research” should mean is spending time discovering what the most authoritative voices in a given field are saying about a subject. It should mean learning to distinguish strong evidence from spurious evidence, rigorous scientific study from unsupported personal opinion.

When I tell my students that research should begin with a question to which they don’t know the answer but are curious to learn, some balk. They believe they should start with a claim they already believe, and then find sources that support it.

But putting the cart of conclusions before the horse of research is part of the reason we are in such a mess today, with irrelevant personal opinions carrying as much weight as data-driven results.

It is not a weakness to seek out answers from acknowledged experts, recognizing that their conclusions may not always align with our private beliefs. Nor is it a disgrace to sometimes say “I don’t know.”

By the way, the first Elvis single is “That’s All Right,” the Twilight Zone episode is “Time Enough at Last” and the Hindenburg disaster was May 6, 1937. At least that’s what Google tells me, and it can’t be wrong if it’s on the Internet, right?

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com, and @cschillig on Twitter.

Ridiculous conspiracy theory is only the tip of the iceberg

Whatever QAnon supporters were hoping would happen this week, didn’t.

Hundreds of believers gathered Tuesday at Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas in anticipation of John F. Kennedy Jr.’s triumphant return, despite the fact that he’s been dead since 1999.

The Dallas Morning News, trying to make sense of nonsense, explained the gist of this latest QAnon conspiracy. In short, followers anticipated that Donald Trump would be reinstated Tuesday as president. Who was going to perform this unconstitutional act was unspecified, but it had connections with an obscure 1871 law that QAnon supporters mistakenly believe transformed the federal government into a private corporation.

This past/present “President” Trump would then pass the baton of the executive branch to JFK Jr. so that he, Trump, could ascend to some extra-constitutional, overlord capacity.

Readers may wonder what happened to the followers’ conviction when this Kennedy plot refused to twist. Well, dismiss any scenario where they return home, sadder and wiser, shades of the Wedding Guest in “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

Instead, at least one adherent had already prepared in advance for the failed materialization. She told the newspaper that if JFK Jr. didn’t show, it indicated only that some part of the plan had gone temporarily awry and would be postponed for now.

In other words: Shoulder-shrug. Wait for the parousia again tomorrow.

It would be easy for the more sensible among us to shrug our shoulders, as well. Events like this are evidence of an appalling lack of mental health services in the United States, and also serve as contemporary examples of Charles Mackay’s “Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.” Nothing new there.

But it cuts deeper than that.

Obviously, the whole “JFK Jr. will rise from the dead” theory is patently impossible. However, like many conspiracy theories, it rests on the bedrock of a scenario that is moderately more plausible, if only because the principal actor is still alive. In other words, the belief that Donald Trump won the 2020 election.

Make no mistake: Trump lost. This has been affirmed again and again, first by the initial tally of votes and the certification of same, and then by a series of judges, state election officials on both sides of the aisle, Trump’s own former attorney general, and a small army of election-security experts.

Even the sham recount in Arizona, which shouldn’t be taken as conclusive evidence of anything because of protocol violations, couldn’t magically cause pro-Trump ballots to materialize where none existed.

Still, all this ironclad proof hasn’t stopped 38 percent of Americans from clinging to the belief that Trump won. It didn’t reassure 59 percent of Republicans who doubted their votes would be counted accurately in the most recent election, based on a recent NBC News poll.

These aren’t people who would show up in Dealey Plaza to anticipate the resurrection of a dead Kennedy. Yet many among them concede the necessity of violence to “restore” the nation, express a willingness to restrict the voting rights of others, embrace a widely debunked myth called White Replacement Theory, and support candidates who vow to slay a boogeyman called Critical Race Theory in our public schools.

Therefore, focusing only on the most egregious antics of people deluded enough to wait for a Trump/John-John ticket is a mistake, as these are just the most visible signs of an insidious dry rot running through the country.

Dealey Plaza and similar events are a distraction. The real danger is a strain of radical anti-constitutionalism in too many of our friends, family, neighbors and coworkers, supported and strengthened by far-right newscasts and social media algorithms that prioritize involvement over accuracy, and egged on by crass politicians who see fanciful culture wars as a way to secure votes.

Worry less about the crazy you can see. Worry more about the crazy you can’t.

Fearing the spaces between public, private

One of the most disturbing parts of the original “Frankenstein,” that creaky thriller from 1931, is a moment its creators probably never gave much thought to.

About eight minutes into the movie, medical students exit a lecture hall after the instructor points out differences between normal and abnormal brains. (“Abby normal” would be enshrined in comedy history a few decades later with “Young Frankenstein.”)

Within seconds of film time, the hall empties — not before some wit jostles the model skeleton, making it bounce up and down — and Frankenstein’s creepy assistant, Fritz, who has been lurking outside, forces open a window and drops into the now-darkened chamber.

It is this tiny gap in time, when the lecture hall goes from brightly lit, populated by affable, interested students, to dark and vacant, that disquiets me.

I have the same reaction to the last scene in the original “Halloween,” when the film flashes back to earlier sets, now devoid of characters. The filmmakers want me to be scared because Michael Myers, the boogeyman, is still out there in the dark, waiting with a knife. Yet I’m more affected by the emptiness.

Similar shots in a host of movies, horror and otherwise, inspire in me the same feelings: empty parks, closed carnivals, ghost towns, a baseball stadium with the field covered in snow.

And it’s not just the movies. I am similarly affected when real-life locations go from lively to quiet, when public spaces are missing the very people necessary to qualify them as public.

It’s not fear exactly, but more like melancholy. It strikes sometimes at the end of a school day, when my classroom quickly goes from 24 energetic students, discussing and researching, laughing and interacting, to only me.

As a kid, I felt the same way coming back inside the house after walking friends to their parents’ cars, marveling how different the atmosphere felt without them. Or when cleaning up after a party, remembering how just a few minutes before the room had filled with people, talking, eating and laughing.

“Kenophobia,” a fear of empty spaces, pops up quickly via an online search. Perhaps too quickly, since I’ve already indicated I’m not afraid, and since the mood doesn’t affect me with open spaces that are empty as a matter of course or design. Hence, I have no problem with fields or woods. Yet kenophobia is as close as I can come to putting a name to the situation.

Calling my reaction a “condition” is too grandiose. I don’t feel this way often, but when I do, it hits hard and surprises me every time, like an enemy ambush. It doesn’t rise to the level of a panic attack or anxiety; it’s simply unnerving.

The odd part is that I don’t particularly like people, especially when gathered in large numbers, so why I am affected by places where people should be or where they recently were is a mystery. Since I’m an ambivert, one of an unusual breed energized both by being alone and being among others, it is possible that a newly vacated space operates in some weird Twilight Zone between the two extremes, a vacuum neither completely empty nor filled. The end result is discomfort.

It is also possible that I need to crawl out of my own skull more often and not overthink every situation. Better to enjoy the mix-up of normal and abby normal brains in “Frankenstein” this Halloween and put my own over-analyzing noggin in neutral.

chris.schillig@yahoo.com

@cschillig on Twitter

Ignoring the tornado warning

I spent Thursday night’s tornado warning teaching a class at an area community college.

The room had windows and was on the second floor. The only thing worse would have been to teach on the roof. Nothing about my decision was safe or smart.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know about the warning. Driving to class, I heard the high-pitched, ear-shattering alarm from my cell phone. Minutes later, I drove through a band of strong rain and wind.

At some point in the commute, my wife called to warn me. She and the dog headed to the basement, where she provided blow-by-blow recaps from whatever TV station she was watching. The meteorologist named specific streets and businesses in our neighborhood that were receiving the worst of the wind and rain.

I kept driving.

If I were home, I would have joined them downstairs. These days, we are pretty conscientious about listening for weather warnings and following directions.

I wasn’t always. I used to be a porch gawker, the kind of person who wanders outside and looks up during a tornado warning, like a chicken that is too dumb not to drown while staring up at a rainstorm.

I’m not sure what changed me. Chalk it up to the love of a good woman or a lower tolerance for risk as I age.

But on Thursday night, all that went out the window — not literally, thank goodness.

I suppose my sense of duty overshadowed my common sense. In reality, though, nothing I was doing Thursday night — lecturing on argumentation, leading a discussion — was so important that it couldn’t wait.

I wasn’t performing brain surgery or dragging unconscious people out of a burning building. I was teaching composition, for heaven’s sake.

Here’s where I share the “do what I say, not what I do (did)” stuff:

In a tornado warning, head to the lowest part of whatever building you are in, preferably a basement, as far away from windows as possible.

Once there, get under something sturdy, like a table. Cover your head. Head trauma is the most common type of injury during a tornado. Some doctors even recommend wearing a helmet, but I can hear readers rolling their eyes from here.

If you are driving, pull over, get below the window line, keep your seatbelt buckled, and cover your head. It’s difficult to outrun a tornado; they’re fast.

Decades ago, a colleague spent a tornado warning up in a tree, building his kids’ treehouse. He said he heard the leaves shaking, but otherwise didn’t know the weather was so dangerous. Nobody told him, he said.

These days, the prevalence of technology makes it less likely that people won’t know about dangerous weather. Everything beeps and buzzes and screeches, multiple times, loudly.

Still, all that marvelous tech is worthless if we ignore it, like I did Thursday.

Later that night, after the warning had expired and class was dismissed, I opened emails from several students who apologized for missing class.

I was stuck at home during the tornado warning, one said. Another said she went to pick up her children from daycare and stayed right there, where they were all relatively safe.

I applauded them all for being smarter than their teacher.

chris.schillig@yahoo.com

@cschillig on Twitter