How I Stopped Hating People

This is a continuation of last week’s post, “How I started hating people.” If you didn’t read it, you will struggle to comprehend the meaning of this post, life, the universe, etc. Remedy that here.

When we last left our hero (Since this is my blog, that's me. Yay, me!) I was alone with my thoughts, overcome with the certainty that the root evil in all people overwhelms any potential good.

Then, while I was running headlong toward cynicism, two encounters brought me to a sudden halt. They were unexpected, and I’m grateful for them.

Encounter 1

The day after evacuating my house, I got a call from the enemy, my adversary—the CBS national news. The newscaster’s opening comments did little to abate my derision. Undershooting my age by four years, she gushed at the story of this 20 year old boy (the aww cute factor of “boy” set my teeth on edge) who had single-handedly saved his home. She wanted an interview for the following morning’s national news channel.

Without a moment’s hesitation I declined. It’s embarrassing, but I savored this opportunity to “stick it to the man.” I swirled it in my mouth like expensive wine (or expensive coffee, for you teetotalers). Never have the words “no thanks” made me feel so powerful.

Unexpectedly, the newscaster’s response was humane, compassionate even. “I completely understand,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking about your experience, it’s okay. What you’ve been through was horrific, and I don’t want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

So there it was. I acted out of cynicism, and my enemy’s compassion trumped it. Convinced that newscasters were inhumane, I responded with callousness and was put to shame when my villain proved more human than my heroic self.

Encounter 2

The fourth of July, a week after evacuating, I went with a couple friends to Mount Saint Francis, a parish near my house with beautiful groves of trees and rock. We went there to escape, to find a measure of peace in the midst of a trial, and after an hour walking the labyrinth and meditating on God we all felt better.

As we were driving toward the exit, someone hollered at us. I spotted a middle-aged woman stamping toward my car and rolled down the window.

“Do you have reason to be here?” she asked gruffly.

“We were just walking the labyrinth,” I said.

“No,” she said. “You are not allowed to be here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling my newfound sense of peace, the one that had poked its head into view like a timid animal, retreat back into darker territory. How quickly my blockades returned! But they were not quite quick enough, and I could feel old wounds split with new injuries.

Cynicism, my new ally, rushed to defend me. Not even among nuns and monks will you find kindness.

“This is not okay,” the woman continued. Her eyes were angry, and she spurted more accusations in a frenzied tone, ending with, “Do you know how close the fire came to this place?”

“Yes,” I said, “I live right up that way.” I pointed toward the charred mountain.

The change in her countenance was immediate. Lines on her brow softened to accommodate concern, and her voice took on a motherly tone.

“Is your home okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Some smoke damage, but it’s still standing.”

“Oh, thank God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry with you. It’s just that we’ve had—” She decided against excuse and again apologized, her tone softly pleading. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you came here. Stay as long as you need to find peace. Come back again. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I said quietly. Those open wounds, so vulnerable to an unexpected sting, were also vulnerable to unexpected healing, and I tried not to start crying. On a day when I was beginning to wonder if goodness was a sham, this woman’s kindness and humility brought new hope.

We left St Francis, quiet.

And what now? Maybe cynicism isn’t as trustworthy a counselor as I thought. Maybe all those lurking shadows are not as substantive as I believed. But am I to believe that everyone is a secret Mother Theresa, waiting for an opportunity to shine? Is every Darth Vader a father figure in disguise?

This morning, a 24 year old—a man my age—went into a movie theater an hour north of my house and shot over fifty people, killing twelve.

Is this man just misunderstood? Should I ignore the heinous crimes he committed, insisting that deep down he’s “a good guy caught in a bad situation?”

What is the cure for cynicism? If every person is ultimately depraved apart from God, as I believe to be true, then how can I justify an optimistic worldview?

I’ll investigate these questions, and more, in a concluding post coming in a few days.

(I honestly only meant to write one post on this subject, but I don’t want to cheapen the complexity of it by arriving at an easy conclusion. If you’re still reading and not bored, please bear with me for one more post. Not to toot my own horn, but I think it’s the best of the three—like the first Matrix. Or a girl who’s prettier than her two sisters.)

How I Started Hating People

“Cynicism is the sickness of my culture
We undress each other with an evil eye…
Don't stand alone and cast your stones at her
Unless you think you're innocent yourself”

“Cynicism,” Josh Garrels

Two weeks ago, a forest fire nearly burned down my home.

In the ensuing week, evacuated from my neighborhood with no information about the condition my house, I watched the news. This was not easy. I already find newscasters to be distasteful, but they proved unbearable when I relied on them for life-changing news. My stomach turned as I sifted through the misinformation of a woman with barely concealed glee in her eyes and unconcealed mousse in her hair, giving her an appearance not unlike David Bowie from Labyrinth.

I became convinced the newscasters were deliberately withholding information, heightening uncertainty to boost viewership. They were heartless faux-people who operated solely to enhance ratings.

An undercurrent of derision began flowing every time I turned on the TV, and I justified it because of my plight.

The problem was, it wasn’t only newscasters. As I drove from the fire zone, my evacuation was impeded by dozens of people who parked their cars, often in the road, to take pictures and video footage of the nearby flames. And then there were the dozens of people who weren’t really affected by the fire, but still posted theatrical updates on Facebook to garner the awe or sympathy of friends.

People started emitting a subtle smell, a selfishness I fancied that I, among all people, was perceptive enough to detect. I began to wonder if even some of my friends were not exempt, if they were in fact being kind to me only so they could boast later about how selfless they had been to a real life evacuee.

Inevitably, the piercing eye I turned to others found a mirror (because the measure you use in judging others will be measured back to you), and a host of demons surfaced. My distinctive brands of depravity hooked themselves to loudspeakers only I could hear, stood under spotlights only I could see, and who among all those wicked people out there could offer comfort in my affliction?

Goodness seemed to me a scab, one that bled with the slightest scratching. Or perhaps a bad makeup job, smearing if touched.

The ailment I was experiencing is probably known to most people, and is usually neatly packed into the word, “cynicism.” The term suffices, but people rarely mention the strong element of fear inherent in the cynic’s way of thinking. If you can’t trust goodness in others or yourself, the world becomes a lonely and fearful place.

In an interview with TED, Andrew Bird tells about “a person who’s been so successful at defending themselves from heartbreak that they’re left to do the deed themselves.”

The cynic is adept at defending against heartbreak. He can spot potential danger at a mile’s distance. She can taste a drop of poison in a barrel of wine. Man’s true motives—the evil everyone else was too blind to see—are deciphered and then exposed, cut off before they have a chance to harm.

But when the cynic has been successful, when he alone has ousted every grand deception, he turns to find that he is now a solitary figure in a bleak land, and the sword he used to cut now turns against himself.

So it was that as I fled my house, condemning newscasters and everyone and myself, that I found myself alone among friends, and no one to defend me from my own evil eye.

To be continued next week…

Habit of Being, an Introduction

As you might guess from the title and URL of my blog, I love Flannery O'Connor. I named my first car after one of her peacocks (Colonel Eggbert). I fantasize about meeting her in heaven. Also, God.

If you, like most people who are acquainted with Flan Flan, only know her through her most famous story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find," you may wonder what's so great about this woman who wrote Southern Grotesque fiction and died of Lupus in the sixties. Let me help you.

Beginning tonight, I will intermittently make blog entries which present my favorite moments from Habit of Being, a 600 pg collection of Flannery's letters. I'll arrange them by subject so you can know up front whether or not you'll be interested. Consider this entry a sampler plate of O'Connor quotes. Maybe, like me, you'll find yourself steadily falling in love with this woman from Georgia who raised peacocks and wrote stories about men who steal wooden legs from girls. Who knows?

I am doing fairly well these days, though I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face. I think that this is going to be permanent… I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship.

1-25-53

I have just got back from 2 days in NYC. There is one advantage in it because although you see several people you wish you didn’t know, you see thousands you’re glad you don’t know.

11-5-49

I have got my last draft off to the publisher and now am raising ducks like a respectable citizen. I have twenty-one. However, if the Lord is willing, I am shortly going to eat all twenty-one of them and start another novel.

10-18-51

I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. (The pictures.) The one I sent looked as if I had just bitten my grandmother and that this was one of my few pleasures, but all the rest were worse. We liked your Christmas card very much and recognized yer assorted children.

Early 1952

Miss B. is still violently interested in finding herself a husband and still asks personal questions without any preparation and at the most inconvenient times. I do wish somebody would marry the child and shut her up. I am touched by her but you know what a long way a little goes.

5-23-52

I am taking painting again but none of my paintings go over very big in this house although mamma puts them up and is loth to take them down again. Sister used to teach painting classes in her youth and she says she doesn’t like this modern art because it’s not “smoothed down.” My mamma says it’s not modern art (insulted), it’s very true to nature and there’s no use spending five hours on a painting you can do in two. This refers to the fact that I have been painting with a palette knife because I don’t like to wash brushes.

Summer 1953

Mr. P. is taking a correspondence course in Catholicism. He is not going to be a Catholic or anything—he just likes to get things free in the mail.

August 1953

I would like to create the impression over the television that I’m a hillbilly Thomist, but I will probably not be able to think of anything to say to Mr. Harvey Breit but “Huh?” and “Ah dunno.” When I come back I’ll probably have to spend three months day and night in the chicken pen to counteract these evil influences… I wish somebody really intelligent would write me sometime but I seem to attract the lunatic fringe mainly. I will be real glad when this television thing is over with. I keep having a mental picture of my glacial glare being sent out over the nation onto millions of children who are waiting impatiently for The Batman to come on.

5-18-55

I don’t deserve much credit for turning the other cheek as my tongue is always in it.

6-10-55

The latest came from a Mr. Semple of Cincinnati who has not read anything of mine but doesn’t really see how I can say a good man is hard to find. He is an industrial engineer, likes to play bridge, is the active type, 31 years old, single etc. etc. I wrote Mr. Semple that I didn’t think I’d like him a bit but he would be crazy about me as I had seven gold teeth and weighed 250 pounds.

6-16-55

Arizona Road Trip!

I have not posted in a long time. A long time indeed. So I thought I'd share a little about my road trip to Arizona last week. Probably won't write about the whole trip, but at least it'll break the dry spell.

Day One
Victor, John Mark, and I set out for Prescott, AZ at 6:30 AM. I bought a pair of Converse shoes last month, years after the trend was at its peak, having taken that long for me to work up the self-confidence to tap into the "cool skater" look. Now, I realize that Converse shoes make my toes amazingly cold. Even so, I'm not getting cold feet: this trip is going to be awesome.

After John Mark, a veritable encyclopedia, names an interesting fact about almost every town we pass, we cross the border into New Mexico. All the buildings are tan adobe on a tan, dirty landscape, hiding in plain sight like soldiers in camo gear. It's kind of ridiculous, actually. New Mexico says "we love tan" like Chic Fil A workers say "my pleasure."

For lunch, we stop in Albuquerque, the Weird Al song soundtracking in my mind until we leave ("Where the sun is always shining and the air smells like warm root beer"). We pull into a parking lot for Subway, but then see an adjacent Mexican grocery store and decide to check it out. As we're walking in, a Texan woman, as evidenced by her big hair and big accent, pulls up in her car and addresses us: "Is this a Mexycan resturaun?"

"We don't know, we're just checking it out."

"Well is it a resturaun?"

"We've never been here. We're on a roadtrip."

She pauses half a beat, comes to a decision, and says, "Well, I'll just wait here and see if you come out."

Sure enough, she follows us in three minutes later. I hear her at the counter asking for "More cheese. More CHEESE. MORE CHEEEESE!"

Albuquerque. ("where anyone on the street will gladly shave your back for a nickel.")

All the workers at the Mexican grocery store speak spanish (go figure). Victor foretells, "They're going to speak to me in spanish." They do. Also, Victor arrives at the counter and pays sixty cents for a drink. Turning to me, he whispers, "Sixty cents! Back in America this would be at least..." and then catches himself. This isn't another country, Victor. Just Albuquerque. ("Where the shriners and the lepers play their ukuleles all day long.")

We cross into Arizona, and somehow the chiles rellenos burrito I ate for lunch doesn't give me any problems. In fact, the entire trip is easy. Sunny skies. Good company. No traffic or construction.

We left Colorado as the sun was rising, and we arrive in Prescott as it's setting. There is spaghetti, a game of Catan, and kids running everywhere. And then bed.

Day Two

An interesting disaster happened that night, namely, that Victor found a very comfortable sheet in the middle of the night and wrapped himself in it. Unfortunately, it was not a sheet. It was a window curtain. During the rest of the trip, I catch our hosts checking on other household items, making sure Victor hasn't put them to some ungodly use. "That's not a napkin, it's our cat." Or, "Can you please use a Q-tip for your ears, instead of our homegrown carrots?"

Shiloh kindly makes us a quiche, which is like Heaven in a crock pot, only filled with cheese and meat instead of God and the saints.

That morning we get the tour of Prescott, which as it turns out, is pronounced by locals to rhyme with "Biscuit." Who knew? Prescott is an amalgamation of old hippies, young students, and outdoorsy folk. Everything is a something/bar. Icecream/beer. Hair salon/saloon. It's weird.

We eat lunch at In-N-Out, which (for me) does not measure up to the hype. Good shakes, though.

And then the afternoon. Oh Lord, the afternoon! After removing the canoe from the backyard, where it is covered with scraps of lumber and dusty from disuse, we set out for a lake ten minutes from their house. This lake is the best of all lakes, at least to a Coloradoan who sees the dog's water dish and calls it a pond. The water is calm, and towers of rock jut up from it. This makes it a perfect place for adventure, as you can maneuver between islands or park your boat and go hiking (Park? That can't be right. Moor? Hitch?).

The afternoon is perfect.

On the way back home, we are in such good spirits that we flirt with a pair of girls who pulls up next to us at a stop light. When the light changes, I keep accelerating or decelerating as necessary to keep in line with their car, making the three of us feel awkward and also a little charming. After a few minutes of this, we are dancing wildly, and so are the girls, they in their jeep and us in our.... uh, minivan. Yes, we're in Shiloh's minivan. But we have a boat strapped to the top, so that has to count for something.

That night we eat chicken teriyaki with rice, which is delicious. (You can tell I'm related to my mom, who will forget entire days of a vacation while remembering every single meal. Also, you can tell I'm fasting today.)

During dinner, the youngest daughter becomes obsessed with finding out how many days remain till her birthday. After shutting herself in a room for fifteen minutes to concentrate on her calculations, she emerges triumphantly with an announcement: "Forty-six hundred days!"

The guys try to teach me Halo, which I have somehow avoided my entire life. I do wonderfully. I'm sorry, did I say wonderfully? I meant to say disastrously. I get killed dozens of times and never shoot a single person. It is enormous fun, actually.

Later, we watch a few episodes of Portlandia and eat icecream. (Is icecream a liquid or solid? I'm only fasting solid food today...)

Before we go to bed, Victor says to me, "Today was a good day."

Spies #3

This is the story of how I became a spy.

It all started when I was enlisted to partake in a Quest, a scavenger hunt of sorts heavy with secret agent elements, put together by friends. My roommate, we’ll call him Bombador Ali, and I immediately began preparing clues for Sydney and Bristow, our challengers:

We hollowed out a book and placed a camera inside, researched matrices to encode messages, and printed maps on transparencies, maps which only revealed a path when overlaid with alternate diagrams. I climbed a fire escape ladder and hid a message at the top. Bombador removed ceiling panels and climbed into a dusty attic, finding his way by the light of his cell phone while college professors chatted one floor below. (A creak on the stairs!—we pause, Bombador’s foot dangling from a removed panel in the ceiling… the creak is a false alarm. We resume.)

We thought we were awesome. (And to be honest, we are rather awesome. Hollowed out books? How much cooler can a man get?) We worried that the quest they were creating for us would not measure up to ours.

Then the Quest was launched. Bombador was at a birthday party when I received the email initiating the quest, so I opened it without him. It read: “A friend (or foe?) sent you a self-destructing message. You have one chance to read it.” I clicked on the link provided, which sent me to a new website. Numbers in the upper right corner immediately started counting down from sixty seconds, and I read the message quickly. In short, the text stated that Bombador and I were to meet in the basement of a building on campus at 9:00 PM, wearing “the appropriate attire.” When the ticker hit zero, the message erased.

That was my first hint that their quest was of a high caliber indeed. Self destructing messages! This was a spy’s bread and butter, and I was swallowing it without even chewing.

Bombador returned. Being too poor to own a suit, I borrowed one from another roommate. Bombador wore a black wool cap and leather jacket. I looked like James Bond, and Bombador resembled a feisty henchman. At 9:00 sharp, we arrived at the specified location. I was more giddy than severe, and it showed. I became a chatterbox, spouting off words so fast that later, when Bombador repeated to me some of the things I’d said, I didn’t even remember them.

A dour stranger in a long tan trench coat approached us. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was smiling broadly, unable to hide my eagerness. The man handed me a briefcase, nodded once, and departed, all without a word.

Back at base, we watched the DVD provided inside the briefcase. Words scrolled across a black screen: “We’ve been watching you.”

Suddenly, I appear onscreen. A shaky camera follows me as I walk through the school cafeteria, tray of food in hand. I look in the direction of the camera, and the image freezes, zeroing in on my face. Next, the video transitions to show Bombador, standing in a stairway. A third scene reveals Bombador and I, standing and reading a newspaper.

As we watched this, Bombador and I giggled like children on a Tilt-A-Whirl. While I’m sure it might freak out a person who is less obsessed with spies, the fact that Sidney and Bristow had taped us without our knowledge was invigorating. I was impressed with the skill required to pull off such a feat, but more than that, I was impressed by their audacity.

Sidney and Bristow were not amateurs. Whereas before, Bombador and I had worried that their quest would pale in comparison to ours, we now worried that the quest we’d created wasn’t good enough.

So we made a plan. We would break into their apartment.