Future nostalgia

If you're bored or sad, it can help to remind yourself of all the things that have been developed/invented in your lifetime which you've gotten so immersed in that you wonder how you possibly could have ever gone without. Think of how many more will come to exist in your future, and then you will look forward to things you're not even aware of yet. The best part of that is you don't miss those aspects or agonize over not having them, since you don't yet know what they are--you just know they'll be a great surprise. And if you can imagine them, you can make them.

The Iconoclast Effect, or how Lisa Simpson teaches us to kill our heroes

            We've all become disillusioned with a personal hero at some point, whether it was someone we knew or someone idolized by many. When I hear a news story exposing a beloved figure for corruption, I'm often hesitant to share it. Not because the truth is secondary to the ideals a person may represent—it's not—but because it's painful to see their admirers' respect shattered. I've never wanted to be a killjoy. There are times when I wonder if it's really worth posting about the less positive aspects of Pope Francis, seeing as he (or at least his public image) brings hope to so many LGBT Catholics. Or if linking to articles about Mother Theresa's exploitation of the poor is too demoralizing to people who are currently living in poverty and hold her dear as an icon. Or if talking about the fact that John Lennon beat his wife is discouraging to people who find solace in his beautiful, although hypocritical, pleas for peace. I wonder if the end justifies the means, when those who admire these public heroes don't actually promote corruption or bigotry. They admire those figures because they believe them to stand for compassion. But if a person supports someone who commits harmful acts or holds toxic beliefs, then are they inadvertently promoting that same negativity? That may be the case, especially if victims of their behavior are still alive and continue to be affected. This doesn't mean it's wrong to enjoy a person's work, as the work itself may transcend its creator. But it does mean it's best not to see the creator as noble or to excuse their behavior because of what they've made.
          This always makes me think of a Simpsons episode from 1996 called "Lisa the Iconoclast." In the storyline, Lisa discovers that a historical town hero named Jebediah Springfield was actually a fraud. The whole town has revered him for a century, to the point of having a local holiday and parade in his name. Lisa tries to expose the truth about Jebediah with limited success. She writes an essay which is met with dismay from her teacher. She makes flyers to hang up on the Kwik-E-Mart windows, but Apu panics and forbids her to display them. At the end, she's standing in front of the parade and prepared to make a public statement. She's about to announce to the town that Jebediah was a murderous pirate operating under a false identity. But at the last minute, Lisa changes her statement and tells them he was great. Afterwards, the head of the Springfield historical society asks her why she did it. Lisa answers that it was more important to keep the townspeople happy than to expose Jebediah for who he was, because his legend inspires them and provides a sense of community.
           This ending bothered me a great deal as a child. I didn't see it as upholding a loftier goal, but as backing down on her principles. Springfield hero-worshipped a mass murderer and lived in ignorance. What could be more important than the truth?
           In hindsight, I see this episode as a lot more ethically complex. None of the people who had been robbed or otherwise wronged by Jebediah Springfield were still alive, and neither was anyone who would have been aware of his crimes. Placing the flyers on display in the Kwik-E-Mart would have likely jeopardized Apu's safety—not only because of the message, but because he was an Indian immigrant living in Springfield. Their region was insular and strongly focused on town pride. He was already seen as an outlier, so granting a platform for criticism of Springfield's beloved founder would have further reinforced that status. He would have gone from an outcast to a pariah. Lisa herself would have caused outrage, but most of it would have been directed at her parents. After all, her character is only eight years old. Everyone sees a young child's opinions as a direct reflection of their parents'.
            So, in Lisa's situation, I understand why she reached the conclusion she did and decided it was not a cause worth pursuing. The ending still leaves me unsatisfied, though. It feels like an injustice, both to Lisa's diligent efforts and to Jebediah's victims, to see her bury that fiery righteousness in order to appease the majority.
           In my imagination, there's an alternate world in which the Simpsons universe is real and the characters aren't suspended in time. Lisa grows up and publishes her research, which has not gone to waste. She doesn't have to announce it in front of an idealistic crowd, but it's there for those who want to find it. That's the ending I want to believe.
           And, in the end, that leads me to my conclusion about exposing flawed cultural icons. I think it's generally the ethical thing to do, but with caution and sensitivity and respect for the faith their admirers hold in their ideals. It may be difficult to find that balance, but it's worth striving for. It means knocking over a house of cards, but leaving the deck stacked for a more stable foundation.

Written in March '14

Social media makes us nostalgic. The websites are expansive rooms filled with everyone we've known over the years, existing in the present and in a time lock. We perpetually run both backwards and forwards, each half in the opposite direction, and then wonder why we never feel like a cohesive whole. Photos are nostalgic by nature, by the act of harnessing time. We exist in pixels, colors and frames. Photos offer an illusion of stasis, but even the images and recollections alter with perspective. We just do what we can to hold on.

Nostalgia even emerges from times that were terrible, because I miss not knowing. I miss the unconstrained possibilities. Even if they weren't actually infinite and everything followed its inherent course, I miss having no idea what would happen while holding endless ideas of what could.

At 4 a.m., or on Facebook, or alone with the quiet and impassive reality of time, I greet my sadness. It always lingers in the periphery, but now there are no distractions. It's late at night and I can see it reflected back in every letter and pixel onscreen. The clock carries weight in each tick. I need that grief, because the pit in which I can lose myself is the wellspring that sustains me. Compassion, creativity and connection flow from its stream, which permeates everything that matters. And so I embrace the paradox of an ache that can consume me but also fuels my inspiration, and the paradox of a website that links us to each other but divides us from ourselves.

No one is fully cohesive. We're spread out in words and pictures and ambitions and memories, dispersed into each other and scattered through time. Being bound to a million different places may not always feel freeing, but in a way, it also makes us limitless. We can choose where we want to be.

The illusion of permanent distress

Depression and anxiety have a way of convincing you that whatever issues may be distressing you at that moment are actually a perpetual weight you drag around; that the only reason you don't feel them constantly is because you ignore their pull. Then once you're in a more positive state, you realize how wrong that is. The issues may still be there but you're no longer sinking in them. The bog of negativity just tricks you into thinking it's permanent, that it hibernates in the marrow of your bones.