Lightbulb Over Head Blog

Is civilization too civil?

Sometimes I wonder if everything we do in our modern world makes us intrinsically less human, distilling passion and instincts into gray suits and briefcases. Are most of the populous really living to the full potential of our race? Where is the action, the desperation of true love, and the intricate sword play in our every day lives?

In ancient Rome, people walked around armed with swords. There was always a potential threat. A word could get you killed if it landed on the wrong ears. Sex was for anyone who had but a need or a whim for release and everyone was doing it openly with everybody else. If the husband didn’t like being cuckolded, he could simply go out and kill the man his wife was sleeping with. No one would begrudge him this satisfaction.

Today, we have the right to bear arms in this country, but the majority of people that I associate with on a daily basis don’t. Some even openly reject that right, supporting many gun control laws that would keep guns out of the hands of most American citizens.

One observation I’ve made is that the interpretation of the right to bear arms has been distorted. It was originally intended to describe the right to form a militia in order to defend our rights. Now people see the right to bear arms as the right to protect themselves with hand-weapons as opposed to the right to defend the belief system upon which our country was founded. People want to be able to carry concealed weapons or keep guns locked in their cars while they’re at work, or even keep rifles in their homes as if they lived in the Old West.

I am aware that my view on gun control is based mostly on my urban upbringing. If New Yorkers were allowed legally to carry concealed weapons, I think all hell would break loose. Even without a law allowing us to carry lethal weapons, there is sometimes a persistent sense of compression in the city, like at any moment something might pop. Objects could be set in motion that could change our circumstances or our lives at any moment. I feel it often when it’s late at night and I’m taking the subway home with only one or two other occupants in my car. I’ve also felt it as a scuffle between a few men catches my eye from across a crowded street. That sense of compression stays in tact because people do whatever they can, for the most part, to keep themselves cool and contained, with a few exceptions.

Most of the time, when we get angry, it festers with no outlet, eating us alive from the inside out. Rather than attack others, we attack ourselves and blame ourselves for not being able to keep things together. Sure, sometimes we’ll talk things out behind closed doors, but very rarely is there the possible threat of one of us killing another.

Be assured that I am talking from the perspective of a young, private school educated, urban woman. I know that crimes of passion happen every day, but they certainly aren’t happening in my every day life or within the circle of people I normally associate with. I’m also not suggesting that we should all be barbarians and begin killing each other every five seconds and gnawing on turkey legs in our spare time.

The word “barbarian” perplexes me. What does it really mean? The vision of Ancient Rome I described earlier certainly had some barbaric elements, but there was a general movement towards an organized government, which, by definition, is not barbarism.

Then again, I think what I admire most about interpretations and historical accounts of ancient Rome are the more impulsive, passionate qualities of the culture. That is what I mean when I say I wonder if we are “distilling” humanity in our modern culture. I think a lot of people have lost touch with what it means to live in a high stakes environment, to feel the life coursing through their veins or to act on their needs with conviction on a daily basis.

I began thinking about all of this a few weeks ago when a friend of mine from Florida mentioned that people there are allowed to shoot trespassers who come onto their property on sight.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed incredulously, always the articulate blogger. “But you can’t kill them, can you?”

He just laughed at me and shrugged. “Sometimes when you shoot ‘em, you kill ‘em.”

So even though I often wonder where the passion has gone while I’m making my commute to and from work amidst the milling herd, wondering when we all got slipped our daily dose of “soma,” I am also horrified at the opposite end of the spectrum. It just shocks me that in some parts of the country, entering someone’s property is enough to warrant violence without warning and murder without much punishment. There’s just something about that idea that doesn’t sit comfortably in the pit of my stomach.

It gives me this image of an orange farmer screaming, “This. is. FLORIDAAAAA!” while brandishing an AK-47.

When I was a kid, I used to play with flashlight lightsabers and go to the movies with my friends. From what I hear of rural childhoods, “blowin’ shit up” is a regular after-school activity. YouTube is overflowing with videos of kids from throughout the center of this country blowing up whatever they can find in front of a camera. I even stumbled across one video where a few teenagers were wading into the Mississippi River to find tube worm mound colonies, a staple of that particular ecosystem, and setting them on the ground, followed by shooting them to kingdom come with rifles. The had no clue that they were probably destroying the ecology of that part of the riverbed and were more interested in seeing the strange gooey blobs get blown to smithereens. I also got the impression that they wouldn’t have cared much if they did know about their possible eco-footprint.

This sort of dispassionate violence is what frightens me. A majority of our youth is disconnected from the fact that guns are not toys. They are absolutely lethal. The NRA famously insists that “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” However, I’m going to have to jump on the band wagon with British comedian and actor Eddie Izzard here and say, “Yes, but the guns certainly help.”

I remember holding a water gun and pointing at my Dad when I was a little girl.

“Bang, bang, Daddy!” I shouted, holding the gun at his face, point blank.

He moved the gun away from his face with the palm of his and looked at me very seriously. “Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to kill them.”

Sure, it was just a water gun, but my father made certain that I knew what that toy represented. He said his father had imparted the same wisdom to him.

Dispassionate people own lethal weapons in states like Texas and Florida and they can use them without much cause or repercussion. I’m perplexed and torn. On the one hand, I think it is our right to protect ourselves and our families and that people, given the proper licencing, should be able to own guns, though I realize it’s still hard to control how many guns get into unqualified hands. Plus, the dramatic part of me wants my life to be an epic and adventurous tale worthy of the Odyssey. On the other hand, I don’t think we should be teaching our children that guns are a worthwhile “pass-time.” Hunting for food when food needs to be hunted is one thing. Blowing up bear bottles and Indiana Jones action figures for no reason is another. Plus, in terms of our humanity, I don’t think we need the danger of weapons or our lives constantly hanging in the balance to spur us into living a fulfilling life.

Violence isn’t the answer, but I think dispassion is an epidemic.

How do you cure dispassion? How do you light the proverbial fire under humanity’s ass?

When Prometheus stole fire from the Zeus on Mount Olympus and brought it to the mortals below, he took a risk. He wagered his life to bring warmth and knowledge to his fellow man. His story isn’t famous today because of violence, but because of his daring and his contribution to mankind. There is also the bit about how he was punished by having his liver be eaten out by vultures only to grow back every day for all of eternity, but that’s beside the point.

Maybe, what we all need to spice up our lives is a little calculated risk taking. Set your sights on something and go for it. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Listen to that little voice in your head when it tells you to do something. Listening to your instincts is what keeps you from being a sheep in the middle of a herd.

Perhaps that’s the cure. Only time will tell.

Sooner or later you will face a brutal reality:

Your high school reunion.

The fear will climb you like a maypole and you will think your are thirty pounds fatter than you actually are. You will check the guest list for your high school crushes or old boyfriends and be warmed by those old flames, followed by an endless panic attack concerning seeing them again. You’ll destroy your closet looking for the perfect ensemble and plan hair and makeup for a week ahead of time. Moreover, you’ll plan how to describe your job so that you don’t sound like a glorified receptionist.

You say to yourself + 30 imaginary pounds in the mirror, “Oh college, how have you failed me so completely?”

Then the day arrives. It’s the moment of truth.

Results may vary after this point. I can only speak for myself.

A certain amount of anticipation and dread accompanied my decision to attend my high school reunion, but I never struggled with whether or not to go. I knew from the moment I got that letter inviting me to “The School by the Sea” for my 5th year reunion that I would be there.

Let me explain. My high school education wasn’t what you would call normal. I went to boarding school one thousand miles away from home. When I tell new acquaintances this, they usually react in the following way.

Wide-eyed with wonderment and a mischievous gleam in their eye they ask, “What did you do?”

This reaction makes me laugh because so many people can’t imagine sending their son or daughter of to school across the country at the tender age of fourteen. They figure you must have done something so horrible that you had be sent away to “learn to respect your limits or your elders” or both.

Let’s set the record straight. I wasn’t packed off and sent to boarding school because I’m some sort of juvenile delinquent. I chose to leave home.

See, I always loved summer camp. I went to Camp Seafarer in North Carolina for 8 years and worked there as a counselor for two. I wouldn’t be who I am today without my experiences there. The first year I went, I was ten. I was a shy girl who barely spoke up except to say incredibly awkward things. I was the kind of child who could play on a playground for hours and not bother to learn the names of the other children I was playing with because I was too terrified to ask. Facing a month away from home was frightening and exciting, but when I got there, I slowly came out of my shell. I blossomed, some might say. I went out to activities every day and set goals for myself, striving every day to achieve them. I learned how to sail, how to tie a bowline knot, and how to jump a hurdle on horseback. It was at Camp Seafarer that I was asked to dance by a boy for the first time. There were a lot of firsts at camp, and the best part of it all was that I was in control of my own destiny.

I’m an only child, you see. Every step of the way up until that point, my parents had been there guiding, supporting, micromanaging, and frogmarching me towards some undisclosed success. There are advantages and disadvantages to being the sole object of your mother and father’s love. I was given every possible opportunity; piano lessons, ice skating lessons, vacations, tutors, and educational trips. Anything I asked for, I got and usually more. Every time I soared I was rewarded and every time I fell, I was supported, analyzed, and talked through how to improve upon or avoid this mistake again. I never had that integral sink or swim moment.

However, at Camp Seafarer, I was in control. I scheduled my activities and I auditioned for plays. When I failed, it was up to me to fix it. When I succeeded, I simply basked in the glow of a job well done. It was enough because it was all mine.

Back in Chicago, I went to a middle school that ended in eighth grade and when I reached that point, I had to apply to high schools. I applied to every private school in the city, including my own personal Jesuit nightmare, St. Ignatius College Preperatory School. When I visited, I hated it. The students seemed dispassionate as they marched to classes in their uniforms. They answered questions when they had to and not because they wanted to. They were smart, make no mistake, but I couldn’t see myself fitting in. As the year forged on, I became restless. I wasn’t particularly happy about any of the choices of schools I had applied to thus far.

One day, I saw a friend of mine looking through a boarding school brochure. Inside its laminated story book pages there were kids on bicycles, grassy quads, blue skies, pine trees, and red track fields. It showed kids making clay bowls on spinning wheels and singing in a capella groups. I knew that I could probably find some of those things at the private schools in Chicago, but an idea had formed in my head. Judging by my success at camp, perhaps I could achieve more away from the loving arms of my parents then I could within their reach.

With my parent’s permission, I applied to boarding schools all over the east coast. The next fall, I found myself at Tabor Academy in a dorm with twenty other girls, most from the area around school, whereas I was 1,000 miles away from home, and completely out of my element.

I had the unique opportunity to decide who I was. No one knew me. I could make first impressions on an entire community. Even knowing this, I was terribly afraid I would make some awful blunder.

The first few nights there, I sat on one of the granite benches on the water front. Even though I had worked so hard to get away from home, I missed it. I knew my mother and father would have had some useful knowledge to impart. All they way to school, my parents had pelted me with so much advice that I couldn’t see straight when we arrived. I couldn’t wait for them to leave me the hell alone. As we hugged goodbye till Thanksgiving, my mother wagged her finger. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” she said with great reverence. Afterward, that piece of Polonius’ advice from Hamlet has served as their final words to me whenever they drop me off at my current place of residence.

The seabreeze tossed my thick bush of brown hair across my face as I looked out over Buzzards Bay. All of their advice was slipping through my fingers. I was here to make my way without them.

Sometimes, I thought, you should be careful what you wish for.

I stayed at Tabor for four years. The first two were hellish and I was unhappy. I wanted to be wonderful at science and sports, but that just wasn’t in the cards. Nothing seemed to come naturally to me, least of all social aptitude. No one enjoyed being friends with a stuck up city girl who loved Star Wars and sang the Moulin Rouge version of  “Lady Marmalade” at least fifty times a day in her dorm room while everyone else was trying to study. It wasn’t until I laid anchor in the theater and music community that I found a foothold for myself at Tabor. Teachers and students started looking at me differently. They knew my name and they didn’t call me out on dress code infractions as much. I did the musical every year and toured with my a capella group every spring. It was a damn fine gig if I do say so myself. My last two years at Tabor were some of the happiest in my life. My friends were like family and theater was a dream. I felt so lucky to be there every day.

And so it was that I entered highschool wanting to be an astronaut and left with a passion for the stage, headed to New  York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, no less. I graduated with awards for contribution to theater and choral music and I left thinking I knew a lot more about myself than I would have if I had gone to school back at home in Chicago. My parents were still extremely proud, and supportive, but I had done this for myself.

I had no idea what awaited me in New York. I knew I would get through it as I had gotten through life at Tabor, but I was in no way prepared for my first year there, let alone the other three. It was filled with art, non-sexual nakedness, dance, shock, and student rush tickets to Broadway shows. I was back in an urban environment, pulsing with energy, buzzing with life. I was filled with passion for what I was doing every single day. Imagine: No more math classes. It was heavenly. I thank my lucky stars every day that my parents let me go and paid for my education at Tisch.

Now, it’s a year after my graduation from NYU and I’m living the life of a starving artist. Like everyone else in America, I have felt the pain of our declining economy, losing my job and not being able to get a new one for four months at a time. In December, I broke up with the man I can’t stop loving. In January, I saved a suicidal room mate’s life when I found her bleeding out in the bathtub. In February, I lost a dear friend and collaborator to a successful suicide attempt. By March, I was still jobless and was feeling the desperate strain of my independent reality weigh on me heavily every second of every single day. This is my life, I thought. I can’t stand my life right now.

It had been almost a year since I had performed in a full scale production. I could feel my life blood and passion begging for attention like a poorly tended hearth living in the pit of my stomach. My skin was going numb.

That’s when I got the letter inviting me back to Tabor Academy for my high school reunion.

How can I face all of these wonderfully smart and successful people? I thought. I’ll be a laughing stock again… or worse, they won’t recognize me at all.

I’m not fearless, but I like to think I have a bit more backbone than to let a few momentary insecurities stop me from going through such an important right of passage.

The truth is, as the day approached, I realized how much I had missed that community. I had spent so much of my life pushing forward and away from anything or anyone that had nurtured me along the way, but now I dearly missed the cradle of support that I got from my parents, teachers, and friends at Tabor. I had been a ship my whole life, struggling to break free from my mooring, but now I was ready to return to port, more ready than I ever thought I would be.

As I arrived back on campus, my heart pounded in my chest. My body felt weak, almost euphoric. Many of my classmates had remained in the same area and saw each other more often, but true to form I had left the nest and sailed into uncharted waters.

The whole weekend was like a glorious out of body experience. People I knew well and people I hadn’t all asked how I’d been and seemed to care about my response. I realized that I cared about theirs and I was proud of their numerous accomplishments. I remembered more first and last names than I thought I would. Seeing my teachers struck such a resonant chord with me. They had spent four years as my surrogate parents, setting me up for success, talking me through rough patches, and inviting me for Sunday afternoon tea. The whole reunion was like a warm celebratory ritual with dancing, drinking, and storytelling.

Near the end of the evening I was laughing with a friend who had gone with me to the Caribbean aboard the school’s tall ship to do an on-site marine studies class. We were resting our feet as the rest of our classmates danced the night away. He asked me what I was up to and I told him about the play I was writing, my novel, my new apartment, and how much i enjoyed the process of developing new musicals.

“You’re living the dream.” He laughed and smiled at me.

Until he said that, I had completely forgotten that I was.

At the end of the weekend, I felt my ship had been thoroughly resuplied. I had collected information and maps, and made plans for new adventures, confident that I could sail across the fated sea with a warm wind at my back.

I have decided that once Odysseus returned to Ithaca, he must have longed for another voyage.