So I'm watching that HBO documentary on John Adams, thinking this all seems very familiar... if only they were singing and Paul Giamatti would go on to one day portray the arguably equally great American hero, Mr. Feenie. I'm pretty sure I just missed the part where Adams delivers some pivotal speech, convincing the Continental Congress to free itself from England's monarchical bondage, because I was thinking up that Boy Meets World joke. Either way, I'm pondering, as I've been known to do, and I find myself curious as to how anyone claiming to value truth, freedom, justice (all those things invented by Superman) can distract themselves, so effortlessly that censorship, cowardice, and the acceptance of that which clearly defies said values, in favor of comfort and security, can manage to convince themselves their actions, directly contradicting their expressed allegiance to the greatness of mankind, adhere to some morality and are not only thus justified, but rather all the more righteous.
I am of course wont to blame religion.
To be fair though, perverting and confusing the very concepts of truth, reason, and morality can only account for so much such asininity. As corruptive an influence as religion has had on our world (and yes I note the fact that on this particular day almost every major religion is celebrating some holiday, I can't decide whether Purim or Holi is my favorite), I believe some other culprit is at the root of our complacency and ignorance. Maybe it's the wide availability of soda, maybe they've been right about television, or maybe our compassion has overcome our discomfort. Having recently spent several hours traveling on a major United States airline, I managed to learn something about the nature of humanity, at least mine.
In the seat next to me sat two thirds of an admittedly "big guy" who barely spoke English, not due to having been raised in some other region but rather I assume because he'd chosen to major in lunch instead. I should point out the remaining third of this man's ass had managed to annex half of my seat, well, not actually my seat, but rather the seat of some teenager whom I'd found sitting in my seat, nervously pleading that I switch seats with him so that he'd be able to continue what I'm sure was a riveting conversation with the equally annoying, somewhat chubby teenage girl in the seat next to him. Having moronically managed to attend college in Iowa, where winters are cold and parking lots go unsalted, mostly due to ineptitude on the part of whoever happens to be in charge of not letting campus sidewalks remain thickly coated in ice for weeks at a time, I had injured my back attempting to push my car off what was frankly the slickest ice ever to have existed. This injury, coupled with having to maneuver my torso awkwardly to fit in a space one fourth the size of those business class seats I've never been privileged enough to enjoy, left my spine feeling something akin to having one's bones catch fire, due to both the physical pain and the mental frustration I'd imagine one would face after discovering one's bones had very likely defied several laws of physics. The pain was tempered however by what was possibly the least productive conversation ever held on an airplane.
While I've never read any Steinbeck, I figure I've a fairly decent understanding of who Lenny was as a character, and if Lenny was anything like a big fat dumb guy, then this guy was a lot like Lenny. I'd intended to finish a week's worth of reading, Milton if you're interested, before arriving in San Francisco. Lenny had intended to quiz me on general knowledge of famous British sports cars. After an hour that, due to pain, felt more like sixty three minutes, the man shuffled off to the bathroom, allowing me a chance to stand and take stock of just how much discomfort torn muscles (I'm assuming torn muscles because it still hurts, two weeks later and I can walk) should not be treated by positioning oneself in some division of typical economy class seating. Immediately noting a seat next to a friend I was traveling with had been vacant since Dallas I managed to return to my seat, where I would ponder, at great lengths, my options. Having read a fair amount of Orwell, the notion that a man would choose to end discomfort even if doing so required sacrificing another human being in some sense, was not entirely unfamiliar. I considered the man who'd soon return to the seat next to me. I considered his mental state. From what I could imagine the man had very few friends. While I wouldn't jump to describe him as self aware, or socially graced, I couldn't imagine my disappearance leaving him feeling entirely respected. I considered the possibility that I could be just another in a string of people who've left this man feeling crushed and belittled. I considered this. I also considered my spine. To be honest, this lengthy consideration took all of thirty eight seconds and as soon as I could snatch my bags from under the seat in front of me, I was sitting seated several rows back, next to my friend, hiding my face from Lenny as he returned from the bathroom. I'd asked myself if courtesy would override my physical discomfort and found I'd only needed the flimsiest excuse to escape, Lenny's wellbeing be damned.
Compassion, in this instance did not compel me to ignore my discomfort, and frankly, I don't think it ever has. But I've considered the possibility. Suppose that's somewhat important.
Of course it gets us no closer to understanding those who either practice or demand censorship. As of now I have:
1. The need to avoid discomfort.
2. The fear of challenging an established system and creating an unknown future.
3. The irrational misconception that suppressing human expression celebrates our virtues.
4. Censors are morons.
Cheers,
Kyle
