[Disclaimer: This post cites with research done on men. But I think it has implications for everyone. ]
In my brother Kip's column for the Dartmouth Mirror, he described sociologist Michael Kimmel's research indicating that the greatest fear for men is not physical assault or even death, but "being laughed at."
This statement seems pretty true for me. I can't count the number of times that I've refused to do something, or gone along and done something, for fear of being laughed at. So it was that I found myself just a few hours ago at the gym, after a day of writing in the library, feeling inexplicably miserable, frustrated, and depressed. My day had been predictable and isolated. I'd hardly had a conversation with anyone. Over the past years, I've experienced mild depression for varying periods of time, but the past few months had been consistently more bleak than I had known. And my reluctance to tell anyone about the struggle hadn't made it any easier. While the change in seasons and family visits over the past few weeks had lifted my spirits, the sudden return of that numb, sinking feeling of despair in the gym was alarming. I felt a bit like Sisyphus, with the boulder back at the bottom of the hill. I hadn't even had the energy to change into proper clothes, but was working out in jeans and a t-shirt. But then, I heard music.
The weight-room is connected to the basketball gym by a glass door. Through the door, I could see a dance class in progress--all women, led by an instructor who was shaking his hips with enough sass to make Gaga's mouth drop. Here was a situation that fit perfectly into Kimmel's observation, that men fear embarrassment more than anything else. The mere idea of entering the class made me anxious.
A thought entered my head. What if I forced myself to go into the class? This was a chance to tackle my fear of embarrassment head-on. And, maybe, it would help get me out of my funk. And so, feeling extremely nervous, I walked on inside. The music had just started up after a break, and the instructor's eyes widened with surprise as I came in. "You want to join us?" he asked. I nodded and then, goofily, gave a 'thumbs-up' sign. "Fabulous!" he said. "Allright, here we go!" And so I began dancing my clumsiest best. I drew a fair amount of head-turning from the weightlifters who walked past the glass door, and maybe a few laughs; no doubt they were surprised and amused to see me suddenly joining in with the Zumba crowd. I rarely allow myself to feel ridiculous; it's the supreme act of social vulnerability, a feeling that jesters and modern-day comics are probably quite used to. Lowering the defenses, and simply pushing through my self-conscious resistance to embarrassing myself, I felt a huge burden lift. I realized that the only person who could make me feel embarrassed was myself.
On the outside looking in, this situation might not have seemed like anything remarkable. So you took a Zumba class. So what? It's funny to me, too; that, though I've been in other situations that objectively should have seemed more frightening, for some reason I was more nervous about doing this than perhaps anything else. And that's precisely Kimmel's point--that the fear of being laughed at is often disproportionate to any actual danger you might be facing.
Two months later, Kip came to visit me in Boston for a weekend. We went to the Cambridge Music Festival, and found ourselves in front of an absurdly talented funk band whose magic had enchanted a huge crowd. We stood at the front, nodding our heads in the way that men do when they want to enjoy the music but not seem "too" into it. Two college kids were shimmying around up front, making up their own dance moves while the rest of us watched and listened. As the music went on, Kip and I just started to let ourselves move a little bit more. I was completely aware of the walls I was putting up around dancing--something in my head told me that I 'needed' this, but I was doing my best to convince myself not to. I decided, again, to just step into that fear. I took off my backpack. "Kip, we're totally going to dance to this." He nodded. "Oh yeah, definitely." I took a few steps forward, into the open space, and just let it go.
Needless to say, it was the most fun I'd had in a while. But it was more than fun. Without trying to sound too dramatic, that night of dancing and jumping around the streets of Harvard to all of these amazing bands with my awesome brother opened me up to the world. Together, we dropped our defenses. I felt like I finally understood what Rumi was talking about when said, "When you do things from your soul, you feel a river, a joy."
Both those decisions, to enter that Zumba class, and later, to dance in front of strangers, were about stepping through my fear. Fear is a compass that guides you in the right direction. So follow your fear. As Rumi says, "Live where you fear to live." Let yourself go to the places that scare you. And it's ok to start small. Maybe, like me, shaking your butt in a Zumba class is a good first step.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Graduate
Welcome to "The Graduate", a new forum for discussing the challenges and opportunities facing young college graduates in today's America. It seems only fitting for this first post to discuss the classic film "The Graduate", which, when I watched it two nights ago, seemed to eerily foretell the uncertainty of our current age. As thousands of young graduates struggle to find steady jobs in a faltering economy there is ample time to contemplate the questions of Dustin Hoffman's Benjamin, who begins the film wondering vaguely about "the future".
What appealed to me so much about this film was its honest portrayal of a sort of existential crisis that seems to subtly permeate the collective psychology of modern America. Ever since the Sixties, it seems, the young people of America, like Benjamin, have felt restless and ill-at-ease in a culture of mass consumerism. It is a cliché issue, to be sure, but it is a cliché for a reason: whether they are willing to admit it or not, young people have always questioned the values of endless consumption, which is increasingly being questioned as its effects become more apparent, not only on our physical environment, but on our very understanding of what it means to lead a meaningful life.
The Graduate came out more than forty years ago, a product of an time that repudiated the
"phony" ethos of crass capitalism in favor of individual expression and concern for the common good. I don't know about you, but to me it seems that many of my generation are just as lost and confused as poor Benjamin. The horrible economy has given us the (sometimes unwanted) free time to think and ponder on the model of "earn, spend, consume" that continues today just as vigorously as it did when The Graduate came out.
The Graduate is concerned with the effects of this oppressive system on the young Benjamin. His restlesness isn't just the ennui of a bored twenty-something, but also an entirely natural reaction to a society that is, for lack of a better word, insane. The society in particular is a small group: Benjamin's family and friends, all white, all affluent, all professionally successful. Quite rightly, Benjamin chafes under the imprisoning expectations of his little society. One can sense his feeling of frustration and despair. But what gives The Graduate its particular pathos and brilliance is the fact that Benjamin never attempts to get outside of his little bubble to ask the big questions of life. The Graduate is a "coming-of-age" narrative, yet the genius of the film is that it simply sidesteps the characteristic "twist" of the narrative--the point at which the protagonist faces his demons head-on and comes to a greater understanding of himself and what it means to be "a man". Rather, Benjamin is either unaware (or is aware, but wilfully ignores) the possibility that an "answer" even exists. We are left wondering whether Benjamin refuses the possibility of redemption, or was completely unaware that redemption was even possible.
This is most aptly illustrated by his behavior on one of his first dates with Elaine. At a drive-through. Ben asks the hippies in the next car to turn down their music. When they turn it up, seemingly inviting him to a confrontation, he refuses to engage with them. Instead he simply puts on the roof of the convertible and rolls up the windows, encapsulating himself and Elaine in a tiny sound-proof bubble. They continue speaking for a few minutes, but the viewer can no longer hear them. They are shut off from the world, encased in the stifling comfort of Ben's flashy red car. No engagement with the outside world equals no more physical conflict (and, conveniently, no more existential angst!)
It's difficult to say how much Ben's imprisonment in this world of privilege and consumption is of his own choosing. At times he shows a strong will, as when he begins following Elaine at Berkeley, regardless of the consequences. Yet most times throughout the film he is subservient to others, evidenced most strongly when he follows his father's absurd wishes and submerges himself in the swimming pool to demonstrate the effects of a full scuba-suit for his parent's friends. At one point the camera looks through Ben's eyes as it pans across the assorted faces of his family and their friends. The sound is cut, and there is nothing but a view of frenzied, nearly demonic faces, urging him into the pool.
Interestingly enough, this camera technique occurs once more, near the end of the film, when Benjamin frantically interrupts Elaine's wedding. Elaine, hearing Ben frantically shout her name, turns and sees him standing, almost Christ-like, on a small balcony at the top of the church. Suddenly the viewer again looks through her eyes as the camera pans across the faces of her mother, her father, and her groom, whose faces are contorted in rage, urging her to remain where she is. Unlike Ben, who, earlier in the film, compliantly submerged himself in the pool, Elaine instead rebels against her family and friends, by screaming out Ben's name and running into his arms. They escape from the church and board a passing bus, and find seats at the back, exhilarated and astounded at their boldness. As "The sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel begins to play, however, Ben slowly begins to slip away into a blank state, staring bleakly into the distance. Elaine glances at him, her eyes full of love and hope--and then, just as quickly, she turns her gaze away. The bus barrels onward into an uncertain future.
At the heart of this crisis is the unwillingness (or inability? We will never know) of Ben to engage with his life as it is. Ben's parents chased after social and professional recognition, and material wealth, and ended up passing their days with empty chatter and a fearful refusal to ever allow silence to linger too long during cocktail hour. Ben knows that material wealth and professional recognition hold no allure for him, yet he chases blindly after Elaine, without any sense or concern for her or for the jilted Mrs Robinson. The great genius of this film is that it beautifully illustrates that no matter what one chases, one will always, always, end up wishing for something different. And though Ben is a caricature once one stops to think about his actions, the real beauty of the film is that one identifies so strongly with him, and "roots" for him to succeed--perhaps we are more like poor Ben then we want to think. In the end, one simply wishes that, as Ben and Elaine sit side-by-side on the rickety bus, in their dapper wedding clothes, that he just abandon his vacant gaze and instead look at her, and actually see her, and thus begin to truly live.
What appealed to me so much about this film was its honest portrayal of a sort of existential crisis that seems to subtly permeate the collective psychology of modern America. Ever since the Sixties, it seems, the young people of America, like Benjamin, have felt restless and ill-at-ease in a culture of mass consumerism. It is a cliché issue, to be sure, but it is a cliché for a reason: whether they are willing to admit it or not, young people have always questioned the values of endless consumption, which is increasingly being questioned as its effects become more apparent, not only on our physical environment, but on our very understanding of what it means to lead a meaningful life.
The Graduate came out more than forty years ago, a product of an time that repudiated the
"phony" ethos of crass capitalism in favor of individual expression and concern for the common good. I don't know about you, but to me it seems that many of my generation are just as lost and confused as poor Benjamin. The horrible economy has given us the (sometimes unwanted) free time to think and ponder on the model of "earn, spend, consume" that continues today just as vigorously as it did when The Graduate came out.
The Graduate is concerned with the effects of this oppressive system on the young Benjamin. His restlesness isn't just the ennui of a bored twenty-something, but also an entirely natural reaction to a society that is, for lack of a better word, insane. The society in particular is a small group: Benjamin's family and friends, all white, all affluent, all professionally successful. Quite rightly, Benjamin chafes under the imprisoning expectations of his little society. One can sense his feeling of frustration and despair. But what gives The Graduate its particular pathos and brilliance is the fact that Benjamin never attempts to get outside of his little bubble to ask the big questions of life. The Graduate is a "coming-of-age" narrative, yet the genius of the film is that it simply sidesteps the characteristic "twist" of the narrative--the point at which the protagonist faces his demons head-on and comes to a greater understanding of himself and what it means to be "a man". Rather, Benjamin is either unaware (or is aware, but wilfully ignores) the possibility that an "answer" even exists. We are left wondering whether Benjamin refuses the possibility of redemption, or was completely unaware that redemption was even possible.
This is most aptly illustrated by his behavior on one of his first dates with Elaine. At a drive-through. Ben asks the hippies in the next car to turn down their music. When they turn it up, seemingly inviting him to a confrontation, he refuses to engage with them. Instead he simply puts on the roof of the convertible and rolls up the windows, encapsulating himself and Elaine in a tiny sound-proof bubble. They continue speaking for a few minutes, but the viewer can no longer hear them. They are shut off from the world, encased in the stifling comfort of Ben's flashy red car. No engagement with the outside world equals no more physical conflict (and, conveniently, no more existential angst!)
It's difficult to say how much Ben's imprisonment in this world of privilege and consumption is of his own choosing. At times he shows a strong will, as when he begins following Elaine at Berkeley, regardless of the consequences. Yet most times throughout the film he is subservient to others, evidenced most strongly when he follows his father's absurd wishes and submerges himself in the swimming pool to demonstrate the effects of a full scuba-suit for his parent's friends. At one point the camera looks through Ben's eyes as it pans across the assorted faces of his family and their friends. The sound is cut, and there is nothing but a view of frenzied, nearly demonic faces, urging him into the pool.
Interestingly enough, this camera technique occurs once more, near the end of the film, when Benjamin frantically interrupts Elaine's wedding. Elaine, hearing Ben frantically shout her name, turns and sees him standing, almost Christ-like, on a small balcony at the top of the church. Suddenly the viewer again looks through her eyes as the camera pans across the faces of her mother, her father, and her groom, whose faces are contorted in rage, urging her to remain where she is. Unlike Ben, who, earlier in the film, compliantly submerged himself in the pool, Elaine instead rebels against her family and friends, by screaming out Ben's name and running into his arms. They escape from the church and board a passing bus, and find seats at the back, exhilarated and astounded at their boldness. As "The sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel begins to play, however, Ben slowly begins to slip away into a blank state, staring bleakly into the distance. Elaine glances at him, her eyes full of love and hope--and then, just as quickly, she turns her gaze away. The bus barrels onward into an uncertain future.
At the heart of this crisis is the unwillingness (or inability? We will never know) of Ben to engage with his life as it is. Ben's parents chased after social and professional recognition, and material wealth, and ended up passing their days with empty chatter and a fearful refusal to ever allow silence to linger too long during cocktail hour. Ben knows that material wealth and professional recognition hold no allure for him, yet he chases blindly after Elaine, without any sense or concern for her or for the jilted Mrs Robinson. The great genius of this film is that it beautifully illustrates that no matter what one chases, one will always, always, end up wishing for something different. And though Ben is a caricature once one stops to think about his actions, the real beauty of the film is that one identifies so strongly with him, and "roots" for him to succeed--perhaps we are more like poor Ben then we want to think. In the end, one simply wishes that, as Ben and Elaine sit side-by-side on the rickety bus, in their dapper wedding clothes, that he just abandon his vacant gaze and instead look at her, and actually see her, and thus begin to truly live.
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