Roof Beam Reader
Adam Burgess
Dementors in America
Is it just me, or does America have a problem?
Every day, more violence. More heated rhetoric.
Nationalism. Islamophobia.
Anti-Semitism. Transphobia.
White Pride. Homophobia. Sexism.
Black Lives Matter. White Genocide.
Christian ministers preaching death to the gays.
Black men assassinating white police officers.
White police officers killing black men.
Why are we so afraid of each other? Why are we so angry with each other? Why do we hate each other? Why do we need to strike, slander, kill? Violence has become our first reaction.
It’s like there are Dementors in America.
And it’s not my intention to make light of what’s going wrong in this country. I’m not turning to fantasy in some facetious attempt to take comfort in a beloved story – there are more than enough people doing that already. Nevertheless, to the extent possible, I intend for this metaphor to be taken literally.
Everywhere I look, I see and feel anger, selfishness, aggression, impatience. As I’m driving down the road on any given day, the number of people flying by with gleeful contempt for traffic signals and common courtesies, taking others’ lives for granted, using their vehicles as some kind of armor & extension of their own egos, seems to be growing in shocking proportions. Have we so disregarded the value of human life?
Everywhere I look, I see people clinging to their guns, masking their fetishism beneath some kind of perverted rationale about “individual liberty” and “right to protection.” The common argument is that more guns will make more of us safe, because if only we all carried around deadly weapons, then we’d all be less likely to actually use them. This is the logic of a child trapped in the mirror stage whose entire world is the image of himself reflected at himself: nothing else matters because the self is the only priority. If only we all smoked cigarettes, then none of us would have to worry about the dangers of second-hand exposure. In what world is the saner choice the one which demands that we all live more dangerously in order to be safer? This is freedom?
I’m in favor of the Second Amendment, but I also support a rational appreciation for the world we live in, for the centuries of technological and social changes that have occurred since our founding documents were written, and for a common sense approach to balancing safety and liberty.
As a culture, we seem to think that rules no longer apply to us, that every attempt to make us safer is in reality some plot to make us less free, to control us. The false outrage and reaction to this flawed narrative has resulted in our society actually spinning out of control. Are we beyond repair?
There are dementors in America.
There are forces working against us, stoking the flames of fear and resentment, depression and sadness. Hopelessness, resignation, and anger. But these dementors are not some external, mystical demons. We created them. We’re responsible for them. We’ve given them power, allowed ourselves to become distracted by the next fad, the latest technology, the newest streaming television. All the while the world around us slips further into despair, and we become less and less capable of fixing it and ourselves. We become more and more disgusted, quicker to ascribe blame, more deeply entrenched in our own beliefs about what’s good and bad, who is right and who is wrong. Liberals blame Conservatives. Conservatives blame Liberals. Atheists blame Christians. Christians blame “the godless.”
“If only black people would comply politely.”
“If only the gays wouldn’t flaunt themselves.”
“If only the Muslims would….” “If only the Mexicans wouldn’t…” “If only….” and on and on.
I can understand feeling angry. But I can’t understand violence. I can’t understand hatred. I wish I had a better idea of where these emotions come from, and why, so that I could do more to help. Unfortunately, we can’t stop every terrorist who wants to cause harm. We can’t prevent every psychotic break. We can’t cure or rationalize with every instance of fanaticism. But can’t we do something? Can’t we make it less likely for those few who do intend to cause harm to succeed?
Today, in threads responding to all the recent tragedies, I’ve seen mixed responses. Most of these responses, though, are the same tired, lazy, illogical reactions that we always see from people who refuse to actually deal with the problem. They are so committed to the idea that there’s one “bad set” of people in this country, and if only we could get rid of them, well, America would be “great again.” These are the same kind of people who long for the “good old days,” without considering what those days were like for anyone unlike themselves.
A common response from this group is something like this: “We don’t have all the facts – I won’t judge when we’ve only seen one side of this.” As if a perpetual string of violence by the racially and socioeconomically powerful majority against racial, religious, and sexual minorities, committed over and over again, isn’t in itself endemic. And where do these people go, in a week or month or year, when the full details are released and substantiate the claims that the violence was motivated by prejudice? Do they return and say, “Ah, yes, I see you were right – and we need to do something”? No, they’ve moved onto the next situation, with their canned response again: “Well, now, let’s not judge too quickly, here.” Because, you see, three hundred years of violence against black people and minorities isn’t enough proof for these people. The fact that more than 500,000 black people were written into our founding laws as only 60% human isn’t enough proof for these people. Nothing will ever be enough proof for these people because they can’t see beyond their own noses. “I’m not bigoted, so certainly America can’t be.” So, how do we press on without them?
The other response I continue to see is, “I’m praying.”
So many prayers. Who is supposed to be answering?
And how many prayers should it take before “He” does something about it?
Or maybe, just maybe, we’re the ones who are supposed to act. The Christian book itself says: “faith without works is dead.” There are dementors in America, and we are without magic. There are no prayers, no “Expecto Patronum!” solutions; only our labors will make a difference. So, when a friend posts, “I don’t want to see that you are praying” in regards to these tragedies, and your reaction is to call them hateful, I have to think: have you assessed your priorities? Is it really hateful to ask that we all respond in some actionable way to this devastation, rather than simply wish upon a star? So pray, by all means, if it makes you feel better. But then?
Then do something.
Because the dementors are real and they are wreaking havoc. We might not be able to see this problem the way we’d like to, as a single “bad guy” to be identified, but surely we can feel the problem. Can’t you feel it? Something has gone wrong, a poison is in us, running amok. And there’s no magical antidote, no special words, no “Chosen One” coming to save us. We have to save us.
Two: More than a Hero
Sappho’s “He Is More Than a Hero” (7th Century BCE)
He is a god in my eyes –
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you – he
who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing
laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I can’t
speak – my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,
hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body
and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far from me.
Response:
Considering what I do for a living, and my area of expertise, my very limited knowledge of and engagement with Sappho is fairly inexcusable. I won’t beat myself up over it, but I do at least want to acknowledge this limitation and include an excerpt from Sappho in this project. What we have left of Sappho’s works are just fragments, but Sappho herself is legendary. Most of her work, from what I understand, explores themes of friendship and womanly love.
What’s going on in this particular poem? Similarly to yesterday’s poem, we see heightened emotion linked to a particular subject in a particular situation. MY reading of the introduction to Iliad, poem one of this project, was wrapped-up in my current sentiments regarding the love between Achilles and Patroclus, and the rage of Achilles that led him to annihilating the Trojans, and, eventually, to his own death (of course that was reading beyond the first stanza, but these things happen).
I continue that type of sentiment here, where the speaker (Sappho, or a Sappho-like person? This is strikingly similar to Whitman’s autobiographical poetry) is envious of her friend’s husband or lover because that man benefits from the love interest’s proximity, companionship, etc. I find the first stanza particularly interesting. There’s a delightful turn from the first line, where the attention is first drawn to the exulted man, “a god”; but then we’re immediately corrected in our first impressions; the man won’t be the subject of this poem, he’s simply the secondary object of envy. It’s another woman being pined for, here!
It’s a clever start, followed by an impassioned and truly effective description of the physical responses caused by being near the one you love and long for. The sensory details are extraordinary: “a thin line runs beneath my skin”; “paler than dry grass”; “the sweet murmur of your voice.” The tactile, the visual, the aural — every element of human response is explored briefly but precisely.
All of these reactions lead to a final conceit describing “death” which, in many cases in classical poetry, is a euphemism for orgasm (John Donne, anyone?). Voyeurism, envy, descriptive physical responses to a passionate lust — no wonder Sappho endures.
One: Rage – Goddess!
Homer’s Iliad (9th-8th Century BCE)
Achilles’ banefull wrath resound, O Goddesse, that
imposd
Infinite sorrows on the Greekes, and many brave
souls losd
From breasts Heroique—sent them farre, to that
invisible cave
That no light comforts; and their lims to dogs and
Vultures gave.
To all which Jove’s will gave effect; from whom
first strife begunne
Betwixt Atrides, king of men, and Thetis’ godlike
Sonne.
Response:
So, why did I begin this poem-a-day project with what is essentially just a very small piece of a very large poem? Because, I’m attempting to cover 2,000 years in some kind of chronology, and because I’m choosing short poems in general every day. This is just a daily mind/mentality exercise, meant to act as something both meditative and creativity-inspiring.
What’s going on in this poem? Well, in this part of it, we have what is essentially an outline (a thesis! – the English professor’s brain never lets up) for the epic to follow. It seems somehow fitting that this poem is one of the first, best examples of its kind in literary history, that it begins this particular project, and that it ultimately alludes to death and the afterlife.
As inspiration, I find these lines ironically soothing (ironic considering the portends, and that most translations for this call attention to one primary word: RAGE). Having read Song of Achilles recently, this stanza also resonates with me because of that story’s influence. Thinking of the love between Achilles and Patroclus, and how well it was written — that idea of RAGE becomes even more profound. Did Homer (or whomever) mean to imply, eventually, the reason for Achilles’ rage as influenced by that particular relationship? Doubtful. In most of the classical stories, his, and other heroes’, rage is simply an awe-inspiring representation of virility and masculinity.
Still, I think our readings are always influenced by where we are in life, what we’ve been doing in life, other things we’ve been thinking about, other books we’ve been reading, etc. So, for this moment, I’m satisfied with my reaction to this stanza. It somehow connects me to my current emotional state: a determined passion, or a passionate determination.
In piam memoriam
On Sunday, June 26th, 2016, my Uncle and Aunt were killed in a car accident. The sudden, unexpected, and violent nature of their passing has been most difficult to deal with. The fact that they leave behind two children, my cousin Alex, a 22-year-old who serves in the U.S. Navy, and Joe, who just celebrated his 18th birthday, makes the loss more cruel.
Given the nature of the accident, it might be very easy to cast judgment on a reckless and guilty party; but I am doing my best to turn my thoughts to happy memories of my Aunt and Uncle, and loving care for my cousins. It is more important to me that they are cared for, now, than that somebody is blamed, even if that might make me feel a bit better, and especially if they deserve the blame.
Wally (54) and Jackie (50) were two people who were impossible to forget. One meeting is all it took. They were wholly and completely alive and in love with life, which makes the fact that they are gone so incredibly confusing. How can two such vivacious, virile personalities be so suddenly extinguished? I think about the palpable power of their personalities and wrestle with extreme cognitive dissonance: what do you mean I’ll never hear them laugh again?
To me, they were like second parents when I was growing up. My sister and I even lived with them for a time, while my parents were going through some struggles of their own. Jackie married my Uncle Wally when I was about 10 years old. It was not a happy day for me. For some reason, I took an immediate disliking to Jackie. In fact, I think most of our family did. We were a very close-knit group; we were territorial and, I think, a bit possessive of each other. I certainly felt like she was in some way stealing my Uncle from us. And her personality was so different from ours: she was blunt, direct, unapologetic. She was also confident, smart, and incredibly loving.
Jackie was the one who took me on my first college trip, when I was just 12. I was obsessed with the University of Notre Dame, so she and Wally took me and my Grandma down to the campus to visit and explore. She later somehow managed to get me a personalized message from the then-head coach of Notre Dame football, Lou Holtz. A few years later, she and Wally took me to my first “adult” concert, Shania Twain. It was a belated birthday present, and my first time going to a concert without my parents. Not long after that, when I came out to my family, Jackie immediately invited me over to their house, where she told me that I would be okay, no matter what, and that I would always have a place to go, if I ever needed it. When, years later, my partner and I moved back to Illinois from California, Jackie invited us over and welcomed Jesse with open arms. We didn’t have jobs, yet, and were living with my sister. When no one was looking, Jackie pulled me aside, stuffed a wad of cash in my pocket and whispered in my ear, “just take care of each other.”
Our personality types clashed, our political views clashed, as did our opinions on social issues. And yet, Jackie was always there for me. She taught me how to Polka. She laughed her ass off when, during a rousing game of Scattergories, I tried to use “Pop Bees” as an insect beginning with the letter “P.” Years later, she was still teasing me about this – she never forgot. Jackie also applauded my every achievement and did her best to keep our extended family together, despite the fact that few of us made any effort at all. Despite what I always saw as a rough exterior, she cared deeply for people, especially her friends and family, and we would all learn that there was nothing she wouldn’t do or give for those who were in need.
My Uncle Wally. I think it’s fair to say there’s nobody else in the world quite like him. Like Jackie, he had a loud and boisterous – infectious – laugh. At the funeral reception, I kept waiting for him to walk through a door, laughing at something wildly inappropriate. Wherever you were in a house or room, you always knew when Wally was there, too.
Wally would show up to Christmas—imagine, late-December in Chicago—wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He took me to watch him compete in demolition derbies, rode me around on his motorcycle, and was in every way what you would expect a “manly” man to be: rough, calloused, and unafraid to belch or cuss. And he was kind. He was there for every event, large or small; when my car broke down, he would drive from any distance to help. He showed us kids how to fix anything so we wouldn’t have to pay someone else to do it. And when he hugged you, you knew he meant it.
He and Jackie would take me and my sister out of school early on the first nice day of spring so that we could grab Grandma, drive to Wisconsin and hit the lake. Wally was truly adventurous, so completely fearless and unafraid to break the rules, often only figuring out how to do something while in the act of doing it.
When I was finally tall enough to ride rollercoasters, I was still too sheepish to try. Wally was the one who convinced me to go on my first ride. When I say “convinced,” I mean he dragged me kicking and screaming onto the Batman ride at Six Flags Great America, the then-most impressive ride at the park. There was no “easing in” to situations with Wally; it was “just do it” and “do it right the first time.” So, despite my terror, I got on that ride, and I suffered through the loops and twists and turns, the high-flying dangling moments, the upside down whirls and the backwards second pass. And when I got off that ride, I got right back in line. I was hooked, the same way I became hooked on swimming after he threw me into Crystal Lake when I refused to go in myself.
Around that same time, in another season, Wally also taught me how to ski. And when I say he “taught” me, I mean he strapped me into my boots, rode with me up the ski lift to the top of the bunny hill, pointed me in the right direction and pushed. Again, there were no instructions or directions or tips, except maybe “don’t fall down.” He was a man who embodied the spirit of carpe diem. Seize the day.
Like Jackie, Wally and I officially disagreed on just about everything. Politics, social issues, and even football (a Packers fan in my family – outrageous!). But Wally had a deep and fierce belief in the value of an honest day’s work, like I do. He had a deep and fierce passion for finding joy and laughter in every moment, as I try to do. And he had a deep and fierce love of and devotion to his family, as I do.
In every way that really matters, it seems, my loud, extroverted, and irreverent Aunt and Uncle were exactly the kind of people who quiet, introverted, and manners-driven me tries to be.
Some people come into our lives destined to shape who we ourselves will become. I suppose we don’t recognize it in the moment; maybe we’re lucky to ever recognize it at all. I’ve had a week to reflect on everything that these two people meant to me, and the many shared moments. I can count on one hand the people who have molded the direction of my life, who have acted as both inspirations and whetstones to my core values. My Uncle Wally and Aunt Jackie are in that number. I wouldn’t be who I am without the life they helped to shape for me, and I doubt I’ll be the same now that they’re gone.
It’s hard to be left with this question – this haunting why. I don’t think there’s an answer, and I hardly know what to do. I imagine the only thing that can be done, now, is to find a way to honor their lives and memory. To try to live a little bit better. To try to live a little bit freer. To try to give a little bit more love. Because if Wally and Jackie have taught me anything, it’s that there’s never any reason to stop caring, or trying, or loving.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight and everybody goes ‘Aww!’” –Jack Kerouac
49 Bells
Our college held a vigil for Orlando today. The audience was asked to stand and walk in rows to the stage at the front of the lobby, in order to ring a bell for each person who died in the Orlando massacre.
I thought for sure that I was sitting far enough back, that I wouldn’t have to ring that bell.
1 chime…5 chimes…20…40….49.
I was number 49.
49 bells. 49 innocent people dead.
49 people is so very many people, when you really see it. When you picture them all gone.
And I was devastated. I did not want to ring that bell. But then I turned around to walk off that stage, and I saw a hundred more people bearing witness. A hundred allies. A hundred good people, coming together at a small college in a suburb a thousand miles away from Orlando to say, “we hear you. We see you. We’re with you.”
And in the echo of that last chime, I thought, “this is the only answer.”
Roof Beam Reader 
