I used to make a living looking for an argument. I made a good living. I made good arguments. Lately I am less than eager to spoil for a fight. Even about Michael Jackson. But wait – there are limits to my patience.
“Mozart was a real screwball but we judge him by his music. Michael Jackson may have been a strange man but his music will live on.” This comment from someone who has a an academic grounding in “serious” music. I was aghast. Can anyone compare Jackson to Mozart? Jackson may have had all the “moves” but he did not write the Requiem Mass.
Beethoven may have been an uncaring, sometimes cruel man, but he pushed the limits of music. I don’t want yet another argument about the merits of classical music versus pop music. Michael Jackson fans will outnumber Beethoven fans no matter what I say.
So I held my tongue. Bit it, it fact. I don’t judge musical merit by the kind of person who made the music, I do not care to judge the difference between simple ballyhoo and hype music and the profound music that requires virtuosity and talent
Jackson was, to me, a freak. Talented yes. Maybe even brilliant. But to suggest that he will be revered in 200 years is preposterous.
So it has been with some dismay that I find a public appetite for all-Jackson all-the-time to be just a trifle wearing. I was in Texas last month and I was watching MSNBC when it was reported that he had stopped breathing. I was treated to endless (and breathless) renderings of Jackson-mania. The cameras we focused on an intersection close to the entrance to the hospital in Los Angeles. The story went on and on, every morsel of “news” being dissected for something new to say. Tiring of it I tried CNN. Same picture. Same breathless hoping for a break. I tried FOX. Same again. Up and down the dial was hysteria about Jackson. It was a wonder anyone was watching Judge Judy. Worse still, the endless coverage continued and even today MSNBC is consumed by it.
I don’t have to catalogue all this for you. If you are a Jackson fan then there is no such thing as too much. If you believe that other stories have a larger bearing on our lives, you turned off the TV or switched to The Food Network.
If I were still on the air I would succumb, just as all the U.S. networks have, to the overriding appetite of my audience. I would have talked about Jackson. I would have said that I don’t understand the level of hysteria; that I don’t understand the grief junkies leaving flowers at the entrance to Neverland; of the whooping with joy of people whose internet application brought them a ticket to the Jackson memorial in the arena in L.A.
I have not looked, nor will I, to see how many of these coveted passes to the “celebration” will be offered on EBay.
It would be superfluous of me to comment about our fascination with celebrity, just as it would have been futile for me to have entered the argument about who was nuttier – Mozart or Jackson.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
ON BEING A NERD
His name was in the death notices yesterday. It awakened childhood memories. We were never good friends, although we were fellow sufferers. He was, like me and a couple of other kids – a nerd.
Long before that word became common language – I was one. I grew up, (or failed to grow up) in a boy-society that honoured athleticism, size, and strength. My only claim to athleticism was that I was a very fast runner, having honed the skills running from boys who were bigger, stronger and more athletic than I – which was everyone. But not quite. “D” whose death notice I saw, was a fellow sufferer.
We nerds, or more properly - undersized, un-athletic, often called “sissies” were easily recognized. When baseball teams were being put together there were always three or four of us, the un-chosen ones, standing waiting to be “called.” We never were. Instead, the brawny (how brawny can you be at 10?) captains would agree – “You take those two – I’ll take the others two. Head for the daisies.:” That meant that we were consigned to the deepest reaches of the outfield where, if we were really lucky, no ball would be hit. (In fact one did get hit toward me. I reached for it and took a nasty crack on the tip of my finger, leaving me to this day with a left hand fourth finger whose first joint bends back alarmingly.)
Of course we were always the ones to be bullied, toyed with, teased, and tossed about like playthings by the “brawny” ones. My memories include such harmless pranks as being pushed into the boys’ washroom while we walked to a new class. There I was folded in half and plunked bottom-down into the large wire receptacles that held used paper towels. It meant that by the time I could extricate myself I was late for my next class and had to silently keep my mouth shut and mumble an excuse.
My father exhorted me to fight back. Hit somebody hard. I tried. They laughed. I was half their size, two years younger, and until I finally reached a delayed puberty, had the best soprano voice in the girl’s choir.
I remember the guys who consigned me to the outfield, who dumped my in trash baskets, and who whenever possible, showed me that I was physically inferior. My only weapons were speed, and if that failed – tears.
"D” had a better way to handle it. He laughed along with the bullies and pretended to enjoy being the target of their brawniness. By the time we were old enough to be cadets you would imagine the bullying would have stopped.(During the war all the boys were cadets who marched and drilled and target-shot with Lee Enfield rifles modified to handle .22 calibre shells.)We would, from time to time, take the streetcar to the Armouries at the CNE. I remember “D” being the laughing, isn’t-this-fun victim of the brawnies. They were at the back of the streetcar. Just as they were always the ones who sat at the back of the classroom where they could made kissing (suck) sounds when one of the nerds dared to put his hand up and answer a question. On the day I remember the brawnies (I can still name them) had taken “D”s trousers, opened the rear window, and tied them to the trolley wire where they blew in the wind. “D” laughed along with them, pretending to enjoy the prank. We all had our systems to survive.
What is so appalling to me is that the same kind of heirarchal order seems to persist among youth. They still deride the smaller ones. They are quick to demean with language like “faggot” or “retard.” The rulers still rule. The brawnies are still tough. Bullying is still their recreation.
It was not until my late teens that I realized I was not just a victim. I never knew one way or the other, but I hope “D’ escaped too. We never met during adult years so his passing didn’t so much sadden me as it did remind me of what some of us were – once.
Long before that word became common language – I was one. I grew up, (or failed to grow up) in a boy-society that honoured athleticism, size, and strength. My only claim to athleticism was that I was a very fast runner, having honed the skills running from boys who were bigger, stronger and more athletic than I – which was everyone. But not quite. “D” whose death notice I saw, was a fellow sufferer.
We nerds, or more properly - undersized, un-athletic, often called “sissies” were easily recognized. When baseball teams were being put together there were always three or four of us, the un-chosen ones, standing waiting to be “called.” We never were. Instead, the brawny (how brawny can you be at 10?) captains would agree – “You take those two – I’ll take the others two. Head for the daisies.:” That meant that we were consigned to the deepest reaches of the outfield where, if we were really lucky, no ball would be hit. (In fact one did get hit toward me. I reached for it and took a nasty crack on the tip of my finger, leaving me to this day with a left hand fourth finger whose first joint bends back alarmingly.)
Of course we were always the ones to be bullied, toyed with, teased, and tossed about like playthings by the “brawny” ones. My memories include such harmless pranks as being pushed into the boys’ washroom while we walked to a new class. There I was folded in half and plunked bottom-down into the large wire receptacles that held used paper towels. It meant that by the time I could extricate myself I was late for my next class and had to silently keep my mouth shut and mumble an excuse.
My father exhorted me to fight back. Hit somebody hard. I tried. They laughed. I was half their size, two years younger, and until I finally reached a delayed puberty, had the best soprano voice in the girl’s choir.
I remember the guys who consigned me to the outfield, who dumped my in trash baskets, and who whenever possible, showed me that I was physically inferior. My only weapons were speed, and if that failed – tears.
"D” had a better way to handle it. He laughed along with the bullies and pretended to enjoy being the target of their brawniness. By the time we were old enough to be cadets you would imagine the bullying would have stopped.(During the war all the boys were cadets who marched and drilled and target-shot with Lee Enfield rifles modified to handle .22 calibre shells.)We would, from time to time, take the streetcar to the Armouries at the CNE. I remember “D” being the laughing, isn’t-this-fun victim of the brawnies. They were at the back of the streetcar. Just as they were always the ones who sat at the back of the classroom where they could made kissing (suck) sounds when one of the nerds dared to put his hand up and answer a question. On the day I remember the brawnies (I can still name them) had taken “D”s trousers, opened the rear window, and tied them to the trolley wire where they blew in the wind. “D” laughed along with them, pretending to enjoy the prank. We all had our systems to survive.
What is so appalling to me is that the same kind of heirarchal order seems to persist among youth. They still deride the smaller ones. They are quick to demean with language like “faggot” or “retard.” The rulers still rule. The brawnies are still tough. Bullying is still their recreation.
It was not until my late teens that I realized I was not just a victim. I never knew one way or the other, but I hope “D’ escaped too. We never met during adult years so his passing didn’t so much sadden me as it did remind me of what some of us were – once.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)