We Are What We Do

Defining Yourself Can Be Dangerous

I’ve been thinking a lot about how in the current system, we are often defined by what we do and consume. I suppose this happened long before marketing and capitalism; the delightful little red-capped woodpecker that chirps in my yard is named the yellow-bellied sapsucker. One of the benefits of social media was seeing the workings of the marketing sausage factory, because FaceBook asks you up front, what music, movies, books, food, products, and activities you like, so it can create a profile of you and plaster your virtual skin with with brand logos, like you’re a NASCAR race car come to life.

The pugilist defined himself by what he did. It didn’t turn out well for him.

Ignoring Michael Pollan’s sound advice to be an omnivore and eat widely—mostly plants—we’ve been corralled into pens by marketers. Veganism isn’t a diet, but a lifestyle; palm oil is not considered vegan by many, because while it does not contain animal products, its harvesting is destroying the habitat of orangutans and other creatures to such a degree that it is impossible to consume it in an ethical manner. To me, this opens a big can of worms, because there’s a lot of farming going on that’s destructive; they won’t eat honey, but aren’t those same bees exploited to pollinate crops? And likewise, bacon became a religion to many young men on the internet, and many others define themselves as carnivores, grill-masters, or “paleo.” That last one would amuse neolithic archaeologists, as hunter-gatherers ate a lot of grains, apparently. (Ötzi the Iceman certainly did, and more about him later.)

When you live in a system, it is very difficult to escape it. You may not watch TV, but as Jules Winfield said, “Yeah, but you are aware that there is an invention called television and on this invention they show shows, right?” I didn’t watch TV shows during its new Golden Age for a long time, preferring to wait until a series was complete. (I’d been burned by Lost). I didn’t want to be part of it; TV shows are art, but when it comes down to it, they are there to sell ad space. The dancing box of Rinso detergent singing a jingle is not far away. But I still knew when something “big” happened, because I didn’t exile myself to the wilderness and talk only to squirrels.¹

We may try not to participate, we may try to make ethical decisions—and they do matter—but we are still in the system. Likewise, you can delete your FaceBook account, you can never sign up in the first place, but you have a profile if you’ve ever used the web, because FaceBook is inextricably part of the ecosystem, and now, so are you. For example, let’s say you want to not watch so much TV, and would rather go outside. Congratulations, you now have a “lifestyle.”²

This didn’t happen before. Ötzi the Iceman didn’t have a lifestyle. He may have been a sheep herder, but all we know is that he lived in the mountains, carried an expensive bronze axe, ate mostly plants and dried meat, and climbed up and down mountains a lot. If you have a moment, read the below post by Patrick Wyman; his podcast is one of the best, and his episodes on prehistory, with corresponding Substack posts, are a great way to picture our world before cities existed.

Ötzi, the Man in the Ice

We also know that Ötzi was shot in the back with an arrow, which was possibly retrieved, and yet his fancy bronze axe was left on his dying body. Maybe he lashed out at his killer with it when they yanked the arrow shaft from his back? It makes no sense to me. If he was abandoned there, he would have been looted. I think he was shot, and fled, fell down the crevasse, and his fall dislodged the arrow shaft. And it was too difficult to loot his body. Now, who killed him? I bet you’re imagining it was another man, or men. We’ve been raised to think that violence is somehow inherently male. A bow and arrow is tougher to use than a pistol, but the Amazon myth comes from the Scythians, whose archer cavalry included women and men. Maybe a woman plunked an arrow into Ötzi? We’ll never know. Or maybe it was some angry young man who didn’t like this well-traveled outsider.

A lot of young men are growing up without meaningful direction; they are struggling in school, not going to college, and not joining the workforce. In some ways this could be a good thing; we shouldn’t define ourselves by our productivity, our accomplishments. I used to think that was a good way to build self-confidence, but when you struggle and stop achieving, it can be devastating. Men commit suicide for all sorts of reasons, but very often it is linked to their performance as a provider, or at their jobs. My own father killed himself after he tore his rotator cuff and couldn’t work on construction anymore. So, raising boys to define their self-image by a profession may not be healthy, anyway.

I am not here with solutions. But I will say that it is difficult to talk about this, because men are supposed to be strong and not require help, even as we ask them to not be toxic, not worship strength, to speak their feelings, and to not fear weakness. The whole “masculinity so fragile” meme, mocking anyone who is trying but just not there yet—I dunno, maybe because we were humiliated instead of being given emotional coping mechanisms as children—is really tired. Now, I was bullied and I never shot up my school; this isn’t excuse for violence. But if we mock boys when they speak feelings other than anger, even if it’s particularly pleasant, we are teaching them something, and it is not good for anyone. And it’s feeding into toxic masculinity if we expect boys to fix themselves, when they are raised in the world we’ve created, with clashing expectations and shaming from adults. We’re telling boys to “man up.” And that’s no help at all.

It seems like everyone needs help out there. All genders. Back to the beginning of this meandering essay, maybe what’s most toxic is this embrace of a misreading of evolutionary theory that the rich call “social Darwinism” to justify their desire to starve the masses to death for their own benefit. How are you going to serve the investor class, child? Have you decided yet? Oh, you want to enjoy your life and have no profession that shapes you into a useful cog?

Here's a story that gives me some hope for boys and well, everybody. This begins with something quite common: a Michigander³ was delighted by a U of Michigan football game, not by the players, but by the band. He wrote them a letter and said he wanted to join. The thing is, he’s 9 years old. But they told him to practice and they’d be happy to see him try out. Their response brought tears of joy to his eyes. He started learning drums, and got a big surprise. Seeing a young boy cry tears of joy made me uncomfortable, at first. Now it nearly makes me cry along with him, happy for him.

And he’ll probably do fine as a member of a marching band. Maybe he won’t be driving a Cadillac, but he’ll be happy making others happy.

Other small joys:

The New Yorker had a great retrospective on the Zambian Space Agency, which was a great work of satire that white people still refuse to believe was a joke played on them. Read the article and tell me they weren’t making fun of the “first world,” then and now.

Bored in winter? Go looking for dinosaur fossils! This scientist found some in a D.C. parking lot. In New Jersey, Big Brook park has a wealth of shark teeth and tiny fish bones, including ones that fish used to crush shellfish in their throats, which are easily missed. I haven’t gone there to look for them yet. Maybe this spring?

And last but not least, some true crime enthusiasts want to exonerate Bruno Hauptmann, who was executed for the Lindbergh baby kidnapping that resulted in the child’s grisly death. Some have theories that Lindbergh himself killed the child because it wasn’t a Nazi ubermensch. I think that’s rather farfetched, but DNA testing could be worthwhile. It may not exonerate Hauptmann, but it could implicate others, or at least clear the waters around this tragic case.

One more last least from Lists of Note, by Shaun Usher. He of Letters of Note, which I learned about when he asked to feature my letter from Harlan Ellison. It didn’t make it into his book, which is a delight to read; he’s been curating correspondence for well over a decade now, and lists are also quite fascinating. This one is from teenage Nöel Coward, made with a dear friend Esmé Wynne, and evokes that fierce friendship that only youth seems to provide. It’s quite adorable, so I’ll leave you with it.

NO ONE, not even our Parents, may keep us from one another

1. I’m pretty sure the squirrels would have found out about Game of Thrones, and would not like the ending, either.

2. I’m reminded of a George Carlin routine, where he says, “Attila the Hun had an active, outdoor lifestyle.” I think it’s the same spiel where he says dog shit is “all natural.” I miss him a lot.

3. What’s good for the Michigoose…