| diwas k |
Posted
on 28-Oct-01 01:24 AM
Joe Wenderoth teaches English (creative writing) at Southwest State University in Minnesota.
Wenderoth's first two books of poems, Disfortune (1995) and It Is If I Speak (2000), are both from Wesleyan University Press . Shortline Editions published a chapbook, The Endearment (1999), and Letters To Wendy's, was published in the winter (2000) by Verse Press.(-lifted from www -dk)
The following piece appeared in the University newspaper on 9/27/01. It may be of interest to whoever cares to be interested.
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This trying not to tell the story
- By Joe Wenderoth
These last few days since the terrorist attack on the World Trade Centers and the Pentagon, I find myself thinking mostly of those unlucky passengers, for they have now experienced what is perhaps my worst nightmare. Though nothing in my own experience is comparable to what they suffered, I think I (and I think many of us, especially those of us who have a strong fear of heights, a strong fear of falling out of the sky) have a pretty keen sense of at least the kind of horror they had forced upon them, and forced upon them to the utmost. One naturally and rightly feels intense anger toward those who immerse others in such a horror. In this case, though, the anger, if we are honest about it, is difficult to hold on to—it seems immediately subsumed or transfigured by the strange muted grandiosity of the events. I say muted because those who have perpetrated the act have included themselves in the annihilation it achieved (quite unlike, for instance, a recent American terrorist, who was only annihilated later, after we had the opportunity to take in the full pathetic sweep of his life’s tantrum and its resulting "ideas," and also quite unlike those who merely recruit, train, and nurture the insecure with this or that religious "fundamentalism"—the Crusade, for instance, of these skyjackers). I say grandiosity because the annihilating moment, in this case, is so awesome (awe-full) and fills our senses with such a keen appreciation of the massively destructive forces of reality (speed, steel, gravity), it is hard to retain the sense that it is a small group of men who are "doing" it. That is, that last and definitive moment seems to assert a cause that is bigger—more elemental—than any group of merely mortal men. This is similar to the climax of a Greek tragedy, wherein the tragic hero discovers that it was pure vanity on his part to think that he could have been the decider of his or of anyone else’s fate. In that humbling moment, in the assertion of that inhuman (and indifferent) cause, we are distracted from our ordinary dream—that dream in which we feel we could possibly grasp the myriad causes of the myriad intentions that produce the myriad conditions of our lives.
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| diwas k |
Posted
on 28-Oct-01 01:29 AM
Joe Wenderoth ...
...contd)
My point here is really fairly simple. Indeed, its simplicity is what causes it to be so routinely overlooked. My point is this: in any tragedy, there is a victim (or victims) and there is a victimizer. It follows, then, that we have two opportunities: we could try to understand how the victim(s) felt, and/or we could try to understand how the victimizer(s) felt. If the victimizer is, as Greek tragedy suggests, always something bigger than—something more fundamental than—mere men (i.e. Pride, Fury, Blindness to mortal Fate, etc…), then we cannot identify with it—we can only hope to learn about it and thereby more gracefully submit ourselves to the basic conditions of existence it implies. As for the victims—we have an easier time imagining how they must experience the terrible thing that compels their fame. We feel, as Aristotle understood, true pity for their misfortune, and true fear because their misfortune, in essence, is somehow bound to be ours. Put another way, we connect with the victims because they are, in essence and at bottom, what we are.
And this, I think, is where our "national reaction" has gone sadly awry. I mean the flags and the patriotic songs and all that. Do we honestly imagine that "evil" and/or "madness" are really able to compete with nationalism and/or religion (especially fundamentalist religion) in the production of war? A half-glance at any competent history book would dispel this notion quickly. But more to the point, if any one of us imagines him or herself on that plane, or in that stairwell, or anywhere in that tragedy—that is, if we sympathize with the actual victims in this incident—we cannot help but understand that the significant emotions that were felt in those moments were not American emotions. Not in the slightest. No, they were human emotions. When falling out of the sky, when burning or choking to death, a human being enters into a kind of experience that "nationality" cannot be relevant to. Indonesian or French passengers fall out of the sky with exactly the same sort of terrible fear as Americans do. Yes, this tragedy did occur in American air-space, with mostly American victims, and at decidedly American landmarks (symbols of American wealth and power), and so it is bound to concern us the most and to bring us closer together in our grief and our worry over the future we might be facing. One cannot help but feel, however, that the majority of the flag-waving is not concerned with "our" coming together as much as it is concerned with "our" distinguishing ourselves from "them," whoever "they" may turn out to be. This distinction between "us" and "them"—between American humans and humans from other countries—is a distinction that, in certain more superficial situations, needs to be made. But not in this situation. In this case, and in any tragedy, it is a distinction that demonstrates a bizarre insistence on defining the victims in much more superficial terms than they deserve. Moreover, it is precisely this kind of sentiment—and the policy it has developed—that have caused "us" to become a sadly isolated sort—the sort who feel, increasingly, entitled to be oblivious to the humanity of human beings who are not us. Ask the average American to describe world affairs, or the impact of U.S. policy in world affairs, and you will see what I mean.
Such an entitlement, if exercised with enough vigor, will no doubt produce enemies. It has. This brings us to the specific criminals in this case—criminals who, quite obviously, hated America (us?) enough to give their lives for a chance to unleash a hellish spectacle upon it (and us). These men, the men who actually did this—actually boarded the planes and guided them to their destruction—these men are gone now. They were ash the moment they accomplished what they accomplished (and contrary to inexplicable presidential rhetoric, their act is an act that will stand, insofar as any act will stand—ask the families of the victims). Likewise, the victims, the men and women who boarded the planes and were forcibly immersed in the horror I have (inadequately) described above, are gone—they were ash in the very same moment. And we will never know the story of their interaction with one another, or of their concepts of national or religious identity; that story, those concepts, never spoken and never to be spoken, are also lost to us, less even than the ash of what had tentatively held them. The story that’s left to us can barely be called a story; it is too short, too devoid of complication. Its significance does not come from those who were there; its significance comes from those who were not there. In a tragedy, it is always those who were not there who are left to conjure the real story. And the real story, without a doubt, is simply this: they rose up with confidence; in mid-air, something terrible happened; they plunged, without words, into sure and complete obliteration. Yes, without words. It’s only us, in the afterwards, who have the words. Look at us. We sit with them day and night and we try not to tell the story.
- Joe Wenderoth
Assistant Professor of English
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