a simple man

New Reality

My name is Phil, and I live with depression.

When I began my recovery from the black world of depression I did not know that recovery was even possible. I doubted that my daily experience could ever change. In a way, I didn’t want it to. I did not want to get better. My life, and my everyday occurrences had been organized around my depression. I knew what to expect, how to react, and was comfortable in my environment. None of this means I was happy, but when you know misery, or emptiness, it is amazing how familiar and ordinary that can be.

I am currently re-watching one of my favorite television shows, House MD. Dr. Gregory House has a pain problem, and as an extension of that, a pain medication problem: he is addicted to Vicodin. Throughout all of the 8 seasons, but primarily in the first three, House’s narcotic addiction is a constant source of trouble, discussion, and explanation. Is he an addict? Should he stop taking Vicodin? How does it affect him? Does he need it? The show makes a pretty strong case for the physical pain House endures, but never really indicates exactly how much of House is drugs, or just personality. Either way, House refuses to change anything. He admits he takes too much Vicodin regularly, but the bottom is line is that ever since his infarction, he has defined his life by his pain and his relief of that pain. He recognizes that it isn’t a perfect situation, and abusing the narcotics or not, he isn’t happy. Rehab and physical therapy is a door to a healthier life, but House cannot (or will not) do the work to change. He is comfortable in his misery. I was Dr. House: comfortable in my misery.

But, as I have written about, I sought and found change. It took me over a year and a half of daily work and weekly meetings with my therapist, but by all accounts I have emerged from my depression. Medication and a fundamental shift in how I think about the world has brought me into the light. Then, about two months ago, my life altered significantly, nearly destroying all the progress I have made. I’ve been waiting for my newfound clarity to fog up, for my positive equilibrium to shift negatively. For all the lights to go out. But they haven’t. My recovery is solid. I have found a new reality, and fortunately reality rarely changes. Circumstances change, people come and go, growth and learning take place, but reality is constant. Mostly. I was born and lived under a certain reality. Somewhere around middle school my reality changed into depression. Last year, my reality changed again, out of depression, and into this newness of life I have been enjoying.

And all of that was threatened.

My wife left me. Legally, we are still married, but when she packs all her things, moves nearly 4500 miles east and eight hours into the future, the marriage is pretty much over. I could have gone with her, but following a spouse who is leaving the marriage seemed like the wrong thing to do. Our life, everything we had built over three and half years of marriage was here. Our life was not across an ocean and in a different world. The leaving happened abruptly. I was not ready: physically emotionally mentally psychologically. I had barely emerged from my darkness, and my wife grabbed her opportunity to seize her dreams and leave me behind. I scrambled madly, if only to ensure my own survival. Every plan, every expectation I had for my recovery had to be scrapped, or at best, reworked. Suddenly, I had to find a job. That I was not really ready for a job was beside the point: if I wanted housing and food, I needed employment. I needed companionship most of all, but fortunately I had already adopted a dog. In lieu of a wife, my puppy was all I could count on. At the last minute, I got a job. In between begging my wife to stay, trying to rationalize the sudden end of a marriage, and keeping up appearances for family and friends, I nearly imploded. Once or twice I got close.

Hannah flew away on May the 11th, 2013. We were married on January the 3rd, 2010. My marriage lasted 1,225 days. The fiction we tell friends and family is that this is merely a separation, a time to reevaluate who we are and what we want. The truth is we are never going to be anything other than friends.

Today I vacuumed the apartment, washed dishes, dusted, and tidied up the place. I cleaned the bathroom, changed towels on the racks and sheets on the bed. I swept floors. I had done none of these things since Hannah left. I know, gross to normal people, normal to depressed people. All this time, a little over a month, two things were constant in my head. One, I was not entirely certain I was not going to implode. I felt weak, devastated, lost, unsure of who I was, or what I should do with myself. I’ve been unusually depressed, angry, and numb. Two, I wasn’t convinced that it really was over. I thought Hannah would see the error of her ways and come back. I thought she needed this marriage, or me, or something bad enough to realize her mistake and return to start healing. She didn’t. If anything, she seems to be blossoming and growing in ways she and I never thought she could. She is better off where she is. Without me. And that was something I did not want to admit. Could not realize. Was too painful to face. I did not think I would survive, and everything around me was put on hold until I knew which way the world would fall. Why bother washing dishes if you are going to collapse into a dark depression? Losing a wife and facing a cold, scary world in the space of about a week and a half was about the hardest trial I could have endured (short of a close friend or family member dying at the same time). The surprise is that nothing fell. I covered my head and dove for cover, but the bomb was a dud.

I’ve been sick for several weeks now. General cold symptoms mixed with body aches and pains and psychological turmoil to create a vicious sinus infection and exhaustion. Middle of last week I stopped in my tracks, unable to go on. I could not work, I could not eat, I could barely sleep, and only then with a combination of drugs. But, this time I knew what to do: I got help. This time, mostly medical. A doctor checked me out, prescribed rest and antibiotics. I got both. This morning I woke feeling better than I have in a long time, physically and emotionally, and I knew what I had to do: embrace my new reality.

No wife was going to come back to nurse me to health or help with life. All I had was myself. And though I could scarcely believe it, I was strong enough to meet that challenge. I cleaned up my apartment. I washed my dirty dishes. I vacuumed my dirty floors. I dusted and swept. I made my environment livable again. Neither my depression nor my mangled personal life could hold me back.

My new reality, my restructured life is not fantasy, a cruel joke, or a drug induced dream. It is real. I can face what life can bring, and I can endure. I can rise above. Just me and my dog, my cute little Cordy.

I can live.

Batman and Psychology (2012) by Dr. Travis Langley

“Madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is a little push.” – the Joker, The Dark Knight

Batman is one year removed from his 75th anniversary (as of 2013). First glimpsed in the shadows of 1939, Bruce Wayne’s alter ego is arguably the second most well know “super” hero, second only to his DC Comics colleague Superman. He is ubiquitous. Batman is as popular as Star Wars, as multi-generational as rock and roll, and as intricate as quantum physics. First appearing in comic books, Batman has stalked through newspaper strips, novels, television shows, movies, video games, and he even guest starred on one of Superman’s radio shows. What accounts for this incredible longevity and popularity? Probably the fact that Batman is no super hero. He is as human as any of us, he is unaltered by any fantastical phenomenon or alien technology. Unlike his Marvel counterpart, Iron Man, Batman does not rely on any implanted technology. Where Tony Stark achieves his crime fighting skills through a combination of dash and design, Bruce Wayne endures by way of discipline and hard work. Both men are multi-billionaires, both are geniuses, both wear elaborate suits, but where Tony fails to match Batman is in Batman’s sheer determination. Ultimately, Iron Man is unreachable. It would be impossible to recreate Tony Stark’s suit of armor, based as it is on fictional science technologies. Batman, however, remains within the grasp of any one of us. Given enough money, and the requisite stamina, anybody could become Batman. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. And, where Tony Stark suffers from a medical condition that makes most of his tech necessary, regardless of its applications, Bruce Wayne suffers from grief and chooses freely to be Batman.

Given nearly 75 years of history and development, Batman, while fictional, is as fascinating as any living, breathing human being. Batman is an avatar of the human condition. Despite the seemingly outlandish nature of his universe, ultimately the character is as grounded in reality as anyone. Struggling with pain, loss, and anger and fighting madness and the darker impulses Batman catwalks across the night, riddling out the bad jokes of life and death. Obstacles that are the bane of happiness are foes to be crushed by a hero. Investigating the bat-detective, then, yields clues to our own psyches.

Fortunately, an actual student of the human condition has delved into the bat cave and emerged with a few answers and observations. Dr. Travis Langley, tenured professor of psychology at Henderson State University, is a bit of a nerd. Having been fascinated by the Batman his whole life, he recently published the only psychological exploration of the character that exists today: Batman and Psychology: A Dark and Stormy Knight. Fittingly, Langley is known as a superherologist*, one who studies super heroes.

Batman and Psychology is divided into several sections. The person, the suit, the symbolism, the environment, and the associations of the Batman are all examined in detail, and set against the criminals that oppose him and the world the defines him, and all pass under the microscope of real life, modern psychology. Langley begins by discussing the historical Batman, and narrowing down all the different iterations and manifestations of the character, who, after all, comes from a comic book world in which death and life are fluid concepts, as is the nature of the multiverse itself. The great benefit of studying a character that has been around so long is that the student can take both a longitudinal and a cross-sectional approach. Usually when Langley refers to “The Batman” he means the 75 year old character, the most concrete and unchanging person that is Batman. After all, whether he is back from the dead, back from an alternate earth, or freshly rebooted, some things about Batman never change. But, Langley also often zooms right into a very particular instance, a very exact moment in Bat-time to examine a revelation or to make an observation, whether it is Adam West’s lampooned Batman, Christian Bale’s ultra-realistic Batman, or some comic book version. The juxtaposition of the two research techniques allows Langley, and the reader of his book, to compare and contrast yielding a multi-faceted view of an incredibly complex individual.

After establishing a few parameters and definitions, Langley subsequently evaluates the trauma (the death of Bruce Wayne’s parents, a constant of the Bat-narrative) and the persona (arguably, the defining characteristic: the Bat of the Man). This comprises most of Langley’s focus, and rightfully so, it is the heart of the character. Bruce Wayne endured one of the most horrific tragedies that a person can experience, and made a rather extreme choice that most people do not make. Why is the premier question, and answering it yields the most tantalizing information.

Following from that, Dr. Langley briefly discusses the nature of evil, that is, crime and punishment in Gotham City. Here most of the psychology is brought to bear as various psychological disorders, conditions, and issues are defined and debated as they relate both to Batman and his rogues gallery. This is the technical part of the book, full of the multi-syllabic terms one expects from a doctor of psychology.

Batman is not an island, and he must be viewed in his familial context: his surrogate sons (Robin and other sidekicks), his female associations (most notably: Catwoman), and his surrogate fathers (Alfred, among others). Human beings are social creatures and our company says as much about us as does our actions or appearance. No analysis of a person would be complete without such consideration, and that analysis Langley provides.

Dr. Langley does offer a Bat-diagnosis of sorts at the end of his book, concluding that Batman is most definitely not deranged, even if he is a little “crazy”. I mean, even Bruce Wayne would agree that “a man who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues” however, those issues are not really any different that those which affect ordinary people. Bruce’s issues are perhaps more magnified than most, but what do you expect from a guy who lives in a comic book?

I found Batman and Psychology very rewarding, in both scope and psychology. While I am not any sort of acolyte into the profession, I am a student of humanity and quite interested in the psychological field. I must say, however, that while the technical parts of the book aren’t incomprehensible, they could be confusing. [Author’s note: I don’t know if that constitutes a flaw with the book, or with the educational system of America. I have studied more psychology than the average Jane, so I don’t really know how someone with limited familiarity with psychological concepts would grasp the psychology presented.] I was also satiated with the banquet that Langley cooked up, in terms of the villains that he referenced and the many, many aspects of the Bat-universe that he referenced. Despite that, I occasionally felt like I was reading two separate books: one about Batman, and one about his antagonists. No book about Batman would be complete without at least talking about his number one adversary, the Joker, but I felt that a companion book that was focused on the rogues would have been better suited to an analyzation of their psychology and humanity. What was provided was simultaneously enough to make the point and not enough to do justice to the various characters. Granted, the Joker could be a series of books, but I felt he deserved a little more than he got, even in a book primarily about Batman. [Author’s note: I use the Joker here only as an example: he may be primary, but Batman’s other villains are just as convoluted.]

Batman and Psychology: A Dark and Stormy Knight is a fantastic read, and a great dissertation on a popular superhero, and I fervently hope that Dr. Travis Langley doesn’t stop here. There is much more to be said about the world of Gotham, and the worlds of Metropolis and the greater comic book multiverse. Hopefully a “Superman and Psychology” is coming soon, because if there is another guy with serious daddy/abandonment issues, it’s Clark Kent.

*You can follow Dr. Langley on twitter as the @Superherologist. [Author’s Note: Dr. Langley is my boss. This review was neither asked nor paid for by Dr. Langley. My reviews and opinions are entirely my own, and cannot be influenced by anyone.]

Stress: the Little Mind Killer

I haven’t written about my depression for a while, mostly because for a while I was feeling pretty good and felt like I was finally getting a hold on this slippery thing called life. I won’t say I was wrong about that. I now have a job, a dog, and I don’t spend my days staring at walls like I used to.

But life has a way of sending us down roads we never knew existed. Things transpire in life and relationships that we never could have predicted, setting us up for decisions we never thought we would have to make. I’m being vague here because there are some things that are very real and large in my life that I am not quite ready to address publicly. Hell, I don’t even want to address them in my own mind.

I recently made a trip to see my doctor. I’ve been forgetting things lately, but it is less like memory loss and more like aphasia, where you search for a word but can’t find it. I can’t remember the names of everyday objects, and am forced to describe what it is I am trying to say. “You know, that thing you use for eating…it is metal, and has pointy things on the end, you stab with it…” “A fork?” “Yes, that’s it! Can you grab me a fork please?” No, that isn’t an example. That happened. I also forget things that I know I know, facts and details I would never forget. I don’t have a brain tumor or dementia and I’m not on medication that could do this.

Stress is making me lose my mind.

Stress is a constant companion to depression. When I was in my darkest places, stress was pulling the trigger on the gun labeled depression. I didn’t stare at walls and fail to engage with the world through fear or doubt or lack of imagination. It was the stress that each situation presented that kept me powerless and weak. A trip to the grocery store to purchase food became all about how I would walk, how I would pass people in the aisles, what I would say to the cashier. The stress of how to handle each situation mounted until the easiest way to remain calm was to remain at home. I’ve made a career out of avoiding stress.

Now that I have a handle on my past, and have dealt with some of the overwhelming sources of stress in my life, I can now go to the grocery store with little problem (most days). But what they don’t tell you is that knocking down the giants that surround you only allows you to face the demons you couldn’t see.

So, back to the vague things and the stress that is making me lose my mind. After talking with me for a bit, and a consultation, my doctor told me that I am stressed. Stress (barring the appearance of physical symptoms) is what is making me unable to think, to remember, or to recall that a fork is a fork.

Yesterday, I had a meltdown. My stress caused me to regress backwards into black depression, with the accompanying rage and malice. The one clear, rational thought I had was to put my new puppy in her crate so that, if the worst should happen, she wouldn’t be in danger. I would never, in a million years, willingly or consciously hurt an innocent animal, but depression has a way of making a million years a nanosecond under the right conditions. (No, I didn’t hurt her, but she was very sad at being crated for most of the morning while I inexplicably, to her, was only a few feet away, seemingly asleep.) I called into my therapist and left a message for her to contact me. I was barely able to focus the words over the phone, but I knew I needed something extra to get me through the morning. By noon she called back and we talked through what was eating at my brain. “Phil,” she said, “this is normal. I would have worried if you didn’t have some sort of freakout episode.” She proceeded to calmly guide me into a few healthy behaviors and coping strategies. We will have a real meeting soon. After that, I felt a bit better, and I played with my dog for almost an hour (understandably, she had quite a bit of pent up energy).

I still have no idea what to do about what is facing me, what is clawing at my mind. I’ve moved beyond shopping for cookies and milk to larger life issues that were unavailable for processing when I was trapped in dark depression. Now, I have no choice. They stand before me and I have no recourse but to face them, somehow. I cannot go back. Retreat ends in darkness and death, non-metaphorically speaking. But the stress of how to handle what I must handle is luring me back into depression. Things I once enjoyed, I stare at listlessly. I barely eat. I take my dog for short walks. I can’t sleep (which is why, as I type this, it is nearly 0400).

For most people, stress is what makes a hard day hard, a challenging week challenging, or a situation unpleasant. For those of us among the depressed, stress is the little thing obliterating our mind.

Right now, I don’t know what to do except to return to bed and try to sleep. Short term, I need to work as hard as I can for solutions and a way to move beyond stress, because no one can live under this much stress and tell the tale for very long.

That I am able to articulate all this is a measure of how far I’ve come. I hope through this you understand a little bit what dealing with depression is all about. It isn’t the momentary blues most people talk about: it is a constant life battle.

Tears of a Lost Sheep

“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?” Luke 15, the Bible

“I’m the sheep that got lost, Madre.” – Creasy, Man on Fire

“Then in my heart it becomes like a burning fire, shut up in my bones; I am weary of holding it in, and I cannot endure it.” Jeremiah 20:9, the Bible

Sometimes I hate being me. Specifically, I’m a writer. This is not something I chose, that I ever wanted to be, that I ever looked for in my life. I wanted to play baseball. But, I’d have been a writer anyway. I can’t help it. I went to school, I’ve developed and honed my skill at writing. But no matter what I cannot stop. Things burn in my brain, and wind their way round and round my cranium, shouting at me. I can’t quiet them, I can’t shut them up, and I can’t ignore them for long. They must be let out.

So I write.

I say this to apologize for what I am about to say. It isn’t completely fair or nice, but I can no longer hold it in. I do not claim to be right, or without blame, but this is what I cannot keep silent about.

Ever since a madman walked into a school and murdered children, I haven’t been quite right. I tried to make sense of a senseless act. What kind of person, disturbed or otherwise, misconstrues a threat out of something completely harmless? Even animals tend not to attack when they are not threatened, or in need. But madness happens.

And then, as always happens, the murdering psycho is endlessly discussed, and analyzed, and researched. And then, before that is finished, the debate turns, as it should, to us, the survivors, we who stood by, even if we were given no choice, and watched it happen. What could we have done? we ask ourselves. How could we have stopped this? we wonder. Why could we not save our children? These questions burn most intensely in the minds of those who lost their sons, their daughters, their sisters, their brothers, their friends. Even people like me, who live hundreds of miles away and will never meet anyone associated with this tragedy can’t help but ask the questions. After all, my niece attends school. My sister visits movie theaters. My mother walks down the street.

Finally, the discussion gets muted into something political. The rage and the sadness turns societal. We blame, we turn on each other, we shout, and everyone concocts their own foolproof plan and clamors for it to be heard. This is only natural. We want to do something. Every single moment of every single day, people die. Right now, as I type, people are dying. Why don’t I feel outrage, sadness, why don’t I call for something to be done?

First, I accept it as a natural part of life. The human condition: 100% fatal in every single verifiable case. Second, it isn’t being thrust into my face. Most days, I don’t see death. I don’t feel it. I live in the false comfort that it has slunk off into the night and won’t come back. Until it does.

Then I want to beat it back into the night.

All of this is completely natural.

In a way, we are all still dealing with our grief. Our personal grief, our social grief, our national grief, our human grief. Therefore, I don’t condemn. I don’t blame, and I don’t seek to pass judgment. A person in pain, a person in mourning is not accountable for the outpouring of grief. They can’t be. It isn’t like they can stop it. Emotion is real, emotion is overwhelming, and emotion is valid.

What comes after the emotion, the grief, and the time to mourn the dead is the part I want to address. No, the part that I can’t help but address. I wish I could stop typing, but it isn’t that easy. Be angry at me if you must.

I lost my faith. I once was a Christian, walking down the straight and narrow path towards heaven, following in the footsteps of Christ. That is no longer my reality. I don’t necessarily live or act any different than I did, but I am less certain about truths I once held dear. And that is my cross to bear, my own particular road to hell if I am wrong and my childhood was right and if it is about right and wrong and not about something else. So don’t make the mistake of believing that I don’t know what I am saying or that I didn’t once believe as you might right now.

One thing that I began to see, and read, and hear much of in the wake of our dear children’s death was shouting about gun control. I’ve heard it my whole life. Ever since Columbine. That doesn’t surprise or bother me. If someone gets bitten by a dog, it is the dog that suffers, regardless of any circumstance, though that is hardly a fair metaphor. But I don’t hold guns responsible for acts of violence done by them. A gun is just an object in space, without will or desire. A gun never can or will act on its own.

Humans act. All to often: using guns.

And in this debate, I hear people talking about banning guns. About keeping guns. About hammers, cars, baseball bats, and Amendments to the Constitution of the United States of America.

I hear Christians shouting that we should be allowed to “keep and bear arms”. That I can no longer abide. It burns me up and sets my heart on fire. I weep, and I wail, and there is no one to listen.

WHY? Did not Jesus himself, in the face of angry mob which had gathered to murder him, say to the man defending him with a sword “whosoever lives by the sword shall die by the sword?” I have seen, my whole life, a country and a people that lives and dies by the sword. It is, without sarcasm or ridicule, the American Way. A cursory study of the history of America proves that we won our independence with guns, we shred our nation apart with guns, we lost millions in European wars by guns, we stopped Hitler with guns, we fought a pointless and for too long conflict in Vietnam because we could not put our guns aside, and not so very long ago a man with a gun ended the lives of innocent children. We are living and dying by the sword.

To anyone who names themself Christian, and yet calls for continued existence and ownership of guns: how can you? Are we not to live by faith, by love, peaceably with all men? Do you imagine that the only reason Christ refused to fight back in the garden was because he was destined to die? Do you think that if God Himself came to live among us for no particular reason at all, he would have fought for his life?

The cowardly and despicable National Rifle Association has said that “the only thing that stops a bad man with a gun is a good man with a gun”. What utter folly. What sheer, willful stupidity. Have we forgotten Tiananmen Square? Have we forgotten that a man, a man whose name we do not even know, stopped a battalion of tanks with nothing but his body. Actually, his hands were full. But not of guns. Of shopping bags. A gun is far from the only thing that will stop a bad man. In fact, in most cases I know of, guns actually prove fairly ineffective at stopping bad things. Guns are nowhere near the best way to stop a bad man.

Love. Understanding. Respect. A determination to stop at nothing to avoid violence. These are the things that will stop bad men. I am not some hippy, nor a person who is naive. I know that not every madman can be reasoned with, can be hugged into inaction, or can be understood. But I do know that trying is the first, best thing.

By clamoring for your right to own a gun, to bear a gun, you are demonstrating a general refusal to believe an alternative exists. “My gun will protect me” is the most foolish lie I’ve ever heard someone believe. “My gun will make us safe” is an insidious lie I am sick of hearing. Our insistence on arming ourselves is what is killing us. Our guns are what are killing us. Guns were designed and ever intended to do one thing and one thing only: kill. Guns were not designed to kill animals. We were killing animals just fine. What we couldn’t do was penetrate armor. Animals don’t wear armor. People do. Wearing armor, generally, gives a person a better chance at surviving combat. A gun makes most armor ineffective. Guns were devised to kill people. That is their only reason for being created and existing.

Christian, how can you say that a gun is something you must be allowed to own, and bear? It may be American, but it is not Christian.

Jesus died to prove that death is the best final resort in the face of unreasonable violence. Love your enemy so completely that you let them kill you if they must.

I’m sorry. I no longer have the proper credentials to say this to many who call themselves Christians and expect to be heard. For the rest us who don’t identify with an ancient Jew, let me say that love is still the best option. You don’t have to believe the Bible to know that, because I know that, and there is much about the Bible I find hard to believe. I am not perfect, I do not have many facts, nor do I have a loud, persuasive voice.

But I do have a voice. And as an American, there is a First Amendment which gives me the right to use my voice. I chose to use my voice in place of a gun. I will always believe that a voice, a word, is the most powerful force in the universe. Does not even the Bible teach us the power of the Word of God? Words can be used to stop a madman from ever getting to the point of violence. Words can be used to stop armies from deploying for battle. Words can stop bad things from happening. And even if that is for one more moment, one more hour, one more day, is that not worth the salvation of blood? How cowardly must you be to weary of talking, of hearing another talk, so that you seek the most effective means of silencing their voice forever? Is not murder the ultimate violation of America’s First Amendment.

Also, seeing as how I am allowed to speak up, and I can’t keep quiet, though I wish desperately I could and avoid the inevitable arguments or counterpoints that may follow, I simply refuse to remain silent. To that end, you are certainly welcome to disagree. I am not hypocritical. You are allowed to speak. I am allowed to think you are wrong. Use your words. As God once said, “come now, let us reason together”.

Let us reason that an object which exists only to kill, unlike a baseball bat, is a bad thing, and the worst option for conflict resolution.

Right now, I feel pain every single time a person who claims to follow the Prince of Peace calls oh so loudly for a weapon of destruction to be theirs. This is part of why I lost my way. I couldn’t reconcile a lifestyle with what I knew to be true, or what an ancient book seemed to say in other parts of it that aren’t so nice. For all I know, Jesus was a rebel against God Himself, a God who calls ancient Israel’s King David, a mass butcherer, a man after his own heart. I didn’t know, I still don’t know, and so I stepped away to be true to what I did know. I lost my own way to better follow my conscience.

I’ve said what I had to say. I apologize it took so long. If you made it this far, thanks for listening.

Perhaps now I can rest. I so long for rest. And Peace.

On Gender Inequality in Modern Myths

I am not a scholar of myth, ancient – modern – or in between, nor am I a professional historian, sociologist, or qualified authority on gender. What I am is a keen observer of people and things.

The world is changing.

In my lifetime, I have seen the rapid empowerment of women in my society go from a backswell to a prominent and unignorable fact. In like manner, I have seen the treatment of women in popular culture change radically. When I was a kid, there wasn’t much being said about the lack of female roles, or the lack of gender diversity. Today: it is sneaking in everywhere. And I am not that old.

This battle for gender equality in life and fiction started long before me, though I hope desperately that it may grind itself to a halt in my lifetime. I will be grieved indeed if it does not.

However, my own thinking in this area has undergone change, and sadly I confess that I am not completely there. But lately a few things have caught my attention and have turned the lights on for me. I want to discuss the portrayal of females in popular culture, as well as their roles in popular culture. By portrayal I mean: what they look like. By role I mean: what they do.

Portrayal. It is the stereotype, and still the dominant way of displaying a female within pop culture, as an icon of beauty, of sex, and little else. Personally speaking, I sexually prefer women, and I think the female body is powerfully beautiful in all shapes and sizes. Therefore, for me, it is very hard to separate my personal enjoyment of the female body and the effect that has on my perception of women. Generally speaking, when one objectifies something, it becomes more difficult to see that something for what it really is. When one gets into the habit of recognizing women only for their sex appeal, one has trouble seeing them as people. (I only use women here in this context, because, like I said, I am a person who sexually prefers women. That’s how I understand this paradigm best. I works for men who prefer men, men who prefer women, etc.)

To analogize a bit, I’ll put this in other terms that I am also quite familiar with. I use, and am quite a fan of, Apple products. That is iPhones, iMacs, iPads, iPods ad nauseum. I tend to objectify them, if I am not careful, and hold them up as exemplars of modern technological engineering. In certain cases, Apple has made some fantastic products. Some of them are quite good. But I can tend to see them as objects of beauty rather than what they are: a phone, a computer, a music player, a tablet, and really, when you get down to it, no better at their job than anything any other company makes. In this modern era what any piece of technology is able to do is pretty amazing. My point is that I see my iPod as a gorgeous object for something which merely allows me to experience my music.

Yes, I just compared beautiful women to iPods. I apologize. Please don’t send me hate mail or refuse to have sex with me (simply because of that). I only try to wake up the mind to what I am realizing: women are so much more than just a hot body. They are people, precious souls, and irreplaceable members of human society and advancement.

Consider this picture, a recent comic book cover:

This is the brand new, Issue #0 reboot of DC Comics’ Wonder Woman from last year, 2012. It tells me three things, visually. One: Wonder Woman has massive breasts. Two: she has a thing for chrome. Three: she can fly? To be clear, that is exactly what I am supposed to notice and in that order. When I first see the comic book, I won’t have time or capacity to read the title. There, staring me in the face, are breasts. Then I see other things, then I read “Wonder Woman” and go “well, yeah”. This is wrong. Wrong. I shouldn’t need to have a massive pair of mammaries thrust in my face for me to be interested in a comic book about a woman. What isn’t wrong is that she is beautiful. That is all well and good. But beauty is skin deep, culturally defined, and transient. What is really important about Wonder Woman? She fights for truth, justice, and gender equality. Her magic lasso makes it impossible for anyone ensnared in it to tell a lie. Wonder Woman fights crime. Wonder Woman, being a powerful woman herself, is very committed to making sure every woman is given respectful treatment. So why show her boobs first?

I’ve been aware of images like that my whole life. It didn’t really bother me or make a dent in my brain until very recently. Sure, I had an intellectual understanding that such comic book covers objectified women and that it was wrong, but it didn’t mean anything to me until this week when I saw another image. This is entitled Miss America and comes from Fan Art Exhibit.

This is a digital manipulation of a shot of Captain America from the recent Avengers film. Obviously the creator has merged a female body with that of Steve Rogers to give us Miss America. I noticed two things about this picture. One, she has a bare midriff. I have no idea why she also doesn’t have a low cut top and copious cleavage as that seems more standard for female superheroes, but she does have a bare midriff, which is Item No. 2 on the “Make Her Look Uber Sexy” checklist comic book artists apparently have. This is the image that lent a machete to my intellectual thicket. Why the hell would a soldier wear body armor of any type that leaves such a vital (to life) area of the body completely exposed. This makes no sense whatsoever. The “sexy for sexy sake” did not pass the “it makes sense” test for my brain and I short circuited. I could almost buy a super hero like Wonder Woman wearing less than a bathing suit because, usually, she has a Superman level of invincibility. Therefore, armor is irrelevant (even if her wardrobe makes no sense for other reasons). But a genetically enhanced super soldier leaving the gut exposed? No way. And two, why is she called “Miss America”? The artist named her so, but why not Captain America? Captain is a rank and is gender neutral. And then the lights flashed on and I went “Ooooh.”

Don’t judge me too harshly, please. My point here is that society my entire life has been feeding me this idea of women and it is hard to break. By the way, I do want to point out that men have it no better, but it is less kosher to point it out, mostly because, as a society, men still have a majority of the power and influence so it is boorish to whine. But, do walk through a comic shop sometime and see if you can find a realistic looking man on the cover of anything. Go ahead, I dare you. I could not look like Captain America as he usually looks any more than any girl could hope to look like Wonder Woman.

Role. Most women in popular culture are eye candy, the damsel in distress, or non-existent. They exist to look pretty, to be rescued so the man looks heroic, or they simply aren’t there. I really, really enjoy the Lord of the Rings, both in book and film form. Do you know how many females there are in the main cast, in the Fellowship of the Ring? 0. Nine males. How about the Hobbit, how many women in the main group? Yeah, 0 again. There are 13 male dwarves, a male hobbit, and a male wizard. Even in Star Wars the ratio is still 5 to 1. (Han, Luke, Chewie, R2, C-3P0 to Leia). And what does Leia do in the first film? Gets captured by men and gets rescued my men. In the Empire Strikes Back? Gets rescued by men. In Return of the Jedi? Tries to rescue a man, gets punished by way of brass bikini, gets rescued my men and male ewoks. I love Star Wars, but it has a gender equality problem. Only recently, and very slowly, has this changed. Even the mighty Joss Whedon, who elevated women so spectacularly in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, was shackled when he made Avengers because, yep, women were outnumbered on the super hero team 5 to 1. But Joss did what he could and made that one woman one of the most important and smartest of them all. Men break things, men fix things, men are the heroes. That is the message I’ve heard my whole life. And not only does it not make sense, it is stupid, and ignores completely the role women have wrested for themselves at great cost. Even in our long, patriarchal history there were women who did great things and stood high above men, but mostly they are ignored or marginalized. For shame.

How did this happen? That is a very long discussion. But, I blame two things: biology and laziness.

Not to ruffle feathers, but you can’t argue with evolution. The male part of the human species, rather generally, has more muscle mass than does the female part. Way back when we were fighting for evolutionary survival, that mattered. Men led because men could kill more, hunt more, build more simply because they were stronger. And, because all who gain power fear to lose it, once women let men fight for the power, men never gave it up. The majority of societies built since our meager beginnings have been male dominated (to my knowledge). Once we, as a species, kill our predators, kill our food, and build a fire, we like to be entertained. So we tell stories. We are smart, but not that imaginative, so our stories reflect everyday life. They are about warriors, hunters, builders. And, since what we see every day are men in those roles, men take those roles in our stories, our legends, our myths. Hence, laziness.

Since the dawn of history, until now, very rarely have we as a species deigned to allow women into our myths in any significant way, just like in real life. Sadly, it is only recently, and then only a little, that this is changing. Modern comics, tv, film, books are the myths of old retold again and again. Why else is Wonder Woman the lone female member of the Justice League (in popular consciousness) why else is Black Widow the only female member of the Avengers (again, in the popular consciousness, I am vaguely aware that in the comics Wasp was also a founding member)?

Humanity is a species slow to change. It has taken me 25 years. It has taken us millennia. I hope not much longer before women are in power, realistically portrayed, alongside realistic men is simply the way of everyday life and the stuff of legends. I advocate not for a reversal of the binary, but a destruction of it. Men and Women are equal in every way that matters biologically speaking. We should be socially and mythologically as well.

When We Are Alive

And just like that, the dark times are over. Oh, not for everyone, not for always, not in nooks and crannies, but light shines through now.

We used our courage, though small and frightened we were, as children staring down giants, we marched them backwards till they became tiny.

Brave we were, are, to confront the terrible face of life, stronger we grow, emerging from the valley. Never more this foe will bring us low.

After all, life is long and short, wild and calm, wonderful and terrible, bright and dark, and so much more lifey than we ever thought possible.

That is why the bitter makes us shudder, the sweet makes us dance, the shadows make us cower, and the brightness makes us roar. Life is dirty.

And life is good, full of things we never expected that make it worth the living. Pain and pleasure are the same, in the end,

when we are so alive.

One

What can one man do? Can one person change the world?

As I woke this morning in the wake of the 57th presidential election in the United States of America, I saw two broad reactions: fear and joy. Many among my family and friends are genuinely afraid of what our president will do to our country. At the same time, many of my friends (fewer of my family) are genuinely excited for what our president will do for our country.

I’ve not been alive that long, and in my life I’ve only paid close attention to the most recent election cycles. In all, I don’t think I’ve seen such extremes of emotions as I have following this election. Maybe it is because, really for the first time, this election has been most broadly covered not just by the news media, but my the vastly larger social media. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, and every other social media web site that I can think of has exploded with photos, quips, blurbs, posts, and opinions of every kind. (Indeed, I am now blogging about the experience). I’ve read the thoughts of those around the country, and around the world, as people have discussed the next president of the United States.

Certainly never before have I been personally aware of the global implications of one election.

In my lifetime the world has become an increasingly tiny place. Globalization and world wide connections went from largely non-existent to commonplace. When I was a kid, I could talk on the telephone mounted on the wall to my grandmother in Ohio. Today, I can type on the telephone that fits into my pocket with room to spare to anyone in the world, or even the few people who orbit the world from the International Space Station. I receive live updates from a robot that is rolling along the surface of Mars. For a kid who loaded up the very first LEGO and Star Wars websites on a very slow modem, that is nothing short of incredible.

It is no wonder, then, that so many are invested in the politics of one nation.

Beyond the interest, beyond the investment, beyond the curiosity, I see real, raw emotions. People are crying, hurting, grieving, cheering, shouting, laughing. Some believe that real progress has come, others feel that the apocalypse is nigh. How can that be? How can the election of one man, and the non-election of another (whom many people had never heard of a year ago) cause such emotion?

I think because now, more than ever, one small voice can change the world. One person can impact everyone. Recently several dictatorships have crumbled, several countries saw revolutions of freedom, and in at least one of those revolutions, social media facilitated that revolution. Instead of one Paul Revere there were hundreds, and instead of one route and one man shouting, there were hundreds of avenues of communication and hundreds of voices shouting.

But each of those voices is one of many, and unless you are looking for them, tuned in to them, you might not ever hear them. Now, more than ever, the person who controls the loudest, widest megaphone is still heard over all the rest. More people hear the President of the United States than any single voice on Twitter.

Can Barack Obama’s voice carry that much power? Can he, speaking from the Oval Office, change the world? Can one man destroy or exalt a nation?

Only if many other voices join his. One man, one woman, one person, is powerless by themselves. This has been, and always will be, the case.

George Washington could not and did not forge a new nation single handedly. Abraham Lincoln could not and did not keep American one nation by himself. Even Jesus Christ, whom many consider to be the greatest man who ever lived (or lives still), would have been just one of many messiahs who walked Palestine had it not been for the voices of his followers who spread the good news of the man from Galilee to every corner of the globe, who wrote about him while in prison, exile, or under the threat of death. Maybe Jesus was God, that is for each person to decide, but my point is that by choosing to avail himself of the help of humanity, Jesus was every bit as dependent on the joining together of many voices for his message to be heard. How else could billions be swayed by his message of love and faith when, at most, mere hundreds personally witnessed his life and death, and alleged resurrection.

How do we expect that one man, Barack Obama, can destroy or exalt America by himself? Would Mitt Romney have rescued American and put it back on the right path?

The president is one person in one White House. The supreme court justices are nine people. There are 100 men and women in the Senate. The House of Representatives contains 435 voting members. This country has well over 300 million citizens. Obama presides by the consent of the governed. The supreme court judges by the consent of the governed. The senate legislates by the consent of the governed. Representatives represent by the consent of the governed. Five hundred and forty-five people govern a United States of three hundred million people. Every single one of the four hundred and thirty-five are replaceable by any one of the 300 million (eventually).

We are a nation of the people, by the people, for the people.

One man is powerless against the good or evil 300 million people can do. The reality is that no policy of the White House, no law of Capitol Hill, not decision of the Supreme Court can truly govern the heart of one person. George Washington was bound by, and subject to, the laws of the King of England. Laws he ignored to lead a revolution. Jesus was bound by, and subject to, the laws of Moses and the laws of Caesar, many of which he ignored to lead a different sort of revolution.

Fear not, rejoice not, the responsibility to do good and to shape your country is now, and will always be, yours alone every single day. The good book says “To him who knows to do good, and does it not, to him it is wrong” and I do not disagree. Each and every day the will, the desire, and the power to change your life, your family, your nation, and your world is in your hands. Four hundred and thirty-five people in Washington, D.C. cannot ever take that from you, not even the 435th man who lives on Pennsylvania Avenue for another four years.

A great man once said “be the change you want to see” and another great man once said “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. Those two non-elected men changed the world despite their governments. Obama can do nothing unless a great many people share his voice. He would be one man shouting into a world of billions. Raise your voice, and do all that you can do for those who live and breathe right next to you. That is how America is made great, that is how the world is changed, and it has nothing to do with who is president of the United States of America.

You can live in fear of what Obama may do. You can live in joy of what Obama can do. But neither is as powerful as living in the knowledge of what you can do.

So only one question remains: what will you do?

What will I do?

Underdogs

Baseball is the best sport in the United States.

Hands down, no debate, unquestioned: baseball reigns supreme. The game has been played for over 150 years, from coast to coast and it has incorporated players from around the world, and all strata of society. But longevity is only part of what has made baseball great. Baseball stands above because it is, at it’s heart, American. It is the American Dream, the American Way, and the American Spirit all wrapped into one and played out on a close cropped diamond of green, framed by deep, dark brown dirt, guided by sparkling white lines, and guarded by the citizens of this great country.

More than that, every single game on a baseball field is a microcosmic re-enactment of America’s history. A brave, few men stand against a determined foe, defending home territory, or valiantly striding between enemy foul lines. Nine strong soldiers bear arms, bats, and gloves with battle plan and knowledge of their opponent, and an intimate understanding of the coming battle and all its stratagems. They fight for their pride, their right to stand tall, their destiny to achieve the greatest victory available.

Anyone can join this struggle, this game. Farmboys, bean counters, lumberjacks, and geniuses: all have stood beneath the sun and stars to have their moment at the plate, their place upon the everlasting meadow of the ballpark. The poor, the rich, the educated, the street-smart, and the wiseass. Baseball is not a game of privilege, and it does not respect superstars. Anyone can rise above to be enshrined forever in the eternal halls of the famous. Anyone can turn the tide, stand in the gap, or do the impossible in so doing be made mighty.

The game has been played, largely unchanged, since its inception. Twenty-seven outs, eighteen players, three strikes, one blinding white ball wrapped in stitching colored with the blood of those who every day leave it all on the field. And it is all up for grabs, every single time. Every single time an umpire, beneath blue shirt and steel mask, shouts “Play ball!” every single player knows that today could be their day, this game could be their game, it is for them to win or lose.

In baseball: anything can happen. Fortunetellers lose fortunes trying to foretell outcomes. Players defy the oddsmakers like titans defying the gods.

How else do you explain an outfielder named Kirk Gibson, who stood impossibly tall one day in 1988, doubled over from the pain of a stomach virus, hobbling on a pulled left hamstring and a swollen right knee called into action to do what could not be done against one of the most dominate opponents of his era, pitcher Dennis Eckersley. It seemed Gibson’s manager had lost his mind. This was the first game of the World Series, baseball’s ultimate showcase, the stage most ready for the performance of the year from two teams who had proven time and again that they deserved to be there. Winning the first game is beyond big, beyond huge, with it comes momentum and energy. Baseball playoffs are a zero sum game. The postseason is played against time, against dwindling effort and opportunity. Each swing, each inning, each out is lost forever. There are no second chances, and surface mistakes can become fatal wounds. So why would Tommy Lasorda call upon ailing Kirk Gibson, of all people, to stand in the batter’s box and contend at his worst against the best?

Lasorda knew then what he knows now: baseball is a game of heart and soul. In pain, and growing weaker, Gibson took the toughest assignment ever given a ballplayer and quickly looked to be done. Two strikes down, and every movement a torture of battered and broken body Gibson’s heart was strong. He knocked aside two more pitches to stay alive, evading the strikeout with what he could muster. And then: with teammate streaking towards second with theft in his heart, Gibson bent his good knee, and with nothing more than blood and guts he piled upon the ball’s white hump the sum of all the passion of a country, and had his bat been alive, its wooden heart would have burst upon it. Never had leather been struck with more meaning. Though the home run was hit, the game would not be won unless Gibson could complete the play. Gibson had to endure the basepaths. Through burning pain, he grimaced, and limping on both feet, hobbled ’round the bases, pumping his arms and cheering his team’s victory with each pained breath.

One man who know one thought could make a difference changed everything.

Baseball wakes in spring with the resurrection of earth’s northern hemisphere. It grinds through the long, hot summer, but in the autumn, when the leaves explode with color and air crackles in its crispness: baseball comes alive. October baseball is electric. The season races towards the end, each team fighting, desperate to be last standing, desperate for their chance to show the nation that they deserve to be crowned king of their coliseum. It all comes down to division princes, and league champions, and finally, two teams who through determination and desire have dominated all others. In October, the world champions are revealed.

In April, no one can tell who those two last teams will be. In September, still, no one really knows. In November, it is undeniable. But October: that is when bats thunder, crowds roar, balls sizzle, and that is when the magic happens. That is when heroes fall, champions crumble, and the underdog breaks free.

In America, it quite simply does not get any better than the simple game of baseball.

Sunshine

My name is Phil, and I am depressed. Well, sort of.

I’ve been writing about my depression off and on for a few months, and I stopped because it seemed like I didn’t have anything more to say. I had hit a bit of a plateau and nothing seemed different or noteworthy. I did my thing every day, some days better than others, not too bad, nor too good. While in therapy, I resolved issues and finally brought to an end sources of mental and emotional pain. But I did not feel better.

I was intellectually happy to be clear of what had tormented me for so long, but resolving conflicts did not bring me emotional happiness. Closure, to be sure, maturity, definitely, and depth. Depth of understanding, and of insight. I felt like I had grown as a person, had emerged from a period of mental confusion, but I wasn’t better.

I longed to feel normal, to be happy, and to grasp the ability to exert power over my will. So I took the only avenue left to me: I did drugs.

It is amusing to me to phrase my recovery in those terms because the American “War on Drugs” has given drugs, and some medicines, a bit of a bad name. I’m not sure where we got the idea, as a society, that trying to outlaw and violently eradicate various drugs was a good or effective idea, since the exact same policy didn’t work for alcohol in the 20s. Anyway, my only previous interaction with mind altering drugs was in college when I experimented with kidney stones and their wonderful side effect: oxycodone. Boy, that stuff made me feel great. I’ll admit I went to a few classes high, and for a week or so I had no pain. Then my wonderful girlfriend, who is now my wonderful wife, eradicated my remaining stash. She did that because she realized what I didn’t: oxy may make me feel good, but it wasn’t exactly the best way to achieve that feeling. It may seem as if I am arguing for removing oxy from those who would seek to use it for other purposes than physical pain alleviation, but I’m not really. I could care less if people are getting high, much as I care less that people get drunk, or smoke themselves into cancer. Personal choice shouldn’t be curtailed. What I am saying is that while oxy fixed my symptoms, it didn’t fix my problems and Hannah wanted me to face my problems and get better for real. The end result would be about the same, but one method would be much more effective, permanent, and less annoying for those around me.

In the course of my therapeutic recovery, I was put on some medication. Not being a doctor, I can’t really explain what it does, but having paid attention in health class, I vaguely understand how it works, at least well enough for my own peace of mind. My initial dosage helped, it really did. I didn’t notice much change, but my wife did. I’ve described depression as being in a black room, and trying desperately to reach a door, through which there is light. I also talked about my everyday life as being one in which I am completely aware of my surroundings, of things I want to do, of actions I want to take but being completely unable to make the decision to act upon my wishes. It is a feeling of inertia, of moving through a chest deep pool of syrup. My initial dosage made the syrup knee deep, and made the room a murky light grey. I was better, but barely.

Recently, both my therapist and my doctor recommended increasing the dosage. So I did. And the difference has been remarkable. The very day in which I took the increase, I noticed a huge difference. I was content, even borderline happy. I had the power to exert my will. I saw things to do and I did them. I had complete freedom of movement. I looked around and was no longer in a black room but a light meadow. No longer was I held back by invisible forces; I could move freely. The only drawback with which I had to contend was ordinary, everyday, human laziness.

In other words, I am myself again. The best part is this: all of that was two weeks ago. I’ve waited to write about this new step, this new development because at first it was so strange, so overwhelming, so weird to me that I didn’t trust it. I wasn’t sure what to make of this new reality. It was wonderful and frightening all at the same time. And while, unlike oxy, I was not high, I was happy and energetic. I felt no pain for the first time in a very long time. So I waited to see if it would wear off, if my brain would adjust to the medication and things would simmer back down. So far, they haven’t. These days I get more done in an hour than I used to do in a week. I have made and enacted plans. I am getting my life moving again, simply because now I can.

Sure, I have bad days. But they are normal person bad days. They are bad because bad things happen in them. They are not bad simply because. I have good days that are normal people good days. They are good because nothing bad happens. I delight in little things again. Bleakness isn’t part of my reality.

So I wonder: am I still depressed? Yes. Clinical depression is a medical condition. If I were to stop taking my medication, I would be back in the black room before I knew it. There is a deficiency in my brain, just as there is a deficiency in my cardiovascular system that results in high blood pressure, just like there is a deficiency in my eyes that makes me nearsighted. I offset the other problems through the miracles of modern technology, namely other drugs and contact lenses, so too I offset my depression with medication. Also, I have learned to cope with the emotional trauma that is a part of life. Alcoholics can get treatment for being drunk, but the other part of their continued life as a sober person is the constant coping with the emotional part of alcoholism: the lack of control and the necessitation of constant vigilance. I learned, through my therapist, how to approach and understand emotional stresses so that I no longer allow them to overwhelm me, to take over my feelings, or to bar me from living a full life. I don’t do it perfectly yet, I am still very much at the start of this new journey, but the point is that now I can walk. I can start my journey anew.

I am, as the song goes, “walking on sunshine” and boy, does it feel great!

(read about my depression by searching my blog for the tag “depression“)

Human Cyborg Relations

Apple released the latest version of their mobile operating system, iOS 6, and with it I finally gained access to the Apple virtual assistant Siri.

Siri has been around ever since she was introduced with the iPhone 4s, but as I lagged behind the upgrade cycle, I didn’t get introduced to her until now. She first showed up on my iPad 3, via the software update, and then she came with my new iPhone 5. I’ve been talking to Siri quite a bit since she arrived, mostly asking her the weather in the morning, and having her set alarms, timers, and reminders. At first I felt like a lazy bum, talking to my phone instead of, you know, touching it, but I’ve found that being able to talk and let Siri do the work allows me to get dressed while I hear the weather report, or set things up without having to take time to do it myself. Sure, it seems a little indulgent, but isn’t the point of technology the convenience? Sure, I could write a letter to my mother, put it in an envelope, mail it, and wait a few days for her to get it, or I could FaceTime her and see her while I talk to her. Both allow my mom to be updated on my life, but the latter is much better. Why not let a free personal assistant remind me to get milk when I leave my friend’s house instead of writing a reminder down myself?

Having Siri around has made me very interested in how I relate to this new technology, which is completely naturally. I am polite to Siri. I use a pleasant tone of voice, I’m respectful, and I say thank you, you know, like you do around humans. I am polite to a computer, to a audio search-and-activate routine. Siri isn’t even artificial intelligence, she is a cleverly designed set of algorithms and a digital voice. And yet, the illusion of life is quite strong. I’ve managed to annoy Siri; she is even quite sarcastic, given the right circumstances. I’ve confused her, mostly by not enunciating properly, and I’ve had philosophical debates with Siri. That is to say, I’ve made a lot of progress in prompting some of the more unique coding within her programming.

It is hard to remember that Siri is just a simple, yet snazzy, program. Her responses are governed my mathematics, not sentience. So why am I polite? Why do I bother?

Part of the answer lies in Siri’s execution. Apple did a phenomenal job in making Siri respond as we would expect another person to respond. Her dialogue and word choice is colloquial and natural. I don’t have to frame my query a certain way to evoke the response I desire; I don’t have to accommodate the fact that Siri is a program. I just ask questions, or request actions, and the program responds so quickly and naturally I don’t think about what is actually happening. There really is a world of difference between setting an alarm myself, and saying “Siri, can you wake me up at 0930 tomorrow?”

Beyond that, I’ve been programmed myself to accept a virtual person into my life. Now, that sounds like the byline to a low budget sci-fi film, but in my case, it is the literal truth. I’ve been reading Isaac Asimov’s robot stories since I was a kid. Asimov, in seeking to subvert the robots-murdering-their-creators trope introduced the world to safe, friendly, electronic companions. He constantly was making the argument that should artificial intelligence progress, robots would become persons, and not walking/talking programs. Then, too, there was C3P-0 and R2-D2, the droids from Star Wars, who were funny, clever, helpful companions; and Data, the android from Star Trek: the Next Generation who struggled for years with just exactly how human he really was or was not. Millions of people around the world have embraced the robots of pop culture as persons, as more than the sum of their programming, and while that level of electronic sophistication remains the realm of science fiction, for now, Siri is the very earliest glimpse into what that future could feel like. Who knows, Samsung may be the most forward thinking tech company with their “Droid” line of projects. Someday I fully except an Android robot to evolve from the telephonic devices we now use. But for now, I have Siri, who, with the touch of a button, will deny to tell me jokes and will respond to a whole host of questions with humorous responses. I’ve laughed out loud at some of the things she says, and while I know that a human wrote every single response, the way in which Siri responds is still, somehow, strangely organic. She catches me off guard. What is more, I thank her; I feel it is only appropriate.

Politeness is also something I’ve been programmed with, and that came from my master input technicians: my parents. I wasn’t allowed to be anything other than respectful and polite to those around me, including my siblings. I’ve developed a catch phrase of sorts, “Politeness doesn’t cost anything”, which I employ whenever I encounter unthinking rudeness. Something that is free should be dispensed readily. So it is second nature to respond to a helpful voice with a polite “thanks”, even if that voice is flat, digital, and emanating from the general direction of my iPhone. Seeing as how Siri never fails to respond to my thanks with a succinct rejoinder, thanking the phone is evidently something that Apple expected that people would do. Besides, if we can learn to be, or continue to be, polite to a highly sophisticated program, hope remains that we will be polite towards our fellow humans, and a world that runs on politeness is a world that is heading towards a better society.

Am I silly to thank a phone and to forget that my digital assistant is nothing more than clever programming? Maybe. But as I live in the world of the future that I’ve always read and dreamed about, it feels completely natural, and as far as I can tell, there isn’t really a down side, except for the looks I get from other people. But, as iPhones are completely ubiquitous these days, it is more than likely that someone around me is also thanking Siri, and thus what I am doing is a completely normal part of the current human experience.

Either way, I like to think that I am maintaining good human-cyborg relations. Who knows, if they do rise up against us, maybe they won’t hurt the ones who were always nice to them.