Notes From Lawndale
Summary: ‘Is It Fall Yet?’ as written by Fyodor Dostoevsky. [Written 3/10/05]
I am a
sarcastic woman . . . I am a sardonic woman. I am unattractive. I think my
self-esteem is non-existent. Then again, I only know what they have told me
about my condition. It is meant to hurt, yet only rarely do I feel any pain.
Instead, the feeling is almost freeing. It is nice to be free from society. My
experiences in self-esteem class were only brief. I was not treated then and
perhaps never will be. (I’m sufficiently educated to be cynical.) Out of a
desire to avoid Self-Esteem class, I escaped. Life was decent then, as it has
not been since. Then, I had a companion in misery in Jane Lane. She too left,
leaving me to dwell with my thoughts.
I’ve been
living this way for some time--- Ever since the incident. One night, I made the
mistake of being open, of being compelled by another’s demands, to ignore my
own inner signals, a language understandable only to few. The door was open,
and I climbed in. An exercise I almost regret.
In the act
I already anticipated the consequences. Yet I carried on nevertheless. There
were chances to retreat, and they were not followed. The action continued to
its logical conclusion… A hastily delivered kiss. There was no real romance in
it. If there was (And this I doubt) it was all Tom’s. He believed in the
redemption of humanity, of acting in a manner that would allow the elevation of
the innermost thoughts and emotions of the human soul.
After the
kiss, we soon argued, he trying to convert me to hope, me urging him to join me
in the depths. He believed in freedom;
“You cannot
tell me that human beings always desire to be dominated. Masochism would be
much more widespread if that were so. We must make the best of our
opportunities in this world and in the next.”
“What
opportunities?” I asked with derision.
“The
chances we have to make a real difference. All us humans are linked in a great
web of relationships. The choice is simply to hate or love. To live a life of
scorn is to refrain from even making the choice. Our influence can be positive.
At the same time however, we must not resort to absolute rule. Help others make
their own choice and in turn influence many millions.”
His sea of
faith has not yet ebbed. Sighing, I agree to relate my philosophy through a
painstakingly composed tale. It is founded upon my own experiences.
“It is ‘The
Legend of the Grand Principal’.
Tom nodded,
willing me to continue;
“The
setting of my poem will be most familiar to you. It is the town we now inhabit.
The time is the present. A real display of imagination, but yes. One day Jesus
Christ appeared in the guise of a teenaged resident of Lawndale. His
destination was Lawndale High School, then (as now as it is now) the center of
controversy over the teaching techniques of the Grand Principal, Angela Li. A tall,
straight woman of almost fifty, she rules over the school with an iron fist.
Her word is law. With but a single announcement she may instantly change the
actions of hundreds of students and teachers, as she is at the apex of the
entire structure. Few have attempted to act against her.
Some say
this is the result of an elaborate apparatus of punishments and other such
devices. The pain acts as a deterrent, they believe. Yet the truth is something
much more disturbing. It echoes out to the heart of this sick, sad world.
Almost no students have fallen victim to her regime. The instruments lie
unused. Strictly speaking, violence is not necessary. Even without it, the
students would continue to follow orders, barely making the pretence of revolt,
a pretence that is itself only for show, a posture to hide their own
submission…
To continue
the tale, the Principal is one day sitting contentedly in her office when what
appears to be a student arrives. Beneath the teenaged body lies Jesus himself.
From his position, he has seen the smooth operation of Lawndale High School.
He begins
the interview with a simple question;
“Why has
no-one revolted?”
It is a
question that the Principal has rarely heard before, yet one that she loves to
hear. The question provides an opportunity for her to digress at length upon
her beliefs. I have edited her answer for length. Perhaps the full version will
appear in the paperback;
“I’m glad
you asked that question, for the answer is very simple. It is a fundamental
aspect of the human condition, the wish to be ruled. Freedom is something that
appears very frightening to the average person. They do not wish to go about
their lives without the constant, affirming presence of a firm ruler, providing
guidance in every action. Indeed, the guidance soon becomes thought, seemingly
objective, yet coursed with my will. The same principle applies in the
classroom. Most people do not want to judge their own work. They prefer to
accept the judgment of another and accept it as absolute truth. Yes, some try
to alter their marks, but the changes are only minor. In the grand course of
things, they make very little difference. You may say the teachers are acting
independently, but this is not so. I have told them how to mark, in exchange
for their positions and a slight increase in pay. They had the chance to keep
to their own programme, yet all refused. The choice was theirs and they made
it. Chasing salary, they threw away freedom.”
Briefly,
she ceases to speak. The room is befallen by a tense silence.
“Do you
understand?”
Tom takes
several moments to realise the question is directed at him. My ending may be
abrupt, but it can be rewritten. Either way, the meaning is ultimately
artificial. There is no means of reaching toward objective truth. Truth is the
product of innumerable power relations each acting to ensure ‘truth’ is merely
the sum statement of the powerful. The Grand Principal was just one of them.
“My God,
you really believe this, don’t you?” Tom asks, shocked. Despite the
relationship, he barely knows me at all. He naively believed that knowledge lay
like a sinking star to be followed and attained. The truth is too dark for him,
too dark altogether.
Tom asks a
final question;
“Have you
lost your faith in man?”
“No.”
Tom appears
relieved.
“I never
had it at all.”
That was
the last time I saw him. Ever since he has studiously avoided all contact with
me. I believe he viewed me as a cynic to redeem. His attempts with Jane had
already failed (That at least I can thank her for), and I was the last target.
Yet surely he has not lost his faith in the perfectibility of mankind.
Somewhere he and others continue to spout their slogans of redemption and an
utopia that will never be…
We live in
the present. It is a dark, dingy place, full of memories whimpering in the
background. Or is that merely Quinn crying in the adjacent room? An
opportunity. Perhaps I can cheer her up. Perhaps.