Beautiful. As I don't pay much attention to film and theatre in general, I was only aware of Wallace Shawn as an actor, I didn't know of his capacity as a writer.
-Pete On Sun, 19 Feb 2012, Ray Harrell wrote: > REH. > > > > Around 400,000 babies are born on earth each day. Some are born irreparably > damaged, casualties of the conditions in which their mothers lived -- > malnutrition, polluted water, mysterious chemicals that sneak into the body > and warp the genes. But the much more tragic and more horrible truth is that > most of these babies are born healthy. There's nothing wrong with them. > Every one of them is ready to develop into a person whose intelligence, > insight, aesthetic taste, and love of other people could help to make the > world a better place. Every one of them is ready to become a person who > wakes up happily in the morning because they know they're going to spend the > day doing work they find fascinating, work that they love. They're born with > all the genetic gifts they could possibly need. Wiggling beside their > mothers, they have no idea what's going to be done to them. > > In the old days of the Soviet Five-Year Plans, the planners tried to > determine what ought to happen to the babies born under their jurisdiction. > They would calculate how many managers the economy needed, how many > researchers, how many factory workers. And the Soviet leaders would organize > society in an attempt to channel the right number of people into each > category. In most of the world today, the invisible hand of the global > market performs this function. > > I've sometimes noted that many people in my generation, born during World > War II, are obsessed, as I am, by the image of the trains arriving at the > railroad station at Auschwitz and the way that the S.S. officers who greeted > the trains would perform on the spot what was called a "selection," choosing > a few of those getting off of each train to be slave laborers, who would get > to live for as long as they were needed, while everyone else would be sent > to the gas chambers almost immediately. And just as inexorable as were these > "selections" are the determinations made by the global market when babies > are born. > > The global market selects out a tiny group of privileged babies who are born > in certain parts of certain towns in certain countries, and these babies are > allowed to lead privileged lives. Some will be scientists, some will be > bankers. Some will command, rule, and grow fantastically rich, and others > will become more modestly paid intellectuals or teachers or artists. But all > the members of this tiny group will have the chance to develop their minds > and realize their talents. > > As for all the other babies, the market sorts them and stamps labels onto > them and hurls them violently into various pits, where an appropriate > upbringing and preparation are waiting for them. If the market thinks that > workers will be needed in electronics factories, a hundred thousand babies > will be stamped with the label "factory worker" and thrown down into a > certain particular pit. And when the moment comes when one of the babies is > fully prepared and old enough to work, she'll crawl out of the pit, and > she'll find herself standing at the gate of a factory in India or in China > or in Mexico, and she'll stand at her workstation for 16 hours a day, she'll > sleep in the factory's dormitory, she won't be allowed to speak to her > fellow workers, she'll have to ask for permission to go the bathroom, she'll > be subjected to the sexual whims of her boss, and she'll be breathing fumes > day and night that will make her ill and lead to her death at an early age. > And when she has died, one will be able to say about her that she worked, > like a nurse, not to benefit herself, but to benefit others. Except that a > nurse works to benefit the sick, while the factory worker will have worked > to benefit the owners of her factory. She will have devoted her hours, her > consideration, her energy and strength to increasing their wealth. She will > have lived and died for that. And it's not that anyone sadly concluded when > she was born that she lacked the talent to become, let's say, a violinist, a > conductor, or perhaps another Beethoven. The reason she was sent to the > factory and not to the concert hall was not that she lacked ability but that > the market wanted workers, and so she was assigned to be one. > > And during the period when all the babies who are born have been sorted into > their different categories and labeled, during the period when you could say > that they're being nourished in their pens until they're ready to go to > work, they're all assigned appropriate costumes. And once they know what > costume they'll wear, each individual is given an accent, a way of speaking, > some characteristic personality traits, and a matching body type, and each > person's face starts slowly to specialize in certain expressions that > coordinate well with their personality, body type, and costume. And so > each person comes to understand what role he will play, and so each can > consistently select and reproduce, through all the decades and changes of > fashion, the appropriate style and wardrobe, for the rest of his life. > > The Peace of Death > > Even those of us who were selected out from the general group have our role > and our costume. I happen to play a semi-prosperous fortunate bohemian, not > doing too badly, nor too magnificently. And as I walk out onto the street on > a sunny day, dressed in my fortunate bohemian costume, I pass, for example, > the burly cop on the beat, I pass the weedy professor in his rumpled jacket, > distractedly ruminating as he shambles along, I see couples in elegant suits > briskly rushing to their meetings, I see the art student and the law > student, and in the background, sometimes looming up as they come a bit > closer, those not particularly selected out -- the drug-store cashier in her > oddly matched pink shirt and green slacks, the wacky street hustler with his > crazy dialect and his crazy gestures, the wisecracking truck drivers with > their round bellies and leering grins, the grim-faced domestic worker who's > slipped out from her employer's house and now races into a shop to do an > errand, and I see nothing, I think nothing, I have no reaction to what I'm > seeing, because I believe it all. > > I simply believe it. I believe the costumes. I believe the characters. And > then for one instant, as the woman runs into the shop, I suddenly see what's > happening, the way a drowning man might have one last vivid glimpse of the > glittering shore, and I feel like screaming out, "Stop! Stop! This isn't > real! It's all a fantasy! It's all a play! The people in these costumes are > not what you think! The accents are fake, the expressions are fake -- Don't > you see? It's all --" > > One instant -- and then it's gone. My mind goes blank for a moment, and then > I'm back to where I was. The domestic worker runs out of the shop and > hurries back toward her job, and once again I see her only as the character > she plays. I see a person who works as a servant. And surely that person > could never have lived, for example, the life I've lived, or been like me -- > she's not intelligent enough. She had to be a servant. She was born that > way. The hustler surely had to be a hustler, it's all he could do, the > cashier could never have worn beautiful clothes, she could never have been > someone who sought out what was beautiful, she could only ever have worn > that pink shirt and those green slacks. > > So, just as Thomas Jefferson lived in illusion, because he couldn't face the > truth about the slaves that he owned, I, too, put to use every second of my > life, like my beating heart, this capacity to fantasize which we've all been > granted as our dubious birthright. My belief in the performance unfolding > before me allows me not to remember those dreadful moments when all of those > babies were permanently maimed, and I was spared. The world hurled the > infant who became the domestic worker to the bottom of a pit and crippled > her for life, and I saw it happen, but I can't remember it now. And so it > seems quite wonderful to me that the world today treats the domestic worker > and me with scrupulous equality. > > It seems wonderfully right. If I steal a car, I go to jail, and if she > steals a car, she goes to jail. If I drive on the highway, I pay a toll, and > if she drives on the highway, she pays a toll. We compete on an equal basis > for the things we want. If I apply for a job, I take the test, and if she > applies for the job, she takes the test. And I go through my life thinking > it's all quite fair. > > If we look at reality for more than an instant, if we look at the human > beings passing us on the street, it's not bearable. It's not bearable to > watch while the talents and the abilities of infants and children are > crushed and destroyed. These happen to be things that I just can't think > about. And most of the time, the factory workers and domestic workers and > cashiers and truck drivers can't think about them either. Their performances > as these characters are consistent and convincing, because they actually > believe about themselves just what I believe about them -- that what they > are now is all that they could ever have been, they could never have been > anything other than what they are. Of course, that's what we all have to > believe, so that we can bear our lives and live in peace together. But it's > the peace of death. > > Actors understand the infinite vastness hiding inside each human being, the > characters not played, the characteristics not revealed. Schoolteachers can > see every day that, given the chance, the sullen pupil in the back row can > sing, dance, juggle, do mathematics, paint, and think. If the play we're > watching is an illusion, if the baby who now wears the costume of the > hustler in fact had the capacity to become a biologist or a doctor, a circus > performer or a poet or a scholar of ancient Greek, then the division of > labor, as now practiced, is inherently immoral, and we must somehow learn a > different way to share out all the work that needs to be done. The costumes > are wrong. They have to be discarded. We have to start out naked again and > go from there. > > Wallace Shawn > > http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wallace-shawn/why-i-call-myself-a-socia_b_8180 > 61.html > > > > > > _______________________________________________ Futurework mailing list [email protected] https://lists.uwaterloo.ca/mailman/listinfo/futurework
