Edition #128: Disdain As a Defense
Plus, shopping less, Anthony Bourdain, and the first recorded rap
A Note From the Editor
Picture this: it’s a rainy Saturday night and I’m sitting on the tile floor just in front of a small TV. This isn’t your average rain but endless rain; torrential downpours. It had been raining since Thursday which doesn’t sound so bad until you consider the rain in this setting; not a mere inconvenience but a lifestyle hindrance. Rain means power outages, no WiFi, the necessity of candlelight. Muddy, unpaved roads impossible to navigate, nothing to do but sit inside and wait and wait and wait. I took the rain as a sign that I should settle in, focus on all handful of deadlines that loomed near. I was sober, too, which parlayed into being unintentionally strict with my diet and with everything else. It was two weeks of gentle militancy. Tropical fruit and eggs and greens, a few dates dipped in almond butter for dessert.
On this particular rainy Saturday night I decided I needed a treat, so I put on my raincoat, squeezed my skull into a helmet and said a quick prayer: Dear God, please let my brakes hold out in this mud. I successfully drove my four-wheeler down the hill and through the downpour to retrieve my burger and fries. Back home, I set myself up on the floor in front of the TV, plated my dinner, and turned on what I assumed would be just another corny show.
As it turns out, this was not just another corny show but one that ended in me theatrically sobbing whilst lying on the ground. Before that, though, it was just another corny show; a love story between an American girl who meets a charming Italian chef while studying abroad in Florence. Large swaths of time are covered during the show’s eight episodes. On this particular rainy evening, I was at the point in which the couple get married in Italy. The Italian groom’s parents don’t approve of his choices so the wedding is mostly filled with her family, who flew all the way in from Texas for the occasion. It was a light episode by the show’s standards. The father of the bride wears a large cowboy hat in Italy, the Americans are loud and boisterous, and all of this is meant to be funny amidst the quietly cultured backdrop of Florence. I scarfed my burger and realized I’d actually been very hungry for two weeks. I felt an itch at the base of my chest, something like discomfort or subtle sadness. I wanted proper dessert but all I had were dates.
It wasn’t until the next morning, the itch still lingering, that I realized why I was bothered. The realization was as surprising as the show’s unforeseen plot twist—I was sad because I would never have a wedding like the one in Italy. My sadness struck me as odd, for I have a host of strong feelings about the wedding industrial complex that I know to be genuine. I’ve never wanted a big, showy wedding or a traditional marriage arrangement, all of the pomp and circumstance that goes with it. I have no desire to wear a fluffy white dress and have a bridal party surrounding me in their matching neutrals. The idea of it, all of it—of waiting for a partner to decide I am worth giving a ring to, of spending a year or so of my life fretting over minuscule details involving table arrangements and flowers, of making lists of people I haven’t seen in years but who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, should be in the room to watch me recite my vows—it all seems ridiculously performative to me, just another money making industry that has grown to be less about love than any of us care to admit. Yet, watching this silly show, this fictional family flying across the ocean to be there for the bride, broke something open in me.
I thought about how even if I wanted it more than anything, I would never have what these characters had—an entire extended family willing to fly across the sea to celebrate my love. A love story uncomplicated and beautiful; no bride questioning whether she would lose her identity when betrothed to a man, no questions over who would pay for all this extravagance. I thought about how overtly critical I’ve become in recent years., not just about weddings but about a host of other things: engagement, American democracy, motherhood. Though I’ve always veered toward the critical side—I’ll blame it on an overactive mind and the fact that I am a Virgo—my criticism has hardened into something more finite. Cynicism, and in some cases, open contempt.
It comes with the territory of being a questioning woman of a certain age. I know what is expected of me, I know there are certain decisions I am supposed to make that everyone is making and the pressure is constantly there even if it isn’t always spoken aloud, even when I don’t look it in the eye. I’ve never preferred being told what to do, so the quiet telling of what my role should be now, via TV shows and movies and books and my family, makes me resistant. Perhaps all of this has melded together and hardened into a familiar suit of disdain—weddings are stupid, I don’t ever want that. And while there is a root of truth to my opinions on these societal expectations, there is something else beneath that surface. Fear, or pain, or both.
The same week I watched that marriage scene, I read a heartfelt personal essay about loss. I was struck, as if by lightning, by this passage, especially because I had only just identified the disdainful armor I had just constructed for myself. The passage read:
“We live in a time dominated by pessimism and cynicism. These poses are a kind of armor against the vulnerability of hope. To be cynical is to close the door to the possibility of disappointment. To be pessimistic is to foreclose the risk of being made a fool by optimism.”
Only a few days later I was met with a third version of the sentiment, this time in the form of a think piece about American democracy by one of my favorite political writers. The writer remarked that maintaining hope through trying times is the risk and a noble stance, for hope requires opening oneself up to the chance of being let down. Disdain, by contrast, is the prime form of self-defense. Disdain says: fuck this, fuck that, I will criticize it all. I vow to have no interest in it and it will never hurt me because I never wanted it in the first place.
Disdain disguised as intellectualism is a particularly dangerous force, for it often acts as a non-starter. If I hold strong, contrarian opinions that are confidently delivered and backed by some degree of fact, then I will often not be challenged. I can live in the fortress I’ve constructed in which I am right with a capital R. And though no one will be able to reach me, to wrap thier arms around me in the way I that I crave, I will be safe and untouchable.
But I want to be touched, to be proven wrong. I want to feel my lungs fill with the crisp air of hope even when the reasons to hope become obscured in a thick fog. I want to remember that anything, anything can happen, that life up to this point has continued to surprise me with its funny magic. I want to back away from placing value judgments on situations and instead let myself see their nuance. I want to admit that I want to be loved, in love with myself and with another; that love doesn’t equal entrapment or loss of identity. I want to feel the pleasant shock of hope running through my veins once more, swirling and mixing with my blood, energizing me. I want to believe that I can leave a mark, however small, on this strange world, that I can live the way even if that looks entirely different than what is expected of me, even if that looks precisely like what is expected of me. I want and be filled with all the good that exists, if only I remember to open my eyes and see it. I want hope to be my oxygen, my water, my shelter.
Cheers, my dears, and as always, thanks for reading. I’m spending this weekend getting reacquainted in the bitter cold of New York, getting loved on by my friends and wearing soft sweaters and celebrating a very special birthday before heading back to Costa Rica. I hope you enjoy the first day of the final month of the year. Wowza.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
The Case For Buying Less—and How To Actually Do It. I went crazy on black Friday this year. By crazy I mean I bought a bunch of stuff I know I don’t need, in part because I can’t order things to Costa Rica, which created some false sense of need within me. As the year comes to a close and I begin considering what I want to prioritize for next year, this article made me think of another, more extreme idea I read about a few months back. Should 2023 be a shopping-free year, or am I a masochist?
What My Father’s Death Taught Me About Living. I mentioned this one in today’s intro essay. It is heartfelt and heavy but beautifully written. I especially like the analogy about how losing a parent is like running through a glass window.
What Kind of Man Was Anthony Bourdain? I’ve only just started watching No Reservations, so I admittedly know little about the late TV personality and cultural explorer that was Anthony Bourdain. This essay is about a book on Bourdain’s life, one that is a bit grittier than its counterparts, as it hones in on his suicide. A thought-provoking take on what it means to have it all and whether that is ever enough.
Perhaps You Should…Help Make Art Happen
At the start of this year I took my first screenwriting class focused on developing an original pilot episode of a TV show. The class was dynamic and fun and the instructor was one of the best I’ve ever had—thoughtful, generous, skilled at pointing out the potential in a piece of underdeveloped work. He is currently raising post-production funds for a short film he wrote and directed—Making art is hard and expensive! —and if you’re a lover of art, you should consider donating, even just $5. If you donate, you’ll be named in the credits of the film.
**Bonus Content** (First Rap Ever)
This is very cool.
Also, this made me laugh and this was me all Thanksgiving week.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“What I’m really scared of is believing the words society makes me speak are my own.”
-Earthlings by Sayaka Murata
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.