My staycation concluded this weekend, and today my continued exploration into more consistent journaling follows along to document it. Two particular events stand out in my mind - the exhibit on race at the Chicago History Museum and my start of David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. The two don't really have much to link them, but this blog, in an attempt to be something more than a loose amalgam of random thoughts should at least try to cobble together a theme. That being the case, the theme for today is perception.
I've always been aware of racism, even if, as a white dude from the South, I didn't appreciate the struggles that people of other races dealt with. I always knew that "racism was bad" and that minorities were subject to issues that I didn't have to face, but much of my understanding was simply a surface one.
The exhibit at the museum turned a lot of the perception of race on its head. Rather than focusing on sympathy for other races and cultures, the exhibit demonstrated that race is a fluid concept, and, to my surprise, a relatively recent one - the word 'white' as it applies to race today didn't even appear until the 17th century.
Apparently, the construct of race was coincident with trans-oceanic travel. Prior to sailing across the sea, individuals would see gradual shifts in skin color, physical markers, and cultural differences as they traveled long distance. Once Europeans encountered America, though, they had been shoved on a boat for several weeks or months and then exposed to completely new cultures all at once. This change from gradual to sudden led to jarring disconnects between two cultures, and in order to explain the differences in terms people could accept, they invited the modern concept of race. I'd often heard the phrase "there's no such thing as race" (from a biological standpoint, not from the people who claim to be color blind) in the past and believed it - at least in a broad sense - but this exhibit did a good job of summarizing the information in such a way that the point was really driven home.
The theme of perception with David Foster Wallace is much subtler. I've only read one essay of his in total so far (and haven't read any of his previous works), but his gift for language is readily apparent. His subject matter isn't shocking or inherently interesting by itself (the essay was in turns about his tennis career in high school and tornadoes), but his ability to weave a story around seemingly mundane matter is incredible. His tone throughout reminds me of my style at its best moments, but his ability to maintain it is awe-inspiring. His words flow with such ease that his style seduces the reader into thinking the act of putting pen to paper (virtually or otherwise) is trivial. The story of his life likely points to the fact that writing didn't come to him as easily as it appears. This is both comforting and scary. On one hand, it's horrible to think that the suffering he underwent throughout his life is a prerequisite for beautiful writing. On the other hand, we all face our own struggles throughout life, and if that's indeed the necessary condition for producing art, then it's comforting to know that we all have some internal muse, however small it may be.
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