Impressions

Three things to think about

The Lamed-Volvnik

(Full disclosure. I am not a Jew and my understanding of this comes from my reading, so I may have some details wrong. I think I have the gist right, but if I’m mistaken somehow, please set me straight.)

In the Jewish tradition, stories are told of 36 individuals who justify the existence of humanity before God. In their righteousness these individuals warrant the continuation of our species despite all of the evil things we do. Without these individuals, it is believed, God would wipe the slate, write humanity off as a lost cause, a failed experiment, and begin anew. These 36 are the Lamed-Volvnik.

According to the stories, at any given time there are exactly 36 such individuals alive on the planet, living just like the rest of us. They feel what we feel and see what we see. They do not know who or what they are. They are just people, living their lives, but unbeknownst to them they are living perfect lives, the life God designed and intended humans to live. And because of this, God allows the rest of humanity to muddle along. We are flawed, but as the lamed-volvnik demonstrate, worthy of redemption.

I like this. We seem to be fascinated by and spend a whole lot of time considering the monsters among us. Books and films, television shows and podcasts are dedicated to dissecting the lives of the most depraved. We celebrate self-importance and self-indulgence. “How,” we ask, “can such evil exist?” But considering that somewhere some are living the perfect life, I find myself wondering, “What would the life of a lamed-volvnik actually look like? What markers might one look for hoping to see an actual lamed-volvnik in the flesh?”

Humility would be chief among the characteristics I would seek out. Patience and long-suffering. I do not think that they would be famous people. Their lives would be unremarkable, because it seems (to me) unlikely that the perfect life, the life harmonious with the intentions of God, would entail much striving after validation or acclaim. “I want” would not be their focus. Such a person would be difficult to spot. Slow to anger. Quick to forgive. Possessed of a bone-deep sadness that would come of seeing all of the terrible things humans do while understanding at a fundamental level that every life is a miracle and everything it is possible for a human to be. The sadness would teeter, but never tip over into despair.

I like this tradition quite a bit. It makes me happy to think that someday, at some point in the future, I will cross paths with someone and think, “Could that person have been a lamed-volvnik?”

I’ll probably be wrong, of course. Very long odds of spotting one of the 36 perfect people on a planet of some 8 billion. But the exercise gives me a reason to look for the best in people. To focus on their virtues and not their shortcomings. That alone makes it worthwhile. For too long my default position has been that I dwell on a planet jam packed with imperfect people, myself included, and there is nothing to be done for it but forgive and move on. Just the glimmer of hope, just thinking that somewhere, all of the time, there are 36 individuals living without the instinctive hobbles of ego and fear, and that such a life is possible, is heartening to consider.

The End of Books

There is good evidence that long form reading is becoming a thing of the past.

Some researchers blame Covid. Some blame smartphones and the internet. Some blame homes without books, and some even blame rascally conservatives for removing certain books from school curricula. Whatever the reasons, young people are not becoming readers. There appears to be a consensus among academics that students are just not reading.

This is not the fault of the youth. Digital reference library DataReportal in January released its annual Global Overview Report, revealing internet users ages 16 to 64 spend an average six hours, 40 minutes daily surfing the web. 47 hours a week. 101 days per year.

I spend considerably less than that, maybe two hours in the morning and a half hour at night, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge my own attention span seems to have shortened. Today, even surrounded by books I genuinely want to read, I have to make the conscious decision to put my ass in a chair and crack one open. Watching an entire film in one sitting is a strain. I feel the urge to fast forward. And I’m someone who happily spent uncounted hours reading massive novels like The Brothers Karamazov or The Stand. It is difficult to even guess what my attention span might be if I spent that time online watching TikTok videos, doomscrolling X, or ceaselessly checking Facebook. I suspect I’d be a mess, nervous and confused, and have the attention span of a ferret.

My instinct in everything has always been to skip to the “good parts”. I try not to do this today. I try to relax and enjoy the moment I find myself in, but honestly, in my youth, boredom was the enemy and given my druthers I’d want to spend all of my time laughing uproariously, having sex, with a drink in my hand, or some combination of things that brought the bright edge of adrenaline, validation, and immediacy into tight focus. Work was drudgery, something to endure and get through so I could get to the good parts. Books were one of the good parts, and that is what saved me from mindlessly chasing the next thrill. I wanted to get through everything so I could sit quietly with a book. I had a paperback with me at all times, much the way I carry my phone today. That would likely not be the case had there been phones to carry.

I try to imagine what sort of person I’d be had I spent all those years, years that I spent reading and exploring the stacks at the library, instead immersed in Call of Duty, Fortnite, and the pseudo-drama of Facebook and Instagram. How different might my mind be if as a young teenager, instead of working my way through the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe (with a dictionary open at my elbow) I’d consumed hour after hour after hour of Snapchat and TikTok tidbits? I just don’t know. I don’t think I’d be a reader. I probably wouldn’t be much of a writer. Deep thinking would not be a strong suit. Boredom would be a monster to avoid, and everything real would be...well, boring.

We are seeing the first crop of adults now, people approaching their mid twenties, who were raised with instant access to everything. A generation who never, at least not regularly, sat still with themselves. It doesn’t surprise me that recreational reading is not high on their list of preferred activities, or that introspection is not prominent in their skill set.

I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone. Video killed the radio star and now we’re on to something else. According to a report by the U.S. surgeon general called “Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation” people of all ages are spending far more time alone—connecting with friends and others outside their households has dropped significantly in recent years. But people aren’t really spending this time alone alone. They are spending this time wrapped up in a concocted universe tailored to keep them engaged and harvest their clicks. It is loneliness and isolation, but it feels social. It feels truthy.

Some psychologists and educators believe we need to ban cell phones from schools. Others point out the difficulty of actually doing this, the logistics and possible result of suspending students for repeatedly smuggling in their constant companions. Maybe it would be wise to make every school a virtual Faraday Cage, a place where the internet simply does not reach. On the other hand, what can schools fix? If a child grows up in a household where meals are eaten in front of a television and everyone is simultaneously scrolling on their phones—a situation I suspect is more common than we’d care to believe—what can a few hours of school accomplish?

It is a strange brew. On one hand, we wanted our youth to be computer literate (that was the future, we believed), but we never considered the personal and developmental costs of raising children in the two-dimensional isolation that comes from swiping at screens.

I have no solutions, but I’d certainly think twice before plopping a toddler down in front of Cocomelon or putting a phone in her hands. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, and I suspect the kid who learns to socially interact, face to face, in the real world and in real time will have a decided edge in the future. The kid who also learns to think, read, and use words to communicate will find the skids greased.

Manners won’t hurt, either.

Magical thinking: The Trans Bridge Too Far.

I have absolutely no brief against men who choose to live as women, or women who choose to live as men. It’s okay with me. In fact, it is even okay (so far as I am concerned) to make it no big deal society wide. If a guy wants to wear women’s clothes and pretend to be a woman, that is fine. The same is true of women who choose to wear men’s fashions and pal around with the guys. No problemo. You do you. I’ll make no judgment about your character or capabilities. That’s simply a choice you make.

However, that said, it is crazy to insist that such an individual actually becomes a man or a woman simply by choosing to do so, like Pinocchio getting his wish and becoming a real boy. That is, in a word, impossible. Make all the laws and social rules you want and it doesn’t matter. It is a physical impossibility.

So what happens to the youngster who is convinced they are trapped in the wrong body, particularly when society is positioned to support them in this belief? Holy shit! I’m in the wrong body!

I try to imagine what that must feel like. To believe that one’s very body is a cosmic misdeal. A “mistake”.

But who’s mistake? If one is a theist, the mistake must be God’s. If one doesn’t believe in God, the blame must lie somewhere else. Whether a mistake by God or a simple accident in the random universe though, it is wrong and science can fix it!

But science can’t. Not really. Science can give someone a cocktail of hormones and even surgery, but the fact remains: a male can never become female or vice versa. That is reality. You can not bargain with reality. Reality can not be legislated. Public opinion does not change reality. If someone leaps from the Empire State Building, even if he believes in his heart that he can fly and everyone on the planet agrees, even if laws are passed demanding that he fly, he will fall to his death. A surgeon could conceivably put antlers on my head. This does not mean that a deer would recognize me as one of their own.

It seems to me that the entire concept of having the wrong body is hooey. At birth, each of us has a set of genetic material. Tall or short, fast or slow, smart or less so, eyes this color, skin that, hair that. And we are male or female. That is the hand we each are dealt, and it is what it is. I might wish that I was born with genes that enabled me to play NBA ball or hit a five iron like Tiger Woods or carry a full head of hair into my eighties, but I got the genetics I got. It would be nice were I able to wish myself to brilliance, the ability to stuff from the top of the key, and longevity, but I can’t. Genetics are immutable.

Consider the position this puts a young transgender person in. Reality is wrong. Reality is The Problem. Reality sucks. Sure, one can pretend that this isn’t the issue, and everyone around him or her can agree to pretend too, but it is reality the person expects to change. The gripe is with reality.

How must that feel? I don’t imagine it is a happy place.

It must feel a whole lot like walking into a psychiatrist’s office claiming to be Jesus (something more common than you might think) and the doctor’s treatment is to agree, and then suggest you immediately ride a burro into Jerusalem and anyone who fails to acknowledge your divinity is a hateful bigot.

One might suddenly discover he lives on a planet chock full of hateful bigots, because he wouldn’t suddenly become what he believed he was.

Reality is not going to change for any of us because we wish it would, and encouraging others to believe that it will, that reality is malleable, is a very bad idea. No good can come of it. It is one thing to be tolerant and polite, and quite another to buy into and support a belief in the impossible.

When did conflating the two become the right thing to do? Did anyone consider the repercussions of telling children that reality will bend to their will? Was no thought given to the individuals who would carry the burden of such thinking?

Anyway. What would a lamed-volvnik do?

Peace.