The Place of the Artist

Abstract

I'm trying to stay with the grief. There's an anecdote about the Dalai Lama, probably apocryphal, which I've always thought profound. Upon being asked to offer his reflections on the state of the world, the Dalai Lama presumably said nothing. He simply began weeping. Sometimes, like in yet another meeting, which is actually a pre-meeting to some other meeting we're going to have in a couple of weeks at which time we're likely to make a decision about an event speaker, or which classes count for the general education requirement ... Sometimes, in such contexts, I feel like weeping. I'll sit there, and I'll scan the faces at the table, and I'll think about the suffering that's happening right then, at that very moment, all around the world. All the trauma being experienced, all the pain. Some child, somewhere, at the very same time we're meeting, who should be in school but who's instead sifting through other people's recycling. Some woman, right now, getting punched in the gut or in the face for saying the wrong thing. Abuse. Neglect. Hunger. Young girls, children, being sold as sex slaves. Brutal, unimaginable torture. I think about the environment and my powerlessness to save it. I think about the fact that we're on a speeding train, hurtling ourselves with evermore urgency toward death. All. Right. Now. And then I'll look down at the general education requirements and I'll feel a sudden jolt of emotion. A lump in my throat. Tears stinging my lower eyelids. No one notices but I do it, I begin to cry. What are we doing, I'll ask myself? What are we all doing here? Could I stick my index finger in the air at that moment? Is it appropriate, would it be ok, to ask if we could step back from the requirements for just a second and acknowledge that this meeting is happening aboard a hurtling train? Could we give a shout out to the melting ice caps and the warming oceans? Could we give a nod to the super storms and the climate refugees? Before we decide on the gen. ed. thing, might we mention the bursting pipelines and the hydrofracking earthquakes and the oil pouring into our seas? But listen, if it's too much to confront the environmental end times thing, let's at least agree to acknowledge the death of liberal democracy and the rise of authoritarianism and oligarchy around the world, including right here in the good ole' U.S. of A. I mean, if we're going to talk about the "general education" that every one of our graduating students should receive, those are the two first order priorities, right? The death of our planet and the mutually reinforcing dynamics of predatory capitalism's rise and democracy's decline? And shouldn't we be asserting the importance, too, of all of our students understanding the effects of these first order priorities: mass incarceration and the rise of the police state; disinvestment from public education and the arts; poverty and food shortages; resource scarcity; addiction; health disparities defined by race and class; exploitation; inequity? And finally, do have anything to say about the mental and emotional anguish that arises from all of that--the dark energies driving us deeper toward some kind of abyss: isolation; distrust; suspicion; fear; intolerance; greed; violence; hatred. Ultimately, nihilism: a deep skepticism that anything has meaning? What would happen, I wonder at times like these, if I just started quietly weeping. I think I'm well-liked at work. I don't have a reputation for being unhinged or hysterical or anything. I wear a suit and tie everyday. I'm an administrator for god's sake. What if I just started crying? What if the provost started crying? What if the president did it, say, at the trustees meeting? What if my students started to break down. Just wept at the absurdity of it all. Inconsolable ... ? I'm trying to stay with the grief. Thinking about Democracy I'm the dean for civic engagement at Wagner College, a small liberal arts college in New York City. …