Bonnie is a Denver-based author whose interest in writing led to her career in nonprofits doing public and community relations and marketing. She’s worked for libraries, directed a small arts organization and managed Denver's beautification program. Simultaneously, she’s been a free lance writer with publications in local, regional, and specialty publications for news and features. Her main interest now is fiction writing, and her pieces have won several awards.
As a child I feared dogs. They had large sharp teeth, made loud noises, moved aggressively, and often stuck their noses in my crotch. To this day I avoid them. I also worried about the end of the universe, torn between wanting a scientific answer and the hopes extended by religion. Nuclear war (this was the height of the cold war), being dateless for homecoming, and going deaf also made my list of items to worry about.
We all fear something. It may border on the absurd and irrational or have deep roots in reality. We often take steps to avoid confronting the fear, burying it deep in our psyches. But try as we might, we all must face the inevitable and final fear—death. No escape there.
On my voyage from birth to death, I’ve come across other major issues that set up a quaking, knee-knocking in me. A sample:
Loss of a partner
Getting fired
Identity theft
A life-threatening disease
Poverty
People who aren’t neurotic worriers will shake their heads over this list. Che sera, sera, they say. Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you. I’m not made in this fashion. I grab a fear and agonize over it until sleep evades me and I feel sick at my stomach. (Unfortunately that never causes weight loss.) I go to great lengths to avoid the subject of my fear, even other people going through it. Shake it in my mental jaws, jerk it around, like my much-feared dogs with a squirrel, until the issue gets resolved somehow.
I’m beginning to understand, however, that living through a fear can bring me to a place of peace and acceptance within myself. Once I lost my job, I realized I could always get another one and ultimately I might be better off. When several close friends developed life-threatening diseases, I felt terrible and worried on their behalf, but they continued on, deriving even more joy and challenge out of each day of their lives. I’ve experienced near-poverty and know my loved ones and I can live on nearly nothing and could survive a major disaster, fiscal or otherwise.
My most recent brush with a major fear grew over a year. I’ve had credit cards stolen twice, then the account hacked once. About 12 months ago, I received notice of another hacking. Followed by another. Followed by still another. I’d frantically change passwords, phone numbers, codes. Even more frantically try to remember my new codes. What if a villain accessed my financial accounts and stole all my money?
Then, despite following the advice of experts about security, the worst happened. My IRS account was compromised. A few days after the astounding letter from the IRS requesting I confirm my identity, I was making dinner. I wondered why I wasn’t upset. A light switched on in my mind. The worst had happened, and nothing of significance had changed. I still had family and friends, I wasn’t penniless, the house hadn’t collapsed.
Incident by incident I’m learning that fearful situations provide growth, if I let them, just like other experiences. The boogiemen are in my mind, and I can battle through them and win peace
“Find Me,” a new novel by Laura van den Berg, is presented in a deceptively simple, straightforward style. Written in present tense by its protagonist, a young woman named Joy, often relying on facts and lists, she first exposes her attitude about her involuntary quarantine in a hospital, following an epidemic, which first robs people of their memories, then their lives. She’s one of the few immune. But as the story unwinds, another, even more traumatic fact about her life appears. Abandoned as an infant, she’s lived in a series of foster homes, and the occurrences there left indelible marks that she accepts with equanimity. So we think. By the book’s end, we begin to question her view of reality and hopscotch back to previous scenes trying to dig out truth.
In writing this device is called an “unreliable narrator.” It appears in books as diverse as “Alice in Wonderland,” “One Flew Over the Cuckcoo’s Nest,” “Lolita,” and “The Life of Pi.” In fiction, as in life, the unreliable narrator is a person telling the story who can’t be trusted. Either from ignorance or self-interest, this narrator speaks with a bias, makes mistakes, or even lies.
Why is the unreliable narrator widespread? My guess is because that’s the way life is. Have you ever experienced an incident at which other people were present, then talked about it later, only to discover your view’s and theirs differ widely? Those much-applauded and quoted studies conducted by experts support the phenomenon. Witnesses can be sincere,and believe they’re telling the truth, and hold completely opposite views.
The truth is that we all are reliable to ourselves and unreliable to everyone else. I was called to serve on a jury recently, and nearly everyone questioned said he’d base his decisions on the facts. But studies show over and over that even eyewitnesses can see a situation completely differently. Look at the dozens of people freed over the past few decades when scientific evidence proves their innocence. We quite honestly can think we’re right. . .until this is shown to be wrong.
So in the end, the unreliable narrator may very well be reliable as to what he believes. Who’s to say Joy in “Find Me” isn’t headed to a reunion with her mother?
Spiritual faith abounds with this perspective. The “72 virgins in Heaven” concept of reward in Islam (although misinterpreted in our pop culture) could very well be true for Muslims who belive it. The Catholic Purgatory encompassing purification over time to redeem yourself from sin, the child who believes in the Tooth Fairy long past the age of baby teeth, the millions of women who place credence in a lover’s “I’ll be with you always. . . I’ll take care of you,’ the list is endless.
These are our own perceptions of reality, and to us they are real. Does this mean we’re all wrong? We shouldn’t trust our instincts, perceptions and thoughts? Bow to the supremacy of science? No, for what’s considered “science” seems to change almost as quickly as our emotions.
I think it means we shouldn’t rush to judgment the way we do. We should always be willing to look at different perspectives, honor others’ opinions, put ourselves in the other guy’s shoes. The universe is vast, our world holds quadrillions of fascinating objects and happenings, and differing realities (to some, illusions) are part of that.
“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” Albert Einstein
Where would Donald Trump be without his side-swept hairstyle? Would he still project that indefinable air of power, wealth and ruthlessness? What if we glimpsed sight of him without his expensive business suit? Without any clothes at all? How would people respond to him?
Because appearance has such a pervasive effect on our judgments about people, I wonder if nudity would level the playing field, and the mechanic down the street, unclothed, would be able to persuade us to invest in his financial schemes? Could toplessness level the playing field between the sexes, as per the “free the nipple” movement. Or would we then simply swap one exterior criterion for another equally erroneous, cozying up to the man or woman with the better physical fitness?
Physical appearance can be terribly misleading–think of the gorgeous guy who turns out to be a wife beater or the perfect model as shallow as a wading pool. Still studies show correlations between attractivenessand popularity, job status, income level, promotional opportunities on the job, sentences for crimes, and dates to the prom. Physical appearance includes points like fashion sense, hair, makeup, and a person’s sensitivity to cultural trends.
What’s considered “attractive” varies with year, social class, age, and, I hope, native intelligence and taste. Conformity can never be over-rated. If we look too weird, out of place, others don’t find us attractive.
Take a gander at any major slick magazine, Hollywood event, or television news personalities. The people, especially the women, look nearly identical. With a few notable exceptions, such as Jared Leto or Lady Gaga, who choose to look different simply to be different, hair styles and make up could be from a mold. The long flowing curls, the heavily shadowed eyes and butterfly eyelashes, the fluid yet molded clothing.
I may be especially sensitive to appearance because l’m unusually short, even for a woman. Years of experience in conversations conducted literally over my head taught me to level the playing field of height by engaging in discussions only when seated. Other factors observed or experienced–pricey clothing, disabilities, accents, and a multitude of others–got me considering the “naturalist” angle. Why should a plain Jane’s idea for an invention be less salable than the same concept when pitched by a thin blonde model?
Granted, nudity would be an extreme solution to obtain equality. But dedicated nudists swear the practice makes people focus, so to speak, on personalities and character traits. It strips away the superficial. It would enable us to concentrate on ideas, not subtle cues to status.
I’ve now convinced myself this is a bad idea. We’d just substitute good looks and excellent builds for other physical trappings. Plus we’d never surrender makeup and haircuts, or the ability to sculpt our bodies through surgery. The biggest challenge, however, would be where to carry our mobile phones, tablets, tissues, keys, and condoms.
A recent tussle with a cell phone provider revealed an unexpected emotional response in me. A series of contacts to try to resolve some problems, all with non-native-English-speaking customer service personnel (aka NNES) pushed my patience to its limits. I found myself thinking, “Why doesn’t the company hire people who speak English better?” With each successive and enunciated apology, “I am so sorry you are experiencing this problem” and similar phrases, my temper simply got hotter. Worse, my speech got louder, more clipped, forceful.
Nothing shook the responders. I finally said (could I have yelled?), “You’re all very polite, but I need answers!” I may even have cut the conversation off a time or two.
After I hung up, I wondered why on earth I let the standard routine bother me so much. I knew I’d be connected with NNESs and there would be challenges. Having visited countries where English isn’t spoken, I knew the struggle of trying to communicate in another language.
“Well, it’s their job. They’re paid to do it,” I thought. “They should learn the language better. They should know the solutions quickly.” Then an ah-ha moment swamped me.
I was over-reacting precisely because they’d been so polite. Without thinking, I’d internalized a superior social position, a kind of kiss-my-ass attitude that seems to accompany a structure like colonialism or caste or slavery, in which responses of the “inferior” class are standardized and required. I was stereotyping.
It’s easy to castigate people in other times, other countries for what now is labeled racist or classist, to fling accusations of suppression and discrimination at others. But my ah-ha moment warned me to slow down. Take more care with how I act and react. Temper my judgments of others, whether they’re providing a service on the phone or spouting off in a news interview to advocate opinions different from mine.
I wonder how the people on the other end of the line stereotype me?
At the local Y, changes have occurred over the years I’ve been a member. Now when I visit the weight room, people have left 50-pound moveable plates locked on the ends of the bars, usually perching the contraptions on racks far above my head. Since I’m neither six feet tall nor a muscular football or soccer player, I can’t remove or change them for my own use. Smaller dumbbells are strewn across the rooms, handy for tripping over and breaking toes. Towels litter the exercise areas and actually seem to reproduce or replicate in the dark corners and under benches of the locker room, in damp white-ish piles.
Then there’s the matter of smart phones. Young exercisers are getting their fingers in great shape since they spend more time sitting on equipment to text their friends than they do actually using the apparatus. Or perhaps they’re checking the stock market. In any case, again, no one else can use the gear.
Are humans, or at least Americans, losing their basic intelligence? No other explanation for this behavior, for we used to learn at our mother’s knee to endeavor to pick up our own messes and be considerate of other people. Don’t think the phenomena exist only in gyms and health clubs. What else accounts for drivers who merrily plow through red lights and drift the wrong way down one-way streets? Surely they don’t want accidents. Or the empty-headed pedestrian who crosses an interstate freeway at the height of rush hour? He’s ignored or never learned the inevitable result of that attempt.
Are we getting ruder? Maybe this is the cause of the poor behavior I’ve mentioned. Strong signs support this theory. People believe that day-to-day behavior has become more aggressive, less patient, and certainly not as sympathetic.
My inclination is to blame modern technology for both these phenomena. I no longer need a memory as long as my computer and phone remain ever-ready. And since I’m dealing with humans almost totally via these lines of communication, I can’t begin to sense the humanity that links me with those on the other ends of the networks. They’re just voices or words, symbols or algorithms.
I may be frothing at the mouth because I’m frustrated at the state of the world in general. I’ve pledged to do my best to combat the growing tide of stupidity and rudeness. I can’t do a thing about a man being beheaded half-way across the world, but I can try to improve my little corner.
As a child I feared dogs. They had large sharp teeth, made loud noises, moved aggressively, and often stuck their noses in my crotch. To this day I avoid them. I also worried about the end of the universe, torn between wanting a scientific answer and the hopes extended by religion. Nuclear war (this was the height of the cold war), being dateless for homecoming, and going deaf also made my list of items to worry about.
“Find Me,” a new novel by 
Bonnie McCune, author 