Vainglory

photo-1424659926640-6a4613498b5e

I like this word.

Several of my friendships have been unbalanced because of the vainglory that mushrooms inside humanity. It is as nauseating as it is pitiable to witness the romance of one, narcissistic person with their narcissistc selves. A fascinating insight into the massage of ones ego is this hilarious piece written by Jill O’Rourke:

If you’ve ever watched America’s Next Top Model, you know that it’s a passionate love story between Tyra Banks and Tyra Banks, set against the backdrop of a modeling competition. So imagine what a love affair Tyra can have with herself on social media, a technology that was invented for people to talk about themselves.

Read more: http://www.crushable.com/2013/08/02/entertainment/tyra-banks-twitter-best-funniest-tweets/#ixzz3plto4Xbt

Ah, the love story that permeates most of ones life. The glossy-magazine sheen of facebook selfies and makeup-pouts allow the crying child inside feel as if one is the cover star of Hello magazine, finally.

I love what comment-leaver Darcie says on an article for the Telegraph magazine:

I’ve begun evaluating my motivations when it comes to taking photos with friends and then whether or not to post those photos. Am I trying to capture memories of a special moment so I can revisit them and remember? Or am I thinking about what would look cool on Instagram and prove to others that I’m loved? http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/21/t-magazine/female-bffs-power-couples.html?_r=0

Don’t misunderstand me, there a many forms to manifest ones vainglorious avatar, to spill out as deeply self-involved and annoy others with constant updates of ones self-labelled achievements like an irritating pop-up message onscreen that won’t let you get on with your own work.

Yet the particular brand of self-involvement required to actively create a personality online, an alternate, magazine self, with other virtual, magazine friends, means that less thought, attention and investment is made in the world one lives in.

I’ve found that a major impetus of the vainglory is to simply feel wanted and appreciated:

The desire for fame has its roots in the experience of neglect, in injury. No one would want to be famous who hadn’t also, somewhere in the past, been made to feel extremely insignificant. http://www.thebookoflife.org/your-desire-to-be-famous-and-the-problems-it-will-bring-you/

And so this moving, very honest and pathetic confession by Rachel Vorona Cote below, brings together all the elements of vanity that cause our imbalanced moments. The insignificance and neglect once experienced haven’t been fully examined, understood and accepted, so the only solution is to blame oneself:

“I can’t recall the details of the fight that prompted me to self-harm. I only know that I had angered one of my girlfriends and wanted to punish myself. This wasn’t unusual for me. I have never fought gracefully with women. From the earliest, I felt any misstep on my part carried an elephantine weight. Both shame and pride would burn in my stomach. I was a wretched friend, I would think to myself. No, I was obviously misunderstood. Regardless, I was going to lose her.

I was going to lose her—that was always my fear. My trespass didn’t matter. It was less what I’d done wrong than my paranoia and neediness that would inevitably weary my friend. I would take her departure as a bitter loss, but also as a personal failure. In my adolescence, when my heart thumped to the rhythms of social acceptance, foundering in friendship seemed like the biggest of all recipes for disaster.

…I know that I tend to need my friends in a more urgent way than they typically need me, and this friendship was no different. Her conversation and emails helped make my world more coherent. I had hoped that my company was similarly meaningful to her, and that she missed me too.

…My apologies were like clumsy origami. I hid the shame of my self-punishment inside expansive apologies. I was always apologizing not only for what I had done to injure my friend, but also for my own narcissistic masochism.

As I became more self-aware, I grew a little out of this intensity and myopic narcissism, but not all of it. At 30, I still worry that I’ve wronged or even mildly aggravated someone I love. My sometimes-disproportionate reaction to minor gaffes betrays my fragile sense of self, which I have based too much on the opinions of others.”

I have seen the deer-in-the-headlights expression of women that are as self-involved as this, especially since I lost you and my friendship lists underwent a mass-culling. I have realised the imbalance in my relationships, and confronted those that were far too needy around me. They were just my virtual friends, my facebook-magazine friends. Vainglory threatens to remove us from our human connection to each other and live in a superficial, airbrushed, CV-orientated, botoxed shell of a world.

What it means, I have realised, is that behind the photo-ready fun of a group of girls having coffee, a far more nuanced set of emotions threaten to spill out. Women don’t talk about the pressures of being around each other since individualism became central to our collective philosophy.

Durkheim’s critique on the number of decisions we are weighted with helps us understand how difficult this pressure, this ‘status anxiety’ (as Alain de Botton terms it) can get amongst people with whom you seem, on the surface, to have a great deal in common.

All the time spent around their friends, or posing for pictures together, what is happening is a lot of sizing up, mental arithmetic on numbers (age, weight, height), storing up details, carrying resentments and, eventually, before the friendships die a sudden death, sitting around a table pretending to still like each other.

Advertisements

Words are the Religion

photo-1431608660976-4fe5bcc2112c (1)

Your Daddy is dyslexic. His mother and father had both left school by the age of 11, so when he was 14, he had decided that he hated English class. The teacher made him read aloud.

In their home there were tabloid newspapers, and picture books when they had been young. Now, there is an old radio and three televisions. These are the windows into the outside world. They didn’t go to church, and until today never had central heating.

When I met him, in a mosque after walking the Marylebone High Street, the childhood he described was an age away from where we were.

He was only 16 when he began to attend the Sufi circle at his local mosque. This place had provided a balm, a healing for the life he had come from. They chanted ancient words in Arabic, as foreign to him as eating with chopsticks.

I was born, just as he was, a child in a big family calling a council estate my home. The social housing in East London brought together many kinds of people. My English neighbours were alcoholics that had never gotten married, whose children were mistakes. There were petty criminals and scary dog breeders. We, like the other immigrant families, lived among the neglected indigenous population of England.

I was instilled with a deep sense of moral obligation towards God and my family. Our Muslim identity was something we breathed at home, praying together and learning together. Achieving academically was very important.

When we were moved to a better neighborhood, and I attended school in Hertfordshire, that is when I learned what it meant to be different. There was a girl in my class whose father was a Tory MP, another girl whose sister was at Cambridge. Their houses were enormous, with thick carpet and big gardens and lovely bathrooms. I would go home where the 6 of us lived on the first-floor and devour my library books.

On Cultivating Beauty

We’ve bee through such a tragedy, losing you. I cannot moralise it, it is the saddest thing that happened to me.

I am extremely gratified to have the life I do, and for your father, but your stillbirth was a tragedy unlike any other.

We were floating along, helping whoever asked, (you become popular, opening your door to strangers) riding our bicycles because we couldn’t afford a car (telling ourselves we were saving the environment) not establishing roots anywhere, (enjoying our youthful freedom) no structured boundaries and no organisation. And then you began to grow inside me, so I went into over-gear with trying to sort our family out, all the while lingering in my mind was the knowledge that it was probably too late, because a baby was coming and we were behind with planning a more comfortable, stable future. I went to the Job Centre because I was fed up of hearing that unemployment rates have dropped under the coalition government whilst I couldn’t find full time employment for a year after graduating. When I was in the last trimester of pregnancy, I still went to job interviews. I worked another internship and saved the £50 a week for you, to buy you a nice baby blanket and a baby bath. In that time, our floor began to show signs of leaky plumbing and the old, single-glazed windows rattled. Our flimsily-gathered ‘friends’ rang our doorbell at night and I cried. We struggled on, privately renting a first floor flat that wasn’t fit to raise a baby in, and saving nothing every month.

According to John Mirowsky, a sociologist at the University of Texas at Austin, biologically, having a baby is best early on, but the sociological impact is far from ideal.

‘At age 20 or younger, Mirowsky wrote, pregnancy is “more likely to happen out of wedlock, more likely to interfere with educational attainment, and more likely to crystallize a disadvantaged status.” https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/cusp/201211/whats-the-best-age-have-baby

Your presence woke me up to the stark reality of how an impoverished background can crystallise a deprived future, what Russell Brand terms a ‘down-payment on a slow suicide’  http://www.russellbrand.com/death-takes-small-bites/

You woke me up to the life I wanted for my children, free from dependency on the council-housing waiting list I had been on my whole life. During labour, I thought about all this, I thought about struggling and never sending you forward to the education you should be able to access, to the beautiful life I would like to cultivate for you.

It turns out, you were not destined to inhale any beautiful air, because you came into this world born still, but you cultivated beauty in my life, rather than I cultivating it in yours.

I changed rapidly from the grief, I was no longer acquiescent to an unfulfilled existence. My father said the grief would be empowering, and it has been. In ways I will describe here in the future.