There
was a study in a German newspaper this week that proudly
announced how much of our lives we spend in a variety of
banal activities: six months on the toilet, two days kissing,
stuff like that. At least three Guardian columnists were
moved to muse on this interesting set of data but none of
them asked the key question: whose life? (OK, how do they
know that we get sixteen hours of orgasms is also admittedly
a key question…). The universal life they’re so
concerned with is clearly that of the "average"
middle-class EuroWesterner. And yet it misses out on key
things: my brother will have spent at least six months of
his life sending text messages, a fact that’s not uncommon
among brats these days. I will have spent about the same
reading pointless newspaper articles online, which probably
explains why I have no time to do any of the things I actually
want to do.
I
read a lot of pointful (pointed?) articles as well, and
I get justly angry about (this week, in order): Iran banning
foreign cinema (fare more infuriating than a bunch of inflammatory
rhetoric about Israel); George W. Bush and the criminal
idiots who work for him; the ongoing farcical trials in
Uzbekistan… you get the picture. I’m well-informed,
I’m highly literate and here I am sharing some facts
with you.
But,
on a global scale, that’s where it stops. Oh, I’m
all about doing arts-based youth work here in Toronto. I
hand out sponsorship money like I’m a member of the
Liberal cabinet (allegedly). But I just don’t have
the motivation to be an international activist. I don’t
even go on marches here (mainly because I’m chary of
supporting any cause that’s also supported by the Catholic
church or people drinking Starbucks’ coffee). So when
I go and hear people like Stephen Lewis (having pushed myself
out of the warm, cosy, "do creative stuff" apartment)
I am in awe of their dedication to the inconceivably huge,
bewilderingly complicated, deeply fucked-up world.
What
do I do? I read. And I write. When I’ve had the chance
to talk to some activists about this, they get this wistful
or fiery look and talk about the centrality of arts and
storytelling to human culture, hold up the essentialness
of thinkers engaging with how stories are told and carried
on, who they’re told about and by — all the stuff
that’s my daily bread. A wise woman I heard speak said
that people in the arts and the humanities who have activist
tendencies often devalue their own ability to make a difference.
Well,
sure. Who wouldn’t? Ten people reading my chapbook
doesn’t make poverty history. Not even if I donate
100% of sales to the Stephen Lewis Foundation. Not even
a thousand people reading my chapbook (some pipe dream).
(On the other hand, if J.K. Rowling donated one dollar from
the sale of every Harry Potter book to the Global Fund,
she could make up a third of the shortfall created by the
G8 countries reneging on their pledges). So I’m torn.
There are a limited number of hours in the day (especially
given that I sleep like a dormouse in cold season): I need
to spend some of them on all the banal things that German
researchers find so fascinating, and make money to live
on, and have some kind of social life — and be creative.
So
where is the time to be an activist? Writing is a slow,
sit-down-alone process. Sure, there are lots of people who
combine the two, through organisations like PEN and Amnesty
if nothing else. But I’m an all-or-nothing kind of
gal: either my time goes towards finding and expressing
ideas about human value and meaning as creatively as I can,
or it goes to all-out war. As a teenager, I threw myself
at every cause that came my way — raised money and
awareness, created events and leaflets and (once) a dress
made entirely of red AIDS awareness ribbons.
Honestly,
I don’t think I helped a bit. When I hear from one
person that reading my chapbook after a break-up helped
her not to feel suicidal, that means more. I think it helps
more. But how do you compare these things? It’s like
quantifying the amount of time an average person spends
on orgasms in their life: are you including just the moment
of the spasm, or the build-up, or the comedown? And what
the hell is an average person anyway? Statistics and aid
organisations move us away from the most important fact
that art exists to insist on, with every brilliant, cynical,
wonderful, erotic, devastating bone in its body: every person,
every story, is unique. And in telling them, artists offer
more than all the UN reports and newspaper articles to the
imagination of the world.
Also,
being a writer is a job where you get to wear pyjamas all
day and claim cool stationery as an expense. Just in case
you thought I was serious about all that "it’s
so meaningful" stuff. Yeah right.
he