If you were not aware (and I know I wasn't, largely due to the onset of stinking illness and a general 'drooziness' which is currently making it hard for me to read the date properly) today is February 29th, the leap day of this leap year1. There is a part of me that is very fond of this date, both for its novelty and its evidence of humanity's delightful ability to make things up and then stick to them. I realise that there's probably some very clever mathematics behind it, but I like to imagine that the leap year conversation was something akin to:
"Great Scott! We're running out of time!"
"What?"
"The years are getting ahead of themselves! The calendar doesn't line up properly!"
"Oh, well, we'll just add another day then."
"Can we do that?"
"I don't know."
"I shall ask Science!"
*asks Science*
"What does Science say?"
"Science says 'Go for it!'"
"Excellent."
"Man ... Science is such a cool dude."
"Isn't he just?"
"Smashing."
"Quite."
"Yes."
"Indeed."
"Hm."
"Spiffing."
"Quite."2
... but I digress.
On leap years, 'tradition' seems to be the word of the hour (or day), and with that word is what may be considered its counter, 'transgression'. But what, I wonder, are we to do on a day that seems to hold with both? What do we make of a tradition of transgression?
I am talking, of course, about the tradition of women being allowed to propose to men on February 29th. (It used to be that women could propose on any day of the leap year, but it was later brought down to just the single day. There's progress for you!)
I must begin by instinctively questioning the wording here. Women are 'allowed' to propose. That is to say, they are given permission. "By whom?" I ask. And I can only infer from this statement that women are not allowed to propose any other time.
As a result of this, a woman who proposes to a man on the 29th is, I can only imagine, made very conscious of the weight of her transgression, whether the reaction be positive or negative. The man is equally likely to feel this weight. More often than not, he is expected to feel, by becoming the proposee, emasculated. And one doesn't have to look hard to find comments each leap year about men hiding from their girlfriends or locking themselves away from women (as if they are such irresistible, marriageable specimens). Plenty of newspapers chime in, too, sporting headlines such as "Watch out gents, it's a leap year!" - a nice, big, bold, warning that the predatory female is come to get them.
This anxiety isn't a new one. A few images of early twentieth-century satirical postcards (as well as other images of women proposing) can be found at the wonderful Vagenda blog here. I could examine these images at length, but the idea is pretty evident. Though the leap year tradition promises an opportunity to forego traditional limitations, it almost certainly in practice edifies them. It is a tradition of highlighting transgression, but not challenging that definition, because, ludicrous as it may seem, stigmas don't just go away if one day in every one thousand four hundred and sixty-one there's a quaint change.
It's hardly liberating.3
Now, I have already mentioned fear of emasculation, and I'd like to comment on that a little further. Even in school, the idea that the boy should always be the one to ask the girl out was pretty concrete. Traditions of gender roles are cemented at a young age, and the word literally used towards someone in an instance of their girlfriend taking the romantic initiative was "weak". I don't believe that fear of female proposal is really any different. Nor, as it happens, is it any less mistaken or pathetic. I'd like to put this simply: If you believe that the order in which people express their affection in a relationship is more important than the quality and substance of that affection, you're doing it wrong. Seriously.
And, yet, I think there's a lot more to this proposal problem. There's a problem with the whole event of it that goes beyond gender. It is, I fear, our old friend, obligation.
Just take a moment to think about this. A man decides to propose to his partner, and so he buys a ring, maybe some flowers or other gifts, arranges the day, organises everyone he wants to be there, prepares what he wants to say and how he wants to say it, collects up his courage, and is finally ready to do the deed. He may do all this weeks or months in advance. His partner, perhaps unaware that all this is going on, gets about five seconds to make a decision. Real fair, no? Now, I realise that this is not always the way it goes. Some couples have the sense to talk about the prospect of marriage at some length before a proposal is made. Others at least try to lay hints and suggestions so the proposee is not completely in the dark. (This of course has led to many painfully predictable rom-com scenarios with false signals galore. If I may quickly address an open letter to Hollywood: STOP.)
But generally speaking, aren't proposals supposed to be a romantic surprise? Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, dear reader, but surprises are actually kind of awful. Not all of them, that is. Just the awful ones. A surprise cupcake when one returns home is lovely. A surprise visit from an old friend can be super. A surprisingly positive response to an essay you struggled writing, that's grand. The problem with the proposal surprise, however, as well as surprise birthday parties and other such events, is that it is all about conspiring to leave someone out of the loop. And when it comes to asking someone to marry you, I can't help feel that it's something they should have just the teeny-tiniest say in.
Put quite literally on the spot, the surprised proposee is obliged to give a response in an instant. Even if they say yes, doesn't that seem a little inconsiderate? And it gets worse. The proposer more and more these days feels obliged to make an event - a stunt - out of their proposal. We've all probably seen people proposing in restaurants, at sports games on big monitors, surrounded by all their friends and family, or otherwise very much in the public eye. Proposing has become a competition, and everyone is watching. Now, I don't mean to say that one's gestures cannot be elaborate, but would you want to be asked to make a major decision while dozens/hundreds/thousands/millions of people - possibly all strangers - watched and judged your reactions? I know I wouldn't.
There's plenty of footage of these extravagant proposals being turned down and people being publicly shamed as a result. But it's not just the proposer. Think about the proposee. They are transformed into that horrible person who didn't even play along and say yes just because the cameras were rolling. (Excuse me while my head explodes from the stupid of this.) Even in intimate settings with family and friends, the surprised proposee feels obliged to say yes. If that is not cruel obligation, I don't know what is! It has zilch to do with the affection and intimacy between the couple involved, and everything to do with the audience watching. How romantic! I think I'm being kind when I call the people who perform these surprise public proposals inconsiderate ba*boop*rds.
And I don't think it's too much of a stretch of the imagination to think that some men quake at the idea of being proposed to less because of traditions of gender roles, and more because they wouldn't want to be put in the same horrible position of pressure they would inflict on their partners - and they even get to know in advance which day it could happen!
The whole business of marriage proposals is steeped in obligation, from the gender roles to the actions involved. Question: what's with the getting down on one knee thing, anyway?4 It's tradition at its worst, because it transforms what should be a personal, intimate expression between people into a pressuring mass of prescribed conventions. The same, I believe, can be said of weddings.5
At no point in any of this do I mean to suggest that there is anything wrong with proposing. There's nothing wrong with rings and flowers and one-knee-bending-down-upon-ing. There's nothing wrong with extravagant gestures. There's nothing wrong with any of the traditions. But only as long as the focus is on you as a couple and the genuine affection between you. It should have nothing to do with anybody else.
Whether one person proposes to the other, whether that person be male or female, whether it takes place on any given day, whether you invite people to witness, that is all for you as a couple to decide. Perform your own gestures. Use your own words. Make your own traditions. Because, in the end, the proposal and the wedding are just events. They signify the continuation of your relationship; and it is not for anyone but you to decide what that relationship is or how you express it.
tl;dr:
1. Don't be an inconsiderate ba*boop*rd.
2. Propose if, when, and however you please.
3. ????
4. Profit!
1 A leap year can also be known as an 'intercalary' or 'bissextile year'. I for one know which name I find the most entertaining.
2 I confess, most of the imagined conversations in my head end like that, and an astonishing number involve Science being a pretty cool dude. Also watch this for that much-wanted hit of leap year knowledge.
3 This whole thing becomes even more ridiculous when one considers non-heterosexual relationships. Should a lesbian also have to wait four years for a specific twenty-four hour window to ask her partner to marry her (if indeed she could [as she should be allowed to] do so)?
4 This is called 'Genuflection'. How romantic!
5 Giving away the bride. Liberating, much?
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Footnotes are officially a thing!1
1 There isn’t really a point2 to this post, but, seeing as one of my readers3 expressed their delight that footnotes are a thing, I decided to make it official.
2 But there are some points in this post, including periods and the little dot above the ‘i’s.4
3 The aforementioned reader will not be named.5
4 The little dots are called ‘tittles’ by the way, which it goes without saying6 is a delicious7 name.
5 Well except by his parents.8
6 It’s astounding how often the phrase ‘it goes without saying’ is preceded or proceeded by the thing that is ostensibly not needed to be said. Seems somewhat self-defeating.9
7 That is to say that I find the word pleasing, not that it is literally tasty. One cannot taste a word10, nor, in this case, the thing to which the word11 refers.12
8 Of course it is not that they will name him. They have already done it13.
9 I am waiting to see an occasion where someone genuinely begins, ‘It goes without saying’, and everyone gets it14.
10 Except metaphorically, or perhaps as a result of some kind of synaesthesia15.
11 The word being ‘tittle’.
12 Although technically one could argue that the point of an ‘i’ can be made with ink16 and then licked.17
13 By ‘it’ I mean naming. Sorry if that was ambiguous.
14 ‘Gets it’ meaning ‘understands’ not ‘tangibly receives’. The ‘it’ here is yet undefined.
15 Which is one of my favourite words18.
16 Or other appropriate substance for leaving accurate shapes on paper19.
17 But then aren’t you licking the tittle and the thing on which the tittle is written?20
18 ‘Synaesthesia’, that is. Keep up.
19 Or other appropriate object or surface.
20 And aren’t you merely licking the substance that makes up the tittle, not the tittle itself?21
21 Is it ever possible to truly lick a tittle?22
22 Big questions here on Oliver Cooper Writes....23
23 This is the last one24.25
24 By which I mean ‘the last footnote’.
25 I promise.26
26 I lied.
2 But there are some points in this post, including periods and the little dot above the ‘i’s.4
3 The aforementioned reader will not be named.5
4 The little dots are called ‘tittles’ by the way, which it goes without saying6 is a delicious7 name.
5 Well except by his parents.8
6 It’s astounding how often the phrase ‘it goes without saying’ is preceded or proceeded by the thing that is ostensibly not needed to be said. Seems somewhat self-defeating.9
7 That is to say that I find the word pleasing, not that it is literally tasty. One cannot taste a word10, nor, in this case, the thing to which the word11 refers.12
8 Of course it is not that they will name him. They have already done it13.
9 I am waiting to see an occasion where someone genuinely begins, ‘It goes without saying’, and everyone gets it14.
10 Except metaphorically, or perhaps as a result of some kind of synaesthesia15.
11 The word being ‘tittle’.
12 Although technically one could argue that the point of an ‘i’ can be made with ink16 and then licked.17
13 By ‘it’ I mean naming. Sorry if that was ambiguous.
14 ‘Gets it’ meaning ‘understands’ not ‘tangibly receives’. The ‘it’ here is yet undefined.
15 Which is one of my favourite words18.
16 Or other appropriate substance for leaving accurate shapes on paper19.
17 But then aren’t you licking the tittle and the thing on which the tittle is written?20
18 ‘Synaesthesia’, that is. Keep up.
19 Or other appropriate object or surface.
20 And aren’t you merely licking the substance that makes up the tittle, not the tittle itself?21
21 Is it ever possible to truly lick a tittle?22
22 Big questions here on Oliver Cooper Writes....23
23 This is the last one24.25
24 By which I mean ‘the last footnote’.
25 I promise.26
26 I lied.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Initial reactions: or 'How to be a bad writer and get away with it'.
In continued efforts to waste your time with contentless content, I'd like to remark on the pleasantly positive response I have received thus far for this blog. Oh, how very far a little shameless plugging can get you!
Sincerely, I would like to thank those whowasted took the time to read my posts and comment on them. You're very kind. This blog remains relatively new and I wish I could promise you a certain type of content so that you could decide for yourselves whether you would like to continue stroking my ego reading. As it stands, I have a lot of ideas, all wildly different, so I guess we'll be finding our feet as we go. I promise I will try to make this more than just a place for rants concerning the key dates of our calendar year, but experience should have taught you by now not to listen to any promises I make.
To respond to one reader in particular who remarked that they could hear my voice in these posts, I am very sorry. That news is troubling on two accounts. 1) This means that my writing is as hideously ineloquent as my usual spoken diatripe1. 2) It means that those accustomed to my special brand of monotonous drooling will have to put up with hearing it more often than they normally would. For this I can only apologise. If it helps, we can all try to pretend that my written voice is something far more appealing: a smooth, golden legato, like the trickling of warm treacle, underscored by a smoky husk, like the cracking of wood in a dying camp fire. That or you can imagine that this blog is penned by Morgan Freeman2. It's up to you.
If you haven't yet been made aware (and I don't blame you; I appear to have made an art of defying clarity) I am a writer, and one of the things I would like to attempt is a series sharing my thoughts on the practice, the craft, and the business of writing. You can expect the first of these posts soon.
I will preface, however, with the candid acknowledgement that I'm not actually that good at writing, and yet, somehow, I've managed to convince a lot of people that I am. (Top Score! The disguise is working!) The truth is that I am as susceptible to typographical errors and blatantly erroneous comments as everyone else. I spend a lot of time writing and I'm a darn sight better at it than I was three years ago, or even three weeks ago; but, as much as I strive always to improve, I am not perfect, and I am thankfully not foolish enough to claim so.
There's a certain charm in knowing that the first comment ever made to this blog was to point out a frankly glaring typo. A lesser me would be annoyed that people aren't reading for the content and being nit-picky. The better me recognises that at least that means people are reading; and, if I strive to create the best content I can - which I do - I must embrace criticism and correction - which I do.
The key to being a good writer, I find, is to surround yourself with good people who are aware and honest and who are more than happy to point out how wrong you are whenever possible. I am delighted to have my little crack team of typo-finding crack typo monkeys, and I hope they will continue to help me make my content as good as it can be, so that I can continue taking all of the credit. Thanks guys.
The particularly observant of you (or those foolish enough to have read it more than once) may have noticed that my previous post has already undergone a few edits for clarity. I would like to bridge these two posts by adding one additional comment, stating that, as far as I'm concerned, the value of a thing lies in how we create it and what we do with it. Nothing of value is an end in itself, whether that thing be romantic love, or money, or a shamelessly self-referential blog post. We have an obligation only to what we create, given the time we have, the resources available to us, and the people with whom we are creating.
With that said, I intend to keep working at what I write here, as I will with everything else, untilsomeone starts paying me to do something better I can be happy that what I produce is at the very least not terrible. That, for now, seems like a pretty good goal.
tl;dr:
1. Write poorly.
2. Get friends to fix it.
3. ????
4. Profit!
1 That typo was intentional. Calm down, Monkeys.
2 I stole this suggestion from a friend. I am entirely without shame.
Sincerely, I would like to thank those who
To respond to one reader in particular who remarked that they could hear my voice in these posts, I am very sorry. That news is troubling on two accounts. 1) This means that my writing is as hideously ineloquent as my usual spoken diatripe1. 2) It means that those accustomed to my special brand of monotonous drooling will have to put up with hearing it more often than they normally would. For this I can only apologise. If it helps, we can all try to pretend that my written voice is something far more appealing: a smooth, golden legato, like the trickling of warm treacle, underscored by a smoky husk, like the cracking of wood in a dying camp fire. That or you can imagine that this blog is penned by Morgan Freeman2. It's up to you.
If you haven't yet been made aware (and I don't blame you; I appear to have made an art of defying clarity) I am a writer, and one of the things I would like to attempt is a series sharing my thoughts on the practice, the craft, and the business of writing. You can expect the first of these posts soon.
I will preface, however, with the candid acknowledgement that I'm not actually that good at writing, and yet, somehow, I've managed to convince a lot of people that I am. (Top Score! The disguise is working!) The truth is that I am as susceptible to typographical errors and blatantly erroneous comments as everyone else. I spend a lot of time writing and I'm a darn sight better at it than I was three years ago, or even three weeks ago; but, as much as I strive always to improve, I am not perfect, and I am thankfully not foolish enough to claim so.
There's a certain charm in knowing that the first comment ever made to this blog was to point out a frankly glaring typo. A lesser me would be annoyed that people aren't reading for the content and being nit-picky. The better me recognises that at least that means people are reading; and, if I strive to create the best content I can - which I do - I must embrace criticism and correction - which I do.
The key to being a good writer, I find, is to surround yourself with good people who are aware and honest and who are more than happy to point out how wrong you are whenever possible. I am delighted to have my little crack team of typo-finding crack typo monkeys, and I hope they will continue to help me make my content as good as it can be, so that I can continue taking all of the credit. Thanks guys.
The particularly observant of you (or those foolish enough to have read it more than once) may have noticed that my previous post has already undergone a few edits for clarity. I would like to bridge these two posts by adding one additional comment, stating that, as far as I'm concerned, the value of a thing lies in how we create it and what we do with it. Nothing of value is an end in itself, whether that thing be romantic love, or money, or a shamelessly self-referential blog post. We have an obligation only to what we create, given the time we have, the resources available to us, and the people with whom we are creating.
With that said, I intend to keep working at what I write here, as I will with everything else, until
tl;dr:
1. Write poorly.
2. Get friends to fix it.
3. ????
4. Profit!
1 That typo was intentional. Calm down, Monkeys.
2 I stole this suggestion from a friend. I am entirely without shame.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Obligation Day (14/02/2012)
Today is, of course, that very special of days on which we celebrate the Tine of Valen1. It is a day, indeed, that proposes the celebration of romantic love, and I for one think that’s just super. Romantic love is pretty swell and I’d go as far to say that I’m a proponent of it. So allow me to join the jolly fray and say, “Here’s to romantic love! It’s all right!”
Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to explain why Valentine’s is insipid, insincere and, worst of all, irrelevant.
Let’s begin by clearing some existing arguments.
'Valentine’s is about corporations and money.’ This I cannot disagree with, but it is not the reason Valentine’s irks me. Corporations monetise on every holiday they can – always have – always will. It isn’t unreasonable for companies to desire to profit on the boosted sales of cards and presents. It is business after all. That’s not a problem. But there is a problem here. Consider this: if no one bought into holidays at all – in fact, if no one bought into just Christmas – our economies would most likely collapse. The financial well-being of our nations depends on the success of holiday expenditure. We need holidays. And that sad fact hints at the problem I wish to make clear.
Next: ‘Valentine’s only exists to make single people feel bad.’ Again, there is some truth in this, or rather the truth that, even if it is not the reason of its being, Valentine’s certainly does a very good job of it. Those without romantic partners are more often than not made to feel isolated, incomplete and generally unhappy. Even the most staunchly single cannot entirely avoid an insipid pang of self-doubt or self-pity when Valen’s Tine rolls around. Now, perhaps I am biased, considering that m’colleagues have labelled me the living embodiment of the internet meme, Forever Alone; and yet, however happily my future self may be significantly othered, however much I may long to celebrate my love by yawping it over the rooftops of the world, Valentine’s has always bugged me and I predict always will. I don’t think Valentine’s purpose is to make single people feel bad. Nor do I think the celebration of romantic love should be anathema to those who do not currently experience it. Yet, on Valentine’s Day more than any other day, the unashamed, narrow, worth-destroying mentality that pervades our culture rears its ugly, ugly head highest and strikes.
Here’s the problem. As it stands, the only love that counts worth a damn it seems is romantic love, and you don’t just want it – you need it. If you don’t have romantic love, you are incomplete. You are not a whole you. Somehow, we have convinced ourselves that to be single is to be inherently unhappy, unfulfilled, and less than good enough. Even the words we use play to this fallacy. ‘Single’ – on one’s own. We don’t use the word for people who don’t have any friends, or family members, or work colleagues. We only use it for someone who doesn’t have romantic love: ‘have’ being a word of ownership, by the way. Love is a commodity – it is a product – the product - and if you don’t have it, you’re not one of the cool kids. The message is that being yourself, one singular being, is something to be embarrassed about, ashamed of, and something you must fix.
The advert is all around us. Literally, almost every advert on television, on the radio, on billboards, in newspapers and magazines, is pushing this idea. Buy our product and you will get love – or sex, which is often synonymous with romantic love, a problem I will tackle another time – and by extension, happiness. It is inescapable.
Has someone ever asked you and a friend if you are “together”? And if you’re not in a romantic relationship, you’ll most likely answer something akin to “Oh no. No. We’re just friends.”
Just friends.
Oh, how we disown and disvalue our friends with that phrase! How we discredit our love for them and their value to us! Just friends. As if friendship could never possibly be as rich and varied and fulfilling as romantic love. As if it is always less. Not only less, but worthless. Because you can’t even use the word ‘together’, no matter how close and how loving you may be. You can be physically adjacent, but you can never be ‘together’.
The result of this awfully limited way of thinking, this obsession with love, is a culture that imagines itself without complexity. What matters is not the richness and quality of one’s relationships, but whether or not you’re in one, and only if it is romantic. It is an obligation - a compulsion. And on February 14th, every year, we have a day where if you aren’t celebrating romantic love with the giving of gifts no one wants or the sharing of words you would never yourself use, you can just go on feeling sorry for yourself. But how sincere, I ask, can loving gestures really be, when one feels obliged to perform them? How meaningful can love be when it is so narrowly prescribed? Some would argue that it is important to remind yourself to appreciate the people you love. To this I quote the words of John Green: “If you need to be reminded to like your romantic partner, you’re doing it wrong.”
Valentine’s, beyond all its insipid, worth-crushing mindlessness, is a needless holiday. Celebrating romantic love is fine, but romantic love is, at the very least, over-celebrated. If ever I manage to form a romantic friendship with someone (heaven help their poor soul!), we will have Halloween on Valentine’s and Valentine’s on April Fools. (Incidentally, these are all holidays I enjoy and rue in equal aspect.) And on said Fool's Day, the insincerity of our gestures can be appreciated appropriately as a kind of bad joke.
Simply I ask that we take a moment to remember the less-loved love in our lives, whatever form it may take. Show appreciation to those with whom you wouldn’t normally be so open about your affections. And instead of celebrating love for love’s sake, consider acting upon your affections in meaningful ways – ways which cannot be conveniently transacted – ways which don’t rely on it being a certain day of the year to make manifest - ways which communicate that you, singular person, love as an autonomous entity, happy to create and be part of a plural us.
To my friends, close and far; m’colleagues; my classmates; my housemates; my family (to whom I owe apology for not making more frequent contact); and to all the strangers who have shown fleeting kindness, to whom I hope I have shown something of the same; I love you all, one way or another. And that, I think, is pretty swell.
“Here’s to love. It’s all right!”
1 Hank Green tells the tale of Valen's Tine. (Starts at 0:35)
Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to explain why Valentine’s is insipid, insincere and, worst of all, irrelevant.
Let’s begin by clearing some existing arguments.
'Valentine’s is about corporations and money.’ This I cannot disagree with, but it is not the reason Valentine’s irks me. Corporations monetise on every holiday they can – always have – always will. It isn’t unreasonable for companies to desire to profit on the boosted sales of cards and presents. It is business after all. That’s not a problem. But there is a problem here. Consider this: if no one bought into holidays at all – in fact, if no one bought into just Christmas – our economies would most likely collapse. The financial well-being of our nations depends on the success of holiday expenditure. We need holidays. And that sad fact hints at the problem I wish to make clear.
Next: ‘Valentine’s only exists to make single people feel bad.’ Again, there is some truth in this, or rather the truth that, even if it is not the reason of its being, Valentine’s certainly does a very good job of it. Those without romantic partners are more often than not made to feel isolated, incomplete and generally unhappy. Even the most staunchly single cannot entirely avoid an insipid pang of self-doubt or self-pity when Valen’s Tine rolls around. Now, perhaps I am biased, considering that m’colleagues have labelled me the living embodiment of the internet meme, Forever Alone; and yet, however happily my future self may be significantly othered, however much I may long to celebrate my love by yawping it over the rooftops of the world, Valentine’s has always bugged me and I predict always will. I don’t think Valentine’s purpose is to make single people feel bad. Nor do I think the celebration of romantic love should be anathema to those who do not currently experience it. Yet, on Valentine’s Day more than any other day, the unashamed, narrow, worth-destroying mentality that pervades our culture rears its ugly, ugly head highest and strikes.
Here’s the problem. As it stands, the only love that counts worth a damn it seems is romantic love, and you don’t just want it – you need it. If you don’t have romantic love, you are incomplete. You are not a whole you. Somehow, we have convinced ourselves that to be single is to be inherently unhappy, unfulfilled, and less than good enough. Even the words we use play to this fallacy. ‘Single’ – on one’s own. We don’t use the word for people who don’t have any friends, or family members, or work colleagues. We only use it for someone who doesn’t have romantic love: ‘have’ being a word of ownership, by the way. Love is a commodity – it is a product – the product - and if you don’t have it, you’re not one of the cool kids. The message is that being yourself, one singular being, is something to be embarrassed about, ashamed of, and something you must fix.
The advert is all around us. Literally, almost every advert on television, on the radio, on billboards, in newspapers and magazines, is pushing this idea. Buy our product and you will get love – or sex, which is often synonymous with romantic love, a problem I will tackle another time – and by extension, happiness. It is inescapable.
Has someone ever asked you and a friend if you are “together”? And if you’re not in a romantic relationship, you’ll most likely answer something akin to “Oh no. No. We’re just friends.”
Just friends.
Oh, how we disown and disvalue our friends with that phrase! How we discredit our love for them and their value to us! Just friends. As if friendship could never possibly be as rich and varied and fulfilling as romantic love. As if it is always less. Not only less, but worthless. Because you can’t even use the word ‘together’, no matter how close and how loving you may be. You can be physically adjacent, but you can never be ‘together’.
The result of this awfully limited way of thinking, this obsession with love, is a culture that imagines itself without complexity. What matters is not the richness and quality of one’s relationships, but whether or not you’re in one, and only if it is romantic. It is an obligation - a compulsion. And on February 14th, every year, we have a day where if you aren’t celebrating romantic love with the giving of gifts no one wants or the sharing of words you would never yourself use, you can just go on feeling sorry for yourself. But how sincere, I ask, can loving gestures really be, when one feels obliged to perform them? How meaningful can love be when it is so narrowly prescribed? Some would argue that it is important to remind yourself to appreciate the people you love. To this I quote the words of John Green: “If you need to be reminded to like your romantic partner, you’re doing it wrong.”
Valentine’s, beyond all its insipid, worth-crushing mindlessness, is a needless holiday. Celebrating romantic love is fine, but romantic love is, at the very least, over-celebrated. If ever I manage to form a romantic friendship with someone (heaven help their poor soul!), we will have Halloween on Valentine’s and Valentine’s on April Fools. (Incidentally, these are all holidays I enjoy and rue in equal aspect.) And on said Fool's Day, the insincerity of our gestures can be appreciated appropriately as a kind of bad joke.
Simply I ask that we take a moment to remember the less-loved love in our lives, whatever form it may take. Show appreciation to those with whom you wouldn’t normally be so open about your affections. And instead of celebrating love for love’s sake, consider acting upon your affections in meaningful ways – ways which cannot be conveniently transacted – ways which don’t rely on it being a certain day of the year to make manifest - ways which communicate that you, singular person, love as an autonomous entity, happy to create and be part of a plural us.
To my friends, close and far; m’colleagues; my classmates; my housemates; my family (to whom I owe apology for not making more frequent contact); and to all the strangers who have shown fleeting kindness, to whom I hope I have shown something of the same; I love you all, one way or another. And that, I think, is pretty swell.
“Here’s to love. It’s all right!”
1 Hank Green tells the tale of Valen's Tine. (Starts at 0:35)
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