Let us all praise mortification
by Kate Zimmerman for the North Shore News
UNLESS you’re a schadenfreude-y cat, you really ought to pick up a paperback book called Mortification: Writers’ Stories of Their Public Shame. A collection of personal essays on the subject of humiliation, it’s ideal pool-side reading, perfect for commutes, and better still if you are the sort of person who is always poised on the edge of mortification yourself.
If you are the kind who never wears white because it invariably attracts a complex trail of greasy spaghetti sauce, the type who always shows up at job interviews with toilet paper snaking off one shoe, the individual who forever discovers the catty remark she just made was overheard by the very worst person to have overheard it, this is the book for you.
The 70 entertaining tales often revolve around publicity tour disasters. Writers, used to a hermit-like existence that keeps them mercifully out of the public eye, have plenty of chances to be chastened when they dust off their 20-year-old dress togs and venture forth. Out of nervousness, habit or (especially if they’re poets) a desire to live down to audience expectations, they drink too much and snore onstage while their fellow writers are reading. They do worse, too, and have worse things done to them, but I don’t want to ruin the book for you. Suffice to say it features such famous authors as the Margarets Atwood and Drabble, Andre Brink and Edna O’Brien. Kylie Minogue’s rear end also features prominently in one story.
I wound up feeling immensely sorry for anyone who has ever had to do a book tour. Writers, already notoriously underpaid, are subject to an awful lot of degradation anyway. Case in point: an article by the author Lynn Coady in Vancouver magazine a few years ago told an excellent story about the kids’ book author Sheree Fitch. Invited by a childcare facility to read from her work to children, Fitch told its representative that she would expect to be paid “450.” After the event, she had to gently remind the woman who had invited her that she needed her fee. The woman opened her wallet, took out a $5 bill, and asked for change.
No doubt there are opportunities to be mortified in any career you can think of. Morticians, say, must find mortification goes with the territory of deceased people and distraught mourners. People who work with sewage, too, must find perils frequently close at hand. If you’re a Vancouver police officer looking to be humbled, you might like to check out Shear Madness, the campy hit currently playing at the Arts Club Theatre’s Granville Stage — insults about the intelligence and integrity of our boys in blue fly fast and furious.
In fact, the only people who seem to be immune to mortification are celebrities. I wonder how they manage to develop that thick skin of theirs? Is that what all their plastic surgery is really about — the application of rhino hide under their well-buffed exteriors?
The other day, for instance, a headline in the Sun trumpeted “Paris the heiress plans her escape.” It seems that Paris Hilton, famous because of a pornographic video and a reality TV show, “plans to give up public life for family life.” She’s getting married to the other rich person called Paris and within two years they expect to have a sprog.
“I don’t enjoy going out anymore,” Hilton apparently whined to Newsweek. “It’s such a pain. It’s everyone saying ‘Let’s do a deal! Can I have a picture?’ I’m just, like, “These people are such losers ….’” Right. Her fans are losers. The fact that Hilton charges over $100,000 to appear at parties for a few minutes does not reflect on her character, it just impugns the characters of those who admire her.
I don’t entirely disagree — anybody who worships Paris Hilton probably deserves to be insulted. She’s just another celeb who ought to be chagrined daily by her own behaviour, yet mysteriously isn’t. Some people may be thin-skinned; NASA could use Hilton’s epidermis to make rockets.
People have been talking for years now about the death of shame. The term rose to prominence around the time that Monica Lewinsky, her blue dress and U.S. president Bill Clinton started dominating headlines. Since then we’ve had jaw-dropping instances of shamelessness thrust upon us, from Martha Stewart’s bold-faced lies, for which she got lightly punished, to the recent trial of Michael Jackson on child molestation charges, which he often seemed to regard as a fashion show and a chance to drum up new fans. (Tonight Show host Jay Leno had his own vulgar moment, when he wound up his testimony at Jackson’s criminal trial by saying to the court “We have Renee Zellwegger on the show tonight.”)
Since Jackson was, in the end, acquitted, it’s possible that he had nothing to be ashamed of in criminal terms. Still, being a grown man who invites other people’s children to bed should hardly be a source of pride.
Nevertheless, Jackson’s website after his acquittal is something to behold. Visit www.mjjsource.com for the full vainglorious experience. “Remember this date for it is a part of History,” the website advises us, flashing 06/13/05, the date of his jury’s verdict. It also flashes at us the date Nelson Mandela was freed (although he had no hit records), and the birthdate of Martin Luther King (ditto). The date the Berlin Wall fell also rates a mention (although the Pink Floyd song about it doesn’t).
Exactly what achievement does Michael Jackson’s verdict represent? And who is his constituency? At the very least, he stands for people who exercise bad judgment and use money to attract underage admirers for questionable reasons. I’ve never heard anybody say that about the Berlin Wall.
A little modesty, maybe even a bit of contrition, are definitely in order on Jackson’s behalf. His lawyer suggests these feelings exist, but if you take a look at the erstwhile King of Pop’s website you will recognize that they are not officially forthcoming.
For concessions of social misdemeanors, British writers set the standard. Most of the authors and poets in the book Mortification come from England, Ireland or Scotland, where self-abasement is revered in a way that must be incomprehensible to many Americans. In the U.K., humility is a good thing. Telling tales on oneself is a sign of good humour, maybe even common decency. Admitting to one’s flaws — especially, reveling in them by turning them into something amusing — is seen as delightful. Boasting, on the other hand, is practically a crime, which they’ll leave to the French. Meanwhile, genuine pomposity is indefensible. Even the British royal family wins points when commoners discover they’re rather fond of a fart joke.
This Anglo tendency to deliberately burst one’s own balloon may not be a good way to achieve self-actualization. I doubt Oprah and Dr. Phil would approve. But the subtlety and wit prompted by the British attitude makes its humour reign supreme. It also makes Mortification the kind of book you want to revisit regularly — especially when, once again, you’ve just done something incredibly stupid yourself.
Writing > Humour
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