Once upon a time, a godless big-city journalist was wandering the countryside, having already covered his fair share of county fairs. He was taking his own sweet time getting back to the big city, where he would file yet another report about prize-winning pigs and peach pies. There was no hurry in telling these things to strangers, after all.
He crested a particularly fine hill, chasing the sun as it began its slow yawn to the west. In the distance, he noticed a large tent poking its head out from a field of rusty milo seemingly moments from harvest. A line of people wended their way to the tent, some chatting with their neighbors, most somber and silent, all holding a book in their hands.
And since things must begin somewhere, it is here, in this field, under the astute eyes and compromised hearing of a big-city journalist, where the world shifted on its axis. Isn't that how it always is? An earache or a pulled muscle or just too much time between meals and up bubbles a misunderstanding that festers until it becomes the truth. Or some version of it.
The journalist walked towards the tent, for no better reason than because he was tired and his earache had grown worse and, who knows, perhaps there would be an extra chair or a glass of iced tea when he arrived. He reached inside his jacket, feeling for his notebook and pen, just in case there was a story to tell and he was the one to tell it.
As he neared the tent, pieces of words--both sharp and emotional--punctured the air around him. They fell hard on his eardrums, which had grown gummy and taut with infection. He stopped a man and his son, asking them what all the hubbub was about.
"blahblahblah tent reVILE!"
He jotted down the words, although they didn't make much sense to him. When he reached the tent, the journalist grabbed the corner of the flap and slipped in, taking his post in the back. For the next hour, he wrote furiously, scratching as best he could the words that flew at him.
"Cheeses saves!"
"Loathe yourself as your neighbor!"
"Do gun down others as they would gun down you!"
"Hell will DO ya!"
Every so often, the crowd rose up, intent upon laying claim to their shouted words. At one point, a group of women were beating their breasts, apparently laying blame on a familiar target.
"a MAN! a MAN!" they shouted, waving their arms above them, as though they were swatting a horde of flies.
When it finally ended, people shuffled by the journalist, ignoring him, which was fine because he felt a little sick and woozy. Though he would have appreciated the chance to verify a few things before calling in his story.
Who can say why one story gets all the attention while others--much better written and probably truer--are passed over, impatient eyes lured by the promise of three new panels of Little Orphan Annie? But that is how it happened the following Saturday, when the presses slowed their whirr and spat out the last of the printed pages, the ink still damp to the touch.
And these big-city folks, who, now that I think about it, really don't have much to hold over their country cousins, ate up the journalist's story, right alongside their eggs and toast. They rolled the strange words over on their tongues, like a foreign flavor, odd and exciting and maybe just a bit worrisome. They talked about them at work, over dinner, in bed with their lovers before turning out the lights for the night.
And those words, those muddied, misunderstood, strange words settled down and planted deep roots in the people's minds, their dark tendrils snuffing out the brighter, lighter thoughts that had spent far too long there.
Nothing much happened right away, of course. But, slowly, people started to change. Almost imperceptibly, they began to view themselves no longer as just-fine,-thank-you but more along the lines of not-quite-right-don't-you-know.
Eventually, it got to the point where the manager of the local five-and-dime had to make room for another aisle of goods, things he'd never before imagined carrying. Hair dyes and facial creams and magic elixirs stared each other down, each intent upon wooing the next passerby. Each offering a new you.
The journalist retired a few years later, without fanfare, marking the day with a burger and a pedi, something he'd heard other men raving about, of late. As he passed through the business district, his feet feeling particularly attended to, he noticed his image in a storefront window and was shocked by how gray he'd become.
And so, he popped into the corner store and picked up a box of Rogaine, along with a pack of gum and a magazine. Yes, now he had a plan. Now people would notice him.
NOTE: Who can say why this weird little tale came into my mind this morning? And, no, I did not have a tequila sunrise at breakfast. But I did find myself thinking about our culture's obsession with self improvement and started to imagine what it was that moved us from approving ourselves to improving ourselves. It's a huge switch and we seem to have made it with nary a second thought. This, then, is my second thought, in the form of a folk tale.
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