In her 1988 New York Times bestselling book, When Society Becomes an Addict, the late author Dr. Anne Wilson Schaef compared western culture to “an active alcoholic.” I was 29 years old and in film school when I discovered this book. Even though I was still employed as the Production Editor of a travel magazine located off Market Street, I was attending night classes in a post graduate program at San Francisco State University. The production job had become monotonous, and left me feeling empty at the end of each day. It only took one semester of splitting my time before I was ready to leave the 9-5 life behind, and gave myself the chance to do what I’d been wanting to do for years: study filmmaking.
I enrolled in numerous classes that first year, including 8mm filmmaking, advanced screenwriting, and one mesmerizing course introducing us to the power of documentary film. One class in particular, however, bridged my fascination with the screen with my unresolved internal goings-on. The female instructor of this one class introduced us thirsty creatives to the filmmaker John Cassavetes, who had died in early 1989 the year after the publication of Schaef’s book on addiction—cause of Cassavetes’ death? Cirrhosis of the liver.
The overlapping of my dip into self-inquiry (I had been a practicing anorexic/bulimic during my teen years and into my early 20s) with this seminar on John Cassavetes didn’t feel like an accident to me. He had been hailed by critics and fans alike for the gritty, real life, as opposed to Hollywood slick, way in which he chose to craft his films. The rough edges that he exposed—the messiness of a marriage, the monotony of 9-5 life, the challenges of intimacy, alcoholism—was his point; the viewer could not get away from experiencing the everyday sufferings of an ordinary life unless they got out of their seat and left the theatre.
I ended up getting a “C” on what I thought was the most brilliant essay I’d ever written—an eight-page exploration comparing the films of Cassavetes to our addict society, a society repulsed by looking at the truth of who we are: addicts who will do anything we can to avoid peering into the horrifying fear of what’s really going on. The grade on this paper shocked, but didn’t deflate me. I convinced myself that the teacher was in all likelihood an addict herself. She couldn’t possibly give me a good grade, because that would mean she would need to admit, “My name is … and I’m an addict.”
We are, as a people living in a western society that strives for no more than wealth and beauty: sick. We are sick with fear … fear of realizing that we really don’t much like who we are. Stuck in a global pandemic, forced into isolation and stillness, this collision of mandated shutdown of our routines with lives lived without introspection has created an impossible situation for those of us trying hard to model rationality in the midst of a totally irrational way of living.
And, as hard as it may be to admit, we have nobody to blame but ourselves.
If our goal in life is to raise kids who become healthy adults, we must first admit we ourselves are not as healthy as we thought we were, or aspire to be. As Dr. Anne Wilson Schaef once said, “Healthy people learn to live with their world.” Using this global pandemic to scrutinize how we react to it is an incredible opportunity, one I hope we all recognize as a fleeting, precious gift.
Dina McQueen is a writer and teacher, most interested in serving as a vehicle to help heal the planet and its inhabitants. Her intention is to reach into the hearts and minds of those who are ready to make a shift—individuals, corporations, and customers. Dina lives with her husband, Brian, of 16 years, and their 12.5 year old Ethiopian born daughter, Aster.
Tags: aster, Dina McQueen, pandemic. covid19
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