I recently read Lord of the Flies for the first time. I know, I know: You read it in ninth grade. Well, excuse me, but I attended an evangelical Christian school. We’re lucky I know my multiplication tables.
I found the novel distressing, though I suppose I do agree with author William Golding’s pessimistic assessment of human nature. Maybe it’s the evangelical Christianity talking. According to what I was taught as a kid, we all come into the world as fallen, vicious little snots in need of salvation via God’s grace, which, to reiterate, we definitely do not deserve.
And okay, at least half of that doctrine is pretty harsh, but among the children you’ve encountered, have you seen much evidence to suggest that compassion and fairness are humanity’s factory settings? Or are they part of a system upgrade that parents and teachers and such have to figure out how to install in order to patch flaws and protect against malware?
(Attn.: whoever selects passages for “Block That Metaphor!” in The New Yorker)
It’s like the time in sixth grade when Stephanie R. farted in front of the whole class.
She had volunteered to adjust the room’s thermostat, which was situated high on the wall, so Stephanie had to stand on a chair to reach the dial. And while she was up there, she let one rip loudly enough to be heard by the other students, who responded by laughing their collective asses off.
This caused Stephanie to burst into tears (more laughter) and then to utter, through mucus-clogged crying hiccups, her pitiful plea for understanding: “Everybody has to cut the cheese sometimes.”
Absolute pandemonium broke out. Imagine the uncontained, uncontainable glee of 20 fallen, vicious little snots gorging themselves on the misery of Stephanie R.—at that moment, the most despised outcast in all of God’s creation.
If the teacher hadn’t been there to restore order, I would not have been the least bit surprised if the class had begun intoning the hunters’ chant from Lord of the Flies: “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”
Or, if you prefer your literary references to come from Scripture, allow me to point you to the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus says, Suffer the little children to come unto me—but, trust me, the little children will make you suffer right back.
I guess my punishment for chuckling over the Thermostat Farting Incident for the last 30 years or so is that I don’t know how to work the thermostat in my own home. No matter what I set the temperature on, it always seems to inch up or down on its own, usually in the opposite direction from what I’d prefer.
It’s still an upgrade, comfortwise, from how my husband and I cooled our previous apartment, back when we lived in New York City. We had a boxy, gray-and-black portable AC unit we called Rosie ‘cause she kind of looked like the robot maid on The Jetsons.
Rosie was the focus of her very own Indirect Objects post during the summer of 2020. I just this second reacquainted myself with what I wrote about her, and get a load of this part:
In AC parlance, Rosie is categorized as a “portable” unit, meaning she can be moved to wherever there’s a power outlet nearby as well as a window, where you have to attach the end of Rosie’s hose in order, as I understand it, to send her farts out into the open air. [emphasis added]
What’s with me associating indoor climate solutions with toots?
Indirect Objects 