So, in keeping with my recent obsession with all things This American Life, I recently wrote an essay for my history class that took the form of an episode of said show.
This American Life, Episode 480: The Grass Is Greener [Partial Transcript]
[Ira Glass] Before we start, I’d like to play you this tape. This tape was found in a thrift store answering machine, and what makes it so remarkable is that in the messages on the tape is the narrative of these two people, Mark and Lisa, and their entire relationship—all documented on these little messages, these little snippets of tape.. I’ll just play you a little bit here.
Beep [Mark] Hi, Lisa. It’s me. I know you don’t like to answer the phone while you’re painting, but I’m in a break from a meeting right now—a really boring meeting—ugh—and I was just thinking about you. Okay, love you. Bye. Beep
[Ira] It spans from first date, to puppy-love infatuation, to the mundane maintenance of a relationship, to finally the break up.
Beep [Mark] Oh that’s great. That’s beep-ing great. You hang up on me? You beep-ing hang up on me? You think this conversation’s over? I’ll tell you what’s over. We’re over. Done. Finished. I’m sick of working fifty hours a week in a job I hate to support you and your stupid painting and your stupid art parties with your stupid stuck-up artist beep-hole friends. I’m better off without you. Have a nice life, bitch. By the way, your art sucks. Click Beep
[Ira] That’s the last we hear of Mark. Time passes. There are messages regarding Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Lisa’s birthday. Then, out of the blue, there’s this.
Beep [Mark] Hi, Lisa. It’s me, Mark. I know you probably didn’t think you’d ever hear, or didn’t think you’d ever want to hear my voice again. You’re probably painting right now, listening to this, so while you’re listening, I just wanted to say that I miss you, and I think about you everyday. I understand if you never want to speak to me again, or call me back or whatever—
[Lisa] Hello?
[Mark] Lisa?
[Lisa] Yeah?
[Mark] Lisa, It’s me, Mark.
[Lisa] Yeah, I know. Listen. Never contact me again.
[Mark] Lisa, you were the best girlfriend I ever had.
[Lisa] Whatever.
[Mark] I love you.
[Lisa] Have a nice life, jerk. Beep
[Ira] Which brings us to this week’s episode. From WBEZ in Chicago, distributed by Public Radio International, it’s This American Life. I’m Ira Glass. Every week, of course, we choose a theme and bring you a variety of stories on that theme. This week’s theme: The Grass Is Greener, in three acts. Act one, we hear the story of a man who wishes for the good old days--but just how good are they? And what happens when he finally gets his wish? Act two, This American Life contributor Scott Carrier brings us a report about the friends of Dorothy. They three got their wish, the gifts from wonderful wizard, but with each gift comes a drawback, and they consider the question, Are they gifts, really? Or are they curses. And finally, act three, David Sedaris reads from his upcoming memoir a story about quitting and unquitting, and how unquitting is really just quitting quitting. Stay with us.
[Interlude]
[Ira] Act one: The Bronze Is Always Bronzey-er. You ever feel like you were born in the wrong era, like you should have been a hippie in the 1960s, or a flapper in the 1920s, or a knight during the crusades? Well, this first act is about a man who had such feelings. He was born in the late Dark Ages of Greece, but always wished to be in the Late Bronze Age as if this was a panacea that would grant him contentment from all his world’s perceived ills. Through a twist of fate, he gets his wish. Nancy Updike reports.
[Nancy Updike Voice Over] These days, Hesiod is a man of few words. You’d never guess he was a world renowned poet. He says he doesn’t write much anymore. His hands are so calloused from work, he can hardly hold a quill. He’s what you’d call a curmudgeon. He looks like he’s built out of leather, like you can’t tell where the collar of his rawhide shirt ends and the back of his neck begins.
[Hesiod] I write very little anymore, but I never stopped composing. These days I compose mentally. I fill up my head with poems so I don’t have time to think about the tricks of the gods and of the fates. Athena says I am here because I wished it so, but I never wished for this. She could see what was in my heart, yet offered me something else. I asked for water and she gave me poisoned wine.
[Nancy VO] Hesiod can never admit that he go exactly what he asked for because it would mean admitting to himself that the past he praised so vociferously in his poetry was not an accurate version of the truth. It was a lie.
[Nancy] So tell me about your wish. How did it go wrong?
[Heisod] It was on mid-summer’s day, the day when glorious Apollo takes his longest chariot ride of the year across the blue skies, and we are supposed to give praise. I, however, at the end of that day was exhausted from working before dawn until after dusk, for the work on the farm is never done. I prayed to be among the fourth race of men, the demigods, our predecessors on the boundless earth for they dwell with carefree heart in the Isles of the Blessed Ones where the grain-giving soil bears its honey-sweet fruit thrice a year .
That night was a moonless night and also without stars, and I was roused from my sleepless bed by an owl with grey eyes that shown like sapphires. I knew this was Pallas Athena. Although she spoke no words, she communicated to my soul, and I understood that I was to follow her. So, not even bothering to change from my bedclothes, I followed her into the dark night. She led me stumbling across many varied terrain and over what could not have been a single night, but what must have been a century of nights. Every time I wished to stop and rest my weary limbs, Athena beckoned me further, until finally, I was overcome and collapsed.
[Nancy] And this was how your wish was fulfilled?
[Hesiod] Yes. The next morning when I awoke, I was in my home, in my bed, but I could sense that these things had been transposed in time and space. I knew without doubt that I was now alive in the Age of Heroes. When I stepped across my threshold that morning every blade of grass, every wildflower outside seemed to shine more brightly as if the spirits of the world had polished themselves for my arrival. It was a new day, and I was reborn. And like a newborn, I tumbled out into the day heedless, naïve, and started at once to work. So consumed was I with the newness of my circumstance, I was made blind to its identical nature to my previous one. Everything old was new again. I was so filled with joy that the heavy lifting made no dent in my stride. I went about my work just as I had always done, just as I always will do, but in those first moments of my new life I can honestly say I was a different man. I was fooled. I was a fool.
[Nancy] In what way were you fooled? What exactly went against your expectations?
[Hesiod] The exact nature of the illusion was difficult for me to quantify at first. As I said, my ecstasy blinded my insight.
The first difference I noticed was in my neighbors. In Askra, the best thing one can be is a good neighbor, but here in Pylos, I found villagers were aloof, and unwilling to lend a helping hand. I had strained my back over-exerting myself in the first weeks of my new life in the Age of Heroes, and this was my first indication that life here was not what I thought it would be. These men were not heroic. As I’ve always believed, a bad neighbor is as big a bane as a good one is a boon; he has got good value who has got a good neighbor. Get good measure from your neighbor and give good measure back, with the measure itself and better if you can, so that when in need another time you may find something to rely on . This morale that connected the farmers in Askra was absent. There was no feeling of obligation to help one another.
[Nancy] Everybody was just looking out for themselves?
[Hesiod] Yes. In Askra, you help your neighbor because it benefits you both. He benefits now; you benefit later when he must reciprocate. I tried explaining this logic to my neighbors, but they still declined. I truly did not believe that anyone living in this age could suffer from discontentment. I began to question the joyousness of the occasion that sent me here. The revelation of my false hope did not occur on a steady downward course as you might imagine a rock rolls down a hill. My spirits were toyed with, lifted and lowered like a cork on the sea. After recognizing that there was a difference in the social temperament of the people here, I began to think hard about the ways my life differed from its previous incarnation. I began keeping a journal. This is when I began to see that life here was not much different, at least not in significant or tangible ways to the farmers.
[Nancy VO] What Hesiod failed to understand at that point early in Pylos was that he was no longer farming for just himself. It was true that the work was the same, the way of life. But now he was farming for the entire country of Pylos. The Collectors would come; there were quotas to be met.
[Hesiod] I remember the first day the Collectors came to my farm. It was an uplifting day at first. I was sure that these men were the heroes of history. The arrived dressed in uniforms of bronze and fine textiles, such that I had never seen before, such that never existed in Askra. I was sure they were Apollo’s proxies, for they rode magnificent chariots. When they arrived they caught me seeking respite from the midday sun in the refuge of my journal. I became so emotional with their arrival, I was simultaneously effusive with my blathering and unable to say anything of sense at all.
They made a demand for my stores of grain. I thought they were demanding tribute. When they took much more than I could afford to give them, I made a meager protest saying, Surely you will not leave a lonely man to starve this winter. This is when they explained to me the system of wealth redistribution that ran the commerce of the kingdom. They said if I was in need that I could petition the government for what resources I required. I was intrigued by this concept. It seemed at first an inspired way to unite the people of Pylos in the maintenance of the kingdom, each man responsible for one another. But if this were true, why were my neighbors reluctant to help me? I then realized that the advent of quotas eliminated the good Strife that made my fellows from Askra amenable to each other.
[Nancy] Good Strife?
[Hesiod] Yes, there are two kinds of Strife. This is something I have sung about in the past.
[Nancy] Can you recite it for me now?
[Hesiod] Sigh Yes, I suppose. Let me focus for a moment.
[Nancy VO] When Hesiod begins to recite his poem, a transformation takes over him. He no longer seems like the weathered curmudgeon bitter about his fate on the farm. He seems a decade younger. His eyes burn with calm intensity, and when he begins to sing, his voice resonates. It comes from deep inside him as if flowing from some primeval well. Suddenly the charisma he radiates is electric. You realize this is the opposite side of his miserly persona, and you see how this man is the same that defeated Homer in an epic battle of the bards.
[Hesiod singing] I see there is not only one Strife-brood on earth, there are two. One would be commended when perceived, the other is reprehensible, and their tempers are distinct. The one promotes ugly fighting and conflict, the brute: no mortal is fond of her, but they are forced by the gods’ designs to do homage to Strife the burdensome. But the other was elder born of gloomy Night, and the son of Kronos, the high-seated one who dwells in Heaven, set her in the earth’s roots, much the better for men. She rouses even the shiftless one to work. For when someone whose work falls short looks towards another, towards a rich man who hastens to plant and manage his household well, then neighbor vies with neighbor as he hastens to wealth; this Strife is good for mortals.
So potter is piqued with potter, joiner with joiner, beggar begrudges beggar, and singer signer .
[Nancy] That was beautiful.
[Hesiod] Laughs I’m a little rusty.
[Nancy] So this good kind of strife, it doesn’t exist in Pylos?
[Hesiod] No.
[Nancy] Why not?
[Hesiod] Because when one is charged with the task of feeding the entire kingdom, it is very different work than feeding just oneself. You can never hasten to finish your work because the work is never done; the trajectory of commerce must always move forward. This is why my neighbors never wanted to lend assistance: the priority now is to keep in good standing with the King’s men, not with one another.
[Nancy VO] Hesiod wondered if he could find a way to change what he saw as a policy detrimental to the people of his new kingdom. He decided to petition the king directly.
[Hesiod] The next time the Collectors came, I offered my services as a poet. I sang a poem for them, but it was not one they recognized so they declined. I offered them my literacy. This was a skill they thought might be of use, so they granted me passage back to the palace. I rode with them on their chariots. The vessels they had to carry the produce back to the citadel were beautiful, crafted by hands that must have been blessed by Aphrodite herself. At this point, I was consistently amazed by the quality of goods that were available; the vessels of Askra were nothing like what I saw here, but I began to question the worth of such things if they never improved the quality of life of the people who endeavored to make them possible.
Arriving at the palace was a shock. I was ambivalent about what I encountered. The machinery of commerce was a wonder to behold. The industrious craftsmen manufactured things that I thought impossible to dream. The harbor hummed with ships that were the actuality of legend. Surely all-seeing Zeus had smiled upon these men, for their hard work created wealth that was beyond my comprehension.
There were men whose job entailed counting and tracking the goods, and I was placed in their charge. It was to learn their tasks that I was brought here. I soon found that our methods of record keeping were incompatible, we were unable to decipher one another’s writings. Still I worked with them, learning their trade, just as my father had learned it.
At the end of the day we broke bread and said an offering to the gods. The food was good and there was wine and oil. As we ate I sensed that these men were looking at my hands. Theirs were not calloused like mine. All they knew of work was counting and sorting. They had never tended the earth or sowed a seed. I took my calluses a objects of pride, of proof of my endeavors. To these men, they seemed to be worthy of scorn.
[Nancy] This was a class issue?
[Hesiod] Yes. The people here were organized in a different structure than in Askra. The hierarchy was much more pronounced here. In Askra, every man was responsible for his own labor; if you needed a pot, you made a pot, or perhaps you traded with your neighbor, his superior pot for your superior wool, and so forth. Here, a certain man makes nothing but pots. It is true that his skill becomes parallel to that of the gods, but it is for that reason he begins to think himself better than other men. And just as making pots places you higher than tending the earth, so does counting the pots places you higher than the man who makes them. And this is shameful because it seems the higher up you are ranked, the less work one is required to perform until ultimately you are the king who does nothing.
[Nancy] You met the king?
[Hesiod] Yes. I was asked to sing for him.
[Nancy] How did that come about?
[Hesiod] At dinner, I volunteered a hymn of praise before eating. The other men indulged men. When I had finished singing, these men were moved. I had connected with them, and it was in that moment that I knew even though we came from very different times and places, that there existed some thread of historical continuity that attached me to them. The prayers we sang and the gods we loved was some sort of universal truth to each of us that superceded the things that made us different.
[Nancy] There was a certain "Greekness” that you shared with these men.
[Hesiod] Yes.
[Nancy] What happened when you met the king?
[Hesiod] I was revolted. This king, a man who according to the social structure was the one who was closest to the gods was a man who was not above reproach.
[Nancy] Why? Why was he so bad?
[Hesiod] He was fat and lazy. He appeared to be an enormous baby swaddled in the finest silk dyed purple. He had bathed in sweet-smelling oils. He ate and drank wantonly. He was wasteful. When I first saw him I said, Surely this man cannot be the king. It seemed ludicrous that his attendants would bow their heads before him and cower at his whim. This man, a king in the Age of Heroes, was not a hero. He bore no regal bearing. He demanded that I sing for him. And I obliged with this:
Hunger goes always with a workshy man. Gods and men disapprove of that man who lives without working. It is from work that men are rich in flocks and wealthy, and a working man is much dearer to the immortals. Property is not for seizing: far better God given. For if a man does seize wealth by force of his hand, or appropriates it by means of words—the sort of thing that often happens when profit deludes men’s minds, and Shamelessness drives away Shame—the gods easily bring him low, and diminish that man’s house, and it is but a short time that prosperity attends him.
I walked out while all those present were to stunned at my admonishment of the king to scold me or throw me out. It was then I decided that this new world I’d been given was a hoax, and evil perpetrated against me because I did not sing the praise of Apollo on that mid-summer’s eve.
