Civilization began the moment one human learned how to pass on information to another. Or maybe it was when we made fire. I don’t know. I’m not a civilizationologist.
The point is, communication is important. The success of our species owes itself in no small part to our ability to spread information. Our oral tradition is what kept us alive through several ice ages, countless natural disasters, plagues, nuclear brinkmanship, and frosted tips. Remember frosted tips? That hairstyle from the 1990s? Woof, that was a bad time for everyone.
Anyway, I know that some mushrooms can kill me, but I’ve never seen anyone die from eating one. I only ever heard about it because long ago someone gave it a try and then defecated themselves to death, and we couldn’t stop talking about it. Thank you for your sacrifice, Long-Dead Ancestor!
So for as long as we’ve been a society, we’ve been storytellers. Stories, and our love of them, are as much a part of our DNA as our genes are. We’ve evolved with plot lines in our blood. Our history contains heroes and villains, climaxes and happy endings, heartbreak and triumph. It’s our natural disposition to fit our world into a coherent narrative. We’re so attuned to plot structure that we have learned to overcome conflict by weaving it into a story.
Scary storm? That’s simply the story of The Angry God.
Painful breakup? It’s the first act in A Tale of Self-Worth.
House blown down? Wolves just do that sometimes. Next time, build with stone.
But Covid is different.
Covid came and hurt us. It disrupted the lives of everyone on the planet. People died.
There is no three-act structure to the pandemic. There is no clearly marked climax. There is no redemption. We did not resoundingly defeat Covid. Or, if we did, it was a pyrrhic victory.
Perhaps on a macro scale we can look at Covid as a cautionary tale about the dangers of climate change and our damaging impact on the environment. Or maybe it was there to teach us that compassion is the way forward, and the harms of selfishness extend far beyond the individual.
But I’m not satisfied by that. These are lessons, not stories. There are lessons in everything if you look closely enough, and this was an atrocity so gargantuan that we were forced to look. My life’s trajectory was greatly altered in this pandemic, and I want to know why. What purpose – what narrative element – does Covid serve in My Personal Story? Sadly, I don’t believe there is a purpose. No, covid is a bad story poorly told. I don’t want it. All I want to do is push my life back onto its rails and get back to whatever the heck I was doing before this virus came along and ruined everything.
Before the pandemic hit, I had dreams and a plan and my youth. Now I only have one of those things. Maybe two. But still, I’m off kilter. To get back on track I’ve decided turn my back on the pandemic and start anew. This year will be better, I’m hoping. To begin with, I’m going back to Korea. I will be flying to a city called Sejong in February to begin my new teaching job.
I’m also going to spend 2022 getting back to writing. This blog is the start of it. Maybe my writing will take other forms as well. Who knows?
Normally, the first blog of the year should be more of a celebratory event, full of promise and hope. There should be grand resolutions, and the thrilling risk that these resolutions won’t see the year through. That’s how the story usually goes, doesn’t it? But stories haven’t been working out so well for a while now. So instead, I’m cautiously optimistic. I begin here by stealing into 2022, with the quiet hope that I will find the plot of my life once again, with lessons, and characters, and chapters. And, if it all goes well, maybe this time there will be a happy ending.
The Hangul Games 