I was startled to read the following lines, which came after the description of a girl with a severe physical birth defect: "You pray that this grotesque-looking child is mentally deficient as well. But she is not. 'Normal intelligence,' the text says" (6).
This instantly reminded me of a debate I'd had in high school concerning Of Mice and Men - would you rather spend your life mentally deficient, as Lenny was, or spend it as a paraplegic?
At first the initial response in the class was clear, as most people seemed to grudgingly accept the second option. There is this intrinsic fear of losing what defines ourselves, what makes us unique. Life in a wheelchair wouldn't be that horrible, they reasoned. They could adapt, especially in this current era, and of course they still had control of their upper body.
But then the question is ramped up a bit; instead of paraplegic, what about quadriplegic?
That's a whole other kettle of fish. No one seemed to want to answer. It shouldn't have seemed so much worse, but it was. To be completely dependent on another person, trapped in your body, perhaps not even able to breathe on your own, is a nightmare in itself. But then a metal injury can be just as debilitating. You may lose your memories, your intelligence, your personality - forget that your favorite color is spring green and you love playing the violin and hate broccoli and brussel sprouts unless your mom slathers them in cheese sauce, like when you were a kid.
Do you lose a piece of who you are? Or perhaps the two conditions are more similar than we think, as each is unable to express themselves, though in a different way, buried as they are under the crushing effects of their disease. It defines them because we let it.
Back to the line in the first paragraph, it startled me not only because of this association but also because it coldly exemplifies the saying 'ignorance is bliss'. You hope the girl is mentally deficient so that she may be unaware of her condition, at least to an extent. That she would remain safe in her ignorance from cruel words and gawking stares. That she wouldn't know any different. That she wouldn't sit up at night and ask God, why?
In genetics, I learned how often things can and do go wrong. Dillard states on that same page that "a chromosome crosses or a segment snaps, in the egg or the sperm, and all sorts of people result". But whether we look to faulty mutations or God as the reason, the answer is unclear - and if there is one, it is different for each person. Later, Dillard wrote, "God is no more cogitating which among us he plans to place here as bird-headed dwarfs or elephant men - or kill by AIDS or kidney failure, heart disease, childhood leukemia, or SIDS - than he is pitching lightening bolts at pedestrians, triggering rock slides, or setting fires" (167).
And then, one of the most important lines: "The very least likely things for which God might be responsible are what insures call 'acts of God'". This parallels an idea explored by Frye, in which the 'truth' of myth in a culture is reinforced by giving credit, such as for a fruitful harvest or successful battle, to the Gods.
Some are convinced by the rationality of chance and science. Some are of the belief that there must be suffering in the world for us to truly appreciate the good. Some will argue for the concept of free will, though I agree with Zach on this point, at least in that there must be more. But it is the searching for an answer, the journey itself, that is important. Because, of course, "every answer is a form of death".
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