LOUD
April 5, 2009This is an image taken with my Holga at a St. Patrick’s Day parade two weeks ago. Every year, Hercules’ parents’ small town officially changes its name from New London to New Dublin, and hosts the largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the state. The Holga is so very hit-or-miss for me, but I adore using it. Unfortuantely, my photos of the Wacky Wheeler Leprechaun didn’t turn out. I’m sure it was due to the unpredictable nature of that damn plastic camera, and not my irrational and embarrassing crush on the funny-looking Wheel guy that made me hyperventilate, shake so hard that I couldn’t hold the camera still, and forget to advance the film…
(ahem.)
We celebrated Mowgli’s birthday before the parade, and his Auntie told him that for her gift, he could pick out anything he wanted at the parade. When I saw (and heard!) these obnoxious parade trumpet things, I secretly hoped he would pick one. Secretly, because what sane mother really wants her 4-year-old to bring a loud plastic horn home? I rolled my eyes and said “Ohhh. NO!” But I couldn’t wait to try it. It did not disappoint.
The day I developed these negatives, I heard George Saunders read an exerpt on NPR from his essay The Braindead Megaphone. I took it as yet another reminder of the importance and validity of every unique individual, despite the really loud and obnoxious bandwagon. Here’s an excerpt:
Imagine a party. The guests, from all walks of life, are not negligible. They’ve been around: they’ve lived, suffered, own businesses, have real areas of expertise. They’re talking about things that interest them, giving and taking subtle correction. Certain submerged concerns are coming to the surface and—surprise, pleasant surprise—being confirmed and seconded and assuaged by other people who’ve been feeling the same way.
Then a guy walks in with a megaphone. He’s not the smartest person at the party, or the most experienced, or the most articulate.
But he’s got that megaphone.
Say he starts talking about how much he loves early mornings in spring. What happens? Well, people turn to listen. It would be hard not to. It’s only polite. And soon, in their small groups, the guests may find themselves talking about early spring mornings. Or, more correctly, about the validity of Megaphone Guys ideas about early spring mornings. Some are agreeing with him, some disagreeing—but because he’s so loud, their conversations will begin to react to what he’s saying. As he changes topics, so do they. If he continually uses the phrase “at the end of the day,” they start using it too. If he weaves into his arguments the assumption that the west side of the room is preferable to the east, a slow westward drift will begin.
These responses are predicated not n his intelligence, his unique experiences of the world, his powers of contemplation, or his ability with language, but on the volume and omnipresence of his narrating voice.
His main characteristic is his dominance. He crowds the other voices out. His rhetoric becomes the central rhetoric because of its unavoidability.
In time, Megaphone Guy will ruin the party.
