the rhythm of tragedy
Music: Ester Drang: Rocinate (2009)
Blissfully distracted with a visiting friend, I really haven’t had the time to digest the news over the past few days. My paper didn't come today, so I turned on CNN and caught the closing segment of Candy Crowley's program, which she described as "the rhythm of tragedy." The segment was a montage of presidential addresses concerning shootings and mass murders over the past decade. It was powerful and disturbing because Crowley offered no framing other than the idea that president's remarks on Friday participate in a "rhythm of tragedy"---and the montage rolled out the pattern starkly. I was struck by the phrase because of its accuracy in capturing the public performances of mourning that we have become all too familiar with: a strong, affective pattern that strikes or beats the body, a public dance of astonished helplessness followed by a refrain of nationalism.
My reaction to the rhythm over the past many years has usually been astonishment followed by irritation at the drumbeats of the mainstream media, pounding the narrative of "tragedy" into a Hollywood melodrama (usually with audio leads featuring somber French horns). I've been terming the MSM packaging "the maudlin machines" and it looks like I've been complaining and critiquing the "rhythm of tragedy" for over seven years (e.g., there's this post about Katrina coverage, and this post about the Virginia Tech massacre . . . and a lot more). So, let me not repeat the melody, because even I have tired of my own song (you know the lyrics, the ones about gun control and mental illness). This well-wrought essay penned by the parent of a child with mental illness conveys my impulse to "action" much better and more starkly than I ever could, and I encourage folks to read it.
The fact that 20 first graders were the targets and that, apparently, each of them were shot multiple times, however, adds another layer of astonishment to this rhythm that is asynchronous. In the president's speech on Friday, he "lost it" when describing the victims and their possible futures, tapping into an ideology of innocence and the hope of potential that most of us accept as a core tenant of adultness ("The Greatest Love of All," you know). Not all ideologies are bad, and while the notion of "innocence" is problematic, I cling to the projection of a better life for future generations. The pain of projection here has do to with what parts of our own imaginings of the future are extinguished with the death of children. And for me, reading my friends with kids struggling over how to talk to their children about this makes . . . I don't know, I can only grasp the cliche: it's heart breaking.
A friend described the horror of this massacre as "unspeakable," and I think that about hits the mark: what the fuck?" would be my most accurate sentiment as I digest the news today, slack-jawed and stupid. Unspeakable in the sense of, "what the hell can I say?" I want to say something---so I have---but that something too easily succumbs to the rhythm of tragedy, this wordy perseveration---to be critical of the media, to pound yet again on the necessity of taking mental health seriously, to do something about the easy access to weaponry (even though that would not apparently have helped in this case). The rhythm and the ampersand cover it over and up.
Peering into the rent, just for the moment, just for now, the best response just seems like I should reach out and hold someone's hand and shut-up.