I think my erudite and well-read English professor should start pronouncing Gustav Flaubert’s name in a cheap, Americanized fashion: Flaw-burt. He should continue his French literary name-dropping as usual but just mispronounce Flaubert’s name on purpose: Bordieu, Foucault, Sartre, Flaw-burt. And he should toss an Albert Cay-muss in there for good measure.
Why do I think this? Because I live in the badlands of modernity, and language is irrelevant to me.
You’re probably wondering what the “badlands of modernity” are, and why I live in them. Well, literary critic Joe Cleary coined the phrase in his book, Literature, Partition, and the Nation-State while talking about the implications of literature in Ireland and Palestine or some such nonsense, but that’s irrelevant.
As I skimmed the book, failing to highlight important passages that would probably be valuable in class discussion, I wondered what it would be like to live in the badlands. I came to the conclusion that the badlands of modernity are a magical place where nothing holds meaning, where I could do whatever I want with reasonable, academically valid justification.
You may say that perhaps I’m living in the badlands of postmodernity rather than just modernity with such a definition, but I scoff at you. Why do I spurn your ideas? First, because you’re a dickhead. And second, giving me a postmodern license allows me to qualify my existence as modern, because I’m living in the goddamn badlands. Your categories of language mean nothing to me. I’m like James Joyce, except without talent and a mustache. Well, I do have a mustache, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that I live in the badlands of modernity, and my existence is way cool. I flout the dominant paradigms of our so-called “society.” You know what, I’m not even going to call it “society” anymore, because I live in the badlands. Instead, I’m calling it “The Graham Cracker.” Got it? Our collective social grouping is called “The Graham Cracker,” and you can’t do anything about it. Your cultural tropes are worthless against my power.
Living in the badlands of modernity ain’t just a hobby, you know, it’s a way of life. For instance, I decided to stop using contemporary racial categories, because my definition of modernity calls for a reification of those terms. For example, during the NBA All-Star game last weekend, I kept calling Tracy McGrady the next “whitey superstar.” I don’t know why my roommates kept giving my funny looks, because they know I’m living life in the badlands. And the fact that the black Domino’s guy kicked my ass that night after I said, “Thanks, honky, here’s a dime,” doesn’t matter, because violence in the badlands doesn’t have a negative connotation. Sorry, honky.
I’ve also rejected The Graham Cracker’s conceptions of religion in the badlands. I’ve created my own religion, called “I Walk the Line.” In my religion, I herd people into a nondescript gray room with no chairs and make them listen to Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan cover songs, every song, because they make all songs better. The only way to go to hell in my new religion is to listen to J-Lo’s “Jenny from the Block.” And once in hell, you’re gonna burn. Of course this dogma holds no spiritual value, but then again, nothing holds value in my world.
Living isn’t easy in the badlands of modernity. Because I no longer value language, or at least that of the so-called hegemonic “Man,” I have trouble communicating sometimes. Last week, I was walking home with my friend, and I asked if she wanted to stop by the RHO to get a package. However, instead of speaking English, I used a series of mumbles, grunts and clicks. She couldn’t understand my speech, and instead of picking up the package, we were forced to walk home in silence.
My modern notions of language may run into trouble over Spring Break when I travel to Costa Rica. On arrival, I will be interpreting the Spanish tongue according to my own rules, translating “Costa Rica” into “The Rica Coast.” I will also be translating “futbol” into “I want to stab you in the neck,” thus making my trip a frightful, pants-wetting one indeed. And when the customs official asks for my passport when it’s time to leave, I will tell him that his bureaucratic rules mean nothing to me, and that he can wipe his baby’s ass with whatever passport he speaks of. And he will let me through without any problems, because in the badlands of modernity, I’m the king.
Just trust me. There’s a whole canon of post-colonial work out there dealing with the badlands of modernity. Only a select few can live there, so if you don’t make the cut, it’s OK. You can go back to your bland normality, eating with forks and plates or whatever. But as for me, I do not choose your ways. Instead, I’m going back to reading Flaw-burt and drinking dip spit because I can, and there’s nothing you can do about it. My upper-level English homework says so.
Peter Hamby is a senior in the College and contributing editor of the Georgetown Voice. That guy’s been creepin’ him out since freshman year.
