This week’s entry is born from an old idea for a short story that wasn’t brought together with enough length or depth to include it in my book of short stories, “Poppy Seeds on a Grave”. It is a particularly grim and dark story, which on the surface may appear without a message. But the purpose of the story is to contrast the often conflicting images of one’s self with the view they give the world or the view the world may have of them. The protagonist of the story is unable to reconcile the view they have of themselves vs the view that exists of them. The discussion below will draw on some specifics from the story to highlight how it relates to identity. In the interest of avoiding spoilers the story will be presented first, but I encourage you to read the discussion as well and respond with any comments or thoughts of your own.
A Warm Summer’s Day
Light rushed into the darkened corridor, piercing his eyes causing a burning sensation as they adjusted. The mid-summer sun forced him to squint suddenly and turn his face away from the open doorway. Heavy wooden doors had swung open, opened by guards standing on the other side of them, they were once his guards. Moments passed slowly, and he gazed at the hot white blur of the courtyard before him. Earlier, the cacophony of noise that radiated from the crowd seemed like a muted and hollow din. The open doorway allowed the sound to chase the piercing light into the corridor, into his ears, and scrape the inner corridors of his mind. Their disjointed and unorganized conversations were quickly replaced with a fleeting moment of silence and then a cheer, which grew in gradual noise until it resembled a crash of violent thunder. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the daylight; he had been in the dark for days now, but the crescendo of noise and the periodic insults and jeers emanating from the bright courtyard painted a picture of what was waiting for him. Women, men, children all yelling. Perhaps, he thought, to the right there was a group of women —widows and those in poverty— yelled and cheered at the sight of his dishevelment. Their husbands hadn’t returned home, and nobody knew where they had disappeared to. Near him, not far ahead, two guardsmen stood holding the heavy wooden doors open. They laughed with anticipation and arrogance. They had held these doors in years previous, even had been responsible for the nicks and faint damage often attributed to age and time, not the torture and violence they had heaped upon unknowing people, people like the husbands who were still missing. But all that didn’t matter to the crowd; today they were united, united in his misery. Today, they are no longer his people.
With a sudden heavy jolt from behind, he was pushed forward into the courtyard and out of the perceived safety of the darkened corridor. Into the light and the dust and the heat of the summer sun, he stumbled, struggling to keep his footing as he tripped about. Laughter and cheering ensued at the sight of his incoherent and laboured movements. Pain shot from his right leg to his back as his weight moved from one leg to the next with each step. He had suffered the same fate as so many that he had condemned previously; he knew what to expect and what effect it would have, but he would walk under his own power, even now. With the sacrifices that I made for my people and the hardships that I endured, I cannot show weakness today. He thought. Each step was a torturous attack on his senses, sending simultaneous pain throughout his body. By this time his eyes had adjusted to the light, and raising his head, he surveyed the landscape. The crowd of people was a mosaic of faces: angry, stoic, joyous, men, women, and children, much like the picture he had painted in his mind. Two rows of uniformed soldiers held the crowds back, leaving a causeway from him to the wooden platform standing in the middle of the dusty courtyard. From the platform, a dripping crimson line led from the stairs under his feet and back to the corridor from which he was brought. He wasn’t the first, not today, not before today, and not when he made the condemnation. Slowly he raised his gaze and looked up at the midday sky. A few birds flew above. Ravens? Vultures of some kind? It didn’t matter. Behind their circular flight pattern lay a pale blue canvas, softly glimmering with the light of the sun and accented with clouds that seemed painted gently in the background as if by God’s hand. The heat of the sun warmed his skin; he had spent many days absorbing its warmth and feeling its relaxing power. Today he felt that warm solar relaxation one more time.
Another abrupt push from behind, and he continued down the bloodied path, each step accompanied by mostly unintelligible chants, jeers, and insults. He didn’t bother to look where the words came from or who propelled them in his direction. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledgement. I have, until this, given all I could for the people who now curse my name. Every action and decision was an act of protection, compassion, and love. Every word and decree an act to shape the lives of my people, my subjects. Salvation from the evils that befell them and salvation from the enemies who threatened them—was my motivation. He thought. In his mind, opulence, luxury, and self-gratification were set aside for the responsibility of the crown. Now, step by painful step, he approached the steps leading up to the executioner’s platform. He stopped, not from fear or apprehension. He stopped because the five steps before him were the final five steps before the end. His heart sped up, and adrenaline pulsed into his veins. He had seen this in so many others before; did his face betray the thoughts and emotions he kept hidden inside, or was he an open book laid bare before those who condemned him? It didn’t matter now; stopping wasn’t an option. Laboriously he lifted his injured right leg onto the first wooden step. The knock of hollow wood under foot was accompanied by the feeling of blood pressing out from under his foot. He quickly brought his left food beside the right to steady his balance, and repeated the strained dance four more times to the platform. A short distance separated him from the guillotine, which waited. Another cheer erupted from the crowd, now below him.
He look again up to the sky, the darken birds still circled, contrasted on the pale blue canvass above. He lowered his gaze and looked about the crowd, seeing anonymous faces filled with anger, joy, and catharsis. He spotted a few who showed neither anger nor joy at his fate, perhaps emotionless at this point. A woman caught his attention: young, with sun-baked skin and long, straight brown hair draping over her shoulders. Her look seemed out of place given the jeering faces surrounding her. Perhaps she pitied him, perhaps she felt sympathy for his plight. Her blank expression peered almost through him as if she were trying to glare into his soul. He wondered who this woman was and what brought her to the courtyard.
Pulled to his left, he was brought back to the reality of the moment his body was placed on the bascule and lowered. As his neck touched the wood of the lunette, he felt the wetness; they hadn’t even bothered to clean away the evidence of their last victim before placing him in there. He lay, unconventionally, face up. His condemners knowingly leaving him in this position, to watch and wonder when the blade would be released and plummet down to his exposed and fastened neck.
He looked up at the blade shining in the bright summer sun, hanging precariously like his very own sword of Damocles. He refused to change the gaze upon his face, remaining stoic as the charges against him were read out with zealous enthusiasm. But with every passing word, he felt his pulse racing through the veins and arteries in his neck. Thud, thud, they hit with the heaviness and finality of the rifle butts on his bedroom door. Thud, thud again, taking him back to the night he, his wife, and his sons were dragged away. The guards who broke through his door that night now held the them open for his final walk staggered walk to this platform.
Moving his gaze slightly, he looked again at the circling birds. He quieted his mind and slowly drowned out the clamorous noise of the crowd. There was nothing left to do but wait and watch the birds flying above. A gentle breeze brushed across his face, caressing his cheek and flowing through his hair. The summer this year had been mild and warm, but without the piercing heat of years past. The feeling of the breeze and the brightness of the sky all washed over him with relaxing ease, and the thudding of his pulse faded away into the monotonous drone of the crowd around him.
A shadow gradually covered his face; the executioner moving closer. The crowd silenced, and he heard the familiar click of the release handle being engaged. the slide of metal on wood, and a final hollow and ominous thud. Suddenly, his vision was cast into a blurred confusion of brightness and shadows. His ears rang and were assaulted by a high-pitched tone. He felt nothing but watched as the world around him violently shook and rolled in an uncontrolled spiral.
When it came to a stop, all he could see was the pale blue canvas upon which the darkened birds circled. The ringing in his ears abated and was gradually replaced with a cacophonous cheer. The intensity of the mid-summer sun warmed his cooling skin, and he watched as the brightness of the day forever receded into darkness.
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Discussion
Identity and the implications of it, that is, how one sees themselves and how they believe they are perceived in their community, affect many people's lives. At any point in a person’s life, they can have an image of themselves that is reinforced by the conditions and world around them. This can provide immense satisfaction and self-worth, and in some cases, even feelings of power and importance. Although, when the alignment of conditions that leads to an agreement between self-identity and public identity is changed, upended, or deconstructed, the ramifications can be significant. It easily affects an individual whose identity has been threatened and can potentially have rippling effects for people around them. This was seen through the eyes the protagonist of the story, believing that the people condemning him were at once protected by him and equally "his people,” the alignment of conditions which formed his identity were upended in the most extreme way leading to his execution.
An actual execution would be the most extreme way the alignment of identity and circumstance are broken, also the metaphorical execution of one’s identity can seemingly be as intense of an experience. Take, for example, the identity that is derived from a person’s career or workplace. Rather than being just a means to a salary, employment allows for a sense of self and community that is shaped and built by the individual and their working environment. Removing this suddenly through loss of work, retirement, movement, or promotion can create a break in one’s aligned and agreed reality, metaphorically decapitating a person from their created and cultivated self-image. As the protagonist nears his literal decapitation, he laments about how the people in the crowd are unaware of the protection he has provided them, ignoring the condemnation that he has given in his previous position. Similarly when reviewing the conditions someone had before a major change versus the conditions they find themselves in after the change, the violation of their previous "social or self-contract" may blind them to various seemingly “negative” factors which may have previously existed. An inability to identify personal shortcomings or remembering things with ‘rose coloured glasses’ creating a type of nostalgic glow where perhaps there wasn’t. What was previously seen and felt as negative can begin to take on a positive appearance, since despite its actual negativity or difficulty its positive memory may arise from how it still alignment with the old identity and circumstance.
In the story, the unnamed narrator is thrust into the courtyard, which is filled with an aggressive crowd of familiar yet opposing people. The basic scenario is familiar to them as they have been on the "condemnation" side of it, although now they are the "condemned." It may seem drastic, but when a person’s identity, through whatever means, is transformed, taken away, or challenged, suddenly their sense of understanding can suffer. A social, familial, or work situation will feel familiar, although they will have gone through enough change to possibly perceive it as threatening or wholly unfamiliar. A sense of self-worth, agency, or comfort can seem to be missing. In such a scenario the power that a person feels can crumble under the weight of the change. This doesn’t have to be power over people, as alluded to in the story, but rather the power to control their own lives from day to day, empowering a sense of hopelessness. On the outside, these things may seem trivial because we’ve all heard, been told, or said: work to live; don’t live to work; there’s plenty of fish in the sea; friends are the family you choose; and so on and so forth. But when the implied contract of any of these situations is violated, a person can quickly be transported to a place where the brightness of the sun blinds them and they feel like they are stumbling to the sun-baked courtyard with a guillotine waiting.