I have written five long blog posts since October, and published none of them. They were accounts of my gripes, concerns, problems, questions, and observations for the past three months. I have also put in work on a play I wrote years ago so that it might one day be shot as a short film (probably not). I have been heavily editing myself these past few months because of what I might say in a public forum, and how that will be used against me later on in life. I am far more important to the world in my own mind than I am in real life.
In movies and on the television, we, as a society, are constantly shown dramatic representations of the masses, or the 'red shirts' of society. In the original Star Trek series, all of the commanding officers of the Enterprise wore gold or blue shirts, the plebes, the technicians, the less-than-officers of the ship were relegated to wearing red and were, more often than not, the ones that died in every episode, unceremoniously and without much regard from their captain or shipmates. The 'red shirts' died as they walked into traps, or when the ship had been hit by the enemy's photon torpedoes. They were the ones to fall about the ship or go flying out into the emptiness of space. The crew would have a moment of silence for their 'fallen comrades' and then by the end of each episode it was onto the next adventure.
When we see the statistic on the news, in paper or on the screen, of people hurt or killed somewhere those lives are the 'red shirts' of our world. When we see those pictures, or lists of names, we pray that we aren't living in the episode where someone close to the protagonist of our story is now no longer on the show. Occasionally it will be someone we once met that we can then pay tribute to on our Facebook wall, and 'have all the feelings' about for a day or so, and not so occasonally and far more tragically, it will be someone that makes us disappear from the TV show of our lives altogether. Or at least for a month or two before the inevitable 'press release' announcing the death of a loved one comes out, thanking literally everyone for the love and support they have shown to us during our troubled time. It never occurs to us that we are the red shirts, and we are the statistics, and one day, we too will be relegated to a press release, and/or an obituary, and a tear or two from the people closest to us. How does that make you feel?
There are two, and only two, possible responses to this:
1. Well, shit. That kind of sucks. You mean I'm not going to star in a movie in Hollywood, or become best friends with ScarJo or have a Kardashian at my wedding? I'm not going to cure cancer, become a famous lawmaker/lawbreaker, or live the life of a suffering artist only to be appreciated late in life when I sell one of my paintings for a million dollars? I'm not going to do any of that? I'm going to spend the rest of my life as a boring, and quite possibly sad, teacher of theatre in some backwater town whose students will never amount to anything beyond corporate desk jockies and gas station attendants? I will be average? I'm going to die without having anything to show for it?
2. Wait a second, are you telling me that there are other people out there like me? I'm not alone? I'm not alone. Do you think they'd want to star in a movie with me? I bet they do. Do you think that their story is just as interesting as mine is, or better? Can I tell their story? I want to tell their story. I want to hear their story first, and then tell it to other people. Do they think about the same stuff I do? Are they afraid like I am? Where do I meet these people? Don't I see them on the street everyday? It can't be that hard to smile at someone who passes me, because maybe they'll smile back, and then I won't be just a 'red shirt' to them... at least for the second, or minute, or hour that I get to spend with them. I won't be average in their eyes, and when I am gone they will remember me just like I will remember them?
Was Shakespeare a 'red shirt'?
"When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes." - Julius Caesar (II.ii.30)
"Dare'st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
As when a giant dies." - Measure for Measure (III.i.77)
Year 4, Day 117 - Words Written: More than you.
