If it was only for A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, I think I would still be blindly buying just about anything that Eggers writes. That I loved What is the What, You Shall Know Our Velocity, and We Are Hungry just solidifies his status as one of my favorite authors, so despite thinking that both Hologram for the King and The Circle were two of the weaker entries in his oeuvre I was excited to add Your Fathers… to my shopping cart without reading either (yes, that’s with a long “i”) synopsis or reviews… and then the package arrived…
I was, admittedly, a little saddened by the low page count, and I proceeded with some trepidation as the story began with such a flippant conversational tone that it had me thinking this would be the substantive heir of Hologram. Not that I disliked that book because it was poorly written or lacked coherence, but what I want from Eggers is the emotionally raw and deeply personal prose that initially brought me into his world – the kind of world with which I readily identified, characters in whom I became easily invested, and, most importantly, (pseudo-) fictional outcomes that had a not-at-all fictional effect upon my own (pseudo-) fictional reality. It was easy to find that world in those earlier works… perhaps too easy. Perhaps I had become complacent and forgotten how to look for what I wanted. Perhaps the words on the pages gelled so well that it became too easy to leave myself behind – instead of getting lost in the story I was just lost. Instead of waiting for “something to inspire [me] in some goddamned way” along with the protagonist/antagonist I had to be my own inspiration. I don’t know why that quote caused me to come to that conclusion, (maybe that’s the author’s magic) but I’m glad it did, as I think that change in attitude helped me find exactly what I was seeking in this brief collection of dialogs.
Initially it seemed like the main focus of this story was to uncover just how much we tend to rely on society, our parents, our teachers, our friends… our authors… to show us, give us, tell us, provide for us… fit us into a “larger narrative.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but it wasn’t the maimed but successful Congressman, the astronaut who had his dreams taken away, the parent, the policeman, or even the potential young love that really summed up what this meant. All of these people have something or are something that I want or I wish I could be, and each conversation uncovered a different facet of our inability to stand alone in an ever growing world that continually needs or wants us less and less. Yet it was the reformed/reforming and self-aware sexual deviant… the only one who, on the surface, was not a representation of what I wish I had… who appeared to have succinctly stamped the book closed a third of the way in. It wasn’t his extrapolation that, “I am one person, and my story is absolutely unique.” It wasn’t the affirmation of individuality in, “I don’t conform to any established modus operandi.” It wasn’t the introduction to which I alluded earlier that, “I’m not part of some larger narrative.” It was simply two words… “I’m me.”
Thomas, our “hero” if you will, had obviously reached a breaking point in his struggle to realize what “me” really was. We’re all flawed, but he could neither seem to understand that about himself nor forgive it in others, so he looked externally in an attempt to justify, to blame, and to find reason in a reasonless world. If only, he laments, “we’d been part of some universal struggle, some greater cause than ourselves,” then he, “would have turned out better, and everyone I know would have turned out better.” Eggers has broached the subject before. A passage from Velocity, which I’ve quoted many times before while in the thralls of my own directionless self-doubt, spells it out brilliantly: “I wanted so many times while driving to flip, to skid and flip and fall from the car and have something happen. I wanted to land on my head and lose half of it, or land on my legs and lose one or both. I wanted something to happen so my choices would be fewer, so my map would have a route straight through, in red. I wanted limitations, boundaries, to ease the burden… All I ever wanted was to know what to do.” It would be so easy if someone could tell us who “me” really is.
For as long as I can remember having known the phrase, “nature vs. nurture,” I have been a proponent of “80% nurture, 20% nature.” It is odd considering how innately amazing I am that I would have arrived at that conclusion, but I think I wanted to believe that my adoptive parents played a significant role in shaping who I became… that an adoption was something that really could change a person for the better. Not just living conditions, but who a person really was. I also wanted to believe that, some day, I might have the same opportunity to raise and shape someone else in, hopefully, an equally loving and nurturing environment. The real-world evidence, however, seems to contradict what I wanted to believe, and Thomas’s mother backs it up: “If you were raised in a standard two-parent family,” she says, “with all the money and stability in the world, you would have turned out exactly the same. Maybe with some superficial differences. You’d have slightly different clothes.” I look at that, and I wonder how it is that someone like me came from the home I did, and my foundation is shaken, and maybe we really are all just who we are from the very beginning. Is there hope to change? Is there hope to avoid your destiny? (Conversely, is there the horror of missing your destiny?)
I don’t suppose we can ever know, but it is Kev, the astronaut, shortly thereafter who voices the only possible solution to the problem using only a handful of words. He believes, he says, “in true love, and destiny, and love at first sight.” I used to believe in those things too, and then I didn’t. And then I did again, and now… now what? Kev’s solution? “Go for it.” Go for what? I don’t know, and neither do you, and neither does anyone, but go for opportunity; go for possibility; go for believing it can happen. Go for the “maybe,” and not the “never.” Go for it, and don’t forget that, “I’m me,” and, ultimately, that has to be enough. Go for it, and don’t forget, also, that, “You’re you,” and that is equally important. The pitfall this story opens up is the belief that your life’s story is also the story of those around you. Thomas’s actions come from, “a sense of knowing what’s right, and what should happen, and wanting to get started,” but he forgets that he can only “know” something for himself. We don’t know the future, and we certainly don’t know the hearts of others. Chance can look like fate, and destiny can look transient, and the danger comes from believing that our plan is, “the plan” when all we can ever know is that we owe it to ourselves to keep trying.
“I didn’t know I wanted you, but it’s all so obvious now that it was all leading up to this, to us. Now we have to complete it.” Thomas was lost at the beginning of this story… he lacked a sense of self, and a sense of his place in society, and then he finds it in a quiet wave across the sand, in the imperceptible movement of someone else’s hand in is, and in the smallest effort of someone willing to walk “20 feet” across the beach with him. What he didn’t understand – perhaps what I don’t understand – is just how selfish and vain we can be. How wrong we can be as soon as we step outside of ourselves and attempt to intertwine our lives with another. “Now we have to complete it,” Thomas says, but he’s forgotten that everyone is their own story. The reply is harsh and direct: “Not we.” In his fervor to finally rely on someone else… to believe that someone will let him rely on them, he forgets that there is a path that must be taken first. To “see something and want it” is not enough, and he doesn’t “want to do any of the steps to get there.”
We aren’t given people on whom we can rely simply because we exist, nor is there anyone we can blame for our shortcomings. We have to learn how to walk on our own before we can rely on another. And we cannot rely on anyone else until we are also willing to be relied upon. As satisfying and safe as it might feel to have your back-up or to have someone standing next to you, isn’t it infinitely better to know that you are (or could be) that to someone else? And, truly, isn’t the magnificence of that in the fact that someone else has to choose you and allow you to choose them at the same time? “We’re in here, and we’re safe.” Those are the luckiest people. Hail, Hail.