MARGINALIA

RECOVERING FROM THE SHAKING HEAD SYNDROME

Valerie Weaver-Zercher

“Where would the gardener be if there were no more weeds?” —from “The Active Life” by Chuang Tzu

I’m ashamed to admit that, while on vacation when Representative Gary Condit admitted to a relationship with intern Chandra Levy (before 9-11-01 replaced such trivia), I lay on the bed in our hotel room surfing by remote control between about fifteen different talking heads discussing the most recent developments. In so doing, I joined people across the United States in shaking our heads over the misfortune of Levy and her family and the illicit behavior of one more public servant.

It’s true this fascination coexists with my more cerebral disgust at the way the media makes hay out of such scandals. When war and terrorism grip our globe, the fact that one privileged woman’s disappearance and one politician’s sexual life could overtake the headlines is repulsive. Still, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a sucker for such stories, that I read every story about this and similar scandals.

It’s not just the antics of celebrities, either, that capture my interest. I can’t count the conversations I’ve participated in, both as speaker and listener, in which those present detailed (with a not-well-disguised glee) the scandal of someone else’s life. What is it within me—and apparently I’m not the only one—that is so fascinated with the misfortunes of others, with the lurid details that punctuate stories of sex scandals, murder trials, and financial ruin? Why am I drawn to those stories that make me shake my head in pity, or disgust, or simple disbelief?

This delight in troubles of others, this “shaking-head syndrome,” as it might be called, is deeper than gossip—a term that conjures up images of old women sitting around a coffee table with nothing better to do. This is deeper than simple self-righteousness, which has plagued religious folk and others for centuries. This goes way down, below the strata of our conscious thoughts, to a deep, subliminal vein where we find some perverse pleasure in accounts of human failure or tragedy.

I’m beginning to wonder if we “need” such stories, in some paradoxical way, to help our lives make sense. Tales of others’ troubles throw into starker relief the normalcy, the rightness of our own lives. Indeed, by narrating the stories of others’ lives, especially those replete with scandal or shame, we mold the contours of our own into more attractive shapes. Every sentence I utter about someone else’s life cloaks a subtext about my own: Condit is an unfaithful spouse (I am a faithful one). X spends way too much money on clothes (I’m a good steward). Y is a workaholic and doesn’t spend enough time with her family (I have my priorities straight). Z is such a racist (I am not).

Who would the faithful be without the unfaithful? How could I define “good” if I had never seen “bad”? Who would I be without the Other?

A variation of this shaking-head syndrome, even more pernicious than the scandal-loving form, is the “helping” kind. This is the head-shaking that defines the Other as needy, dirty, destitute, lazy, disorganized, promiscuous, fill-in-the-blank-with-the-adjectives-you’ve-heard, then defines oneself as not only “opposite” but as “helper.”

This type of head-shaking plagues especially the helping professions, such as social work and education. It breeds in teachers’ lounges where teachers click their tongues and say, “Well, what can you expect, coming from that family,” and among social workers who share stories of clients’ derelict lives and bad decisions.

I also wonder whether this form of head-shaking dwells among Anabaptist-Mennonites, the Christian tradition to which I belong, more than other religious groups. Within this tradition we have placed strong emphasis on “discipleship,” on faithfully following the teachings of Jesus. This has often led us to underscore the importance of serving others.

Then sometimes, in the middle of our helping (which is at times actually helpful and at times not at all), we circulate negative and dignity-stripping definitions of the people with whom we work. I’ve often sat among Anabaptists acquaintances who were swapping war stories and shaking their heads about the people they’d been helping.

Don’t get me wrong: these “helpers” are well intentioned and good people. I know because I’m one of them. While trying to be helpful to my neighbors or friends in crisis, I’ve sometimes portrayed them to others in that shaking-head way, as in, “Can you believe the situation this person is in,” and then dropped subtle (or perhaps not-so-subtle) references to what I’m doing to help them. Even when I’ve consciously mentioned the admirable parts of people’s lives, I’ve often done it in ways that position people as deserving pity and help.

In his book The Active Life, Parker Palmer writes about this shadow side of helpers, that side of us that needs to help others and so, first, must define others as “needy.” He calls it the “inner do-gooder,” which, he writes, “needs to act benevolently not so much for the sake of others as for the sake of self-promotion.”

Palmer asks whether the “good” that is done out of this need can ever be truly good for anyone, as it most often results in patronizing, dependence-building actions. “The world does not need more saviors who impose their version of salvation on others,” he writes, pointing his finger straight at people like me.

Indeed, when we represent others as primarily needy, we perpetuate the lie that we ourselves are somehow not in need, even as they are completely helpless. We ignore the many needs within ourselves, not least of which is the need to position ourselves as helpers. Who is truly needy—the person helped or the one who needs to help?

This is not to say “helping” is always hurtful, that we should never speak truthfully about others’ lives or hope they find more wholeness. It is to say that we must hold the lives and emotions of others carefully, as the precious gifts they are, rather than turn them into titillating spectacles to share with friends.

There is much more that could be said about shaking-head syndrome: how it displaces attention from systems onto individuals, how it uses codewords for class and race and actually augments structured economic and racial inequality, how it fortifies the fundraising strategies of entire nonprofit organizations. Representing others in head-shaking ways is rarely as benign as it seems; what may seem insignificant conversations are actually bricks in the walls of stereotype and prejudice that zigzag across our society.

At its root, however, this head-shaking is no different than the kind that thrives on scandal. Both turn people into objects, agonizing pain into dinner conversation. Both position the “I” as clean and the “Other” as unclean. Both operate out of need, negativity, and prejudice, rather than abundance, optimism, and grace.

Were I to confess all the times I’ve given in to the shaking-head syndrome, of both the scandal-loving and helping varieties, I’d have to sit in front of this computer screen longer than I care to. And I have a feeling that ’fessing up wouldn’t keep me from shaking my head and clicking my tongue again, probably in the same day or week I finished my list. Breaking the head-shaking habit is probably even harder than stopping the nail-biting one (which also seems to elude me).

Admitting I’m as guilty a head-shaker as anyone, however, may keep me from distancing myself from those gossipy old women of the stereotype. Realizing my complicity with the ranks of head-shakers may help me pay a little less attention to the Condits of the world and spend a little less energy talking about my “helping” exploits. Slowly but surely, I may begin responding to and representing others not out of my own needs but out of a deep assurance of God’s abundance.

—Valerie Weaver-Zercher, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, is the mother of an infant son and assistant editor and columnist for DreamSeeker Magazine.