The world is too much with us, or can Hannah Montana be saved?

In 1807, Wordsworth lamented

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not..."


Now, for all the yapping I hear about terrorist threats and economic collapse, the U.S. in 2009 isn't really in the same kinds of dire straits that England in 1807 was facing. I mean, Bin Laden and Hamas are problems for us, but not on the same level that, say, Napoleon was for the English. Compared to the very real threat of being pressed into the Navy just for stepping outside your door, things like higher gas prices don't seem like such a big deal. On the other hand, I think that a growing number of people would agree that Wordsworth's critique of materialism is pretty much spot-on, especially in view of the recent financial crisis.

Case in point: I went to the mall to do a little shopping last weekend. I rarely go to the mall anymore as it's too much of a pain(see Overbay, Daniel). When I do, I feel a) way old, b) tacky and c) therefore poor. (Although I should also say that with the exception of point A, I have probably always felt this way in malls--which is probably part of their underlying marketing strategy, come to think of it.) Anyway, having those kinds of feelings enables me to basically view the shopping experience as a kind of anthropological experiment in which everything that is familiar is made strange. Besides, after living on our squirrely compound in the woods, I find it hard to integrate into suburban settings like the mall, and the inner cynical teenager that is always lurking inside me keeps making snarky comments about people who frequent Brooks Brothers or Sharper Image.

However, the most unnerving part of the mall experience is, for me, found in stores like Gymboree, Baby Gap, and Limited Too, where I am seriously tempted to buy things--not for myself--but for my kids. After being lured in by some super cute leggings, I am apalled by everything else inside. Why wouldn't a 3 year old need a string bikini and matching purse? Why wouldn't a 5 year old need knee length pleather platform boots? Why wouldn't said 5 year old need a pair of shorts with "TART" embossed on the rear? Why wouldn't an 11 year old need a padded training bra? (Ok, as someone who was definitely chest-challenged, I guess I can relate to that last one.) The world is too much with us, indeed.

Which brings me to Hannah Montana. (Ok, bear with me here--I'm getting to the point.) After I got home from the mall, who was lying on the kitchen table, but Ginny's new Hannah Montana doll, bought for her by her grandma in an excess of child-pleasing zeal. Ginny doesn't actually know anything about Hannah Montana, except that, apparently, she's fabulously cool according to the other kids at preschool. So here's Hannah Montana, clad in her micro mini skirt, legs aspraddle, on my kitchen table. And I was hearing my mother-in-law's voice in my ear: "Ginny doesn't KNOW that the clothes are supposed to be suggestive, so it's ok!" Suddenly I was consumed by righteous indignation, and decided that it was time for Hannah Montana to get saved. Yes, she now looks like she's joined FLDS, but I feel like it's an improvement. Unfortunately, the clothes that fit her best belonged to Cinderella, so it's not the complete slap in the face of the worldwide Disney marketing conglomerate that I would have liked, but it's an improvement nonetheless.

So Hannah Montana got saved. They say that Americans in general are saving more, spending less these days, that we've cut down on gasoline consumption and energy spending, and are taking on less debt. So I'm hoping for great things for the rest of us, and for myself in particular. If I can stay away from the mall, that is.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

Patrick O'Brian, author of the Master and Commander series, is one of my very favorite writers, and I often ruminate on little passages from his works. One of the little interludes that's been on my mind today has to do with a moment in the first novel in the series, when Jack (the captain) and Stephen (his best friend) are talking about identity:

'Identity?' said Jack, comfortably pouring out more coffee. 'Is not identity something you are born with?'

'The identity I am thinking of is something that hovers between a man and the rest of the world: a mid-point between his view of himself and theirs of him - for each, of course, affects the other continually. A reciprocal fluxion, sir. There is nothing absolute about this identity of mine. Were you, you personally, to spend some days in Spain at present you would find yours change, you know, because of the general opinion there that you are a false harsh brutal murdering villain, an odious man.'

'I dare say they are vexed,' said Jack, smiling. 'And I dare say they call me Beelzebub. But that don't make me Beelzebub.'

'Does it not? Does it not? Ah?' (O'Brian, 278).


I recently joined Facebook, apparently the last person in my generation to make this effort. It's been nice to hear from old friends, many of whom I haven't seen or spoken to since we graduated high school. But at the same time, the foray into Facebook has taken me back to a different point in my life, and I'm not 100% happy about it--not by a long chalk, as Jack would say.

I feel that I'm a very different person than I was when I graduated high school. Shouldn't I be? I mean, I've lived almost half my life since graduating. The post-high school Amy is the one who got married, crafted an academic career (of sorts), had children, built a house, joined a completely different denomination, etc. But therein lies the rub.

If who we are is, as Stephen suggests, partly dependent on how other people see us, the people who knew me back then (and don't really know me now) are only ever going to remember me the way I was. And that person isn't/wasn't so great. She was hyper-competitive, pretty immature, suffering from a massive inferiority complex. (Who else goes to grad school for English, except people with these kinds of problems, I ask you?) I'm not altogether different now, but I'm different enough to not want to go back there. Worse, looking at the profiles of people I knew back then (people I liked and respected, mind you) is bringing up a lot of negative feelings--I feel that I haven't achieved enough, don't have a good enough job, haven't maxed out whatever potential I might have had. Virtual contact (VIRTUAL contact, for pete's sake!) with old acquaintance is turning me back into precisely the same kind of competitive lunatic I have tried for years to stop being.

So maybe auld acquaintance SHOULD be forgot and never brought to mind. Perhaps the best thing I can do for myself in the new year is to cancel the Facebook account and live in the now, as opposed to the days of auld lange syne. As the song says,


We twa hae paidl’d i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne...

The water is wide indeed. Perhaps it is so wide that I shouldn't care whether people thinking I'm Beelzebub makes me Beelzebub. But I'm not sure I can stop caring, whether I should or not...