Wiretap - Against the Grain

Episode Date: September 21, 2020

Stories of people doing things differently than everyone else. A man is convinced he's found a major scientific flaw that no-one else seems to have noticed and a young girl shares her thoughts on fitting in at school.

We're in the midst of the dog days of summer. And it's called that because during this period, Sirius, the dog star, rises with the sun in the morning. Not because it feels like several dogs are breathing their humid breath on you all the time. Can you tell he's a cat person? Hello, I'm Neil Kerkstel. And I'm Chris Houghton. We're the co-hosts of As It Happens.

But throughout the summer, some of our wonderful colleagues will be hosting in our place. We will still be bringing you conversations with people at the center of the day's major news stories here in Canada and throughout the world. You can listen to As It Happens wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC podcast. I'm Jonathan Goldstein, and you're listening to Wiretap on CBC Radio 1. Today's episode, Against the Grain. This whole business of the Seven Doorses,

has never made any sense to me. Why these seven? And why were their names based on those particular qualities? Is sneezing really enough to hang a person's entire identity on? And what kind of doctor was Doc if he couldn't even cure Sneezy? And for that matter, were dwarves even allowed to enter medical school in those ignorant dark days? What you may not know is that there was an eighth dwarf named Joseph Ewell, and he resisted being nicknamed. The other dwarves did not like this at all, and they could not rest until they'd saddled him with something reductive and cute. You like shrimp, said Bashful. We could call you Shrimpy. I had shrimp wanton soup that one time, said Joseph. What about fighty, said Happy? That steps on my turf, snarled Grumpy.

Joseph did not like mining, whistling while he worked, or the runaway teen they'd taken in named Snow White. In fact, it was because of her that he was no longer allowed to perform his gardening, O'Natural. Eventually, it was decided there was no room for a disagreeable nudist named Joseph, and so he was asked to leave. You pose a branding problem, said Doc. And so Joseph set off to make it on his own, dancing for nickels and serenading drunks in dirtbag saloons, until one day a Hollywood producer saw him perform, and recognizing his unique gifts, put him in the movies.

And so the eighth dwarf named Joseph, that nobody wanted around, moved to California, and became singing, dancing, acting sensation, Mickey Rooney. I'm a Yankee-Doodle dandy. Yankee-doodle-do-a-dye, a real-life nephew of my uncle's sand. But seriously, folks, isn't that how it always seems to go? Someone who doesn't fit in with the group, someone who has a completely contrarian streak, turns out in the end, to be celebrated for their individuality and uniqueness of vision.

Take, for instance, Bob Dylan. In July of 1965, he appeared. on stage at the Newport Folk Festival with an electric guitar, and the diehard folkies, the story goes, thought it was the most horrible thing they'd ever heard and booed him off the stage. Add it again later that year in Manchester, a voice from the crowd yelled, Judas! And Dylan, energized by the heckle, told the band to play it fucking loud, and line. launched into like a rolling stone, the song that would later be seen as a revolution, the turning point that took him from a folk singer to a rock star.

Or take Dick Fosbury, inventor of the Fosbury flop, the move that changed the high jump forever. Unlike the other scissor kickers on the track and field team jumping over forward like a bunch of suckers, Fosbury had this new idea, to reverse his body and jump backwards over the the bar. His coaches thought it looked really bizarre and discouraged him from doing it. In a 1968 New York Times article, Fosbury is described in positively eccentric terms. He is said to, quote, ponder his jump for four and a half minutes before approaching the bar. But after winning an Olympic gold medal and breaking all previous records, the scissor kick was

out and the Fosbury flop was in. In other words, you're a failure and a weirdo until you clear the bar. And yet some people's ideas just never catch on. For every eccentric like Harry Burnett Reese, the man who combined peanut butter and chocolate to create Reese's peanut butter cups, there's a doctor to Forrest C. Jarvis, who combined honey and vinegar, to create hinnigur, you've probably, never heard of Hunniger, and that is because it was disgusting. For every Orville Wright who pioneered human flight, there's a John Cleave Sims who tried to pioneer human habitation at the

center of the Earth. Again, you've probably never heard of Sims, and that is because, as it turns out, the Earth is full of burning liquid iron. You may also have never heard of the man in this next story, a self-proclaimed scientist who wanted to change the world. Here's Starlight kind to tell the tale. I was 20 years old, going to college in New York, and in need of a job. My roommate waitress at a restaurant where she made huge tips, but I didn't have the bone structure or hair texture to be hired somewhere like that. Instead, I waited outside the free weekly papers offices.

It was a late 90s, and every Tuesday, when the paper came out, a line of people stretched down the sidewalk to get a first look at the classified ads. That's how different things were before the Internet. back then people would unbend their legs and assume a vertical position known as standing the ad said intelligent person needed for science writer i dialed the number and a man with an eastern european accent answered he had just one question for me i steeled myself for some clever wordplay or perhaps a riddle but what he asked instead was this do you have access to a university library yes Good. I'll see you tomorrow at five. He gave me his address and hung up. The apartment of this man, I'll call him D, was shaped like a slice of cake,

cut into a tenement building on the low-reased side. In one corner with his living room, almost entirely taken up by a taxidermied leopard, its jaws open amid roar. In another corner with his kitchen, and in a third, the table and chairs it made up his office. office. He was sitting at the table when I got there. He was probably in his early 50s, tall and solidly built. He had reddish-brown hair and the kind of mustache that looks best

when accessorized with a head-to-toe safari outfit. In front of him were a yellow legal pad, two pieces of chocolate wrapped in gold foil, and two cups of deli coffee. I sat down opposite him, and he pushed one coffee and both chocolates toward me, as though we were negotiating a land deal in the new world. I had no idea whether I was being interviewed for the job, or had just started my first day of work. Dee had no certification as a scientist. He also hadn't written any science books or articles, but he prized science above all else. What he had meant by science writer in his ad was that he wrote letters to scientists, alerting them of a new theory about the human

brain that he had formulated. While reading a book on neuroscience, it had occurred to him as though he'd come across a typo, that a major cognitive processing assumption was flawed. On the legal pad, he drew two intersecting circles, each meant to represent a section of the brain and labeled them A and B. Then he added a smaller circle at the point where the two circles overlapped, and labeled that one C. He tapped excitedly at the spot with his pen. The C was the part of his theory, the part that everyone had gotten wrong. He was willing to hand over the sea to a real scientist, no strings attached, and he claimed, without a trace of bitterness, that it would one day win that scientist, a Nobel Prize.

Even during that first meeting, I understood that Dee's theory was probably not real. But what got me most was how generous in spirit it was. He was spending his own money to give something away. There are people who go through life, furious that someone's someone who was. Someone else robbed them of the glory they had coming to them. D is the only person I've ever met, for whom this was precisely his end goal. I agreed to meet with him twice a week. Each work session was three hours.

There would always be the chocolates and coffee waiting for me, a ritual I cherished. He'd say we had so much to do that day, and then would launch into a story about his younger days before he had become not a scientist. His sentences were a stream of silk handkerchiefs pulled from a magician's hat, knotted together, seemingly endless. He reiterated his theory to me again and again, each time using the same language, drawing the same circles, the larger A and B, cradling the smaller C. Sometimes I pretended to grasp it. Sometimes I'd ask a question that would be answered by his tearing off the top sheet on the yellow legal pad and drawing the circles again on a fresh page.

He rarely asked me about my own life, mostly, I think, because he regarded it with pity. When I told him I was majoring and playwriting at school, he blinked at me, not comprehending. Science was the only field of thought worth pursuing. He was especially keen on more women becoming scientists, and so, as I at least satisfied one requirement, he would often spend the second hour of our meetings trying to sway me in that direction. He'd make two separate lists of books for me to check out from the library, those for him and those for me.

I'd never been to my college library science floor before, but now I was up there all the time. There isn't a soul in this world who isn't a sucker for a good library research movie montage, the protagonist stays up all night, unearthing obscure legal clauses, and whizzing, through microfiche. Now I was living inside one of those montages for the fulfillment of a quest every bit is fictitious. The third hour of our meetings would be spent writing the letters to the scientists. We wrote to so many, Stephen J. Gould, Richard Dawkins, Stephen Hawking, Oliver Sacks. I would type while D dictated. He'd comment on a paper or a book the recipient had written. In the letter to Oliver Sacks, Dee noted how they both shared a fondness for swimming.

He would then offer his theory. We'd print out the letter, and I'd mail it on the way home. It felt as if I were dropping it down, a garbage shoot. But one day I arrived at Dee's house and saw lying on the table, an envelope addressed to him. Inside was the letter from Oliver Sacks. Dee read it to me out loud. Oliver Sacks didn't take D up on his offer to share his theory. But he didn't debunk him either.

He said that it was an interesting theory and that he wasn't surprised to learn that Dee swam, since that is when bold ideas often struck. He told Dee not to give up. I knew my being a swimmer would get his attention, Dee said. He had the biggest smile on his face. My last day, more than a year after my first, was spent mostly with Dee talking about how he'd already found a very good replacement for me. I was moving to Chicago for a job,

and his eyes drooped sleepily when I told him I wasn't leaving to pursue a career in science. When I would come back to New York for visits, I would often see him walking around the East Village or sitting outside a cafe. He'd see me too, and he'd always give me the same look,

far easier to understand than his theory. What a disappointment I had turned out to be, the look said. And some part of me must have agreed. because I never approached any further. If you're absolutely loving your summer read and don't want the book to be over, your experience doesn't actually have to end when you finish reading. I'm Matea Roach, and on my podcast bookends,

I sit down with authors to get the inside scoop behind the books you love. Like, why Emma Donahue is so fascinating. by trains, or how Taylor Jenkins Reed feels about being a celebrity author. You can check out bookends with Mateo Roach wherever you get your podcasts. The Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke once said something to the effect of

if you walk in a particular direction long enough, eventually you'll gain followers. But until then, you're just, just an outsider with some weird ideas, and that can be lonely. I spoke to a certain cultural icon who knows this feeling all too well. My name is Miss Pac-Man, and in the 1980s I was the star of an arcade video game. Ms. Pac-Man, you were a groundbreaking, a pioneer in a landscape of largely male-centric video games. Did you encounter a lot of institutional chauvinism?

I was intended as a counterpoint to Pac-Man. But I quickly realized I was a marketing ploy, nothing more than Pac-Man in lipstick, and fake eye lashes. They said people wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Lady Pac-Men and Men Pac-Men. In truth, PAC people look largely the same. Our Genit Talia is on the upper part of the forehead, but is tiny and easy to. How involved were you in the game's design? I had different ideas. They were largely ignored.

I thought the game could give greater emphasis to what went on outside the maze. For example, balancing, homemaking, and professional life. That seems hard to imagine given the limitations of graphics back then. How do you mean? Well, I mean, like, you know, everything looked like blobs of cops. One could use one's imagination. So in such a scheme, how would you score points, for instance? You wouldn't.

So what would be the point of the game? There wouldn't be one. Huh. I can see that being a tough sell. It was all disappointment. I wanted to be involved with a game that held a mirror, up to life. And in life we do not score points. Not points that can be objectively counted. I guess I kind of find a game like that hard to imagine.

Well, it is easy to imagine things the way they already are. Imagining something new is harder. It is one of those things that is easier when you are younger. Hello? Is this Nell? Yes, it is. Hi, Nell. It's Jonathan speaking. Hello, Jonathan.

How are you today? Greeting you. Good, good. Thanks for making the time to talk. I hope you got your homework done. Yep. Good. What grade are you in now? I'm in grade seven. So this is high school now? Yeah.

Is it harder to be your own person now in high school than it was in elementary school? Do you find there's more pressure from the kids around you to try to fit in and to be like everybody else? Well, yeah, I mean, I want to make everything fun. I want to make everything fun. And my friends, sometimes they think I overreact. I mean, the other day I was really crazy about this. about orange. I don't know why, but I was jumping around, like, saying, you know what? I really like orange. The color orange, or the fruit? The color orange. Uh-huh. I like orange a lot, and it gets

me excited. Like when you think about wearing orange clothes or painting orange, or what? Um, just orange. Just orange. In ethics class, we had to, like, have a sentence that represented us. So I said, um, la viand orange. Which means, which means instead of la, la vie en rose, yeah. La vie en orange would mean life in orange? Yeah. And what did that mean to you? Bright. Um, flashy and warm. I, I take orange as a color that's a bit out of the orange.

ordinary, and I want to be out of the ordinary. I don't want to be like everyone else. And sometimes not wanting to be like everybody else and wanting to be extraordinary or out of the ordinary, is it difficult? Well, yeah. You can't always be who you're supposed to be and you can't always be who you want to be, but the best thing is to find a balance in between that so you can be kind of who you want to be and kind of who you're supposed to be. So the person that you're supposed to be, that's like the person that you are in the world to fit in, in school and stuff like that?

Yeah. And what's funny is that sometimes the person that you want to be is the person that you're supposed to be. And that's where you find the perfect balance. And do you find that there are days. where it's harder to do that? Yeah, there are. It's sometimes hard, and, I mean, like, sometimes you just feel, like, giving up.

Sometimes you're like, okay, you know what? Just, like, and especially in grade 7, like, I haven't seen any bullying or stuff, but I know that when there's bullying, some people will think, like, oh, maybe if I wasn't this person and they wouldn't bully me around, or maybe if I did this, then other people would accept me, but that's not what you should choose. You shouldn't choose to give in. Sometimes you feel jealous or inferior to someone for some reason

or like something like that. So you give yourself a hard time and that's when the bully becomes yourself. I mean, we're allowed to be sad, you know. We're allowed to be sad. We're allowed to have doubt of ourselves. But really the best thing is to, um, to tell yourself to keep going

that's what's important that's why it is tricky sometimes to kind of to kind of not depend on fitting in do you think there's a danger either way like in trying to fit in too much but also in being a little too set on doing things the way that you want to do them

yeah you've got to that's why you've got to find the balance because if you don't find the balance then you're just going to either be fitting in with everyone and not wanting to be an independent person and like thinking that other people are superior to you or thinking that you're superior and being a bit well pretentious Hello. Hey, John. Oh, hi, how. You know, I say anything different in my voice?

No. Well, I've changed my whole life around. Uh-huh. That's it. I've just changed my whole life around. That's all you have a simple, uh-huh. Howard, I have to get back to work. And scene.

That's how it usually goes. Okay, am I right? Our conversation. Uh-huh. Today is a different day. Why is today different? For one thing, I'm not calling to ask to borrow any money from you. You're not?

No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, I was calling to see if you need any money. Do I need some money? Yeah, I have my checkbook out right in front of me. Is, do you have my checkbook there? Anyway, John, I've been mistakes in my life. Well, I mean... No, no, it's true.

Okay. And I want... I'd give it up a little faster, why don't you? I made some mistakes. Only a few. Remember my party animaling business? Yes, I remember that if I'm not mistaken. Didn't you accidentally set yourself on fire at a children's party?

Second degree burns, John, on my tussie. That was a big mistake. Okay, remember my stand-up comedy career? Your closer involved you setting yourself on fire. I did. I did. And when I was a vintner, when I was vintnering... Drunk apartment.

fire, if I'm not mistaken. My apartment, actually. And I looked like a fool, on and on. One after the other, you know why? Remember, I almost got stung to death by bees. Remember? That was terrible. All those things were disasters. You knew, you want to know why? You never stuck to any of your plans, and you have an aversion to hard work. No, no. It's because I want to society's approval, John. I'm deprogramming myself by going backwards. So I'm doing everything backwards. I'm going against what society tells you're supposed to do. I'm doing my own way, and that's how I'm going to move forward.

And you think that's going to do it? I eat backwards. I eat dinner before lunch. I had a hot chicken sandwich at 8 in the morning. You know, I just came from a movie. Did you? Yeah. And how was it? I don't know. I didn't even watch the damn thing.

I put my back to the screen, and I looked at all the people in the audience. Oh, there's stupid faces chewing their popcorn. I looked like scowl at them. Why such antipathy towards an audience? Because they're just sheeple. I'm trying everything. I'm wearing mitts on my feet. I put socks on my hand.

I'm like a salmon going against the current, fighting against that current. Right. Get back to where it was born. Mm-hmm. To lay eggs, to give birth. Except I'm going to give birth to myself. I'm going to get reborn. As a salmon.

I'm like sandpaper going against the grain of society. Like Charles Manson. Like a fine sandpaper, smoothing the course. Anyway, Howard, I wish you well. But what I was called to see... I see, you can see you rush me off. I wouldn't know if you went to join me in the Montreal Marathon this year. You know the Montreal Marathon?

We all run? Yes, I do know. You want to come with me? You run. Don't you like to run? I do like to run, and I hesitate to say that I'm glad to hear that you're taking an interest in your personal heart. health. It's not about health.

Of course it isn't. Of course it isn't. Do you see that's... I want to run to the start from the finish line. You're going to start at the finish line. You're so conditioned like a robot. I don't understand. I'm saying we're going to go against the time. I don't even know that that's legal. Why would it not be legal? Because I don't run the direction. The man is telling me to run into that way, because I'm not running with all the other people.

It's very disruptive. It's a job. They do this every year at the marathon in San Francisco. I'm just importing it to Canada. That's all. Oh, I see. It's a political message. And people wake up. What is the political message? It's don't follow the crowd.

We can do some training together and get ready for it, run up the down escalator at rush hour. Again. We'll have a good sense of how to avoid people. That seems like a very bad idea. Anyway, if there's America. This is all practice there for next year. And what, what pray tell is next year? Running of the Bulls.

You find that enticing? So you're going to go to Spain and run towards the Bulls, I guess? I'm going to stand up. My arms open and a loving embrace. And that bull comes towards me. I'm going to wrap my arms on his neck and give them a big hug. Okay. Okay, so, Howard, if you're committed to this going against the grain thing.

I'm completely committed. I'm already doing it. Okay, so what this means is that you'll have to listen to all your music backwards, right, and you might end up accidentally getting brainwashed by the devil. John, I mostly listen to, like, 70s folk. How's satanic and Joni Mitchell be? You know, you like reading your comic books? You're going to have to read them backwards, right? And that's going to ruin all the surprise endings.

I don't care. Well, what about Halloween, Howard? What about Halloween? Well, it's coming up, and I know you like Halloween. I love Halloween. I love it. It's my favorite time. And I know you like going door to door and trick-or-treating.

That's right. Well, you know, in this way, I think you would have to be the one giving out the candy. Like an adult. Like a proper adult. Well, yeah, no, I would still do my Halloween thing. I like dressing like a big kid. No, but you can't. You wouldn't be able to because you'd have to...

Trick-or-treat. That is so creepy. Trick-or-treat. You're saying I'm going to have to give them candy? You're going to have to give them candy? Because I'm going to give them candy. I mean, that's what you're talking about, right? You're going to have to do the opposite.

This would make sense, right? I want candy, too, and now I can't because I'm going against the grain. Well, that was your idea. Candy. But if I go against my idea, I'm going against my own grain. Right. I'm still kind of like setting my own course, and then I can have candy because I said I could because I said I couldn't.

Yes, of course. Right? You can't. Yes, I can't. No, you can't. Yes, I can't. Don't tell me what you can't. No, you don't. You don't tell me, Dad. I'm going to have a hell. I'm getting candy. You get you. On Wiretap today, you heard Nellica Dager, Howard Chackowitz, and Starly Kine with her story, The Not a Scientist's assistant. Wiretap is produced by Mirabirdwind Tonic, Crystal Duhane, and me, Jonathan Goldstein. Editorial assistance this week from Muge Zadie. For more CBC podcasts, go to cbc.ca.ca slash podcasts.