The Fine Line Between Utopia and Dystopia

When I teach W. H. Auden’s “The Unknown Citizen” and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s “Harrison Bergeron,” I always hope that my students will extrapolate beyond the classroom to what is going on in the “real world,” and while this doesn’t always happen, or even often, it’s always heartening when it does.  Students today are so focused on getting that degree that they really don’t bother with the joys of expanding their horizons, challenging their minds, and connecting thoughts and ideas in any substantive way.  It’s discouraging, really, but a great challenge.  I can’t, obviously, draw the lines between the dots for them. I’m not a liberal, so I don’t tell people what to think.  I see my job as showing them how to think for themselves.

Auden’s “The Unknown Citizen” presents a dystopia in which the state has undermined and effectively killed off the individual:

(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

I start discussion of this poem with the little-considered inscription:  why, I ask, is the citizen called “JS/07 M 378”?  What is the purpose of the monument?  Why is it significant that the state erected it?  From there, we move on to the text of the poem:  who is the speaker?  What is the role of the citizen, of the state?  Etc. and etc.

When I get that (increasingly rare) student who makes the effort or (better) embraces thinking for themselves, I feel an overwhelming sense of what Joseph Campbell called “bliss.”  Your “bliss” as Campbell describes it is rather more complicated than diving into a tub of Haagen Daas or indulging in your favorite pastime. It is something he says we have hints of and intuitions about all the time, it’s about a deep sense of happiness and fulfillment experienced together. Campbell writes, “The way to find out about your happiness is to keep your mind on those moments when you feel most happy, when you really are happy–not excited, not just thrilled, but deeply happy. This requires a little bit of self-analysis. What is it that makes you happy?” (from The Power of Myth).  So imagine my bliss when a student, responding to our reading of Auden’s “The Unknown Citizen,” said that it seemed counterintuitive to establish a monolithic government-run health care system and expect it to “care” about people when it makes of them nameless, faceless, and “unknown” citizens. 

This comment, as you might imagine, sparked a fierce debate amongst students.  Many arguing that if the government didn’t care, it wouldn’t want to control the healthcare system, some citing BO’s “brother’s keeper” tripe (not that I let on in the classroom that I think it’s tripe), and others looking at Auden’s poem and wondering aloud (perhaps for the first time) if collectivism could possibly work, and if it did would people be free and happy?  Would the trade off, they asked, be worth it?

Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” is yet another dystopic vision, this time of utopian delusions of equality taken to the nth degree (i.e. satire):

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.

On the television screen were ballerinas.

A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.
“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel.

“Huh” said George.

“That dance-it was nice,” said Hazel.

“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.

“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George.

“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel a little envious.

“All the things they think up.”

“Um,” said George.

“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.”

“I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George.

“Well-maybe make ’em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.”

“Good as anybody else,” said George.

“Who knows better then I do what normal is?” said Hazel.

“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?”

It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.
“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.”

George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.”

“You been so tired lately-kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.”

“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.”

“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean-you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just set around.”

“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it-and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“I’d hate it,” said Hazel.

“There you are,” said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?”

If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel.

“What would?” said George blankly.

“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?

“Who knows?” said George.

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and Gentlemen.”

He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

“That’s all right-” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me-” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.”

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.

The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.

And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.

“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.”

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God-” said George, “that must be Harrison!”

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood – in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook.

“Even as I stand here” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!”

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.

Harrison’s scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.

He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.

“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.

She was blindingly beautiful.

“Now-” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” he commanded.

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.”

The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.

The music began again and was much improved.

Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.

They shifted their weights to their toes.

Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

They leaped like deer on the moon.

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.

It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.

And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.

It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.

George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying” he said to Hazel.

“Yup,” she said.

“What about?” he said.

“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.”

“What was it?” he said.

“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel.

“Forget sad things,” said George.

“I always do,” said Hazel.

“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in his head.

“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel.

“You can say that again,” said George.

“Gee-” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.”

I don’t start this discussion at all.  I simply say that we’re turning our attention now to “Harrison Bergeron” and let them talk.  And talk they do.  It’s lovely to hear them connect this story’s government with Auden’s state, examine the role of the citizen in each, wonder about the possibility of equality (while still determinedly asserting that it’s totally possible but only with the government imposing laws to ensure it) . . . yeah, yeah, while I don’t tell my students what to think, I’m not completely (or even remotely?) unbiased.  I construct my syllabi, place these two works on the same day (and in this order), for a reason.  I embrace my hypocrisy.  What I don’t do, however, is tell them how to read/interpret these works.  I let them do that.  There is no right or wrong here, and if their own interpretations run contrary to my own, so be it. 

But I believe in planting seeds like this.  Even if my students don’t respond immediately, make connections, I know that a few (certainly not all, or even the majority) of them will one day . . . when they’re about 30 and some of their delightful, youthful naivete begins to collapse in the face of reality, of application of ideologies that seem so fair and equitable.  You know, in theory.  That fine line between utopia and dystopia disappears right about then for some people, and I’d like to think that I, dangerous subversive that I am, play a role, however small, in erasing it.

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8 thoughts on “The Fine Line Between Utopia and Dystopia

  1. ahh, utopia dystopia….a smack in our face…cold water, the realization that in fact 'our poop' stinketh after all.

    Good piece here Fuzzykins! I like it a great deal! I would love to be a little mousy under the desk watching the exchanges between kiddos ( ok, students) but it is surprising me these days how old the 'kiddos' in my eyes are.

    I take it a language teacher or literature teacher…I have not delved deep into snooping about to discover…

    “and others looking at Auden's poem and wondering aloud (perhaps for the first time) if collectivism could possibly work, and if it did would people be free and happy? Would the trade off, they asked, be worth it?”

    But truly, what helps a person put into context the musings and pondering such as above…is pure knowledge and appreciation of history.

    Only then can the dots be connected. When the realization of cyclical rising and falling of nations jumps from the pages to the mind. When it is seen that utopia has been tried, and failed, tried and failed, and really is a veil and slipper slope to totalitarianism ….there is the “aha!”

    Nothing new under the sun, when they can see that, and pull it all together….in their minds will be a fire ignited which can't be snuffed…a craving for truth, for connections, for empirical evidences of human behavior and common sense…a continued desire to find more dots to connect.

    Those can't come from textbooks but they can come from seeds planted by good cultivating gardeners of minds.

  2. Aw, thanks, Cubbykins! Yes, it's important for students to make connections to what they are reading not only in my classes, but in all of their classes, including history classes. Now, there's this nifty little branch of literary criticism called “new historicism,” which, in the right hands ;), can be used to bring in some history. You know, just to give students a little context . . . . This is particularly fun because new historicism is sickeningly dripping with socialist thought, but hey, what can be used one way, can be used another, right? Looks like Glenn Beck is doing a bit of Alinsky table turning. More power to him, I say 🙂

  3. Fuzzy! Thank goodness there are still intelligent teachers like yourself left out in the world. I feel sorry for the kids today, they are being indoctrinated with so much junk from the left, they won't even know real history, literature, economics, anything at all, to make intelligent.
    I'm glad you are out there to help them.

  4. Oh dear Fuzz they are going to come and take you away. Those elite pseudo-intellectual education czars that determine that thinking other than as they do must be handicapped so as to prevent contamination of naked minds. Be careful they are watching you!
    See what happened to THX1138 and Fahrenheit 451 and so many others. They all tried to warn us but we didn't listen.

  5. @ Bunni, thanks so much! 🙂 There are a lot more conservative teachers out there than one may think. We tend to be rather low-key by necessity, and that's incredibly sad to me. Dangerous, even.

    @ Kerry, aw, thanks *hugs* You'd think that would be the goal, wouldn't you? But liberals, who make up the majority of our K-12 and university educators, don't trust freedom in any form, even thought. It's amazing to hear them sometimes, mocking students who don't buy into the whole liberal ideology. And these, of course, are the most popular, beloved teachers out there. It's all so wrong.

    @ Heyman, well, you're right, they're watching me and have been for quite some time. That's okay, though, as long as I'm careful not to say anything radical or unacceptable like “Merry Christmas” in the classroom, I should be okay.

    @ Trestin, I'd love to hear more about that sometime 🙂

  6. I'm a libertarian, and I love “Harrison Bergeron!” He's a hero!

    I especially love the part where he says: “I am the Emperor!” “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” Because what says freedom better than “I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived!”?

    And he's right! If he's better than us, he deserves to rule us. Anyone who is weaker or less fortunate deserves to be shut away from society. Let's return to “survival of the fittest!”

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