Over the span
of the last twenty-five years, my personal journey of self discovery has led me
through a unique labyrinth of places and experiences that have all affected how
I perceive the world around me. From dilapidated, urine filled alley ways, to
gold and marble trimmed hotel lobbies, I have witnessed the extremes of
ego-driven affluence, along with the disease tainted sacrifices of those who
have slaved to support the empty facade of extravagance. Growing up, I have
watched parents like my own, offer up their health and vitality in exchange for
a chance for their sons and daughters to escape the poverty they once grew up
in, while I attended school with the same children whose parents lobbied
against low-income families' ability to receive direly needed governmental
benefits. For a world on the edge of historically unmatched technical and
medical advancement, it is difficult for me, as I'm sure it is for others, to
acknowledge the fact that just as our polar glaciers are slowly melting into
the sea without the bat of our eyes, our modern society is also slipping into
the largest global wealth gap humanity has ever seen.
As a student currently attending the College of Southern Nevada, I happened
upon an author whose writing not only exemplifies the reality of this
perspective, but also forces us to question the motives of a society whose
majority enjoys lauding personal achievement and success as much as it enjoys
ignoring and chastising the minority who make their wealth and stability
possible.
"They were not naïve
and happy children—though their children were, in fact, happy. They were
mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O
miracle! But I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.
Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away,
once upon a time "(Le Guin 250).
Ursula K. Leguin's magnum opus, "The Ones Who Walk Away From
Omelas," first approaches readers as simple fiction, colorfully
describing the setting of a fantastical, utopian society where citizens exist
without want or need for anything. In a magical, empirical city that is more
concept and symbol than actual living, breathing space, Leguin's audience is
stealthily accosted by the hypothetical prophesy of what has been, what
currently is, and what may very well continue to be. Like some form of twisted,
dystopian version of a Disney fairytale, our suspended disbelief is strained
through vivid pictures of a reality that are closer to our world than Cinderella
and Snow White will ever be. Through the eyes of Leguin in Omelas,
we begin to slowly understand that we have seen this fairytale before, and we
already know that there isn't a happy ending.
"Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing."
Line by line, we walk in tow
behind the citizens of Omelas, reveling in the beauty of the architecture,
the free exhibitionism of the sunlit, drug-fueled orgies, all the while knowing
there is always a price to be paid for such hedonistic bliss. In the darkest
recesses of the city, lying in its own filth with a sore-ridden body, is the
sole reason that Omelas can sustain its joyous atmosphere of
health, beauty, and equality: an innocent child. Fueled by the suffering and
degradation of the city's only scapegoat, Omelas thrives in its
prosperity. As the audience in Leguin's tale, we are never explicitly told how
such a grotesque event can be possible in this fictional world, however, we can
imagine a laundry list of reasons why such a thing could exist in our own.
Money. Greed. Capitalism. All things that prey on the unfortunate and the less
privileged with such a disdain for humanity, that one has to question if such a
concept can even exist where hope and security are pushed under the tread of
the Great Machine, or what the old men use to refer to as the American Dream.
Like a cut that refuses to heal,
Le Guin’s beautifully crafted parable hits me deep inside my soul as I put the
metaphorical pieces of the story together. Suddenly the truth of our society on
a global scale becomes clearer than I could have ever fathomed on my own. In order
for peace, there must be war. In order for justice, there must be sacrifice.
For every ounce of bliss, there is a pound of suffering waiting behind some
dimly lit closet, some broken down trailer in the midst of poverty and decay.
The latter image is what is branded into my mind as I recall the one room, tin
enclosure I spent years of my childhood living in, sleeping next to each member
of my immediate family in a wooden bedframe with strips of foam as a
replacement mattress. Le Guin and I both know how very real and deep the
devastation runs inside of those who are born inside that filth laden-closet;
forced to endure the sacrifice of those who benefit from a system that caters
to the birthright of the wealthy and tirelessly sledges against the hopes and
aspirations of those who die working towards a better way of life.
The symbolism of the Omelas
citizens who willfully and deliberately flee the safety and carefree living of
their exuberant city makes me think of where I stand inside this real life
fable. Having been the feral child, I now feel as an adult that I am working my
way towards being an ‘Omelan’. As college students armed with degrees that
statistically guarantee we will make at least twice as much as our uneducated
parents during our lifetime, we will soon have to decide where we will stand in
our own ‘Omelas’. Will we choose to accept the collectively held belief that
those who fall between the cracks deserve to be there? Will we give in to the
overwhelming, seductive temptation of living in American consumeristic
sanctuary at the cost of others’ suffering? Or will the dirt of our pasts
cleave to the inside of our souls and spurn a hatred towards the cowardly
injustice of indifference so strong that we will have no other choice than to
run to the mountains that Le Guin paints along the horizon of Omelas, and grab
every blister-worn child off the street as we venture off into life’s
existential darkness and uncertainty? Only time will tell, however, Ursula K.
Le Guin’s heart-wrenching and thought provoking tale is one I’m sure I will
never forget, and one you probably won't either if you take my advice and check
out "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," by newest favorite
author.
Until Next Time.
Your literary guide to cynicism,
Thomas Gallion
For Professor Nelson
