June 14th, 2024
It’s both alarming and comforting that the way we act on the internet isn’t anything new, if you look into the history of humanity at all.
I watched the epic Bob Dylan documentary No Direction Home from 2005 on PBS this afternoon. (“Epic” as in I watched all three-and-a-half hours of it in one sitting without scrolling through my phone.)
The film traces his early life in Hibbing through the era when he became an international icon, a genuine voice of his generation. Considering there were no cell phones back then (can you imagine?) (are you scared?!), there is an impressive amount of footage from that time and it, tied together with a rare modern interview with the man himself, makes for an intimate and compelling experience, which asks us to consider the roles of artist, critic, press, audience, and decent human being.
If you don’t know what happened to Dylan in ’65, here’s your spoiler alert.
In 1965, Bob Dylan, folk hero, went electric. And the people turned against him.
It would be astonishing to see the lengths that fans and the press went to admonish him, to make him feel bad, to ask him stupid questions, to buy tickets for his shows to literally boo at him — it would be, but we have the internet now, so it actually looks like human business as usual, just sixty years ago. The best artists have been both ahead and of their times; the greatest artists embrace change, and most humans abhor it, for reasons arbitrary and evolutionary.
We have a long history of being awful to artists, only to venerate and celebrate them when they get older or, more likely, after they’re gone.
With the internet, we can easily learn that history and from our mistakes; we could collectively vow to be better and grow as a society.
Instead, we use that same internet to perpetuate the worst parts of humanity, the tribalism, ignorance, and close-mindedness that has caused every single fight, battle, and war in human history.
I was bummed to see how Bob was treated then, but I was more bummed that I was not surprised. When you see the historical pattern of sacrifice — that people, instead of taking responsibility for themselves, will always find scapegoats to destroy in an attempt to temporarily keep the illusion of order — you can’t unsee it.
But that isn’t a bad thing.
It means that you have a new tool now: you can see through the mob. It doesn’t make you better than any one person, but it does make you better than a mindless mass of them.
And when you think better, you can do better. You can recognize that nobody is black and white; you know that we’re palettes smeared with gray and color and everyone who wants it is worthy of grace, respect, and rehabilitation in the case of those who have caused harm.
Really think about that last one, because I have yet to meet a human who has not caused harm.
Recognizing that humans have kind of sucked so far isn’t so bad when you consider one final thing: our entire book hasn’t been written yet.
There’s a whole lot of future in front of us. One where we can learn from our mistakes, admit when we are wrong, give flowers to our artists, and build a better path forward together.
The Den 