Problems with Utopias: Chronocentrism, The Best of Times

The ego-centered belief that we suffer more than our ancestors is irritating.

The ego-centered belief that we have progressed far, far, far beyond our ancestors is more understandable. 

It is still incredibly self-centered. 

Progress does exist. Medicine. Education. "Givens" regarding rights. The early years of the Common Era saw the adoption across multiple cultures of fresh ideas about the individual and God, which ideas greatly improved conditions for individuals everywhere. As Rodney Stark points out, the Dark Ages are only dark because of how little we know. In general, life got better when the Common Era hit.

The arrogance comes into play not with the material goods and opportunities that we've gained. Those should entail a humble response: I'm so glad to be alive now! The arrogance comes into play when people in the past are treated with contempt. 

The Best of Times: "Our group right now is the most advanced--the best--the pinnacle of achievement and enlightenment--far beyond our troll-like ancestors--or, at least, other people's troll-like ancestors!"

The arrogance of the above "best of times" attitude is often accompanied by an assumption that the contemporary group doesn't need to consider the past in terms of people's ideas. Their clothing, sure (gotta have those costume dramas). But not their thoughts. The contemporary group just has to be.

The smug assumption goes something like this: "Those primitive ancestors of ours didn't know any better when it comes to science and religion and social order. We do. We are moving forward, beyond their silly thoughts and clearly shallow thinking based on our advanced theories and our talent for maintaining those advanced theories! We don't even have to refute those idiots of the past. We just have to roll our eyes over them like high schoolers at the prom. Har har har. Let us contemplate our magnificence!" 

Herland makes this smug assumption--to an extent. It helps to realize that Gilman's perspective is rooted in nineteenth-century Progressivism. I will tackle nineteenth-century progressive ideas in more detail in a later post. But the mindset--we have progressed beyond our backwards ancestors--shows up in Victorianism even before Darwin. (Evolution as progression wasn't his precise argument, but what people thought he was saying fit well with the ethos of the time.) It continued until two World Wars turned it into a nonsense. It is now back in a slightly different guise. 

The problem, again, is not that the world isn't materially better (despite all the bad stuff) than it was thirty to fifty to a hundred years ago. The problem is the shallow disregard for what our ancestors DID accomplish followed by the conclusion, "Because I'm not as backwards as they, I'm automatically better and don't have to consider anything other than my refined existence and do what my refined leaders say." 

Last year, I encountered a post by a woman declaiming how far she has risen above the backwards theological assumptions of her church: In this day and age, sin and guilt are such déclassé concepts! So tacky! I'm beyond all that!

Okay, was my thought. What do you have to offer?

What she had to offer were ponderings from her naval; big thoughts about the nature of the universe based on..."MYSELF" (I'm not kidding).

Not exactly Thomas Aquinas. Or any philosopher offering real meat. For that matter, not anything as populist as Jordan Peterson, as biting as Christopher Hitchens, as contemplative as Jonah Goldberg and David French, or as trenchant as Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Bari Weiss. 

Gilman goes down the road of the aforementioned blogger. In fairness, she argues that just as the current generation of Herland's citizens is building on the ancestresses' achievements, so shall the next generation build on the current achievements. She acknowledges that her current ideas might prove to be lacking--which is good, cause they were.

And she argues against infant damnation, which is a positive.

The problem, as my Celis character points out, is that Gilman doesn't argue against infant damnation using logic, faith, or, simply, a better idea--as plenty of people did, including Joseph Smith. She argues against it by having Ellador break down in tears (again, I'm not kidding). In a later chapter in His in Herland, Alim and Celis have this exchange: 

I [Alim] never paid much attention to Ellador and Van’s philosophical discussions. I shrugged. 

Celis said, “Van, bless him, tried to explain to Ellador about infant damnation. It’s a belief from the other world’s history. A belief that unbaptized children—children who are not inoculated against the sins of their ancestors—are doomed to hell.” 

“That’s unpleasant,” I said. 

“Of course it is. But it’s part of a bigger theology. Religions are complex. People are complex. Understand the idea, understand how people think. Then, you can challenge the religion or the philosophy directly. Yet Ellador ran off in hysterics to a Temple Mother.” 

Celis’s tone was fondly exasperated. 

“And of course, the Temple Mother told her, No, no, that sort of thing can’t be true. Only ignorant people ever believed it. Ellador’s no fool. She realized immediately that dismissing the idea wasn’t going to make it easier to grasp that big picture she’s always pursuing. She should have known better than to run to someone who wouldn’t talk to her as honestly as Van. But she did. That’s why mentors like Tyra put up with her. Because Ellador is appalled by the right—or, rather, wrong—things. She’s offended when appropriate. Appreciative when appropriate. She’s a ‘good’ girl.”

In other words, Herland's religion has nothing to offer in the place of Presbyterianism, not even anything as witty as Twain's quote. It offers instead a kind of generalized "we're better" philosophy filled with rules, cultural appropriateness, and "good thoughts." It's entirely substanceless, in part because it rests on the premise that it doesn't have to justify itself. The quality of being advanced is supposedly enough.

Ultimately, this type of "better than" chronocentrism bypasses the reality of human nature (see quote by Stephen King). Chapter 8 specifically tackles one of Gilman's related arguments, the magisterial insistence that children don't play the "old games" anymore and never really liked them since those games originated with backwards ancestors. The mentors create new, clever, original, helpful games that children (obediently) prefer.

But an entire playground of childhood games and jokes exists under any adult's radar. In His in Herland, these games and jokes are a refuge from utopian "we're better" insistence. My Celis, in particular, would be partial to dead-baby jokes. 

I'm not saying people OUGHT to like dead-baby jokes. 

I'm saying they're part of human nature--and no amount of forward-thinking can make them vanish.

Gilman isn't alone when it comes to chronocentrism. Utopias often falter on the desire to put the past in its place. We are so much better. We never have to look back. We will never be perceived in the same way by our descendants. We are on the "right" side of history!

In reality, like the Star Trek: Voyager episode where people try to steal B'Elanna's violent thoughts for the sake of entertainment, no amount of preaching--either It was the best of times or It was the worst of times--will shut down the human tendency to create new challenges and tell old stories. Jargon-filled scoldings against the "bad" ideas of the past inevitably fail.

Wild fantasies, artistic endeavors, Grimm tales, dirty jokes, rebellions against the most stable of social orders, and Calvin & Hobbes games of anarchy may hide. They never die.

Chapter 8

His in Herland or Astyanax in Hiding