Excerpt from “Provincialism”

Provincialism seems to be the most universal characteristic among human beings; it even seems to supplant greed for the number one spot. It isn’t that we each think ours is the best way of life; we usually believe that ours is the only way of life. We might think that Indians and Arabs wear funny bed sheets for clothing. But it never occurs to us that if we lived in such a hot climate we would find it rewarding to wear loose-fitting white “dresses” rather than uncomfortable trousers. Modern Japanese businessmen wear western-style suits and ties, but they often change into traditional, loose kimonos upon arriving home. They feel more comfortable in the latter and wear the former only for show.

Daily costume depends upon geography and climate. Nomadic Mongolian people wear the same heavy outer clothes year-round. In cold weather it keeps out the chill, and during warm summers, it protects the body from the outer heat. Those who live in extreme tropical climes keep windows closed as much as possible to keep hot air out.

Each culture learns to adapt to its environment. So why are some Americans amused by how Arabs appear when we see them on television? We compare their garments with our ridiculous way of dressing (in hot, humid weather women wear almost nothing while conforming men wear suits and choking neckties). And since we are the judge and jury, we find their practical adaptation amusing.

We tend to judge people in the same way, estimating how much they differ from the provincial standard set up in our localities. Actually, each one of us is part of a minority; everyone is outnumbered. No one ever thinks the other fellow is the good guy; it’s taken for granted that we’re the good guys.

If we live in the suburbs, we try to conform to the group ideal in every way – lest our neighbors think we don’t belong. Of course, if we have a feeling for all people (not merely ourselves) and have some peace and inner security (a spiritual base), we don’t give a fig for such judgments. Then we are considered eccentric – unless we are wealthy and can set our own standards.

What a narrow life we tend to live in our suburban communities, where we have huddled together with others who have (or pretend to have) the same means and are devoted to the same mores. “She has very good taste,” we say, meaning her likes and dislikes conform to our own. This is natural since she has been shaped in the same aseptic crucible as we. Even protest meetings such as anti-war gatherings are peopled with others who have the same viewpoint as we.

We actually don’t want dissent. We want to assume that everyone in the group votes the same way, reads the same books (if they read at all), and stands for the same things. This, despite the fact that the only way such protest meetings could expand our horizons would be if we heard all opinions together (both contrary and agreeable). Voltaire’s statement, “I do not agree with what you say, but I will defend with my life your right to say it,” is not the statement of a provincial man. We may agree in principle with his words, but we do not practice what those words say.

The usual thought is, “My little group is the center of the universe and all others are judged by how they compare to us.” An Asian boy once walked away from me in disgust when I tried to describe that trains to New York City enter the city underground. He had asked a perfectly reasonable question about how railroad stations in large cities of the world compared with his own small town. But he thought I didn’t take his question seriously and that I was offending him by spouting some nonsense. This simply couldn’t be possible from his point of view; it was not within the ballpark of any norm he knew.

One time in Hong Kong, some travelers and I rented a car and driver to tour the extensive new territories. These extended to the Chinese border and were leased to Hong Kong for a long period in order to supply food to gourmet restaurants and popular street stalls. Near the loosely guarded border we were surprised to come upon a walled village. Only Chinese lived there; people shared shelters with animals in the mild, California-like Canton climate. Adults were busy with work, and children were having a hilarious time. Little ones, wearing only tops and no bottoms, were chasing chickens and running about the countryside in what seemed to be riotous and gleeful good health.

An older German woman in our party clucked sympathetically. “Those poor children,” she exclaimed with a warm and misguided heart. “They’ll never have a chance to get anywhere, to amount to anything.”

I was astounded, having never seen healthier children in my life. “Exactly where would you like them to get?” I asked sardonically. But of course she meant they would never have the opportunity to enter the European status struggle, which was the criterion by which she judged. That these young ones seemed happier and healthier, with fewer discernible hang-ups, than the children she sees at home did not occur to her. Since they would never lead her life, they were naturally to be pitied.

Another time at Clarke’s Hotel in Benares (now Varanasi) in India, I met a staid English couple traveling for the first time. He had just retired from business, and they were beginning to see the world. Thinking to help, I arranged for a young student friend of mine at the famed Sanskrit university to guide them through a kasbah-like neighborhood. It was filled with dark streets, thieves and pickpockets, beggars and holy men, camels and goats, temples with ringing gongs and chanting priests, and the accumulated filth of thousands of years. It was a fascinating place in the holiest and most interesting of Indian cities.

When the English couple returned from their extended tour, they were tight-lipped and grim, not looking at all as if they had enjoyed themselves. “Those poor starving people,” exclaimed the English woman. “So hopeless, so pitiful. . .” She had noticed none of the interesting sights, only the beggars and mendicants.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Did you notice the faces on those ‘starving’ people?” She said she had.

“Did they seem any more miserable than the faces you see in London every morning?”

She thought for a moment and perceptibly brightened. “You know,” she said, “I was astonished that the filthy beggars seemed so cheerful. After all, what have they to be cheerful about?”

This made me laugh. “Are all your London friends that cheerful?” I pressed on.

They looked at each other and then slowly shook their heads. Incomprehensibly, starving people were cheerful, and the “fortunate” ones back home often wore dour expressions.

“To be helpless is often to be cheerful,” I explained, but they looked dubious. “When there is nothing to strive for, we relax and let our destiny take its course. The workings of karma, each man’s self-made fate, are well understood in India. Why should we resent what we have brought on ourselves?”

This was too much for them to handle, so they retired to their room to speculate about the things they had seen.

Climb the Joyous Mountain is available in print and in an e-book from justinstonetcc.com.