Crackpot.

This weekend I finished reading Adele Wiseman’s 1974 novel, Crackpot. Crackpot tells the story of Hoda, a girl who is raised in an impoverished immigrant family in the first half of the 20th Century in Winnipeg. Over the course of the novel, Hoda engages no numerous activities to ensure the survival and well-being of herself and her father; most prominently, Hoda works as a sex worker. Wiseman skillfully bounces the narrative voice between the novel’s characters in a way that allows the reader a view into each of their lives. With humour, the novel builds empathy in a way that only novels can, by allowing the reader to empathize with people from numerous walks of life as they interact with one another.
 
I read novels slowly. I started reading Crackpot near the end of August. As a result of my slow reading, I also tend to read around a novel as well: as I get further into a text, I like to find and read commentaries about it. I like hearing what other people say about a novel; it’s like being part of a text-based, sometimes-edited book club. This helps my thinking stay on track while I read novels at a turtle’s pace.
 
One of the commentaries for Crackpot that I found is “Language Private and Public: A Study of Wiseman’s Crackpot,” by Marco LoVerso, a professor emeritus at Concordia University. As far as I can tell in the article, LoVerso’s thesis is, “in learning a language one, in effect, comes to learn the morality of his society and, also, that one's particular uses of a language indicate where one stands with reference to the established moral norm.” In my own words, considering my reading the entire commentary, LoVerso implies that Hoda’s language acquisition leads to her questionable moral decision-making throughout her life.
 
I jive with this sort of thesis. In my own life, I can think of numerous times where I made unwise decisions contingent on the experience of linguistic stress. I can think of different decisions about family, money, relationships, and numerous other fields where I made decisions I regret because I got all wrapped up in language, got confused, and then made a confused decision. When I think about those decisions, I mainly remember the feeling of stress I felt as I tried to navigate all the rhetoric in my head.
 
I think a lot of these rhetorically-based unwise decisions stem from my upbringing in churches. Religious thinking is inherently rhetorical. Religious thinking is not based on evidence or clear-headedness; it’s based on a filter that makes room for some ideas and sifts out others. Religious thinking superimposes dogma or framing upon an already complex world. That superimposition, in my case, made my thinking far more messy than it could have been.
 
In addition to the evidence-free rhetoric inherent in religion, churches have a wide plethora of authority figures: pastors, teachers, priests, guest speakers, authors, etc.. Such a wide range of authority figures further confuses religious rhetoric, and it’s a challenge for participants to clarify their own beliefs when they’re trying to figure out what they, the participants, actually believe.
 
Growing up, I found it very difficult to see through the rhetorical filters from both theology and church thought leaders. I did numerous things to overcome this confusion: I attended Bible studies and church services;. when I met new people I would apply the rhetoric to them; when I discarded people I used the rhetoric to justify my actions. I seemed to be incapable of approaching anything without applying the religious filter, even when I hated doing it. And when I felt particularly trapped and confused by what I “believed,” I’d retreat into a depressive state. In that state, prayer itself was rhetoric, an attempt to justify to myself the filters I superimposed upon the world. For me, I had to be all-in, and all those filters made everything appear really hazy and confused.
 
Some people manage to get through their religious upbringings without getting caught up in the rhetoric. Despite being part of a religion, they can navigate their self-image and self-awareness without getting caught up in it. They can identify with a religion and still be themselves. Their sense of identity is strong enough that the rhetoric doesn’t affect them too much.
 
But I couldn’t do that. All that rhetoric, all those speakers, all that reading affected me greatly. And the only way to acquire clear thinking was to abandon religion altogether, to remove the filters, long after a lot of the most significant decisions of my life had already been made.
 
And as I read Crackpot, I saw a window into somebody else’s life, somebody else’s thought patterns, and it reminded me of being a young person, and a young adult, trying to navigate the world through confused filters, getting caught-up with perception that simply didn’t help me at all. In Crackpot, Hoda’s filters led her to one set of decisions, linked to by the stories she had been told by her parents and that she told herself. I empathized with that confusion, with how she kept making unwise decisions while always trying to do the best for herself and for her family.
 
Crackpot ends on a hopeful note, but even to the final few pages Hoda seems confused to make good decisions for herself. I feel like I’m in a good place right now as I try to navigate my life, despite the continuing consequences of my actions. But I’d like to think that I’ve got a hopeful note or two going on right now, and I hope I can keep that momentum going. With a supportive partner and a bit of clear-headed hope, I hope to continue on this path.