A reading from Stigma

At about 3 in the morning last night I decided that the beer wasn't cutting it, nor was the internet comradery. I turned to books. I dug into my social theory texts. The first I picked up was Bourdieu's 'The logic of practice" and began reading chapter 3. I'll summarize. What he advocates very efficiently is that practice is a 'ground-level' knowledge that doesn't presume, in the abstract, what objects in our social field mean. Rather, practice is much more situated in a sequence of action and meaning formation. He's getting at what Burke would call the action that occurred before we formulated our motive for it. It's a rather keen insight.

Then I turned to Erving Goffman's "Stigma," which details the process of social marginalization. His point is that we form a repertoire of 'types' in which we place people. Some don't fit and are deviant in specific ways, which lead them to be stigmatized. At about this time, my neighbors came home bringing two into tow: one man, one woman. I know both. I fought with the man over the woman, briefly. I fought with my neighbors over the woman, briefly. They were preparing for a sex party.

Play the video and read this excerpt. This was my uncanny moment at about 4:30 a.m. December 24, 2009.

Dear Miss Lonelyhearts--

I am sixteen years old now and I don't know what to do and would appreciate it if you could tell me what to do. When I was a little girl it was not so bad because I got used to the kids on the block makeing fun of me, but now I would like to have boy friends like the other girls and go out on Saturday nites, but no boy will take me because I was born without a nose--although I am a good dancer and have a nice shape and my father buys me pretty clothes.

I sit and look at myself all day and cry. I have a big hole in the middle of my face that scares people even myself so I can't blame the boys for not wanting to take me out. My mother loves me, but she crys terrible when she looks at me.

What did I do to deserve such a terrible bad fate? Even if I did do some bad things I didn't do any before I was a year old and I was born this way. I asked Papa and he says he doesn't know, but that maybe I did something in the other world before I was born or that maybe I was being punished for his sins. I don't believe that because he is a very nice man. Ought I commit suicide?

Sincerely yours,
Desperate

As I read this passage over and over, and paged through the book to some of the more distressing parts, the continual shifting of clothing, sheets, and bodies on the floor above me gave way to the occasional moan. That was my manna floating down, the food that fed a lack that grows larger and stronger by the day. You see, I was born with a hole in my self. On nights like this I am the abyss.