On Belief

A couple of weeks ago a former friend of mine asked how long I believed in Santa.

“I dunno, like 9, 10?” I replied.

He scoffed. “Isn’t that a little old?”

What the fuck. I scanned him and my entire mental catalogue for a way I could regain the upper hand. Sure I could insult how he looked, how he dressed, and any of the stupid things he’d said in the past, but all that would’ve been disproportionate and frankly a little too easy. I really needed to get into the habit of clocking peoples’ weaknesses ahead of time, because now that I was cornered I was scrambling to buy the extra seconds.

“What do you mean?” I said, eyebrows raised.

“I mean, when you woke up at 10 years old on Christmas and saw all those presents, you really believed Santa brought them?”

I’m still seething about this one month later. What was the angle, that I was a gullible child? Was that stupid sense of trust still present in my gaze? Did I really seem so naïve that dunking on me wasn’t just irresistible for its own sake, but the fulfillment of an obvious social duty?

“No,” I answered. I didn’t elaborate and have since cut him out of my life.

But I was lying. I mean, at 10 years old, I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually think a sweaty, elderly, obese man shoved himself down my parents’ chimney in the middle of the night to deliver me a karaoke machine. But I certainly did believe it, in part because the image is so comforting.

That belief, like every other, lived in La La Land, which is as real as all the places on our map. You’ll find any belief there, from old myths to new convictions—and the things we stomach here (chores, taxes) exist solely to protect what’s over that horizon. The modern world deems La La Land a primitive civilization, but the refusal to set foot there is what makes you truly vulgar.

If you don’t think that’s the case, consider that I once dated a guy who confided in me that after a long day of first grade, he came home to his mother and asked:

“Mom, am I the cutest boy in school?”

She thought for a minute.

“I’d have to see pictures of the other kids.”

I know what you’re wondering and yes, he was cute, and yes, she was a mental health professional.

I mention this not to pick at old wounds or talk shit about his mom, but to prove that belief is no oafish delusion—actually, it’s a most important muscle that holds up all that’s dear to us. It’s the muscle that keeps value, and hope, and cuteness in the air. And like any muscle, it’s is only strengthened when it’s pushed beyond its limits. Think about it: If you can’t even believe in a man bringing you presents from a sleigh in the sky—how are you supposed to believe your kids are the cutest kids? How do you believe your spouse is the greatest spouse? How do you believe your team should win, even if they’re poorly trained and badly coached and the whole game is rigged against them?

If you build belief right, you can make the heavy of this world feel light. But if you can’t, like this guy’s mom, you’ll make a light thing feel heavy. So heavy you’ll be huffing and puffing like Santa to get the belief off the ground, because no matter how fit you are on this plane, in La La Land, you’re comically out of shape. Kind of impressive you let yourself go like that in a place where eating doesn’t even happen.

My favorite philosopher and premier autist Ludwig Wittgenstein helps explain why belief confuses us, and it lies in the different ways we connect meaning to our words. Witt said language is by nature a game between the people speaking it, and when we make a statement of belief — of affection, of value, of religion — we’re playing a separate language game entirely than when we make a statement about the physical world. Yeah, no shit. “My cat is the best cat,” is a totally different type of sentence than, “That door frame is 8 ft.” Getting this is the essence of getting “it.”

No work of art gets this more than The Sopranos. The show moves back and forth between the academic therapy class and a group of mafiosos, highlighting the gap between the quality of their emotional exchanges. The academics are reflective and distant, while the mobsters are prescriptive and warm. When Tony survives a shooting, Paulie doesn’t ask him an empty “What can I do to help you?” Instead, he rushes him to La La Land, tells him he’s blessed, and insists that somebody’s watching over him. Therapy is allergic to this flavor of finality, but Paulie Walnuts knows it’s the only thing that heals. No one wants to look in a mirror when they’re in pain, but everyone wants to lean on a pillar.

It’s a shame my ex couldn’t have come home to a bunch of homicidal gangsters. They would’ve known just what to say.

The irony of all this is that for a culture that’s so obsessed with getting our feelings out, we are laughably bad at feelings talk. Metaphor and poetry risks final extinction in some of the places we need it the most. And if you think I’m exaggerating, I once saw an engagement announcement on Instagram where a man called his fiancé a “Support System.” That’s it. I looked up the word “system” the way you sometimes do when you hear a compliment, just to sit in it and chew on the meaning: System (n.) a set of things working together as parts of a mechanism.

I swooned so hard I almost fainted.

I’m probably being too harsh on whoever that was. Most people can’t find the time and sense to ponder statements of belief, when to use them, or why you shouldn’t call your future wife a “system.” But those who can are thriving, for better or for worse. We see it online and in our political sphere. There are figures who say heinous things, but maintain an unmistakable draw even beyond the ugly. How do they get away with that? Some call it authenticity, but we all know people (like my former friend) who are authentically tedious and underwhelming. Some say they’re pandering to idiocy, but I find that to be a brutish and lazy understanding of humanity. The truth is, the power of these figures comes from the fact that their rhetoric straddles the line between the physical world and La La Land. And when it does, they show their audience: “Hey, I’ve built that muscle, and I got you.” Viewers hear “We shall overcome” one minute and “Deport them all” the next. And people are so hungry for the first, their hearts excuse the second.

The bright side of all this is it proves belief’s a practical tool. Machiavelli said a leader should always at least appear to have faith, which — however you view it— is the ultimate form of belief. Some people think he meant that branding one’s self as God’s vessel will help inspire loyalty in others. But I think it’s a little more interesting than that.

The reason belief is useful is because when your words weave in and out of La La Land, people are forced to accept that you’re pretty. I don’t mean “pretty” in the feel-good way that just inspires love — which any mid can get if they pick the right target and do the right things. I mean “pretty” in the feel-bad way that inspires fear. Pretty in a way that makes others feel inadequate. The world is screaming at us that the language of belief can make you so pretty, you can be as vain, destructive, and diabolical as you want, and others will have no choice but to pick up your slack. That kind of pretty (you know—the real kind).

I hope we’ll come to remember the importance of this muscle one day soon. Because when we neglect the world of make believe, we leave it open to invaders — good and bad. I think most of us would hate to watch the valuables we’ve given our life to raided out of fear of seeming wide-eyed, which is why whether I’m 10 years old or 100, I’ll always keep one foot in La La Land. As for my former friend who has since texted me several times (not responding), I sincerely hope his shit ass gets what’s coming to him.

I believe it will :)