Archy, the cockroach, spends his time in a newspaper office and uses a typewriter after hours to comment on life. He’s unable to work the desktop computer, but he’s quite adroit with typewriter keys. I’ve had to add capital letters to his message, but he has his own opinions. He can readily spot an arrogant candidate up for election. Here’s his latest, written for the news reporter to read in the morning:
— A lightning bug got in here the other night, a regular hick from the real country he was, awful proud of himself.
— You city insects may think you are some Punkins, but I don’t see any of you flashing in the dark like we do in the country, he said.
— All right, go to it, says I. Mehitabel, the cat, that green spider who lives in your locker and a friendly rat all gathered around him and urged him on. He lightened and lightened and lightened.
— You don’t see anything like this in town often, he says.
— Go to it, we told him. We nicknamed him Broadway, which pleased him.
— This is the life, he said. All I need is a harbor under me to be a Statue of Liberty.
When he wore himself out, Mehitabel, the cat, ate him.
— Archy*
Archy sees egotism and names it. He knows a prideful braggart for what he is and warns against candidates who feel superior — who consider themselves special and like to brag. Self-important lightning bugs get gobbled up, he teaches.
We find this lesson in children’s stories, in fables from ancient literature, and in sacred texts. It seems we need to hear it over and over because we forget our lessons. Usually we’re unaware that we’re showing off as we pretend we’re modest, but there can be an Archy watching behind the scenes — a wise teacher who reminds us that we’re human and need a lesson in humility, like Jiminy Cricket, who pointed out to Pinocchio that he was untruthful.
The role of teacher is sacred. They come in all sizes, as Jiminy and Archy demonstrate. They can be wizened old grandparents, sitting with pipe in the corner of the room, or a vivacious auntie like Auntie Mame, who took a tidy, obedient boy and gave him a lesson in how to have fun and understand dishonesty in wealthy neighbors. At any rate, we need someone who tells us the truth, and helps us when we need redirecting. I had a wonderful seventh-grade teacher, Miss Miller, who stopped by my desk as I was writing and turned the paper so I could manage to write easily with my left hand. Her silent lesson changed my life.
Failure is a great teacher. I failed at a first marriage. I failed at a profession I coveted. I failed as a driver, twice. Once the ego gets smacked upside the head, we learn. And there’s so much to learn in the time we have. After failure, I’m a better driver and much wiser about my talents, and even, I hope, a better partner.
Roz Chat’s memoir Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant? recreates her struggles to care for aged parents, both of whom were proud of their accomplishments. Mom was a school administrator, Dad an academic scholar. In old age they became difficult and demanding. As their only child, Chat had to cope with their enormous needs. She doesn’t minimize how hard it is to deal with self-important lightning bugs. Her story and cartoons are poignant but also funny, making the book a masterpiece of literature, in my view.
Great comedy is made of self-important characters who need the wisdom of teachers to set them straight. I’ve found some glorious ones on TV over the years. Frasier Crane is a self-important psychologist who would rather speak of his own issues than listen to people with problems; Frasier had a wise teacher in his father. Archie Bunker berates his wife because she can’t see life as he does. His children try to teach him, and their efforts are funny but never successful.
We have many smart-ass lightning bugs living among us now. We’ve seen them trying for the power to rule the world. For those who attempt to be the Statue of Liberty, exposure and humiliation are ahead, as Archy knows. When powerful people believe themselves to be superior, it seems life has a message for them — a fall from grace, a wound of failure. Like the emperor who wore no clothes in the parade, it’s dangerous to believe the praise. Those who do are liable to find themselves naked in front of reality, embarrassed and foolish.
* from Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis, 1916
Elaine Jordan, author of Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp, is a local editor who’s lived in Prescott for thirty years.
