All present had been enjoying some grilled fish and white wine; I'd already eaten. But the usual sobremesa after-meal chitchat had begun, and not a large amount of time passed before one diner, L., raised his voice over the din, looked at our humble blogger, and said: "Al, you know what your problem is? You read too much. I always see you reading."
Much ink has been spilled lamenting American anti-intellectualism, and my contributing to it has small odds of making things better. But in the interest of letting off some steam in a manner more civil than fighting, I'll say a few words on the subject.
What's just as important as what L. said was how he said it: proudly, with the assurance of someone who knows the correct answer, that two and two make four. OF COURSE he reads too much!! Look at'im!! He's has a book RIGHT NOW!
This pride, though it likely feels real, is of course a feeling that came to L. after something else: shame or embarassment or intimidation. L. is not anti-intellectual *before* he insults me; before anything else, he sees something in me he does not have, namely, a moderately developed intellect. Intelligence makes him feel small, and instead of maybe picking my brain about it to remedy the situation, he just picks *on* my brain, and me, like a playground bully.
Miami is not a city for or with or about bookish, intellectually inclined human beings. This almost doesn't need to be said. But I say it because I'm aware how my presence in anecdotes such as the above disturbs this brainless stasis. I'd bet L., and others like him, enjoy living in a place where it's just fine to not be curious.
I'd venture a larger point: maybe anti-intellectualism shouldn't be "fought," maybe it should be pitied a bit and then humbly pushed back with good ol' generosity. So next time I and my book encounter L., I'll resist the urge to call him a philistine, a half-man, and invite him to come over and let me teach him a children's version of "Hamlet."
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