December: The Language of Particularity

Welcome to December!

As a social scientist, I operate in the space between universality and particularity. As societies develop, do they obey a Hegelian dialectic, or are they subject to dramatic contingencies? Are moral traditions generalizable or relativistic? This month, I want to offer an aesthetic treatment of the language of particularity. Modernity’s mother tongue is universality: unalienable rights, cosmopolitan exchange, and abstracted individuals.

But funnily enough, the most universal human experience is particularity. I consider this point amidst our season of institutionalized frivolity. I say frivolity, not because celebration serves no purpose, but because its form is ultimately arbitrary and culturally contingent. We savor this season not only for connection with those we love but above all for a reaffirmation of the identities we choose to uphold (I write, the morning after a Thanksgiving meal with kalbi and kimchi).

While social scientists may know the significance of particularity, I hope we can also appreciate the spectacle of a language of everyday life that reveals humanity as the experience of diversity from a non-abstracted vantage point. As Carol Cohn wrote in 1987, “Learning the language is a transformative, rather than an additive, process. When you choose to learn it you enter a new mode of thinking.” This language is self-aware; it is simultaneously first-person and second-person; it is a transformation from experience as a manifestation of community to experience as an embodiment of individual consciousness.

The language of particularity refines the language of cultural affinity. A particular experience is not necessarily one that is subsumed by a category, or draws upon its prescribed identities. Inside Out depicts particularity wonderfully. No full individual lives as a yellow happiness, or a blue sadness, or a red anger; the unique combination is a mark of maturity and a rich embrace of life. Likewise, a particular experience is compatible with individualism—I would argue necessary, unlike the more common conception of the rational individual as atomized.

Even in a global world, consider how small your footprint ends up being. Even for those who span multiple continents, we mean little, specific bubbles on each. Consider how few people, on an absolute scale, really, deeply shape you. Consider how few places make you feel comfortable enough to let down all guards. We may never intersect paths, like lines in 3D space. Yet our infinitesimal smallness corresponds to an infinite bigness of possibilities. We are a tiny fraction; how big the denominator must be! And we continue to marvel at the breadth of particularity, and that any place, any one, any ritual can be so special in the first place.

Next month, I plan to discuss growth. But we’re not at the new year yet. For now, I hope you enjoy a moment to reflect on home, and all that makes you feel home.

Literature and Philosophy

Resilience: “the capacity of a system, enterprise, or a person to maintain its core purpose or integrity in the face of dramatially changed circumstances” (Zolli, 2012)

I highly recommend “Exhalation” by Ted Chiang (thanks to my friend Kyle Tianshi, Stanford class of 2028). It’s around 15 minutes of your time, and an inspiration for this month’s theme. It’s “understated but transcendent,” Kyle says. Here are some snippets:

The universe began as an enormous breath being held. Who knows why, but whatever the reason, I am glad that it did, because I owe my existence to that fact. All my desires and ruminations are no more and no less than eddy currents generated by the gradual exhalation of our universe. And until this great exhalation is finished, my thoughts live on.

I hope that your expedition was more than a search for other universes to use as reservoirs. I hope that you were motivated by a desire for knowledge, a yearning to see what can arise from a universe’s exhalation. Because even if a universe’s lifespan is calculable, the variety of life that is generated within it is not. The buildings we have erected, the art and music and verse we have composed, the very lives we’ve led: none of them could have been predicted, because none of them were inevitable. Our universe might have slid into equilibrium emitting nothing more than a quiet hiss. The fact that it spawned such plenitude is a miracle, one that is matched only by your universe giving rise to you.

Though I am long dead as you read this, explorer, I offer to you a valediction. Contemplate the marvel that is existence, and rejoice that you are able to do so. I feel I have the right to tell you this because, as I am inscribing these words, I am doing the same.

Two weeks ago, I watched a production of Flying Treehouse, a student-run production that performs short skits written by elementary schoolers. Here are some snippets of their inspiring script:

How can I be made of water but feel like I’m drowning?

Remember, yourself.

I think people are good because first, people pick up trash. Second, people help each other. Third, people share things with each other.

Finally, a sad but uplifting story about love, connection, and care after a cancer diagnosis:

Before my diagnosis, if I was going to give him one bit of advice, it would have been, “Never miss an opportunity to be generous; they are rarer than you think.” I wish I had lived that more. But today I’d like to add a corollary, “Don’t be afraid to allow others those opportunities, too.”

Art, Music and Performance

I would highly, highly recommend that you take a moment to appreciate these photos from the European Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition (alternate access link). Same with the Close-Up Photographer of the Year (alternate access link).

An oldie but a goodie, here’s your daily slice of legendary Internet content:

… along with a slow, beautiful, relaxing music video:

Society

I can’t go without mentioning that this is my first newsletter of the second Trump era. Of course, this is a culture and spirituality Substack, and I won’t make this stressful. Perhaps I’ll offer some commentary in the future, but for now, I bring some humor.