Truth is Dead

Just kidding! It's not dead, just...different than how you might have thought.

Me and Truth.

This past Sunday, I visited my grandparent’s church in order to sit in on their adult forum discussion, which is hosted by Patrick McCauley, author of Into the Pensieve: The Philosophy and Mythology of Harry Potter. Their previous discussi

ons have included topics like Christian nationalism and whether it matters if christians view Jesus as God incarnate. My grandmother and grandfather have been wanting me to attend for some time, and with topics like those I was definitely interested. So, I finally stopped by, and we had a fascinating discussion about truth. 

In short, truth as you know it, does not exist. 

McCauley defined two discrete types of truth, with the first being grounded in an authority’s voice, “I said,” and the second being based on direct observation, “I see.” He explained that the scientific method is an outgrowth of that second foundation of truth, as it relies upon a collection of individuals seeing the same event occur. One of the most important truths that he emphasized is our subjective truth, which shapes how we view the world around us. He discussed it through the lens of art, saying that no one will ever see Van Gogh’s paintings in the way he sees them (including Van Gogh), but it applies to so much more than that. 

This discussion prompted me to think about my conversation with Professor Burnett, and about the mythologies surrounding race, which we understand as Truth. For the last four hundred(ish) years, we’ve bought into ideas about there being discrete groups of people who are white, Black, hispanic, asian, etc. Those categories seem pretty water tight, until you meet someone who defies them. Take Kamala Harris, our ill-fated presidential nominee, for example. Trump’s question, “Is she Indian? Or is she black?” led to a conversation that questioned her mixed race identity, showing the obtuseness of fitting people into concrete categories. 

Forcing a diverse range of perspectives and experiences into simple boxes creates the same problem that arises from the idea of objective truth: someone or something will always defy it. 

Now, how does this speak to the book I’m writing? I’m not sure, but it certainly informs the way that I see the world. It definitely affirms it. At the risk of perpetuating a toxic, individualistic mindset, we are our own universe. We can only see through our own eyes, and when we die, our entire universe ends (or changes drastically, depending on your beliefs about the afterlife). Sometimes, when it comes to existential threats, I find comfort in thinking about how, even if the entire world ended in some freak accident, the experience would be no different than if I, as an individual, died. Obviously, I don’t believe that my life is as important as the sum of all lives now and in the future, but in both cases the universe I inhabit ends. 

It's hard, I think, to conceptualize the mutability of our world. To remember that your hand consists of an incomprehensible number of atoms, which consist of an innumerable amount of quarks, which we’ll probably discover are made of something else. It’s a scary thought to realize that everything you thought was solid—matter, knowledge, life itself—is built upon shifting sands, but it’s true! I know I’ve used that word too much, but it is. 

I don’t believe that there is a higher purpose. I believe in miracles, I believe in the divine, and I believe that we are a collection of small universes brushing against one another.