Taking offense, we humans can harbor grudges. They do little damage to the object of the grudge, and we know they are ineffective. We might even know that they reveal a fecklessness of character. We might even recognize the foolishness of our obsessive anger. Yet, we hold such grudges for long periods, maybe even for most of a lifetime. And when no one is directly to blame for grudges over a perceived offense, such as in the instance of bad luck, we act grudgingly toward those who are completely innocent. We exhibit a malignity in general, and we are frustrated by our inability to pin it to a particular person or group. We want somehow "to get even." We want an eye for an eye.
Vengeance makes the past present. I mean not some grammatical tense, such as present perfect, past perfect, or future perfect, all meaning “completed.” For grammarians, the present perfect depicts an action that began in the past and ended the moment before the present: I have completed my homework. The past perfect indicates an action completed in the past and separated from the present by a temporal gap: I had completed my homework. The future perfect reveals an action that will end before another action occurs, therefore lying in that following event’s past: By the time you finish reading this, you will have a good understanding of the perfect tenses; by the time the teacher assigns the next homework, I shall have completed this current task (in formal, standard English—“shall” that one almost never hears today). Vengeance, not a grammatical term, nevertheless creates a new tense, a time when past and present exist simultaneously. Driven by memory, vengeance acts in the present; it melds the past to the present with dire consequences.
The suspected etymology of vengeance links the “ven” to “vin” and “vin” to “vis,” that in turn means “force.” The etymological connection makes sense because vengeance imposes a force of some kind (physical or mental) on someone who did something to the avenging person.
I suppose vengeance is the monster that harms or destroys a perceived enemy, and by “enemy,” I mean someone who has harmed the avenger or someone meaningful to the avenger. It’s cold. Isn’t that what “they” say? Better served cold than hot, at least better for the avenger.
And speaking of cold, what could be more appropriate than a tupilaq, an image of an avenging monster set upon one shaman by another in Inuit lore. Think, if you are unfamiliar with the term and the figurine, of the more familiar voodoo doll. Best not to cross another shaman in the arctic air; he’ll fashion a tupilaq. He’ll unleash the cold force of vengeance.
We avenging humans are strange. We can make a representation of the vengeance we hope for or plan and believe we have somehow made it into a force incarnate. As in all artworks and to borrow from Marshall McLuhan, the medium is the message of the mediums as well as the media; the tupilaq is the revenge of the shaman (medium) in the absence of action. It’s why we have expressions of vengeance: “I hope he gets hit by a truck”; “I hope he gets cancer”; “I hope she has a disfiguring accident”; “I wish he were dead”… In each instance, the wished for vengeance lies a supposed force attributed to an invisible tupilaq, a mental work of art that is the un-enacted vengeance.
The mind is often a coward seeking shelter behind such wishes as well as behind some tupilaq. And if there were such a “thing” as a mental tupilaq, its name would be Grudge. It’s a manifestation of a feckless force. It does nothing to anyone but the person holding it. It is vengeance turned upon the avenger.
Inuit shamans who employed tupilaqs first made them from perishable materials, but upon contact with the outside world through tourism began to carve them from whale teeth. Durable, these somewhat scary figurines were carried away as novelties by those who had no understanding of their original purpose: To portray an avenging monster who carried out actions that the shamans did not physically do.
Now made from durable materials, a tupilaq becomes a persistent burden for the bearer. “What do I do with this thing? If I put it on a mantel, it serves as a reminder. If I put it in a pocket, it is there everywhere I go. In either case, it is a burden.”
In this Age of Bitterness and Grudge, many have carved their own tupilaqs, not from whale teeth that actually bite, but from bytes that fill the Web. If you carry or display a tupilaq, I have some advice: Throw it away. If you carry or display a grudge, throw it away.
Vengeance makes the past present. I mean not some grammatical tense, such as present perfect, past perfect, or future perfect, all meaning “completed.” For grammarians, the present perfect depicts an action that began in the past and ended the moment before the present: I have completed my homework. The past perfect indicates an action completed in the past and separated from the present by a temporal gap: I had completed my homework. The future perfect reveals an action that will end before another action occurs, therefore lying in that following event’s past: By the time you finish reading this, you will have a good understanding of the perfect tenses; by the time the teacher assigns the next homework, I shall have completed this current task (in formal, standard English—“shall” that one almost never hears today). Vengeance, not a grammatical term, nevertheless creates a new tense, a time when past and present exist simultaneously. Driven by memory, vengeance acts in the present; it melds the past to the present with dire consequences.
The suspected etymology of vengeance links the “ven” to “vin” and “vin” to “vis,” that in turn means “force.” The etymological connection makes sense because vengeance imposes a force of some kind (physical or mental) on someone who did something to the avenging person.
I suppose vengeance is the monster that harms or destroys a perceived enemy, and by “enemy,” I mean someone who has harmed the avenger or someone meaningful to the avenger. It’s cold. Isn’t that what “they” say? Better served cold than hot, at least better for the avenger.
And speaking of cold, what could be more appropriate than a tupilaq, an image of an avenging monster set upon one shaman by another in Inuit lore. Think, if you are unfamiliar with the term and the figurine, of the more familiar voodoo doll. Best not to cross another shaman in the arctic air; he’ll fashion a tupilaq. He’ll unleash the cold force of vengeance.
We avenging humans are strange. We can make a representation of the vengeance we hope for or plan and believe we have somehow made it into a force incarnate. As in all artworks and to borrow from Marshall McLuhan, the medium is the message of the mediums as well as the media; the tupilaq is the revenge of the shaman (medium) in the absence of action. It’s why we have expressions of vengeance: “I hope he gets hit by a truck”; “I hope he gets cancer”; “I hope she has a disfiguring accident”; “I wish he were dead”… In each instance, the wished for vengeance lies a supposed force attributed to an invisible tupilaq, a mental work of art that is the un-enacted vengeance.
The mind is often a coward seeking shelter behind such wishes as well as behind some tupilaq. And if there were such a “thing” as a mental tupilaq, its name would be Grudge. It’s a manifestation of a feckless force. It does nothing to anyone but the person holding it. It is vengeance turned upon the avenger.
Inuit shamans who employed tupilaqs first made them from perishable materials, but upon contact with the outside world through tourism began to carve them from whale teeth. Durable, these somewhat scary figurines were carried away as novelties by those who had no understanding of their original purpose: To portray an avenging monster who carried out actions that the shamans did not physically do.
Now made from durable materials, a tupilaq becomes a persistent burden for the bearer. “What do I do with this thing? If I put it on a mantel, it serves as a reminder. If I put it in a pocket, it is there everywhere I go. In either case, it is a burden.”
In this Age of Bitterness and Grudge, many have carved their own tupilaqs, not from whale teeth that actually bite, but from bytes that fill the Web. If you carry or display a tupilaq, I have some advice: Throw it away. If you carry or display a grudge, throw it away.
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