Alfred the Butler
English people in America, service to others & the meaning of your life
Who is Alfred the Butler?
Does anyone care?
He was the wise one, in all of his incantations as Batman’s beloved butler, from the intuitive cockney Londoner (the latest version, played by Michael Caine), to the regal, upper-class and tender Michael Gough (pictured above). Even the muted and awkward Alfred of the ridiculous(and brilliant) 60′s TV series, played by Alan Napier, had a quiet, old-world dignity about him. (He also reminds me of an Indian/Pakistan grandfather from the 1920's, or, perhaps, the founder of modern Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah). Just look at him:
Why am I writing about Alfred the butler as soon as I sit down? Here in Fells Point, a pretty little Baltimore neighborhood. Yes, I’ve started to sometimes spell it ‘neighborhood’ now (US spelling, as opposed to neighbourhood, English standard). And what’s more, I’m starting to soften my T’s. It’s almost got to the point that I am saying “bedder” as opposed to better. As I always tell fellow ex-pats from DC to New York who also mention the accent-thing, it’s the T’s that are the first to go. Don’t get me started on the incessant, liberal sprinklings of “like” in every single sentence. It is embarrassing, which is to say, yes, I have caught myself doing it. Alfred, on the other hand, has lived in America for most of his life, and yet his accent doesn’t slip at all.
On the one hand, all of this personal linguistic trending shouldn’t matter one iota to me. If anything, looking at it philosophically (which I love to do) — perhaps I can say it’s really a good thing to lose your accent. Good because there is no true “home” one has on Earth, and so why pretend there is? Un-bonding from “your nation,” then might come to represent the necessary un-bonding of men from their material surroundings, from their ephemeral trappings and cultural straight jackets, all of which can hinder us in our search to truly understand ourselves. But all that is high and mighty.
In becoming a nation-less, accent-less man, I begin to fall into other stereotypes, ever more rarefied. The Englishman in America! There is something tragic about him, especially when, as mentioned above, his accent starts slipping. I glossed over this felt phenomena very casually in my first novel; there was a small scene in which a French film director was speaking on a US late-night talk show, with a mixed French / American accent. The protagonist of the novel (my brother for life, Johnathen Hutton) felt that this man had been in Hollywood too long. He was no longer a Frenchman (and clearly no American either), rather, just some sort of entity, a forgettable gimmick. Yes, there is something tragic about Englishman in America, especially when his accent (that front-man of identity) is no longer solid.
As much as it is in fashion for English people to be slightly ashamed of their Englishness (i.e. the akwardness associated with our Royal family, singing our national anthem and so many other traditions), there can be no denying that somewhere, somehow, once transplanted abroad (and in particular to America), a strand of that Englishness becomes associated with credibility, and with intellect. I can’t for the life of me understand why. Al Jazeera’s English language program made it a habit to steal BBC broadcasters because they clearly felt the same way. It’s very similar to one of the early Seinfeld episodes where George Costanza proudly states that people who meet him for the first time will usually assume he’s intelligent merely because he wears glasses. The English accent, when you come to America, is like glasses.
“Bedder!”
When the D’s begin to replace the T’s, one feels saggy. After all, the sound of ‘T’ is, and always will be, sharper than ‘D’. Try it, you’ll know what I mean. Even the word “Testicle,” sounds exact and pointed (when in reality it, or rather they, are anything but). On the other hand, we have dud. Dipstick. Dilute. Dangle. Dilapidated. Dutch.
All blunt, clumsy objects. All duds.
Delicate, however is how we must describe Alfred, the man who, unlike me, never had to face reality and/or the prospect of losing his accent. Nevertheless, the butler is the wise one. He serves, and gives. He cares. And by way of the self-sacrifice that his profession demands of him, he is able to gain a distance, a clarity of assessment and thus sound judgement in times of crisis. A far-sightedness. A feel for things. The prophet Muhammad once said that a leader of a people is he who serves them. Alfred is a follower of the prophetic way.
And yet, armed with all of this wisdom, the constraints of his profession force him to hold these jewels in his heart. When I was a child reading my brothers huge Batman collection, I used to feel sorry for Alfred. It seemed that he had no life of his own. Living in the strange surreality of social media that we now all live in, however, I see him very differently. He is one of the few examples of a truly, determinedly honest human being. Alfred will not tweet his knowledge, boast of it, or use it in any cheap way. He rarely imposes his views either upon his master, or anyone else. Alfred as an archetype contents himself to speak when asked, and he maximizes his words by employing higher than normal ratios of wit; taking indirect and subtle avenues into difficult, thorny subjects.
Again, such delicacy is reserved for those who have clarity of thought, and clarity of thought is reserved for those who are able to have the big-picture, and the big-picture is for those who do not clog up their lives with a never-ending focus on their own wants and desires. If we want to see the big picture, we must remove our selves from the mirror, for we are spending far too long in front of it, and we see little else. Alfred spends his time supporting others. He’s probably happier than most of us because of that.
Even when Alfred is forced to challenge (and therefore contend with) the mighty ego of his employer (Juicy Brucey aka Bruce Wayne) he largely manages to get his point across without hurting or offending. If anything, we feel even more sorry for Alfred when he is forced to speak up and protest, as we saw Michael Caine’s Alfred do increasingly in the recent Batman trilogy. Why is this? Because it is a shame and a sore sight for the eyes when the obtuse, action-packed world forces a quiet and wise person to have to shout loudly. Deep within us, we still respect humility and calmness; we don’t enjoy seeing it threatened to the point of extinction.
Yes. Butler is best.
And yet, there is something persistent in us — all of us— that wants to be Bruce Wayne. Or Batman. Indeed, why not both? Half of the answers to the question, “Why am I unhappy?” (which I calculate, is asked by people around the world over a million times every night) could probably be answered with a critical assessment of that persons unrealistic expectations having not been met. And since Batman (a Superhero) and Bruce (a gajillionaire) are both unattainable objects, it stands to reason that we should place our life expectations elsewhere. Since humility, by its very nature, is far easier (and far more heroic, in the big picture) — the logical question must become, who will step up? Or perhaps more aptly, who will step down? Step down from the high plastic throne of self-aggrandizement, and say, “I will be a servant!”
Who has the guts to live a life out of the limelight for the vast majority of the time?
Who has the tenacity?
The testicles?
Who wants Truth more than they want
“Da-daaa!!!”
You?
…What’s it to be?
Dud or Tree?
Ding-a-ling, or trembling?
