Lodging

Is something old new again?

Slate Magazine recently riffed kindly on the ways young men have come a'knocking on old lodge doors, seeking an escape from the online media purée. Exploring old cultures as if (as if) some value could be had from the past.

Some years ago my husband Michael and I developed the habit of scanning for Masonic symbols not uncommonly tucked under the eaves of some old building in the little towns we like to drive through on our road trips. Sometimes there are signs of life in these old temples, like fresh quilting club announcements on the door or a list of meeting times. Other times this square and compass wrapped “G” is just another remnant of some older time in town when men would meet regularly to gavel themselves into slightly better versions of whomever they were before.

One hundred years ago nearly every small town held at least a few civic clubs and associations. Big cities too, of course. The ability to travel from one to the other knowing someone would be there to welcome you into their own meeting delivered much of the practical value of these associations. They were modes of introduction as well as a common ground for friendships to form over distances and distinctions.

Years ago, my family would show up for periodic "Fifth Sunday" after-church community breakfasts at the Knights of Columbus Hall, in Billings. An old black and white photo of a more slender version of my Dad than I ever met was hung on a wall there, alongside dozens of other Grand Knights. I once asked him why he no longer went to K.C. Club meetings. He said, "because of the boob tube. We used to go to meetings to tell stories. We were all part of those stories. Now we stay home and watch made-up stories about strangers on television." That seemed to answer things for him. He sounded lonely as he spoke.

Businesses figured out long ago that we pay more attention to recommendations from our friends than to advertising. So, data about our friendships has become commercially valuable. We now offer up our friendship networks to the corporations just so we can keep in touch with our friends. Stores now require our contact info so they can monitor our buying habits. If we don't hand it over they often charge us extra for trying to maintain some privacy. Our phones report our movements and proximity to stores and other people. Every non-cash purchase is recorded and its details sold to buyers seeking to sell us something more. All this data is pooled and analyzed to model our desires and aversions, and to predict our future behaviors with far more accuracy than most would believe.

Is there any irony in how the more we are all surveilled, the lonelier we feel? Loneliness and isolation are now so pervasive in America they have been deemed a medical epidemic. Yet we are in constant contact. We have the libraries of the world in our pockets under glass. Sushi delivery is a few clicks away. We have hundreds if not thousands of “friends” who know us by the images and words we share, and the media feeds we follow, preferably theirs. The user experience for finding a date is similar to buying a car. We rate these user experiences and they steadily change in response, to keep us clicking. Yet most are still lonely, very much so. Why is this?

This is not a hard question. Humans gazed face to face for hundreds of thousands of years. Twenty years ago we began staring at screens instead.

Five hundred years ago it was common for workers to form themselves into guilds. Skills would be shared. New apprentices would be trained to master the relevant art. Mentors would take on their charges, old stories would be shared, and ancient allegories would be passed to the next generation. The lessons would often be shared in vivid rituals, to be more easily remembered.

In time, the practical origins of some old guilds took a philosophical turn and they took on a more social role. Others died out under labor market stress. Imitations arose and formed traditions of their own. Expressions of these tendencies emerged in America as lodges full of Freemasons, Odd Fellows, Optimists, Toastmasters, plus a host of animal lodges: Elks, Moose, Eagles, Lions, and Owls. There were Knights of Columbus, Knights of Pythias, the National Grange, and the Sons of Norway. Bits or more of all of these still exist, here and there. Some are even on a bit of a rise.

During a grocery aisle encounter between friends, at least three conversations are happening. First, the words being spoken, but then also the inner monologue of each speaker as they think and feel about whatever is being said or left unsaid. More information is passed by the body language, body odor, facial expression, eye contact, vocal tone, language accent, vocabulary choice, and speaking speed involved in any short face to face encounter than is communicated in a hundred or more typical text messages. Yet these days most communication happens as snippets of text, perhaps enhanced with a few symbols ("emojis"), and maybe an image or short video. All of which delivers far less information than a grocery aisle chat. Leaving us literally starved for the richer daily contact we once took for granted. While we may communicate with more people (and bots) per day than ever, this breadth does not make up for the lack of sensory depth. For the shallowness. For the lack of humanity. For the lack of a smile or a hug or a handshake at the end.

Civic clubs offered reasons for people to meet up face to face. These clubs and their traditions were a webbing around which local cultures formed. Cultures in which people could seek meanings for their lives. And dates. And recipes. And news and jokes and stories ...

Now we shop on Amazon. The corporate hunger for customer surveillance has quite purposefully reduced our friendships to click bait, every single click of which is tracked in some database. This was an easy transition to push onto human society. Addictions, medications, work, and the media keep us busy, edgy, and tired. It is easier to keep clicking than show up.

A dozen years ago I made myself make time to start showing up for a club. To follow my Dad’s lead and hear the lesson in his loss. In return, over the course of a year I was three times made the center of attention, for a night, and led through an ancient set of dramatically allegorical rituals. More was communicated than could be absorbed, so I stayed engaged and did some study. Now I help offer these same experiences for others, if they ask.

Such old-fashioned rituals are at the heart of many of these older associations. These mystical morality plays, often called "degrees," are an antique social machinery that must be collectively polished and maintained if they are to serve their underlying purpose of weaving a healthy community. They are also a reason to show up and not be lonely for a while. They are a way to learn and recall lessons that humanity has been passing down for ages to help us make our world a little bit better and not kill each other along the way. Not bad pursuits.

Several years back I noticed a pattern. When the night comes to go to a lodge meeting, I often wish I could just skip it and watch videos or scroll through my feeds instead. I'm lazy. But, I make myself go — it is only once or twice a month — and am nearly always glad I did. I often end up having moments of conversation I remember for days and weeks. I am reminded of lessons that apply elsewhere in my life. While I could not tell you about most anything I scrolled through earlier on my phone, I still recall heartfelt comments I heard a man stand and share the last time our lodge met.

Civic associations have become decrepit, though. Many have died out. Some remain, though the roof may proverbially, or quite literally, be leaking. Like any antique, these old social machines need elbow grease and patience to help them show their beauty. Still, the truism remains true: we do not make things the way we used to. There is a depth and durability in these old clubs that is hard to imagine in our era of instant "friends" and "content." Some of this is in their legends and customs. More of this is in the high quality people often found among those willing to show up and make an effort.

Perhaps America has become too obsessed with novelty, possibly even addicted to it. Maybe we could begin asking if anything old is new again.