MacKenzie Bernard
6th Hour AP Lit
A childhood dedicated to spending more time watching Friends than socializing with three-dimensional friends my own age left the 10-year-old version of myself with an unquestioned notion that Chandler Bing and I were the same person. I wasn’t delusional; I realized that I hadn’t even made it out of the fifth grade yet, that I wasn’t fictional, and that my chances of becoming a 30-something-year-old man any time soon were pretty slim, but none of that was important. I was Chandler, and what he did have in common with me (to my mind, at least) was indisputable: sarcasm was his first language and his only defense mechanism; he was an only child driven crazy by a family even more entertainingly dysfunctional than mine; he worried about everything while simultaneously not caring about much of anything; he felt like he said “more dumb things before 9 a.m. than most people say all day.” Chandler was me, and Chandler still is me. Now, at 17, I’ve found that with the more TV shows I watch, movies I see, and books I read, every so often, I’ll find a relatable, Chandler-esque character. But finding a Chandler, a character that (in the metaphorical sense) is me, seems to be nearly impossible; I think I might’ve only once found another, and that’s Mr. Bennet.
Just like with Chandler, it appeared to me that Mr. Bennet and I were scarily similar: he had an extraordinary gift for appearing apathetic; he rarely went more than a few sentences without resorting to sarcasm; he used that sarcasm to keep himself rational among a family that might otherwise drive him to insanity; he spent a substantial amount of time reading rather than making any attempt to deal with that family; that family rarely gave his clearly hilarious sardonicism proper appreciation. Just like with Chandler, I had no doubt that Mr. Bennet and I were virtually the same person, but there was a major difference between feeling like Chandler and feeling like Mr. Bennet: I liked being able to relate to Chandler, but relating to Mr. Bennet scared the h--l out of me.
I never had a problem with being able to see myself in Chandler’s flaws because when it really mattered, Chandler was a great guy. He genuinely cared about the people he loved (he invented a game that’s sole purpose was to give away $1500 of his own money just to keep his best friend financially stable and once sported a bracelet that he secretly deemed as “the woman repeller, the eyesore from the Liberace house of crap” just because the same friend bought it for him). He was embarrassed by his family, but he refused to hurt them (he went to a gay bar in Las Vegas, supportively sat through his transsexual father’s performance of “It’s Raining Men,” and then invited him to his wedding even though, for Chandler, that wasn’t something that couldn’t be done without swallowing his pride). Chandler was a habitual smart aleck, but when he needed to be serious, he could do it. If he was a guy I could relate to, then I was ok with that.
Mr. Bennet was a different story. Like Chandler, Mr. Bennet tended to come off as lethargic. He didn’t have the perfect family. He used sarcasm to deal with just about everything. But, Chandler was an admirable guy despite all of those issues; Mr. Bennet wasn’t much more than a jerk with issues. Chandler went out of his way to care for the people he loved. Mr. Bennet was more inclined to go out of his way to make sure that he personally wasn’t disturbed: “Mrs. Bennet had no turn for the economy, and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income (Austen 249).” Chandler was irritated by his family, but he put them before himself anyway; Mr. Bennet was bothered by his family and didn’t have a problem blatantly showing it:
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain […] she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible (194).
Chandler knew when to be serious; Mr. Bennet didn’t seem to have that ability. When Mrs. Bennet was genuinely concerned about Elizabeth rejecting Mr. Collins’s proposal, Mr. Bennet cared less and summed up his outlook with "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do (92).” If Mr. Bennet was a guy I could relate to, then I needed to reevaluate my life.
My problem was that I knew Mr. Bennet wasn’t a role model by any means, but I couldn’t help but see him as my favorite character. I knew that he was a terrible husband and father, but he was funny, and in my mind, that somehow made it ok. I smiled when he would say ``I have not the pleasure of understanding you (92)” or “If he had had any compassion for me […] he would not have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of his partners. Oh! That he had sprained his ankle in the first dance (12)!” I was well aware that Mr. Bennet wasn’t the nicest guy, but when he was sardonic, I liked him. I liked that sarcasm kept him sane. I liked that he was laid-back. I liked that he was like me, but at the same time, I hated it.
The more I read, the more Mr. Bennet’s life just made me sad:
Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate
for their folly of their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had
arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her
ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a
man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are
wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given (194).
I didn’t want to relate to a guy whose life was essentially a huge disappointment. And even though Mr. Bennet was funny, I didn’t want to relate to an a-----e. But, d--n it, I did relate to him. And what the h--l did that mean? If I was like him at only 17, did that mean that by the time I was 30-something, my life was going to be as depressing as his?
When that question was blazing through my mind was when I started thinking about Chandler. What made two characters with so much in common not only with each other, but also with me, so different? I supposed the answer was, unlike Mr. Bennet, Chandler was happy. And I supposed that was because, unlike Mr. Bennet, Chandler had a middle ground: he could be irritated out of his mind, but he could also deal with it; he could be apathetic, but he could also care enough to do the right thing; he could be a smarta-s, but he could also be the best friend you could ask for. It seemed to me that Chandler had a happy life because he knew when to be sarcastic, but he knew when to be serious too. Mr. Bennet lacked that “in between”: he didn’t have the ability to be there for the people he loved, to truly care about anything, or to deal with his problems without being a jerk. Unlike Chandler, Mr. Bennet seemed to be stuck in a state of permanent smarta-sness, and that left me stuck wondering: by the time I was their age, which of their lives was mine going to look like?
I don’t have the definitive answer, but for now, I’m going to guess that’s a decision I have to make. I can’t change my sarcastic disposition, but I think I can choose how I want to go about it. I have roughly two choices: I can act like Mr. Bennet and I can use it to be a jerk to everyone I love, to care about nothing, and to refuse to take responsibility for anything. Or I can act like Chandler; I can be there for the people I need the most, make the best out of the family that drives me insane, and be serious when I have to be. And when it comes down to those choices, Mr. Bennet isn’t the character I want to be.