The Charade of Ending Narratives

In talking about the blogs, a dear friend and colleague reminded me that the language and the style was not like the real person I am, who is often described by well-wishers as a “smart ass” who does not mince words and takes pleasure in wise cracks and being a wiseguy, in the tradition of the word's American meaning (those who do not get it, watch some of the Mob movies about the Upper East Side of New York). And that is true. I have no hesitancy in asking people who come up to me to talk, “who are you?” Essentially saying - why should I waste my time paying attention to you? I have known to have done this to people who think they know me, and I have no idea who the person is. Lately, I was losing this touch in my writing, but my friend reminded me not to - it should show in my writing as well - she suggested. As anyone who has taken the time to know me, would know - I have no patience for crap. So, when narratives try to treat people like shit but deodorize it, I am very much a person who would say, "you really think that people are that stupid?" When narratives end, the saddest part is not the end itself. It is the amateur theater that follows. The person who kills the story rarely has the courage to admit the real reason. It is not drifting apart. It is not life getting busy. It is not the myth of time eroding friendship. It is the arrival of the new person. The grand entrance. The shiny object who must be showcased. The so-called upgrade who has done nothing but exist long enough to catch attention. As Ricoeur reminds us, narrative is always an act of stitching together of fragments to create coherence (Ricoeur, 1984). And coherence requires sacrifice. The author of the story, desperate to secure this new cast member, sacrifices the earlier character. The murder of the narrative is done to flatter the replacement, to write a scene where the newcomer looks essential and the old companion looks disposable. That is the unvarnished truth. Keep up the charade. Act as if nothing has changed. Sprinkle in a few sugary lines about "trust" and "best friend" to cover up the stench. Assume the other party is too dim to notice the rot. What they forget is that the one being written out always knows. The withdrawal happens politely at first. Because who wants the indignity of arguing with someone who is holding a fake playbill and pretending the curtain has not dropped. Meetings are quietly disallowed. Replaced with cheap substitutes. A two-minute call. A text with three emojis. Maybe even the grand flourish of "thinking of you." All this, as if years of companionship, hours of conversation, and the simple act of showing up can be shrink-wrapped into digital crumbs. And the justification? The newcomer must be center stage. The old friend must exit quietly. The author swings the blade, but the handle was carved by the new arrival. In my true character as a speaker, as reminded by my friend as one important part of my persona, I will not be polite about this. It is execution by narrative erasure. It is the elimination of the one who knows too much to clear space for someone who barely knows anything. The result is debris. A wreckage of stories that once gave shape to lives - child, spouse, family, friends. Bulldozed so the new storyline can sparkle without competition. The narrator moves on, whistling as though nothing happened. Hoping, at least that the ousted friend will stay frozen as an insurance policy, even if all others are lost. A ghost on standby in case the new plot collapses. Fisher’s narrative paradigm insists that humans are storytellers who judge coherence and fidelity in every tale (Fisher, 1987). And here the tale fails both. The killer of the narrative actually believes this charade is clever. They think the polite withdrawal means their act went unnoticed. But no. When the script ends it stands out like a neon sign on Highway 40 - it is noticed. People are not fools who mistake the smell of rot for roses. Bauman warned us that liquid modernity thrives on constant replacement, where even friendships are treated like disposable goods (Bauman, 2000). If you end a narrative, own it. Do not expect to be celebrated for your performance. For crying out loud, I wrote about this nearly fifteen years ago: that people are built of stories and when those stories are erased, the person is displaced (Mitra, 2010). In closing in this updated style - to the newcomer in the narrative, enjoy the spotlight kid, it burns out faster than you think. And to the one written out, take solace in the anthem where Dylan outted the narrator reminding the narrator that: “You just want to be on the side that's 'winnin'” But, narrator, don't hold your breath.