Humanity, Where Are You?

My son handed me a lot of books during this journey.

He didn’t know he was saving my life. He thought he was just getting homework help.

You’re welcome, son.

Have you read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley?

This book was written in 1818. Yes. 200 years ago. Before Netflix. Before doom-scrolling. Before we had approximately 47 better ways to avoid thinking about anything meaningful.

I volunteered to help my son in his literature class. Yup. I am THAT mom. The one who raises her hand.

And listen — this was the best book I have ever read. Yes. I said it. A 200-year-old gothic novel. Beat everything. I don’t make the rules.

Now before you panic — I am NOT here to review the book. I am no literature buff and frankly neither of us has the time. I only want to talk about the humanity of it which simply cannot be kept in silence.

Here is my completely humble totally unbiased opinion: no cinematic adaptation has ever captured the actual soul of this book. Not one. Zero. Including the beautifully crafted version by the legendary Guillermo del Toro. Sorry Guillermo. Truly. Don’t come for me.

I admire you enormously. I just didn’t feel it. We can still be friends.

Because here’s the thing this gothic masterpiece does that no film seems brave enough to do — it made me genuinely ask myself: are we all monsters after all?

Uncomfortable question. Let’s sit with it anyway.

We don’t take the time to open our eyes to the reality of others. We’d rather judge than understand because judging is faster, easier, more efficient. We’re busy people. We have things to do. Places to be. People to judge.

But how exactly can we call something monstrous when we’re only ever seeing it from our own tiny limited very convenient perspective?

The Monster in Frankenstein received zero love from his creator. ZERO. And so — shockingly — he became a monster. Turns out being completely abandoned and rejected by every human you encounter does something to a person. Wild right? Who could have predicted that?

And here’s where I’m going to make a leap so just trust me for a second — this story could have been written today. The monster could easily be the society we live in.

How can we blame anyone for becoming a monster when all they ever wanted was to be seen, heard, loved, understood, and accepted?

Excuse me. Does everyone not want exactly that?

Yes. We all do. Every single one of us.

So are we creating monsters through our own lack of humanity? Through our delightfully judgmental little eyes that are always so quick to assess and so slow to understand?

Probably. Yeah. Probably.

And what stops us from doing better? From reaching out? From simply seeing people?

Fear. Good old reliable fear. Specifically — the fear of being judged by others for daring to be human in public.

It’s a vicious circle my friend and it is exhausting.

But the moment we stop performing for the judgment of others — and more importantly stop judging ourselves — something strange happens. Things start making sense. People start making sense. The monsters start looking a lot less like monsters.

We lack humanity in the simple act of acknowledging each other. In truly seeing the person in front of us.

Mary Shelley figured that out in 1818.

We’re still working on it.