The real deal on being 'real'

Nov 14, 2004
The real deal on being 'real'
By Janadas Devan

THE 'real' as an adjective is puzzling. Whatever do people mean when they say 'real world', 'real life', 'real thing', 'the real McCoy' and so on? Why are we so anxious about the 'real'? Surely, the real, if it is real, ought to strike one as obviously real. Does our anxiety about it suggest a certain uncertainty about the realness of the real?

Let's begin with 'the real McCoy' because there really was a real McCoy - a Joseph McCoy, to be precise, a rancher in the American Wild West in the mid-19th century.

Ranchers in those days butchered their cattle primarily for local consumption. McCoy decided to do something nobody else had thought of doing: He drove his cattle across hundreds of miles to railway stations, from where they would be transported to cities in the east, to be butchered and consumed there. McCoy, not surprisingly, became a very rich man.

And not surprisingly too, he soon had competitors. Rustling cattle on horseback is not rocket science. If one cowboy can do it, so can others. In desperation, McCoy began calling himself 'the real McCoy' so as to distinguish himself from his imitators.

Coca-Cola adopted a similar strategy in the cola wars of the 1960s, when it took to calling itself 'the real thing'. 'The real thing' was merely imitating 'the real McCoy' - who of course was not unique either, for he turned out to be eminently imitable.

This provides one clue as to why we are anxious about the 'real': Market economies are wondrous mechanisms for churning out a multitude of the same. If a new product proves economically successful, it is bound to elicit imitators; if a new fashion in clothing catches on, it is bound to create knock-offs. Our anxiety about the 'real thing' is a reaction to the sameness that characterises life in industrialised societies.

The other examples of 'real' - 'real world', 'real life' - cannot be so easily explained. Teachers often tell their students of the 'real world' they will face when they leave school. Businessmen are often scornful of academics because they allegedly know nothing of 'real life' and have never been 'in the trenches'. And soldiers in war - literally, not metaphorically, 'in the trenches' - often refer to civilian life as the 'real world'.

(And not only in war, I might add. I remember hearing this phrase, 'real world', during national service in Singapore. There we would be, camped in some soggy and dank field, slapping mosquitoes, trying to keep the rain from seeping through our ponchos. It's not possible to get closer to reality than that, one would think. And yet, at precisely those moments, someone would pipe up about his plans in the 'real world' after leaving NS.)

What makes working life more real than school life, economic life more real than intellectual life, and civilian life more real than military life? Why is the 'real world' 'always being defined as where we are not', as Harvard University don Barbara Johnson once asked.

Her answer was that 'these differing perceptions of the real are nothing other than perceptions of the boundaries of institutions. Whether one is in the university or in the army, the real world seems to be the world outside the institution'.

Institutions, she theorised, created boundaries between the unreal and the real so as 'to assure docility, paradoxically, through the assumption of unreality' within institutions.

Students, listen up, the real world is a frightful place, so you had better concentrate on your lessons, otherwise you are going to founder in the real world. Soldier, listen up, the real world's rules don't apply here, this is a different world, you must abandon all your civilian delusions.

There is considerable truth in Professor Johnson's reading, but I'm not sure it is sufficient. Consider that strange phenomenon, the television 'reality show' American Idol (and its spin-offs).

The show's formula is simple: Ordinary people are given a shot at stardom. Judges assess each singer, and viewers vote two performers off the show each week until only two remain for the final competition. It can be a very cruel process - and for precisely that reason, exhilarating to watch - as faults are enlarged and blemishes exaggerated. It is also thrilling, for some remarkable talents have emerged - the 'real things'.

But a strange thing happened during last year's show. One William Hung - a Chinese-American nerd, a totally untalented singer, the most awkward, stiff and robotic personality ever seen on TV - emerged as the star. He became so popular, he now travels the world to show off his lack of talent. His website describes him as the 'Real American Idol'.

The Los Angeles Times thought Hung's sincerity was the quality that elevated him above the rest. The lesson to be learnt from his unlikely popularity, the paper said, was 'that talent is far less critical to winning Americans' hearts than honest effort'.

That surely is an exaggeration. How many Hungs will America take to its heart? Would America abandon its current stars for the galaxies of bad singers and bad actors out there? Surely not.
And yet, for a brief moment perhaps, Hung became the marker of the real. Not because the 'real' is always something else, as Prof Johnson put it, but because he failed so clearly to be that something else.

Perhaps we are so anxious about the real because modern society makes such incessant demands on us to be so many somethings.