'Bakara' Vs. 'Gray-Haired Guy' In Perspective

It's that time of year again: the leaves are changing, the sunsets fall earlier and, soon, the chill of autumn evening will be punctuated with explosions and Britons will set fire to somebody.

Well, not exactly.

Depending on how attractive the girls were in that European history class you took in high school, you may or may not have been paying attention on the day they mentioned Guy Fawkes. He was the chap who, more than 400 years ago, plotted to blow up Britain's Houses of Parliament with the king and most of the Protestant aristocracy inside.

He failed, of course. But for his trouble he was tortured for several days, hanged and then cut into pieces. Afterward, it would appear that someone, somewhere, said to themselves, "You know, that was jolly good fun. But what with all the torturing and hanging and cutting into bits, I can't help but wish that we had also set him on fire."

So, an effigy of Fawkes was made and promptly set alight. With no quality television like "Dancing With the Stars" to distract anyone, this torching of a fake person turned out to be a delightfully good time. So much so that the British decided to keep at it for hundreds of years, burning Guy Fawkes anew every Nov. 5.

This is what was on the mind of the woman cutting my hair the other day. After telling me the strangely-common-to-the-British-experience story of the time her father almost killed the whole family trying to light a bonfire, she asked what I'd be doing on the night.

"Well, not sure," I said. "Either celebrating or wallowing in misery, depending on the election result."

"What election's that, love?" she asked.

"The U.S. presidential election," I said. "It's the day before Guy Fawkes Night."

"Oh yeah. I heard about that," she said. "I'll tell you what, though. I'm not sure I like one of them fellas. The gray-haired one. What's his name?"

She didn't know John McCain's name. Equally, she was unsure of how to pronounce Barack Obama's name. And I found that to be immensely comforting.

Amid the constant news cycle of presidential politics and impending economic doom, I have been wound up in tight knots lately. At night, I sit and stare at the ceiling and feel a desire to wail out like Mr. Toad from Wind in the Willows: "This is the end of everything!"

I have become so intently focused on all the awful and stressful things happening in the world that I have lost perspective. I can't think about anything else. I feel constantly panicked about myriad events over which I have little or no control. And then here was the woman who cuts my hair -- who, by the way, remembers all her customers' names -- unable to identify the two main candidates for the job of Most Powerful Man In The World.

The election is not immediately relevant to her, and she has no influence over its outcome, so she's not wrapped up in it. On the day after the election she will be happily setting things alight and blowing off fingers with fireworks, unconcerned as to the fate of "Bakara" or the gray-haired fella. The world will keep spinning either way.

I am trying to keep this in mind. I'm not sure enforced ignorance is the way forward -- I won't be shutting off my computer and getting rid of my television -- but it's important to try to put things into some kind of perspective. Even when they're really big mega-important things.

Most likely we are now in a period of history that people will be learning about in schools years and years into the future -- assuming those people aren't in classes with really hot girls. The weight and uncertainty of this time can be overwhelming. But it's important to take solace in the fact that they won't be burning effigies of us.

That is, unless you happen to be a former AIG executive. In which case your likeness will be keeping me warm on Nov. 5.

Chris Cope lives with his wife in Cardiff, Wales. His column appears every other Tuesday.