Sports Redux: Pats Fans: Feel The Schadenfreude
Kells Closing
Photo of the Day, February 8, 2010: Alewife Station
Scott Brown: 41st Vote or Campaign Prop?
(Despite the headline, this has nothing to do with politics.)
The Boston Latin vampires have been all over the interpages since the Boston Globe reported yesterday that school admins were rushing to cover up for the fact that unholy demons were lurking their halls. Today, the official word is that this is probably more about bullying and rampant rumors of kids cutting themselves and others in an attempt to be Gothier than thou.
As silly as the whole story is, and as jokey as all the media coverage has been, this is a really interesting and prime example of how myths get started. Often, myths and legends can spring from our attempt to explain something we don't understand and sometimes to dehumanize and spurn people who are seen as "other." In this case, the narrative seems to have evolved from "Goth kids are weird" to "Goth kids are pretending they're vampires" to "Goth kids are vampires." People tend not to suddenly believe something absurd - instead, each step follows more or less logically from the previous step, until we get to the point where the Boston Globe is writing things like ". . . a male student, rumored to be a werewolf, had threatened on Facebook . . .."
Consider the last time New England saw a big vampire craze, back in the late 1700s (at which point Boston Latin was already a good 150 years old). In this case, the big lurking mystery was consumption, which we now know as tuberculosis.
Before scientists figured out what tuberculosis was, it was indescribably scary to watch a previously healthy family member suddenly waste away and die, so a tale was invented to explain it: an evil spirit that fed off the life-forces of humans. Nobody at the time labeled it "vampirism," but that label was applied later by those who saw similarities with superstitions in Eastern Europe.
One of the most famous local "vampires" was Mercy Lena Brown, who died of consumption in 1892. Shortly thereafter, her brother Edwin also began wasting away. Edwin and Mercy's father had seen his entire family succumb to the mysterious illness that no doctor could help or explain, so he turned to folklore in a last-ditch effort to rescue Edwin. He dug up his daughter Mercy, removed her heart, burned it, and fed the ashes to Edwin. This was a surprisingly common remedy in the 1700s that had no medicinal value at all, but had been passed down through the generations. After all, if the patient happened to rebound for some reason, the ashes could take the credit, but if he died, it could be determined that the cure just came too late. Regardless, the dying person could enjoy a delicious ashburger as his last meal.
The father's actions were seen as barbaric in 1892, and newspapers breathlessly reported the incident, possibly exaggerating details to increase the supernatural aspects and sell more papers. The killing of the "vampire" was of no help and Edwin died just two months later. Not long after, science caught up to superstition as doctors discovered how to treat bacterial infections and develop vaccines for diseases like tuberculosis.
There are plenty of other similar stories of local legends spinning out of control, like that whole witch problem we had back in the 1600s, which was similarly caused by ignorance, superstition, and a desire to castigate the nonconformists.
So, kids at Boston Latin may not be stalked by the dark specter of consumption, but they are reacting to an "other" in the same way New Englanders have reacted since the school opened - by freaking the hell out. Here's hoping they don't start staking hearts and crushing people with stones like adults would.
To find out more about local vampire mythology, check out this interview with local folklorist Michael E. Bell.
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