Different Planets

My planet is different from your planet. I’m not saying it's better. It’s just different. I know, I know, it's hard not to start drawing comparisons, especially when it comes to things like the place that made you. Naturally, everyone is curious to know whether the ball of matter that is responsible for the particular arrangement of molecules they are currently styling as “themself” is of high or low quality. But that’s the problem people! We have to resist the temptation to engage with those kinds of insecurities. Planets are just different. There are no low quality planets. If your planet managed to produce you, then you should be proud of it! 

Let’s be honest, discussions about what kind of gas makes the most pleasant-to-breath atmosphere, or which liquid makes the most vital oceans or which chemical element is ideal for the basis of life are all really just poorly disguised attempts at jockeying for position on an interstellar social hierarchy. And (does it even need to be said) comparing planetary size is beneath the dignity of any lifeform that has developed the language to do so.

Trying to grade planets as “better” or “worse” can only lead to jealousy, and it never ends well when someone becomes jealous of my—or that is to say, of someone else’s planet. I once  met a creature from a small, rocky, puddly place. At first he seemed quite pleased with his planet, jabbering about the broken chunks crust that appeared “majestic” when the nearest star could be viewed rising behind them, or certain photosynthesizing plant parts that became a “spectacle of color” when in their death throes or the “inspiring” effect of watching gravity act on the planet’s dominant hydrogen and oxygen compound. As I said, there are no low quality planets, but I couldn’t keep myself from chuckling at the thought of being entertained by something as quaint as gravity. Of course the creature became indignant, but after I described my planet to him, he seemed to forget all about his little “natural wonder” in his desire to immediately remove himself to the place that produced me. Imagine the effect this had on the poor thing! Entirely disillusioned with the planet whose substance formed him, he not only left it, but tried to disassociate himself from it completely. This was some years ago, and I have since encountered the creature in many other places during my travels, and try as he might, the poor thing has never been able to shed all the molecules from the place that made him. 

I see now that perhaps you think I am boasting. But there you are! Caught in the trap! You assumed I was comparing my planet to the rocky, puddly one. But no, I was just using the story to illustrate the problem of making such comparisons. The poor creature chose to view my planet as better and immediately found himself unhappy. If the creature had followed the course I am suggesting now, and merely viewed our planets as “different” instead of “better” and “worse” he might be happily watching gravity at work on the verges of some runny puddle, rather than scouring the cosmos for my planet.

There are reasons I did not invite the creature to my planet, nor tell the creature where my planet could be found. The simplest is that we are all full up. No room left at all. But even besides such a practical constraint, I know from experience that this creature would come convinced he was finding a better place, but then would immediately go about trying to make it more like the place he came from. And no, I am not just speaking theoretically. I know this because once, taking pity on the creature, I did escort  him to another planet. The planet I brought him to was not quite as bad—I mean as “different” as his planet of origin. It was, in some ways, more similar to my planet. He was quite impressed at first, but it was not long before he started taking issue with gravity. Gravity on that planet was more of an afterthought. Sure, it tended to pull things towards each other but overall, it was generally disregarded as a major force. The creature found this absurd. He kept trying to orient things as “up” and “down” or to weigh them or to say that objects should all fall in the same direction and that if they didn’t there must be an explanation as to why. I told him the explanation was that gravity just didn’t matter to everyone else as much as it mattered to him. He refused to accept that explanation, and eventually the planet grew tired of him and decided not to employ gravity at all until he was well out of sight. 

I tried to reason with him that what he had experienced on that planet was just “different,” but he insisted it was “worse” and resumed importuning me to bring him to my planet, which I still refused to do.

You may be wondering what I might have said to this impressionable creature to make him so certain that my planet was “better.” I assure you, I just gave him the facts. I outlined the differences between his planet and mine. It is true that I am particularly gifted when it comes to using language to describe details and contrasts, but I did not use any superlatives and only employed positive adjectives when absolutely necessary. Nothing I said should have led him to make conclusions about “better” or “worse”  only about “difference.”  

The strangest thing about this little alien was that while he seemed outwardly convinced his planet was of the very lowest quality, inwardly he seemed to retain a vestigial sense that it was of value. I conducted an experiment once, just to try and tease that contradiction to the surface, the better to study it by of course. I met him in a little out-of-the-way place in space and, after a few pleasantries, I asked him if he had heard about his planet.

“No,” he said, “because I do not have a planet.”

“Well,” I said, “It still might interest you to know that that quaint place with the sun over the broken crusts, and the color changing photosynthesizers and the water that falls when gravity tells it too has been annihilated.”

I bent down close when I said this, so that I could better see into the creature's eyes, he had only two, and they were quite small. I was sure I saw sadness at first, and then perhaps regret, and then they looked empty, as if they were eyes that belonged nowhere, eyes that were made of a substance that no longer existed, eyes that were floating alone in space, different from everything, unmoored, without history or future. Though I normally do not presume to make these kinds of judgments, I will say, those eyes were among the worst things I have ever seen. I waited for the alien to say something, but he seemed unable to. Soon, I could no longer bear looking into those eyes, so I slapped his shoulder and said, “Only joking, only joking” and we both laughed the hollow sounding laughter that can only be heard in little out-of-the-way places in space.

I haven’t seen the creature since that day. Before he left me, he again begged me to bring him to my planet. I re-emphasized that we were all full up, and I tried one more time to instill in him that it was only his point of view, coming from the planet that he did, which made him think of my planet as being better than his. “It's not that it's better, it's just different.” I said, “just like you and me. We are different, but am I really better than you?”

The creature didn’t respond, only gave me a last wave as he drifted out into space. I watched him for a while as he floated away, and I thought, just before he passed out of my view, that he changed course, as if he had somewhere to go.

When I was sure he was out of sight, I took my planet from my pocket and held it in the palm of my hand. I know it is very small, but it is my planet. Mine. There is no other I could ever come from. Someday, if I ever meet the creature again, perhaps I will be brave enough to show it to him. And he will see, it is not better or worse than his. Just different.