To those of you who've been kind enough to periodically check for updates, I apologize for the radio silence. No excuses, I'm an ass. Thanks for coming back, I bring gifts.
I'm mainly working mythology right now, though my Mad Hatter folder is getting unattractively overweight with side projects. I will post them when they're of age. The last few things I've written are, frankly, fucking good. I've posted one that will be formally published this spring (see below). I should be posting on somewhat of a weekly basis for a while.
Thanks, and don't give up, because I love you and that's special.
Dave
Monday, October 5, 2009
Will Be Published This Spring!!: Just Because You're Paranoid, Doesn't Mean It's Not Mythology
Everything is a story. Every concept, every notion, every moral and scientific principle is dependant upon the stories that give life and meaning to it. That Aesop’s Fables populate dust-free lots in our libraries is surely testament to that fact. Would “slow and steady wins the race” still accompany us today if the Tortoise and the Hare hadn’t hauled it through history? I doubt it. Were it not for our intrinsic desire to humanize and validate ideas and emotions through stories, we might never have progressed as far as we have. But some stories feed into our worst, most basic and brutal emotions. One mode of storytelling congeals inquisitiveness into paranoia, and skepticism into cynicism: conspiracy theories.
While the phrase “conspiracy theory” can be technically defined as a hypothesis that several people conspired to commit an illegal act, the phrase has become a reference to a fringe community who believe that a nearly-omnipotent governmental element is employing vast schemes to undermine and manipulate the majority of humanity. Whatever definition we give them, it seems we hesitate to call them what they really are. Let us now end such tip-toeing around eggshells. Conspiracy theories are the burgeoning mythology of our time. I’ll illustrate this by using common examples.
Like mythology of old, one of the most adhered to conspiracy theories is that a group of all powerful men (gods) confer in high offices (the heavens), deciding how to direct the lives of Man (fate). The New World Order, as they are commonly known, is a cabal of selfish world powers who can, and do, pull and push the puppet strings of society to fit their intensely evil needs. Sometimes they’re Jews looking to eliminate 90 percent of mankind to horde its wealth (obviously a meaningless exercise, since amassing the world’s wealth by killing 90 percent of its holders essentially evaporates that wealth’s value), sometimes they’re aliens who seek to farm us for our organs (apparently they’ve figured out interstellar space, but not stem cell research, and can’t find a more expedient way of farming than infiltrating their crop’s bureaucratic institutions), but they’re always small, secretive, smart and sinister.
Leaders are chosen to enact the will of the gods (unless they were, inconveniently for the premise, assassinated, like JFK). Economic and political turmoil is always ignited by them, and can serve no other purpose than to further their goals. FDR bombed
Some conspiracy theories are so laughable, I almost cherish them for the entertainment they provide. For example, the Flat Earth Society in Southern California is a group of people who believe, obviously, that the Earth is flat and assure us that the stars are about as far as San Francisco is from Boston and that the sun and moon are about 32 miles in diameter. Some are downright obnoxious and pernicious. Both the Moon Landing Hoax (the theory that NASA, one of the greatest congregations of human intellect in all history, made a film-student-quality movie to piss off the Russians), and The Intelligent Design Theory (Earth was created 6,000 years ago – well after the agricultural revolution. The
But there is a third tier of conspiracy theories that, at their core, are disgusting and exploitative. The ones that first come to mind are Holocaust denial and the 9/11 Truth movement. As my father is Jewish, I find Holocaust denial particularly repugnant, and almost all Americans share that sentiment. The 9/11 Truth movement, however, is extremely popular, especially among my generation. The premise of the theory is that the
Throughout my teenage years I, a white man raised in the comfortable, supportive lap of luxury, embraced a self-victimizing worldview that conveniently excused my self-perceived shortcomings and found me detrimentally driven by a “me against the world” outlook. Such a mindset is perhaps the most fertile space for conspiracy theories to take root. Inconsistency was fact, which is ironic considering that I was, in fact, completely inconsistent. I believed that water fluoridation was a conspiracy, which I’ve come to learn was a theory put forth by the ultra-right John Birch Society, and that 9/11 was an “inside job”, as the ultra-left 9/11 Truth movement – or Truthers – like to say.
It was perfect. I hated George W. Bush (I simply don’t have time to keep hating him), I was powerless to the whims of the devious government, yet empowered by knowledge of their misdeeds. I watched all the You Tube videos and was fully convinced that all of these coincidences and half-truths, tied together with such wonderfully suggestive speculation, proved beyond a reasonable doubt, case closed, 9/11 was an inside job. Don’t believe the media! This guy says the buildings should have collapsed this way! A remote control missile hit the pentagon! Investigate 9/11!!!
Then I went back to school (or a
The reason I say modern mythology, instead of just calling them mythology, is that our technology has altered the style of the storytelling. The development of the internet and of You Tube in particular, gave birth to a kind of neo-paratactic storytelling. The paratactic elements still exist; formulas are repeated, such as “controlled demolition”; the omnipotent government is referred to by many names, the “New World Order” and the “Illuminati” to name just two; logical inconsistencies throughout the stories are completely acceptable. But today, the details of the myth have become completely open-source, with any member of the audience adding or altering their personal spin. This allows the myth to fit the needs of its audience, effectively robbing it of any positive moral direction.
But the fact that it is used to fit their needs, that it reflects their fears and struggles in the changing world around them, is what most makes conspiracy theories mythology. When a large scale tragedy happens, people naturally search for an equally large scale meaning behind it. It was once believed that catastrophic floods or famines were caused by this or that god being pissed at this or that people. And why not? Isn’t it more comforting to believe that you won’t be hit by a flood if you sufficiently praise the gods than believing yourself powerless to a random world?
If the government killed JFK or bombed the
The comfort the conspiracy theory provides is a lot like that of religious faith, except religion at least says that the entity you are powerless to wants to be friends. Despite this inherent flaw, the theories continue to thrive because, unlike god, there is solid evidence of actual conspiracies. Of course, conspiracies go on all the time; 9/11 was a conspiracy, Al Qaeda conspired to fly planes into buildings. Government officials have conspired awful things around the world, our own included. Wild conspiracy theories reflect the American people’s distrust of their government after a century of actual conspiracies – from
Conspiracy theories, however, are also an indictment of a tragic, recurrent failure in the history of our species. It is our nature to try to make sense of the world around us, and it is to our great credit how far we’ve come in that venture. But no matter what ideas or insights we conjure, our thoughts, if not critically examined, will cease to be our own. When we allow the proud tradition of logical reasoning to lapse in our culture, our progress, and then our culture will quickly leave without as much as a goodbye.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Idaho Wall-Mart Blues
“HEY BUBBA, YOU wanna tell this psycho to get this fucking gun out of my face?”
“It’s Barry, kindly, and I do apologize to ya sir, but Hank don’t much listen to anybody.” Barry smiles warmly, “But I don’t figure he’s lookin to harm you, anyway.”
Hank cocks the gun. The movement is so smooth and brief, it almost seems imagined. Barry abashedly averts his gaze towards the forested hills. Max, who hadn’t flinched at the elevated threat, thinks to try a different approach.
“So, Barry, you got any kids?”
The pudgy, sweating, anxious man perks momentarily at the question, and just as quickly seems exasperated by it.
“No, well, yes, but,” he stammers, “They’re um, back at home with my wife.”
“I thought so. See Barry, my wife and kids are back at home too, probably waiting to see me. And I’ll bet your wife and kids are waiting for you too.”
“Ha!”
Both men’s heads swing towards the pretty young thing sitting up against the heating vent. Five minutes ago she was enjoying a staring contest with an iridescent, blue dragonfly that happened upon her knee. They hadn’t heard from her since.
“I’m sorry, as the only set of ovaries up here, I can tell you with certainty that no woman in her right mind is sitting at home waiting for him.” She smiles at a weakened Barry, “I’m sorry, you seem like a nice guy, but if you were a Greek god, you’d be Patheticus, God of Under-arm perspiration and all things Awkward.”
Max shoots her a look that reads, “You. Dumb. Bitch.” She smiles back, then returns to Barry, “When do you think we’ll be done with all this?”
Barry gathers himself and says in the sternest voice he can muster, “All questions will be answered when Roscoe gets here. Now sit tight and be quite, he should be here any minute.”
“Thrilling,” says Christine.
“The thrill is gone, the thrill is go-o-one away. You know you’ve done me wrong baby, and you’ll be so-o-orry some day.” Quizzical glances bound towards the frail specter of a man nursing a cigarette on the far wall - even from Hank, though no one noticed. He had yet to mutter a peep, making his soulful B.B. King rendition all the more odd, but no less pleasant.
In the span of three breaths, the doorway to the stairwell flies open, ejecting a thirty-something man in camos and an American flag beret atop his salt-and-pepper crew cut.
“Barry. Why is your van parked in the handicap space?” he demands.
“Well, cus it was the closest one. Besides, won’t nobody be here for at least another six or seven hours,” says Barry.
“Well that was dumb.” He clears his throat and inhales, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be wondering…Barry, where are all the hostages?”
“This is them, boss. Only ones we could find about town, right Hank?”
Hank lowers his gaze a few degrees.
“Pathectic. Ahem, as I was saying,” the man continues, “You may be wondering why you’re here. My name is Roscoe Kourp, and you…” Roscoe stops to glare at a snickering Christine, “Something funny?”
“Everything is funny.” Christine says, catching her breath, “It’s just…be honest, did you steal your name off a cracker box? I mean, come on, Rosco Corp.?”
Roscoe marches toward her. “Listen missy, first off, it’s spelled differently, and second, this isn’t your turn to talk.”
“You asked,” she says.
“I asked rhetorically.” His head juts back, his expression sours in a double-chinned display of surprise, “Barry? Why is she tied up? I got the tazers because they’re more effective and efficient, didn’t you get my email?”
“I know boss,” Barry explains, “but she asked to be tied up.”
“It’s more kinky that way, adds to the menace.” Christine says winking at Roscoe.
He shakes his head and continues, “Whatever. Anyway, where was I? (murmuring) ladies and gentlemen you may be… right. My name is Roscoe, and you are now part of the New Revolution. For too long, the great people of Idaho have reluctantly been a part of the United Sins of America. Our airwaves, our Internet, our schools and our streets have been forced to deteriorate right along with the rest of this Heathen country. Well, we say no more!” His index finger rises as quickly as his voice, and he turns and marches towards Max.
“The men and women, excuse me, the men and woman here today have the distinct honor of helping the Idaho National Separatists movement make a bold statement to those folks in D.C., letting them know we’re serious. If you choose to cooperate, we will spare your lives today, and in the bloody civil war to come.” Roscoe looks around excitedly to the hostages -- eager to gauge the effect his rant has made, and is disappointed to find none.
Christine gives a raised-brow smile to Roscoe for the effort, and looks past him at the old man, “Hey blues man, got another one of those smokes?”
The old man stares blankly ahead for a moment, then bellows, “I’m a man. I spell ‘M’. ‘A’ child. ‘N’. That represent man.” He flips a smoke to the sky, and, beaming at it mid-air, Christine adjusts her head left, right, then throws it back and catches the filter end in her mouth.
“How about that,” Max marvels.
“Ha ha! That was so cool,” says a bubbly Barry.
“Lets see you light it.” Roscoe remarks, and throws a lighter full-force at her face.
“Excuse me, Roscoe – you don’t mind if call you Roscoe, right? – well Roscoe, my name is Max Wellden. I own a dealership, biggest one in Pocatello. And I can see that you’re very serious about your, um, cause -”
“Revolution,” Roscoe snaps.
Max recovers, “Yes, of course, revolution. Well I have friends in some pretty high places. I know people. If you let me leave now, I can help you. The sooner I can contact them, the better, you know?”
“You can’t be serious.” Max is surprised to hear this, not from his captor, but from Christine, who had somehow untied herself and lit the cigarette.
Roscoe spins towards her, just as surprised, “Huh?”
“Ok. First off, what’s the deal with the confederate flag lighter? The Idaho you so cherish was first made a territory by Abe Lincoln, and it was part of the union.” Christine pulls off the plastic confederate wrapping, and tosses it at Roscoe, “Second, what made you think the best way to show ‘those folks in D.C.’ you’re serious would be to hold hostages on the roof of a Wal-Mart? Were you watching the movie Airheads and surfing Google maps when you devised this plot of evil genius?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The militant reaches into his jacket and draws a pistol, “Give me one good reason not to blow your pretty little head to pretty little pieces.”
“Um, boss?” Barry interjects.
“What Barry?” yells Roscoe.
“I thought it says in the manifesto that one of the things we’s against is cuss words,” says Barry
“Not now, Barry,” Roscoe’s temper is rising in a manner quite appropriate of his madness. He turns his attention back towards Christine and rests the barrel on her temple, “Yup, you’re just like every other bitch on this planet, always trying to belittle me and get in my way. Not this time.” He cocks the gun.
Stunned, the remaining three glare at the man. He lowers his gun.
“He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. I got a 32-20, got to make the camps alright.”
“It’s Barry, kindly, and I do apologize to ya sir, but Hank don’t much listen to anybody.” Barry smiles warmly, “But I don’t figure he’s lookin to harm you, anyway.”
Hank cocks the gun. The movement is so smooth and brief, it almost seems imagined. Barry abashedly averts his gaze towards the forested hills. Max, who hadn’t flinched at the elevated threat, thinks to try a different approach.
“So, Barry, you got any kids?”
The pudgy, sweating, anxious man perks momentarily at the question, and just as quickly seems exasperated by it.
“No, well, yes, but,” he stammers, “They’re um, back at home with my wife.”
“I thought so. See Barry, my wife and kids are back at home too, probably waiting to see me. And I’ll bet your wife and kids are waiting for you too.”
“Ha!”
Both men’s heads swing towards the pretty young thing sitting up against the heating vent. Five minutes ago she was enjoying a staring contest with an iridescent, blue dragonfly that happened upon her knee. They hadn’t heard from her since.
“I’m sorry, as the only set of ovaries up here, I can tell you with certainty that no woman in her right mind is sitting at home waiting for him.” She smiles at a weakened Barry, “I’m sorry, you seem like a nice guy, but if you were a Greek god, you’d be Patheticus, God of Under-arm perspiration and all things Awkward.”
Max shoots her a look that reads, “You. Dumb. Bitch.” She smiles back, then returns to Barry, “When do you think we’ll be done with all this?”
Barry gathers himself and says in the sternest voice he can muster, “All questions will be answered when Roscoe gets here. Now sit tight and be quite, he should be here any minute.”
“Thrilling,” says Christine.
“The thrill is gone, the thrill is go-o-one away. You know you’ve done me wrong baby, and you’ll be so-o-orry some day.” Quizzical glances bound towards the frail specter of a man nursing a cigarette on the far wall - even from Hank, though no one noticed. He had yet to mutter a peep, making his soulful B.B. King rendition all the more odd, but no less pleasant.
In the span of three breaths, the doorway to the stairwell flies open, ejecting a thirty-something man in camos and an American flag beret atop his salt-and-pepper crew cut.
“Barry. Why is your van parked in the handicap space?” he demands.
“Well, cus it was the closest one. Besides, won’t nobody be here for at least another six or seven hours,” says Barry.
“Well that was dumb.” He clears his throat and inhales, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be wondering…Barry, where are all the hostages?”
“This is them, boss. Only ones we could find about town, right Hank?”
Hank lowers his gaze a few degrees.
“Pathectic. Ahem, as I was saying,” the man continues, “You may be wondering why you’re here. My name is Roscoe Kourp, and you…” Roscoe stops to glare at a snickering Christine, “Something funny?”
“Everything is funny.” Christine says, catching her breath, “It’s just…be honest, did you steal your name off a cracker box? I mean, come on, Rosco Corp.?”
Roscoe marches toward her. “Listen missy, first off, it’s spelled differently, and second, this isn’t your turn to talk.”
“You asked,” she says.
“I asked rhetorically.” His head juts back, his expression sours in a double-chinned display of surprise, “Barry? Why is she tied up? I got the tazers because they’re more effective and efficient, didn’t you get my email?”
“I know boss,” Barry explains, “but she asked to be tied up.”
“It’s more kinky that way, adds to the menace.” Christine says winking at Roscoe.
He shakes his head and continues, “Whatever. Anyway, where was I? (murmuring) ladies and gentlemen you may be… right. My name is Roscoe, and you are now part of the New Revolution. For too long, the great people of Idaho have reluctantly been a part of the United Sins of America. Our airwaves, our Internet, our schools and our streets have been forced to deteriorate right along with the rest of this Heathen country. Well, we say no more!” His index finger rises as quickly as his voice, and he turns and marches towards Max.
“The men and women, excuse me, the men and woman here today have the distinct honor of helping the Idaho National Separatists movement make a bold statement to those folks in D.C., letting them know we’re serious. If you choose to cooperate, we will spare your lives today, and in the bloody civil war to come.” Roscoe looks around excitedly to the hostages -- eager to gauge the effect his rant has made, and is disappointed to find none.
Christine gives a raised-brow smile to Roscoe for the effort, and looks past him at the old man, “Hey blues man, got another one of those smokes?”
The old man stares blankly ahead for a moment, then bellows, “I’m a man. I spell ‘M’. ‘A’ child. ‘N’. That represent man.” He flips a smoke to the sky, and, beaming at it mid-air, Christine adjusts her head left, right, then throws it back and catches the filter end in her mouth.
“How about that,” Max marvels.
“Ha ha! That was so cool,” says a bubbly Barry.
“Lets see you light it.” Roscoe remarks, and throws a lighter full-force at her face.
“Excuse me, Roscoe – you don’t mind if call you Roscoe, right? – well Roscoe, my name is Max Wellden. I own a dealership, biggest one in Pocatello. And I can see that you’re very serious about your, um, cause -”
“Revolution,” Roscoe snaps.
Max recovers, “Yes, of course, revolution. Well I have friends in some pretty high places. I know people. If you let me leave now, I can help you. The sooner I can contact them, the better, you know?”
“You can’t be serious.” Max is surprised to hear this, not from his captor, but from Christine, who had somehow untied herself and lit the cigarette.
Roscoe spins towards her, just as surprised, “Huh?”
“Ok. First off, what’s the deal with the confederate flag lighter? The Idaho you so cherish was first made a territory by Abe Lincoln, and it was part of the union.” Christine pulls off the plastic confederate wrapping, and tosses it at Roscoe, “Second, what made you think the best way to show ‘those folks in D.C.’ you’re serious would be to hold hostages on the roof of a Wal-Mart? Were you watching the movie Airheads and surfing Google maps when you devised this plot of evil genius?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The militant reaches into his jacket and draws a pistol, “Give me one good reason not to blow your pretty little head to pretty little pieces.”
“Um, boss?” Barry interjects.
“What Barry?” yells Roscoe.
“I thought it says in the manifesto that one of the things we’s against is cuss words,” says Barry
“Not now, Barry,” Roscoe’s temper is rising in a manner quite appropriate of his madness. He turns his attention back towards Christine and rests the barrel on her temple, “Yup, you’re just like every other bitch on this planet, always trying to belittle me and get in my way. Not this time.” He cocks the gun.
***
The gunshot shocks everyone. The deafening blast has echoed off the hillsides by the time they source it to the hand of the old man. Hank swings his firearm up, but is quickly met with a slug in the chest.Stunned, the remaining three glare at the man. He lowers his gun.
“He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. I got a 32-20, got to make the camps alright.”
How To Write Instructions
1. Obviously,
you’ll need a pen.
Any pen will do,
but the best instructions ever written were those of
Reginald Q. Reginald
on
“How to Churn Butter at High Altitudes” (c. 1714)
Mr. Reginald insisted
that the best implement
to impart instructions
is the tail feather of a
Dodo.
The Dodo,
of course,
is extinct,
but a stuffed Dodo
resides in basement of
the London Museum of Natural History.
The guard,
a mild mannered half-wit
named Henry, will
let you pick a feather in exchange
for a box of
Nabisco Animal Crackers.
2. Next, you’ll
want to find a piece
of paper. You could use this one,
but don’t
because someone has
written
all
over it.
Also, try not to use
papyrus.
3. Try your very best
to remember what,
exactly,
you are trying to write instructions
for.
Keep in mind that you can always
write it down.
4. Keep it short.
And simple.
5. Know your audience.
Know that the average IQ
is 100.
Know how dumb that is.
6. With that in mind,
write your instructions.
Remember, not on
this paper!
7. Read them out loud
and see if they make
a pig’s penis worth
of sense.
Once you’re satisfied,
get yourself a lobotomy.
8. Re-read your instructions.
If they still make sense,
you’ve done well.
If not, repeat steps 7&8
as many times
as necessary,
Being careful not to drool on the page.
you’ll need a pen.
Any pen will do,
but the best instructions ever written were those of
Reginald Q. Reginald
on
“How to Churn Butter at High Altitudes” (c. 1714)
Mr. Reginald insisted
that the best implement
to impart instructions
is the tail feather of a
Dodo.
The Dodo,
of course,
is extinct,
but a stuffed Dodo
resides in basement of
the London Museum of Natural History.
The guard,
a mild mannered half-wit
named Henry, will
let you pick a feather in exchange
for a box of
Nabisco Animal Crackers.
2. Next, you’ll
want to find a piece
of paper. You could use this one,
but don’t
because someone has
written
all
over it.
Also, try not to use
papyrus.
3. Try your very best
to remember what,
exactly,
you are trying to write instructions
for.
Keep in mind that you can always
write it down.
4. Keep it short.
And simple.
5. Know your audience.
Know that the average IQ
is 100.
Know how dumb that is.
6. With that in mind,
write your instructions.
Remember, not on
this paper!
7. Read them out loud
and see if they make
a pig’s penis worth
of sense.
Once you’re satisfied,
get yourself a lobotomy.
8. Re-read your instructions.
If they still make sense,
you’ve done well.
If not, repeat steps 7&8
as many times
as necessary,
Being careful not to drool on the page.
Scholarly Discource: CLC Edition
“They try to be very diverse, but really they’re all stuck up and judge other people for not being religious enough,” says Corduroy Jacket Chick.
“Where’s the church?” asks Guy Too Young To Be Balding That Much.
“Grayslake?”
“Aren’t we in Grayslake?” He smiles warmly to indicate that his question was intended to sound less mocking than his tone implied.
“Um, yeah, I guess I’m not sure where it is.”
“Okay.” Baldy pauses for a moment to separate them from that last awkward exchange, “Don’t you think your reaction was a bit extreme? I mean, you dropped your religion because you were mad at your church.”
“No, I just saw it for what it was, you know? Like, really judgmental.” She seems flustered again. I have the feeling she is easily flustered.
He smiles at her in that eerie cult-smile the devout get when talking their religion; it’s their way of showing how god makes them a monk on demand. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the church’s message at all. I mean, haven’t you read the bible?”
I wonder, what snippets has he read to come to that conclusion. After all, the paradise he awaits begins with “The Judgment”.
“Have you ever read ‘The Secret’?” she asks.
“No”
“Oh, well, that’s what I’m into now. It’s all about positive thinking and stuff.” Damn it, now she’s lost me. I’d sided with her up until that last exchange, being an adamant atheist. But I hate “The Secret”. It’s one of those self-help books that takes a scientific principle – usually from quantum physics – and corrupts it by drawing far-reaching spiritual conclusions that have nothing to do with the original fact.
“Oh, cool. I’ll have to check that out.” He’s pretending to care, but he sees her loading her purse and realizes he’s lost the sale.
“You should totally do that,” she says, and walks toward the door.
“I will.”
He won’t, and some part of that pleases me.
“Where’s the church?” asks Guy Too Young To Be Balding That Much.
“Grayslake?”
“Aren’t we in Grayslake?” He smiles warmly to indicate that his question was intended to sound less mocking than his tone implied.
“Um, yeah, I guess I’m not sure where it is.”
“Okay.” Baldy pauses for a moment to separate them from that last awkward exchange, “Don’t you think your reaction was a bit extreme? I mean, you dropped your religion because you were mad at your church.”
“No, I just saw it for what it was, you know? Like, really judgmental.” She seems flustered again. I have the feeling she is easily flustered.
He smiles at her in that eerie cult-smile the devout get when talking their religion; it’s their way of showing how god makes them a monk on demand. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the church’s message at all. I mean, haven’t you read the bible?”
I wonder, what snippets has he read to come to that conclusion. After all, the paradise he awaits begins with “The Judgment”.
“Have you ever read ‘The Secret’?” she asks.
“No”
“Oh, well, that’s what I’m into now. It’s all about positive thinking and stuff.” Damn it, now she’s lost me. I’d sided with her up until that last exchange, being an adamant atheist. But I hate “The Secret”. It’s one of those self-help books that takes a scientific principle – usually from quantum physics – and corrupts it by drawing far-reaching spiritual conclusions that have nothing to do with the original fact.
“Oh, cool. I’ll have to check that out.” He’s pretending to care, but he sees her loading her purse and realizes he’s lost the sale.
“You should totally do that,” she says, and walks toward the door.
“I will.”
He won’t, and some part of that pleases me.
Black Friday
When I awoke this morning
I told my cat
That I was to man
The gates of the holy city
At 4, I passed the Marauders –
The bellicose beasts of this black day.
Untold salutations lay ahead,
And I would extend none prematurely.
At 4:30, I heard the angry chants
And belligerent bullying of the chains
As I studied the offerings of
The big yellow Face.
At 5, I tried the lock.
They became impatient.
It’s funny how random
Those last thoughts can be.
“Cleats, Aisle 12”
“First Aid Kit, End Cap of Aisle 10”
“Flowers, Back Wall, Garden Section”
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2008448574_shop290.html
I told my cat
That I was to man
The gates of the holy city
At 4, I passed the Marauders –
The bellicose beasts of this black day.
Untold salutations lay ahead,
And I would extend none prematurely.
At 4:30, I heard the angry chants
And belligerent bullying of the chains
As I studied the offerings of
The big yellow Face.
At 5, I tried the lock.
They became impatient.
It’s funny how random
Those last thoughts can be.
“Cleats, Aisle 12”
“First Aid Kit, End Cap of Aisle 10”
“Flowers, Back Wall, Garden Section”
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2008448574_shop290.html
Monday, December 1, 2008
Vision from the Invisible
I have never considered myself a racist, nor, in any way, a bigot. In fact, I’ve always felt an innate revulsion to prejudice. Although I grew up in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago – a place where “rich and white” is not as much the norm as it is the rule – I’ve always immersed myself in the history of the civil rights movement. As a child I had black friends (which is statistically more impressive than it sounds). Were you to ask an eight-year-old Dave Balson about his favorite movie, he would earnestly inform you (what a cute kid he was) about “Panther”, which chronicles the rise and fall Huey Newton and The Black Panther Party. For our 5th grade biography project, my choice of Malcolm X was the only Black non-athlete presented.
Luckily, I’ve matured a bit as I’ve grown – at this age, sentiments like, “Some of my best friends are black,” or “Power to the people, brother!” seem shallow and placating. As I look at all the loud, stupid assholes out there, I always think, “There is so very, very much to dislike about people, and you’re going with skin color? You're not even trying.”
There is a tendency common among liberal-minded folk like myself to want to give too much or too little credit to our humanism. The latter I’ve best seen exemplified by a former teacher of mine. Sheila, a woman who came of age as an activist in the turbulent late-sixties, is a woman I admire greatly. But in her Peace Studies class, she was committed to a view I found rather imprudent: To be white – and to therefore benefit from “White Privilege” – was to inherit an intrinsic form of racism. Although I appreciate the sentiment, I felt this idea worked against itself on both ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, it disregards the efforts of those who have worked all their lives to overcome prejudice and battle for equality; on the other, it allows those who harbor racists ideals to justify them as, “just a part of being white.”
Sheila’s philosophy is the expected reaction to the former tendency. Given the effort and commitment required in keeping one’s opinions exposed and amendable, it’s hardly surprising that most people go as far as “tolerance”, but fail to arrive at acceptance. Most often, just feeling sympathetic to an oppressed people is enough to proclaim one’s self a card carrying liberal. In fact, I have been quite happy, if not proud, to put myself in that category. That is, until I began reading Invisible Man.
I have come to expect from great literature that it demand me to ask far more questions than it itself answers. In this expectation, Invisible Man has not let me down. Reading the sermon delivered by Reverend Barbee left me wondering of myself, “Am I not as blind as this man? Is my ideology as simple, self-serving, and ultimately unrealistic?” But by the time I had asked myself this, I already knew the answer: Yes, Dave, it is.
See, I began asking this question on page one, trying to decipher this metaphor of invisibility. We all know people who say proudly that they are “color blind”, those who, if pointing out the only black person in a crowd of whites, will go through great descriptions of their clothing, hair style, and height before you finally say, “Oh, you mean the black guy?”
“Um,” they say, “yeah, I guess so.”
These same people would not think twice to point out a white person by skin color in a crowd of blacks, so it can be hard to believe that they simply don’t notice skin color. What’s worse about that ideal is that it is degrading to people of color – “Don’t worry, boy, I’ve learned to look past your little skin predicament” – and to humanity as a whole, in suggesting that we can’t all get along and look at each other at the same time.
Evolution has given us the mixed blessing of noticing patterns and making connections, often erroneously, in an effort to protect ourselves. Still, we’ve reasoned our way past primitive instincts far less absurd than racism. I know intellectually that no one race is superior to any other, but all things considered, I’m probably slightly more comfortable around whites than blacks. In what way is that not racist?
When I first started going over the invisibility metaphor, I had trouble reconciling racism as blacks being both more and less visible in the eyes of whites. After hours of mulling it over however, I see it now in my life. In situations where I have less control, blacks become more visible to me. Walking around in parts of the city at night, I note a group of black men with more anxiety and skepticism than I would a group of white men. Other factors weigh in more than skin color, clothing and disposition for example, but it’s still there, my prejudice staring back at me.
In situations where I feel more in control, at school, or a bar maybe, blacks become less visible. I’m less likely to engage them in conversation, or to assume they’d even want to talk to me. None of that is a conscious thought occurring at the time. But looking back, really thinking about it, I have to admit that at some level, I fail to see them in the same light as their white peers.
Of the two, the invisibility scares me more. I can justify my fear of a group of young black men with prior experiences - I’ve been mugged twice at gunpoint, both times by groups of young black guys. Also, I am aware of my prejudice in real time. My failure to see blacks where I’ll otherwise see whites is not conscious, it is not to protect myself, and it doesn’t have a basis I can grab onto and examine. I’m not sure I know how to overcome that and, realizing that, I can’t help but feel disappointed with myself.
Maybe Ellison intends something else with his metaphor, and I’m sure that it will reveal itself as I read on. Invisible Man is already a masterwork in my eyes. It is too rare a gem to find a book that reaches into your brain, slaps it with a decisive “Think again!” blow, and makes you grateful all the while.
Luckily, I’ve matured a bit as I’ve grown – at this age, sentiments like, “Some of my best friends are black,” or “Power to the people, brother!” seem shallow and placating. As I look at all the loud, stupid assholes out there, I always think, “There is so very, very much to dislike about people, and you’re going with skin color? You're not even trying.”
There is a tendency common among liberal-minded folk like myself to want to give too much or too little credit to our humanism. The latter I’ve best seen exemplified by a former teacher of mine. Sheila, a woman who came of age as an activist in the turbulent late-sixties, is a woman I admire greatly. But in her Peace Studies class, she was committed to a view I found rather imprudent: To be white – and to therefore benefit from “White Privilege” – was to inherit an intrinsic form of racism. Although I appreciate the sentiment, I felt this idea worked against itself on both ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, it disregards the efforts of those who have worked all their lives to overcome prejudice and battle for equality; on the other, it allows those who harbor racists ideals to justify them as, “just a part of being white.”
Sheila’s philosophy is the expected reaction to the former tendency. Given the effort and commitment required in keeping one’s opinions exposed and amendable, it’s hardly surprising that most people go as far as “tolerance”, but fail to arrive at acceptance. Most often, just feeling sympathetic to an oppressed people is enough to proclaim one’s self a card carrying liberal. In fact, I have been quite happy, if not proud, to put myself in that category. That is, until I began reading Invisible Man.
I have come to expect from great literature that it demand me to ask far more questions than it itself answers. In this expectation, Invisible Man has not let me down. Reading the sermon delivered by Reverend Barbee left me wondering of myself, “Am I not as blind as this man? Is my ideology as simple, self-serving, and ultimately unrealistic?” But by the time I had asked myself this, I already knew the answer: Yes, Dave, it is.
See, I began asking this question on page one, trying to decipher this metaphor of invisibility. We all know people who say proudly that they are “color blind”, those who, if pointing out the only black person in a crowd of whites, will go through great descriptions of their clothing, hair style, and height before you finally say, “Oh, you mean the black guy?”
“Um,” they say, “yeah, I guess so.”
These same people would not think twice to point out a white person by skin color in a crowd of blacks, so it can be hard to believe that they simply don’t notice skin color. What’s worse about that ideal is that it is degrading to people of color – “Don’t worry, boy, I’ve learned to look past your little skin predicament” – and to humanity as a whole, in suggesting that we can’t all get along and look at each other at the same time.
Evolution has given us the mixed blessing of noticing patterns and making connections, often erroneously, in an effort to protect ourselves. Still, we’ve reasoned our way past primitive instincts far less absurd than racism. I know intellectually that no one race is superior to any other, but all things considered, I’m probably slightly more comfortable around whites than blacks. In what way is that not racist?
When I first started going over the invisibility metaphor, I had trouble reconciling racism as blacks being both more and less visible in the eyes of whites. After hours of mulling it over however, I see it now in my life. In situations where I have less control, blacks become more visible to me. Walking around in parts of the city at night, I note a group of black men with more anxiety and skepticism than I would a group of white men. Other factors weigh in more than skin color, clothing and disposition for example, but it’s still there, my prejudice staring back at me.
In situations where I feel more in control, at school, or a bar maybe, blacks become less visible. I’m less likely to engage them in conversation, or to assume they’d even want to talk to me. None of that is a conscious thought occurring at the time. But looking back, really thinking about it, I have to admit that at some level, I fail to see them in the same light as their white peers.
Of the two, the invisibility scares me more. I can justify my fear of a group of young black men with prior experiences - I’ve been mugged twice at gunpoint, both times by groups of young black guys. Also, I am aware of my prejudice in real time. My failure to see blacks where I’ll otherwise see whites is not conscious, it is not to protect myself, and it doesn’t have a basis I can grab onto and examine. I’m not sure I know how to overcome that and, realizing that, I can’t help but feel disappointed with myself.
Maybe Ellison intends something else with his metaphor, and I’m sure that it will reveal itself as I read on. Invisible Man is already a masterwork in my eyes. It is too rare a gem to find a book that reaches into your brain, slaps it with a decisive “Think again!” blow, and makes you grateful all the while.
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