Bought and Paid For

Here's a story I wrote at a writer's conference over the weekend. I told the folks I would try to figure out a way to post an audio link. The link, at least on my computer looks like a player, but doesn't play. If you click on the "t" part it will take you to the page where the file does play. Sorry I'm not more technically adept. Regardless, the text itself it below.




Bought and Paid For

The modern big-box superstore was an odd contrivance, when she really thought about it. The notion that Dorothy could buy auto supplies, big-screen televisions, furniture for her patio, and fresh produce all under one roof disturbed her in some way she couldn’t quite articulate. It was remarkably convenient. That was indisputable. But when the bog-box store also managed to carry the best selection of everything she needed, Dorothy started to wonder about the quality of things with which she was infecting her life. Was the music on the CD really significantly different from her pre-packaged Kraft singles? Would the tee-shirt with the edgy slogan make her as unique as it advertised, despite the lean-cuisine frozen dinner in her cart that exactly matched the one in the cart of the woman wearing the Hawaiian print muumuu?

Dorothy, frightened by that idea, fled from the frozen food section, seeking solace in the produce aisle. It felt healthier, somehow. She pushed her cart, complete with its requisite wobbly wheel, which swung playfully from side to side, then kissed every fifth tile on the floor and pulled the cart slightly to the right. The cart made its lazy slide away from the tomatoes she wanted to buy, towards the cauliflower and broccoli.

A flash of shimmering green caught her eye. At the edge of bin next to her, a large head of broccoli, six or seven inches long from the tip of the trunk to the top of the tree and branching out almost as wide, called out to her. Literally. “Hey,” it said. “Buy me.”

Dorothy found this understandably disconcerting. She opened her mouth to speak, looked to her right and left, and thought better of it. It was one thing to hear a voice from a head of broccoli, but, no matter how lovely its color or impressive its dimensions, it was quite another thing to reply. Instead she gripped the handle of her cart with excessive force and tried to push away from the broccoli as quickly as possible.

“Wait!” the broccoli said. In spite of herself, Dorothy obeyed, but she refused to turn and face the broccoli. “Hey,” it hissed. “I know you can hear me. Come back. Buy me. If I’m in your cart no one will notice you talking to me. Just put me in the cart.”

Dorothy found this advice almost sensible. Without turning her head to face the broccoli, she took a blind step backwards, grabbed the stalk with a groping hand, and tossed it into the child-seat portion of the cart in front of her, propping it up against her wallet. Even then she wouldn’t look down at it. She stared straight ahead, storming out of the produce section, making a hard left at the butter, and stopping in front of the glass doors housing the milk. No one shopped for milk at that moment, so Dorothy opened the door and let the cold air hit her face. She pretended to examine the milk, as though weighing the merits of whole, 2 percent, and skim. She breathed the cold, waxy, slightly fetid air, hoping some deadly milk-born toxin would clear her head or put her out of her misery.

No such luck.

“Hey,” the broccoli hissed. “Thanks for choosing me. I’m Marvin. You can call me Marv.”

“I don’t want to call you anything,” Dorothy snapped. She looked immediately to her right and left. No one was staring at her or obviously averting their gaze from the crazy woman who seemed to be speaking to the milk. Still, the spot was very exposed. A woman nearby grabbed two bags of shredded cheese and continued toward her. Dorothy looked up at her and blanched when the woman met her gaze. She knows, Dorothy thought.

Dorothy pulled her cart back violently, then leaned against it, shoving it past the cream cheese, the packaged sliced meats, the end-cap of hostess wax-chocolate donuts. She left the grocery section entirely, turning into the furniture department. In a hallway made of bricks of folded, plastic-wrapped bed linens, Dorothy allowed herself to confront Marv.

“I cannot talk to you. You have to stop talking to me. Stop it. Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it.”

The broccoli was unmoved. “Look, lady, I have needs. You aren’t sensitive to those, that’s your problem. You want to buy me because I’m good. You can’t deny that. I’ve grown up well. I am well made. So you’ll purchase me. That’s that, right?”

Dorothy couldn’t deny the virtue of the broccoli. The milky green stalk, thick and smooth, wore a soft pink rubber band. Above the neckline of the rubber band the stalk split into fat branches that exploded into dark green buds, thicker than any afro an animated Jolly Green giant could possibly grow. Marv was a lovely specimen. Dorothy found him to be… good.

Marv didn’t give a rip what Dorothy thought of him. Marv was on a mission. “Okay, so you’ve chosen me. Consider me purchased. Now, I want to go buy some things.”

“You want to what? Wait… what?”

“I have some money. I even have credit cards. I need some stuff.”

“But,” Dorothy stammered, “you’re broccoli.”

“No, I’m broccoli with needs. And I’m broccoli with cash. And I’m broccoli in a store filled with stuff. Put it together, lady.”

“My name is Dorothy,” she said weakly.

“Nice to meet you, Dorothy. Now, take me to the home electronics section.”

“No,” she said, but she was already wheeling the cart in that direction. “Why should I?”

“I thought we went over this. I’ve got some stuff to buy.” In his coarse, flat voice he belted out the store’s jingle. “What’s on your list today?” he sang. “You’ll find it-” He stopped singing and almost shouted. “In home electronics, Dorothy. I got a list. It starts with a bigger TV than you probably have. So, hup to.”

Dorothy couldn’t believe she was pushing the cart out of the furniture section, past the office supplies and the discount DVDs, towards home electronics. “You can’t buy a TV. You don’t have any money. And you’re broccoli.”

The cart hit an uneven tile, and Marv slid down a bit, revealing the wallet he was resting on. “What are you talking about? I’ve got money. You gave it to me.”

“But that’s mine.”

“No, you chose me. I’m yours. You have an obligation to provide for my needs. You gave me you wallet, which was… I don’t want to say generous. You don’t have much cash here, Dorothy. But you got credit, so let’s call it satisfactory. So you provide for my needs. I need a TV. End of discussion.”

Dorothy pushed the cart through the alarm sensors at the entrance of the home electronics section. “We are not finished talking about this, Mister,” she whispered. Then she looked at the man sitting behind the register. He looked down at his feet quickly.

In the back of the department Marv said, “Oh yeah. That one, baby.”

“Which one?” Dorothy asked her broccoli.

“The 48 inch plasma. That’s nice.” He drawled this last word out in a way that sound more than a little dirty, even for a head of broccoli. “Nice,” he repeated.

“That’s over a thousand dollars,” Dorothy gasped.

“Yeah. Look, you’re going to need help getting that in the car, so you should call a salesman over.”

“But why do you need a flat screen TV?”

“Do I ask you what you need? No. Do I ask you why you need it? Of course not. That’s private, right? Let’s just say we vegetables like our picture to be crisp, and leave it at that.”

Dorothy stepped away from the cart, towards the register at the front of the home electronics section. She nodded. It made sense. Produce. The crisper. It seemed entirely reasonable. “Wait a second,” she said aloud.

“I’m sorry,” the salesman said. “May I help you?”

“No.” She frowned and nodded decisively.

“Ma’am?”

Dorothy turned back towards her cart, ready to walk back and let that broccoli know who was boss, but she stopped when she saw him. Even from a distance, he was a lovely broccoli. Clearly worth the $1.25 a pound. And if a crisp picture was his thing, who was she to judge.

“Um, wait,” she turned to the salesman. “I… I mean, my… We are interested in one of the TVs.” She looked at the eager high school kid and managed a wrinkled, apologetic half-smile.

“Sure…”

After the salesman finished the paperwork and scurried off to the stock room with her car keys to load her new purchase, Marv piped up again. “Good. That’s done. Now, take me over to the jewelry department.”

“What do you need there?” Dorothy wasn’t feeling combative anymore. She had resigned herself to the situation.

“I’m hoping they have diamond tennis bracelets. I want one that’s silver. I don’t need platinum, but the gold ones look tacky. But it has to have real diamonds, or it will look cheap. Cubic zirconium is not flattering. You can tell its fake in the right light.”

“Marv, why do you need a diamond tennis bracelet?”

“A broccoli likes to look nice. Is there anything wrong with that? I can’t buy rings. I can’t buy earrings. You know why, Dorothy?”

“Why?”

“Because I have no fingers or earlobes.”

Dorothy couldn’t argue with that either.

“Besides,” Marv continued, “my pink rubber band… it chaffes.”

When they came to the furniture section Dorothy was wearing the bracelet. She couldn’t figure out a way to let Marv try it on himself, especially in front of the very helpful and understanding saleswoman, but once she had it on, she found it difficult to remove. Opening the clasp and sliding the bracelet off her wrist reminded her of the credit card passing through the reader, and on some nearly-subconscious level she worried that removing it entirely would cause those glowing green numbers to flash again. She imagined another week’s pay disappearing into the digital ether, only to re-coalesce it the bottom of the box-store’s gigantic coffers. She pictured the store’s bank account. It looked like the vault Scrooge McDuck used to swim in, only it was filled with glowing green digital numbers, layered one upon the other until they formed a radioactive pile of super-heated goo. Any duck swimming in there would be cooked in seconds. That’s where all her hard work went. Best to just wear the bracelet for now. Marv didn’t seem to mind.

“I need a new coffee table,” he was saying. “Something formal enough for entertaining, but that I can put my feet on. So to speak.”

“So to speak,” Dorothy repeated.

“That’s what I said.”

“Fine.”

When the heavy box containing the new coffee table was loaded into the space beneath the cart, sticking dangerously out of the front like Wiley Coyote’s Acme-Roadrunner-Ankle-Obliterator, Dorothy wheeled towards the checkout counter at the front of the store. The TV and bracelet were paid for, but she still had to buy the coffee table, the remaining groceries, and Marv, of course. She was starting to regret choosing Marv, now that she thought about it. He was turning out to be slightly overpriced.

As they neared the electronic checkout machines, chosen so that Dorothy wouldn’t have to explain any of her eccentric purchases to anyone else, Marv called out, “Ooo. Ooo. Grab some of that beef jerky.”

“But it’s 3.49 for a little bag.”

“Do you know how hard it is to make beef jerky?” Marv asked. “It’s labor intensive.”

“What do you need beef jerky for, Marv?”

“I don’t know. Impulse buy, I guess. Never mind. Just forget it.”

Dorothy walked up to the machine and almost pushed the “Start Checkout” button on the screen, but stopped short, suddenly standing up very straight when she heard Marv say, “Man, I never get anything.”

“What?” she shouted. The three other people using the nearby machines all stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Out of her peripheral vision she saw the attendant at the end of the bank of machines lean over to look at her as well. She ignored them and shouted at her broccoli, leaning over him and pointing angrily. “Now you look here, Mister! I bought you a TV today. I bought you this bracelet. I don’t even know why. Bracelets are silly, and you’re not really going to wear it. Sure, maybe on very rare occasions, but that hardly seems worth it. I bought you a new coffee table. Yes, you. It’s not for us, Marv. I like my coffee table. It’s simple, but it has lots of shelf space underneath. I’m going to have to find new places for all those magazines, and you don’t care. You know why you don’t care, Marv? Because you’re broccoli, and you can’t read!”

The woman at the nearest checkout machine took a tentative step towards her, with one hand outstretched, either as a comfort or to ward off an attack. “Ma’am.”

Dorothy silenced her with one upraised finger. “No. I’m sorry, but he needs to hear this.” She pointed at Marv again. “You are a broccoli. I chose you. You are mine. I don’t want to be mean or anything, but you… are not… the boss... of me. I decide when we get a new TV. I decide what kind of coffee table we will have. You are the most ungrateful broccoli I have ever known.” She stopped shouting and grabbed the block of cheese out of the cart. She slammed it down on the scanner, than ran it back over more gently until the machine beeped. As she reached into the cart for the package of Pad-Thai noodles she glared at Marv in the front basket, but she refused to say anything else until she’d calmed down. She didn’t like herself when she got this way, and she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.

When the cart was empty she grabbed Marv by the neck and held him up in front of her. “I just… I just don’t know what else to say to you, right now. Just… We’ll talk later.”

“Dorothy,” Marv said. His tone was gentle, almost apologetic, but she didn’t trust him.

“What?”

“That’s life, right? We’re all bought and paid for, in a way, right? I’m not trying to start our fight all over here, but just because you own me doesn’t mean I have to treat you with respect. That hardly seems fair.”

Dorothy experienced a flash of existential insight. Her own location in the universe had become just a bit clearer. She found it uncomfortable.

Dorothy paid for her purchases, dropped the bags back into the cart, and then held up the broccoli by the stalk.

“Let’s go home, Marv. It’s just been a weird day. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“That’s okay, Dorothy. Let’s go home, watch some TV, put our feet up.”

“So to speak.”

“So to speak.”

An argument for socialized medicine

It would be both unethical and illegal for me to republish Timothy Noah's piece "Would You Privatize Defense: The case for socialized medicine, part I" here in this blog. I know this. But I'm still tempted.

Please read it, so I don't have to break the law.

I think this piece is important. It's an argument that appeals to reason rather than hyperbole. It also appeals to those who are more likely to be critical of socialized medicine, conservatives of the libertarian strain, because those same people thoroughly believe that national defense is a government obligation (in the most extreme cases, government's only obligation).

Here's why I think this piece really stands out: I can't fault the logic. Just when Noah seems like he's gone off the deep end, taking it all too far, I realize he's remained entirely consistent in his metaphor. Our national health system really is that ridiculous. Then, when it seems that this would be an opportunity for an easy partisan twist noting that Democrats are closer to recognizing this reality than Repblicans, Noah refrains. He stays true to the logic that has made the article both frightening and persuasive: It doesn't matter whose solution is slightly closer to nationalized health care, because anything less than full national health care means the candidate or party still hasn't recongized the underlying truth that protecting lives is a job for governments, not markets. Or worse, it means they know this to be true, but don't have the courage to take on the powerful forces that benefit from the lie of superior free market health care.

Maybe I'm buying the metaphor to eagerly. Maybe I'm missing something. Please, can someone explain how this logic doesn't follow? Show me how these are apples and oranges, and private health care is better than public, as opposed to private defense. Or show me that he's wrong on both fronts: that a war fought by more and more private contractors (like our current wars) are more likely to succeed than wars past, with a government led military. Good luck with that one. But seriously, show me how he's wrong.

Or, if he's not, let's work to spread this idea so that candidates with less courage (or more pragmatism, which might be the same thing) will follow in Dennis Kucinich's footsteps because it will become politically expedient.

Can we move on this quickly, please, because in less than three years I have to sit down and negotiate another contract where medical benefits are going to be the biggest issue because of our stupid system. So, someone show me how our stupid system really is the way to go, and I should be glad to be debating with management about who should eats its exponential cost increases. Or, failing that, let's do something to fix this health care cluster-f--- now.

So that's the exit strategy!

Joel and I have been speculating that the up-coming exit strategy would soon be announced, and it would read: "Blame the Iraqis"

Check out Charles Krauthammer's "Who's to Blame for the Killing?" in today's (tomorrow's, here) Washington Post.

So, Blame the Iraqis it is.

Krauthammer writes, "Iraqis were given their freedom, and yet many have chosen civil war. Among all these religious prejudices, ancient wounds, social resentments and tribal antagonisms, who gets the blame for the rivers of blood? You can always count on some to find the blame in America."

He continues, "But when Arabs kill Arabs and Shiites kill Shiites and Sunnis kill all in a spasm of violence that is blind and furious and has roots in hatreds born long before America was even a republic, to place the blame on the one player, the one country, the one military that has done more than any other to try to separate the combatants and bring conciliation is simply perverse.

"It infantilizes Arabs. It demonizes Americans. It willfully overlooks the plainest of facts: Iraq is their country. We midwifed their freedom. They chose civil war."

Seriously? Their sticking with "midwifed their freedom"? That tested well? I guess it's supposed to use the connotation of midwifery being a messy process to explain away what I see on my TV, but I'm pretty sure birthing children isn't done with bombs and guns. That's not how they did it at the hospital where my son was born, thankfully, and if that's how the administration plans on manipulating medicine, I'm glad the Dems are not warming to Bush's ideas about reforming the health care system.

Of course, Krauthammer's analysis overlooks a few things. We also dismantled Iraq's military and justice system. I think that was a bit infantilizing, too, besides being bone-headed.

And we refuse to speak to their neighbors because we don't like them. That's not infantilizing. It's just infantile.

Oh, and we've killed some hundred thousand Iraqis. I guess they were supposed to appreciate that, too.

So, we'll blame them as we go. Maybe Americans will forget it was a war of choice, and accept that the Iraqis are more responsible for the war's failure than the people who made that choice. Because all Americans are stupid and have short memories, right?

What was that about infantilizing?

On Re-reading 1984

Reading 1984 for a second time has been a very powerful experience. When I read it in high school it was a fun intellectual exercise. I was able to intellectualize the emotional power of the book, to separate myself from the story and examine the ideas from a safe distance. I have not enjoyed that luxury this time. It has been terrifying.

When I finished it for the second time, my first thought was that I had done something awful to my students. I pictured them coming back into my class, pale and wide-eyed, overcome by a new perspective on the world that soiled their innocence in some irreversible way. I had, by assigning this book, loosed the shackles and freed them from the cave, but they had not left to see the bright sun. Instead, they’d seen the evil of the chains for the first time, and no amount of human goodness or divine grace would ever erase that knowledge.

Then I shook this off. They might understand it as I had at their age, but the complete horror of it would elude them. I remember going to see Schindler’s List with a group from my high school when I was a kid. Throughout it the students had laughed. I knew they were trying to cope, but I’d despised them for it. Now I understand their youth. They were rejecting the knowledge of the horror of mankind. Bless them for that. My students will do the same. Let them have this instance of doublethink, of knowledge they forget while knowing they are consciously forgetting it until they forget even that. Let them laugh.

But I can’t bear to let them trivialize it. I imagine myself saying, “If this book didn’t affect you in a powerful way, if you didn’t recognize the awful truth of it, then there is something deeply wrong with you.” And they would nod and agree that it was both true and horrifying without the slightest inclination to change their own beliefs or actions. Their experience would be just like my first reading: an intellectual exercise divorced from the emotional experience which simultaneously included a coherent and seemingly complete comprehension of the facts of the book, and a disinclination to internalize the wrong-ness to the extent that it might motivate them to a complete understanding. And I would quickly forget my reverence for their innocence and sneer at their naïveté. Despite their agreement, I would think they were the exact kind of horrible little monsters I’d accused them of being: people who are morally culpable for their unconscious cruelty.

But I know that’s wrong. I know that is hypocritical to a degree I cannot bear. I live in a country that incarcerates people without trial, that tortures people to the point that they lose the sanity necessary to be tried for crimes they may never have committed, that attacks another country that never did it any harm for a host of stated reasons, none of which are true and none of which, even if they were true, would any sane person choose to die for. I live in a country where 76% of the populations call themselves Christians, and everyone has access to scripture, but we willingly doublethink ourselves into believing Jesus would make allowances for our militarism and wealth. I live in a country where the government can dirty the skies and call their actions the “Clean Air Act”, and cut down forests and call it the “Healthy Forrest Initiative”, where they can claim they don’t commit “affronts against human decency” and we know, to the same degree of certainty that we know that they exist at all, that they are lying, but we do nothing.

I buy my fast food. I pay my credit card bills. I pay my taxes. I go to my job and do my work, and that work compels me to read a book like 1984, which shows me, beyond any doubt, that a truly sane person would be running through the streets, screaming at the top of his lungs about the madness all around him. I don’t even see myself as cowardly or lazy or immoral. Through doublethink I forget these rational conclusions and accept the status quo with the kind of mindless, trudging will of a man lost in a desert, stumbling aimlessly towards the hope of water. And I help my students do the same, and my son after them. “Don’t laugh during Schindler’s List,” I say, “but don’t go running screaming through the streets, either. Get a job. Get a mortgage. Pay your taxes. Watch your TV and buy the crap they sell you. Be like me.”

My students’ reaction may indicate that they are deeply wrong, but not as much as their teacher. They still may end up crying foul, saying no, running screaming through the streets some day. But me? Well, I guess I love Big Brother just a little too much.

War is Peace.

Freedom is Slavery.

Ignorance is Strength.

2 + 2 = 5

My letter to Santa

Some clever satirist in the town of Hazleton, PA has posted a great site in response to the city’s Illegal Immigrant Relief Act. It poses as a site for the city government, and makes it very clear that Santa, as a foreigner, is not welcome in Hazelton. Check it out:

http://nosantaforhazleton.com/index.html

One part of the site allows people to send letters to Santa. I wrote him a letter. I feel badly that I had to sign it "Sarcastically", because that should be obvious, but I would hate for someone to think I was serious. Here’s my letter:

Dear Santa,

I am so glad the city of Hazleton is standing up to you. I wish my hometown were just as xenophobic and backwards. Instead, we welcome the foreign born because of the silly notion that we are descended from foreigners ourselves. As though Christmas is the time of year to do unto others as we would have them do unto us. How un-American. Because of your magic powers (certainly un-Christian ones, I might add) you are able to do work that would take many Americans years to accomplish. You have taken away so many potential jobs. I know that many people think that foreigners like yourself take away only the jobs that Americans don't want, or can't do as well, but let's face it: it's not like you're breaking your back picking strawberries so your children can eat and get an education. You're just giving away gifts, and foreign-made ones at that! What's with the outsourcing to elves just because they're cheap labor? You should be ashamed of yourself. Thank you, Hazleton, for saying a resounding "No!" to Santa Claus and all other foreigners.

Sarcastically,

Ben Gorman

ESL teacher from Independence, OR

Airhead Outed

In one of my afternoon classes yesterday, a student who has established a solid reputation for being painfully gullible made a public confession. She told the whole class that, earlier in the day, she'd asked a classmate why a particular part of her head (pointing to her temples) felt softer than the rest. He'd explained that just inside that area, between her temples, the head is actually filled with air. She accepted this and was not tipped off by the fact that people kept asking her to explain her new theory throughout the rest of the morning.

Here's my favorite part: When this student shared this with the class another student, sitting in the front row, mumbled under his breath, "There's No Child Left Behind at its best."

Republicans offer "Whites Only" Scholarship

Wow. A group of Young Republicans at Boston University is offering a scholarship to white students. (link) They say they are doing it to encourage people to recognize the racism of race-based scholarships. Apparently there has been some terrible reverse racism going on at BU, because the school now boasts a whopping... (wait for it) 2.6% black population. Oh, how the poor whites are suffering.

I understand these Young Republicans are trying to raise awareness of this grave injustice, and I completely affirm their right to give their money away as they see fit. However, it must be said that a scholarship of this kind, no matter how small (it's $250) sends a larger message than merely promoting awareness. When a school's Black Student Union offers such a scholarship they are not only making a statement about an historic injustice. They are also saying that they would like to see a higher percentage of black students on their college campus. When Republicans offer a "Whites Only" version they are saying... oh, yeah. They're Republicans. They're probably saying something remarkably similar.

Now I know that Republicans want everyone to believe that they have a very large tent. I think this scholarship sheds some light on why they need more space. They have to be able to clearly demarcate the "Whites Only" and "Colored" sections.

These Young Republicans have cleverly designed the scholarship so that anyone who is at least one quarter white can apply. If they really want to show that they are offended by race-based scholarships but are also committed to diversity, they'll end up giving the money to a student who is ONLY one quarter white. But somehow I have a sinking suspicion that the 250 bucks will end up in the pocket of the Armani slacks of a blond, blue-eyed, Ann-Coulter-loving, white guy wearing a bow tie.

To be clear, I am NOT saying all Republicans are racist. I'm not even saying these guys are racists. But I want everyone to think about this: After Michael "Kramer" Richards launched into his N-word filled rant he went on The Letterman Show to say he was not a racist, and I don't buy that for an instant. However, he did not stoop so low as to give out a "Whites Only" college scholarship, now did he?

Michigan vs. Ohio State

Since this is a site devoted to pontificating on subjects where we are not, um, recognized experts, I think it's entirely fitting for me to talk about sports. As someone who is entirely objective (I've only been a Michigan fan for the last 30years) I think I should weigh in on Saturday's game.

Here's what's going to happen. It will be a tough, Rumsfeldian slog, but just when it seems that the game will go on for another three to thirty years without any possible satisfactory outcome Michigan will score a touchdown putting them one point behind Ohio State with seconds left. Because they are always too conservative in the fourth quarter they will only go for one, hoping to tie and win in overtime. Ohio State will block the kick, but Michigan will recover and convert for two. It will be an epic victory.

After the Michigan win, because it is so close, the BCS computers will determine that Ohio State is the best one-loss team (and still better than the undefeated Boise State), and Michigan will play Ohio State for a second time in a single season in the BCS Bowl. Facing a demoralized Ohio State they will rack up the single largest victory margin in the history of college football, winning with a final score of 238 -7 (better than Georgia Tech's unbelievable 222 - 0 victory over Cumberland in 1916). Not only will the victory be staggering in itself, but the fact that they beat Ohio State twice in a single season will be so unlikely to ever occur again that Ohio State will definitively concede the rivalry forever. Tragically, the suicide rate in Columbus will sky-rocket.

And then...

On the very day that George Bush is impeached Dick Cheney will not only suffer a fatal heart attack when he hears the news, but he will also be struck by lightening and fall into a gaping sink-hole leading all the way down to the slobbering mouth of Satan himself. This will make Nancy Pelosi the President of the United States. To disprove doubters who remember her bone-head move of supporting John Murtha she will choose Barack Obama for her VP, and when he is approved by the Senate, as she listens to the thunderous applause in the Senate chambers she will be so overcome with ecstasy that her normally freakish smile will tear her head in half, killing her in her moment of triumph. Barack Obama will then be President for the next nine years (maybe more if he does such a good job that a Constitutional Amendment allows him to continue).

But don't worry, Bill. Florida will defeat Notre Dame or USC handily in some second-tier bowl.

And Joel, Georgia will... sorry. I got nothin'. I'm trying to be realistic here.

It was inevitable

I started a blog. Add it to your favorites and check in on me every now and then. Rest assured that I would rather be talking to the nothingness of the internets than doing my homework...
http://playiswork.blogspot.com/

Should I root for the Knicks?

Okay, stop laughing. Seriously. I've actually wondered about this.

Here's the thing: Did you see the Boston Red Sox fans when the Sox won the World Series? Did you see that kind of uninhibited joy? And did you hear what many of them said? They claimed that it was all worth it for that moment; all the suffering and agonizing for, in many cases, a lifetime were suddenly worth it. Assuming these people are not lieing, imagine you could pick a team that looks like they are beginning a long stretch of misery and then root for them until they right the ship. You'd get o have that moment. Doesn't this plan seem to make sense?

The Knicks are a team that looks to be starting such a stretch. Their players are old and highly overpaid, but the city refuses to enter a period of rebuilding so they keep paying out the nose for a team that is perpetually advertised as being better next year. Of course, it isn't. It just gets worse. Also, they went out and got a coach, Larry Brown, with a reputation for two things. He turns teams around, and he leaves dramatically and creates bitterness. NY made a bet that he'd do the former, and got only the latter. Then, to add insult to injury, they promote a guy who is developing a reputation for incompetence that's quickly dwarfing how impressive he was as a player. I was an Isaiah Thomas fan once upon a time. My folks raved about seeing him play for Indiana gainst the Fighting Illini, and I loved watching him play with the Pistons. Since then I've enjoyed him for the exact opposite reasons. As a player he was smart and effective. In management he's been stupid and worse than worthless. The worst guy in your fanatasy league could run a team more effectively. I've enjoyed reading all the one-liners about his bone-head moves, and I've made a handful myself. Now he's the coach. How could this possibly end well?

So here's my prediction: the Knicks won't get better. They may win a few more than last season, but not enough to satisfy New Yorkers. So they'll fire Thomas and keep the expensive, over-rated players. They'll bank on a coach turning the team around. That poor sap will fail, and they'll do it again. Maybe the team will eventually go through an active rebuilding preiod, but it will probably come about slowly, through attrition, and bad trades will make that process even longer. A rookie who could have real potential won't develop in a New York minute and they'll trade him for another old, overpaid guy. You'd think this would go one forever, but it won't. New York will overcome its imatience with it's greatest asset: Money. They'll finally get sick of losing teams a buy themselves a good one. Let's call it the Steinbrenner Solution. And it will work, and long suffering fans will get their championship. They'll say it was worth it all along. Shouldn't I consider taking part in that?

I'm half-tempted. Stephon Marbury helps, not because I think he's a great player, but because I appreciate his latest off-court move. Providing low cost sneakers is actually a big deal. I know the whole shoe-worshiping culture is silly, but kids really do kill each other for shoes. On a less dramatic scale many poor kids face mockery becase they can't drop two-hundred bucks on shoes they'll outgrow in a year. Cheaps kicks with street cred really are socially important, and I appreciate the fact that Marbury gets that.

But it not enough. Maybe I've already made too many cracks about Thomas' player moves to start rooting for him now. Maybe the sexual harassment suit against him has soured me further; a bumbling idiot can be lovable, but a fool who's a lech just isn't. Maybe it's the fact that too many of the over-paid, over-rated old guys still have egos that dwarf the number of wins they can actually pull off.

No, when it comes down to it, I'm just too much of a fair-whether fan to root for a team like New York. I'd root for 'em for a while, and then, the season before they get it together, I'd jump ship.
Instead, I'll stick with the only team that had a worse record than the Knicks last year. That'd be our local boys, the Portland Trailblazers. They offer the same alluring promise of a long spell without a championship, but they're even better. Why? Because, lacking the means to a Steinbrenner Solution, it's entirely possible that they will never win a championship for the rest of my life.

If they do, you can guess what I'll say. "It's all been worth it."

Yeah, right.

Reframing the Immigration Debate

I just watched an interview with Pat Buchanan on The Daily Show. First of all, kudos to Job Stewart for having Buchanan on and listening to him spew bile through his smiling face. I would have thrown up in the guy's lap, assuming I could hold onto my pacifist ideals strongly enough to refrain from pimp-slapping the man. Stewart kindly allowed the guy to wax conspiratorial about the Mexican government's nefarious plan to invade and conquer the U.S. with an army of peasant day-laborers. Buchanan even went so far as to make a joke about the holocaust of Native Americans. Ha ha, Pat. That’s funny stuff.

I’ve been working with students learning English as a second language for six years now. Most of these students are from Mexico, and some are undocumented. They are also some of the most wonderful young people I’ve ever had the honor to teach. Hence, I get more than a little riled up when I hear Americans reveling in their xenophobia. Buchanan is so ridiculous that I was able to step back from my simmering rage and think about his plan a bit more objectively. I couldn’t help but think of the fact that many red states are decreasing in population because their white kids are leaving to move to blue ones. Without the influx of immigrants this would be even more apparent. This led to an idea:

What if all disbursal of federal funds, every last penny, was doled out to states and the amounts were directly proportional to population? I think this would immediately change the immigration debate. States wishing to expel immigrants might suddenly turn around and start arguing for amnesty. If Mexican immigrants could be counted for money, they would be far more desirable. How long do you want to bet it would take before some Republicans would start calling a given Mexican immigrant 3/5ths of a person?

This dispersal would have other benefits. No more earmarking millions of dollars for bridges to nowhere in Alaska; they’d need every penny they’d get to keep the government afloat. And think about the benefit to the conflict in Iraq. The Army would only get funding proportional to the amount of American troops on the ground in Iraq at a given time. I think we’d hear the Army calling for more boots on the ground very quickly when their funding depended on it. Or maybe they’d be calling for an immediate withdrawal to places like Washington State and Colorado in order to shore up funds in places where their precious weapons systems are being built.

And what would states spend that money on? I think far more of it would go to services for citizens. Blue states might be criticized for their higher rates of taxation and their plethora of government services, but people keep moving to them because… let’s face it… they’re better places to live. Imagine every state working hard to make itself a more inviting place for all, rather than a state that serves only the wealthiest few. Doesn’t that sound nice? Welcome to Oregon.

Is this even possible? Sure. The house of representatives is already proportional to population, so if the reps of the big states wanted this, it would fly there. Those Senators who wanted to publicly claim that the citizens of Wyoming not only deserve a more significant share of the electoral vote than Californians, but more federal tax dollars could certainly say so, but I don’t think it would be politically expedient if any of them had national ambitions. Would the president veto it? Our current president is from a big state and only uses the veto to carry out his crusade against science, so he might be amenable. Does it take away Congress’ power of the purse? Yes, but then this Congress has decided it has the right to cede certain constitutional powers, like its ability to declare war, to other branches. Couldn’t they give up the right to earmark for the sake of the people?

But it won’t happen. Why? Powers acquired are rarely given up, and neither this Congress nor any other would give up its ability to bring home the bacon. Also, immigration is a great wedge issue to tap into without ever really doing anything substantive; fear gets people to the polls even more effectively than moral outrage. The real answer to illegal immigration is so patently obvious that any child could figure it out, but that’s not really what these folks want, anyway. They could support measures to improve the standard of living in Mexico while cracking down on employers here. If the better jobs are in Mexico, the laborers won’t come. Poof. Problem solved. But how do you stir up people’s fears by calmly solving problems?

They want fear. So I propose a simple challenge. No immigrants = no money. That will scare them. The fact that the xenophobes can’t conceive of their immigrant neighbors as human beings without a financial incentive is telling, though, isn’t it?

Thanks, Mom.

In my last post I shared an anxiety about my failing memory, and compared the dilemma of try to remember what is forgotten to proving a negative, like showing that one des not have WMD. My mom read the post (yea for moms!) and posted a comment... in my e-mail inbox. Mom is quite adept at e-mail, but apparently not so clear on the workings of blogs. Or maybe she was just protecting me from humiliation. Again, not so clear on the concept of blogs. These were practically designed to allow people to embarrass themselves, as far as I can tell.

In that vein, here was Mom's comment:
"Not being able to remember is not a sign of greatness or meanness or anything as eriudite [sic] as being in the same company as a head of state - it's age, Ben. You are now feeling the effects of fast approaching the age of 30! It's downhill all the way, baby! Welcome to the real world."

Yes, it's true. I am old. The last post centered around the beginning of the school year, and if having my mother call me old weren't enough to drive the point home the arrival of high school students LESS THAN HALF MY AGE certainly did the trick. More and more, pop culture references in my class are preambled with "This was probably before your time..." and produce a strained silence that shows I should have stopped there. I've often said that for my students anyone over the age of 21 is basically dead. For me, anyone over the age of 30 is essentially old. I am fast approaching that category myself, as Mom pointed out. Thanks, Mom.

When I was in college more than one person joked that I wouldn't live to see thirty. This was a consequence of my diet and sleep habits, which have only marginally imporved despite my wife's best efforts to force healthy food into me and tell me I'm an idiot when I come to bed as the sun comes up. Oh, and there's also my complete lack of muscle. I used to get exercise by playing video games, but we got rid of the game console and now even my thumbs are showing signs of atrophy. Back in college I probably weighed about 140 pounds. I thought of myself as "scrawny". When I wanted to flatter myself, I thought of this as "scrappy". Now I weigh 138 pounds. Apparently I was sporting a couple pounds of hair back then.

More than once since losing my hair I've been told I look like a cancer patient. I shave the remaining hair off. I like the cue-ball look, though I do miss my long hair when I hear a song that calls for head-banging. But a note to those who think I look like a cancer patient: Wrong! I look like a cancer patient with remarkably tenacious eyebrows. So there.

My declining memory hasn't been the most telling sign of my age. I have always wished I had a better memory. Or, at least, I think I've thought that before. To the best of my recollection.

My consummate un-hip-ness isn't even the best sign of my aging. I have never been in the least bit cool. When someone makes a clever movie reference I'm the one who waits for everyone to stop laughing and then says, "What's that from?" This is a guaranteed mood killer, as no explanation is ever as funny as the joke. If only I could remember this!

No, the best sign of my age is the growing detachment with which I observe the world around me, especially the world of high school politics. I always found them shallow, even in high school when I also considered them important, but I also detested the adults who seemed the respond to everything with an air of jaded experience that I couldn't compete with. I've made a point to refrain from responding to student concerns with sayings like, "You'll understand when you're older," or "This won't matter so much in ten years." When I started teaching I didn't say these things because I didn't like the people who said them to me. Now I don't say these things because I don't enjoy the fact that I am a person who thinks them.

When I was young I thought that experience was a highly overrated teacher. I still think so, but for different reasons. Back then it just seemed unfair to appeal to the authority of experience when someone else lacked the luxury of doing the same. Telling someone they'll understand later is just wrong. If experience is germane to any conversation, it is the obligation of the experienced party to explain the lesson of said experience. If they cannot convey the message to a younger person, the lesson really hasn't been learned. All those people who told me I'd understand later really should have tried to make me understand at the time. I would have been better off. If experience is a means to avoid inter-generational communication, what good is it?

Now I look at experience differently, though still distastefully. I see what I could do when I was young, what I was capable of and accomplished and what I failed to accomplish, and recognize that most of my vaulted experience is composed of lessons I could not learn now. Someone once said, "Time is a great teacher. Unfortunately, it kills all its pupils." I am now realizing that experience is not only the measure of what I've learned, but also the measure of what I cannot learn again. Unlike book knowledge these learning experiences are, by definition, things of the past. They are nostalgia, not authority. Certainly I have a lot more to learn, and a lot more to learn experientially (read: The Hard Way), but as soon as those lessons are filed away the experiences are gone, too. I cannot learn to tie my shoes again. I cannot learn how wonderful it feels to immerse myself in my first great book. I cannot learn what heartbreak feels like for the first time. My experience only allows me to begrudge my students one thing; I wish they were more grateful for the experiences they are having right now.

I finally am grateful. I can't learn to tie my shoes again, but I can watch my son learn, and I think that's pretty wonderful. I can't read my first great book, but I can keep looking for better ones, and maybe even someday write a halfway decent one (mine are terrible). I cannot re-experience the first time I prayed and didn't feel like I was talking to myself, but I can continue to be amazed by new examples of the other-ness of God. I cannot forget that first heartbreak, but I can keep learning that a heart can get more full as I love my wife and son more and more each passing day. I can barely remember the casual amusement I felt the first time I considered the possibility that I was living through the downfall of Western Civilization, but I can continue to be surprised by the growing dread I feel every time I see that opinion reinforced, now that I have a son who will face the consequences.

So I'm getting simultaneously more grateful and more cynical, happier and more crochety, more filled with both hope and despair. I guess that's what getting old is all about.

I still think the "real world" is highly overrated, and is due for an overhaul. I hope I never give up on my belief that "ought" is more important than "is". I hope I die first.

But I hope I don't die before I'm 30. Downhill, here I come.

Remembering What I Forgot

Students aren't the only ones anxious about the start of a new school year. My students will be arriving in my classroom in less than two days, and I can't fall asleep because I'm so anxious. I need to sleep in order to reorient my schedule to the early waking and sleeping required by the school day, but here I am, after midnight, waltzing aimlessly around the internet looking for something interesting to read because I know I can't accomplish the one thing that will help me sleep; I can't remember what I've forgotten to do.

Not that I have any sympathy for Saddam Hussein, but I think I'm starting to understand what it must have felt like for him during the run up to war in early 2003. Imagine the quandary he was in: He had to prove he didn't have weapons of mass destruction within his country while not giving up sovereignty. Weapons inspectors were on the ground but couldn't satisfy the Bush administration, largely because he'd prevented inspectors from having unlimited access in the past. At that point, suddenly giving them unlimited access wouldn't have satisfied anybody. It would have made him seem very weak and frightened, a position that would have lost him more of the country he already wasn't in full control over. Plus, the illusion of WMD was a deterrent to foreign rivals, and he may have even though it would dissuade the U.S. from attacking. Ultimately, he would have had to give up his position in order to maintain his position, and all because he couldn't prove a negative. No wonder he looked so awful when the finally found him. He probably hadn't slept well until he was in that hole in the ground, and when you have to bury yourself to get some peace you're in pretty bad shape.

I am not going to lose my position as despot of a middle-eastern country if I can't remember what I forgotten. I won't even lose my job. In all likelihood whatever I've forgotten will require a few more hours after school than I had planned on spending, and the crisis won't even appear for a few weeks. Unless, of course, I've forgotten something major. Which I may have. I can't be sure.

Maybe I haven't forgotten anything at all. All I have is a feeling, that feeling one has before locking the front door on the way out when leaving for a vacation; what am I forgetting? Maybe nothing, but in my experience it's always something that seems small but is a day-to-day necessity, like deodorant or socks, and I have to buy more when I arrive at my destination. But you can't buy personalized lesson plans at a 7-11 or Fred Meyer's.

I have racked my brains trying to discover what is not there. I've gone to my classroom, thinking maybe the setting would shake something loose. I've gone through my lessons plans, my syllabi, the loose papers piled on my desk. I've stared at the ceiling. I've tried to distract myself. Nothing works. Whatever "it" is, it isn't there.

I guess it all comes down to trust. No one would have trusted Saddam even if he had sworn he didn't have any WMD. I'd like to think I'm a bit more trustworthy. I've never gassed a bunch of people or shaken hands with Donald Rumsfeld, two pretty reliable signs that one is up to no good. So why can't I trust myself?

Are there any out-of-work U.N. weapons inspectors out there who could try to figure out what I have left to do before school starts? I promise I won't ignore your findings.

Lauren's Question for Educators

I know my posts have been too long to read, so I'll try to keep this brief, but I think this is worth discussing; as a comment (and probably not one looking for a lot of serious deliberation), Lauren asked, "Is it wrong that I have totally different standards for myself and my friends than I do for students?" Though I'm sure Lauren's standards for her own behavior and that of her students aren't nearly as disparate as she says, I think the question is a very important one, and I would love to hear how all of you (both friends and random readers) address this question.

Allow me to take the first whack at it: I think it's an issue tha has to be measured by two factors: what is role-modeling, and what is developmentally appropriate. First, the biggies: sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. When it comes to sex, I think my student should wait. This isn't a religious conviction, because I don't expect students who do not share my faith to feel compelled to base decisions on my religious views anyway. I just think fifteen and sixteen year olds would be better off waiting. And it's not just an issue of pregnancy or disease (though those are huge concerns because kids are far more likely to be unsafe about their sexual practices). I don't think they are emtionally ready to inject the power of sex (pardon the pun) into their fragile relationships. Also, I know that, for my students, relationships last weeks or months at most, and serial monogomy and sex don't mix well on any level. I don't think educators should have to hold themselves to this standard. We're all married or in serious, responsible adult relationships, so staying celibate in the name of role-modeling would be silly and unfair to our spouses/significant others. I think our obligation is to model decorum; we shouldn't talk about our sex lives with our students.

As to drugs, I think it's similarly important that we not talk about any illegal drug experimentation in our youth. While I don't think educators should be using illegal drugs while in the proffession, we also shouldn't get sucked into conversations about our childhood use because if we say we didn't use we put fellow educators on the spot, and if we say we did we provide kids with an excuse. Refusing to answer the question may make some kid assume you were a junkie, but it's better than giving a kid a reason to challenge another educator and make them a liar.

Regarding rock'n'roll, and all art, I'm very open about my tastes. I think this humanizes me and, if I've shown myself to be a role model in other ways, opens kids' eyes to the fact that responsible people can appreciate all kinds of art, music, films, entertainment that they may think of as taboo. Do I admit to reading Harry Potter? Absolutely. (When a student confides a frustration with those who think those books ar evil, I share my opinion that a person whose faith is threatened by a children's book doesn't have a literary problem but a weak faith, but I am very careful who I share that with). Do I admit that I love The Daily Show and The Colbert Report? Definately. If students want to make judgements about my politics as a consequence they can, but I haven't tried to inculcate any political beliefs by sharing a personal taste.

One last more frivolous example; I don't allow my students to eat or drink in my classroom. It's against the school rules. I do eat in class, though. I am unapologetic about this seeming hypocrisy, and I freely explain it to my students. I tell them from the first day that I have graduated from high school and continued with my education, and that earns me privalidges in the real world. I encourage them to come back to visit me when they are enrolled in some form of higher education and eat and drink in front of some future group of high school freshmen, to show them that privilidges are earned. Some of my students have promised to do so, and seem very excited about the prospect. Whether or not they remember in four years is irrelevant. Is this self-serving? Yep. But it's also a valuable lesson. I benefit from other valable lessons I teach with a monthly paycheck, and I don't hear anyone complaining that this makes my advocacy of learning for its own sake hypocritical.

Ultimately, I think it's good to hold adults, especially educators, to a different standard than kids. We are different, and expecting us to behave like kids is just as unfair as expecting them to behave like adults. But we, like Lauren, should have a standard, and it should be carefully considered and intentional. What do you folks think?

A Scary New Racism Revival?

Racism is ever-present in American culture. An argument can be made that it was overtly racist action that laid the foundation for this country (the genocide of Native Americans and enslavement of Africans). But racism does have its ebb and flow. I am worried that we are seeing a racism renaissance.

First, there is Juan William's new book: "Enough". In the vein of Bill Cosby, Williams sets out to hold the African-American community's feet to the fire for the behavior he sees through the myopic lens of hip-hop culture. I don't, for a minute, mean to imply that Juan Williams is a racist. However, like Cosby's rants, his argument has given fuel to genuine racists who can now use his skin color to deflect attacks. This worries me.

Then there's the Survivor stunt of dividing the tribes up by ethnicity. It has already had the desired effect of generating publicity for a show that was quickly becoming a known quantity, but I can't see how it will end well. Do the higher ratings and increased ad sales possibly outweigh the social consequences of racists using the outcome, whatever it may be, to make generalizations about millions of people based on small groups of game show contestants? This also worries me.

And now there's Pat Buchanan, apparently concerned that he was slipping towards respectability with his criticisms of the Bush administration’s gaffes, framing the immigration debate as a war against white America and demanding a locked up southern border to protect civilization from those he deems genetically inferior. Like the Survivor stunt this will get him lots of publicity and sell lots of copies of his new book, "State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America". And, to a lesser degree than Williams, this will provide a type of intellectual cover for other racists, not because Buchanan is considered an intellectual powerhouse, but because he carries a certain amount of political cache; "Former Presidential Candidate" is similar to "Oscar Nominee" in that people assume you were a serious contender, but unlike nominee, any yahoo can lose a presidential race. (Then again, like Oscar nominees, yahoos win the presidency sometimes.) The fact that this man could have been president (in an alternate reality filled with senile Floridians filling out butterfly ballots in every state) will allow racists to present his ideas as far more mainstream and politically relevant that Buchanan could ever hope to be in the real world. This, too, worries me.

To offset this rise of racism in the press, there's only Gunter Glass' revelation that he was an SS officer and the completely appropriate public scorn he's facing for advocating truth-telling throughout his post-war literary career only to reveal the depths of his hypocrisy as his sales flag. In sum, racism is a charge that is destroying one somewhat obscure German former literary phenom while it simultaneously propels a game show into the limelight and becomes increasingly acceptable to discuss as a tenable philosophy in the twenty-four hour news cycle. Is anybody else worried about this?

Fair disclosure: Just as Williams is viewing African American culture through glimpses of his sons' MTV viewing, I am speaking out of ignorance as well. I haven't read his book, or Buchanan's, or anything by Glass. I also don't watch Survivor (I kicked the habit after the first season, fell off the wagon for a half a season a few years back, and have managed to live Survivor free since) an I won't be sucked in by some transparent race-baiting ploy. But I do read the news, and occasionally watch its retarded step-siblin on TV, and I can't help but feel that something is changing. I read recently that the Republican attempt to link Iraq to the War on Terror has been successful to their detriment; as that fiasco spirals out of control, people are becoming less and less confident in Republican's ability to deal with any aspect of the War on Terror as a whole. This hasn't translated into confidence in the Dems, though. I wonder if what we are seeing is the outgrowth of a fear of an invisible an unpredictable enemy: hating Osama isn't comforting, so we're looking for scapegoats, and racism just comes naturally to far too many people (Zach's coworkers, for example).

My impression is that William's contribution is probably the most dangerous of all. When the movie Barbershop came out it managed to avoid being a shallow but amusing slice of life movie and take on a political significance by depicting African American characters criticizing African American society in the privacy of a barbershop, one a huge screen in front of an audience of largely white viewers! I read reactions from African American commentators that ranged from gratitude to angst to outright fury. Though some were pleased that this phenomenon of hidden cultural criticism was coming out of the closet, many recognized that there was a good reason it was there in the first place: it can easily be turned into a weapon to use again African Americans by white racists. Williams must have been cognizant of this fact in that he argued (in an interview, and possibly in the book) that Dave Chapel quit his show out of a crisis of conscience over this very issue. We've recently acquired Cable, and after seeing a few episodes of The Chapell Show I think there might be something to this theory (only reinforced by "The Lost Episodes" airing recently). The show gained notoriety for satirizing African American culture and stereotypes of African Americans (and anyone else who caught Chapell's attention), but (speaking as someone who has frequently come into confrontation with a couple of racist brothers-in-law) I know that there are white racists who can't tell the difference and love to watch this kind of satire to reinforce their views that all African Americans are x or y. According to Williams, Chapell started to feel laughed at rather than laughed with, and called it quits. If this is the case, good for him. The show was funny, but it's not worth it. But if Williams recognized this about Chapell's humor, surely he saw that his analysis could be similarly misused, right? The man is only half a fool, after all (he works for PBS, but also for FOX News). Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I assume it was a calculated move; he decided that he could benefit the African American community, and the country as a whole, more with his insights than America and Black America would be damaged by their misuse at the hands of racists. If that's the case, I think he's just wrong. His criticisms, to me, sound less like informed concern and more like the grumbling of an out-of-touch old curmudgeon. When Al Franken tried to ask him which specific rappers he was criticizing for infecting African American youth with negative messages, the only one he could name was... wait for it... Eminem. Al Franken (apparently more of an expert on Hip Hop than Juan Williams) had to remind him about Kanye West, but Williams cited him when prompted, as though Kanye fits the thug model just as much as Eminem or 50 cent. Williams sounded like Stephen Colbert criticizing rap recently as being all about cop killin', big buts, and smackin' 'dem hoes while the crawl next to him admitted he hasn't listened to rap since '92. Certainly there are criticisms one can make about elements and sub-groups within contemporary African American culture, but if Williams made a calculated decision to step outside the barbershop, he has an obligation to at least be informed. At my high school we would have dismissed his argument as "ig'nant".

Buchanan's ranting are less worrisome to me because they will only marginalize him further, in the long run. He can't even claim it was a slip of the tongue, because he made the comments in print. And this isn’t mildly racist stuff, folks. This is revamped and re-targeted "Systematic Anti-Semitism". Who said, “The civilization that we as whites created in Europe and America could not have developed apart from the genetic endowments of the creating people, nor is there any reason to believe that the civilization can be successfully transmitted by a different people.” Not Hitler. Pat Buchanan. Read it again. Shiver. It's scary stuff. I am not going to worry too much about this, unless it starts to catch on. Sure, a review in the Washington Times ends, "I am convinced a large majority of Americans agree. This book -- 'State of Emergency' -- will give its readers both the facts and the backbone to powerfully make that case," but that's the Washington Times. This is the same publication that frequently depicts anti-war sentiment as fringe left despite the fact that a full 60% of the population inhabits that fringe. With such a skewed feel for the pulse of America I will wait and make my own judgments about what a "large majority" of Americans think of European American's "genetic endowments". From what I hear, we crackers have somewhat small endowments, but I'm not going to write a bunch of hate filled invective or start building any GIANT walls to compensate for my shortcomings.

As to the Survivor stunt, it may have disastrous consequences, but I am willing to wager that they will be so minimal that they will be balanced out by this marvelous response by the Washington Post's Eugene Robinson:

"I think the contestants in "Race War Survivor" should expose this travesty for what it is by intentionally conforming to all the racial stereotypes they can think of -- but another group's stereotypes. The Latinos should act uptight, immediately build themselves a golf course and declare themselves the winners before the competition begins. The Asians should eat nothing but fried chicken (or fried lizard), spend most of their time dancing and jiving, and find a way to steal the immunity idol. The whites should all live in one tent and speak only in Spanish, and whenever host Jeff Probst drops by to announce the next challenge, a couple of them should hide behind the nearest palm tree in mock fear of deportation. The African Americans should form a high-tech company and demand a car to drive incompetently."

As long as I can read Mr. Robinson a couple times a week and only hear about Buchanan, Williams, and race war game shows every few years, I think we'll be okay.

But I'm going to keep my eyes open.

Why are the temps all so racist? Part 2

Before I begin with tales of MyRC 2, it has been brought to my attention by Lauren that I did not give a proper background to my post yesterday. See, the specific thing that MyRC 1 said yesterday, in many contexts, wouldn't necessarily be racist. However, if such a thing was said to antagonize another co-worker, knowing full well that the intended result would be achieved, it dances a little closer to racism.

For several days, the topic of the Israel-Hezbollah conflict had been vollied back and forth in the room. My Jewish co-worker has displayed an unbending and some might say militant support for everything that Israel has done, to the point of not being able to listen to any amount of criticism. Without getting into her specific viewpoints, suffice it to say that she's acutely sensitive to comments regarding those of Jewish background, whether politically or religiously. In that context, and in combination with the dismissive tone used in delivering the comment, MyRC's description of the shop-owners as "gruff Israelites" really did smack of being a racist comment. I could be wrong. Feel free to correct me.

So MyRC #1. Also known from my Myspace Blog as RIF. RIF is short for Racist Ignorant Fuck. As in "Why Zach. What did you call this guy over and over again, in a virulant ranting manner, while in a conference room in a large, respectable law firm, stopping only because the phone rang and it was likely to be your supervisor?" "Well, to be completely honest, I don't remember all the things I said, such was my fury. But i definitely did call him Racist Ignorant Fuck."

RIF was a late 20's early 30's ex-patent lawyer who graduated from Fordham Law here in NYC. He "practiced" as a patent attorney for a few years here in teh city before he was let go (they told him because there wasn't enough work, but I suspect otherwise). So he decided to travel the world. When I met him, he was stateside earning some money so he could move to Russia this fall. Actually, he was too thrifty/cheap to live in the city or sublet a place, and couldn't be bothered to commute from his parents house in New Haven CT during the week. Thus, he lived in various backpacker hostels from monday through thursday, sharing rooms and scoping out the hot 18 year olds.

Now, you'd think that someone who is dedicated to exploring the world and experiencing other cultures is a relatively curious and open-minded person. you'd be totally wrong in MyRC/RIF's case. Here are some of the highlights of his various viewpoints:

• There was the theory there should be no welfare. All people should be forced to work for their money. They should be paid by the government at a rate below the minimum wage. They should also have a curfew, and if you weren't outside this class of people, you had to be indoors by 10. Now, when he talks about this, he's talking about people "out in the ghetto" who are mooching off society, living it up with their cable tv and easy lives. In short, the poor mostly minority groups who live there, largely of African or Caribbean roots. Granted, i haven't spent much time in the real ghettos in the NYC area, but one trip on the train through areas like East New York and Flatbush and you'll see that people aren't living it up...
• Americans are inherently more valuable as human beings than, say, Iraqis. Not combatants or those attacking us, mind you. Just in general.
• His solution to the insurgency in Iraq - go to an area, get any 50 people whether they're involved at all or not, and kill them. Scare all those people.
• If their fellow man is in dire trouble and in need of help, all Indians (sub-continental asian, not native american) will crawl right over the top of their fellow man in pursuit of a few dollars, as they are all greedy filthy creatures.
• He was really excited about hanging out with these 3 british guys in the youth hostel. "They hated Arabs too, so that was cool".
• He can't figure out why white supremacists are always painted in such a negative light in the media/movies/tv

There are some other things worth mentioning about this guy, such as his desire to lower the age of consent to like 14 or 16 at the oldest, his delightful views on marriage and other relationshippy things, his unbelievable misogyny, and just his general utter stupidity. But really, the point here, and I don't know how well I've been able to communicate this a few months after the fact, is the overt racism.

The common thing about both MyRCs is that they say things that are by definition racist and have no conception that what they are saying is racist. They would or did deny that they were racist and don't see anything objectionable in what they are saying. But if you stop and think about the statements for half a second, you'd see that they are reducing an entire race of people to a specific belittling comment.

My issue with all of this is how does one deal with it. Do you call them on it and try to show them the error of your ways? Do you ignore it or turn up your ipod and pretend you didn't hear it? Do you agree to disagree?

Well, i suppose i should get back to "working". Feel free to show me the light in how to deal with MyRCs in general.

zaaq

Why are the temps all so racist? Part 1.

For those of you not familiar with what I'm doing for money while out here in NYC, I'm working as a contract attorney. While lauren tries to encourage me not to sell my self short and be more positive about what I do, I'm nothing more than a glorified temp. I work on short term contracts with other utterly replaceable attorneys doing chimp work for more money than anyone should be paid for this soulless work (though, maybe we get paid well specifically because it's soulless... another topic for another day).

Perhaps because they couldn't hack it in the world of permanent jobs, or perhaps by some other force, the people who temp are a curious lot. Much more could be said about them than what I will share today - yet another topic for another day.

Today, I shall begin to discuss My Racist Coworkers. MyRC #1, with whom I am currently working, is a difficult breed of racist. You see, whether justified or not, it is difficult for me, as WASPy as they come, to call any one of minority status a racist. Which obviously is not true - people of all races and creeds can be racist. However, when one speaks in very broad generalizations about a race, and frequently in negative tones and connotations, one can begin to identify that person as racist.

Example one: Today, MyRC had some snippy phone conversations with the store owners of a place he needed to stop off at on the way home from work. Later in the day, he was talking about these shop owners, and referred to them as "Gruff Israelis". Inevitably, the one Jewish woman in the room (not shy about her opinions, which frequently are a little over the top... though i side with her on this one) gets upset about this comment. Here's my conversation today with lauren (playact) about this:

playact: i don't understand people who antagonize people and don't care. maybe i'm a pushover, but i think its nice to be somewhat respectful every now and then

me: yeah... i mean, maybe he really is so clueless that he didn't realize that saying that would be at least borderline. the thing is, i can understand how that kind of comment can be seen as hypersensitive... but seriously, why did he need to include the nationality/race of the shopkeepers?

first off, who knows if he's even correct about their nationality?

secondly, it's not like you would off the cuff say that it was run by gruff irishmen... or polocks... or aussies

playact: you might, but you shouldn't if you know there is someone in the room of that same identification

and doesn't have a sense of humor about it and already thinks you're a shit

but then again, its okay to make fun of aussies or the irish...

Example two: I was asked today to give a sort of evaluation of "Norwegian chicks" - I wish that I could report that he was interested in their strength of character and moral fortitude, but predictably he was more concerned with how they fill out a bathing suit. I apparently an expert qualified to give my opinion on this topic because, as he put it, Norwegians settled in the Midwest and Northwest when they moved to the country.

I have objections here on several practical fronts -

1. It's not as though Norwegians walk around with big flags and name tags that identify themselves as Norwegian, and I defy you to identify by sight alone a Norwegian as opposed to a swede or a dane or any other scandanavian...
2. We're not talking about folks who just arrived in the states and have yet to assimilate into our country - it's my understanding that the large wave of Scandanavian immigration to the US happened in the late 19th and early 20th century.
3. Speaking of large waves of immigration, guess where the largest majority of Norwegians settled. That's right - Minnesota, Wisconsin and North Dakota. Three states that are each well over 1000 miles from where I grew up in Washington. In fact, i'd bet that Minnesota is closer to his home in New York than mine in Washington.

Another issue is can you really expect someone to give an assessment on an entire race? Can you say that because someone is X race, they are hot? Or that they are likely to be hot? Maybe i'm making too much of an inane comment, but seriously, who thinks like that?

Basically, my question is what are these people i work with, supposedly enlightened people living in the cultural capital of our country, if not the world, so small minded as to make needless comments about people's race in such offensive and/or perjorative terms?

I'll follow this up hopefully tomorrow with tales of another MyRC... if you've read any of my blog on MySpace you've encountered this guy... he's a gem.

One Woman's Journey...To the Fringe

The Fringe NY festival is this week, and I was looking through the hundreds of listings for something, anything that might be worth seeing. Sure there were a few "one woman's jouney to understanding her past" and more than a few "hilarious looks at America's obsession with sexual repression" and even an in-depth look at "what if Shakespeare had written The Godfather?" but I was looking for something a little more. I found a listing for a docudrama for Fear Up: Stories from Baghdad and Guantanamo and dragged Zach into the city on a weeknight in hopes that it would be that something more. I like docudrama. I like it a lot. There is something about the use of primary sources that appeals to me because it reminds me that we have all the drama we need in our world already, the art is framing it in a way that makes us look at it freshly. It takes some of the ego out of the artist because in docudrama the artist isn't giving their take on situation, they are presenting someone else. They are serving someone else's story. Kind of like This American Life on stage. Not fully journalism. Not fully theatre.

In this respect, Fear Up didn't disappoint. Most of the sources they used were from interviews with the Tipton Three after their release from Guantanamo, blog posts from an Iraqi woman during the invasion/occupation of Baghdad, and a journalist's interviews with military personel. It was a facinating blend of stories and perspectives and the artists did a great job of weaving together the strands from these disparate stories. I was very struck by the fact that none of these stories or ideas were fully new to me- I've heard some version of them before, but they were still incredibly important to see and hear again. We don't do a very good job of reminding ourselves of what is going on in the world. We don't remind ourselves of what we are responsible for, of what is being done in our name. And despite any interest we may have in hearing/seeing these stories, they aren't being shown or told. It's going to take a lot of small voices, like this play, to drown out the bland, cacophanous mediocrity that is blasted at us all day long, telling us that we don't really need to worry about the war, what we should be worried about is our blond girls disappearing from our homes or while on vacation, or the Arab men on our subways that the police don't have the balls to take down. I don't think this is a conspiracy. I think that the 24-hour cable news is giving us what we are asking for- we want to be scared by an external boogeyman rather than be scared by what we are doing to ourselves.

So, all this being said, I thought the performance was to the point and artistically moving. But on the subway ride home we began to discuss the one thing that this docudrama definately was not- objective. This play had an agenda- to examine the innocent lives touched by a war that is aimed at the wrong people. To challenge us to ask what price is acceptable for the spread of democracy abroad when we cannot practice what we preach. Beyond these high-minded objectives, there were a couple places in the play that went too far. There were cheap shots at Republicans, and the military personel were almost all presented with Southern drawls (even Rummy, odly enough). But most of the shots were not cheap shots. They were deep and perceptive shots.

Is it a bad thing that this play was not objective? We all might acknowledge that nothing is objective, that all news and art is biased by the experiences and perspectives of the person who creates it, but we still hold our opponents to that impossible standard. I rail against the skewed covereage on Fox News, I bemoan the corporate interests that are portrayed as God's own Truth, I crow over the especially blatent fearmongering that is evidence that these people are only serving their own interests. I stop listening as soon as I identify their agenda as something that I don't agree with (or, if I keep listening, it is so that I'll have fuel for a later rant). So why is it okay that this play had an agenda?

Zach and I talked about this all the way home- about taking a stand, about the line between journalism and art, about preaching to the choir, and I don't know if we got too far, so this won't be a completely satisfactory end to this story. I think that one thing we did agree on, however, is that our stand against this war has stopped being a partisan issue. It is now a moral issue. And, somehow, that justifies standing up and shouting from the rooftops that OF COURSE we have an agenda because this issue isn't about our ideas or politics, it is about our souls. Unfortunately, the people running this war feel the same way. They don't hear our arguments and our tirades because they are fighting this war for ideological reasons, just like we are fighting against it. And that brings me back to the theatre, because I keep believing that the way to fight this battle is not with logic, but with art. We need to be fighting with the tools of the soul. So, thank you Fear Up for giving me more than an evening's argument about war. Amongst the self-indulgent one-woman shows and SNL wanna-be's, you brought to the Fringe some art that had that something more.