Tuesday, October 11, 2016
As we close in on the 2016 election I want to turn again to find the qualities I possess which I project onto Trump voters. I don't think I haven't any Trump voters as friends to lose this time.
I think people who have trouble understanding the Trump voter fail to appreciate the nuances of objecting to Hillary Clinton. Sure, there are those who believe the alt-right nonsense about her, and there are those who over-emphasize the weight of the mistakes she has made because of the polemics which have targeted her for 30 years now. There are those who simply don't respect women, and there are those who are sincerely against her policy positions.
I'm not talking about those people, and I'm not talking about those notions. I don't share any of that.
What the Trump voter in me sees is that she comes from privilege that she married into, and while not without credentials and talent herself, she has been springboarded into fame and fortune because of whom she knows, yet she has never made a point of letting us know she knows this. She seems to distrust me, the public.
She is worth hundreds of millions of dollars now from being First Lady, which then provided her a route to Senator, not because she has produced anything new or noteworthy, her policy positions are all adapted from other's original work, but because of the advantage of proximity to power. In other words, to paraphrase the late Ann RIchards, she woke up on third base and thinks she hit a triple.
I do not want to reward this. I think her meteoric rise and spectacular success, essentially for being married to Bill Clinton, is a very clear illustration of what is very, very wrong with our economic and political system, and there is very little reason to believe she will do anything about it.
I don't mean that she shouldn't enjoy success as a lawyer or government servant. That doesn't bother me. It's being worth hundreds of millions of dollars that turns my stomach. She should perhaps have a comfortable living, but that kind of wealth is simply obscene in the dearth of any significant social contribution or achievement. She's another version of Wells Fargo's John Stumpf.
She isn't to blame for that. I don't want to impoverish or jail her or Mr. Stumpf. I want them to still be saving for retirement like I am. I want them to make choices between gifts and vacations like I do. I want an American middle class again, and I welcome them to be a part of it.
The money that the middle class needs is not in the pockets of poor people and immigrants. That's a brutal, terrible story that we've all been told. The money the middle class needs is in hedge funds. It's in the pockets of the ridiculously wealthy.
It's harming those people. Consider the notion that NFL players would walk off if they made the money I do, and I make about 180% of the US median family income. Not I, nor anyone else would subject their brains to intentional trauma for what I make. These players actually should find something else to do, they owe it to themselves and everyone else who loves them. Why don't they? Ridiculous amounts of money. That money is harmful to them, it clouds their judgment.
There are versions of this kind of wealth-induced perverse self-destruction in every direction one turns. Extreme wealth is not a good thing, not even for the wealthy.
Hillary is going to do nothing about the problem of extreme wealth. She is extremely wealthy. She thinks she deserves it. Her winking speeches at Goldman Sachs confirm it. I do not want to reward this. It absolutely enrages me. If I think about it long enough, I am literally blind with rage.
Blind enough to vote for The Donald? No, but I understand.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
He didn't win, of course, but he got close enough so a politically-motivated Supreme Court majority could effectively appoint him the President.
We have an ignorant plurality in this country who have been denied a proper public education by greed-ridden authoritarian state government office-holders who are interested only in using the power given to them by the electorate to encourage large future campaign contributions. This year this ignorant plurality is called "Trump supporters." In previous years they've been "NASCAR Dads," "religious conservatives," and the "moral majority."
Perhaps because of the influence of commercial entertainment media and quasi-religious organizations which rely on donations and tax dodges to exist this plurality has not been challenged to think critically. Perhaps because of the regressive tax policies promoted by (the spokesmodels for financial cheats who hold sway in) Congress, this plurality has seen their wealth and comfort decline in the midst of excessive fortunes for a few others. Perhaps because of campaign finance laws rigged to serve the interests of wealthy benefactors only this plurality has seen their government become completely disinterested in solving their daily problems.
Like cells in the body that lose communication with the host system they have become toxic to the very thing that gives them life. I don't know what is going to happen, but I do know this looks like the precipitous decline of this country. I have been wondering since I was a child if I would see a world-changing event like the American Revolution, or World War II, in my lifetime.
Monday, April 18, 2016
While I enjoyed that trip, it was mostly because of my companionship and in spite of Las Vegas itself, not because of it. I was way too cool for Vegas, and I looked down my nose at it and my fellow tourists.
This time, for whatever reasons, I find that I "get" Vegas in a way I never did before, and it has also simply improved, cleaning-up it's act a little. Gone are the guys on the street handing out offensive porn flyers for sexual services, there's more than ever to do that doesn't involve gambling, and the architectural excess has gotten to the point where it is majestic as a fake. That is, these buildings and edifices are clearly fake, but oh what a fake!
Vegas, it will come as no revelation, is a fantasy setting. One can indulge in any number of fantasies; for a few hundred dollars I could pretend that a trim, athletic dancer is my horny girlfriend. I could pretend that free money comes out of a machine. I could easily convince myself that I'm having an experience something like an idealized stroll through Les Halles in Paris, or in the shadows of the Eiffel tower, or back in NYC, or the grand canal in Venice, or a fabulous plaza in Italy, etc, etc.
I could pretend that I am important enough to have a hotel staff at my beck and call, that I can go for sushi, Italian, prime steak or haute cuisine all within a short walk from where I make up my mind. There are many young women here wearing clothes that suggest they believe themselves to be highly sought-after objects of desire.
It's fantasy, and as such, actually fairly harmless. I don't know why I found it so objectionable before.
Perhaps because I am here this time NOT fantasizing myself. I'm working, I'm interested in what I am doing, and I don't have some idea in my head that I want to manifest here. I'm not coming here to fantasize, maybe it was my own failed fantasies before that made me dislike it so, maybe it just sucked more earlier, I really don't know, but somehow this is all no more distasteful to me now than a Halloween costume I'm not really into. I used to really hate Vegas, now I think it's kind of clever in some ways, and I see it's role in a regular person's life--as a place to have a little fantasy experience.
I was out this morning at 3:30am (because of the time difference with the east coast), everyone that was out had been up all night. They were stumbling around in a kind of friendly haze. A couple of young women all made up trying to walk in heels while tugging down on the hem of their way-too-short in micro-mini's yelled "Hey sexy!" at me across the casino floor and then scattered away in peals of laughter as I looked up with a "WTF?" expression on my face.
On another trip, I would have been offended by that, but instead I smiled to myself and hope they enjoyed shocking this old man as a way to pass the time as they stumbled back to their room. I was okay being objectified, because we're all a little part of everyone else's fantasy here.
So, congrats Vegas, I don't hate you like I used to.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
I thought it would probably take me weeks of bringing this book along with me for my solo meals out, which is how I do much of my reading. I'd get through a bit here, chew on it, bite off a bit more, etc.
Instead, I read it from beginning to end in one sitting, staying up long past my bedtime because I prefered reading it to sleeping. I began the book as my accompaniment for a solo meal out, that meal ran into more than two hours, then I brought it home and continued to read it until I was surprised and saddened by the last page.
This is at once a beautiful, touching, moving and profoundly insightful book. It answered, in one swiftly deft sweep of elegant prose, questions about racial identity in America that have puzzled me since I realized that I was "white" and there were other people, mostly distinguished by skin color and economic class, who were "colored." I would guess I was around four or five years old when I first wondered why white and colored people were so angry with each other. It was 1964.
This book is written, earnestly and sincerely, as a letter to his son. There is no artifice in this. It is a letter from a black father frightened for his black son, who wants him to understand his situation and be able to discern lies from truth as he deals with it. He almost too-dryly lays out the dangerous situations over which his son will have no control other than over his own actions and mental repose, explaining each with simple equations of self-interest, power and brutality.
He then details his own struggle and evolution with all this, honestly unearthing his own now-abandoned limited views of the world, some left on the streets of Paris and some left on the boulevards of a now-gentrifying Harlem, now strolled by white women with strollers, the very neighborhood in which I live today and read this remarkable book.
He describes white people as "people who believe themselves to be 'white.'" This distinction is the central revelation of this book for me as a man of caucasian and European descent. I was primed and readied for this view because I've never felt my "white" identity was something real. I'm a little Northern European on my mother's side, a little Southern European on my father's.
I've had my DNA sequenced, so I know that my father's ancestors emigrated from Northern Africa to Southern Europe fifty-thousand years ago, about twenty-thousand years before my mother's ancestors came out of the Caucus mountains and moved to Northern Europe. I have more in common genetically with people in the Basque region of Spain than any other currently identifiable region, but my father's family regards it's European roots as being in Alsace, we have record of a DeWald as a tax collector in the region in the eleventh century.
However, the name DeWald has it's richest history in South Africa, at least for the last couple of centuries, and in German, it means "of the woods."
So, WTF am I? A German/English/Basque/Alsatian/Afrikaner? I'm all those things, but according to the US culture, I'm "white" along with my friends whose ancestors followed an entirely different path. We share a skin color and assumedly "not one drop" of the adulterating "colored" blood. That's what makes us white, and it is the only thing that makes us white. We believe we are and so does everyone around us.
This is the point that Mr Coates makes so eloquently. "White" isn't a race, as such, it's an identity, and the degree to which one possesses the identity (in their view and in the view of others) determines which side of the racial dividing (white vs. non-white) line one lives in the United States. The United States has, in Mr. Coates view, a heritage of enslavement, a history of violent oppression, and a continuing practice of violating non-white personhood. He points out, coldly and rationally, that non-white people, today, still lack boundaries and protections against institutional and state-sanctioned forms of systemic violence.
White people, or as Mr. Coates reminds us, "people who believe themselves to be white" take inviolable boundaries and protections against these kinds of institutional and state-sanctioned manifestations of systemic violence for granted. This is what really makes them white.
I live in Harlem. It would shock me to the very core of my being if a NYPD officer stopped and frisked me for drugs, weapons or contraband. It would be a turning point in my life, a story I would tell for years, something I would pursue remediation for to the full extent possible, with no fear of further persecution because I chose to do so.
I walk by black men being stopped and frisked by NYPD on these same Harlem streets so routinely that I hardly take notice of it.
There's nothing rhetorical about that. It's a fact of my own life.
If I had a black son, I would require him to read this book. Today.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
A few days ago the morning paper was full of stories about the Supreme Court's decision concerning marriage equality. A number of those stories concerned wistful gay rights advocates who found themselves grieving the loss of their oppressed status and fearing the ramifications that the end of their legal repression will have for Art and gay culture. There was surprise expressed about this seeming disconnect between the joy of a legal victory and this discouraged outlook for the future of their community both in the stories themselves and by those they interviewed.
There is no disconnect. Even when one hates an identity it is hard to see it go. I've been through this myself.
When I shed one-hundred twenty pounds of excess weight in early 2010 I lost my identity as the fattest guy in the room. For the previous twenty years I had always been easily identifiable by that very tag. It was very, very very rarely not the case.
One of the most shocking moments of my life was when a work colleague I met in mid-2010 told me that "obese" was not a word he would use to describe me to someone else. I will never forget. I was stopped dead in my tracks for a moment. I remember the ochre color of the wall and the brown trim around the door I was looking at when he said this. He had never known the fattest guy in the room, but he knew me.
Over the years of living as a very large man in a world that largely shunned and ridiculed me I become adept at explaining to myself and others what my limitations were and why I had them. Comfort is a scarce commodity in a four-hundred pound man's world, but I could comfort myself with the notion that my isolation, celibacy and stunted professional success were the product of being in a world that unfairly and impersonally shamed fat people.
Similarly, I think, thought leaders in gay culture have used their status as an oppressed minority to explain their limitations. They now find themselves, as I did a few years ago, in a new situation now that the oppression, at least in this singular but important official sense, is being lifted. All of the advantages of operating as a legal repressed minority with regard to marriage and family have vanished.
Take it from me, this is profoundly disorienting in a way that is so subtle it is almost hidden. It is a time of reckoning, and it is not simple. I wish them well.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
I changed phones recently, losing one of the two-factors I needed to log-in. To account for this inevitability, the service provides never-expiring back-up codes to use. I had already logged-in previously using these codes (since changing my phone), so I only had three left.
I decided to use the link they provided on the log-in page to reset my multi-factor authentication.
I clicked it, I was asked to reset my password via a link sent to the e-mail associated with the account. That's a perfectly reasonable request, so I did so. It asked me for a multi-factor authentication code to complete that request, so I used one of the three I had left.
I knew my password, I didn't really want to change it, but that's on me. I changed it, submitted one of the three codes I had, was told the change was successful, and then was directed to log-in to my account.
When I went back to log-in to the account, they required a multi-factor authentication code to complete the log-in. I used one of the two I had left, that failed.
The only option I had left was to try the whole process again, and that used up my last code.
I was now locked-out of my account because I followed their instructions.
I started looking on the web-site and wiki for a phone number. There isn't one.
I went to submit a lost password ticket off of their website. In order to authenticate the ticket, I had to provide the first and last four for my credit card.
I have six credit/debit cards, and a paypal account. I have been paying by paypal, but I knew I had used one of my cards with them, but I didn't know which. I had to submit six tickets in order to make sure at least one of them would match up.
Four hours later I got an e-mail from them admonishing me for submitting multiple tickets on the same issue.
That was the line they crossed. I was doing what they asked me to do to the best of my ability.
I previously loved and admired this company to the extent that one can "love and admire" a company. I have sent them many customers, tested their new systems, and have been an unpaid technical evangelist for them for a long, long time.
Today, I begin the lengthy and sad process of moving to another, probably less-capable, web-host.
Why? I need a web-host with a phone number. It's that simple. I need that connection. It's 2015, not 2050. Web-services are not reliable break-glass procedures for unique and unanticipated customer problems.
Their re-set procedures churned through my back-up codes and did not work. I needed to call them and tell them that.
They don't want to let me.
I know the underlying strategy here is to maximize efficiency. I provide technical support in my job. Most requests are best handled over e-mail. But, everyone has my phone number. For the hundreds of dollars a year I was paying them, they can give me one too.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
I think about my friends a lot. I plan to go see them. I save conversational nuggets. I bring gifts from time to time. I go to them, like thirst seeks water.
Very few friends come to see me. I realize retrospectively that I have become accustomed to this over time. I used to pay more to live in a place I could entertain in. I had extra chairs, place-settings, and cocktail glasses. Like a fine arts degree from a small college, they sat as un-used reminders of an unrealized dream until I gradually discarded them over time for the extra room.
Now I have one chair, one plate, a few glasses, and a few pieces of mis-matched flatware. I have about a dozen coffee mugs because I once collected them, but mostly I have enough eating/sitting/sleeping things for myself, alone.
I comforted myself with the idea that this imbalance between visiting and being visited was a matter of expeditious convenience, that is, because I am single and unmarried I am much more mobile. It’s much easier for me to get to my friends than for them to get to me.
Right. As if “easy wins.” When did “easy” become the most important thing in friendships? Why is “easy” even a particularly coveted value in this situation? No one wants things to be hard, but traveling to see my friends wasn’t something I did because it was easy. I did it because I thought it was my contribution to something we mutually valued.
Being the one to go to my friends may be something I quit because it is too hard. The difficulty of travel is not the biggest problem, the difficulty of being on the wrong side of this imbalance on a consistent basis bothers me much more. It is hard to adjust my schedule to fit with others. I wait, I defer, I put things off, I exercise patience. Too often I’m the only one.
Honestly, my patience muscle is strong enough; it doesn’t need a lot of exercise. I can be very patient, but it is not always right for me to be patient. Sometimes I forgive too much, am “patient” too often, too frequently accepting the priorities of others over mine. This is a defense against the uncomfortable feeling of not being wanted on my terms. This isn’t really forgiveness, it’s a kind of mental cocktail, something to take the edge off.
Inevitably things hit the fan and the people around me understandably conclude that I am volatile and dramatic with complicated and covert standards for other’s behavior. The time and energy I spent managing my un-met wants and hoping for a better outcome that precedes an eruption is something I keep well-hidden.
This strategy and collection of habits doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to go to extremes, but things are going to change.