The greatest gift life has to offer is the opportunity to be blindsided by sublimity. Perceptive people are confronted by inspirations compelling enough that they merge with overwhelming. The triggers for these passions are impossible to calculate or explain, so it is not surprising that frustration is passion’s frequent companion. Maybe that’s why some actively avoid risking confrontations with anything potentially stimulating. This can also be due to fear, prudence or laziness. Others somehow manage to obliviously navigate through existence content with an uninspired impression or incapable of anything other than torpidity. This definitively demonstrates a divergence in genetic brain chemistry between humans.
Skepticism surrounding inspiration is understandable, especially since inspiring things, such as phrases, are often used to disguise untruths. It is probably impossible to determine whether someone is skeptical of a thing that excites or that a thing can elicit excitement for them regardless of the experiences of others. For instance, many are incredulous that drumming can induce hallucinations despite the many cultures that have been using it for this purpose for millennia, but rather than explore the possibility they will dismiss these practices as witchcraft. It is indeed a common conclusion that the existence of things that can evoke such intense sensual phenomena are undeniable proof of supernatural consciousness. On the contrary, from my perspective, the extreme diversity in what can thrill us demonstrates subjective experiences exist independent of any universally objective reality, purpose, truth or ideal.
The novice artist’s response to something inspiring is to attempt to preserve, dissect, and/or replicate it. This compulsion stems from a desire to understand, relive and share these things which seem to make life worthwhile, and can result in everything from covering your bedroom walls with posters of your favorite sports team to moving to France to craft burgundy wine. Further, it is not absurd to assume that capturing an embodiment of some profound and relevant experience could bring relevance and import to oneself. Strong inspirations can re-manifest themselves as motivation and drive.
I tend to be suspicious of those that don’t obsess over whatever might intrigue them, assuming they either lack commitment or soul. I find flippancy preposterous. In truth, some simply aren’t that curious. Habit and routine are important for keeping us comfortable, productive and sane, but they don’t provide joy. The thing that probably best encapsulates that which brings us the most joy is experiencing magic. Learning the processes behind a trick risks despoiling the magic, but also opens up the opportunity of appreciating another, more profound magic contained in the process itself. Further, the wielder of magic possesses a certain power, which can be used to impress or make money.
The secret of an inspirational experience lies in confronting perceived uniqueness, and of course that cannot be replicated through imitation. A more mature artistic response to being inspired is to attempt to generate novel concepts, which usually includes a fresh take on an old idea. To this end, it is more constructive to absorb perspectives that do not resemble our own. That is not to suggest influences should be avoided for fear of replicating them. In fact, there is no reason to assume that being influenced by someone will turn oneself into a clone or that avoiding influences will prevent duplication. The best influences are those that spark and encourage your own creative juices regardless of the ease with which they can be replicated. It is not uncommon for me to watch a video of an influential drummer and continue to find it challenging to try to pick out how they’re approaching the instrument. At other times, I’ll witness a drummer I’ve never listened to before approach things very similar to myself. I have found both of these experiences inspiring. This reveals the importance of having exposure in order to develop novel ideas and avoid limiting the information from which expansion and growth can occur. I am extremely wary of those who claim to have no influences, because if they aren’t just liars trying to take undue credit, it is probable they are undeveloped, unintentional imitators.
Inspirations that inform and stimulate our pursuits intertwine themselves into our being, until any perceived slight of them seems a personal affront. It is easy to take another’s disinterest or disapproval of our interests as a personal rejection. Ironically, our willingness to defend our own influences does not prevent us from ridiculing those of others, and we do so without fathoming why another would take it personally. I suppose it’s unavoidable to not have strong opinions regarding the things we are passionate about, as it is easy to forget that our inspirations are subjectively relative to our experiences, expectations and interests. Nostalgia and context are non-transferable. Also, memory is unreliable, which is why I no childhood inspiration should be assumed to contain quality. Perhaps these are most useful in giving us experience to relate from and encouraging us to continue to explore.
I feel that having a solid foundation of relevant human history is the only way to have an adequate context for making judgments. It is useless to be provided book recommendations from someone who has never read the classics or listen to someone gushing about the architecture of a particular city if that’s the only one they’ve ever been in. A couple years ago, someone extolled a movie, enthralled by how it was filmed “just like they did it in the 20’s.” When I responded that that’s a pretty broad range of cinema and asked which particular movies, genres or directors it reminded him of, he fell silent. I wasn’t surprised upon watching the movie to find, outside of being a “silent” movie, it didn’t actually resemble early cinematography in the least.
There is usefulness in seeking out those with common interests. I keep a mental record of those with movie tastes similar to mine, and put a lot of stock in their recommendations. Far beyond that, there is something magical in harmonically shared tastes. A couple years ago, I was completely enthralled by an exhibit of these three-dimensional boxes covered with windows and collages of artifacts at an art museum in New Orleans and was gobsmacked upon discovering my companion knew everything about these “shadow boxes” and their creator, Joseph Cornell. A trivial connection such as this can create a genuinely strong bond. Our brain seeks linkages between various interests and pursuits, so that we are not only attracted to those with common interests, but we are compelled to introduce and encourage our loved ones to empathize with our delights. In fact, our human impulse to connect with others easily overwhelms any inclination to simply be silently content with our own amusements.
I read a study that claimed shared preferences are less important in creating attachments than mutual dislikes. Without knowing the specifics of this study, I’m willing to guess this is partly due to the fact that it is easier to find general dislikes than it is to connect with specific likes. It might not particularly matter if another appreciates Evan Parker or Tool, because what are the odds of that, so long as they don’t love smooth jazz or 1990’s era boy bands, for example. I am easily irritated by things others are interested in that I find plebian. For every Cornell shadow box there are 10,000 insipid craft ideas on Pinterest.
We can become unreasonably annoyed when confronted with the reality that our influences or irritants aren’t universally appreciated or shared. Perhaps we worry that if our passions aren’t validated, our pursuits are a waste of time. Although many (frighteningly) seem to desire a homogenous world in which everyone is attracted to the same thing, even those who don’t experience legitimate confusion as to how something that can inspire us so much affects others so little.
Growing up, I had a subscription to National Geographic, and one of my favorite articles was on the restoration of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel paintings. I was mesmerized with the whimsically muscular caricatures cleverly intertwined to symbolically communicate stories and ideas. Years later, I met someone who had actually been there when she was twelve who described it as “dumb.” That effectively removed for me any legitimacy to her artistic palate. While that may be an extreme reaction, I found myself unable to excuse her adamant opinion. When I was around twelve, I thought to myself, I had been completely blown away by a gigantic canvas covered with layer upon layer of shades of white paint by Rauschenberg at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Our inclination is to paint everything surrounding something that we are keen on in the best possible light, which makes it difficult to place inspirations in proper context. It requires maturity to balance expectations with reality and maintain a sound perspective of vitality and relevance. While good or bad and right or wrong are not always subjective ideas, they usually are. Similarly, we easily forget the disparity between things that encourage us and their creators. It is important to maintain the perspective that having the ability to demonstrate talent or competence does not make one a decent human being, and that having unfavorable traits does not of necessity taint the entirety of one’s work.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Comfort
Comfort is vastly over-rated. I am skeptical that it should even be desired. Strength, courage and truth all possess greater cultural worth than comfort, but more often than not these are the first things sacrificed in the effort for comfort to be attained. Comfort seems to extol both laziness and cowardice. For example, we find admitting to mistakes excruciatingly uncomfortable, but I firmly believe that integrity must be prioritized over comfort.
People want to be coddled, comforted and validated. We want to be mollified. We want to hear motivational speeches, read books and watch movies that make us feel better about ourselves while doing absolutely nothing to justify that state and are willing to pay handily to fulfill this desire. I find this reliance upon positive reinforcement utterly pathetic. We use blind affirmations to evade progress; our abilities, intelligences and potential remain, for the most part, untested. We are exceedingly adept at pointing out the flaws in others while conveniently rejecting criticism regarding ourselves. Depending upon constant external validation is almost assuredly setting oneself up for failure. Stepping on others to lift oneself up is a failure in itself.
Despite constant claims to the contrary, self-sufficiency is not something we particularly value in America. We want our clothes, food, shelter, transportation, devices and toys made for us, and would rather enslave ourselves to a job and debt to pay for them than figure out how to make them ourselves. Comfort is frequently confused as a necessity. I actively cringe whenever I hear someone exclaim they need some new gadget or can’t live without something nonsensical like face cream. We don’t even want to know how to get by without these things, even when we value their ability to impress over their function. I don’t grasp why more aren’t instead concerned about knowing how to survive alone for a week with nothing but a rope, knife, lighter, blanket and bowl.
Without a degree of independence, we are nothing but groveling babies. “Every person should stand on their own two feet.” This only applies, of course, to those that have been given and still have two feet upon which to stand, a privilege which we must not forget some lack. Perfectly capable people unwilling to do things that those less fortunate would give almost anything to be able to do ought to be ashamed.
Hard work, especially manual labor, is actively avoided by most. We seem to have gotten the idea that physical tasks are somehow beneath us. I strongly oppose having a sense of entitlement that excludes us from doing the things we expect from others. The oft repeated claim that one should do what one loves or enjoys is frankly immature. Nobody should exist in suffering, but we should all pull our own weight whether we like it or not. Striving to improve, seeking insight and maintaining compassion are often anything but fun.
Anyone who would avoid suffering by bringing it upon another is the lowest example of humanity, and yet it not only happens all the time but is actively encouraged by our society. We should seek out the things that make us uncomfortable, not to desensitize ourselves, but to strengthen our humanity. I have no respect for anyone who would eat animal meat yet refuse to kill and dress that animal or sit in their heated home yet refuse to mine the coal used to heat it.
If one is not proud of having a strong work ethic, what is left be proud of? Conversely, one should not brag about doing work as if it somehow going above and beyond what is expected. While all should resist being taken advantage of, complaining about doing more work than someone else is not necessarily justifiable. It can be akin to running a marathon and then complaining that some people didn’t finish.
Comfort is a privilege, not a right, and, while great in small doses, is not worth gaining at the sacrifice of more honorable pursuits offered in life, such as competence, fortitude, integrity, empathy and wisdom.
People want to be coddled, comforted and validated. We want to be mollified. We want to hear motivational speeches, read books and watch movies that make us feel better about ourselves while doing absolutely nothing to justify that state and are willing to pay handily to fulfill this desire. I find this reliance upon positive reinforcement utterly pathetic. We use blind affirmations to evade progress; our abilities, intelligences and potential remain, for the most part, untested. We are exceedingly adept at pointing out the flaws in others while conveniently rejecting criticism regarding ourselves. Depending upon constant external validation is almost assuredly setting oneself up for failure. Stepping on others to lift oneself up is a failure in itself.
Despite constant claims to the contrary, self-sufficiency is not something we particularly value in America. We want our clothes, food, shelter, transportation, devices and toys made for us, and would rather enslave ourselves to a job and debt to pay for them than figure out how to make them ourselves. Comfort is frequently confused as a necessity. I actively cringe whenever I hear someone exclaim they need some new gadget or can’t live without something nonsensical like face cream. We don’t even want to know how to get by without these things, even when we value their ability to impress over their function. I don’t grasp why more aren’t instead concerned about knowing how to survive alone for a week with nothing but a rope, knife, lighter, blanket and bowl.
Without a degree of independence, we are nothing but groveling babies. “Every person should stand on their own two feet.” This only applies, of course, to those that have been given and still have two feet upon which to stand, a privilege which we must not forget some lack. Perfectly capable people unwilling to do things that those less fortunate would give almost anything to be able to do ought to be ashamed.
Hard work, especially manual labor, is actively avoided by most. We seem to have gotten the idea that physical tasks are somehow beneath us. I strongly oppose having a sense of entitlement that excludes us from doing the things we expect from others. The oft repeated claim that one should do what one loves or enjoys is frankly immature. Nobody should exist in suffering, but we should all pull our own weight whether we like it or not. Striving to improve, seeking insight and maintaining compassion are often anything but fun.
Anyone who would avoid suffering by bringing it upon another is the lowest example of humanity, and yet it not only happens all the time but is actively encouraged by our society. We should seek out the things that make us uncomfortable, not to desensitize ourselves, but to strengthen our humanity. I have no respect for anyone who would eat animal meat yet refuse to kill and dress that animal or sit in their heated home yet refuse to mine the coal used to heat it.
If one is not proud of having a strong work ethic, what is left be proud of? Conversely, one should not brag about doing work as if it somehow going above and beyond what is expected. While all should resist being taken advantage of, complaining about doing more work than someone else is not necessarily justifiable. It can be akin to running a marathon and then complaining that some people didn’t finish.
Comfort is a privilege, not a right, and, while great in small doses, is not worth gaining at the sacrifice of more honorable pursuits offered in life, such as competence, fortitude, integrity, empathy and wisdom.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
PNP/1997
Just over fifteen years ago, I got a job at a gas station slash convenience store. This was a place where you could not pay for your gas at the pump. Instead, you had to enter a small store chockfull of salt, sugar, caffeine, alcohol, nicotine, gambling machines and other addictive items. The business model revolved around selling gasoline at cost and making money from the in-store purchases.
I landed this job on the spot after walking in to inquire about the Help Wanted sign while wearing a t-shirt with a wolf on it. Holly was the manager, and she was really into dogs. The opening was for minimum wage, working four ten-hour overnight shifts. I figured it would allow me to take summer classes at the university during the day without altering my general routine too much. I’d just turned 21, and was still invincible. Besides, it was the only available job around not requiring a vehicle or experience.
I had spent the previous three summers working as a cook at the Saylorville Marina near Polk City, but when the spring semester of 1997 ended, coinciding with the expiration of the last of my college scholarships, I moved out of the dorms and into a two bedroom apartment in downtown Cedar Falls that I was to share with four other roommates. Splitting the rent five ways meant my portion was somewhere around $70 per month. I'd never paid rent before, so I was concerned whether that was cheap enough to allow me to save to pay for my next school semester, which I’d calculated was all I needed to graduate with a double major if I took three summer classes.
Third shift at Petro-N-Provisions (known by everyone as PNP) consisted of eating day-old donuts, drinking pot after pot of coffee, confiscating the fake IDs of underage drunk college kids, stocking the shelves of a walk-in cooler that you had to climb around in like a monkey, jumping off the roof of the building into stacks of empty boxes and setting powdered creamer ablaze- all while blasting hard-core rap out of a boom box. Basically, this job was freaking awesome.
At 8am on the mornings when I didn’t have class, I’d ride DJ's bike (which I had on long-term loan) home from work, eat a bowl of cereal and sleep until 2pm. Then, I’d practice drums non-stop until 8pm, take a bath (the apartment didn’t have a shower) and either head back to work or, if it was a day off, spend the night reading from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. On school days, instead of riding home, I’d sleep for two hours on the couch at the house inhabited by my friends Amy, Tausha, Risa and Brad, which was conveniently located a few doors down from PNP and closer to campus. After classes, I’d eat a slice of pizza, a stuffed baked potato or a veggie bagel with shmear from the Union and read from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman before heading to the Library, where I’d checked out a locker to store books, toiletries and a changes of clothes, to work on homework and read old Downbeat magazine articles before heading either back to work or to Stebs, the live music venue slash bar in Cedar Falls.
One of my roommates was only there two nights a week, and then she traveled back to Des Moines (presumably with a supply of toilet paper as it was constantly disappearing). The others were my closest friends at the time, so I had spent plenty of time in the apartment even before I'd lived there. But it wasn't long before Eric and Annie moved away, and since Erin and I worked opposite shifts, I amused myself by creating morbid vignettes with her Tickle-Me-Elmo doll before I left for work for her to come home to.
I didn’t really end up saving much money that summer, and my parents paid for the final 21 hour credit load that would finish up my college life. It also eliminated sleep entirely, which quickly became unbearable, but luckily around about the time I’d resolved to never eat another donut, a second shift position opened up.
My university barely had three years worth of information to dispel, so that last semester mostly consisted of editing papers I’d already written about books I’d already read. I started working during the day, still forty hours a week but shorter shifts, often alongside Holly, who was generous enough to buy us both lunch every day and let me drive her car to pick it up. Her salary was $200 a week, which I thought at the time was a lot, and still recognize it as enough to be able to buy another’s lunch when they need it.
Most of my usual haunts were also frequented by this girl named Buffy, and she introduced me to some interesting contemporary music and literature. On the day of my graduation, she and I drove to Dubuque so I could play drums as part of a pop trio named Circus Fun. The head of the psychology department had attempted to entice me to attend the graduation ceremony by pointing out I’d get to wear special badges or sashes or whatever for being valedictorian, Magna Cum Laude and whatnot, which acted to make it sound even less appealing than a total waste of time. The head of the philosophy department laughed about not going to his graduation either. Dubuque proved noteworthy in that it was the last of my dates with Buffy and gigs with Circus Fun.
I landed this job on the spot after walking in to inquire about the Help Wanted sign while wearing a t-shirt with a wolf on it. Holly was the manager, and she was really into dogs. The opening was for minimum wage, working four ten-hour overnight shifts. I figured it would allow me to take summer classes at the university during the day without altering my general routine too much. I’d just turned 21, and was still invincible. Besides, it was the only available job around not requiring a vehicle or experience.
I had spent the previous three summers working as a cook at the Saylorville Marina near Polk City, but when the spring semester of 1997 ended, coinciding with the expiration of the last of my college scholarships, I moved out of the dorms and into a two bedroom apartment in downtown Cedar Falls that I was to share with four other roommates. Splitting the rent five ways meant my portion was somewhere around $70 per month. I'd never paid rent before, so I was concerned whether that was cheap enough to allow me to save to pay for my next school semester, which I’d calculated was all I needed to graduate with a double major if I took three summer classes.
Third shift at Petro-N-Provisions (known by everyone as PNP) consisted of eating day-old donuts, drinking pot after pot of coffee, confiscating the fake IDs of underage drunk college kids, stocking the shelves of a walk-in cooler that you had to climb around in like a monkey, jumping off the roof of the building into stacks of empty boxes and setting powdered creamer ablaze- all while blasting hard-core rap out of a boom box. Basically, this job was freaking awesome.
At 8am on the mornings when I didn’t have class, I’d ride DJ's bike (which I had on long-term loan) home from work, eat a bowl of cereal and sleep until 2pm. Then, I’d practice drums non-stop until 8pm, take a bath (the apartment didn’t have a shower) and either head back to work or, if it was a day off, spend the night reading from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. On school days, instead of riding home, I’d sleep for two hours on the couch at the house inhabited by my friends Amy, Tausha, Risa and Brad, which was conveniently located a few doors down from PNP and closer to campus. After classes, I’d eat a slice of pizza, a stuffed baked potato or a veggie bagel with shmear from the Union and read from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman before heading to the Library, where I’d checked out a locker to store books, toiletries and a changes of clothes, to work on homework and read old Downbeat magazine articles before heading either back to work or to Stebs, the live music venue slash bar in Cedar Falls.
One of my roommates was only there two nights a week, and then she traveled back to Des Moines (presumably with a supply of toilet paper as it was constantly disappearing). The others were my closest friends at the time, so I had spent plenty of time in the apartment even before I'd lived there. But it wasn't long before Eric and Annie moved away, and since Erin and I worked opposite shifts, I amused myself by creating morbid vignettes with her Tickle-Me-Elmo doll before I left for work for her to come home to.
I didn’t really end up saving much money that summer, and my parents paid for the final 21 hour credit load that would finish up my college life. It also eliminated sleep entirely, which quickly became unbearable, but luckily around about the time I’d resolved to never eat another donut, a second shift position opened up.
My university barely had three years worth of information to dispel, so that last semester mostly consisted of editing papers I’d already written about books I’d already read. I started working during the day, still forty hours a week but shorter shifts, often alongside Holly, who was generous enough to buy us both lunch every day and let me drive her car to pick it up. Her salary was $200 a week, which I thought at the time was a lot, and still recognize it as enough to be able to buy another’s lunch when they need it.
Most of my usual haunts were also frequented by this girl named Buffy, and she introduced me to some interesting contemporary music and literature. On the day of my graduation, she and I drove to Dubuque so I could play drums as part of a pop trio named Circus Fun. The head of the psychology department had attempted to entice me to attend the graduation ceremony by pointing out I’d get to wear special badges or sashes or whatever for being valedictorian, Magna Cum Laude and whatnot, which acted to make it sound even less appealing than a total waste of time. The head of the philosophy department laughed about not going to his graduation either. Dubuque proved noteworthy in that it was the last of my dates with Buffy and gigs with Circus Fun.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Ethnicity (Please Check)
I will forever be confused by forms asking for ethnicity. There’s never enough room to put ½ German, ¼ Castilian and ¼ Scotch/Irish/English (roughly). Further, they want to know whether I’m Hispanic/Latino, which, as you can see, is yes- my maternal grandfather’s family immigrated from the Basque region on the Iberian Peninsula, which is the textbook definition of Hispanic.
As a kid, I was told to checkmark “Caucasian.” The Caucasus is the region between the Black and Caspian Seas in which several ethnicities reside, but none of them are called Caucasian. A cursory glance at the origin of this term is horrifying. It seems some 18th Century German “philosopher” proposed the human race could be divided into two categories, based on the inherent beauty of their skin. Shortly thereafter, a colleague added the criteria of skull structure, and I assume that either inspired or was inspired by the sham science of phrenology. The “beautiful” races were labeled Caucasian and the “ugly” ones Mongolian. Yikes! This made-up racist term should never be used by anyone, let alone an official document.
I suspect these forms are most interested in my skin tone, but it seems obvious to me that “White” is not an ethnicity. Where would Whites come from- Whitelandia? That’s what makes American racism so dumb- what the hell does skin tone have to do with ANYTHING? Maybe they should have a color chart; although probably it’d be more accurate if the choices were just on a spectrum between Privileged and SOL.
Many years ago my grandpa stated, “The great thing about America is that you can choose your ethnicity.” Thinking this an odd statement but willing to explore what he meant, I replied by asking, “Have you read Anti-Semite and Jew, by Simone DeBeviour?” He apparently hadn’t because he sort of stared at me befuddled before continuing: “In America, all you have to do to be American is act American. If you embrace the ideas of capitalism, you can have everything you want in this country.” Ever the contrarian, I observed, “But that creates a conundrum if you don’t want to be a capitalist,” which led my grandpa into a rant about that being exactly the problem with so many foreigners- that they refused to accept the American dream.
The irony of this conversation is my grandpa was the same person who’d boasted to me that in all his years as a banker he’d never given a home loan to a minority.
In retrospect, I think perhaps he meant “your” in “choosing your ethnicity” to be singular instead of plural. He might not have been saying everyone can choose their ethnicity, but that I could. As his family had moved to California from Mexico when he was a boy, he knew this firsthand. I guess because his ethnic roots were Castilian and not Mexican, he looked “white.” He went by Joseph, not José, and was an eloquent English speaker. He was well-read in classic Western literature; interestingly his favorite writer seemed to be the Transcendental essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who declares in his most famous work, entitled Self-Reliance: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
A few years ago, in circumstances I do not recall, I casually mentioned to a friend from Great Britain that I was part Castilian. “That explains so much about you!” she exclaimed, “Castilians are fiery!” As this was coming from a redhead, I knew it was a compliment. I had no idea that Castilians possessed any stereotypical traits, but the revelation especially excited me because, after discovering Ronaldinho around 2005, I had begun following Spanish soccer. Also, possibly because of the awareness that I’m a Taurus, I’ve long been fond of illustrations depicting bull fighting.
Since that moment, I’ve been taking my grandpa’s advice, and choosing to identify as Castilian. Poor Grandpa Vasquez must be rolling in his grave. Honestly, I know nothing about Basque culture and I’ve never been to Spain, but I have done some cursory reading on Spanish history and try to keep up on Spanish politics. Because of my bias toward Futbol Club Barcelona, I’d admittedly rather be Catalan, but at least it's in the vicinity (I looked on a map).
Lest my point be lost, it is not that I have forgotten the absurdity of racism, but that I have chosen to embrace that absurdity to an extent. It allows me to think to myself, I’m German, Scotch/Irish/English and Basque: of course I love soccer! I’m fully aware the assertion is ridiculous, as I could make the same claim if I were Brazilian, Argentine and Dutch. But it seems to me that’s precisely the fun, curse and irony of ethnicity: we pick and choose which of our traits are genetic and do the same in others. This deceptive cloud of racial identity gives us power to place blame, embrace interests and eschew responsibility at our discretion. We can use race as a tool to infuse or incite pride or shame. Maybe it’s not the concept that’s defective so much as how we choose to use it.
In any other country, I’d be considered an American, but when I think of Americans, nothing much resembling me comes to mind. Perhaps that’s why I tend to be critical of American nationalism. Honestly, I’ve never trusted Americans or its government, precisely because I’ve always been fascinated by American history, and when I was a kid, I wanted to be a Native American when I grew up….
As a kid, I was told to checkmark “Caucasian.” The Caucasus is the region between the Black and Caspian Seas in which several ethnicities reside, but none of them are called Caucasian. A cursory glance at the origin of this term is horrifying. It seems some 18th Century German “philosopher” proposed the human race could be divided into two categories, based on the inherent beauty of their skin. Shortly thereafter, a colleague added the criteria of skull structure, and I assume that either inspired or was inspired by the sham science of phrenology. The “beautiful” races were labeled Caucasian and the “ugly” ones Mongolian. Yikes! This made-up racist term should never be used by anyone, let alone an official document.
I suspect these forms are most interested in my skin tone, but it seems obvious to me that “White” is not an ethnicity. Where would Whites come from- Whitelandia? That’s what makes American racism so dumb- what the hell does skin tone have to do with ANYTHING? Maybe they should have a color chart; although probably it’d be more accurate if the choices were just on a spectrum between Privileged and SOL.
Many years ago my grandpa stated, “The great thing about America is that you can choose your ethnicity.” Thinking this an odd statement but willing to explore what he meant, I replied by asking, “Have you read Anti-Semite and Jew, by Simone DeBeviour?” He apparently hadn’t because he sort of stared at me befuddled before continuing: “In America, all you have to do to be American is act American. If you embrace the ideas of capitalism, you can have everything you want in this country.” Ever the contrarian, I observed, “But that creates a conundrum if you don’t want to be a capitalist,” which led my grandpa into a rant about that being exactly the problem with so many foreigners- that they refused to accept the American dream.
The irony of this conversation is my grandpa was the same person who’d boasted to me that in all his years as a banker he’d never given a home loan to a minority.
In retrospect, I think perhaps he meant “your” in “choosing your ethnicity” to be singular instead of plural. He might not have been saying everyone can choose their ethnicity, but that I could. As his family had moved to California from Mexico when he was a boy, he knew this firsthand. I guess because his ethnic roots were Castilian and not Mexican, he looked “white.” He went by Joseph, not José, and was an eloquent English speaker. He was well-read in classic Western literature; interestingly his favorite writer seemed to be the Transcendental essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who declares in his most famous work, entitled Self-Reliance: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
A few years ago, in circumstances I do not recall, I casually mentioned to a friend from Great Britain that I was part Castilian. “That explains so much about you!” she exclaimed, “Castilians are fiery!” As this was coming from a redhead, I knew it was a compliment. I had no idea that Castilians possessed any stereotypical traits, but the revelation especially excited me because, after discovering Ronaldinho around 2005, I had begun following Spanish soccer. Also, possibly because of the awareness that I’m a Taurus, I’ve long been fond of illustrations depicting bull fighting.
Since that moment, I’ve been taking my grandpa’s advice, and choosing to identify as Castilian. Poor Grandpa Vasquez must be rolling in his grave. Honestly, I know nothing about Basque culture and I’ve never been to Spain, but I have done some cursory reading on Spanish history and try to keep up on Spanish politics. Because of my bias toward Futbol Club Barcelona, I’d admittedly rather be Catalan, but at least it's in the vicinity (I looked on a map).
Lest my point be lost, it is not that I have forgotten the absurdity of racism, but that I have chosen to embrace that absurdity to an extent. It allows me to think to myself, I’m German, Scotch/Irish/English and Basque: of course I love soccer! I’m fully aware the assertion is ridiculous, as I could make the same claim if I were Brazilian, Argentine and Dutch. But it seems to me that’s precisely the fun, curse and irony of ethnicity: we pick and choose which of our traits are genetic and do the same in others. This deceptive cloud of racial identity gives us power to place blame, embrace interests and eschew responsibility at our discretion. We can use race as a tool to infuse or incite pride or shame. Maybe it’s not the concept that’s defective so much as how we choose to use it.
In any other country, I’d be considered an American, but when I think of Americans, nothing much resembling me comes to mind. Perhaps that’s why I tend to be critical of American nationalism. Honestly, I’ve never trusted Americans or its government, precisely because I’ve always been fascinated by American history, and when I was a kid, I wanted to be a Native American when I grew up….
Monday, November 26, 2012
To Build a Fire
Growing up, I was in both a scouting group and a frontiersmen re-enactment organization, and camping was the only thing I enjoyed more than G.I. Joes. It wasn’t until I became an adult and began camping with others that I realized how naïve most are to basic survival techniques, such as shelter building, trail navigation, food preparation and, possibly most importantly, fire building. The interesting thing about watching others build fires, besides the extreme incompetence, is the stubborn refusal to accept any help, especially when males are involved. Every man assumes that the knowledge of starting a fire is somehow embedded in their genes; if their ancestors could figure it out, so can they. Consequently, I’ve seen rituals involving bundles of smoldering newspaper, bottles of wasted starter fluid and smoldering logs strewn throughout the campsite (apparently in an attempt to put them out).
I can start a fire in a light rain or heavy winds with absolutely no problem. I’m not bragging, because all it takes is a basic understanding of how fire behaves, which I’m keen to share with anyone willing to listen. I’m also content to sit back and mock stubbornly desperate and futile attempts.
Tenet #1: Fire is lazy. If you are willing to do the work for it, it is content to let you. It will consume the easiest thing available that will sustain its current state. It doesn’t want to grow and doesn’t like change.
Tenet #2: Fire can’t hold its breath. It needs a constant supply of oxygen. Wood does not act as a substitute for oxygen; in fact oxygen is more important than fuel.
That’s pretty much all you need to know about fire to get one started.
The ideal diameter area in which to build a normal-sized fire is about a yard (meter), but most provided pits at modern campsites are about half that. This is because the people providing them know most people become idiots in the presence of fire and are trying to restrict the size of it as much as possible. I don’t blame them. Speaking of idiots- things that should never be discarded in a fire pit include glass, metal, plastic and rubber. Burning railroad ties is also a bad idea.
Have all your firewood gathered before starting the fire. There are three categories of wood, and you will need all three to progress a flame into a campfire. The finest materials used to get the fire started are called tinder. You don’t need much of it- just enough to fill two cupped hands. Tinder can be: a dried out bird’s nest, dried pine needles, shredded paper or a ripped up brown paper grocery sack. A ripped up weekday newspaper also works, but avoid the glossy pages printed with color ink. Do not use dried leaves; they just create smoke and tend to smother the fire. A common mistake in building a fire is using too much tinder. Its purpose is to get the fire started and not to keep it going. As long as you keep feeding tinder to a jejune fire, tinder is the only thing it will consume (refer to tenet #1). The goal is to ween it off tinder and force it to burn larger materials.
Kindling is the term used for the wood used to grow the fire. Basically, kindling is tree branches. As your fire building skills improve, you will need less and less kindling, but an armload or one dead tree branch should be more than enough. The main thing is to have a progression in size from twigs to about 2 inch diameter sticks. If a branch bends instead of snaps or is green in the middle, it is not dried, or cured. Also, I’d better point out that in some states it is illegal to use tree branches found on site at certain campgrounds. Alternatively, you can use a progression from tightly rolled up newspaper or brown paper bag to corrugated cardboard or paint stir sticks to untreated lumber or quartered logs.
The goal of building a fire is to get it to burn logs, which are called fuel. In ideal conditions, the progression from match to log takes about 5 minutes. If you’re not using dry wood, a realistic goal is more like 10-15 minutes. If you construct the tinder, kindling and fuel properly, very little work is needed once the tinder is lit, whereas if you just haphazardly chuck wood into the pit, you will spend more time than necessary fussing with it.
Please note: starter fluid is for putting on charcoal briquettes, not on campfires.
You want to provide a way for a little air to get under the tinder. I do this by placing two ½” sticks in a V shape pointing away from the wind (opposite how a weather vane works) so the wind blows inside the opening of the V and laying several small twigs across the V like a grate. Nest, I surround that small V with a much larger V of two 4” logs. Across this large V make an A by placing a wedges log across it. I recommend a wedge both because that’s an easy way of preventing it from rolling off and because it provides an easier meal for the fire than a rounded log. This wedged log is the goal of our fire building operation. Once that wedge is in flames, you should be able to keep the fire going simply by adding more logs.
The tinder goes in the area on top of the small twigs held up by the small V and inside the A of the logs. One handy cheat I use as the primary thing to light is a stick of sawdust compressed with resin or wax that you can either make or buy for cheap in any store with a camping section.
If you are using some method other than a match or lighter to start the fire, you’ll have to wait before stacking any more wood, because it’ll probably involve cupping and blowing on the tinder to get it smoking before putting it into the A frame. (Flint and steel is a technique that’s easier than it looks while using a friction bow is far more difficult than you’d imagine.) As long as you have something you can light and fit under the A-bar of the big logs to light the tinder, you can arrange the kindling before doing so. I’ve recently been using an aim-and-flame but that’s not really as good as using wood matches stored in a waterproof container. If you opt for more of a challenge in fire-starting, you’ll have to add the rest of the wood as you make sure the tinder is getting air (which isn’t particularly challenging, actually, as long as the kindling is with easy reach).
Secret #1: The fuzz stick. If your wood isn’t dry or weather conditions aren’t amenable, I highly recommend taking a few minutes to construct a fuzz stick, which acts as a transitional device between the tinder and the kindling. Get a stick about a ½” thick and a foot or so long, and cover the entire thing with a series of thin U-shaped cuts. Each U gets flared out so the stick looks fluffy. Finally, sharpen the end opposite the one the knife blade has been facing to a point and stab it through the middle of the tinder in the A frame so that it stands erect. The fire will climb the stick, first burning the flared out notches until it consumes the stick itself. This might seem like a waste of time, but it’ll save you a few matches in the event your tinder goes out before the kindling is fully lit. Making the fuzz stick for the next trip is a great pastime while sitting around the fire. You can quickly improvise a substitute by ripping a bunch of tears into a brown paper bag and then rolling it up.
Immediately after the fuzz stick is in place, the smallest twigs are placed in rows above the tinder across the triangle of the A frame. Leave space between the sticks for air to be able to pass through. Then, form the largest kindling, consisting of three thick branches or log wedges, into a tripod above them. Finally, lean medium-sized kindling against the tripod, making a teepee surrounding the outside of the A frame but not between the legs of the A.
Now all you need to do is light the tinder. You might be noticing that there are a lot more places where more wood can be added. Instead of acting on this impulse, refer to tenet #2.
Once the tinder is started (if you don’t have a match long enough to reach under the log, light something longer, like a thinly rolled piece of paper, first), you want to make sure to keep airflow underneath it as the flames raise up and into the kindling. The classic methods are to contort your head down there and blow or use a bellows. I have to credit my friend Chant for introducing me to a third option.
Secret #2: The blow tube. Take approximately two feet of ¾” copper tubing and flatten one end with a hammer, leaving a sliver for an opening. Wrap glow tape at the top of the opposite end so that you remember which end is which. Then all you do is aim the flattened end where air is needed and blow through it. Don’t be overly worried about blowing out the flame; even if you do, a couple more blows should get it started again. The flames going out is not the same as the fire going out, but if you run out of glowing embers you might be hosed.
Depending upon the dryness of the wood, you might need to add a bit more kindling before the fire is hot enough to burn the log. If it starts going out, there is no need to immediately panic, because the small grated platform for the tinder that was the first thing placed acts as emergency back-up kindling. Build the fire by adding slightly larger sizes while keeping it supplied with oxygen; resist the urge to frantically dump on a bunch more tinder. The teepee will eventually collapse and you might need to push the sticks together to prevent the fire from getting too spread out, and the blow tube can be reappropriated for this task. Once the largest kindling that acted as the main support for the teepee is burning, another log can be placed alongside the cross bar of the A frame on top of the V with space between the two logs for airflow and then two more logs can be stacked perpendicular on top of those. That’s all there is to it. Occasionally consolidating and adding logs is all you’ll have to do for the rest of the evening.
White-hot coals are ideal for cooking on, and at this point I usually start prepping food, as it’ll be about a half hour before there are enough of them to cook with.
Unless it rains, after the inaugural fire has burnt down to coals, you should be able to start a new one simply by putting some twigs on them and blowing.
Before abandoning the vicinity, be sure to first sprinkle (to avoid a cloud of smoke and ash) and then completely douse the entire fire pit area with water.
I can start a fire in a light rain or heavy winds with absolutely no problem. I’m not bragging, because all it takes is a basic understanding of how fire behaves, which I’m keen to share with anyone willing to listen. I’m also content to sit back and mock stubbornly desperate and futile attempts.
Tenet #1: Fire is lazy. If you are willing to do the work for it, it is content to let you. It will consume the easiest thing available that will sustain its current state. It doesn’t want to grow and doesn’t like change.
Tenet #2: Fire can’t hold its breath. It needs a constant supply of oxygen. Wood does not act as a substitute for oxygen; in fact oxygen is more important than fuel.
That’s pretty much all you need to know about fire to get one started.
The ideal diameter area in which to build a normal-sized fire is about a yard (meter), but most provided pits at modern campsites are about half that. This is because the people providing them know most people become idiots in the presence of fire and are trying to restrict the size of it as much as possible. I don’t blame them. Speaking of idiots- things that should never be discarded in a fire pit include glass, metal, plastic and rubber. Burning railroad ties is also a bad idea.
Have all your firewood gathered before starting the fire. There are three categories of wood, and you will need all three to progress a flame into a campfire. The finest materials used to get the fire started are called tinder. You don’t need much of it- just enough to fill two cupped hands. Tinder can be: a dried out bird’s nest, dried pine needles, shredded paper or a ripped up brown paper grocery sack. A ripped up weekday newspaper also works, but avoid the glossy pages printed with color ink. Do not use dried leaves; they just create smoke and tend to smother the fire. A common mistake in building a fire is using too much tinder. Its purpose is to get the fire started and not to keep it going. As long as you keep feeding tinder to a jejune fire, tinder is the only thing it will consume (refer to tenet #1). The goal is to ween it off tinder and force it to burn larger materials.
Kindling is the term used for the wood used to grow the fire. Basically, kindling is tree branches. As your fire building skills improve, you will need less and less kindling, but an armload or one dead tree branch should be more than enough. The main thing is to have a progression in size from twigs to about 2 inch diameter sticks. If a branch bends instead of snaps or is green in the middle, it is not dried, or cured. Also, I’d better point out that in some states it is illegal to use tree branches found on site at certain campgrounds. Alternatively, you can use a progression from tightly rolled up newspaper or brown paper bag to corrugated cardboard or paint stir sticks to untreated lumber or quartered logs.
The goal of building a fire is to get it to burn logs, which are called fuel. In ideal conditions, the progression from match to log takes about 5 minutes. If you’re not using dry wood, a realistic goal is more like 10-15 minutes. If you construct the tinder, kindling and fuel properly, very little work is needed once the tinder is lit, whereas if you just haphazardly chuck wood into the pit, you will spend more time than necessary fussing with it.
Please note: starter fluid is for putting on charcoal briquettes, not on campfires.
You want to provide a way for a little air to get under the tinder. I do this by placing two ½” sticks in a V shape pointing away from the wind (opposite how a weather vane works) so the wind blows inside the opening of the V and laying several small twigs across the V like a grate. Nest, I surround that small V with a much larger V of two 4” logs. Across this large V make an A by placing a wedges log across it. I recommend a wedge both because that’s an easy way of preventing it from rolling off and because it provides an easier meal for the fire than a rounded log. This wedged log is the goal of our fire building operation. Once that wedge is in flames, you should be able to keep the fire going simply by adding more logs.
The tinder goes in the area on top of the small twigs held up by the small V and inside the A of the logs. One handy cheat I use as the primary thing to light is a stick of sawdust compressed with resin or wax that you can either make or buy for cheap in any store with a camping section.
If you are using some method other than a match or lighter to start the fire, you’ll have to wait before stacking any more wood, because it’ll probably involve cupping and blowing on the tinder to get it smoking before putting it into the A frame. (Flint and steel is a technique that’s easier than it looks while using a friction bow is far more difficult than you’d imagine.) As long as you have something you can light and fit under the A-bar of the big logs to light the tinder, you can arrange the kindling before doing so. I’ve recently been using an aim-and-flame but that’s not really as good as using wood matches stored in a waterproof container. If you opt for more of a challenge in fire-starting, you’ll have to add the rest of the wood as you make sure the tinder is getting air (which isn’t particularly challenging, actually, as long as the kindling is with easy reach).
Secret #1: The fuzz stick. If your wood isn’t dry or weather conditions aren’t amenable, I highly recommend taking a few minutes to construct a fuzz stick, which acts as a transitional device between the tinder and the kindling. Get a stick about a ½” thick and a foot or so long, and cover the entire thing with a series of thin U-shaped cuts. Each U gets flared out so the stick looks fluffy. Finally, sharpen the end opposite the one the knife blade has been facing to a point and stab it through the middle of the tinder in the A frame so that it stands erect. The fire will climb the stick, first burning the flared out notches until it consumes the stick itself. This might seem like a waste of time, but it’ll save you a few matches in the event your tinder goes out before the kindling is fully lit. Making the fuzz stick for the next trip is a great pastime while sitting around the fire. You can quickly improvise a substitute by ripping a bunch of tears into a brown paper bag and then rolling it up.
Immediately after the fuzz stick is in place, the smallest twigs are placed in rows above the tinder across the triangle of the A frame. Leave space between the sticks for air to be able to pass through. Then, form the largest kindling, consisting of three thick branches or log wedges, into a tripod above them. Finally, lean medium-sized kindling against the tripod, making a teepee surrounding the outside of the A frame but not between the legs of the A.
Now all you need to do is light the tinder. You might be noticing that there are a lot more places where more wood can be added. Instead of acting on this impulse, refer to tenet #2.
Once the tinder is started (if you don’t have a match long enough to reach under the log, light something longer, like a thinly rolled piece of paper, first), you want to make sure to keep airflow underneath it as the flames raise up and into the kindling. The classic methods are to contort your head down there and blow or use a bellows. I have to credit my friend Chant for introducing me to a third option.
Secret #2: The blow tube. Take approximately two feet of ¾” copper tubing and flatten one end with a hammer, leaving a sliver for an opening. Wrap glow tape at the top of the opposite end so that you remember which end is which. Then all you do is aim the flattened end where air is needed and blow through it. Don’t be overly worried about blowing out the flame; even if you do, a couple more blows should get it started again. The flames going out is not the same as the fire going out, but if you run out of glowing embers you might be hosed.
Depending upon the dryness of the wood, you might need to add a bit more kindling before the fire is hot enough to burn the log. If it starts going out, there is no need to immediately panic, because the small grated platform for the tinder that was the first thing placed acts as emergency back-up kindling. Build the fire by adding slightly larger sizes while keeping it supplied with oxygen; resist the urge to frantically dump on a bunch more tinder. The teepee will eventually collapse and you might need to push the sticks together to prevent the fire from getting too spread out, and the blow tube can be reappropriated for this task. Once the largest kindling that acted as the main support for the teepee is burning, another log can be placed alongside the cross bar of the A frame on top of the V with space between the two logs for airflow and then two more logs can be stacked perpendicular on top of those. That’s all there is to it. Occasionally consolidating and adding logs is all you’ll have to do for the rest of the evening.
White-hot coals are ideal for cooking on, and at this point I usually start prepping food, as it’ll be about a half hour before there are enough of them to cook with.
Unless it rains, after the inaugural fire has burnt down to coals, you should be able to start a new one simply by putting some twigs on them and blowing.
Before abandoning the vicinity, be sure to first sprinkle (to avoid a cloud of smoke and ash) and then completely douse the entire fire pit area with water.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Paradoxical Viewpoints
While the two people I hung out with most in junior high are two of the most generous and caring people I’ve encountered, it chagrins me to admit that the three people I spent the majority of my time with in high school are utterly despicable. I mention this not to speak ill but to ponder why I didn’t notice. They would criticize how I have changed, but I perceive my own character back then as deficient. I blame this in part on a typically teenage combination of wholly self-assured and utterly confused, but also on a fundamentally skewed view of reality.
One insight into my high school mindset is an occurrence I remember in one of Bob’s classes. (Bob was the teacher: his name was Mr. Roberts, but everybody called him Bob, because he allowed them to do so.) One of his assignments was to write a character sketch of him. I essentially wrote, “Bob adheres to New Age beliefs,” and turned it in, proud that I had so succinctly captured his persona. It came back with a failing grade and the comment, “You didn’t follow the assignment, which was to describe my personality.” I was genuinely confused by this. It seemed like he was suggesting there was something more to him than which religious stereotype he most resembled. Perhaps there was a religion I was unfamiliar with which better reflected his ideology? Perhaps he wasn’t privy to the accuracy of my insight? I thought about challenging the grade I’d received and get to the bottom of this obvious misunderstanding on his part, but decided against it.
The whole affair seems utterly strange to me today, especially considering the only thing I know about New Age is that it somehow involves crystals and John Tesh, and have no idea how I related these to Bob. I can’t figure out how I presumably didn’t understand that people have unique traits and qualities separate from any ideology. I can only surmise that I didn’t see them because I didn’t know to look for them. I just assumed everyone was either going to heaven or hell when they died, and it was best not to get to know the ones that were going to hell because they were bad influences. This heavily suggests that I was a major tool, to use parlance that, as far as I know, didn’t exist back then.
All life would be tragic if we weren’t provided the opportunity to learn, change and grow; but even more unfortunate is the life of someone who refuses that chance. I’ve long held that our lives our guided foremost by our priorities; that the things we value the most affects our perception of everything we encounter. I propose that even if we understand our own priorities, egocentrism makes it difficult to discern the motivations of others. For instance, I’ve long scratched my head at those prone to declare, “You’re just jealous,” as it seems ridiculously dismissive reductionism. But I’m not at all a jealous person, and perhaps that is why I’ve never considered it a valid motive for any pronouncement.
I’m notoriously impatient, and that bad habit prevents me from paying enough attention sometimes. I think of replies while others are still speaking, can be easily frustrated by communication failures and never see the point of beating around the bush. I’m prone to attack a sentence before heeding the clarifying or qualifying follow-up. My hurriedness tends to cause me to neglect affability and embrace crass bluntness. Our society is generally more comfortable with pretense and niceties than frankness, and perhaps rightfully so. Honest opinions tend to either offend or infuriate. Others are prone to informing me, “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it,” to which I respond, “It’s not what you hear, it’s what you’re listening for.”
Oh, the irony. What am I listening for?
I find the nature of reality both fascinating and important. Sadly (from my perspective), this puts me in the minority. I’m constantly struggling to see things objectively and from multiple angles. This translates into a fondness for debate. While I strive to understand, often by exposing untruths (following Sherlock Holmes’ famous maxim), I’m often seen as argumentative. In actuality, I don’t at all like to argue and find it counter-productive.
Because some might retort that the difference between argument and debate is only semantic, I want to address what I see as a key difference: in argument there is always disrespect or the feeling of being disrespected whereas in debate both parties attempt to find mutual respect. Debate is sometimes impossible; one can only argue with a grocery store employee explaining store policy or a driver trying to run people off the road. Argument is the expression of one’s own bias causing frustration at another’s perceived faults. Debate, on the other hand, seeks accuracy and avoids assumption.
For some, the goal of debate is to trick another into a corner from which they cannot get out. This makes sense if you’re a prosecuting attorney or simply want to humiliate someone, but often results in chasing red herrings. I prefer to stay on topic.
Perhaps the greatest result of any debate is to come to a mutual understanding and appreciation for why divergent opinions are held, but this is only possible when both viewpoints have validity. When I don’t perceive this to be the case, I am strongly inclined to try and talk some sense into another. Although I might optimistically strive to change another’s mind, usually the best I can hope for is to promote further reflection or exploration on a topic. My debate tendency is to attempt to introduce concepts and variables as well as point out assumptions and fallacies pertaining to a conviction that perhaps another hasn’t considered. Unconsciously, I tend to assume refusal to accept facts is due to stubbornness. But after reflecting on some similarly confusing conversations and encounters with others through the years, I’m realizing some conversations never get anywhere precisely because their priorities, motivations and goals are fundamentally incompatible with mine, resulting in two separate conversations taking place simultaneously.
Some see stubbornness as a virtue. In this framework, the person who most refuses to concede is seen to have more conviction in what they believe, and through some fallacy of logic conclude that this validates those beliefs. Facts are considered a crutch for those who fail to “feel it in their heart.” In lieu of valid evidence, these people will tend to recite quotes echoing their position and metaphors explaining them. They will boast of their faith-based beliefs, not realizing that term was originally intended as a mocking antonym for fact-based beliefs. Rigidly hoping does not lead to truth, but (to state a tautology) it does sustain hope, and that is the highest of priorities for many. For me, as already stated, futility is found in a life refusing change, so what others perceive as retaining hopefulness I view as hopelessness. Eureka.
The Christian ideology I grew up with emphasized humility, devotion and long-suffering. My cynical self now realizes this as a successful scheme to keep subjects blithe, passive and obedient. However, there is another Christian angle that venerates success, prosperity and accolades because those things are granted by a higher power only to those deemed worthy enough to have them. This latter twist is so foreign, my inclination is to approach it with incredulousness, but both concepts are right there in the same compilation of books. Just as piety can be thought to bring success, success can be thought to prove piety.
There are yet others who esteem dominance, intimidation and oppression. They adhere to the premise, “might makes right,” and for them, the goal of debate is to display the most strength. This chauvinist mentality will admit making mistakes but not that they’re wrong. They seek out perceived weaknesses, such as compromise, modesty, frustration and empathy, and attempt to exploit them. They epitomize schadenfreude. One way in which their assumption of another’s weakness can be detected is in bizarre attempts at inducing guilt. They talk loud, interrupt and use unnecessarily arcane words.
Again, this prioritizing of bravado over reasoning seems to me so patently flawed, it is very difficult for me to accept that it’s how some people think. However, upon reflection, we all tend to assume docile creatures, like cows, are dim-witted. Further, it is convenient to assume that this perceived dumbness makes us inherently superior to them, and this perceived superiority seemingly justifies our opinions and behaviors over theirs.
Another motivation that I’ve discovered others to have is the desire for affirmation. Some become crazed when their viewpoints go unacknowledged. My assumption would be that these people suffer from low self-esteem, and was surprised to find it is in fact a major symptom of narcissism. Like an over-inflated balloon, narcissists’ exaggeratedly self-important egos are highly fragile. They will criticize others of the same traits they justify in themselves. They love to boast of their possessions and accomplishments while hypocritically underestimating and devaluing others. Narcissists are often envious of things belonging to others since they see themselves as more deserving. They hold grudges. From my perspective, the most frightening trait of narcissists is that they see themselves as having or even being the cure for all that is wrong with the world.
However, it should be considered that seeking approbation can also be due to a desire for respect; which is justifiable considering without respect all debate is doomed. Disrespect is rooted in lack of empathy, and lack of empathy is the root of all kinds of evils. It is the common thread between those motivated by both dominance and narcissism. Without empathy, people are compartmentalized with labels and lumped into prepackaged categories, exactly as I had done with Bob in high school. The feelings and experiences of others, being considered less important than loftier, purer ideals, can be dismissed. Only those beliefs which personally affect that individual’s life matter, so, for example, a man will not value women’s rights.
While my goal here is to understand the perspectives of others in order to find common ground from which more productive dialogue can be generated, I’m at a loss how to see eye to eye with the trait of lacking empathy, as it creates a conundrum. I suppose the best we can do is find other characteristics or qualities within a person which make communication possible. We must look beyond the ease with which we can write someone off as a sociopath, for example, and gain awareness and understanding of each person as a fellow human being. We must strive to remain empathetic even when it seems others are being wholly selfish. In the end, it is not our ability to successfully debate but our humanity that prevents us from destroying ourselves.
One insight into my high school mindset is an occurrence I remember in one of Bob’s classes. (Bob was the teacher: his name was Mr. Roberts, but everybody called him Bob, because he allowed them to do so.) One of his assignments was to write a character sketch of him. I essentially wrote, “Bob adheres to New Age beliefs,” and turned it in, proud that I had so succinctly captured his persona. It came back with a failing grade and the comment, “You didn’t follow the assignment, which was to describe my personality.” I was genuinely confused by this. It seemed like he was suggesting there was something more to him than which religious stereotype he most resembled. Perhaps there was a religion I was unfamiliar with which better reflected his ideology? Perhaps he wasn’t privy to the accuracy of my insight? I thought about challenging the grade I’d received and get to the bottom of this obvious misunderstanding on his part, but decided against it.
The whole affair seems utterly strange to me today, especially considering the only thing I know about New Age is that it somehow involves crystals and John Tesh, and have no idea how I related these to Bob. I can’t figure out how I presumably didn’t understand that people have unique traits and qualities separate from any ideology. I can only surmise that I didn’t see them because I didn’t know to look for them. I just assumed everyone was either going to heaven or hell when they died, and it was best not to get to know the ones that were going to hell because they were bad influences. This heavily suggests that I was a major tool, to use parlance that, as far as I know, didn’t exist back then.
All life would be tragic if we weren’t provided the opportunity to learn, change and grow; but even more unfortunate is the life of someone who refuses that chance. I’ve long held that our lives our guided foremost by our priorities; that the things we value the most affects our perception of everything we encounter. I propose that even if we understand our own priorities, egocentrism makes it difficult to discern the motivations of others. For instance, I’ve long scratched my head at those prone to declare, “You’re just jealous,” as it seems ridiculously dismissive reductionism. But I’m not at all a jealous person, and perhaps that is why I’ve never considered it a valid motive for any pronouncement.
I’m notoriously impatient, and that bad habit prevents me from paying enough attention sometimes. I think of replies while others are still speaking, can be easily frustrated by communication failures and never see the point of beating around the bush. I’m prone to attack a sentence before heeding the clarifying or qualifying follow-up. My hurriedness tends to cause me to neglect affability and embrace crass bluntness. Our society is generally more comfortable with pretense and niceties than frankness, and perhaps rightfully so. Honest opinions tend to either offend or infuriate. Others are prone to informing me, “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it,” to which I respond, “It’s not what you hear, it’s what you’re listening for.”
Oh, the irony. What am I listening for?
I find the nature of reality both fascinating and important. Sadly (from my perspective), this puts me in the minority. I’m constantly struggling to see things objectively and from multiple angles. This translates into a fondness for debate. While I strive to understand, often by exposing untruths (following Sherlock Holmes’ famous maxim), I’m often seen as argumentative. In actuality, I don’t at all like to argue and find it counter-productive.
Because some might retort that the difference between argument and debate is only semantic, I want to address what I see as a key difference: in argument there is always disrespect or the feeling of being disrespected whereas in debate both parties attempt to find mutual respect. Debate is sometimes impossible; one can only argue with a grocery store employee explaining store policy or a driver trying to run people off the road. Argument is the expression of one’s own bias causing frustration at another’s perceived faults. Debate, on the other hand, seeks accuracy and avoids assumption.
For some, the goal of debate is to trick another into a corner from which they cannot get out. This makes sense if you’re a prosecuting attorney or simply want to humiliate someone, but often results in chasing red herrings. I prefer to stay on topic.
Perhaps the greatest result of any debate is to come to a mutual understanding and appreciation for why divergent opinions are held, but this is only possible when both viewpoints have validity. When I don’t perceive this to be the case, I am strongly inclined to try and talk some sense into another. Although I might optimistically strive to change another’s mind, usually the best I can hope for is to promote further reflection or exploration on a topic. My debate tendency is to attempt to introduce concepts and variables as well as point out assumptions and fallacies pertaining to a conviction that perhaps another hasn’t considered. Unconsciously, I tend to assume refusal to accept facts is due to stubbornness. But after reflecting on some similarly confusing conversations and encounters with others through the years, I’m realizing some conversations never get anywhere precisely because their priorities, motivations and goals are fundamentally incompatible with mine, resulting in two separate conversations taking place simultaneously.
Some see stubbornness as a virtue. In this framework, the person who most refuses to concede is seen to have more conviction in what they believe, and through some fallacy of logic conclude that this validates those beliefs. Facts are considered a crutch for those who fail to “feel it in their heart.” In lieu of valid evidence, these people will tend to recite quotes echoing their position and metaphors explaining them. They will boast of their faith-based beliefs, not realizing that term was originally intended as a mocking antonym for fact-based beliefs. Rigidly hoping does not lead to truth, but (to state a tautology) it does sustain hope, and that is the highest of priorities for many. For me, as already stated, futility is found in a life refusing change, so what others perceive as retaining hopefulness I view as hopelessness. Eureka.
The Christian ideology I grew up with emphasized humility, devotion and long-suffering. My cynical self now realizes this as a successful scheme to keep subjects blithe, passive and obedient. However, there is another Christian angle that venerates success, prosperity and accolades because those things are granted by a higher power only to those deemed worthy enough to have them. This latter twist is so foreign, my inclination is to approach it with incredulousness, but both concepts are right there in the same compilation of books. Just as piety can be thought to bring success, success can be thought to prove piety.
There are yet others who esteem dominance, intimidation and oppression. They adhere to the premise, “might makes right,” and for them, the goal of debate is to display the most strength. This chauvinist mentality will admit making mistakes but not that they’re wrong. They seek out perceived weaknesses, such as compromise, modesty, frustration and empathy, and attempt to exploit them. They epitomize schadenfreude. One way in which their assumption of another’s weakness can be detected is in bizarre attempts at inducing guilt. They talk loud, interrupt and use unnecessarily arcane words.
Again, this prioritizing of bravado over reasoning seems to me so patently flawed, it is very difficult for me to accept that it’s how some people think. However, upon reflection, we all tend to assume docile creatures, like cows, are dim-witted. Further, it is convenient to assume that this perceived dumbness makes us inherently superior to them, and this perceived superiority seemingly justifies our opinions and behaviors over theirs.
Another motivation that I’ve discovered others to have is the desire for affirmation. Some become crazed when their viewpoints go unacknowledged. My assumption would be that these people suffer from low self-esteem, and was surprised to find it is in fact a major symptom of narcissism. Like an over-inflated balloon, narcissists’ exaggeratedly self-important egos are highly fragile. They will criticize others of the same traits they justify in themselves. They love to boast of their possessions and accomplishments while hypocritically underestimating and devaluing others. Narcissists are often envious of things belonging to others since they see themselves as more deserving. They hold grudges. From my perspective, the most frightening trait of narcissists is that they see themselves as having or even being the cure for all that is wrong with the world.
However, it should be considered that seeking approbation can also be due to a desire for respect; which is justifiable considering without respect all debate is doomed. Disrespect is rooted in lack of empathy, and lack of empathy is the root of all kinds of evils. It is the common thread between those motivated by both dominance and narcissism. Without empathy, people are compartmentalized with labels and lumped into prepackaged categories, exactly as I had done with Bob in high school. The feelings and experiences of others, being considered less important than loftier, purer ideals, can be dismissed. Only those beliefs which personally affect that individual’s life matter, so, for example, a man will not value women’s rights.
While my goal here is to understand the perspectives of others in order to find common ground from which more productive dialogue can be generated, I’m at a loss how to see eye to eye with the trait of lacking empathy, as it creates a conundrum. I suppose the best we can do is find other characteristics or qualities within a person which make communication possible. We must look beyond the ease with which we can write someone off as a sociopath, for example, and gain awareness and understanding of each person as a fellow human being. We must strive to remain empathetic even when it seems others are being wholly selfish. In the end, it is not our ability to successfully debate but our humanity that prevents us from destroying ourselves.
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