“I think that we're showing the proper compassion and concern, so I can't tell you where [the widespread feeling that our administration is not doing enough about AIDS is] coming from, but I am very much concerned about AIDS and I believe that we’ve got the best researchers in the world out there at NIH working the problem. We're funding them- I wish there was more money, but we're funding them far more than anytime in the past.... So I think the appeal is, 'Yes, we care,' and the other thing is, part of AIDS it’s one of the few diseases where behavior matters, and I once called on somebody, ‘Well, change your behavior- if the behavior you’re using [is] prone to cause AIDS, change the behavior.’ The next thing I know one of these Act Up groups is out saying, ‘Bush ought to change his behavior.’ You can’t talk about it rationally!” - George Bush, first presidential debate, 1992
I grew up in a Pentecostal church, which surrounded me with dedicated people holding strong convictions. I also grew up in America in the 80’s, when millions of lives were being lost to the AIDS epidemic. At that time, my church and my government had the same policy: AIDS wasn’t the problem, homosexuality was.
My church preached that AIDS had been allowed by God as a punishment upon immoral sinners. The only cure was for these sinners to turn from their wicked ways and accept Jesus as their eternally loving and forgiving savior. Church-goers prayed, not for the disease to be cured, but for homosexuals to stop being gay.
It seems absurd that I should even have to explain how this is totally psychotic.
I don’t know how many of these people ever got to know anyone with full-blown AIDS. I have, and let me tell you, the symptoms of the disease are absolutely appalling. You don’t sit at their bedside and think, “I hope they don’t die.” Instead, you mortifyingly find yourself thinking, “How aren’t they dead yet?” and realize death isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The experience is profound, sad and humbling. AIDS is a disease you want not wish upon your greatest enemy… unless you were totally heartless.
Heartless is a term we use the way we do because Aristotle thought the heart controlled our sensory-perceptions and movements (and that the brain regulated blood temperature), and consequently our heart both evaluated our environment and determined our actions. In fact, the single reason why Western medical practices didn’t evolve for centuries was because of a persistent, unquestioning faith in Aristotle’s works on anatomy and medicine, which, it turns out, were completely wrong. When a solution to a problem is presented by a highly regarded source, it never occurs to most to question or validate that solution, even when it is completely unfounded or doesn’t actually solve anything.
The constitutional government of the United States of America, being a direct result of the Age of Enlightenment, understood this, and was designed with a system of checks and balances in order to force it to question itself and not rely on any single authority, including religious authority. In fact, the First Amendment forbids any law to be made as a result of religious bias and grants all individuals the right to practice whatever religion they choose, as opposed to officially declaring one superior to another. There is a very simple reason why this is a good thing, and it was incidentally stated by my mother when I mentioned I was writing this: Religions do not offer the possibility that they can be wrong. This explains both why religious people don’t understand how everybody doesn’t agree with them and why non-religious people don’t understand how religious people are so persistent. (It is worth noting that the framers of the Constitution were understandably less concerned with authoritarianism than in another rebellion. Hence, it was also designed to avoid mob rule.)
There is nothing greater to be feared than an entity that does not concede the possibility it can be wrong, except for those willing to unreservedly accept its teaching. Blind obedience to authority is the quickest route to committing abominable acts, because when we are simply following orders, we do not feel as culpable for our own actions. This is not simply my opinion: it is a well-researched psychological fact demonstrated, for example, by the Milgram experiments.
Pickpockets don’t steal by distracting you from your valuables; they do it by drawing your attention to something seemingly more important than your valuables. We are incapable of perceiving things outside of our focus. The simplest method for bringing about human cruelty is to distract humans from empathy by presenting something seemingly more important.
There is a documentary by Russian filmmaker Nikita Mikhalkov, the premise of which is to ask his daughter the same five questions on each of her birthdays. This seems innocent enough, except this was being done during a time when it was illegal to shoot home movies in the Soviet Union. Mikhalkov justifies his subversion because he is convinced of the importance of an honest, uncensored understanding of how government policies affect the views of (at least one of) its citizens. At one point, however, he begrudgingly scraps the project, realizing it could be putting his daughter in danger. His explanation of this decision is sublime: “No idea is worth life of child.”
I feel the most important thing for everyone to understand is that none of our beliefs, ideologies, notions, actions, activities, pursuits, assumptions, theories, etc. should ever be considered more important or valid than any single living human being. When a human life is in the balance, every opinion is always less important than that life, and that life takes priority over every opinion. You don’t have to approve of a lifestyle, relate to a culture or agree with a point of view in order to evince unconditional respect and solidarity for humankind.
I recently heard contempt defined as displaying moral superiority, and that is precisely the person I find most contemptible. (Interestingly, the judicial use of contempt refers to someone who blatantly disregards authority.) This is a paradox I find myself struggling to reconcile, because I would have to honestly admit that I feel I am morally superior to those who feel they are morally superior. Perhaps this demonstrates a truth that we should all be wary of: everyone is capable of not only justifying but actually committing atrocities. None of us are immune to conviction’s ability to blind. I don’t know whether evil exists, but I am convinced its antonym is informed empowerment.
Dogmatic, socially conservative and exploitative people, to name a few, tend to fear education. Unfamiliar culture, art, literature, language, music, sport and food are avoided and disdained by those who want to maintain the status quo. This sort of egocentricity should never be trusted, because it is always guided by ulterior motives. It is, in fact, NOT a small world, but a diverse and complicated one, and that scares the crap out of a lot of people.
Judging the American generation that came after the baby boomers as having no wars to fight is skewed. The reality is that the privilege to choose whether or not to join in the battles their generation faced was offered to a wider percentage of Americans, especially white, middle-class, non-socialist, heterosexual males. There will always be those whose greatest concern is to avoid confrontation. There is a word for those people: cowards. This does not apply to subversives who skillfully avoid getting caught. Tact is an admirable trait that appreciates the importance of understanding the appropriate time for action. Too often, however, days, weeks, years, decades and even centuries go by with nary a person riling against a wrong. Cowards are those who feel every problem can be circumvented by patting themselves and others on the back and saying, “good job!”
Heroes, on the other hand, are those in groups like Act Up, who, in defiance of authority, sought out and negotiated ways to expedite the search for AIDS treatments, ultimately saving millions of lives.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Inspirations
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.
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.
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….
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