Showing posts with label essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essays. Show all posts

Saturday, January 27, 2024

King Oscar and the lighthouse


If you've lived around the Puget Sound for any length of time, you know about The Gray.

The Gray - where you can't tell the sky from the water.
It has other names, of course. The Gloomy Season. The Big Dark. The Drizzle. Or, as they say in a particular movie, "It rains nine months of the year in Seattle." The constant overcast and light-to-heavy rainfall, combined with our location above the 45th Parallel, means that from November to March the Puget Sound skies are almost unrelentingly dark, foggy, or both. If you don't already have Seasonal Affective Disorder, you'll start to develop a touch of it in midwinter. You need to develop strategies to fight The Gray or it will overwhelm you and shut you down.

Now if this were a normal time, I'd fight The Gray by being with people. I'd visit family and friends. I'd go to Bremerton's nerd pubs and play pinball or cabinet video games. I'd strike up conversations with friendly strangers in the library. I'd gather with local geeks to play board games. I'd go to storytelling nights and hear about people's adventures from their own mouths. I'd meet people and I'd make friends.

But this is not a normal time.

I don't want to get sick. I don't want to make other people sick. I can't be successfully frugal AND spend much time with local friends, since it takes time and money to visit our old stomping grounds on the Eastside. And with a couple of rare exceptions, I haven't gotten out enough to meet any new people around here. I've been strongly isolated. And isolation is no way to fight The Gray.

What to do?

Well, if you're me, which I am, you knit and crochet while listening to back episodes of The Magnus Archives, putter around the house, cook, read library books, spend way too much time bingeing YouTube videos. And when you tire of that, you go troll hunting.

Today, since Captain Midnight was determined to DM some D&D deeds of derring-do, I was on my own for the afternoon. The Gray was lowering and unrelenting, but it was not a day to stay in. So I stole CM's jacket, gathered up the usual bundle of accoutrements (vitamins, water bottle, hot chocolatey goodness) and made for the ferry to Vashon Island.

You might not consider Vashon a prime spot to hunt for trolls, and ordinarily I'd agree with you. It's a fine place to find aging hippies, bike-eating trees, and (if rumor is correct) several ferocious local strains of cannabis, but until recently the only certain locale for Scandinavian cryptids was under the Aurora Avenue bridge in Seattle.

And then Thomas Dambo and crew came along and shook things up. But we'll get to that in a bit.

It usually takes a while to drive from our current digs to the Southworth ferry dock in Port Orchard. It usually takes even longer for the Southworth/Vashon/Fauntleroy ferry to show up -- so much so that on the rare occasions when I've used it to get back to Kitsap from Seattle, I end up waiting so long that I'd have made better time just driving around Tacoma and up the peninsula. CM and I usually refer to it as "the cursed ferry." So to my great delight, I didn't have to wait more than 10 minutes for the cursed ferry to arrive at Southworth Dock. And it didn't take another 10 minutes to make the crossing from there to Vashon.

Despite the gloominess of the day, I enjoyed my first look at Vashon Island. I couldn't live there, as there's no hospital or even a basic medical clinic, and everything has to reach the island by boat or helicopter. But it has a remarkable number of creative people per capita, and it's beautiful.

I drove merrily through the cute little downtown area, took a turn to the left and continued to follow driving directions for... far longer than I'd expected. How long should it take to reach any spot on an island of 37 square miles? As the roadway narrowed and twisted, I pulled over and sent a quick text to my siblings: "This place is in the middle of nowhere. IF I SHOULD FALL, TELL MY STORY"

Just then, though, the end hove in sight: the upper parking lot of the Point Robinson Lighthouse. 'Bout time.

Point Robinson Park sign, with birdhouses
(BTW, if you're new to troll hunting, look around for clusters of painted birdhouses like these. They're a sure sign that trolls are nearby.)

Since I'd never been to Point Robinson before, I was also curious about the lighthouse. And at the time it seemed like a lot of people were paying homage to King Oscar. So I thought I'd just pop down and see the lighthouse first.

To the lighthouse! (Isn't that a story?)

This turned out to be a mistake. Not the seeing-the-lighthouse part, the taking-this-route part. I headed down a forest trail that quickly became slick with mud and crud and slippery fallen leaves, and there were no handrails to cling to. Frankly, it's a minor miracle that I didn't slip and fall on my butt, BUT(t) somehow I SLOWLY worked my way down, walking like a little granny, and made it to the end of the path relatively unscathed (though it's a good thing my shoes were designed to be laundered).

The end of the trail and the Point Robinson lighthouse
And here's what I found!

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Yes, come closer
Ah yes indeed, very nice. 

No tours in the off season, sadly
No official tours until Mother's Day, more's the pity. But we're good at showing ourselves around the place.

After taking a few more attractive foties...

The lighthouse from its "good side"

And from its not so good side

I don't have a good side.
...I decided to head back. Though by this time I'd figured out there was another route up to the parking lot, so I didn't have to run the mud gauntlet again. Which is good, because I don't think my shoes could've taken it.

TROLL sign
Lessee, what was I doing here again? Oh yeah.

King Oscar's courtyard
In a circular clearing not too far away... there was King Oscar holding court, surrounded by birdhouse clusters on poles. And a lot of fans.

A helpful plaque
If you're curious to know more about him, there's a helpful plaque nearby that goes into more detail about Oscar and about Thomas Dambo, the Danish artist who created him (and other trolls) out of local scrap wood.

The man... well, troll... himself!
Like most wise rulers, Oscar's staying off his feet today.

King Oscar's face up close
He looks so much more handsome in person than he does on the sardine cans. Also I like his birdhouse crown. Very chic.

Oscar gots pedicure game!
Someone had used a few local clams to give him a fabulous pedicure. As you do.

Do NOT pull his finger.
I handed my phone to an innocent bystander and proceeded to commune with the King.

Soozcat and King Oscar
Now we're officially BFFs. If you can't be a king, it's at least nice to know one.

I wasn't through exploring yet, though.

What is this thing? I DO NOT KNOW.
Not far from the King's court was this mysterious object.

Kinda cool looking... thingy.
Other than possibly being some kind of cryptic municipal art, I have no idea what it was.

Mysteeeerious.
If you know, do clue me in, won't you? I'm most curious.

HERP DERP
And then I ran off and took goofy selfies in front of a mural because I could.

Anyway, that's one way to fight The Gray. And it worked pretty well if I do say so myself!

Friday, March 10, 2023

The push

Today I'd like to tell you a story about war, and about the things we do to save other people. I know most of us are sick to death of hearing about war right now, but today -- March 10 -- is an important holiday in our family, in part because of a different war that happened a long time ago.

You see, on this day in 1967, four very young men got into two very fast planes to complete a dangerous wartime mission: a bombing run of an enemy steel mill in North Vietnam. But someone tipped off the North Vietnamese that they were coming, and as a result both their planes were heavily shot up with anti-aircraft fire. Both were leaking a lot of fuel. One of the pilots, Earl Aman, soon realized that he wouldn't have enough fuel to get back to base, and that he and his weapons system officer (aka the GIB, or "guy in back") would have to eject over enemy territory.

This state of affairs didn't sit well with the pilot of the other plane, a guy named Bob Pardo. Bob's plane was leaking fuel too, but not as much as Earl's. And Bob refused to leave anyone behind. He thought fast and came up with a crazy idea.

"Don't eject just yet," he told Earl. "I'm going to try to push you."

The F-4 Phantoms they were flying were originally Navy jets, so they had tailhooks to help them land on aircraft carriers. And after trying unsuccessfully to push Earl's Phantom using the drag chute in back, Bob had Earl lower the plane's tailhook. He flew up carefully behind the plane and just kissed his windscreen against the heavy tailhook, and somehow, even with turbulence and slipping and a windscreen that kept cracking every time they came in contact, managed to push the other plane far enough that they made it to Laotian airspace -- closer to safety. With barely two minutes of flying time left, all four men ejected from their planes.

One of those men had his back damaged by the ejection seat, and his parachute got caught in the trees as he came down, so he was in a lot of pain. But there was no time to rest, because once he got free and was on the ground, he heard the shouts of some local villagers looking for him. They shot at him a few times, which suggested to him that they weren't friendly, so he started running (as well as he could with a damaged back). He ran for a long time, but eventually his strength gave out. He leaned up against a tree, gasping for breath, and wondered how bad it would be if they caught him and put him in a POW camp.

And then a thought came vividly to his mind. He thought of his new son, who had just been born three months earlier. He thought, If I'm killed or captured, I'll never get to see my little boy. He'll have to grow up without a father. And so, leaning against a tree in the middle of the Laotian wilderness, he prayed. He prayed for help and strength and the ability to evade the unfriendly people who were looking for him. He prayed to be able to see his son. And somehow, he found the strength to keep running. Not long after that, he and the other pilots were picked up by rescue helicopters and brought safely back to base.

Now, why do I tell you this story? Two reasons. First, our family celebrates what we call "Pardo's Pushday" because if Bob Pardo hadn't decided to give that other plane a push, there's a good likelihood we wouldn't be a family. See, Earl Aman's "guy in back," the man who leaned against a tree and prayed for strength, who had never seen his new son, was my father-in-law. The little boy whom he'd never seen was my husband, the intrepid Captain Midnight. And if Dad hadn't been rescued, he certainly would have been either imprisoned or killed. My husband would have grown up without a father. He would never have had a younger brother. Had the circumstances of our lives changed only a little, CM and I might never have met and married.

Here's the other, more important reason. Most of us aren't going to use our incredible flying skills to push a damaged plane out of enemy airspace. But the things we do -- the little pushes of encouragement we give people -- ripple outward in space and time and touch others in ways we couldn't possibly imagine. Because Bob Pardo saved those three men, they and their families would go on to influence so many other lives in so many countries. Likewise, because one of us puts a jar of peanut butter or a few cans of tuna into a Little Free Pantry, someone else might be able to make ends meet until payday comes and won't be kicked out for non-payment of rent. Because one of us donates money to a charitable organization dedicated to helping refugees, a family fleeing Ukraine or Somalia will have a hot meal and a place to sleep tonight. Most of us will never really understand the full impact of the small things we do to help push people to safety -- but it's important to do those things, to send love and help out into the dark, with the faith that they will make a difference for good in the world.

So, happy Pardo's Pushday. It’s traditional to have a donut (whatever flavor you like best) and toast Bob Pardo with it.

(Thanks for the push, Bob.)

Friday, January 13, 2023

Staycations and epiphanies

"Time for a staycation!" said the bearded shopper behind me.

I turned. "Sorry?"

"We were planning to go off somewhere this weekend, but now we're just going to have a little staycation instead," he said convivially, looking over the beef jerky. "Getting all kinds of goodies for the family." He surveyed his cart. "Actually, there's almost no junk food in here," he added. "They're gonna be disappointed."

After we exchanged a few pleasantries about needing to have flexible plans these days, I wished him a happy staycation and continued looking for salad fixings. (Tonight I'm making ham and beans and a big green salad with goodies in it.) And as I was looking through the canned beans, a sudden memory swept over me.

The word "staycation" has been around longer than I thought -- Merriam-Webster says it was first coined in 1944 -- but it really took hold in American popular culture during the early days of the pandemic. But the concept of staying in while doing something different certainly isn't new. And the memory I had was an amalgam of several different memories, something my mom would do occasionally when I was growing up, especially my years in middle school.

"Tonight, let's see what it was like to live in colonial times," she'd say. And for that evening, we'd turn off all the lights, unplug the appliances and clocks (except the battery-powered ones), and turn off the ringer on the phone. Instead of cooking on the stove, Mom would fire up the kerosene heater in front of the fireplace and cook a bubbling stew on its flat, trapezoidal top. We'd light kerosene lanterns at the kitchen table and put candles above the fireplace, and we'd do our homework by lantern light while Mom, who had been a history teacher before she married and had six children, would tell us about the era before video games and electrical power and refrigerators and lightbulbs: how people in those days lit their homes and kept their food safe to eat, how they'd cook over the kitchen hearth and bake in earthen ovens, how they'd entertain themselves in the long, cold winters. Sometimes during these colonial-times evenings, we'd get our sleeping bags and all sleep together in the front room, cozy and safe in the residual warmth of the kerosene heater.

A kerosene lantern with its shadow stretching out before it
"Lantern" by Chuck Grimmett. Public domain image.

I was smiling a little at the thought of it -- and then, for the first time, it really hit me.

"Oh," I said aloud, right in the canned-food aisle. "She didn't have enough money to pay PG&E."

We lived well below the poverty line even before my dad died, and while I think we kids all knew there wasn't much money, my mother tended to focus on things that were freely available to us -- the library, the public parks, city museums, walks and hikes in local green spaces, imaginative play -- rather than things we couldn't afford. There must have been times when she had very little money to pay the gas and electric bill, but she'd done such a skillful job of making "colonial times" into a purposeful adventure that up to that moment, it had never occurred to me that she was doing it out of financial necessity.

"She made necessity into an adventure." If I had to sum up my mom's parenting style in six words, I think that would be it.

Tuesday, November 22, 2022

Why Twitter? (WHY, Twitter?)

Some of you know I've had a Twitter account since 2009. I originally joined to hawk my wares on my now-defunct Etsy site, but stayed for the comments and other silliness.

And now I'm leaving.

With the changes being implemented by its new Musky overlord, Twitter shows signs of circling the drain. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who choose to stay will have to fight an uphill battle.

While Twitter is often crazy-making, I will miss it for many reasons -- one of which is the atmosphere. Every social media platform has its own peculiar atmosphere -- kind of the way every new place you move to has its own quality of light, its own sense of safety or danger, a particular scent to the air.

Facebook is being stuck in a huge room with all your family, friends and acquaintances, most of whom want to show you their photo books. There are a few "privacy" booths, but it's very easy for Gramma to accidentally meet your secret "friend" because NO COMPARTMENTALIZING ALLOWED.

Nextdoor is what happens when "Old Man Yells at Cloud" and your local paper's Letters to the Editor section have a baby. A very whiny, very entitled, often racist baby that makes you want to retroactively un-meet all your neighbors. (Can you guess it's not my favorite? Yeah.)

Instagram: BEHOLD MY GLORIOUS LUNCH. 'Nuff said.

Blogger: HAHAHAHAHA wait, people still blog in 2022? (...uh, yes. I do. So there)

I like Goodreads, if only as a place to keep track of what I've been reading (where DID that book go?), but social engagement on the site is sadly lacking. I don't even engage much on the site with the real-life friends I'm following on Goodreads. Anti-social media, maybe?

Then there's Twitter, AKA short-attention-span blogging. The character restriction leads people to scream slogans at each other rather than engaging in active discourse. The algorithm is designed to provoke anger and outrage. They keep tweaking the UI, moderation is, uh, uneven, and Elon just welcomed back Agolf Twitler.

It was kind of a hot mess even before the recent changes. So why will I miss it?

Because occasionally, Twitter did wonderful things. It would connect you with the account of a famous medieval poet who tweeted in Middle English. It would introduce you to people who shared short videos about cute fuzzy animals and humans being kind. It would put you in the way of up-and-coming comedians, famous horror writers, sassy food bloggers, Florida men whose beards ate combs for breakfast and who talked about Rule 303, amateur plumbers who'd tell you what to do about that knocking sound, and people who did their best, in 280 characters or less, to support each other and lend their strength in hard times.

Then there's the other kind of information. George Floyd's murder was shared on Twitter, and #drivingwhileblack began here too, showing how police profile black drivers. News about COVID-19 broke here, as well as the first medical strategies to fight it. And when Dolt 45 attempted a stochastic coup, Twitter (although it dragged its feet) was the first social media platform to ban him; once it set the example, others followed.

Twitter was the kind of place where you could scream a question into the void and (along with a share of random responses from bots and edgelords) you could get valid answers and links to more information from a half-dozen experts on the subject. And they didn't even have to be following you. If you let everyone reply, just about everyone WOULD reply. Some were jerks, but others were helpful, thoughtful, wise, kind. The kind of people you'd want as friends.

As with all social media platforms, your individual experience largely depended on the type of people/accounts with whom you chose to interact. But Twitter, despite its many failings, did a great job of connecting up people who might never have met otherwise. I don't know whether I'll find that particular atmosphere on Mastodon, or BlueSky, or Tribel, or any other proposed Twitter substitutes being bantered about right now. And although Twitter could sometimes make me feel crazy, I think losing its particular atmosphere is something to mourn.

Just something to think about.

P.S. - If you're interested in joining Mastodon, I can be found there at Soozcat@vmst.io.

Wednesday, November 09, 2022

On privilege and noblesse oblige

[I composed the skeleton of this post on social media, but since I liked the idea and since I'm not sure the original message will stay there, I've brought it over here. So there.]

America was founded on the precept that "all [humans] are created equal." Yet everywhere one looks in the USA, there are clear signs of a two-tiered society, with one set of rules for the poor and underprivileged, and another set for the rich and overserved. I've been thinking about the wealthy, that first-tier group in American society, and how immature and tone-deaf its members often act in public places. And it's occurred to me that, in the absence of true egalitarianism, we need to bring back the concept of noblesse oblige.

If you already know what that phrase means, hear me out. If you don't, let me explain.

"Noblesse oblige" (French: "nobility obliges") is the expectation that those who enjoy wealth and privilege in society also perform the social responsibilities that come with their station, especially with regard to the people around them who are less privileged than they. Or, to put it in a quintessentially American way, "With great power comes great responsibility."

The notion of noblesse oblige has a long history in Europe and, to a lesser extent, the USA. The feudal lord who protected the peasants who worked his land? Noblesse oblige. The tradition of British monarchs and their families to serve in the military, even though they could easily get out of doing so? Noblesse oblige. The Boxing Day holiday, where one gives small gifts to people in the service industries? Noblesse oblige. The tendency of wealthy families to start charities and donate large sums of money to social causes such as curing or preventing deadly illnesses, housing the homeless, or caring for orphans? Noblesse oblige. The reason why the word "noble" is a synonym for kind, generous, gracious, and self-denying? Noblesse oblige.

Nobleman looking in a mirror with an eagle behind him

Why do I think we need to bring this concept back? Because there are way too many self-focused Karens in the world, the kinds of people who throw adult tantrums in Starbucks because their convoluted coffee order was one degree colder than what they demanded, or who scream and flip tables when their wills are in any way thwarted. When such people throw fits in public and/or are brutal to people in service jobs merely to flaunt their privilege, they just end up looking like entitled asshats. Also, nothing says "new money" like vulgar insecurity acting out. When you order the world's first ultramegasuperyacht with your billions just to flaunt your cash liquidity before other wealthy people, they may say aloud, "That's a big boat," but privately wonder whether you're overcompensating for something. No one is overawed with your ability to maintain a laser-like focus on your own navel.

People with generational wealth and privilege have often been taught the concept of noblesse oblige from childhood. While some of these can still be oblivious to all the perks and privileges that come with their station, they still tend to be thoughtful, gracious and generous to the people around them. They have nothing to prove, so they don't act out like spoiled toddlers, and they realize that kindness is a true sign of quality.

Of course I would prefer a truly egalitarian society over the two-tiered mess we currently have. I believe in that promise of equality and I'm not going to stop working to make it reality. But even our current unequal society would be much more tolerable if the overserved among us were to recognize and uphold the responsibilities that came with their social privileges.

Monday, July 05, 2021

The Arnold reunion - Day 1

I was up at 3:45 this morning. The less said about that, the better. CM kindly drove me to the airport, where I had one of the smoothest boarding processes since 9/11 using SeaTac Airport's Save a Spot checkpoint option (no, they aren't paying me to say this, though I wouldn't complain if they did). The Alaska flight to Sacramento boarded on time, but departed nearly an hour late due to some unknown mechanical issue. Thankfully we had no cases of Feral Human Syndrome aboard and everyone stayed reasonably chill. The flight itself was blessedly uneventful and I slept at least part of the way.

Sacramento was a new airport for me; I wandered around a bit looking forlorn before finding the shuttle bus that took me to the car rental area. Eventually I got to the Thrifty counter, where they'd reserved me a cute little Nissan Versa *meep meep* car. After a few minutes of tossing luggage in the trunk, adjusting mirrors and turning down the radio which had been turned ALL THE WAY UP TO 11, I headed out.

It's about a two-hour drive from the Sacramento airport to the little Calaveras County town of Arnold. On the way, you drive through suburban sprawl, farmland and high desert. I stopped at a CVS in the little desert town of Valley Springs for a quick bathroom break and some road snacks. Past the desert, you begin to encounter the rolling "golden hills" and oak trees typical of rural northern California, and then start your ascent into the Sierra Nevadas on SR 4. Things change subtly, the oaks slowly shifting to evergreens, the underbrush becoming less dry and more green, the dirt by the roadside turning a vivid orange-red, and sweet peas blooming here and there. The road becomes narrower, more treacherous on the turns. Your car has to work at besting the incline, especially if it's a little *meep meep* car.

Somewhere between the airport and Arnold, Captain Midnight texted me to let me know that V had been in an accident and her car had been totaled. Fortunately, V herself was unhurt, nor was anyone else seriously injured, but she'd been badly shaken up by the accident and was very depressed at losing her transportation.

I describe Arnold as a "town," but according to the Census Bureau it is a "census-designated place" of about 3800 people. It's a typical little mountain town where the local cost of gas and groceries is so astronomical that most locals drive to Costco, nearly two hours away, to stock up every few weeks. I stopped first at Big Trees Market to pick up some late lunch (a mediocre stromboli and a banana) before checking into our rental cabin around 3 p.m. Since I was the first to arrive, I started up the air conditioner (it was unusually hot for the area, regularly getting into the mid-90s while we were there), then locked the place up and went for a drive around Arnold.

My mother's side of the family has been renting cabins and staying in Arnold for a week of summer vacation since at least the 1970s. One auntie now lives in the area full-time. (She wasn't there while we were visiting, but that's a story for later.) The cabin we typically rented when I was a kid, close to Blue Lake Springs, was still there -- but I didn't recognize it at first, as someone had bought it and added onto it to make it even larger. Some things were pretty much the same, though: the lake itself, the Giant Burger at the side of Highway 4, the twisty road that led up to Calaveras Big Trees State Park. My sibs and I didn't find a cabin close to Blue Lake Springs that was available to rent, so this time we picked a place nearby in the Lakemont Pines area.

I headed back to the cabin, took a nap, read a little Pride and Prejudice (yes, first time ever reading it; took me long enough, right?) and wondered where my sibs were. They had intended to drive out from Utah, and I thought they'd be in the area sooner than they were. Plus, nobody was responding to texts. I decided it would be better to get up and do something than sit around worrying, so I went for a pizza run. By the time I got back armed with pizza, the fam had showed up. So we sat around eating pizza, chatting about our various adventures getting there and deciding on who got which room. Michele and I decided to share the big king-sized bed and we bunked down for the night.

Sleep was... sporadic. I kept worrying about V and the accident. There wasn't much I could do for her from where I was, but I knew she had to be shaken up and unhappy, and rest doesn't come easy when you know someone you love is in a bad state.

Thursday, May 20, 2021

The house on Oakmont Lane

Our family moved into a rental house in Provo, Utah in the last hot days of August, 1983. I can remember that specifically because one day after we finished unloading the moving van into our new temporary home, I started the school year as a freshman at Provo High. I literally didn't know a single soul there, and my mother said that when she dropped me off at the front of the school campus on the first day, I was shaking like a leaf. But despite my fears, the kids at Provo High turned out to be kinder and significantly more welcoming to a shy, awkward teenage nerd-girl than the kids in the middle school I'd left behind in Northern California. I found my feet relatively quickly.

The rental house was a prefab home with an unfinished basement and a back yard full of boulders and little else. But it was at the lower elevations of Y Mountain, in an area known as the East Bench of the Oak Hills neighborhood, and the west-facing windows offered a gorgeous view of the city and BYU nestled into the valley, Utah Lake out beyond that, and the Oquirrh Mountains framing the sunsets. Even on days where "inversions" made the air khaki-colored and gritty and the Geneva Steel Mill did its best to give everyone in the valley lung cancer, the view was still striking.

And then there was the allure of the house right next door.

The Buck house
Looking up from the cul-de-sac, 2021

It was an imposing-looking place, two stories of red brick and an unfinished partial daylight basement, built in 1979 (so only four years old when we moved into the neighborhood). There was a minor tragedy about the place; the original owners had built it from the ground up, sparing no expense to create their dream home. It turned out that "sparing no expense" was their downfall, as they ran out of money and lost the house to a bank repossession. Hoping to get it back some day, they had placed a lien on the property that made it difficult for prospective buyers to purchase it. It was a gorgeous home, but we assumed we'd never have the finances to buy it, let alone the ability to navigate the legal thicket associated with the lien.

As circumstances would have it, the original owners still lived in the area when we moved in, and they attended the same church congregation we did. We'd been living in Provo for about a year when they discovered Mom was interested in buying their house, and by that point they had largely given up on ever getting it back. They liked Mom, and they liked our family, so they decided to remove one of the roadblocks to purchase by taking the lien off the property. Further, because it was bank-owned and had some plumbing issues from having stood vacant for a few years, it was offered at a very good price. In the summer of 1984, Mom bought the house on Oakmont Lane and we made what was probably the simplest move ever -- we just picked everything up and trotted it next door.

The house, like all houses, had its quirks. The huge room over the garage was originally meant to be an open-air deck, the solar panels on the side of the house didn't work properly, the roof leaked, the plumbing needed several repairs, and there was one particular section of the water pipes that tended to freeze solid in the Utah winters. But it didn't matter. We owned a home again, and it was ours.

When we first moved in, the house had three bedrooms, all on the top floor. With six kids in the family, we really wanted one more bedroom. See that little window at the bottom of the house, in the daylight part of the basement? That was the area where one of our neighbors, a contractor, framed in and finished a bedroom for my sister Julie and me. We shared that room from the time we moved in until I began a series of moving-aways -- first to a college dorm, then to a shared apartment, then to a year spent working in California with extended family, and then finally when I got married and moved out "for good" in 1993 (Captain Midnight and I did return to live in the basement for a couple of years in the early 2000s).

This place has been our family home for 37 years.

We sold it today.

None of us could afford to keep the place, and in any case Mom specified in her will that we should sell it and divide the proceeds between the six of us. We all knew it would happen eventually. Personally, I haven't lived there since late 2004; there are other places I've called home since. And in all honesty, it was only home because Mom made it that way. Since she died, the sense of "home" has slowly leaked out of the house, diminishing by degrees as the little treasures and furnishings and keepsakes were taken away. Now it's just a place.

But. It was a place where I practiced the piano over and over again, where Dan practiced his trombone, where Julie tried her hand at playing the drums and Tim worked on his practice chanter for bagpipes. It was a place where we sang together, where we told each other dumb jokes and family stories and laughed uproariously at them. It was a place where fights and family tragedies unfolded, too. It was a place where I'd often sneak our long-haired kitty Chamomile, who was supposed to be an outdoor-only cat, into the basement room for a warm, comfortable snooze. It was also the place where I returned with Chamomile's body in a cardboard box after her final visit to the vet, to bury her in the side yard. It was a place where Mom cooked homemade doughnuts at Halloween and oliebollen at New Year's, a place where the whole family (and many friends) congregated for Christmas julbords every year. It was a place where I went out onto the front balcony one winter night, looked down into the cul-de-sac and caught sight of one of my neighbors, a teenage boy, delightedly dancing in the falling snow. It was the place where I graduated from high school, where I spent most of my years in college. It was the place where I first got into dialing up BBSes, became a co-sysop and started meeting users, including a guy who called himself Captain Midnight. It was the place we held the murder mystery dinner party, when Mom first noticed CM and strongly encouraged me to date him. It was the place I first announced to my family that CM and I were engaged. It was the place where Miss V was born and where she spent most of the first decade of her life being, as my mom called it, "grandma's little sidekick." It was the place we came back to when CM lost his job and we needed somewhere to regroup. It was the place where my siblings and I helped Mom recuperate from the many, many surgeries and other medical procedures she went through during the last twenty years of her life. And it was the place where Mom had the catastrophic fall that ended up taking her away forever.

I know it isn't what it was. But it was home once, the shell of the place that used to contain our family. In many ways, it was the last vestige of Mom's presence on earth.

Maybe that's why it hurts more than I thought it would to let it go.

I just hope the new family that moves in will love the house on Oakmont Lane as much as we did. I hope they'll enjoy the million-dollar view of the valley, and I hope they'll learn how to accelerate into the cul-de-sac in winter so they can make it up into the garage without their car slipping down the icy driveway. I hope they'll enjoy taking a bath in the walk-in bathtub downstairs, and that they'll always have enough hot water. I hope they'll relish eating the apples and grapes that grow in the back yard, and that they'll become good friends with the neighbors (who are some of the most awesome people ever). I hope it will be cozy for them around the fireplace on the main floor, especially on January nights. Maybe they'll even choose to keep Mom's "Mexican restaurant yellow" color scheme in the dining room, because they'll find it as joyful and sunny a color as she did.

I hope it'll become home for them the way it was home for us.

And I hope they'll fill their home with memories to replace the ones we took away with us.

Tuesday, April 27, 2021

Ways to be magical

I

was going to write an introductory statement here about why one would want to be a magical person, but you know what? That's nonsense. In a society that seems determined to make life as mundane as possible, the allure of being magic ought to be self-evident. So on we go!

THINGS MAGICAL PEOPLE DO

PLAY. This, more than any other trait, separates the magical from the mundane around us. Magical people are most likely never to have lost the instinct for play that they had in childhood, or have rediscovered that joy as adults. Playing is a way of dancing with life. So: fly kites. Blow bubbles. Play with yo-yos. Learn a few simple magic tricks. Juggle (anything from plucking scarves out of the air to juggling bean bags to full-on contact juggling like Michael Moschen in Labyrinth). And if you have boring errands to run and other adult responsibilities to fulfill, find ways to turn them into a game. There are a myriad ways to make everyday life more like play -- and thus more magical.

Create. Makers are magicians, and ANYONE can harness creativity. More specifically, try some of these:

  • Paper magic. Start by folding simple origami models. The great thing about origami is that you can do it practically anywhere -- all you really need is flexible paper, a flat place to fold it on, and a bit of manual dexterity. This is also a nifty way to recycle scrap paper. Once you have mastered a few basic patterns, you can amaze people with your skills. (I make flowers or cranes to give to friends and little kids.) If you have a lot more dexterity with scissors than I do, scherenschnitte is another option. And if you want the completed object to have a little magic of its own, whisper a friendly little spell to it as you make it.
  • Play an instrument, particularly a portable one. Small instruments, such as harmonica, mouth harp, tinwhistle or ocarina, are especially magical -- and, with the possible exception of the mouth harp, just about anyone can play a simple tune on the first try.
  • Sing dumb songs. Better yet, try neat folk tunes if they don't have too many verses. If you absolutely cannot carry a tune, poetry or storytelling is an excellent alternative. (Don't know how to tell a good story?  Take a storytelling class!)  For a good collection of dumb, novelty, folk and other weird and funny songs and skits, find the Doctor Demento Show archives online or check podcasts for novelty song goodness.

Be curious. Magical people are most likely to be curious about the world around them and the wonders it holds, and are always looking for opportunities to learn or try new things that will fill them with delight, whether it's marbling paper, sampling an unfamiliar food, cosplaying, stargazing, geocaching or bungee jumping. Recognize that the world is full of marvels to be sampled and enjoyed, and be open to trying as many as you can.

Be confident. Start each day with the expectation that something wonderful is going to happen -- because you will make it happen. Enter contests. Smile at strangers. Stand up for what's right. Assume you will be lucky and things are going to go well. Keep a wellspring of optimism inside you. If you're not used to being confident, practice confidence -- ask yourself, "How would I proceed if I were a confident person?" and then do it that way.

Be subtly whimsical and/or a little bit mysterious. Real magic isn't like stage magic; it doesn't draw undue attention to itself, because it doesn't need to. The right people will notice and draw near. Commit everyday acts of whimsy that you find fun, even if others think they're silly -- do the Jedi hand-wave at an automatic door, put your coat on with a theatrical sweep, give the shopping cart a gentle push so it glides forward and you can walk along behind it without touching it, learn how to crack open an egg one-handed, leave a tiny toy in an unexpected place. Also, consider cultivating a little touch of mystery in your interactions with others. People don't need to know everything about you right off. Share a little something magical just in passing that leaves them curious to know more.

Practice story magic with other people. My mother, who would never have described herself as magical, had a superpower. She could sit down next to a stranger, smile, start chatting, ask a few open-ended questions about that person's life, then actively listen. More often than not, she could learn someone's life story in about 20 minutes. Most people like to talk about themselves, and if you give them an open invitation to do so, they usually won't let you down. Active listening, where you pay attention to details and ask follow-up questions, is paramount. If you practice this particular magic, you will quickly discover that EVERYONE has a story, and most are fascinating.

Expand your vocabulary. Don't speak another language?  Time to get curious and try something new. If this particular magic doesn't come easily to you, discover rare or unusual words in your own language. Finding the perfect word to describe a concept is powerful stuff.

Find magical places near you. These can be wonderful little shops, special restaurants or bakeries, unexpected red-brick roads, hidden parks in the middle of big cities, caches full of tiny treasures -- the possibilities are vast. My personal resources for finding such places include Atlas Obscura, Geocaching.com and Waymarking.com, but there are many, many others.

Track down and enjoy magical media. My particular media magic of choice is books, and I have a huge list of books I consider magic -- Under Plum Lake by Lionel Davidson, Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury, C. S. Lewis' Narnia books, the People stories by Zenna Henderson, etc. For those with a preference for animated movies, the Studio Ghibli version of Howl's Moving Castle or Tomm Moore's Song of the Sea are likely places to start. And then there's music -- your life's soundtrack. Mozart, Vivaldi, Cosmo Sheldrake, Loreena McKennitt, Sissel Kyrkjebø, Regina Spektor, whatever makes your heart leap when you hear it. I personally recommend going to YouTube and looking up cover versions of the song "Nature Boy" by eden ahbez (the Emmelie de Forest version is a delight).

Notice little magical things and write them down. My theory is that small magical things happen around us all the time, but our mundane minds usually forget them unless we take the time to record them. I carry a small notepad and pen with me, and every time I experience something that seems magical, I write a brief note about it.

Perform random acts of kindness. Pay the bridge toll for the stranger behind you, or randomly spring for someone else's purchase. Offer a heartfelt, unexpected compliment. Write down a favorite quote or song lyric on a notecard and leave it in public for someone else to discover. (Or make a treasure map for someone to find, then actually leave a small treasure at the X!) Make a mixtape for someone (OK, cassettes have gone the way of the dodo, but you can put all kinds of musical mixes onto a thumb drive, so DO EET). Bring a stressed friend a gift of emergency chocolate, a bouquet of seasonal flowers, a favorite book or game, or some other small personal token as a reminder of your friendship. There are many more suggestions for random acts of kindness online if you need some pointers to get started.

THE ART OF THE MAGICAL HOME

Curate a collection of magical household items. Seek out household objects that have a touch of magic to them. Yes, you could just keep your liquid soap in a plastic bottle, or you could put it into a green cut-crystal dispenser. You could make tea in a basic brown teapot, or one painted with a black dragon that turns all sorts of wonderful colors when it's filled with boiling water. (Or both, if you've got the room and the inclination!) These items don't have to be expensive. My elephant-shaped glass container, which I use to hold cotton balls in the bathroom, was purchased in a secondhand store for a pittance, and most of my teacups and saucers were thrifted. The idea is to look for functional items that speak to your soul and create a little splash of unexpected color or beauty in your home. And part of the point is to collect a magical trove that's unique to you, not put together by anyone else. Don't expect to do this in one fell swoop; it takes time.

Clean, not tidy. A magical home is regularly cleaned and well cared for, but also definitely lived in. It's all right to have a little creative chaos in progress, whether it's a partially-finished bit of knitting, a painting being worked on, a potion being brewed, a vision board for a future project, etc. (Just don't be like me and have ALL these projects out at once. There is a difference between creative chaos and COMPLETE chaos.)

Gracious magic. Old-fashioned manners, particularly if they're flexible, are a form of magic -- specifically, a formal way of showing even strangers that you care about their comfort. Handwritten thank-you notes are rare and beautiful these days, and worth the time to create for those who have shown you kindness. (If you enjoy the practice, beautiful handwriting is a bonus.) It's worth the time it takes to learn how to host, serve and eat a meal gracefully and with confidence. And you are free to take up forms of politeness from other cultures if they appeal to you. Someone I know uses the Japanese word "Itadakimasu" before each meal; it essentially means "I humbly receive" and is a formalized way to thank all those entities, human and otherwise, who made the meal possible.

Become a kitchen witch. Cookbooks are grimoires of the most ancient and arcane sort, and food and drink are some of the most potent magic known to mankind. Learn to cook (or bake) at least a few special things. If you find you have a knack for it, branch out and try mastering more. Share your creations with friends, or with persons who will soon become your friends. Start putting your own twist on things -- slip a little coconut extract into your hot cocoa, or a pinch of cayenne, or some powdered cardamom, and see what happens. (Spices are definitely magical.)

Grow things. NOTE: This isn't a magic for which I have much natural talent. However, I know several magical people who are expert gardeners -- and who slip all sorts of esoteric and enchanted plants into their homes, food, baths, gifts, everything as a result. Even if all you have is a fire escape or an apartment balcony, you can grow herbs or flowers in containers. Plus it's quite possible that a properly tended, lush garden invites fairies to move in. I'm just saying.

Have a familiar. It could be a cat, a fish, a frog, a bearded dragon, a wiener dog, a hamster, a ball python, any kind of animal with which you have a special affinity. Keeping an animal companion in your home ties in with the above-mentioned practice of growing things, in that it's a way of practicing empathy toward a different kind of living being than oneself. The world is full of creatures who have just as much a right to live and flourish as we do, and learning to appreciate the quirks and traits of a non-human creature is a kind of magic. (And yes, of course, feel free to use "pet" instead of "familiar" if you're more comfortable with the term.)

Develop household rituals. One magical acquaintance of mine lights candles on the table before every evening meal, and invites teatime guests to pick their own cups from her substantial teacup collection. Another magical friend ties mellow-sounding bells to the trees in his yard, so they ring softly every time the wind stirs the branches. Yet another friend is well-versed in kitchen garden magic and creates household potions and possets from the herbs in her yard. Over time, you'll find rituals that suit you best and blend them seamlessly into your life.

Scent. Is. Magic. Go into a shop that specializes in perfumes, and find a scent that transports you. Candles and incense and other whatsits for scent delivery are pleasant ways to start, but nothing beats straight-up perfume oils for staying power. If you don't have a shop nearby that specializes in scents, Possets and Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab are places to start online (and both offer small samples of their larger-sized scents). If you show a knack or a fondness for it, you may go on to mixing your own scents for your home.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Remember that magic is gracious. Some of your friends may be sensitive to strong scents, and triggering a friend's migraine is in no way magical. In such cases, going fragrance-free is the kindest choice.

MAGICAL SELF-CARE

Discover the art of self-pampering. This looks a bit different for everyone. Some folks love getting manicures. Others enjoy having their brows threaded and shaped to perfection. Still others find bliss in a good back massage. And others prefer a do-it-yourself attitude and put together their own homemade day spas. In any case, personal cleanliness and pampering rituals are a way of being kind to yourself, of honoring the body that holds your particular magic. It's not indulgent, it's supportive! (I feel it's important to spell this out: pampering is not exclusively "girly." Masculine folk, for instance, can and should enjoy bubble baths if they feel like it.)

Drink potions. Any day you feel like it, make or find a potion. This can be anything delightfully drinkable, from rich hot chocolate to ginger beer to herbal tea to some truly exotic homemade concoction, though I do recommend that it not be anything seriously habit-forming. Determine before drinking what this potion will do: give you wisdom, intelligence, wit, humor, beauty, lovability, or any other specific personal trait you're looking to cultivate. Concentrate firmly on this trait as you drink the potion. Watch magic unfold.

Give yourself permission to enjoy occasional treats. For me, the key is to space them out enough that they remain special and still feel like "treats," not just thoughtless habits. My magical treat of choice is quality chocolate, and one of my very favorites is a concoction called a dark Florentine bar, made by a chocolatier called Brugges Chocolates in Redmond, Washington. (It is definitely a magical place.) Even though Brugges is perilously close to my home, I deliberately choose to separate my visits there by one to two months (or longer) so that each visit remains special. Of course, treats don't have to be edible. You can also give yourself permission to buy (or pick) bouquets of flowers, permission to create a fairy door in your house, permission to try a new hobby or craft... it's pretty open-ended. You know what constitutes a treat for you.


So this isn't an exhaustive list by any means, which means you should add to it! Also, I'm curious: are you magical, or do you know any magical people? If so, what traits have you observed that you consider magical? Share in the comments below.

Wednesday, January 06, 2021

Shadow Marxism

(Originally written in response to a Marxist literary theory class I took in college, circa August 2004. No, it was not my favorite class. Yes, I was verily bugged about it. This is more or less a snapshot of my thoughts at the time, some of which have since changed -- which is only to be expected after accumulating another seventeen years of life experiences.)

Before making less than complimentary remarks about a dead man, I should in all fairness disclose some information about my background, natural bias, and education. I am not an expert on Marxism, nor do I claim to be -- just a student of human nature and somewhat capable of reading between the lines.

Karl Marx
Hey kids! It's your ol' buddy Karl!

I will freely admit that I am biased against Marxism. Even before I knew anything about what Karl Marx had written, I wasn't a big fan. Maybe it's because I've been able to witness applied Marxism in my lifetime -- the shortages and shoddy quality, the oppression, the constant fear. And that's the best-case scenario. (If atheists can point to the Crusades and the Inquisition as an indication that Christianity is rotten, I can certainly point to Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot and Hitler as indications that communism ain't all it's cracked up to be. As Eric Raymond puts it, "if the road to a Christian hell is paved with good individual intentions, the road to totalitarian hell is paved with communitarian idealism." But I digress.)

I should also admit that my current understanding of Marxist philosophy, while more comprehensive than it once was, is only at a pop-culture level. I have not read all of Das Kapital or The Communist Manifesto in English, much less in the original German, and I doubt I will ever exercise the patience to do so. However, I have spent the better part of the summer studying Marxist theory as applied to literature and have also checked my notes carefully against the Youth for International Socialism page, so I believe my understanding of Marxist philosophy is about as accurate as any garden variety, well-read non-Marxist is likely to have.

With all that disclosed, here's what I know about Marxism, courtesy of my still-incomplete education:

Marxism is an economic philosophy with a twist. Were it not for that twist, Marx would be studied only by pointy-headed economics professors. You see, Marx wrote that everything is based on economics -- that all human social activities can be broken down to issues of finance. Money, according to Marx, is the base from which all other social structures -- religion, morality, education, politics, law, etc. -- eventually grow. All of these social structures, called "superstructures," are designed to reinforce notions of private property and of capital. This doctrine of the universality of Marxism is one reason why Marxist thought has invaded nearly every organization and soft-science discipline: Marxist literary theory, Marxist philosophy, Marxist psychology, even the ultimate oxymoron of Marxist Christianity.

The Marxist view of history is one of inevitable economic change. According to Marx, all societies go through four stages: feudalism, in which the peasants labor for the luxuries of the wealthy; capitalism, in which the working class labors for the financial gain of the middle class; socialism, in which the masses revolt and create a dictatorship of the working class; and pure communism or "workers' paradise," in which private property is abolished and all humankind works together for the common good. Marx stressed that all these stages led inexorably to the workers' paradise; it was, for lack of a better term, fated to be so.

Marx also claimed that in post-Industrial Revolution capitalist societies, the bourgeoisie (loosely, the middle class) get and keep their money by continually exploiting and oppressing the proletariat (the blue-collar working class). The only way to change this state of affairs, Marx claimed, was for the proletariat to gain control through violent revolution. There was no point in trying to change social superstructures, since they were all part of the capitalist base -- instead the proletariat must rise up and take control of the means of production, freeing themselves from capitalist slavery in the process.

Although Marx claimed his view of history was inevitable, he also owned it was quite possible that economic change could be indefinitely delayed by societal forces pushing hard for the status quo. Thus, it would be necessary for the proletariat to rise up in revolution immediately, so that workers' paradise could be achieved in their lifetimes. He also claimed that it would be impossible for revolution to take place in isolation -- global industry would require a global revolution, until the entire world was one huge workers' paradise. (Cue John Lennon's "Imagine" and fire up the patchouli incense.)

So is everyone asleep now? (Man, economics really is a dismal science. Spending money is fun, but talking about it is always boring for some reason.)

As I first studied Marxist thought, my initial response was one of incredulity. "From each according to his ability, to each according to his need?" Sounded nice, but would it really work? From what little I'd seen of human nature, I'd determined that people who have no financial motivation or inner drive to work usually don't work. Somehow I didn't think "the greater good" would provide sufficient impetus to keep the world running smoothly for long. Studying Marx's socialist stage of history, I wondered how the proletariat dictatorship would determine how people were to be fairly rewarded for their work, how they would decide to price items, what would be manufactured and who would get them in what quantities. That would be an extraordinary amount of work to decide. And when Marx claimed that the proletariat dictatorship would eventually voluntarily disband, I snorted out loud. Since when have human beings ever voluntarily relinquished power?

In fact, I began to think Marx was an incredibly stupid man. Here I was, a mere humanities major, and even I knew that money isn't at the core of human social activities. In fact, money is only a placeholder for one of the primary motivators of human activity -- power. If Marx didn't understand that much, he wasn't very intelligent; certainly he knew almost nothing about human nature.

But as I've continued to consider, I think I could make a case for Karl Marx being quite cunning and a careful student of human nature. And yes, I now believe he was well aware that many human activities can be broken down to a desire for power. He purposefully didn't write about power as a motivator, though, because he didn't want to draw attention to that fact. Beneath the veneer of overt Marxist thought there lies a deep shadow -- and concealed in that shadow, I have come to believe, is the true purpose of Marxism.

Why did Marx write what he did? After all, he came from a petty bourgeois family -- the very class he claimed to despise. He did not seem to be averse to money, though he clearly did not understand how to keep it -- he blazed through two inheritances in his lifetime, continually borrowed from friends and admirers, and was notorious for being unable to balance his own checkbook. Perhaps this was where his obsession with capital first arose.

In his life, Marx must have observed large numbers of what he called "the proletariat" -- what I would call the uneducated, working poor, laboring under inhumane conditions for little pay. He must have realized how desperate these people were, how much they yearned for a better way of life, and how there were no rules or laws in place to help them attain that life. He must have noticed, too, how many of them there were. At some point he must have realized what a powerful latent force was contained in the masses, especially if they were united and working toward a single goal.

And so, I believe, he wrote that goal for them. It was a simple idea, one that even the uneducated masses could grasp, and it could be popularized easily without significantly watering down the message. It told them that they were worse than slaves under capitalism, and that religion was merely a drug to keep them in their places. It claimed that money was the problem, a problem that could only be solved through violent upheaval. It promised them that after the revolution, they would have better living conditions and a modicum of dignity. It whispered to them that they would run the world as they saw fit. It told them that all they had to lose was their chains. In other words, it told them exactly what they wanted to hear -- that without any need for industry, education or piety, the poor would inherit the earth. And the people ate it up with a spoon.

Marx wrote with the full intent of having his ideas put into action. But, I believe, he was not wholly honest about his motivations. He encouraged the masses to rise up and, by virtue of their greater numbers, take over society, knowing full well that such a mob -- uneducated, often undisciplined, and completely inexperienced in leadership -- would quickly fall into chaos. Without the bourgeoisie to guide them, there would be no one qualified to run the factories and farms and other means of production. Society would grind to a halt as the new dictatorship of the proletariat floundered in its unfamiliar role. The workers of the world would need help. They would need someone with an education, someone more familiar with the mechanics of production, yet still sympathetic to their cause, someone who would come to their aid and, with his greater knowledge and expertise, run their brave new world for them. In other words, they would need someone just like Karl Marx.

In my opinion, Marx wrote about money because he knew the proletariat -- the cannon fodder who would accomplish his revolution for him -- were obsessed with money, and he realized that promises of its abolition would stir them to action. He wrote only indirectly about power, if at all, because acquiring power for himself was his chief end in inciting revolution. He wrote about changing human nature and about a mythical workers' paradise the way one dangles a carrot in front of a donkey; he knew full well that pure communism would never come to pass -- but once he and those like him had gained control of the new socialist order, they could run the people's lives any way they saw fit for as long as they liked. What Marx was forwarding, under the veneer of mutually beneficial communal living and labor for one's fellow man, was an old-fashioned meritocracy where all the rules of the game were written with the express end of awarding Marx the crown.

I believe the majority of rank-and-file Marxists understand only the surface of Marx's theories -- they gladly swallow what he promised to deliver, despite the fact that no practical application of Marxism has ever delivered the so-called "inevitable" workers' paradise Marx promised. Nor will it ever do so, regardless of how many times it is tried, because Marx never fully stipulated the conditions under which it would appear -- only the conditions to create the socialist order he desired. But what about the upper-class, highly-educated people who recognize "shadow Marxism" as I have described it in this editorial -- and who are still ardent Marxists? These are the people whom economist Thomas Sowell describes as "the anointed" -- those who, like Marx himself, believe they were meant to rule over others. They are likely to espouse socialism as a means to an end, to hold democracies in contempt precisely because they reflect the will of the people and not of the ruling class. These opportunists are the ones to watch like hawks. They would love to stir up the common folk to violent revolution, waiting with pale brows and clean hands until the deed is done and their coronations can begin.

To quote Dr. Sowell again (he is eminently quotable): "The left takes its vision seriously -- more seriously than it takes the rights of other people. They want to be our shepherds. But that requires us to be sheep." If you consider yourself to be one of Marx's proletariat class, in the name of all that is holy, don't be a sheep. If you've read this far and understood it, you're smart enough to get a post-secondary education and take control of your own life. You don't have to wrest control from others through acts of violence and thuggery, only to be stepped on by the anointed once you've done their dirty work for them. You don't even have to agree with everything I've stated here. But don't let yourself be used by those who are not forthcoming about their true motivations.

Remember: it is power, not religion, which is the true opiate of Marxist thought. And like any opiate, it is deadly addictive.

(ETA: if today's events in Washington, DC have taught me anything, it is that the opportunistic "anointed" can come from the political left OR the political right. Trump et al. seem convinced that they have the right to rule indefinitely, regardless of the people's votes, and are more than happy to rile up "the base" to achieve that end -- using violence and thuggery if they deem it necessary. HARD PASS THANKS.)

Tuesday, June 02, 2020

Human bias: bug or feature?

It's time to come clean. I have a bias.

I'm not really proud of this fact, but it still intrudes into everyday life. And I've heard many times that the first part of getting over any kind of bias is admitting you have one. So, here it is:

I'm screamingly biased against people who drive late-model BMW, Mercedes and Lexus cars.

I don't know what it is, but whenever I'm out on the road and some doofus cuts me off in traffic, slaloms between lanes like it's the Auto Olympics, passes everyone at 30 miles over the posted limit in the slow lane, swerves in front of me only to romp on the brakes, and other random stupid human tricks, the offender is almost always driving a car from the Top Three Suspects List mentioned above. (As I have muttered to my honey more than once, "There's a reason why BMW stands for Break My Windshield.")

I have a pet theory why the operators of these particular makes of cars are so -- shall we say problematic? No, let's just call them total jerks -- and it's related to the cost of the cars. Specifically, mid-range luxury vehicles appeal to a certain kind of douchebag. There are plenty of bad drivers in junker cars, but there's a performance limit to the damage they can do. Likewise, the drivers of very fast, very high-end sports cars aren't likely to be foolhardy with precision machines that cost more than some people's houses. Which leaves the mid-range luxury cars -- just fancy and fast enough to be expensive, but not so pricey that they're beyond the reach of some entitled jackweed looking to show off to total strangers by driving slightly worse than a trained circus monkey.

"Rich kids toys" by Alan Farrow.
Public domain image as of 1 June 2020. Original image here.
Yes, OF COURSE I know people who drive BMWs, Mercedes and Lexuses (Lexi? hmm) who aren't total jerks. And yes, OF COURSE I have seen people driving execrably in other makes and models of cars. But they're the exceptions to the rule. Overwhelmingly, when I see a driver pull some jaw-droppingly stupid move on the freeway or a surface-street route, that driver is almost always behind the wheel of one of the Big Three Offenders.

Sorry if you drive one of these cars and my bias annoys you. But, y'know, if the shoe fits. Fight me.

* * *

All right, perhaps I write with tongue a little bit in cheek (but only a little bit). Still, I'm like a lot of other human beings; as a species, we're remarkably subject to biases. That might be because biased thinking -- that is, reasoning from very small data sets to determine our beliefs -- is hardwired into our brains. And while that causes all kinds of problems in a modern social context, historically speaking, bias might have been what kept our species alive.

Imagine Cave Dad, basking in the glow of a late evening fire pit, watching over his mate and small children. Suddenly, a wild saber-toothed cat appears! Cave Dad has never seen such a beast before, and he has little time to react when the animal seizes his smallest daughter and drags her away, never to be seen again. Cave Dad doesn't need to observe many saber-toothed cats, nor does he need to lose any other family members to predation, to develop a set of beliefs about these predators: that they are dangerous, that they will kill and eat humans, that they must be killed or driven away for the safety of the tribe. The ability to reason from small data sets gave early humans the evolutionary advantage of identifying and responding quickly to dangers in their environment, helping them avoid or destroy predators. In the context of simple survival, bias in human thinking was a feature.

Fast-forward to the modern era. There aren't many saber-toothed cats around these days, but bias can still be a useful tool in the modern world. (Raise your hands, technical support folk who have ever asked a customer, "Have you tried turning it off and back on again?" Works 90% of the time!) However, while bias may still have its uses, it functions far more often as a kind of mental computing bug -- a persistent, dysfunctional mental structure that keeps human beings from thinking as clearly or acting as compassionately as they might without the bias in place.

A common problem associated with human bias is a particular kind of failure of the imagination. It's not failure to imagine the future you hope for, nor even the future you fear. It's failure to get inside someone else's skin -- the inability or unwillingness to imagine the life experience of someone who is markedly different from you, the first step toward feeling empathy. Let's consider a handful of common examples:
  • why white people can't understand black people's widespread fear of the police (though, hey, this is starting to change)
  • why men don't understand women leaving social media because they're sick of death/rape threats, doxxing, online stalking, being repeatedly called a slut/whore/cunt by complete strangers, etc.
  • why left-wingers and right-wingers mutually distrust one another
  • why trans women and trans-exclusionary feminists mutually distrust one another
  • why people of faith and atheists mutually distrust one another
  • why American Christians who have never met a Muslim are convinced Muslims are intent on destroying America (this bias isn't just about misunderstanding unfamiliar religious beliefs; some American Christians harbor the same fear about their co-religionists from Latin American countries)
  • why city dwellers don't understand why country dwellers don't give up their cars/trucks and just take public transit (hint: there aren't any buses or light rail systems in Back of Beyond, Montana)
  • why country dwellers don't understand why city dwellers can't move out of their cramped, expensive apartments and crime-ridden neighborhoods and just move to a cheaper place (hint: most of those cheaper places don't have the kinds of jobs city dwellers have skill sets for)
  • why young gay men wince when older gay men use words like "tranny," "dyke" and "faggot," and why older gay men think young gay men have no right to police their language choices unless they too survive a horror like the AIDS crisis
  • why my uncle, bless his heart, reflexively hates "blacks, Mexicans and people from Ohio" (yes, this is a direct quote) even though he knows very few people from any of these groups
  • why some people want to "make America great again" without deeply considering what that phrase really means, what makes America great, how the people who popularized that phrase intend to make America different from the way it is now, and how varied implementation of this idea might change their country -- and its people -- for better or for worse
  • why some people will absolutely not wear face masks, even though doing so greatly reduces the spread of COVID-19, protecting the people most at risk of dying from it
  • why folks who say they would never have tolerated Nazi concentration camps or the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII stolidly look the other way as generations of Native Americans languish in poverty and squalor on reservations, and refugees from Mexico and Latin America are separated and caged under horrific conditions at our southern border. (And why are there no similar detention centers at our northern border? Could it be that most folks who cross the border illegally from that direction are white English speakers who can blend into American society without being detected? They're still here illegally, though, so if you say you don't want ANY "illegal aliens" flouting U.S. immigration laws, better get busy building that northern border wall and cobbling together detention cages in Wisconsin and North Dakota, eh? Just a thought.) 
What we're seeing right now in the USA is a massive failure of imagination leading to horrific, society-destroying consequences. People who are well-treated under the current system of policing often never give a second thought to those who habitually receive terrible, illegal and occasionally fatal treatment at the hands of the police. Peaceful individual protests provoke the wrath of politicians and systemic blacklisting by employers. Widespread peaceful protests are disdainfully described as "riots" and often escalated to violence not by the protestors, but by the police. Too many people in charge -- including a mentally-myopic, impotent president furiously tweeting from a bunker -- are intent only on quelling what they see as an irrational internal rebellion, and not enough are asking themselves why the protests occurred in the first place, nor how they became so widespread, so quickly. They cannot see injustice because they themselves never experience it, and they cannot imagine a world beyond their biases; all they can see are "weak" governors, mayors and police chiefs, and "thugs" that need jailing.
While political scientist Raymond Wolfinger once famously said, "The plural of anecdote is data," he was also constantly searching for better data. It's useful to remember, then, that the more anecdotes you collect, the more accurate your data should become. If you let your brain go on autopilot after collecting a few meager anecdotes about a person or group -- or worse, you let someone else feed you such anecdotes secondhand -- you are allowing bias to program your thoughts. But it's also possible to reprogram your thought processes so that you recognize your own biases when they emerge. For instance, if you hear about a particular group of people in a crisis situation and immediately respond with some variation of the phrase "Why don't they just" -- put the brakes on your biases for a second and consider why it might not be possible for the members of that group to "just" do what you propose.

Otherwise, you might just be letting your biases drive you out of control.