Dark Nights of the Soul
This Sunday morning finds Miss O’
with a swollen right eye, the result of a wee-hours mosquito raid, which also
caused her to awaken to itching hands and arms and forehead. The only real cure
for itching like this—and it’s only this year that Miss O’ has become truly
allergic to these bites—is heat. An ol’ mountain woman in Floyd County,
Virginia, told me to apply heat to an itch, “as hot as you can stand it for as
long as you can stand it.” I set the kettle on the stove, pour the boiling
water into a mug, and press the side of the mug to the affected area as
directed. It hurts like fuck. And then no more itch. The eye, however, is
another matter. No itch, only massive swelling, so an ice pack for that. In
other words, I’ve been awake since around 4:00 AM, and of course, I start
thinking.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t thinking
about politics (and as Miss O’ feels she must hold the entire political process
in her body during the entire election season and beyond, this was a brief
respite), but rather, “bad classes.” Wee hours wakefulness will call up only
misery, regret, and torments of failures past. I generally find my mind turning
cruelly to memories of the classes that didn’t work, during those 15 years I
taught public high school. Four specific classes come to mind, one each from my
1st, 12th, 4th, and 15th years. And
there are a few others, but those are the big ones. And I think about what I
might have done differently. (I suspect few of the students from those classes,
or really most of my classes, have ever given me a thought—so this isn’t about
ego.) This morning I wondered, “What makes a bad class?”
I’ll spare you the entire process
of my thinking, which occurred over cups of coffee and talking aloud to myself in
the rocker in my kitchen, looking out the glass door as the sky lightened into
heavy grey. Each class, when called to mind, features two students per class,
one girl and one boy: They are an alliance, usually not even friends, and a
quiet decision is made between the two of them, from Day 1, that this Miss O’
woman is the very devil and we must destroy her.
How to explain this? My voice, my
hair, my expectations, my eccentric humor? I never really knew. All I know is
that I can see her cold eyes looking
at me (any of the girls), and his
eyes defiantly turned away (any of the boys), even as they sigh, speak out,
“Why do we have to do this?” or otherwise destroy any positive energy in the
class. No amount of talking to them, or asking, “What’s up?” did any good. And
they won, you see, because to this day I awake in the wee hours and still I see
them. I’ve written about many incidents in this blog, and I think I may have
recalled this example, too: When my Grandma O’Hara died, my mom called me at
around 2:30 AM from Iowa to tell me, and I got up and called around to make
flight arrangements, went in to teach school, handed out work for the next two
days, and during third period, when Girl
of That Year bitched about whatever this was, I said, quietly, “Look, my
grandmother died this morning, and I am leaving for her funeral this
afternoon.”
She looked at me even more coldly
than before. “What are you even doing here?” she sneered.
“My job,” I said. And it was all I
could do not to burst into tears, but I’d be goddamned if she was going to see
them.
Fear
Years ago, when I was still
teaching, my brother Jeff O’ and I were walking through the local mall shopping
for Christmas, when I heard Jeff say, “Oh, no…” and there was dread in his
voice. I looked around.
“What?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t look, but coming this
way…oh, man…,” and I looked ahead, I looked left and right, but I couldn’t see
anything.
“What are you talking about?” I
asked when, just as Jeff was about to pull me into a store, from the center of a
large group of gangsta-style teenage boys, out stepped a large, young black man
in full gear, whose face went from “I will cut you” to a broad toothy smile.
“Miss O’HAH! How you doin’?” he
called, and his arms took me into a bear hug.
“Jamal, sweetie, how are you?” I
said.
“Doin’ alright, doin’ alright,” he
said, and he introduced me to the group, and I introduced my brother, and we
said, “Merry Christmas” and off they went.
I wish I had a picture of my
brother’s face, but I don’t, so I’ll try to replicate it.
(This same thing happened a few
years later, after I’d moved to New York, and Jeff and I were once again
Christmas shopping, this time at Target, and yet another large young fellow walked over to me and hugged me as he whooped, “Miss O!” (My embarrassment was
that I remembered him but not his name, because in the process of moving, my
brain had felt the need to wipe out the last two years of my life in Virginia
in order to make room for a mess of new information, such as surviving the
subways. I had to admit this to him. “D’Andre!” he said, and I finished his
last name with him, and bless his heart, I got that whole swathe of my life back.) This time Jeff
laughed, “You can’t go anywhere, can you?”)
But this is about Jeff’s initial
fear: His initial, gut reaction to seeing a large group of teen boys coming at
him, wearing the latest cool-thug styles, brought to mind for him, I imagine, memories
of being bullied, the terror of what such kids might do. To the eye of a
seasoned high school teacher like me, they were just kids. And this is where my
mind went: Jeff and I had totally different worldviews because of our different
experiences. He came from a place of fear, and I came from a place of
understanding, because I’d changed into a position of teacher from the former position of student.
Politically, I think, this has huge
implications. (Message to the Bored-by-Politics crowd: Everything is political. Every single little thing: The clothes you wear—who made them and under
what conditions, and how were they delivered to you, under what trade
agreements? The food you eat—where was it grown and is it genetically modified
and what are the laws governing its growth; was it subsidized by the
government? The air you breathe—who is monitoring how clean it is? The person
you love—are you legally allowed to be with that person?) So my question is
this: Do politicians see their constituencies as masses to be shunned and
controlled (poor Jeffy’s first response to the teens), or as humans to be known
(Miss O’s response to the same people)?
Ask yourself how you react to such
encounters: Do you
A) flinch and become self-protective at the sight of large groups of "the other"; or do you
B) not really notice people as being "the other" and move on
through your life?
(Take a moment to answer honestly.)
I’d be willing to lay money (and
according to one political ticket, the desire to make money is the most
important virtue an American can have), that if your reaction was like Jeff’s,
you are a conservative, and if your response was like Miss O’s, you are a liberal.
It really is, too, the difference between a reaction (instant, emotional), and
a response (present, thoughtful). Yes, I am aware of how fucking superior I
sound.
Whenever I move about the world, I
cannot help but compare the latest politicos and celebs to the kids I taught in
high school. People don’t change much after 8th grade, unless they
listen, live, travel, grow, experience, and become, and even then it’s not in essentials that they change. One student
of mine changed from lifelong (raised) conservative to a liberal by studying
medicine at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, seeing firsthand how devastating
Republican policies really are—but he was inherently liberal-minded all along,
or he wouldn’t have been open to a conversion. I told him my relief was that
he’d come by his conversion honestly, and not as the result of reading a Noam
Chomsky tract.
An Imaginative Exercise
Who are you and what formed your
opinions? What do you know and why do you know it? How do you act on what you
know? I always think back to the classes I taught and all the kids in them. Looking
at the two campaigns of our presidential season (and there are others—but I'm not doing the Greens and Libertarians today), the debates thus far, and
other media trolling, here’s what Miss O’ imagines our candidates would have
been like as students. A given: They are all intelligent and capable.
Barack Obama: He’s the introverted and thoughtful kid, one I’d have
to work to draw out, but he’d be delightful to have in class when he was on.
He’d read every book, participate in every discussion, if only by listening. I’d
try to get him to say more, but he’d only smile. You’d know he knew more, was
aware of more, than he ever let on, because he’d demonstrate it every time he
wrote an essay or did a speech presentation. Group work would frustrate him,
but he’d work to get everybody to do his or her part. Barry Obama would be nice
to have in class.
Willard Mitt Romney: To control the class would be his goal. He’d start
off pleasantly enough, but the first time he got an assignment he didn’t want
to do, he’d start to argue with everything that came out of my mouth, talk out
of turn, get his friends to help him bully weaker kids into siding against me, and generally ruin the
learning environment for the rest of the class. But he’d smile while he did it.
Still, his moods would swing. His story would always change. He’d start off
disagreeing with someone’s idea about a book and end up agreeing and saying
he’d always felt that way, only to say something else again on the test. And if
his grades weren’t A’s, he’d have his dad try to get me fired. Mitt Romney could
make any given day in class a living hell. Or not. Depending.
Joseph Biden: Loud, boisterous, and full of jokes, he would drive
me nuts except that he’d be a really sweet kid, a genuinely good guy, and way
smart. I’d love to have him in on a book talk, which he’d be great on if he
read the book, which I suspect he may not have done all the time, but he’d fake
it better than most. (Also, his grammar is impeccable: During the debate, he
said, “Our Allies and we agreed…” and Miss O’ shed a tear of gratitude.) Joe
Biden would be exasperating, but ultimately fun and energizing, to have in class.
Paul Ryan: First he’d try brown-nosing, which he’d quickly realize
wouldn’t work with Miss O’. So he’d turn into the aggressive kid who, when I passed back papers
and he didn't get one back, would say (in that determinedly
"pleasant" little voice of his), "Where is mine?" to which
Miss O' would say, "I don't have one for you," to which Paul would
say, "Well, I did it—you must have lost it," to which Miss O' would
say, "I didn't lose your paper, Paul; you didn’t turn one in," to
which Paul would say, "You lost my paper, but I'd be willing to do it
again, or maybe I'll have to get my mom to call the principal, because
obviously you don't know how to teach." Paul Ryan would make every day in
class a living hell, and be glad.
Evaluation
So what do we do with the kids who make a teacher's life and a class's life a misery year after year? Not a goddamned thing. It's the price of living in a democracy. I honor that, even as I keep working to teach, learn, and make it better. And I sure as fuck will exercise my right to complain. And drink.
Sizing
Up the Crowd
I size people up pretty quickly, but I also
leave room for doubt. As an example, one person I loathed was Jerry Falwell and his Moral
Majority of gay-bashers and woman-haters. I met the late Reverend Jerry Falwell
once, in 1989, and it was a real test to see how his physical (and not just TV) presence made me feel. The event was a Harlem
Globetrotters basketball game at Liberty University, which college Rev. Falwell
founded and ran. After the game, the office secretary who’d gotten us tickets
led us back to the locker room. (She was old friends with two of the players,
and had brought me and our friend Patty with her. As it turns out, Falwell had
been Patty’s pastor when he was just starting out, “but he was destined for big
things, you knew it,” she said. Uh huh.) Much taller than I had imagined, Rev.
Falwell greeted my (stunning) hostess by, repellently, looking her up and down (did he
just lick his chops?), holding her hand in both of his for a long time, and moving closer;
next, he smiled benignly at Patty as he shook her hand from a distance, pretending to listen as
she reminded him of their relationship. When the reverend got to me, he took my
offered hand and dropped it quickly, looked away sharply, and moved to the next
person, saying nothing. As he demonstrated, he didn’t rise to power through stupidity: He knew, you see, so give him points for self-knowledge: However
politely I smiled, he saw that I had his number, and that his number was 666.
Miss O’ has always had that effect on liars and hypocrites.
The
Next Debate: A Modest Proposal
I am so sick of the lying. I’m not talking about
exaggeration or stretching the truth, which is an annoying part of the political
game. I’m talking about flat-out lies, which at least two candidates from a
certain right-wing party are tremendously comfortable in telling. More is at
stake in the debates this time around than at any time I can remember, and I
think we as a nation need to rethink our approach to them, in this age of the
Internet and speed-polls. Here's my idea as to how a national debate might work: You have
fact checkers sitting alongside a panel of 4 or 5 Martha Raddatz-style
journalists, artists, and scientists who ask the questions. (No clergy:
Separation of church and state. Don’t like it? Move to Tehran.) As a candidate
answers, the fact checkers start typing. The panelists call out any lies
(statements clearly refuted by reputable sources, such as videotapes, for those
of you who don't remember what actual "lies" are) found by the
checkers. Each verified lie will warrant a red flag. After three red flags, the
debate is called for the other candidate. The loser, then, is placed in
stocks...in the middle of the Bronx. Or backwoods Mississippi.
Too much is at stake to let these lies stand,
but the Media, which has clearly anointed the Romney-Ryan ticket (What big sordid stories they’ll have for us,
Grandma!), likes the lies, which
are working on the electorate. As Bill Maher said recently, shouldn’t there be
some kind of penalty for being wrong? I would add: dangerously wrong? Nope. Liars are winners! Truth tellers are
boring. Do we want working government, or do we want obstruction, stupidity,
and scandal? Just ask Fox News.
Here’s a story/book review from Daily Kos, a
left-wing community action board on the web, which gets at the fundamental
difference between the two political parties right now. (Note: It’s so sad to
me that “left-wing” is now code for “fact-based”; facts should never have to be
attached to an ideology—that current reality alone would make me reject the
Republican party. Don't believe me? Rep. Todd Akin (Rep, MO), the rape-pregnancy denier sits on the House Science Committee. So does an MD, Rep Paul Broun (Rep, GA) who says that evolution is a lie from the pit of hell. Science Committee? Check. Seriously, no shame? None? There's Rep. Roger Rivard (Rep, WI), who declares that "some girls rape easy" by way of understanding premarital sex. And Rep. Charlie Fuqua (Rep, AK), who advocates the death penalty "in rare" instances for children. Do I need to talk about the Republican reps who say that slavery was a blessing to Africans? Do I? It's not like it's an isolated incident. It's rampant. And you are STILL a Republican?)
Daily Kos: SUN OCT 14, 2012 AT 04:30 AM PDT
By Mark Sumner
Chrystia Freeland, author
of Plutocrats: The
Rise of the New Global Super-Rich and the Fall of Everyone Else,
looks at how the 1% aren't just destroying the middle class, they are planting
(and tending, and harvesting) the seeds of their own end.
...what
separates successful states from failed ones is whether their governing
institutions are inclusive or extractive. Extractive states are controlled by
ruling elites whose objective is to extract as much wealth as they can from the
rest of society. Inclusive states give everyone access to economic opportunity;
often, greater inclusiveness creates more prosperity, which creates an
incentive for ever greater inclusiveness.
The
history of the United States can be read as one such virtuous circle. But...
virtuous circles can be broken. Elites that have prospered from inclusive
systems can be tempted to pull up the ladder they climbed to the top. Eventually,
their societies become extractive and their economies languish.
That was the future predicted by
Karl Marx, who wrote that capitalism contained the seeds of its own
destruction. And it is the danger America faces today, as the 1 percent pulls
away from everyone else and pursues an economic, political and social agenda
that will increase that gap even further — ultimately destroying the open
system that made America rich and allowed its 1 percent to thrive in the first
place.
Here’s the rest of the story: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2012/10/13/1144288/-Abbreviated-Pundit-Round-up-Death-by-Dollars-Edition
“C’mon, Miss O’, I AM SO SICK OF POLITICS!!!!!”
As Facebook readers know, Miss O’
has been utterly overtaken by American politics this election season. It makes
her deeply unattractive, not that she gives two shits what anyone else thinks. Possibly
one shit, on alternate Saturdays. But that’s it. One cannot help noticing that
the only people who cry out on Facebook, “I am sick of politics!” are
Conservatives (their next discernible act on the Facebook Home Page being to score a "like" for Mitt Romney), and Miss O’, who is as Liberal as they come, knows that while we
grow exhausted, liberals do not tire
of politics: We actually want an effective government of the people, by the
people, and one that works for the
people. Conservatives, it seems, just wish that everybody would shut up, be
thankful for what they have, never ask for more (even as they themselves
complain that the poor are taking, taking, taking their stuff by trying to eat,
damn the poor!), and push the nation to move to a theocracy governed by one
rich emperor who will do all of the deciding forever and ever, thus freeing
their conservative minds from all responsibility. Whew!
Until that happy day for you in the
United States of New Arabia, Conservative Person, Miss O’ has this to say: Politics
boring you? Uninterested, uninformed, annoyed by the whole thing? Then don’t fucking vote, and more to the
point, as Vice President Joe Biden said so pointedly and aptly to Congressman
and candidate Paul Ryan, when explaining how the Democrats would like to, for
example, finally pass a Jobs Bill and other important legislation to help the
middle class: Do us all a favor, for yourselves as much as for the rest of us: Get out of the way.
But, of course, that's not democracy. Every kid in America has a right to be in the class. Even as we are sure he's ruining it for the rest of us.
P.S. I'm a liberal, but the Democrats drive me insane. To be clear, I don't agree with all their ideas. I argue with them, write letters. (In other words, I apply rhetorical HEAT to the political itch, as hot as I can stand it for as long I as I can stand it.) But we have the same values. Thank you, Joe Biden, for
kicking serious vice presidential debate ass on Thursday night. You make me
proud of the side on which I stand.
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