Why is Batman considered a superhero?
Seriously, the guy is the textbook definition of a menace to society, yet for some reason most people unquestioningly echo the ridiculous idea that what he does is in some way heroic.
Bruce Wayne represents the worst that modern western civilization has to offer: he is a trust-fund tycoon who inherited a fortune of billions of dollars, he lives in a gated mansion that overlooks the dystopian urban nightmare that is Gotham City, and the way that he goes about assisting the city in its doomed efforts to overcome its problems is by dressing up in an overpriced Halloween costume and punching the shit out of people.
In short, Batman has always been a complete moron, and that was before he was portrayed by Ben Affleck.
Here is the wealthiest man in the greater Gotham City area, a man so rich that he offers to purchase a luxury hotel rather than tell the overpriced prostitutes with him to keep their fucking clothes on while swimming at a public gathering, and instead of spear-heading progressive social movements or, you know, working with city government on improving the social services they offer to their impoverished and fearful residents, he decides instead to have one of his lackeys engineer a grappling-hook gun and fashion throwing stars in the shapes of bats so that he can bravely confront the problem of petty street crime.
I will never watch Batman vs. Superman for one simple reason: it is an insultingly stupid conceit. Batman vs. Superman, in a rational setting, is not a fight in any real sense of the word. Superman is an omnipotent alien creature who can fly, leap over buildings in a single bound, can see through walls, and can burn the shit out of things by shooting lasers from his fucking eyes. Batman likes to play with sharp toys that are all in the shape of a bat and kung-fu defenseless victims to death. Bruce Wayne's obsession with bats is really the same thing that my four-year-old daughter is going through with My Little Pony: she also feels the need to wear her My Little Pony shirt everywhere she goes, only it's more or less acceptable because, you know, she's four fucking years old.
In summary, fuck Batman. He is, to appropriate a Scottish insult for my own use, a cocksplat.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Sunday, June 26, 2016
If the Shoe Fits...
I keep reading that Trump supporters are terribly offended at being labelled "racists."
Fair enough. I am glad that being labelled a "racist" is something that even Trump supporters have the decency to find offensive. So here: I acknowledge that it is possible that not all Trump supporters are overt bigots. On the other hand, I find it beyond comprehension that someone who is not a bigot is willing to vote for a man who is a racist, bigoted xenophobe.
The company you keep and the causes you support say a lot about you as a person. Supporting Trump says that you are tolerant of an intolerant man. You are supporting somebody who insists on saying horribly racist things. This does, I think, make you a racist. Period.
If that makes you uncomfortable or upset, then so be it. The truth hurts sometimes.
Fair enough. I am glad that being labelled a "racist" is something that even Trump supporters have the decency to find offensive. So here: I acknowledge that it is possible that not all Trump supporters are overt bigots. On the other hand, I find it beyond comprehension that someone who is not a bigot is willing to vote for a man who is a racist, bigoted xenophobe.
The company you keep and the causes you support say a lot about you as a person. Supporting Trump says that you are tolerant of an intolerant man. You are supporting somebody who insists on saying horribly racist things. This does, I think, make you a racist. Period.
If that makes you uncomfortable or upset, then so be it. The truth hurts sometimes.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Parallel Worlds
As a child of a two parent household, I know that I have been traumatized by walking in on my parents while they were having sex. This made me wonder: do children of single parent households have traumatic memories of walking on their parent masturbating?
The Price of Gold
I heard something brilliant on the radio yesterday. A financial analyst, speaking about the Brexit said, "When the price of gold goes up, it usually means that human beings have done something stupid."
Friday, June 24, 2016
Fear Itself
The United Kingdom is the latest casualty in the escalating series of right-wing fear-mongering now occurring all over the world. Right-wing politicians told brazen lies, drummed up fears of dark-skinned others coming to take British jobs, and spun a fantastic and false tale of the declining sovereignty of the UK in the face of unelected Eurozone bureaucrats. And parts of the commonwealth swallowed the tripe whole and voted to leave the EU, blithely believing that, somehow, someway, everything will be even better than before, because to hell with all of your fancy numbers and facts.
Now that the UK has voted to leave Europe, Scotland will almost certainly vote to leave the UK. Thus the legacy of the twenty-first century conservatives in England will be the dismantling of the UK and the breakup with Europe. It is, in short, a legacy of fear, of ignorance, and of small-minded bigotry in the face of a future that could have been a lot brighter and more inclusive.
Well done, Tories. This serves as a reminder that conservative ideas and ideals are dangerous no matter their country of origin. Conservative ideals result in isolation, recession, nativism, and war. This is the endgame here. Don't be fooled.
P.S. And one more thing... Don't tell me that it's not racism at it's most basic that drives the supporters of Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, Marine LePen, and other right-wing hate-pimps around the world. Don't tell me that it's really economic angst or anxiety about a changing world or legitimate fears concerning immigration. The people who support these awful con artists are ignorant racists. Period. Full stop. They are motivated by hatred and fear of people who are darker than they are.
People tell me that I'm supposed to feel sympathy for them, but I cannot. I cannot feel sympathy for human beings who turn to their basest instincts when they feel fear. I do not sympathize with people who are violent, ignorant, and hateful. I do not care what their reasons are. There is no excuse to discriminate against human beings on the artificial basis of race. None.
Now that the UK has voted to leave Europe, Scotland will almost certainly vote to leave the UK. Thus the legacy of the twenty-first century conservatives in England will be the dismantling of the UK and the breakup with Europe. It is, in short, a legacy of fear, of ignorance, and of small-minded bigotry in the face of a future that could have been a lot brighter and more inclusive.
Well done, Tories. This serves as a reminder that conservative ideas and ideals are dangerous no matter their country of origin. Conservative ideals result in isolation, recession, nativism, and war. This is the endgame here. Don't be fooled.
P.S. And one more thing... Don't tell me that it's not racism at it's most basic that drives the supporters of Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, Marine LePen, and other right-wing hate-pimps around the world. Don't tell me that it's really economic angst or anxiety about a changing world or legitimate fears concerning immigration. The people who support these awful con artists are ignorant racists. Period. Full stop. They are motivated by hatred and fear of people who are darker than they are.
People tell me that I'm supposed to feel sympathy for them, but I cannot. I cannot feel sympathy for human beings who turn to their basest instincts when they feel fear. I do not sympathize with people who are violent, ignorant, and hateful. I do not care what their reasons are. There is no excuse to discriminate against human beings on the artificial basis of race. None.
On Mediocrity
Abigail Fisher, the detestable embodiment of white privilege, lost her ridiculous lawsuit against the University of Texas admissions program yesterday. Fisher, an underachiever who apparently believed that her white skin entitled her to access to a university to which she didn't qualify academically, had sued UT, claiming that its system of admissions was somehow unfair to her and other white underachievers who were unable to meet admissions standards.
Fisher, as is well-documented, possessed neither the test scores nor the grades to earn admission to UT, but she was undeterred by this obvious fact. Rather than acknowledging her academic shortcomings and accepting that she did not, in fact, deserve a spot at UT, she instead initiated a lawsuit against the state's flagship university, ridiculously claiming that, despite her complete and total lack of qualifications, she nonetheless deserved admission based on... well, the color of her skin, it would seem.
Of course, the conservatives on the Supreme Court, led by the execrable Samuel Alito, decried the majority ruling, submitting a dissent so full of factual errors and racist conclusions that it is obvious that they did not spend a moment worrying about the specifics of this case, choosing instead to use the case as a hill upon which to make another ill-considered stand in defense of white supremacy. Alito, the bigot who wrote in college that "people nowadays just don’t seem to know their place. Everywhere one turns, blacks and Hispanics are demanding jobs simply because they’re black and Hispanic. The physically handicapped are trying to gain equal representation in professional sports. And homosexuals are demanding the government vouchsafe them the right to bear children.”
Yes. A man with opinions like this is allowed to sit on the Supreme Court and determine the future course of the country. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
Fortunately, four of the seven justices who heard this case decided rationally, determining that race can be a factor in the lengthy and complicated admissions process. If you're confused, please read that again. Race is one of many, many factors that admissions officers may use when offering admission to applicants.
Is there anyone out there... Allow me to rephrase. Is there anyone out there who is not an open and ignorant bigot who does not believe that an integral part of the learning and maturation process is learning about and from people who come from different backgrounds and circumstances than you? Offering a diverse campus is an important obligation of every college admissions board, and it's one that they'll be able to continue to pursue, thanks to the four justices who ignored Abigail Fisher's racist claims about what she deserved based on her white skin.
Fisher, as is well-documented, possessed neither the test scores nor the grades to earn admission to UT, but she was undeterred by this obvious fact. Rather than acknowledging her academic shortcomings and accepting that she did not, in fact, deserve a spot at UT, she instead initiated a lawsuit against the state's flagship university, ridiculously claiming that, despite her complete and total lack of qualifications, she nonetheless deserved admission based on... well, the color of her skin, it would seem.
Of course, the conservatives on the Supreme Court, led by the execrable Samuel Alito, decried the majority ruling, submitting a dissent so full of factual errors and racist conclusions that it is obvious that they did not spend a moment worrying about the specifics of this case, choosing instead to use the case as a hill upon which to make another ill-considered stand in defense of white supremacy. Alito, the bigot who wrote in college that "people nowadays just don’t seem to know their place. Everywhere one turns, blacks and Hispanics are demanding jobs simply because they’re black and Hispanic. The physically handicapped are trying to gain equal representation in professional sports. And homosexuals are demanding the government vouchsafe them the right to bear children.”
Yes. A man with opinions like this is allowed to sit on the Supreme Court and determine the future course of the country. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
Fortunately, four of the seven justices who heard this case decided rationally, determining that race can be a factor in the lengthy and complicated admissions process. If you're confused, please read that again. Race is one of many, many factors that admissions officers may use when offering admission to applicants.
Is there anyone out there... Allow me to rephrase. Is there anyone out there who is not an open and ignorant bigot who does not believe that an integral part of the learning and maturation process is learning about and from people who come from different backgrounds and circumstances than you? Offering a diverse campus is an important obligation of every college admissions board, and it's one that they'll be able to continue to pursue, thanks to the four justices who ignored Abigail Fisher's racist claims about what she deserved based on her white skin.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
John Oliver is a Treasure
If you don't watch Last Week Tonight, the brilliant HBO comedy-news program starring John Oliver, you should. If you do watch Last Week Tonight, you should know how lucky you are.
In this past episode, after detailing the dirty and corrupt way that banks sell people's debts to private firms, many of whom routinely employ odious collection tactics against their victims, John Oliver let us in on a beautiful and meaningful skit. He was able to purchase fifteen million dollars of debt for only $60,000, all of which he proceeded to forgive. That's right: the people who owed that fifteen million dollars no longer owe it.
Just like that, John Oliver has made many people's lives better than they were before his show aired. And that, my friends, is the textbook definition of doing good in the world.
In this past episode, after detailing the dirty and corrupt way that banks sell people's debts to private firms, many of whom routinely employ odious collection tactics against their victims, John Oliver let us in on a beautiful and meaningful skit. He was able to purchase fifteen million dollars of debt for only $60,000, all of which he proceeded to forgive. That's right: the people who owed that fifteen million dollars no longer owe it.
Just like that, John Oliver has made many people's lives better than they were before his show aired. And that, my friends, is the textbook definition of doing good in the world.
This Is What Male Privilege Looks Like
To wit: Brock Turner, a freshman at Stanford, sexually assaulted an unconscious woman after a frat party. Despite his completely unbelievable denials, he was tried and convicted of this heinous and disgusting act. The judge, Aaron Peskey, took pity on the poor rapist, and sentenced him to only six months in prison for his gross violation of a completely defenseless human being. Peskey's reasoning, he explained, was that "a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him."
No, really. He actually wrote that. A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
I wonder what Judge Peskey believes the impact of this rapist's actions were on the victim. This is, in its purest form, what male privilege is right now in America. Brock Turner is a sexual predator. He is a rapist. He is a horrible, despicable human being, someone who has demonstrated to the entire world that he lacks the basic moral structure required to be a functioning member of modern society. He took advantage of a defenseless woman who was unconscious, pulled her dress up over her head, pulled her panties off of her, and repeatedly jammed his fingers inside of her before being chased off by two students who happened to be walking by.
But a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
Dan A. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, wrote a nauseating letter to Judge Peskey, pleading for leniency. In this trite and self-serving missive, this candidate for father of the year referred to his son raping this unconscious woman as "twenty minutes of action." Stop and read that again. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, penetrated the vagina of a woman who was passed-out and unresponsive. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, repeatedly slammed his fingers into this woman's vagina. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, only stopped his gruesome assault of his unconscious victim when he was chased away by two passers-by who stumbled upon the vicious assault.
But a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
Dan A. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, wrote in his sickening letter to Judge Peskey that his poor son, the rapist Brock Turner, had never been violent towards anyone, not even on the night that he sexually assaulted the unconscious woman behind a dumpster in a deserted alley after a frat party. Mr. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, complained that his poor son, the rapist Brock Turner, doesn't even enjoy eating steak anymore, and that he only eats to live.
Poor, poor Brock Turner. How much can one rapist possibly suffer for his crimes? The man can't even enjoy a steak anymore. He certainly doesn't merit prison. Remember, a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
The simple fact is that if men were the primary victims of rape and sexual assault they would be capital crimes. But because men are the primary perpetrators of rape and sexual assault and women are the victims of men's depredations, we get tortured reasoning from male judges who sympathize with the perpetrators of these terrible, dehumanizing crimes. Never forget that a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
No, really. He actually wrote that. A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
I wonder what Judge Peskey believes the impact of this rapist's actions were on the victim. This is, in its purest form, what male privilege is right now in America. Brock Turner is a sexual predator. He is a rapist. He is a horrible, despicable human being, someone who has demonstrated to the entire world that he lacks the basic moral structure required to be a functioning member of modern society. He took advantage of a defenseless woman who was unconscious, pulled her dress up over her head, pulled her panties off of her, and repeatedly jammed his fingers inside of her before being chased off by two students who happened to be walking by.
But a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
Dan A. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, wrote a nauseating letter to Judge Peskey, pleading for leniency. In this trite and self-serving missive, this candidate for father of the year referred to his son raping this unconscious woman as "twenty minutes of action." Stop and read that again. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, penetrated the vagina of a woman who was passed-out and unresponsive. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, repeatedly slammed his fingers into this woman's vagina. His son, the rapist Brock Turner, only stopped his gruesome assault of his unconscious victim when he was chased away by two passers-by who stumbled upon the vicious assault.
But a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
Dan A. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, wrote in his sickening letter to Judge Peskey that his poor son, the rapist Brock Turner, had never been violent towards anyone, not even on the night that he sexually assaulted the unconscious woman behind a dumpster in a deserted alley after a frat party. Mr. Turner, the father of the convicted rapist, complained that his poor son, the rapist Brock Turner, doesn't even enjoy eating steak anymore, and that he only eats to live.
Poor, poor Brock Turner. How much can one rapist possibly suffer for his crimes? The man can't even enjoy a steak anymore. He certainly doesn't merit prison. Remember, a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
The simple fact is that if men were the primary victims of rape and sexual assault they would be capital crimes. But because men are the primary perpetrators of rape and sexual assault and women are the victims of men's depredations, we get tortured reasoning from male judges who sympathize with the perpetrators of these terrible, dehumanizing crimes. Never forget that a prison sentence would have a severe impact on him.
Friday, June 3, 2016
LeBron and His Haters
There's a terrific article up at the brilliant new website The Undefeated about LeBron James and the (to me) inexplicable hostility that he has engendered among fans. Note to everybody: go check out The Undefeated. It's wonderful: it's sports and culture and race and reason all mixed together and shaken up.
Anyway, I've always believed that most of the fans who dislike LeBron do so out of, well, racism. Not necessarily burning crosses on the lawn, White Power, swastikas tattooed on the neck racism, but a more subtle, unconscious form of the disease. LeBron's big sin for these people is that he is a strong, oversized black man who decided to bypass the traditional framework of white ownership of black athletes and determine his own future.
LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh got together - eschewing any interference from the white men in suits who generally comprise the general managers of the various teams of the NBA - and decided that they were going to join forces and see what they could accomplish on the same team. I'm not sure if this move was completely unprecedented in the history of American professional basketball, but it is certainly a rare occurrence and, insofar as it was a direct attack on the logic of white ownership over dynamic and athletic black men, it presented a problem to many white people.
Again, in a vain attempt to soothe the hurt feelings of self-styled non-racist white LeBron haters out there, I am not saying that you are a Klansman, nor am I implying that you are a David Duke fanboy. Racism is rarely that overt. Racism often takes the form of the unconscious reactions that we have to external stimuli, the nagging discomfort that we get at a novel situation that threatens to undo our preconceived notions of how members of different groups of people are allowed to behave.
LeBron's sin, in my humble opinion, was that he dared to act like a professional man and grab the reins of his own destiny. The status quo of professional basketball in America to that point had been that white owners and general managers of teams have the God-given right to determine the future of the black players in their employ. Sure, players can earn their status as free agents and may decide to take their talents to any team in the league, and this is mostly uncontroversial these days. What LeBron, Dwayne, and Chris did, however, is to seize the role of general manager for themselves and to decide without interference how their team was going to be composed.
LeBron's sin, in other words, was to defy the racist hierarchy of the NBA and, by extension, the racist hierarchy of American society. And this is a sin for which many white people will never forgive him.
Anyway, I've always believed that most of the fans who dislike LeBron do so out of, well, racism. Not necessarily burning crosses on the lawn, White Power, swastikas tattooed on the neck racism, but a more subtle, unconscious form of the disease. LeBron's big sin for these people is that he is a strong, oversized black man who decided to bypass the traditional framework of white ownership of black athletes and determine his own future.
LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh got together - eschewing any interference from the white men in suits who generally comprise the general managers of the various teams of the NBA - and decided that they were going to join forces and see what they could accomplish on the same team. I'm not sure if this move was completely unprecedented in the history of American professional basketball, but it is certainly a rare occurrence and, insofar as it was a direct attack on the logic of white ownership over dynamic and athletic black men, it presented a problem to many white people.
Again, in a vain attempt to soothe the hurt feelings of self-styled non-racist white LeBron haters out there, I am not saying that you are a Klansman, nor am I implying that you are a David Duke fanboy. Racism is rarely that overt. Racism often takes the form of the unconscious reactions that we have to external stimuli, the nagging discomfort that we get at a novel situation that threatens to undo our preconceived notions of how members of different groups of people are allowed to behave.
LeBron's sin, in my humble opinion, was that he dared to act like a professional man and grab the reins of his own destiny. The status quo of professional basketball in America to that point had been that white owners and general managers of teams have the God-given right to determine the future of the black players in their employ. Sure, players can earn their status as free agents and may decide to take their talents to any team in the league, and this is mostly uncontroversial these days. What LeBron, Dwayne, and Chris did, however, is to seize the role of general manager for themselves and to decide without interference how their team was going to be composed.
LeBron's sin, in other words, was to defy the racist hierarchy of the NBA and, by extension, the racist hierarchy of American society. And this is a sin for which many white people will never forgive him.
The City of Brotherly Love
Philadelphia has taken the wonderful step of adding two Muslim holidays to its school calendar. Next year students in the Philadelhpia school system will be learning about and also getting the days that correspond with Eid al-Fitr, which is celebrated following the month-long observance of Ramadan, and Eid al-Adha, which celebrates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his own son in submission to God's will.
Expect heads to begin exploding at Fox News any moment now.
Expect heads to begin exploding at Fox News any moment now.
Donald Trump is a Dangerous Dumbass and His Supporters Are No Better
In attempting to explain the inexplicable rise of Donald Trump from annoying reality television star to a possible extinction-level event, many pundits have suggested that Trump is channeling the rage of people who feel as though they have been left behind or even left out of the new global economy. He is, these pundits tell us, a populist rabble-rouser, a truth teller who instinctively understands the economic anxieties of a group of people that society has forgotten.
This, of course, is completely bullshit.
Donald Trump and, by extension, his supporters are not angry because of economic struggles. There is absolutely no evidence that Trump supporters are pitchfork-waving mad due to existential worries stemming from the effects of globalization. Rather, the unifying characteristic of his supporters is that they are unable or unwilling to deal with the changing face of America. To put it simply, Trump's supporters are more racist, more Islamophobic, more homophobic, and more sexist than the average American.
I'll let Kevin Drum explain it.
This, of course, is completely bullshit.
Donald Trump and, by extension, his supporters are not angry because of economic struggles. There is absolutely no evidence that Trump supporters are pitchfork-waving mad due to existential worries stemming from the effects of globalization. Rather, the unifying characteristic of his supporters is that they are unable or unwilling to deal with the changing face of America. To put it simply, Trump's supporters are more racist, more Islamophobic, more homophobic, and more sexist than the average American.
I'll let Kevin Drum explain it.
Everything You Need to Know About the Terrifying Relationship Between Vaccines and Autism
Finally, somebody has taken the time to compile every last piece of evidence proving the link between vaccines and autism. I thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for sending us this brave young man, and I consider him to be a hero of the highest magnitude.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Gorilla Lives Matter
Wouldn't it be wonderful if all of the people who are so outraged over the shooting of Harambe - the gorilla from the Cincinnati Zoo who was shot in order to protect a young boy who mistakenly wandered into the gorilla enclosure - could work up some of the same unhinged anger when, I don't know, human beings were shot and killed with much less justification?
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
The Agony with No Ecstasy: Never Trump
A few days back Robert Kagan, a senior fellow at the conservative Brookings Institution, penned a brilliant and important essay entitled This Is How Fascism Comes to America
Scholars and pundits and assorted talking heads of the American news gaggle have spent the last several months quibbling over whether or not fascist is an appropriate word to use when describing Donald Trump and his ascent to the doorstep of political power in America. The truth is that I don't know if what Trump is neatly fits into the complicated definitions that we have of a word that has proven difficult to define.
Another, more important truth, is that it doesn't matter if Donald Trump is an actual fascist or not. I've read various rejections of the idea that Donald Trump is an honest-to-goodness fascist: he doesn't have a group of organized brownshirts following behind him and doing battle in the streets with political adversaries; there's no Trumpian equivalent of the Hitler Youth; Hitler had a history of political involvement that Trump lacks; Mussolini was at one-time a communist so something or another.
These ideas are so juvenile as to barely merit a response, but I'll give it a shot regardless. A serial killer is somebody who kills three or more people. It doesn't matter if he devours his victims like Jeffrey Dahmer or buries them in the basement like John Wayne Gacy. A fascist is somebody who whips up nationalistic, anti-minority fervor, someone who cloaks himself in the flag and promotes a sort of lawless military adventurism, someone who race-baits and sanctions violence against his political opponents.
Is Donald Trump an actual fascist? Again, it doesn't matter.
What matters is that his ascent heralds a startling and troubling new age in American history, an age where all of us must do battle with the very real possibility that our democratic institutions might not be as powerful and as durable as we once thought. Will Donald Trump tear down American democratic institutions if elected to the Presidency? Not likely. What is likely is that he will degrade them to the point of irrelevance through his corruption and his willingness to use the legal arsenal at the disposal of the executive branch.
Trump doesn't like Jeff Bezos, so perhaps he'll discover a new love for anti-monopoly sentiment, at least insofar as it concerns Amazon. Trump feels that Hillary and Bill Clinton wounded him too deeply during the Presidential race? Perhaps he'll instruct his Attorney General to investigate the Clinton Global Initiative.
Donald Trump is a bad man with a lot of really bad ideas. He is a dangerous man with a lot of dangerous ideas. He is a small, insecure, ill-tempered, insecure demagogue with a rabid following of the angry, ignorant, and incompetent from throughout the country, and his Presidency would, in one way or another, spell the beginning of the end for America.
Do not let this tragedy happen. Fight against Trump. Fight against fascism. Fight against authoritarian demagogues who threaten the survival of the country and the world. Fight, fight, fight.
Scholars and pundits and assorted talking heads of the American news gaggle have spent the last several months quibbling over whether or not fascist is an appropriate word to use when describing Donald Trump and his ascent to the doorstep of political power in America. The truth is that I don't know if what Trump is neatly fits into the complicated definitions that we have of a word that has proven difficult to define.
Another, more important truth, is that it doesn't matter if Donald Trump is an actual fascist or not. I've read various rejections of the idea that Donald Trump is an honest-to-goodness fascist: he doesn't have a group of organized brownshirts following behind him and doing battle in the streets with political adversaries; there's no Trumpian equivalent of the Hitler Youth; Hitler had a history of political involvement that Trump lacks; Mussolini was at one-time a communist so something or another.
These ideas are so juvenile as to barely merit a response, but I'll give it a shot regardless. A serial killer is somebody who kills three or more people. It doesn't matter if he devours his victims like Jeffrey Dahmer or buries them in the basement like John Wayne Gacy. A fascist is somebody who whips up nationalistic, anti-minority fervor, someone who cloaks himself in the flag and promotes a sort of lawless military adventurism, someone who race-baits and sanctions violence against his political opponents.
Is Donald Trump an actual fascist? Again, it doesn't matter.
What matters is that his ascent heralds a startling and troubling new age in American history, an age where all of us must do battle with the very real possibility that our democratic institutions might not be as powerful and as durable as we once thought. Will Donald Trump tear down American democratic institutions if elected to the Presidency? Not likely. What is likely is that he will degrade them to the point of irrelevance through his corruption and his willingness to use the legal arsenal at the disposal of the executive branch.
Trump doesn't like Jeff Bezos, so perhaps he'll discover a new love for anti-monopoly sentiment, at least insofar as it concerns Amazon. Trump feels that Hillary and Bill Clinton wounded him too deeply during the Presidential race? Perhaps he'll instruct his Attorney General to investigate the Clinton Global Initiative.
Donald Trump is a bad man with a lot of really bad ideas. He is a dangerous man with a lot of dangerous ideas. He is a small, insecure, ill-tempered, insecure demagogue with a rabid following of the angry, ignorant, and incompetent from throughout the country, and his Presidency would, in one way or another, spell the beginning of the end for America.
Do not let this tragedy happen. Fight against Trump. Fight against fascism. Fight against authoritarian demagogues who threaten the survival of the country and the world. Fight, fight, fight.
Is It Even Possible
I read a post a few days back about somebody complaining that she was trapped on an escalator. When someone attempted to correct her, suggesting that it was, in fact, an elevator on which she had found herself stuck, she affirmed that it was, indeed, an escalator.
I am hoping that this is all a practical joke, but my faith in humanity has never been all that strong anyway.
I am hoping that this is all a practical joke, but my faith in humanity has never been all that strong anyway.
I Should Feel Surprised, But I Don't...
What Kind of Message Are You Trying to Send?: Too Funny To Unfriend
My Inheritance
It is time, said Mother and Father to me,
One morning while I was just watching TV.
I stood up and looked at them curiously,
Wondering why they were acting strangely.
I followed them outside, we walked on out back,
They smiled and pointed at a rundown old shack,
The side boards were splitting, the windows were cracked,
The paint, once so pretty, was moldy and black.
This wonderful house, they said, it’s for you.
Our parents gave it to us; we’ve kept it like new.
Yes, there might be a small problem or two,
But we’re sure you can deal with any issue.
I stood and I nodded, unsure what to say.
I stood still and silent for most of that day.
Til finally I spoke and said, If I may
I’d like to point out that this house is decayed.
The door here is broken, and there is no knob,
Right there on the side is a big slimy blob,
I’d think it a palace if I were a slob,
But now looking at it makes me want to sob.
When Grandma and Grandpa gave this house to you –
And I’ve seen pictures – it looked like brand new.
They handed it down, gave it to you two,
So what happened to it, tell me what did you do?
My parents looked at me as if they were mad,
They gave me a look that was angry and bad.
They said, Here we thought that you would be glad,
We’re handing this home down to you, my dear lad.
Sure, it’s seen better days, they said with a frown,
But, really, it’s great for a nice hand-me-down.
We know that this all might be one big letdown,
But at least it’s still standing, though slightly rundown.
What did you expect? they asked with a growl.
You know we’ve been busy, they said with a scowl.
We’ve had so much to do, you’ve no right to howl,
And tell us our caretaking methods are foul.
Don’t judge the nice house just by looking outside:
Walk through the door, view your new home with pride.
I nodded and walked through the door with a sigh,
And what I saw in that house made me start to cry.
Holes in the floor, in the ceiling and walls,
Rats, mice, and snakes in the closets and halls,
A family of possums inside the drywall:
I took a deep breath and refused to bawl.
Okay, I said aloud, nodding my head.
You should have done better, I’ve already said.
But this is no time for anger and dread.
There’s no time to argue, let’s fix this instead.
My parents, they nodded, and got right to work.
I kicked out the animals from where they lurked.
We swept and we mopped with a smile and a smirk,
And got down to business with good old teamwork.
This house is a gift from one group to another,
Right down through the ages, to children from mothers.
So many marvels still to be discovered,
So many joys yet to be uncovered.
And now it’s my turn to take care of this place,
And work to make sure that it’s not a disgrace.
For I will have children one day and this space
Is all that they’ll have – it can’t be replaced.
One morning while I was just watching TV.
I stood up and looked at them curiously,
Wondering why they were acting strangely.
I followed them outside, we walked on out back,
They smiled and pointed at a rundown old shack,
The side boards were splitting, the windows were cracked,
The paint, once so pretty, was moldy and black.
This wonderful house, they said, it’s for you.
Our parents gave it to us; we’ve kept it like new.
Yes, there might be a small problem or two,
But we’re sure you can deal with any issue.
I stood and I nodded, unsure what to say.
I stood still and silent for most of that day.
Til finally I spoke and said, If I may
I’d like to point out that this house is decayed.
The door here is broken, and there is no knob,
Right there on the side is a big slimy blob,
I’d think it a palace if I were a slob,
But now looking at it makes me want to sob.
When Grandma and Grandpa gave this house to you –
And I’ve seen pictures – it looked like brand new.
They handed it down, gave it to you two,
So what happened to it, tell me what did you do?
My parents looked at me as if they were mad,
They gave me a look that was angry and bad.
They said, Here we thought that you would be glad,
We’re handing this home down to you, my dear lad.
Sure, it’s seen better days, they said with a frown,
But, really, it’s great for a nice hand-me-down.
We know that this all might be one big letdown,
But at least it’s still standing, though slightly rundown.
What did you expect? they asked with a growl.
You know we’ve been busy, they said with a scowl.
We’ve had so much to do, you’ve no right to howl,
And tell us our caretaking methods are foul.
Don’t judge the nice house just by looking outside:
Walk through the door, view your new home with pride.
I nodded and walked through the door with a sigh,
And what I saw in that house made me start to cry.
Holes in the floor, in the ceiling and walls,
Rats, mice, and snakes in the closets and halls,
A family of possums inside the drywall:
I took a deep breath and refused to bawl.
Okay, I said aloud, nodding my head.
You should have done better, I’ve already said.
But this is no time for anger and dread.
There’s no time to argue, let’s fix this instead.
My parents, they nodded, and got right to work.
I kicked out the animals from where they lurked.
We swept and we mopped with a smile and a smirk,
And got down to business with good old teamwork.
This house is a gift from one group to another,
Right down through the ages, to children from mothers.
So many marvels still to be discovered,
So many joys yet to be uncovered.
And now it’s my turn to take care of this place,
And work to make sure that it’s not a disgrace.
For I will have children one day and this space
Is all that they’ll have – it can’t be replaced.
Monday, May 30, 2016
Nothing Compares...
I have been away from my blogging responsibilities for some time, but since nobody reads this stupid thing anyway, I don't have to apologize.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention my sadness upon hearing the news of Prince's untimely passing. At 38 years old, I was fortunate enough to have grown up in an era where this fantastic artist was sharing his brilliance with the world. I loved Prince's music. Loved it. He was an amazing, energizing, and trailblazing artist who made the world a better place by virtue of his contributions to the American musical canon.
Appropriately, Questlove has shared with us a list of forty reasons that Prince was, in fact, a hip-hop pioneer. Enjoy.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention my sadness upon hearing the news of Prince's untimely passing. At 38 years old, I was fortunate enough to have grown up in an era where this fantastic artist was sharing his brilliance with the world. I loved Prince's music. Loved it. He was an amazing, energizing, and trailblazing artist who made the world a better place by virtue of his contributions to the American musical canon.
Appropriately, Questlove has shared with us a list of forty reasons that Prince was, in fact, a hip-hop pioneer. Enjoy.
The Long Sweep of History
Prehistory and the Vedic Era
It was during the unusually warm autumn of 1997 – my sophomore year as an undergraduate at the University of Chicago – that I first met her. Autumn in Chicago is, as far as I’m concerned, the most perfect season to be found anywhere in the world: the air is crisp, the evenings are long, the breezes blow inward from the lake and drench the nearby neighborhoods in the pleasant smell of freshwater before the long freeze of winter. We stumbled into the same intermediate Spanish conversation class together, both of us well-versed in the formulaic foundations of high-school Spanish classes, able to conjugate verbs and ably describe trips to Mexican grocery stores that we never visited.
My first year of college had passed in a blur of sex and graffiti and hip-hop concerts at out-of-the-way venues, the sort of dizzying urban experience that I had wanted when I chose to attend college on the south side of Chicago. I had done well enough in my freshman classes to pass them all, though not well enough to prevent my academic counselor from suggesting to me that there wasn’t any shame in accepting the fact that I wasn’t necessarily the right fit for a prestigious school like the University of Chicago.
Her snidely elitist comment was all the motivation that I required to decide to dedicate myself more fully to my studies, and I entered my sophomore year determined to make her eat her words regarding my academic abilities. This commitment to excellence, of course, lasted exactly as long as it took to became entangled in the turbulent relationship that I found when I first spoke with the girl from Spanish class.
Colonization
Yo soy mujer. Y tú?
Yo soy hombre. No soy mujer. Qué tipo de comida te gusta?
A mà me gusta… tacos.
De verás? Te gustan tacos?
No. I… uh… No me gustan tacos.
“I don’t know why I said that,” she blurted out, her light brown face flushing red with embarrassment.
I shrugged. “It’s just a practice conversation. It doesn’t actually mean anything. You could tell me that you liked eating glass and the professor wouldn’t mind as long as you conjugated your verbs properly.”
She looked at me and smiled. “You’re right.”
I returned her smile. “First time for everything.”
“Do you find that works?”
“What?”
“The false modesty,” she answered as she twirled of lock of her curly black on her left index finger. “The self-deprecation approach to picking up college girls.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to work on the wealthy widow demographic, so I decided to give it a shot with a less cynical target audience. So,” I continued, my stomach clenched tightly with anxiety, “is it working?”
She chuckled gently. “It might be,” she replied. “Don’t get ahead of yourself now. You were doing so well before – there’s no need to jump the gun.”
I nodded. “I gotta admit, though: I’m doubtful that we could ever move beyond the problems that have come up during our first conversation.”
She knitted her eyebrows in confusion. “What problems?”
“Well, I already know that you have a loose relationship with the truth. We’ve just started speaking and already you’ve lied to me.”
“When?”
“Oh, like that whole I like tacos ruse isn’t going to be a metaphor for all of our future interactions. How will I ever know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re reverting back to your old habits?”
“That’s a good point,” she concurred, nodding her head seriously. “If I can lie about tacos, I can lie about pretty much any food. First she lied about tacos, and you said nothing, because you’re not Mexican. Then she lied about pasta, and again you said nothing, because you’re not Italian. Wait, are you Italian?”
I shook my head.
“What are you, then?”
“Ah, the quintessential American question,” I smiled. “What am I? Ukrainian, I guess, though not really. I’m… nothing, really. A mutt. I’m white.”
“So you won’t get offended until I lie about, what? A cheese sandwich? Noodles and butter?”
“Peanut butter and crackers,” I corrected her.
“I’ll be sure to stay away from that minefield.”
We left class together that afternoon, walking close enough to each other to ensure that our arms would continually brush up against one another, lost in a conversation so important and delicate that I couldn’t remember a word of it once it was done. We might have stumbled into a restaurant or a café or a museum or perhaps we just kept walking until the moon rose into the nighttime sky and our jaws tired from conversation.
It doesn’t matter what we said or where we went. We were young and naïve, free from the burdens of adulthood, independent enough to make our own schedules while still insulated from the outside world by the long arms of our parents.
She was the daughter of successful Pakistani immigrants, a girl born in the western suburbs of Chicago who had been uneasily straddling her hyphenated identity: here an American, there a Pakistani; here a devout Muslim, there a rebellious feminist; here optimistic and effervescent, there depressed and occasionally suicidal.
I was irresponsible and fatally romantic, given to fits of righteous indignation and self-serving anger: the sort of kid who was fortunate that he missed out on the sixties because he never would have made it through to the other side. I thought that school was a ludicrous waste of both time and intelligence and spent as much time as possible rebelling against my many privileges, trying my best to engage in various acts of self-sabotage in an attempt to rid myself of the thick layer of guilt that I wore over myself like a penitent’s hair shirt.
We fit together perfectly, in the sort of nonsensical way that only teenagers can understand and make work. We acknowledged and then ignored our many differences, believing that the sheer force of our infatuation could overcome any obstacles in our way, as though the static electricity that we inadvertently created when we’d rub against each other on the long, hot nights spent in each other’s company could light our path through the inscrutable darkness of the world outside of our embrace.
Due to her constant and gnawing fear of our relationship being discovered, we spent a lot of our time together skulking in the shadows, stealing kisses and touches while others turned their eyes, sneaking in and out of each other’s arms and whispering reassurances to each other that one day we’d be able to hold hands as we walked down the street together.
Over the next two years I met her friends, her older brother and her two younger sisters, her cousins who were of an age with her, and things progressed between us, albeit in stormy fits and starts. We wanted to be together, of this we were sure, but sometimes the fear of the tempest around us cowed us into cowardice and we pushed each other away, desperate to find an easy answer to a complicated problem.
Her father had already decided that she would one day marry a proper Pakistani man, a man with brown skin and thick black hair, a man who spoke Urdu and prayed salaat five times daily, a man who would work outside of the house and earn a large salary while his daughter stayed home and raised their children. While he had yet to find this man and secure his daughter’s agreement to his well-laid plans for her life, he was confident that it was only a matter of time until his oldest daughter would be settled into a neatly-arranged marriage and he would be the proud but aloof Dadi to a gaggle of giggling grandchildren.
I, of course, was the embodiment of her father’s darkest dreams, the nightmares that haunted his sleep and turned his face red with anger: I was an ambitionless History major, a mongrel boy who was the product of a marriage between a schoolteacher and a garage-door installer, someone unworthy of his daughter or his family’s illustrious history and genes.
I’m not sure what compelled her to invite me to her parents’ home, whether it was some kind of momentary psychosis, an elaborately-staged rebellion against her parents’ wishes, or just a weary sort of fuck-it attitude, but one evening I found myself seated at their oversized dinner table, surrounded by expensive china and polished silverware, my stomach clenching and gurgling in fits of terrified anxiety.
I bobbed and weaved my way through the two-hour ordeal, wishing that there were minute-long breaks every three minutes, a corner man to advise me on strategy, and a cut man to stitch me up and tend to my wounds.
When it was over we left the house together and drove around her neighborhood, an exclusive gated community dotted with enormous houses, luxury automobiles, and security guards who constantly walked around the premises.
“How’d I do?” I asked, rocking back and forth in the front passenger seat, unable to calm my stomach.
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Well, he didn’t kick you out of the house, so that’s a good thing.”
I turned my head to her and threw her a shocked look. “Your dad’s been known to kick people out of the house?”
“No, but then you’re the first boy I’ve ever brought home,” she answered.
“But you thought he might kick me out?”
She smiled. “The possibility had crossed my mind.”
I nodded nervously.
“You did fine,” she offered soothingly. “Really, you did better than fine. I think he might even like you.”
“I think he choked on his roti when I told him I was a History major.”
“I’m a History major,” she replied.
“But he already knows you’re hopeless,” I retorted. “He might have had some hope for me.”
We drove around aimlessly for hours that night, watching the Moon and the stars amble across the infinite darkness of the nighttime sky as her car sliced through the deserted streets, barely-audible music playing in the background as we talked and dreamed and touched each other, desperately hoping that we had finally pushed our way out of hiding, that our relationship could now be celebrated under the warm embrace of the Sun, that the dirty secret of our love could finally be made public.
She was right: things had gone well. We got the run-down the next morning from her two sisters, who had both overheard their parents discussing the dinner.
“Dad likes him,” the youngest one said.
“So does Mom,” the middle sister added. “She might divorce Dad and try to marry him.”
“That’s gross,” she answered before hanging up the phone and smiling at me. “Well, you passed the test.”
“So what now?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d get this far.”
Independence
I wish that I could say that there was a fiery confrontation that ripped us apart from one another, a scene worthy of the movies, a fight replete with memorable repartee where we split ourselves so totally asunder that the mere thought of the other would fill our throats with bile.
Alas, our ending came without much melodrama: we more or less drifted apart, a garment pulled slowly and expertly until, at last, the final thin string holding it together popped under the constant pressure, leaving two smaller, tattered pieces of fabric.
So what happened?
After she graduated from college we fell out of touch, a thick wall of silence descending between us that left a black void where once there was love and touch and lust. I graduated one year later and, finally surrendering to my wanderlust, packed my bags on a whim and moved to Taipei, Taiwan. I spent a year there teaching English, studying Mandarin, exploring the small island, and, for the first time since she and I had parted, falling in love once again.
I returned home feeling rejuvenated by my time away, knowing that I had passed through some informal initiation ritual into the cult of adulthood, believing that the future was mine to dictate and the possibilities were infinite. I had, however, been irretrievably lost to the magical lure of traveling, and no sooner had I made my way back home than I started planning my next move, a multi-year trip to Quito, Ecuador.
Not wanting to waste any time, I booked my ticket and packed my bag, leaving myself a little more than a month to spend with old friends and family before again leaving the world of my childhood behind.
Somehow, during this tight window of time, she and I reconnected: a phone call, a stamped letter, a chance encounter on the crowded sidewalks of the city. I don’t remember how we resumed our torrid affair, and the truth is that it doesn’t matter.
We spent a dizzying weekend together, rediscovering the intensity of our union with one another, pressing our hands deeply into each other’s damp flesh, losing our fingers in the thick growth of hair on top of our heads as we pulled and yanked and pinched and sighed and swore we’d never part again.
She was moving to Cairo, Egypt, in pursuit of a postgraduate degree, and did not know when she’d be returning. Suddenly I was torn in two, unable to stomach the thought of being away from her any longer, and willing to go anywhere with her and to be anything for her.
And then, with a level of sincerity and courage that I can no longer muster, I asked if I could join her in Cairo.
I should have sensed that something was wrong when she hesitated. I should have understood that things had changed beyond repair, that our lives had diverged and no matter how hard we tried we would never be able to revive what had already been dead for years.
Eventually she agreed to let me join her, but it was too late. I never boarded that plane to Cairo, and, except for an incredibly awkward night in a crowded bar downtown a few years later, we never saw each other again.
Looking back, it all seems so inevitable, though the past always feels obvious when studied through the lens of the future. Of course it was: the relationships of twenty-year-olds, no matter how pure and beautiful and fulfilling, aren’t supposed to last forever. Such partings are painful and difficult but, in the end, necessary to allow for the growth and development needed to mature into adulthood.
Partition
It’s been more than ten years since last we spoke, though I do occasionally make use of the wonders of the internet in order to see where she is and what she’s doing.
The last time I checked she was a visiting professor at a prestigious university in Lahore, Pakistan, enriching the global conversation about social space, structure, and Self, reminding all who are lucky enough to listen to her that we can and should do better with the world that we create all around us.
Meanwhile I married an Indian-American girl, had two daughters, and now divide my time between Chicago and Gujarat, a state in central India. I am a writer and an elementary school teacher, though most of my waking (and would-be sleeping) hours are spent as an overworked and overjoyed stay-at-home dad to my little girls. I write this, in truth, as I sit inside of my in-laws’ home here in India, my girls playing and screaming together in the next room, listening to the soothing cacophony of honking horns, firecrackers, barking dogs, and screeching children that supply the nightly ambience here.
Is it really any surprise that she ended up in Pakistan while I ended up on the southern end of that demilitarized zone in India? Two people, once so close as to be inseparable, now so distant that they are effectively unintelligible to each other, a war and civil strife creating the seemingly insurmountable barrier that keeps us apart. A shared set of memories is now all that binds us together: a tenuous past that is part fact, part daydream, and part wistful reminder of a time that has slipped from our grasp and left us with nothing more than our memories and our hopes with which to try to make sense of this mess.
It was during the unusually warm autumn of 1997 – my sophomore year as an undergraduate at the University of Chicago – that I first met her. Autumn in Chicago is, as far as I’m concerned, the most perfect season to be found anywhere in the world: the air is crisp, the evenings are long, the breezes blow inward from the lake and drench the nearby neighborhoods in the pleasant smell of freshwater before the long freeze of winter. We stumbled into the same intermediate Spanish conversation class together, both of us well-versed in the formulaic foundations of high-school Spanish classes, able to conjugate verbs and ably describe trips to Mexican grocery stores that we never visited.
My first year of college had passed in a blur of sex and graffiti and hip-hop concerts at out-of-the-way venues, the sort of dizzying urban experience that I had wanted when I chose to attend college on the south side of Chicago. I had done well enough in my freshman classes to pass them all, though not well enough to prevent my academic counselor from suggesting to me that there wasn’t any shame in accepting the fact that I wasn’t necessarily the right fit for a prestigious school like the University of Chicago.
Her snidely elitist comment was all the motivation that I required to decide to dedicate myself more fully to my studies, and I entered my sophomore year determined to make her eat her words regarding my academic abilities. This commitment to excellence, of course, lasted exactly as long as it took to became entangled in the turbulent relationship that I found when I first spoke with the girl from Spanish class.
Colonization
Yo soy mujer. Y tú?
Yo soy hombre. No soy mujer. Qué tipo de comida te gusta?
A mà me gusta… tacos.
De verás? Te gustan tacos?
No. I… uh… No me gustan tacos.
“I don’t know why I said that,” she blurted out, her light brown face flushing red with embarrassment.
I shrugged. “It’s just a practice conversation. It doesn’t actually mean anything. You could tell me that you liked eating glass and the professor wouldn’t mind as long as you conjugated your verbs properly.”
She looked at me and smiled. “You’re right.”
I returned her smile. “First time for everything.”
“Do you find that works?”
“What?”
“The false modesty,” she answered as she twirled of lock of her curly black on her left index finger. “The self-deprecation approach to picking up college girls.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to work on the wealthy widow demographic, so I decided to give it a shot with a less cynical target audience. So,” I continued, my stomach clenched tightly with anxiety, “is it working?”
She chuckled gently. “It might be,” she replied. “Don’t get ahead of yourself now. You were doing so well before – there’s no need to jump the gun.”
I nodded. “I gotta admit, though: I’m doubtful that we could ever move beyond the problems that have come up during our first conversation.”
She knitted her eyebrows in confusion. “What problems?”
“Well, I already know that you have a loose relationship with the truth. We’ve just started speaking and already you’ve lied to me.”
“When?”
“Oh, like that whole I like tacos ruse isn’t going to be a metaphor for all of our future interactions. How will I ever know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re reverting back to your old habits?”
“That’s a good point,” she concurred, nodding her head seriously. “If I can lie about tacos, I can lie about pretty much any food. First she lied about tacos, and you said nothing, because you’re not Mexican. Then she lied about pasta, and again you said nothing, because you’re not Italian. Wait, are you Italian?”
I shook my head.
“What are you, then?”
“Ah, the quintessential American question,” I smiled. “What am I? Ukrainian, I guess, though not really. I’m… nothing, really. A mutt. I’m white.”
“So you won’t get offended until I lie about, what? A cheese sandwich? Noodles and butter?”
“Peanut butter and crackers,” I corrected her.
“I’ll be sure to stay away from that minefield.”
We left class together that afternoon, walking close enough to each other to ensure that our arms would continually brush up against one another, lost in a conversation so important and delicate that I couldn’t remember a word of it once it was done. We might have stumbled into a restaurant or a café or a museum or perhaps we just kept walking until the moon rose into the nighttime sky and our jaws tired from conversation.
It doesn’t matter what we said or where we went. We were young and naïve, free from the burdens of adulthood, independent enough to make our own schedules while still insulated from the outside world by the long arms of our parents.
She was the daughter of successful Pakistani immigrants, a girl born in the western suburbs of Chicago who had been uneasily straddling her hyphenated identity: here an American, there a Pakistani; here a devout Muslim, there a rebellious feminist; here optimistic and effervescent, there depressed and occasionally suicidal.
I was irresponsible and fatally romantic, given to fits of righteous indignation and self-serving anger: the sort of kid who was fortunate that he missed out on the sixties because he never would have made it through to the other side. I thought that school was a ludicrous waste of both time and intelligence and spent as much time as possible rebelling against my many privileges, trying my best to engage in various acts of self-sabotage in an attempt to rid myself of the thick layer of guilt that I wore over myself like a penitent’s hair shirt.
We fit together perfectly, in the sort of nonsensical way that only teenagers can understand and make work. We acknowledged and then ignored our many differences, believing that the sheer force of our infatuation could overcome any obstacles in our way, as though the static electricity that we inadvertently created when we’d rub against each other on the long, hot nights spent in each other’s company could light our path through the inscrutable darkness of the world outside of our embrace.
Due to her constant and gnawing fear of our relationship being discovered, we spent a lot of our time together skulking in the shadows, stealing kisses and touches while others turned their eyes, sneaking in and out of each other’s arms and whispering reassurances to each other that one day we’d be able to hold hands as we walked down the street together.
Over the next two years I met her friends, her older brother and her two younger sisters, her cousins who were of an age with her, and things progressed between us, albeit in stormy fits and starts. We wanted to be together, of this we were sure, but sometimes the fear of the tempest around us cowed us into cowardice and we pushed each other away, desperate to find an easy answer to a complicated problem.
Her father had already decided that she would one day marry a proper Pakistani man, a man with brown skin and thick black hair, a man who spoke Urdu and prayed salaat five times daily, a man who would work outside of the house and earn a large salary while his daughter stayed home and raised their children. While he had yet to find this man and secure his daughter’s agreement to his well-laid plans for her life, he was confident that it was only a matter of time until his oldest daughter would be settled into a neatly-arranged marriage and he would be the proud but aloof Dadi to a gaggle of giggling grandchildren.
I, of course, was the embodiment of her father’s darkest dreams, the nightmares that haunted his sleep and turned his face red with anger: I was an ambitionless History major, a mongrel boy who was the product of a marriage between a schoolteacher and a garage-door installer, someone unworthy of his daughter or his family’s illustrious history and genes.
I’m not sure what compelled her to invite me to her parents’ home, whether it was some kind of momentary psychosis, an elaborately-staged rebellion against her parents’ wishes, or just a weary sort of fuck-it attitude, but one evening I found myself seated at their oversized dinner table, surrounded by expensive china and polished silverware, my stomach clenching and gurgling in fits of terrified anxiety.
I bobbed and weaved my way through the two-hour ordeal, wishing that there were minute-long breaks every three minutes, a corner man to advise me on strategy, and a cut man to stitch me up and tend to my wounds.
When it was over we left the house together and drove around her neighborhood, an exclusive gated community dotted with enormous houses, luxury automobiles, and security guards who constantly walked around the premises.
“How’d I do?” I asked, rocking back and forth in the front passenger seat, unable to calm my stomach.
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Well, he didn’t kick you out of the house, so that’s a good thing.”
I turned my head to her and threw her a shocked look. “Your dad’s been known to kick people out of the house?”
“No, but then you’re the first boy I’ve ever brought home,” she answered.
“But you thought he might kick me out?”
She smiled. “The possibility had crossed my mind.”
I nodded nervously.
“You did fine,” she offered soothingly. “Really, you did better than fine. I think he might even like you.”
“I think he choked on his roti when I told him I was a History major.”
“I’m a History major,” she replied.
“But he already knows you’re hopeless,” I retorted. “He might have had some hope for me.”
We drove around aimlessly for hours that night, watching the Moon and the stars amble across the infinite darkness of the nighttime sky as her car sliced through the deserted streets, barely-audible music playing in the background as we talked and dreamed and touched each other, desperately hoping that we had finally pushed our way out of hiding, that our relationship could now be celebrated under the warm embrace of the Sun, that the dirty secret of our love could finally be made public.
She was right: things had gone well. We got the run-down the next morning from her two sisters, who had both overheard their parents discussing the dinner.
“Dad likes him,” the youngest one said.
“So does Mom,” the middle sister added. “She might divorce Dad and try to marry him.”
“That’s gross,” she answered before hanging up the phone and smiling at me. “Well, you passed the test.”
“So what now?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d get this far.”
Independence
I wish that I could say that there was a fiery confrontation that ripped us apart from one another, a scene worthy of the movies, a fight replete with memorable repartee where we split ourselves so totally asunder that the mere thought of the other would fill our throats with bile.
Alas, our ending came without much melodrama: we more or less drifted apart, a garment pulled slowly and expertly until, at last, the final thin string holding it together popped under the constant pressure, leaving two smaller, tattered pieces of fabric.
So what happened?
After she graduated from college we fell out of touch, a thick wall of silence descending between us that left a black void where once there was love and touch and lust. I graduated one year later and, finally surrendering to my wanderlust, packed my bags on a whim and moved to Taipei, Taiwan. I spent a year there teaching English, studying Mandarin, exploring the small island, and, for the first time since she and I had parted, falling in love once again.
I returned home feeling rejuvenated by my time away, knowing that I had passed through some informal initiation ritual into the cult of adulthood, believing that the future was mine to dictate and the possibilities were infinite. I had, however, been irretrievably lost to the magical lure of traveling, and no sooner had I made my way back home than I started planning my next move, a multi-year trip to Quito, Ecuador.
Not wanting to waste any time, I booked my ticket and packed my bag, leaving myself a little more than a month to spend with old friends and family before again leaving the world of my childhood behind.
Somehow, during this tight window of time, she and I reconnected: a phone call, a stamped letter, a chance encounter on the crowded sidewalks of the city. I don’t remember how we resumed our torrid affair, and the truth is that it doesn’t matter.
We spent a dizzying weekend together, rediscovering the intensity of our union with one another, pressing our hands deeply into each other’s damp flesh, losing our fingers in the thick growth of hair on top of our heads as we pulled and yanked and pinched and sighed and swore we’d never part again.
She was moving to Cairo, Egypt, in pursuit of a postgraduate degree, and did not know when she’d be returning. Suddenly I was torn in two, unable to stomach the thought of being away from her any longer, and willing to go anywhere with her and to be anything for her.
And then, with a level of sincerity and courage that I can no longer muster, I asked if I could join her in Cairo.
I should have sensed that something was wrong when she hesitated. I should have understood that things had changed beyond repair, that our lives had diverged and no matter how hard we tried we would never be able to revive what had already been dead for years.
Eventually she agreed to let me join her, but it was too late. I never boarded that plane to Cairo, and, except for an incredibly awkward night in a crowded bar downtown a few years later, we never saw each other again.
Looking back, it all seems so inevitable, though the past always feels obvious when studied through the lens of the future. Of course it was: the relationships of twenty-year-olds, no matter how pure and beautiful and fulfilling, aren’t supposed to last forever. Such partings are painful and difficult but, in the end, necessary to allow for the growth and development needed to mature into adulthood.
Partition
It’s been more than ten years since last we spoke, though I do occasionally make use of the wonders of the internet in order to see where she is and what she’s doing.
The last time I checked she was a visiting professor at a prestigious university in Lahore, Pakistan, enriching the global conversation about social space, structure, and Self, reminding all who are lucky enough to listen to her that we can and should do better with the world that we create all around us.
Meanwhile I married an Indian-American girl, had two daughters, and now divide my time between Chicago and Gujarat, a state in central India. I am a writer and an elementary school teacher, though most of my waking (and would-be sleeping) hours are spent as an overworked and overjoyed stay-at-home dad to my little girls. I write this, in truth, as I sit inside of my in-laws’ home here in India, my girls playing and screaming together in the next room, listening to the soothing cacophony of honking horns, firecrackers, barking dogs, and screeching children that supply the nightly ambience here.
Is it really any surprise that she ended up in Pakistan while I ended up on the southern end of that demilitarized zone in India? Two people, once so close as to be inseparable, now so distant that they are effectively unintelligible to each other, a war and civil strife creating the seemingly insurmountable barrier that keeps us apart. A shared set of memories is now all that binds us together: a tenuous past that is part fact, part daydream, and part wistful reminder of a time that has slipped from our grasp and left us with nothing more than our memories and our hopes with which to try to make sense of this mess.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Alien Ocean: NASA’s Mission to Europa
So... we're going to Europa soon. This is a big deal, or at least has the potential to be a big deal. Europa is one of Jupiter's moons and, as it turns out, is home to an enormous sub-ice ocean. In fact, despite the fact that Europa is much smaller than Earth, it's ocean is much larger than Earth's ocean.
Now, everywhere on Earth that we've found water, we've found life. Europa has a lot of water, therefore it might have life. If we find any form of life on Europa, then we can conclude that life exists virtually everywhere throughout the universe. The odds of life randomly springing up twice in the same back-road solar system and nowhere else are too small to quantify.
Of course, if the universe is truly infinite, as most physicists seem to believe, then not only does life exist everywhere, but lives that are nearly identical to this life exist everywhere. After all there are a finite number of elements and a finite number of ways these elements can bond together, meaning that in an infinite universe the exact specifications for our lives would be remade over and over and over again.
So, that's fun.
Now, everywhere on Earth that we've found water, we've found life. Europa has a lot of water, therefore it might have life. If we find any form of life on Europa, then we can conclude that life exists virtually everywhere throughout the universe. The odds of life randomly springing up twice in the same back-road solar system and nowhere else are too small to quantify.
Of course, if the universe is truly infinite, as most physicists seem to believe, then not only does life exist everywhere, but lives that are nearly identical to this life exist everywhere. After all there are a finite number of elements and a finite number of ways these elements can bond together, meaning that in an infinite universe the exact specifications for our lives would be remade over and over and over again.
So, that's fun.
Everything Is Awesome - Lyric Video - Lego Movie- Tegan and Sara feat. ...
So... I love the Lego Movie. It's funny and insightful and really, really funny. It has Will Arnett, which pretty much guarantees a couple laughs. Anyway, my daughters are in love with this song, and they demand to hear it several times every day. I had never looked up the lyrics, and I apparently got them wrong in my head. There's a line that goes We're the same, I'm like you, You're like me, We're all broken and on our knees.
Only, of course, the song does not go like that at all. The actual line is We're the same, I'm like you, You're like me, We're all working in harmony.
So what the fuck is wrong with my head? Of course I would create some horrifically depressing lyrics to this song when the actual words are so much more... wholesome? Winning? Decent?
Jeez. Fail.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Back in the Saddle...
... Or something like that.
I am writing to you from the oppressive heat of India, which threatens to melt me down into a pool of sad liquid. And, of course, it's only gonna get hotter. The monsoon hasn't even hit yet, and when it does I'll be looking back on these days with longing.
My two daughters and I made it here just over a month ago, and our plan is to remain here through the end of the summer. We'll return back home to Chicago in the middle of August, leaving us just enough time to adjust our internal clocks before the older girl starts kindergarten and the younger one begins preschool.
And I still cannot believe how quickly they are growing.
That is it for now.
I am writing to you from the oppressive heat of India, which threatens to melt me down into a pool of sad liquid. And, of course, it's only gonna get hotter. The monsoon hasn't even hit yet, and when it does I'll be looking back on these days with longing.
My two daughters and I made it here just over a month ago, and our plan is to remain here through the end of the summer. We'll return back home to Chicago in the middle of August, leaving us just enough time to adjust our internal clocks before the older girl starts kindergarten and the younger one begins preschool.
And I still cannot believe how quickly they are growing.
That is it for now.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Reverse Sexism, Through a Child's Eyes
My wife is generally not allowed to cook. The reason for this is simple: she is a walking kitchen fire just waiting to happen. Over the years that we have been together, she has managed to ruin instant oatmeal, has boiled spaghetti for so long that all the water evaporated and we had to scrape a cake of dried and burnt noodles out of the pot, and has tried to bake a package of Ramen noodles in the oven.
Case closed.
As a result, I do nearly all of the cooking in the family. This, it seems, has given me two young daughters a novel perspective of the world and the gender norms that most children experience.
Yesterday, while watching a movie with my wife, my younger daughter asked where the main character's Daddy was. My wife replied that she didn't seem to have a Daddy, and that her Mommy did everything for her.
My daughter thought about it for a moment, and then asked my wife the question that was burning up inside of her mind.
"But if she doesn't have a Daddy, then who cooks her dinner?"
See? My daughter is amazingly progressive for a three-year-old.
Case closed.
As a result, I do nearly all of the cooking in the family. This, it seems, has given me two young daughters a novel perspective of the world and the gender norms that most children experience.
Yesterday, while watching a movie with my wife, my younger daughter asked where the main character's Daddy was. My wife replied that she didn't seem to have a Daddy, and that her Mommy did everything for her.
My daughter thought about it for a moment, and then asked my wife the question that was burning up inside of her mind.
"But if she doesn't have a Daddy, then who cooks her dinner?"
See? My daughter is amazingly progressive for a three-year-old.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
You Went There?
Yesterday, after I picked my daughter up from preschool, I was buckling her into her car seat when she pressed her eyebrows downward in concern and looked at me.
"Matty?" she said.
"Yes, love," I answered.
"Your ears have a lot of hair on them," she observed. "You should do something about that soon before you start looking like a monkey."
"Matty?" she said.
"Yes, love," I answered.
"Your ears have a lot of hair on them," she observed. "You should do something about that soon before you start looking like a monkey."
Friday, February 12, 2016
Whose Bed, Now?
I've always been bothered by the phrase "You made your bed, now sleep / lie in it." It is usually used as a response to somebody who complains about problems for which they themselves are responsible.
But it doesn't really make sense.
The proper response would be "You've slept / lied in your bed, now make it."
To make one's bed is to put something disorganized back into order. It is a process of making something messy into something nice. That is not what we mean when we use this colloquialism.
Turn the phrase around and it makes much more sense. After one has slept in one's bed, it is messy and disheveled. To make the bed is to restore order, to fix one's mistake, as it were.
I don't know. Makes sense to me.
But it doesn't really make sense.
The proper response would be "You've slept / lied in your bed, now make it."
To make one's bed is to put something disorganized back into order. It is a process of making something messy into something nice. That is not what we mean when we use this colloquialism.
Turn the phrase around and it makes much more sense. After one has slept in one's bed, it is messy and disheveled. To make the bed is to restore order, to fix one's mistake, as it were.
I don't know. Makes sense to me.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
How Did I Not Notice This Before?
Maybe I'm late to the party, but I just figured out today that "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and "Baa-Baa, Black Sheep" are essentially the same, exact tune.
My entire childhood suddenly feels like a lie.
My entire childhood suddenly feels like a lie.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Is That Meta?
Last night, after being tucked in to bed, my older daughter came to the top of the stairs and called down to me.
"What?" I answered, assuming that there was some problem.
"My sister is going to tell on me," she replied.
"Wait. You're telling on your sister because she's going to tell on you?"
She paused. "Yes," she finally answered.
"Go to bed," I ordered, shaking my head.
"What?" I answered, assuming that there was some problem.
"My sister is going to tell on me," she replied.
"Wait. You're telling on your sister because she's going to tell on you?"
She paused. "Yes," she finally answered.
"Go to bed," I ordered, shaking my head.
Monday, February 1, 2016
One Thing That I Hate
I hate it when people get on a descending elevator on the second floor.
Really? Use the effing stairs.
Really? Use the effing stairs.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
How Is This Still a Thing?
So... there's an apparently famous rapper named B.o.B. who made waves last week by declaring his belief that the Earth is, contrary to all scientific knowledge accumulated over the past several hundred years, flat.
And... apparently there's a whole group of other associated morons who believe the same thing.
But... really? Is that really possible? I know that the world is just filled with idiots, but this seems a step too far.
And... apparently there's a whole group of other associated morons who believe the same thing.
But... really? Is that really possible? I know that the world is just filled with idiots, but this seems a step too far.
Friday, January 22, 2016
I Love This Stuff
Warning! Anti-cynic alert!
An Irish Bus Driver's Act of Kindness Will Cheer Up Anyone's Cynical Mood: Too Funny To Unfriend
An Irish Bus Driver's Act of Kindness Will Cheer Up Anyone's Cynical Mood: Too Funny To Unfriend
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
The Making of a Plan
Okay. The plan is for me and my two girls - ages four and three - to pack our stuff, hop on an airplane, and move to India for four or five months.
That sounds insane to me right now. It also sounds like a remarkable adventure. An insanely remarkable adventure.
I can live with that.
We'll be living with my parents-in-law, and they claim to be excited at the prospect of our impending arrival. The girls will be attending a preschool while we're there, and are also excited at the prospects of taking dance lessons and perhaps kiddie yoga. I plan on writing a lot and traveling a bit, and I will intensify my Hindi studies while there. Hopefully the girls will pick up a fair amount of Gujarati while there, and then when we return they'll both be attending Spanish-language school.
Exciting. I'll keep nobody up-to-date with new posts as our plans solidify.
That sounds insane to me right now. It also sounds like a remarkable adventure. An insanely remarkable adventure.
I can live with that.
We'll be living with my parents-in-law, and they claim to be excited at the prospect of our impending arrival. The girls will be attending a preschool while we're there, and are also excited at the prospects of taking dance lessons and perhaps kiddie yoga. I plan on writing a lot and traveling a bit, and I will intensify my Hindi studies while there. Hopefully the girls will pick up a fair amount of Gujarati while there, and then when we return they'll both be attending Spanish-language school.
Exciting. I'll keep nobody up-to-date with new posts as our plans solidify.
Friday, January 15, 2016
Even the Kids
My daughters have begun singing Christmas carols in the vain hope that setting the mood of the winter holidays will cause them to appear faster. In that vein, my older daughter has taken to singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas, though she has confused some of the words.
Good tidings we bring, to you and your kids,
Good tidings for everyone including your kids.
Good tidings we bring, to you and your kids,
Good tidings for everyone including your kids.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Fare Thee Well, Severus
Though he's best known for portraying the nefarious wizard Severus Snape in the Harry Potter movies, Alan Rickman was, in fact, a stage actor at heart. He died today, from complications related to cancer, at the young age of 69.
I hope he enjoys exploring the great beyond...
I hope he enjoys exploring the great beyond...
Monday, January 11, 2016
Darwin Award
We have a set of wax fruit that my daughters picked out from the Dollar Store. They know that it's a set of wax fruit because, as I said, they are the ones who wanted it. The other day my three-year-old took a bite from the wax apple and then got angry at me when she realized it tasted awful. She threw the broken fake fruit down on the ground and stomped off to the other room.
Are you kidding me?
Are you kidding me?
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Did Not See That Coming
Before leaving India, I said good-bye to my lovely three-year-old niece, Hana.
"Bye, darling," I said as I wrapped her in a bear hug. "I love you and I'll miss you."
She looked at me, snarled, and replied, "I'm going to eat the hair off of your face."
Now I know what Clarice Starling must have felt like.
"Bye, darling," I said as I wrapped her in a bear hug. "I love you and I'll miss you."
She looked at me, snarled, and replied, "I'm going to eat the hair off of your face."
Now I know what Clarice Starling must have felt like.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Greetings from Abroad
Hello to all of you... which, coincidentally, happens to be none of you.
But that is okay. I don't mind shouting into the wind. This is like writing in an echo chamber. All of my words, all of my ideas bounce around inside my head, onto the computer screen, and then back into my head. It's a closed ecosystem.
My family and I have been in India for the past two weeks, living with my parents-in-law. To be more specific, we are in the state of Gujarat, in the town of Vallabh Vidyanagar. My wife's great-grandfater, Bhaikaka, founded the town many years back with the idea that it would be a center of learning in the rural heartland of the state.
And you know that Bhaikaka is either historically-significant or a Brazilian soccer player because nobody else can get away with using only one name.
Over the last half-century, Vidyanagar has indeed blossomed into a sprawling town replete with schools, universities, and post-graduate facilities. It's located right next to Anand, a booming city of some 600,000 people, and is sandwiched between Vadodara and Ahmedebad, the two largest cities in the state of Gujarat.
We'll be here for another four or five days, and then it's back to Chicago.
Signing off from sunny India.
But that is okay. I don't mind shouting into the wind. This is like writing in an echo chamber. All of my words, all of my ideas bounce around inside my head, onto the computer screen, and then back into my head. It's a closed ecosystem.
My family and I have been in India for the past two weeks, living with my parents-in-law. To be more specific, we are in the state of Gujarat, in the town of Vallabh Vidyanagar. My wife's great-grandfater, Bhaikaka, founded the town many years back with the idea that it would be a center of learning in the rural heartland of the state.
And you know that Bhaikaka is either historically-significant or a Brazilian soccer player because nobody else can get away with using only one name.
Over the last half-century, Vidyanagar has indeed blossomed into a sprawling town replete with schools, universities, and post-graduate facilities. It's located right next to Anand, a booming city of some 600,000 people, and is sandwiched between Vadodara and Ahmedebad, the two largest cities in the state of Gujarat.
We'll be here for another four or five days, and then it's back to Chicago.
Signing off from sunny India.
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