Drinking the Kool Aid.

I'm a child of the nineties.  I grew up with grunge, with industrial, with looking up to those oh-so-cool Gen-Xers who just seemed to say "fuck it" to all the things we were told about success, who went off to create their own world, or so I thought.  I grew up with "Follow Your Dreams", "Follow Your Heart", and, as proclaimed by the sign on my fuschia wall, "Girls Can Do Anything!"  I grew up truly believing that I was destined for greatness, that I could--and would--change the world.

And then, of course, reality.

Reality necessitates toeing the line.  Buckling down.  It means, to some extent, giving in.  Giving up.  Drinking the Kool Aid.

I always fought the system.  Always.  I started a riot on the school bus when I was in kindergarten because the bus monitors (oppressive fifth graders) were getting a little bit too much of a power trip. But I was also, at heart, a Good Girl.  I new how to challenge things from an intellectual or academic perspective, while still respecting the system at hand.  If it was a bogus assignment, I'd still do it, but I'd write about how it was bogus.  (Just try and fail that!) But at a certain point, I knew that I was still writing the paper.  I was still deciding that my time was better spent writing it....so didn't that mean that I was, at least in some way, deeming it more important than, I don't know, making a mix tape or writing in my journal?

I began the slow process of dropping out of college on the very day I got my first A, in a class called Minority Politics.  I wrote a paper that omitted half of the conversation because I knew the professor wouldn't want to hear it.  As soon as I saw my grade, I began listening to the small whisper of a voice that told me that all systems are, in fact, bullshit, unless they recognize what they demand of their participants to remain intact.  The Kool Aid, it turns out, tasted kinda funny.

Some years down the road, I recognized that the college degree was a necessary evil, so even though I was pretty disillusioned with College, Part 1, I went back. A different school, this time--one with the hippy-flair that encouraged students to design their own course of study. The degree (the most expensive thing I own, mounted and framed by my mother) hangs proudly over my vast collection of DVDs, and while it will allow me, someday, to pursue  a master's degree or a ph.D, it is symbolic of the mere fact that I was able to convince a committee who had no stake in my personal education that I did enough work to graduate.  The Kool Aid was rancid.

Skip forward some years.  Years spent working for companies, for owners, for people who had these lovely mythologies built up about what they were doing and why, and who showed their true colors at the first obstacle. People who made hundreds of thousands of dollars a year and insisted upon staying open even though most of their employees had no power after a storm "as a community service", but would not offer up a free coffee to a neighbor who had been without power for a week.  People who said "homemade" but only cooked out of a box.  People who insisted upon integrity, but acted in ways that were completely unethical.

Fuck.  The Kool Aid.

So.  After a year of working at a quaint little Inn in Vermont, after it was "merged with" a budding little corporation that caters to the super rich, after being told specifically, to drink the Kool Aid, I finally declined.  One hundred percent. And you know?  The minute I did, all sorts of opportunities cropped up.  Opportunities from people who valued my intellectual approach, opportunities that showcased the sustainable, the homemade, opportunities that were in direct line with my own values and beliefs--that I had developed after years of tasting and spitting out a wide array of saccharin and vividly colored beverages.

And so I say, sometimes, drinking the Kool Aid is necessary.  Sometimes, it's take the shitty job to pay the bills.  But don't silence the voice that insists that somethings not right, that something tastes a bit off.  The Kool Aid is bogus.  Your values or not.

Not again....

I feel like I just wrote about Trayvon.  I feel sick to have to write about this kind of shit again.   This is a actually a facebook post in response to this article, which discusses how white perpetrators and black victims are portrayed in the media aftermath of various incidences.  It's chilling.  And somehow, drives the point home even more strongly than the  "if they gunned me down" website--which is incredibly powerful, itself.  

So.

"This is by no means standard media protocol, but it happens frequently, deliberately or not."

Out of all the statements in all the articles I've been seeing, this is the one. If it's not standard, but is frequent, and if there is a question as to whether these discrepancies are deliberate or not, this indicates another force, if you will, at play. There is something in our culture that predisposes us to portray one set of people in one way and another set in a completely different way, regardless of what reaction their actions might logically inspire. Simply calling it racism, while probably accurate, does a wonderful job of shutting down any possibility of actual conversation--it expresses the anger, outrage, sadness, and terror of some, inspires defensiveness and a deaf ear in others, burdens some with a guilt they can never hope to escape, and generally ensures that anyone engaged in a conversation in that framework will be speaking from such diametrically opposed viewpoints, they might as well be speaking completely different languages. 

As honest a term as racism might be, it might be time to recognize that certain words do more to keep us stagnant than moving toward a resolution. Racism (like sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, ageism, etc etc etc) are so culturally ingrained as to be almost invisible. Those of us who are attuned to notice such injustices can point to virtually any situation and see at least one of those systems of oppression operating, at least on some level. What we might not always realize, however, is how those words feel to the un-attuned--and how the defensiveness these words inspires effectively shut down any opportunity for real conversation. 

Perhaps we should begin to talk about the complex intersection of events and experiences that leads to that moment where the choice to shoot or not, to demonize or not, to sympathize or not--is so apparently clear. The terms that we tend fall back create the verbal equivalent of blunt force trauma, and we've reached a point where we need to be engaging in the most delicate brain surgery imaginable. A baseball bat might eradicate a tumor, but leaves little room for survival. Anger, outrage, grief, and helplessness are how we feel; how we act, what we say, the conversations we facilitate or impede are how we change things so that next time, maybe, everyone gets another chance.

Personal mythology, or, how we create the stories that limit ourselves.

I stopped writing for a few weeks.  Pretty unintentionally, honestly.  I had some things I was working on for this blog, but they just weren't happening, either due to diminishing interest or basic distraction, I'm not sure.  In that lag time, I started questioning just what I was doing here.  If I had anything to add to the conversation.  If it wasn't slightly conceited of me to even try.

Thus beginning that all-too-familiar spiral of doubt and insecurity, landing on that paralyzing plateau where you can almost trick yourself into thinking you didn't really want to write anyway, if not for that little voice whispering "Liar!" late into the night. 

And isn't that, really, the beginning of all limited thought? Those limits we impose upon ourselves? On others?  Whether we admit to them or not, those are the limits we most strongly believe in--we reinforce them by the action we choose to take or avoid, the relationships we cultivate or ignore, and the challenges we accept or shrink away from.  Those choices become our life's mythology, the basis not only of our own lives, but how we interact with the world, our capacity for compassion, the underlying sense of regret or contentment that motivates every action whether we acknowledge it or not.

It's easy to get trapped in a mythology you didn't even know you were creating.

One of the things I wanted to write about in college but couldn't seem to fit in (and yes, I'm aware of the irony), was how the academic tendency to remove or down-play any sort of personal history or connection to the material at hand is dishonest and intensely problematic. We all have an agenda.  We all have an outcome we'd like to perpetuate.  And it seems to me that this sort of...sterile...approach to academia (and perhaps in a broader sense, to learning in general) allows us to sidestep our motivations, to imagine that our quest for knowledge is pure and somehow unencumbered by our politics.  That we take in all information as an unbiased observer, making a completely rational analysis, and basing our decisions on that.

There's a part of me that wishes I could do this (or anything, really) in that depersonalized academic tradition, and I suppose when I started it, that was my intention.  I thought that this work would become clearer, somehow, if I left my personal life out of it.  

But that's pretty much bullshit, isn't it? It's easier, certainly, but still...bullshit.   I mean, to sit from on high and pretend to understand things on such a meta level without allowing anyone to see my own process, my own struggle with authenticity, my own constant battle to break down the barriers that exist for myself? Anything that comes of this under that mythology is a lie. So.  

This is the thing I had to write tonight, and for whatever reason, this felt like the place.  Writing gets lost in the online journal, and I just don't need another disjointed Word document floating around waiting to be shuffled into something that may or may not come to fruition.  This seems more...accountable...somehow.  Because if I'm going to be honest about trying to bust through my own limitations, it only makes sense to do it publicly, even if only theoretically so.  If I'm going to ask other people to do it, and if my ultimate goal is to provide a method for anyone, in any field, to do so, it would be hypocritical to hide my own process.

On memes, language, and the myth of simplicity.

The thing about thinking in systems is that every aspect of...pretty much everything...becomes just a piece of this larger dynamic entity.  Nothing is clean.  Nothing is untouched.  Nothing, unfortunately, is simple. There is no facet of life that cannot be viewed as not only a reinforcement of, but also symptomatic of, a larger system.  This means that even those things we take for granted are constantly being manipulated--and are manipulating--our reality.

An anecdote:  A friend of mine posted something on Ye Olde Facebook about plutocracies.  The general idea was that so many "democratic" societies have become plutocracies--systems of governance wherein the wealthy exert the most power and control.  One person in particular inspired all kinds of responses, but we'll start with the first bit: she questioned the point of the post.

She actually made a good observation: memes, while amusing as all hell, allow us to perpetuate the myth of simplicity. Our growing dependence on memes as a method of creating a sense of solidarity (or exposing those who lie outside of our particular bubble) erases the grey areas, the complexity.  It reduces any problem to a simple line of causation, ignoring the myriad factors that affect--and are affected--by that one problem.  But the nature of a meme is that it is short and sweet.  It packs a visual punch, makes an amusing, possibly ironic observation, and that's it.  While it might inspire further thought, it does not necessitate it, and its brevity doesn't spark much more discussion unless there is disagreement. And then, even the disagreement is often in the form of another meme or smug quip. There really isn't a point.  Any impact they have on reality is completely illusory, marked by "likes" and comments from the ever-agreeable choir.  In some cases...most, really...it just doesn't matter.  But some of these memes are addressing serious issues, and the fact that complex issues are being reduced to a  single phrase to the general public means that we're not thinking about them when it comes to things like voting, either.  How many memes have we seen endorsing the legalization of weed, for example?  How many have we seen seriously considering the vast and broad number of pros and cons that might arise from such a massive cultural shift?  Instead we align with ideas and people based on simple answers to incredibly complex questions.  

But more, what I saw was this:

This same individual also asserted that in order to really, truly change this alleged system of plutocracy, one needed to focus one's energies on creating that world one wants to see.  Essentially, she was talking about, I don't even know...manifesting a true democracy out of sheer thought?  That all people who are not benefited by the current system should somehow have the ability and/or resources to quietly combat it?

In a way, the problem here is really a function of the meme thing.  It's a simple answer: people should simply focus on the changes they wish to manifest, rather than complaining about them or being bogged down by them.  But while that is a lovely sentiment, there is an inherent contradiction in this idea: If you agree with the premise that the power structure in this society has shifted disproportionately to favor and protect the wealthy, and that the wealthy, in turn, have used the system to reinforce their power, how can you possibly believe that the impoverished and disenfranchised should be able to have any effect on that system?  At all?  Ever?  How could they?

See, a system that actively disempowers the poor will, by its very nature, support the basic idea that the poor are poor for their own reasons--either that they don't work hard enough or aren't smart enough or whatever.  There is no room in that thought system for the variety of reasons that contribute to keeping the poor, poor--or for keeping the wealthy, wealthy.  There is no room for the analysis of the real mechanisms at play.  Those beliefs manifest in the language we use when we talk about wealth and poverty in this country, and it happens so frequently that we don't even necessarily recognize what we're really saying.

To wit: this person was not being intentionally hypocritical.  She really believes that the way things are are a problem.  She also believes that people should be able to work through or rise above or fight the powers that be.  This "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" thinking is so very American, and it is so culturally ingrained it is nearly impossible to dismantle it for those who truly believe it.  We are, for better or for worse, a society that treasures individualism above all, and while this is a unique and, in many respects, enviable aspect of American culture, it has its down sides. We just don't talk about them.  It's too complicated.

But we've reached a point where playing ostrich just isn't working.  We have to start having the conversation about what things aren't working anymore.  We need to start asking why.  And more than that, we need to start figuring out some solutions.

The growing popularity of memes as a sort of shorthand for commenting on complex issues is dangerous because it limits the conversation to a simple agreement or disagreement with whatever quip is posted at any given time.  The individual posting the meme merely reacts and passes on another's thought without having to put anything of themselves into the sharing (although, of course, many do--although, it becomes clear from reading the comments that many do not read--or comprehend--the points made in such introductory passages, swept up by the tidy, memetic comment that follows).  Thus, the conversation is merely set by the narrow parameters of the meme, itself.

Instead, if we're going to continue to use social networking (and it does, indeed, seem as though facebook is here to stay), let us use it as a place to truly exchange ideas, to explore beliefs, and to facilitate open, respectful discussion, not just clever, one dimensional commentary.

And, you know.  Cat pictures.

9/11 museum reaction.

I could make this a piece more fitting with the goal of this blog, but sometimes emotions are too raw to apply logical analysis.  Sometimes things just need to be said and heard for what they are.  This is one of those times.


One beautiful September day, some thirteen years ago, something unthinkable happened.  The entire country stopped, held its breath, struggled to integrate what was happening on television, on the radio, via phone, with what we generally consider "reality".

There was this...dreamlike quality...to everything after the attacks.  We fumbled through, those of us who didn't lose anyone in specific.  We quietly thanked...whoever...that no one we knew or loved was on that plane or in that building, but at the same time, we were surrounded by people who did know someone who was there, in the air, on the ground, in a building.  So to say that we were unaffected was merely a comfort, a lie we told ourselves.  But it was a lie that we needed, because the unimaginable horror of what the victims went through, what the first responders went through, what their families would always have to live with...we couldn't even imagine.

I suppose that is the defining memory of that day, of the next year, really: just...keep going.  Nothing's changed.  Even the president told us to not alter our daily routine--it was imperative that things went on as usual.  Normal.

But there was nothing normal, not anymore.

I found a book at my mother's house, What We Saw, stories from journalists reporting on that day.  This was, oh, maybe four or five years after the fact.   I saw the pictures again, remembered sitting with my housemates at Smith, watching tv, first thinking the girl across the hall was watching action movies again, hearing her say "...This is CNN...this is real."   Remembered the numb repetition "It has to be an accident...somebody just fucked up...", remembered trailing off as we watched  the second plane hit.

I slid off of the bed where I was reading, curled into a ball, crying uncontrollably until well after the sun went down and the room went dark.  I had no words, just this silent scream in my head.

For years, I've watched people cringe when a plane was too low.  Or the skies too silent.  Beautiful September days would forever carry a sense of foreboding, and somehow, the most beautiful days have become the most terrifying--a terrible trigger, because what was stolen that day was the easy peace of a perfect fall day, ripe with the promise of a new school year.

It's gotten better in the past few years--there are more of us who have only a vague recollection, those who were too young to really understand, or too young even to know.  But I maintain, as I have since that day, that we are a nation of survivors, and that most of us are suffering from a kind of culture-wide ptsd.  We didn't mourn.  Some of us went to a blind anger, and honestly, that was probably the healthiest response.  The rest of us just tried to keep going, and moved from numb to slightly less numb.

So.

The unveiling of the new 9/11 museum.

I understand that there's this sense that we need to remember.  But honestly, are we going to forget?  And isn't there something a bit... I don't know...crass...about bringing people down into the foundation of a collapsed building to view the melted remains of fire trucks, of charred clocks stopped at 8:50 or 9:05, of recordings of voicemails from doomed spouses?

I understand, too, that the argument could be made that it's for those who weren't there, who are too young to remember.  But doing it this way, full of shock value and intentional triggers, cheapens and dismisses the experience of those of us who were affected, who were there.

I suppose I could pull out one systems thing to say.  We've become a society that does things simply because we can, without spending all that much time asking whether or not we should.


Update: I found this article on Buzzfeed of all things, and it sums up what I was getting at far more eloquently, and from the perspective of someone who lost his sister.  Be sure to click the link to view the gift shop.  Yes.  Gift shop.

A quickie: responding to Katie Couric's thoughts on sugar consumption and rising levels of diabetes.

Today, Katie Couric went on the Daily Show and talked up her new documentary, Fed Up.  It pointed out the chilling fact that because of the amount of sugar in the American diet and the resultant levels of diabetes and obesity, we are now looking at the first generation of kids who will have shorter lifespans than their parents.  

Now.  This is, of course, terrible.  We've known for decades that they typical American diet is unhealthy.  We've had much suspicion (which is, I believe, addressed and confirmed in her film) that information regarding recommended daily dosages of sugar are manipulated, and that the companies who produce our food are far too involved in the "scientific" communities that attempt to study them.  (I say "scientific" because any community that is, essentially, owned by a company that produces the subject of their testing is going to have a conflict of interest.  Its research is not, then, purely scientific--hence, "scientific".)

Anyway.  Her suggestion was that it costs less to cook some chicken and vegetables than to buy fast food.  She also recommended that people take a calculator to the grocery store so that they can figure out how much sugar is really going to be consumed by their families.  

So.

What she doesn't discuss? The growing number of low income families who are, for a variety of reasons, disproportionately at risk for these illnesses. How working parents might not have the time or the skill to cook healthy meals for their kids. Food deserts. Stress and cortisol levels. The effects of genetically modified foods. 

The answer to increasing levels of diabetes and obesity is not as simple as "cook chicken and vegetables at home instead of eating fast food."  I wish it was.  

Ignoring the complexity here carries some frightening consequences. There is the obvious: the trend of demonizing the poor and shaming the overweight--both of which do nothing to help the issue, but sure makes people feel better about themselves.  

More importantly, these simple answers prevent us from reassessing and reforming the systems that perpetuate the problem in the first place.  

hi there.

I started this blog as a safe place to explore an antidote to the kind of limited thinking that I see as having a tremendously negative effect on virtually all aspects of life.  It will be, hopefully, a place to develop a new kind of thinking and a new way of looking at problems.

I've tried instigating these conversations on Facebook, in classes, with friends--but the very nature of these conversations is that they are open ended, and people tend not to like that. There seems to be a general sense that if we can't come to some kind of conclusion at the end of a conversation, it's a waste of time.  This is a hallmark of limited thought--it is static.  It abhors grey areas.  It requires simple, solid answers to nebulous, complicated questions. It rewards incompetence, because incompetence only looks in one direction, avoiding any conflicting data that might, god forbid, complicate the issue.  

Here, I'll try to do the exact opposite.  I'll attempt to point out complexities, no matter how uncomfortable or difficult it gets.  Instead of asserting my expertise, I will do my best to embrace the process of learning.  I will engage, as often as I can, in a dynamic analysis:  one that dwells in greys, one that attempts to find balance by exploring complexity instead of avoiding it.  

I won't always be successful.  But that's ok.