Here’s the thing. I voted for you in November, and I’m thinking seriously of never voting again. I can’t say that I believed you were the progressive some people thought you were, but I did believe that you would, as you promised, try to make change. Change for me meant change for ordinary people, for those of us who aren’t investment bankers, aren’t in the top five percent, who are struggling to keep our heads above water as this country tilts farther and farther towards those with wealth.
It has recently occurred to me that for you, change meant the election of an African American (or perhaps, in an attempt to put miscegenation laws behind us, a person of mixed race). You therefore incarnated change, and your election fulfilled that promise. Since your election we haven’t seen much else that has looked all that different.
The election of a black man as president of the United States meant an enormous amount to me, a middle-aged white woman who grew up in the era of civil rights. It felt like the keeping of a promise, the making good on a pledge, and when, as I walked away from the polls after casting my ballot, the tinny carillon on the Methodist church began to play “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” I began to cry. Most of the white people I know described to me how they cried—at news of your victory, during your inaugural address—tears of relief, tears of fulfillment. How much more did your election mean to the black people I know, especially my students at the Community College of Philadelphia? During the election campaign in Philadelphia, many black people wore tee-shirts that made you look not just like a rock star, but like a savior. Even at the time I wondered if you would keep the promise.
It’s for each person to say what your promise meant, so here’s what it meant for me: An end to military adventurism in the Middle East and elsewhere, an end to the abuses of civil liberties and the constitutional damage done by the Bush administration, an end to the lock the Republican party has had on this society since 1980 and which the Bush administration screwed down tight. That is to say, an end to policies that favor the wealthy over the rest of us, that siphon our hard-earned money into the pockets of a few, that in an attempt to destroy government, destroy by neglect those dimensions of government that help ordinary people—education, infrastructure, public transportation, environmental regulation—and categorically refuse to implement policies, like universal health care, that would free us up from worry, expense, and fear. The morning after your election, I felt I could breathe for the first time in eight years. A weight had been lifted. I didn’t even know how hard it had been to make it through the last eight years until that moment. I was ready for change.
Since that time things have mostly gone downhill. The weight is back, and so is the anger. Yes, you make an excellent impression abroad. You make an excellent impression, period. It is indeed a relief to be represented by an intelligent, articulate, personable man, someone of whom I need not be ashamed. This year students in my public speaking classes invariably point to you as the epitome of a good speaker, whereas only a year ago they were still pointing to George W. Bush as the epitome of a bad one. Your appointments in the area of energy, environment, just about anything to do with science, have been strong.
But why did you appoint the architects of deregulation to run the economy? Why has your administration followed the Bush administration in taking care of the banks, famously too big to fail, while neglecting the rest of us, too small to succeed? I still pay taxes through the nose to support the lifestyles of people who enjoy massive tax breaks. Why? Why have you not repudiated the torture and interrogation policies of the Bush administration, the curtailment of civil liberties in the name of national security? Why did we get “sovereign immunity” rather than a return to constitutional order? Why haven’t you closed Guantanamo? Why have you sought to shut down even a Truth and Reconciliation commission to investigate the human rights abuses of the previous administration? Criminal prosecution is more in order. Why has that been left to a Spanish judge?
This is not a bipartisan, much less a post-partisan, world. We’re in the middle of a fight for the soul of this country. Maybe the last fight because if the far right wins, what's left for the rest of us, those who aren't millionaires? And when you and the congressional Democratic party, after some pious (you) or aggressive (Congress) posturing, once again back a "bipartisan" bill that gives the Republicans just about everything they want and sells the ordinary people of this country out, I wonder Wwy I should bother to vote for Democrats when I get Republicans anyway?
To let you know how radical that statement is, I should tell you that I first set foot in a polling place at the age of three, when I was taken along by my mother, a supporter of Adlai Stevenson. Voting has been part of my religion ever since, as has allegiance to the Democratic party. I’m not sure what is left of the Democratic party, if you’ll pardon the pun. In his World War II diaries, my father, then as later a supporter of Roosevelt and Truman, a union organizer when he taught high school, expressed his anger and concern at the menace posed by the “forces of reaction”. Reading those words, all I could think was that the forces of reaction have been busy since 1944, and they look like they’re winning.
I remember sitting in my kitchen in Oakland after Jimmy Carter conceded to Ronald Reagan. I left the lights off as it got dark, listening to KPFA radio broadcast uninterrupted rock music from the sixties. Whoever preempted the news with that music knew, as I knew, that it was the end, the end of a time that began with the civil rights movement of the 1950’s. It was the end of the time we of the sixties had marched for—against unnecessary, immoral war, for the rights of black people, women, gay people. I had hoped that you would try to breathe life into the vision that sustained a lot of us during that time, a vision of this country as a place of opportunity for all, and of government as an engine of equality, a vision that goes back to the New Deal, to the progressive movement, the labor movement, the abolitionist movement, and beyond. However imperfect the realization of that vision, it was there. It was, for me, growing up in a progressive household in the fifties and sixties, the American Dream.
What is the dream you offer us, President Obama? That dream or the other one, the one that’s all about getting rich? One dream brings us all along. The other leaves most of us behind. Which is it to be?
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Too many words?
Too many words.
How many words can anyone stand?
Today I was forcing myself to continue developing an online course in report writing for a local community college. Writing an online course involves writing a script for what one would say in class; but whereas in class one can speak from notes, a form of prepared improvisation, online one has to write everything down. And write accurately, clearly, because questions will be harder to answer. More work. Far more work. And not interesting work. To be sure, search techniques, evaluating sources, structuring an argument, documenting sources—these are all important. But they have been written about before. Why write about them again? And why am I still, after all these years, forcing myself to write what I don’t want to write?
The last time I posted here, it was an account of my experience as a doctoral candidate. Part of that experience was wrestling myself down every day I wrote another paragraph, another page, of a dissertation that didn’t matter to me. Leaving the academic world and turning to tech writing because in computers was the future, I found myself once again forcing myself to write what I didn’t care about. Worse, the writing had to be anodyne, without pitch or rhythm, without any of the juice that makes writing fun to read and interesting to do. Leaving the academic world, I had promised myself, “Never again,” and flipped into photography school as a way of keeping that promise.
Now, 25 years later, I’m writing what I don’t want to write, teaching writing—a necessary, even valuable, task I don’t want to do.
Looking for distraction, I visited a new favorite blog, Detectives beyond Borders, and found a link to a new blog International Crime Authors Reality Check by four international crimewriters—two of whose books I have read with real pleasure—and from there to Words without Borders an online magazine of international writing. All good stuff—too much good stuff to read. And too many words. How do these people do it—write novels, write blogs? Do they like writing?
Yesterday looking for a better income, I revisited the websites of some coaches of business writing. They all say the same things, the same things I teach, the same things written about in the flannelly prose of the textbooks I have used. Too many words.
What matters to me about language—its precision, its power, its sound—doesn’t get mentioned. Serious writers know about these qualities of language, or did; some business writers use them. But do they matter in prose that’s here today, gone tomorrow? Do they matter to people whose culture is popular culture, or to academics who consider comic books texts on a level with Shakespeare? Do they matter online?
Even now I contribute yet more words. Too many words.
How many words can anyone stand?
Today I was forcing myself to continue developing an online course in report writing for a local community college. Writing an online course involves writing a script for what one would say in class; but whereas in class one can speak from notes, a form of prepared improvisation, online one has to write everything down. And write accurately, clearly, because questions will be harder to answer. More work. Far more work. And not interesting work. To be sure, search techniques, evaluating sources, structuring an argument, documenting sources—these are all important. But they have been written about before. Why write about them again? And why am I still, after all these years, forcing myself to write what I don’t want to write?
The last time I posted here, it was an account of my experience as a doctoral candidate. Part of that experience was wrestling myself down every day I wrote another paragraph, another page, of a dissertation that didn’t matter to me. Leaving the academic world and turning to tech writing because in computers was the future, I found myself once again forcing myself to write what I didn’t care about. Worse, the writing had to be anodyne, without pitch or rhythm, without any of the juice that makes writing fun to read and interesting to do. Leaving the academic world, I had promised myself, “Never again,” and flipped into photography school as a way of keeping that promise.
Now, 25 years later, I’m writing what I don’t want to write, teaching writing—a necessary, even valuable, task I don’t want to do.
Looking for distraction, I visited a new favorite blog, Detectives beyond Borders, and found a link to a new blog International Crime Authors Reality Check by four international crimewriters—two of whose books I have read with real pleasure—and from there to Words without Borders an online magazine of international writing. All good stuff—too much good stuff to read. And too many words. How do these people do it—write novels, write blogs? Do they like writing?
Yesterday looking for a better income, I revisited the websites of some coaches of business writing. They all say the same things, the same things I teach, the same things written about in the flannelly prose of the textbooks I have used. Too many words.
What matters to me about language—its precision, its power, its sound—doesn’t get mentioned. Serious writers know about these qualities of language, or did; some business writers use them. But do they matter in prose that’s here today, gone tomorrow? Do they matter to people whose culture is popular culture, or to academics who consider comic books texts on a level with Shakespeare? Do they matter online?
Even now I contribute yet more words. Too many words.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Blogs and Bartenders
In a copy of the New York Review passed on to me by a friend, I came upon an account of three books about Julius Caesar. Maria Wyke, the author of one of these books, Caesar: A Life in Western Culture, was described by the reviewer, Mary Beard, as “one of the leaders of the recent turn toward the study of the later ‘reception’ of the classics, which now forms a significant and popular element in many university classics courses in the US and the UK. Her 1997 book, Projecting the Past: Ancient Rome, Cinema and History, is a central text in many of these sources.”
Thirty years before, I was at work on my doctoral dissertation, a study of the way the representation of ancient Rome in American popular culture changed during the nineteenth century from identifying with the Roman republic to identifying with the Roman empire (coupled with the confidence that, as a Christian empire, that of the United States would not fall). In the dissertation, I looked at popular novels—some famous, like Ben Hur, some best left on the microfilm where I found them. I also looked at neo-classical sculpture and early film. Not only not encouraged, but actively discouraged, by members of the English Department, I never did anything with dissertation, once completed, but put it in a box. Who knew?
I learned a lot about expository writing doing my dissertation, having to turn my intuitive, inductive style head over heels to produce top-down, deductive prose. This came in handy when I worked as a technical writer, and informs (to use some of the old academic lingo) my current teaching of argumentation for public speaking. But tonight it feels like there’s been a waste. Back in Boston, years after finishing my degree, a friend at a Quaker residence told me that a Stanford grad student in English would be staying for a few days as a guest. I don’t remember whether I told him, or just thought, that I didn’t want to meet her, but the dinner table made avoiding her impossible. In fact, I enjoyed talking with her, and found she shared many of the issues I had had with the department. Of course she asked about my dissertation, and when I told her both about the topic and its less than enthusiastic reception, she said, “You were ahead of your time.” I didn’t believe her, but maybe she was right. Who knew?
Thirty years before, I was at work on my doctoral dissertation, a study of the way the representation of ancient Rome in American popular culture changed during the nineteenth century from identifying with the Roman republic to identifying with the Roman empire (coupled with the confidence that, as a Christian empire, that of the United States would not fall). In the dissertation, I looked at popular novels—some famous, like Ben Hur, some best left on the microfilm where I found them. I also looked at neo-classical sculpture and early film. Not only not encouraged, but actively discouraged, by members of the English Department, I never did anything with dissertation, once completed, but put it in a box. Who knew?
I learned a lot about expository writing doing my dissertation, having to turn my intuitive, inductive style head over heels to produce top-down, deductive prose. This came in handy when I worked as a technical writer, and informs (to use some of the old academic lingo) my current teaching of argumentation for public speaking. But tonight it feels like there’s been a waste. Back in Boston, years after finishing my degree, a friend at a Quaker residence told me that a Stanford grad student in English would be staying for a few days as a guest. I don’t remember whether I told him, or just thought, that I didn’t want to meet her, but the dinner table made avoiding her impossible. In fact, I enjoyed talking with her, and found she shared many of the issues I had had with the department. Of course she asked about my dissertation, and when I told her both about the topic and its less than enthusiastic reception, she said, “You were ahead of your time.” I didn’t believe her, but maybe she was right. Who knew?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Back to Bach
The life of a car-free adjunct teacher can feel like an endless sequence of train and subway stations linked together by plodded miles, office on one's back. So I've found myself unable to muster the energy to go in town this afternoon to hear a program that includes Bach's cello suite in D Major. As a partial antidote to fatigue of all kinds, including political fatigue, I'd like to invite everyone to listen to (or play) some Bach.
For all that the Bach suites don't require pyrotechnics, I've found the one I'm studying (the first, in G Major) far more daunting to work on than later, physically more challenging pieces by flashier composers. With Bach, the music is there, and you're there, and you have to get going, but what do you do? One pattern begins as another ends in a sequence whose pulse is elusive, and which could mean anything or nothing. According to my teacher, someone once called Bach a "perpetual motion machine". With the caveat that Bach breathes--finding where is the difficulty--that feels right. My teacher also talks about adult students, amateurs like me, who want to do nothing but sit in a closet and play Bach suites. For an amateur musician, it makes sense to look at the Bach suites as a meditation. The great and good players of this world will find something in them to say that others will benefit from hearing. The rest of us can study and learn and explore endlessly. A good antidote for much that ails.
Another antidote is spring, in which I'm finally starting to believe. The crocus and snowdrops are out, daffodil stalks standing tall, waiting for a little warmth, and the light has begun to fill the sky. All of this helps.
For all that the Bach suites don't require pyrotechnics, I've found the one I'm studying (the first, in G Major) far more daunting to work on than later, physically more challenging pieces by flashier composers. With Bach, the music is there, and you're there, and you have to get going, but what do you do? One pattern begins as another ends in a sequence whose pulse is elusive, and which could mean anything or nothing. According to my teacher, someone once called Bach a "perpetual motion machine". With the caveat that Bach breathes--finding where is the difficulty--that feels right. My teacher also talks about adult students, amateurs like me, who want to do nothing but sit in a closet and play Bach suites. For an amateur musician, it makes sense to look at the Bach suites as a meditation. The great and good players of this world will find something in them to say that others will benefit from hearing. The rest of us can study and learn and explore endlessly. A good antidote for much that ails.
Another antidote is spring, in which I'm finally starting to believe. The crocus and snowdrops are out, daffodil stalks standing tall, waiting for a little warmth, and the light has begun to fill the sky. All of this helps.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A Time for Beauty
After writing my last post, I went into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and was entranced to find the graceful, familiar melodies of Beethoven's Sixth played by the Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia (www.chamberorchestra.org). A lovely performance, but what sticks in my mind is the relief from anger. Writing about politics, about the financial mess, about so much in this world, feels like an exercise in controlled (or not so controlled) anger. Yet here was beauty, and a chance to breathe. Beauty has been unfashionable for a long time, culturally incorrect. Without wishing to encourage prettiness, cuteness, or any of beauty's near enemies, I think it's time to bring beauty back.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Say What?
One of the pleasures of blogging is being able to sound off along with everybody else. So here goes:
According to both the New York Times and www.talkingpointsmemo.com, AIG CEO Edward Liddy said that recently disclosed bonuses to the executives of the firm's financial products division--the division responsible for a huge part of the firm's (and our) financial mess--were necessary to retain the "best and brightest talent". David Halberstam, in his book on Robert McNamara and Vietnam, apparently used the term "best and brightest" with irony; but the irony seems to have gotten lost.
Rules of the Game
While I'm provisionally making this blog accessible to all, I'm limiting the privilege of posting to friends and others by invitation only. That's because my experience as a reader of blogs has caused me to view with skepticism the proposition that reader posts add value to a democratic, open online community. Most posts I've read have been hostile and tedious, adding nothing but a certain poison to the atmosphere. So to spare myself and anyone else who happens upon this space, I'm not permitting posting by all and sundry. If that turns out to be impossible, I'll fold my blogo-tent and steal away.
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