Shakespeare’s most perplexing villain is Iago. What’s his motive? He has too many. He’s passed over for promotion. He suspects Othello has tupped his wife. There’s the race thing, and a great British actor even proposed that Iago had the hots for Othello. When foiled, he refuses to speak of any motive—I think because he doesn’t know, and in 500 years we haven’t figured it out.
Grab any one of the Capitol rioters, and you’ll probably hear the same. They’ll surely have a laundry list of motives, and we promote that simplicity by calling them fascist knuckle-draggers or white supremacists. But I’m not sure that they know, nor am I sure that my fellow progressives know either.
My mother might have voted for Trump. She certainly disliked foreigners, government handouts, and she decried that North Omaha was overrun with all those Blacks—she was terrified when she had to go there. But the strongest political statements I heard repeatedly: (1) In the early 1930’s, the farmers down the road were “on relief;” the government gave them a bushel of oranges, and their kids were playing catch with the oranges. (2) We lived in a two-room, rat-infested shack with no running water, my dad had abandoned her, she worked but paid out a lot for daycare, and applied for welfare: that office told her she could only qualify if she quit her job. (She didn’t: she trusted me, at the age of six, to take care of myself.) I heard that endlessly in her diatribe against welfare. And she liked politicians who said what they thought. Though hard to tell about Trump: she also had a strong bullshit detector.
She hated the fact that others were getting welfare, oranges, and sympathy, and she wasn’t, even though she worked like a mule. She’d have hated it more—hated progressives more—if someone had charged her with “white privilege.” Even if it came with elaborate footnotes and statistics.
She was a decent woman. We had our fights but we loved one another. And yet I feel she had many characteristics of the folks who demeaned themselves at the Capitol. Above all: the desire to see something—anything—happen.
When I was a kid, we couldn’t get fireworks in Iowa. We had to go down to the Missouri border and bring them back. And I loved to blow up cans. It really meant a lot to blow up cans. Otherwise, I was amazingly well-behaved for my neighborhood, but I loved to blow up cans.
For the rioters, it’s beyond that childish joy. But I think that’s there. In my mind, Carter’s 1979 “malaise” speech, though in fact he never used the word malaise, put the thumb square on the sore spot. We don’t know where it itches, but it itches like hell. Progressives itch one place, reactionaries another, but it’s utterly maddening.
To my mind, it’s being oversold on the American Dream, promising reward for exertion plus fabulous sex, and feeling someone’s getting something for nothing—not billionaires, as they’re the proof of the pudding, but the poor, who get pennies but tons of sympathy. Of course that’s debatable. To some, the bottom line is race or sex or cis-ness or age. For me, it’s mostly money. Is it more virtuous to speak up against “white supremacy” or to lobby to change the tax codes that make the rich richer and the poor very pissed off?
In any case, understanding your enemy is not the same as compromise on the issues. It’s looking for other passageways in the labyrinth. If we can’t somehow find a common ground with our adversaries, we would surely do well to start arming ourselves. They have a head start.
I don’t see “hate” as the starting point of madness. Of course it’s a virus that lurks in us all, but very few get a thrill from succumbing to the infection. There are reasons for “hate,” sometimes stupid ones, sometimes true, though often misplaced. It’s not born in the baby, nor do I think it’s effectively taught. It springs from reaction: where?
I feel we need to do a much better job of understanding our enemy.
I am mesmerized by things I see regularly that are never the same twice. The ocean is with us every Sunday, and today she was like the wonderful album cover from Tijuana Brass, “Whipped Cream.” (Remember vinyl?) And several times a week we end the day upstairs by our bedroom fireplace, and the flames invent a new ballet every time. Fire, water, air and earth, they are vast and timeless and we are tiny transient blips. And when I see a magnificent photo of a part of the universe, I fall down the rabbit hole of feeling like a fleck of dandruff.
I have a hard time creating reasons why we matter. If I create a really good dinner, what difference does that make on Alpha Centauri? Or if Conrad and I collaborate on a magnificent epic lovemaking, does that register on Saturn’s moons?
Well, maybe it does. If Gaia & Co are sentient, what feeds her? My private theory is that it’s joy. I mean, what other purpose can you propose for joy? Those who have not watched animals carefully think we have a corner on this, but those who have watched animals carefully think it’s part of all life. Why shouldn’t we chip in?
Conrad and I have been helping each other with soggy bouts of depression, as who hasn’t in these times? I said, as we were watching the gulls today, that I have had a few more blurts of joy this week and hope the trend continues. The Unmaker always lurks around the corner and nibbles the green shoots of the Joy Garden, but it’s up to me to tend what grows.
Not just for me. For all of us. I can’t accept that the only force that can gather strength is hate. The oldest texts celebrate dancing, celebrate singing, our ancient expresssions of joy. Connection is the best fertilizer for joy, and we need in these solitary times to find that fizz. Zoom is weird, but it’s better than nothing. I loved meeting a friend at HardCore Espresso this morning and yakking a delighted update and miming a simlulated hug. We’re creative critters. Find the ways. Feed the joy.
In a Facebook group I’m part of, an issue arose as to whether our community was infected with white supremacy. The discussion shifted from the original question to a more fundamental one: what is “our community”? What constitutes community?
We’re not in geographic proximity. We’re not one race. We’re generally pretty liberal, but that’s not a requirement. We share some very broad beliefs, but every topic that comes up raises differences. The one thing we agree on is that we’re all subscribed to this Facebook group.
There are communities interdependent for survival: that would include families, tribal economies, intentional communities, labor unions, dictatorial juntas, etc. That’s not us: I could unsubscribe and it would cost me nothing, in fact save me a half hour a day.
There are communities that define our identity through mutual action: political parties, sports fans, demonstrators, lynch mobs, etc. The Web is great for those of us who define ourselves as “activists” but don’t want to get off our asses.
And there are those defined by their opponents with pejorative intent: I qualify as Old White Man, shoving me into the same elevator with Jeff Bezos, Rush Limbaugh, Warren Buffett, etc. (I don’t mention Trump, as he’s a community in himself.)
Some of us don’t fit. Any tribe I’ve identified with (theatre artists, professors, pagans, Quakers, polyamorists, puppeteers, novelists), I’ve always stood just outside the circle: for me that’s more comfortable. Yet I share our hunger for community. We’re tribal animals, and yet we’re enculturated to prize individuality: I want to be part of things, but no one tells me what to do. A challenging juggle.
One corollary is that we tend to depend on establishing group bonds on the basis of what we’re not. In my long-ago Presbyterian Sunday School days, we learned a few things about what made us Presbyterians, but much more about why we weren’t Catholics or Jews. In neo-pagan circles, it’s hard to pursue a discussion thread that doesn’t spark fireworks about Christian evils. As a Democrat, I can rant—probably for days—on the atrocities of the current administration, but I still haven’t absorbed the specifics of the Green New Deal. This tendency, I think, cripples us.
In the discussion I mentioned at the outset, I opted out of stating any opinion. For me, the issue is whether or not any group promotes practices that have negative effects on others, not whether the group is free of Original Sin. But that’s just me. And it’s fine with me that the group defines itself as a “community” as long as it’s through shared values, not through shared disgruntlements.
A weekly view of the world we
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Books and Media by
Bishop & Fuller
a historical fantasy
AKEDAH: THE BINDING
a novel of promises broken or kept
a novel of blue-collar ghosts
a novel of puppets & renewal
50 Years in the Making
A Memoir of the Creative Life
35 Snapshots for the Stage
A Novel of Dystopian Optimism
From Inanna to Frankenstein