What I’m DOING…
WHAT I’M THINKING.
Last week work wrapped on “Peephole” a Muhlenberg Colege short film written and directed by Emilio Ramirez and produced by Jamen Meistrich. I got to spend a day on set getting in-touch with my inner-right-wing-blowhard, playing the ultra-conservative podcaster/you tuber Kelsey Griffin, whose broadcasts and message in part send Bill, the lead character, down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories and dark political fantasy.
Kelsey Griffin filming his missive to the small minded.
On October 4 I dad a fun time on-set with a quick appearance in director Kai Wen Hu’s Columbia Grad Thesis film “Pedigree,” playing a prospective client in a puppy selling scheme. And a perk was getting to meet and cuddle one of my co-stars, Gigi!
Me and Gigi!
Just this week wrapped on a short film project entitled, “The Supporting Actor,” playing Lucius, the director of the movie within the movie. It was a supporting role (although not the supporting role from the title), and I had wonderful time on set with the fantastic cast and crew, led by director Zebang Yang. Special thanks also to producer Roku Long, casting director Mingjie Li, 1st AD Kai Wen Hu.
Last day @ Windmill Studios.
I had been logged off of a medical site due to inactivity, and when I logged back it had auto-saved and took me back to the question I had been answering, which was about what I think some of my weaknesses are. As it turns out, I was literally halfway (or thereabouts) through the word “procrastination” when I left off. Yes, really.
I’ve always enjoyed being able to say I lived in New York City. A lot of people have a lot of opinions and thoughts about New York, and New Yorkers, and I relished in the conversation that followed no matter the reaction. So I’ll miss that. But what I’m feeling a lot of as the move gets closer (T-minus four days and counting…) is guilt.
Run of the mill guilt, sure, garden-variety: I’m leaving my friends behind, I’m dragging my daughter away from her friends, her school, the only life she’s ever known…. but kids are resilient. And she’s been begging us for a “real home” for half her life. She’ll adapt. And my friends? I will see my friends. I’m not leaving forever, or very far really. I’ll eventually be in the city quite a bit when things regain some sense of normalcy - for work, entertainment. So that’s not the guilt that’s nagging at me.
For me, the guilt- the elephant in the room- is part of the national conversation we’re having about race. White flight. Abandoning urban areas because of the privilege to do so. And I don’t mean to say we’re living in a depressed socioeconomic neighborhood. While certainly ethnically diverse, the gentrification of our neighborhood started after we moved into it, and is pretty much fully realized at this point. We have a Starbucks AND Cafe Bark (yeah, a coffee shop and doggie fashion boutique where four-legged friends are welcome). But that doesn’t mean that we are immune. Our leaving- although just one small small family- is happening in the middle of quite an exodus from New York. In time, this pattern of migration will have an impact on education and social programs funding, opportunity and success for small business- and we’re part of it. And I feel it.
I feel the pang that I’m leaving my home, my city - when maybe it needs me most. No, New York is not dead, nor will it die because my family or other privileged families are leaving. It may be take a hit in the here and now, in the near future - but it will come back. It will almost assuredly be different, but it will still be one of the greatest damn cities on the planet. I feel that too, I do. But that I’m the tiniest part of of any detriment to this town is something I also feel deeply.
You might say I have every right to look out for my family, for myself. And of course I do. But I have that right because of my privilege. And If I have that right, so do all the other families scattering away now. And if they do too, then who’s left? The folks that can’t, that don’t have that privilege. They should have the right to look out for their families too, right? in the end, my guilt isn’t stopping me from reaching out for what I hope is something fresh and new, and maybe even better- but I’m not sweeping it away either. I’m not forgetting those that could truly be left behind in life, that can’t count on what should be their right. We’re not leaving because of the moment, but the moment we’re in is when we’re leaving. I’m not giving myself a pass.
I said New York has been one of the greatest loves of my life. I won’t be here like I’ve been, but I’ll always be here for the people in my city. Call it guilt, call it a sense of duty. But I’m not going to forget.
[Photo credit Vivienne Gucwa https://nycphoto.smugmug.com/]
I’ll come right and say it. New York City has been one of the great loves of my life. I’ve lived here longer than any other place in my life. I came here following my dreams, and over time things shifted, apartments shifted, priorities shifted, life shifted. New York was constant. In the beginning, living the gig life, I lived in NY to leave it. When life settled down, I put roots down. Where I had grown up was just that. New York was home.
When things got serious with my then girlfriend and I and we started looking toward the future we’d say stuff like: “Well we’ll get married, and then probably leave New York.” We got married. Then it was, “Well, we’ll have a kid and leave New York.” We had our daughter. “Well, when she starts school, we leave New York.” Pre-school, came and went, and we got her into a really great public school in our area of town, and elementary school began in earnest.
We stopped saying “Well.” When I first moved in with my now wife, there was an elderly German man who lived immediately next door. Kept mostly to himself, we’d go stretches of time without physically seeing him. One day younger guy came out of the place, and we inquired if he was new to the building. No, he was the son, his father had been moved into a retirement home, need of further assistance. After that my wife and I joked that someday that would be our child, helping to clean out the apartment after we were off to the old folks home. And after we stopped saying, “Well” - it looked like that path lay ahead of us.
Then 2020 happened. After surviving the spring in lockdown- the idea of being quarantined in the city for the summer time led us to think about finding someplace else to go for the summer. Sublet our place, and escape for a bit. But who’d want to sublet our NYC apartment in the height of a pandemic, especially when we were ground zero. So we started exploring the possibility of a more permanent move. My wife started googling places. My sister passed her real estate agent in NJ that they had used… and after crunching some number, we found ourselves house hunting in Jersey, near my sis and my mother.
And two months later we are less than a week from actually leaving New York. It turns out that in the middle of a pandemic was a good time for us to make this transition. Although we both have jobs in the city, neither me nor my wife will be working physically in our offices anytime soon, so we’ll have a chance to settle in to our new digs without throwing a commute on top of everything else.
But saying goodbye is hard. And while we’ll soon have modem conveniences that many people outside of NYC take for granted, and that we have longed for- central a/c, our own washer and dryer, a garage- getting those means tearing out roots. Breaking apart from dreams and memories and starting anew. There’s so much good that we’re excited about with this move, and let’s face it- a lot of shit we’ll be leaving behind. I plan to explore some of these emotions and trepidations over the next week here, and invite all of you to join me. Next up: The Guilt.
My daughter is in fourth grade in a New York City public school. Their unit of study right now is focused on immigration and social justice in this country. This isn’t some knee-jerk liberal reaction to the times we’re living in, but has been planned from the beginning of the year. That it is happening concurrent with the events that are happening around us is either a coincidence or goes to show the alarming regularity that such events take place - less coincidence than matter of course.
In one of her lessons a couple of weeks ago, my daughter was shown a picture, without a caption or explanation, and asked what she sees and can infer from the picture. It was the picture at the top of this post, of Iesha Evans protesting the murder of Alton Sterling* in Baton Rouge in 2017 (photo credit: Jonathan Bachman) (*see above re: alarming regularity, rinse and repeat).
Her answer, not knowing any information about what was happening was: “A girl is stepping up and shaking [the police officer’s] hand.” And if one looks that photo, blissfully ignorant of the world we live in, that could be what is happening. The height of innocence. Also the height of privilege. Of whiteness.
We’ve had discussions with her recently about the unfair treatment of black people and other of color in this country. She’s old enough now to take these things in, but she still doesn’t understand. I don’t know what I was thinking about at age 10 in the heart of the Reagan era, but it wasn’t racial injustice. She doesn’t have that luxury. I shouldn’t have either, but I was taught about the scourge of slavery (but it was so long ago) and then how like 100 years later Martin Luther King, Jr. won the hearts and minds of people using the power of love, and now things were so much better! So she’s got a leg up that her school is delving into some realness, sharing photos of Black Lives Matter protests.
But the fact that my daughter could see a photo of Louisiana state troopers in militaristic riot gear rushing towards an unarmed black woman and see it as a peaceful greeting goes to show what a privileged life her skin color has afforded her. And what a privileged experience it is as white parents to have had the luxury to have been able to wait to have these conversations with her until she’s “ready.”
In the next part of the assignment, she was given the caption of the photo and then to state what the people in the photo were actually doing. Unfortunately, the caption is a very news-sanitized one, so she came away with only that Iesha was being arrested because the police had closed the street and she wasn’t supposed to be there. Sigh.
We’ll continue to have these conversations. I want her to grow up knowing and naming her privilege and knowing how she can use that privilege for good by standing up for those that don’t possess it. I am going to make sure that she knows the things I wasn’t taught in school, about how history is written by white people who have use their privilege to not include some painful things because it would involve them holding up a mirror to themselves. I hope in the process I continue to become a better person, a better ally. How privileged am I to be given such an opportunity?
Covid19 Chronicles. Stardate, 2020.0411.
Kinda feels like we’re living in a sci-fi, disease genre, alternate universe movie nowadays, yeah? Trips to the store, or just a walk around the block may require Mad Max-like sartorial choices. Performance artistry has moved to tiny screens, in some cases on which even tinier tiles display its artists. Dogs couldn’t be happier with the new normal, and cats are just wondering when they’ll get their castles back to themselves.
Something else has shifted as well, in my opinion- this, in the realm of social media. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a lion’s share (or tiger’s share for you Joe Exotic fans) of political BS, conspiracy theories, and shameless self promotion. But there’s a category that has been creeping in, becoming more pervasive and giving them all a run for their money: Realness.
Life and/or parental fails, selfies containing a less-than-perfect framed and face-tuned appearance, sharing scary, and some cases life-threatening symptoms of sickness, feelings of panic, isolation, depression and desperation. Yes, these post are not wholly new to social media. But let’s face it, the prevailing themes we see on the socials in the best of times are just that: the best of times. The prettiest photos, the cutest kids, smiles and achievements, new cars and fancy dinners.
It’s been refreshing to see folks at various states of sloven, stories of crackers and chocolate for the kids’ breakfasts, of unbridled screen time and general ennui. It’s almost as if no matter how good any of us have it, we’re all in veritable hellscape this together. Hey, wait a minute… shouldn’t that be a model for the world even in those best of times? So what if she got a new Tesla, if those people’s kid is on the fast-track for Harvard at age 4, and that other guy looks THAT fucking good in a swimsuit: no need for envy, or disgust! We’re all subject to the same BS and self-sabotage and feelings of inferiority. All of us. United in thinking our lives are suck-ish!
Look, I’m not under any illusion that this will last once life return to normal, even if we don’t know what the hell that normal look like. Whatever normal winds up being, we’ll get back to sugar-coating and sunshine-painting. It’s inevitable, I’m sorry to say. We are human, after all- imperfect in every way. I’m just here-for-it that for the time being we are very publicly showing that human condition for real.
If you are one of those folks this morning, denouncing Speaker Pelosi’s actions of last night- the ripping up of the paper version Trump’s State of the Union speech- then I only have three words in rebuttal, and without decorum: Get over it. (If one prefers more words, might I suggest “the fuck” between “get” and “over”)
Three years we have put up with this asshole in the White House- day by day, hour by hour, tweet by tweet- demeaning so many American institutions and so many Americans themselves. Three years we’ve seen our standing in the world free-fall in the wake of his infantile whims. Three years we have watched as the obsequious, pitiful Republican Party bow and scrape to this garbage human being, aiding and abetting him all the way down, no matter how low he’s gone.
We’ve have some heroes cross the stage, who have spoken momentary truth to his abusive power. These heroes have mostly risen above petty response, and have acted within the constructs and norms befitting an officer of the public. These arguments muted by duty to tradition, respectful of the platform they’ve been handed. It’s been three years.
What Pelosi did last night, fantastically aided- not constricted- by her platform (literally and figuratively), was protest in its truest form. It may have offended some, but it hurt no one. It sent a clear, unapologetic message, one of dissatisfaction with norms. That after three years, we’re done with the lies and insults and name-calling and political hostage taking. That we’ve exhausted due course and due process, and it’s time to TEAR. SOME. SHIT. UP. And yes, in the Speaker’s case, literally.
It’s been three years, and here we are, in an extremely important year. Get in or get out. And Mr. President, the highest ranking member of the “Do Nothing Democrats” just did something. Here’s hoping she tears you a new one.
Growing up in 1980s in Los Angeles, Showtime was it. Magic, Kareem, Worthy, Michael Cooper… the Lakers owned the LA sports scene. Even Inglewood- where Showtime was housed in the Fabulous Form- seemingly overcame it’s hard-scrabble surroundings to be known as the “City of Champions.”
Then there was a bit of a dark period: the light of Showtime dimmed considerably. Lakers of my youth were humanized, brought back down to earth. After winning 5 titles from 1979-1988, all of a sudden Showtime was a thing of the past. One by one those heroes of my youth- legends of the game- stepped aside as the game went on. I grew up, went to college and moved away from LA.
And then along comes this kid. I mean a kid, 18 years old, straight of high-school. But this kid- arrogant and cocky as he was- seemed wise beyond his years. A student of the game and already more worldly than many twice his age. But it took a few years, and some growing pains. As he honed his game to adjust from playing with boys to competing with men, he learned to be a better teammate, and elevated the already dominant Shaq to another level. Then coach Phil Jackson brought his championship pedigree to LA just like that, it was the Lake Show all over again. They had moved out of the City of Champions, but the Staples Center in downtown LA put Showtime front and center in the NBA landscape again. After an absence of titles for twelve years, they ripped off three straight championships. Then the cast of characters changed (Shaq departed for South Beach), and the kid struggled with some injuries. He wound up winning another two championships with the Lakers, and somehow, out of nowhere it seemed the kid was man- he retired at the age of 37. Storybook. A true champion. If only life was lived on the court alone.
I start the story this way, to show how Kobe Bryant, a charismatic kid and an amazing talent can bring men older than them back to their youth. Watching Kobe and Shaq and Phil win those titles put me right back in it- when these were gods on the court, and how lucky we were to bear witness. How does a grown man, look up to some one a few years their junior? That was the kind of generational talent Kobe Bryant was.
When my wife shared the news with me yesterday that Kobe had suddenly and tragically died, I felt an immediately pang of shock- only to be brought back to earth by what his off the court legacy did to tarnish everything he accomplished. Not erase it, but this kid- this man- was no longer deity amongst mortals. His actions showed him to be human at its most fallible and cruel.
It’s well documented that in 2003 when Kobe was rehabbing an injury, was arrested and wound up standing trial for sexual assault. No longer a kid himself, in the eyes of the law or experience, his victim was 19. Not a kid in the eyes of the law either, but by any other measure certainly not an adult. And if you need a refresher, this article from The Daily Beast does that and then some. The criminal case wound up being dismissed, a civil case settled out of court- and in the eyes of many Kobe was exonerated. And not only that, but to detriment of his victim. I can’t sit here and say that 17 years ago, I didn’t doubt the victim. That I wasn’t happy that Kobe would be back on the court doing what we all wanted to see him do. But the innocence was gone for sure, and my eyes as a grown man myself were opened wide. But even as late as yesterday morning, before I knew of Kobe’s demise I don’t recall shedding any tears, metaphorical or otherwise for the victim. I’m not going to rewrite my own personal history in light of the #MeToo movement to try and prove what a fantastic ally I am.
The past day or so, the news cycle has been what one would expect of “too-soon” death of a sports icon. Millions mourning the man, the kid we remember that magically transported us back in time. Fewer, though no less important by any means, have taken up arms to remind us of what his legacy truly is beyond sport. Arguments have ensued over whether or not bringing up the rape allegations was proper given the man had just perished (so too we learned had his 14 year old daughter). I found myself, not defending him, but hoping against hope that he had come to terms with what he had done, that he had strived to make himself a better man because of it. I pointed to the fact that he was an extremely hard worker when it came to the game, and that I would hope he applied that same dogged nature to self-reflection.
But let’s face it, you’re not going to hear me talk that way about Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Bill Cosby or even Louis CK (of whom I was a big fan before stories of his disgusting nature came to light). Those guys deserve any societal ostracizing and backlash that comes there way. So why does Kobe get my hope of redemption? Is it because those other guys are on public record of being repeat offenders, serial abusers of power and station? Or is it because Kobe for whatever reason still has a magical quality about him for allowing me to ease into adulthood while recapturing a tiny bit of my youth. I’ve written before about how crazy and stupid sports fandom is, but the emotional component is a strong one. And it’s really fucking confusing for someone like me who likes to think of himself as a pretty straight-thinking person.
I’ve taken part in quite a few discussions- online and off- about Kobe the past day plus. And I’ve been very honestly able to side with those mourning his legacy as basketball player, and with those waking us up to the harsh reality of his past transgressions. To so many who knew him personally, he was a good person, great father and husband following his terrible, destructive behavior on that night in 2003. And I don’t know what is proper, or what should or shouldn’t be talked about in the wake of a man’s death. I will say however, to a large extent we can control what that narrative will be while we’re still around. While we can’t retry the case against Kobe Bryant, do a great disservice to survivors of sexual assault by keeping mum about it for propriety’s sake.
Honestly, if his crime happened in 2018 instead of 2003, we wouldn’t even having this debate. Kobe probably never laces up for a game ever again after his trial- dismissed charges or not. But it happened not in this climate, and time has given us the opportunity to forget a little. So I’ll always remember Kobe for what he was: a tremendous talent and shining light to many- including for me for a time. But also as a man who made a terrible decision that had detrimental affects on the life of his victim. As a human. Imperfect as any of us.
In an effort to kickstart my lacking physical fitness, I’ve started taking the stairs out of home my home subway station.
You should know that the 181st A train is situated about 14 miles* below the surface of Washington Heights, so we not talking about one or two short flights up and out. (*it maybe a little less than 14 miles… but it may or may not be reasonably close to the center of the earth, five or take).
As I started up the stairs the other evening, I could see about halfway up an MTA worker was standing on one of the landings and woman one landing up from him, looking back in interest. The worker was holding some industrial-sized tongs, and a bag. The tongs looked large enough to extract a festering rodent from such a stairwell, and from the looks on his and the onlooking lady’s face- that’s what I assumed we dealing with. But I couldn’t see the floor of the landing from where I was.
I should mention that the stairway is divided by metal bars, railings, interconnected from top to bottom in a way that to switch between sides of the stairway after committing to one side is not something easily done or recommended. I’m not one to risk bodily harm, or extreme subway schmutz on my clothes (or both) to test my prowess on such a feat. I mention this because the lady watching the scene play out was on the other side of the stairwell, while the worker eyeing the whatever-it-is was in mine.
(You might think you know where this going- but I just said I wouldn’t try to climb over the railings, and I’m sticking to it. Even if meant some rat innards may soon be sticking to my shoe. So this not that story.)
As I near the landing in question, the lady’s attention remains as wrapt as the worker’s reticence to perform his duty. A few more steps, and just before the landing comes in to view I ready myself for carnage, maybe a rotten smell, or perhaps just a rat on its back, frozen in time and rigor mortis. Maybe it’s some human feces, that’d be tong-worthy, although i think I’d have smelled that one a few landings ago. Or perhaps just food mess of some kind- he would’t to pick that up with his hands- but would that have cause the woman to remain above and gawk? Well imagine my surprise, my relief when as I reach the landing what the worker is reaching for with his tongs is a discarded, seemingly used syringe and hypodermic needle. That’s not something you see every day- anymore anyway.
There was time when needles were commonplace in subways stations. That recent, but bygone era when you couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into some smack-riddled addict stumbling down the street. Now, I’m sure this wasn’t that at all. No, just a diabetic who, having overdid walking up the stairs, needed a shot of insulin to themselves the rest of the way up, and then in the process of put the needle in their portable sharps container carelessly missed and dropped it in the stairwell. That’s the story I myself, and the only thing I pick up is my pace to head up the rest of the stairs and into the night air.
As is the case with many, this year’s midterm elections have been a date circled on my calendar since November 9, 2016. The news has been pretty much all bad when it comes to politics, policy, and appointees with this current administration. And it fueled me to become more involved than I ever have in previously elections. I even signed up to volunteer for my local state senator’s campaign, something I had always said I was going to do but never had. I put a sign in our 4th floor window, and was ready to help out when I could. Well today that far-off circled day has arrived, and today I was signed up to pass out flyers and generally remind people to vote. And I have to say it was great and fascinating experience.
We’ve all been on the other side, walking down the street minding our own business when all of sudden someone is pushing something on you: sale, event, candidate. I generally do try and at least acknowledge these folks while making it clear I don’t want what they are selling. Today I was the seller, and people’s reactions ran the spectrum: from happy to receive to offended and spiteful. I’m lucky to live in NYC where the bulk of the people walking toward me are at least somewhat left-leaning and wanting change from our current political leadership. But even the with people who I was able to engage, the was a varying level of outward commitment to the process. There was a lot of “I’m heading there to vote right now,” or “I already voted!” But also some “Oh I won’t forget,” “I’m going later,” or “Sure, sure” - from which it was almost transparent who would actually be going to exercise their rights versus those who were just trying to say the right thing and escape back into anonymity. There were young people who said they weren’t yet old enough, people who apologetically said they couldn’t- not a citizen- but hoped everything would “come out good.” Some folks wanted to know just what candidates were on my flyers, others took it without looking, some grasped them excitedly and scanned them on the run, while others gave a “No thanks,” or a wave of the hand to signal not interested.
The ubiquitous “I Voted” stickers were proudly worn, and my cohort and I would thank people for voting which you could see really positively affect some of the people. And there were those who would turn it around and thank us for being out reminding them and others to vote. And of course, there were those who would flash the sticker like a federal agent and shrug us off, combatively using it as a “get-out-of-jail-free-card” to avoid any personal connection.
And only one- seemingly somewhat unstable- person was outwardly negative. She happened to be wearing a beanie with the Washington NFL football team’s name on it, so at least the shoe (or hat) fit. For the most part, the diversity and eccentricity of New York City was well on display, and my pride to be a part of it swelled.
And being a small part of the democratic process made me feel good too. In addition to the small amount of work I did for the campaign, my wife and I donated to candidates and causes far outside our geographic sphere in order to help in the only way it was possible for us to do. It feels downright, dare I say it- AMERICAN, but in the best way possible. Now will this America back these good feelings I’m sitting with as write this, or will disappointment be the outcome again tonight? Not much I can do at this point, but the fight begins anew tomorrow.
Another September 11 is upon us. When I think of of September 11, I remember all the lives lost, all the acts of heroism, the immediate unity we all coalesced under. And I remember the awful time that followed here in New York City. The tragedy itself, the immediate grief, and the painful aftermath are all rolled up into one for me when September 11 is mentioned.
Let me state for the record, I didn’t lose anyone on September 11. The closest I came at the time to even knowing someone who did was a co-worker at my new job (which I started on September 12, a day later than I was supposed to have) who lost her mother.
But I did live here. I lived through that time, as all of us did who lived and worked here. I remember the eerie quiet in the city the in the days just after. I remember the overwhelming smell that stuck to the back of your throat. The odd haze that hung over the skyline and down city blocks. How it seemed we were all walking around in a daze.
I don’t state this as badge of experience. I realize that my experience was not unique, that my direct connection could have been so much worse- as it was for many. My geographic proximity to the tragedy by no means earns me some sort of participation trophy. And yet, the phrase “never forget” drives me to anger. As if anyone one of us who waded their way through the aftermath of that awful day needs to be reminded to NOT forget. For a lot of us that live here still, we aren’t really afforded the option of forgetting. I remember September 11 every day. When I get on the subway. When a group of sirens blares louder than normal. When I see random National Guards armed with assault rifles posted in public places. When I look out my window at work at see a plane seemingly flying lower than usual. It always takes me back to that time. That any number of mundane daily activities, like going to work, can be putting yourself in harm’s way. So yeah, I don’t forget. I’ve never forgotten.
However, as I’ve stated, and apparently need to remind myself: this tragedy doesn’t belong to me by any stretch. Everyone is entitled to their piece of it, to their own pain. And while I am entitled to my anger, I don’t need to be angry at someone else’s grief. It doesn’t matter if you lived around the corner from the Pentagon or in North Dakota - this was a crime committed against America, against humanity. If you count yourself among either of those groups you get to process your pain how you want. If “never forget” is your tribute to the heroes, the lost- if it’s what you say because you don’t what else to say? You’re allowed. Because what else is there to say? Today should be about love and continued healing. I’m still working on that, I guess. And after seventeen years, I suppose that’s what makes me angry.
While I think that it’s extremely important to hear and listen to viewpoints we don’t agree with, we are in different times. Inviting a white-nationalist, anti-Semites like Steve Bannon or Richard Spencer to an event is not “hearing what the other side has to say.” It’s giving a platform to the hate and vitriol they espouse, and does not spark conversation or provide fodder for common ground. It normalizes and publicizes their awful conspiracy theories and backwards thought, and sends the message to other ignorant people out there that we’ve reached a point where these hateful ideologies are accepted. That brand of thinking belongs in the dark, not in the limelight.
However misguided and thoughtless his initial invitation of Steve Bannon to the upcoming New Yorker Festival, I am happy that Editor of the magazine David Remnick has now rescinded that invite. Remnick took a lot of grief on Twitter from readers and his staff alike, before making his decision to dis-invite Bannon, saying: “I don’t want well-meaning readers and staff members to think that I’ve ignored their concerns. I’ve thought this through and talked to colleagues — and I’ve re-considered. I’ve changed my mind." And in today’s sensationalist media atmosphere, that’s a big turnabout. Especially coming from a man who is Editor, the boss of a literal and figurative institution of American journalism. Remnick and The New Yorker have done so much important work in recent times, his original decision to invite Bannon should not define him, rather his ability to realize his mistake and make it right should. In this specific era of seemingly endless white male power, here’s a guy who has conceded that power in the face of scrutiny. The cynical argument would be that Remnick caved in the face of losing money on the event, with other guests and perhaps sponsors threatening to pull out- but I think he deserves a bit more credit that than that.
I don’t know or work with Remnick personally, so I’ll leave it to New Yorker staff writer Adam Davidson to offer this defense of Remnick (from a thread posted to Davidson’s Twitter feed):
“I don't think I would have invited Bannon and I am glad he disinvited him.
But it has been painful, even maddening, to see the personalized outrage at David.
David has been a clear voice throughout this awful period. And he has empowered, encouraged, demanded the writers who work for him to be our very best at what he has consistently made clear is a terrifying and dangerous time.
I feel a freedom and moral clarity at [The] New Yorker that I am not sure my colleagues at other publications have. That's because of David. We would know much less about Trump and his cronies were it not for David. And we would lose one of our most powerful voices against him.
In short, David has more than earned the right to fuck up once in a while.
Also, I've never had a boss who is so open to criticism. He spent all day today on the phone with writers and staffers telling him he's wrong. He listened, he heard.
In general, I agree with those who don't want to give white nationalists platforms. Cover them, critically, but don't interview them without context. I've given others a hard time for doing so [...] We are all learning how to deal with this awful time.
Today has been a day of thoughtful, open, angry conversation among those of us who work [at The] New Yorker.
The conversations were precisely what you want from your media: we discussed our obligations to the public, the nature of journalism, our personal contempt for Bannon.
I often tweet about how their should be higher costs for coddling Trump. I did so this very morning.
But that should be taken in context. The context, here, is years of David's own writing and the writing he made possible.
David has driven me, personally, crazy many times--as he knows because I tell him and he hears it. He's not flawless. God knows.
But precisely those of us who find Bannon loathsome should remember--maybe in a few days or a week--how much we need him.”
I'm a left-leaning, arts-appreciating guy. I do my best to be socially aware despite the advantages afforded to me as a white, straight male. I'm spiritual but not religious, and I'd like to think individual thinker. I am also- and have always been- a big sports fan.
Read MoreOn the A train yesterday, I was relieved to have secured a seat in an otherwise crowded car. After a stop, a man and his son- maybe 5 years old- shuffled on into the masses…
Read MoreThe lady bustled into the gymnasium just as the applause was dying down. The kids were holding their recorders in front of them, their beaming smiles from the adulation fading into a “Where do we go now?” expression. A man that had been standing in the shoulder-to-shoulder clump of people which made up the audience turned and noticed the lady and said “You missed it,” speaking over and through myself and another person.
She made no attempt to get any closer to the guy, even though probably could have squeezed in if she had attempted. “I know,” she said back to him, in a manner that didn’t reveal one way or another how she felt about her late arrival.
“I got it all on here,” said the man, nodding to the phone which he still held above head level, despite the fact that the show (and one would assume the recording) had ended.
“How was it?” They were still speaking as if there was no one in between them (there was).
“Awesome.” I searched his face for irony, as I’m not sure anyone had ever described a gaggle of school kids tooting away on recorders as ‘awesome’ without sarcasm involved- but there was none. He had been there for the brief recital, and it appeared he was going to make sure his commitment would be appreciated.
“I’m just going to tell her I was there,” she said, judging by the crowed gym floor that she probably could have entered without having been spotted.
Not so quick to let her off the hook, he replied, “Oh she could see. She was looking around.” It was said in a congenial tone, but with context it dripped with Chekhovian subtext. And I was still very much in the middle of it all. Quite literally.
He turned back to the kids, phone still held aloft, although now I could clearly see it was no longer actively recording. She presumably caught her daughter’s eye, and gave a hearty thumbs up, beaming with manufactured pride. I looked down at my phone to see what time it was.
Having multiple cats, it’s interesting to watch them learn little behavioral things from each other. From a previous pair of ours, one of them always scatter TF away when someone arrived at the front door, and the other, when he first joined our household, would make a b-line straight for the door and whatever excitement awaited. After a little time, the new cat learned- most likely through the dire warnings of his feline sis, that the opening of the front door held nothing but terrors untold.
Years later, we have another set of cats running our house, three now- one (Tabby) joining six months before the other two (The Nutter Brothers, Cashew & Walnut). And since, we’ve noticed a change in how Tabby behaves- she’s taken to lounging in positions and places previously unknown and untried to her before her brothers arriving. And they are good loungers, so she’s no doubt taken tips from them- despite the fact she may tell you they know nothing. (No you're anthropomorphically speaking about your cat)
The new hot spot has become a point of contention- for me. They’ve all taken to curling up on my shoulder bag that I take to work with me daily. It’s your standard messenger-y type thing, made of material that attracts and exacts the greatest magnetism and staying-power of feline fur. So of course that has become their favorite sitting apparatus- causing me much grief in the process of getting out the door: having to squeeze in a massive lint rolling session into an already crammed morning schedule.
I can’t say for sure which cat started it, and which of the others learned the behavior. It may have been the bag itself (no, now you're personifying your bag) . Really the only question now is how long it will take for the human involved to learn some behavior himself, and place the bag somewhere the cats can’t easily plop themselves down on. Until they find a way to get to it, which they will- they’re always learning.
We all have friends on social media who choose for one reason reason or another play out their daily dramas or grieve deeply or sort through their issues in the public eye. I find myself often rolling my eyes at such posts, but perhaps there is something to it. It's emotional honesty, whatever it's source or motive behind it. It's a certain fearlessness that whatever they are are going through, it deserves attention. They deserve well wishes, and pick-me-ups. They obviously feeling a great need for things, and they are basically unafraid to ask for it.
I'd say most of us, project a positive face. Smiling pictures, successes. No matter what's happening off-line. No one, I think, truly enjoys posting about how their child is having real anger-management issues. That their child deals with sometimes crushing anxiety about the the most routine of things. That, as a parent, these things affect everything you do, every decision you make - and can take a toll on even the happiest and most loving of households. Sudden outbursts of raw emotion seemingly out of nowhere can take your breath away. And when it comes from your child, this piece of your heart- this tiny, developing human that you'd do anything for - well, it breaks that heart in the truest sense. And then realizing that even as a parental unit you can't overcome this alone, that you need help, can feel utterly defeating. Like you've failed your child in being that steadying, guiding force in their life- and was it something you've done to have brought on this behavior? But pushing past ego, you reach out and get the help- because you want more than anything for your child to relish in her deserved strength. To be sure that there's nothing she can't do. But the help is work, progress is slow, and sometimes you can see a flicker at the end of the tunnel- sometimes not. Yeah, I don't think anybody enjoys posting about that kind of stuff.
I'm not saying that it's all we want to read on Facebook, or the like- I want the smiling faces, I want the accomplishments and celebrations. But there is place for it- for emotional honesty on social media, other than anger (that's one emotion almost no one seems to have trouble expressing online these days). It's a way of reaching out into the ether to let that others know that if they are going though the same things, they aren't alone. The best thing about social media is the community it creates, but without some personal honesty to bring us back to earth, that same community can feel terribly isolating- a place where it's easy to "compare and despair," a wise lady once put it to me.
So I'll try and be a little more accepting to those reaching out. And I'll make an attempt, even if only once and a while, to be brave and ask for that pick-me-up when I need it.
How necessary is the term, "white supremacist"? Doesn't "racist" pretty much cover it? As if some seeing some white person spewing hate, we're going to confused as to which race they feel is superior? Example: "Oh that hateful, racist white guy is WHITE supremacist!" Isn't there enough of a sample size for us to assume that this dude or gal feels pretty good about whites, and not so good about non-whites? (Sit down, Rachel Dolezal, we're not talking about you)
"White supremacist" is supposed to carry with it such heaviness and menace, but to me it sounds like an intellectualization of deep seeded mental issues- cooked in a laboratory by mixing colors and root-words and suffixes. "Racist" I think covers it for me. (Yes I know there's a root word and suffix involved, don't interrupt)
But wait - maybe we really do need sub-classification of hatred. Because of course you've got the Neo-Nazis, who pretty much hate everyone- even wide swaths of white people (especially but not limited to white people of the Jewish persuasion. [Tangent: Judaism is a religion, although many of the faith do indentify themselves as part of a race or people]). And now that we've gone down that dark road, why "Neo"? If they follow Nazi doctrine they are pretty much Nazis in my book, new-wave or otherwise. Or are we afraid that with out the "Neo" people are going think they aren't really Nazis because they aren't goosestepping in straight lines and wearing finely manicured staches about their septums? New-wave, old-wave, if it's especially cruel rave- it's still Nazi doctrine to me (with apologies to Billy Joel).
So. Now I'm thinking maybe "racist" doesn't cover it. A lot these people hate gays too-that's not a race (although if it was they'd win- trust me). If we wanted to make up words we could call them prejudists, or members of the ignorantia. Haters is too cute, ugly is on the nose but too general, and asshole is probably too general as well- I think there are plenty of people out there who are assholes but who aren't racists (in fact I'm pretty sure there those who may say I am one of those people).
Hate-spewing bottom-feeding fear-mongering sub-organisms is what I'm settling on. It's not catchy, not easily hash tagged (#HSBFFMSO does have a hook to it though...), but it comfortably covers the bases for me. Otherwise we're left semantically sub-classifying these groups that aren't worth an extra ounce of extra thought on anyone's part.