Thursday, December 19, 2013
The id Post: What a Difference a Year Makes, Or Not: 194 More D...
The id Post: What a Difference a Year Makes, Or Not: 194 More D...: by Irene Daniel Another year has come and gone and another chunk of our future with it; up in the smoke of guns and insanity. What a deadl...
What a Difference a Year Makes, Or Not: 194 More Dead Children Since Newtown
by Irene Daniel
Another year has come and gone and another chunk of our future with it; up in the smoke of guns and insanity. What a deadly duo. And I think it is important to discuss them together for neither guns nor insanity alone can be this deadly without the other.
In the year since we lost 24 of the most adorable first graders, an additional 194 children have died of gunshot wounds here in the home of the brave and the land of the free. 194 high school graduations that won't happen. 194 sets of parents who will never hold their baby's baby as happy grandparents. And 194 sets of grandparents who are devastated at the thought of burying their baby's baby. A lot can happen in a year.
I remember where I was when I heard of the massacre of those children. I was on my way home from my first appointment with my therapists, a session which opened my soul a little, and started to let in the light. And then I turned on the radio in my car, only to be horrified at the thought of a mentally and emotionally deranged individual taking out all of his pain on cute little first-graders. I was relieved to finally be taking action that was steering me away from my own darkness, and towards a new light. I was grateful to be attending to my own mental and emotional health, after neglecting them for so long, as I swam in a sea of denial about the reality and severity of my illness.
It's taken more than a year for me to recover from a breakdown, an emotional and mental collapse, that took the legs out from under me and took me completely out of the game. I am neither ashamed, nor proud of this fact; it just is. I must accept it, and accept myself for who I am -- warts, nervous breakdowns, and all. And I know that I must share my story of survival and victory, for I am not alone in my suffering. There are many, many, too many people out there suffering alone and terrified; afraid of themselves and their perceived inadequacies.
You see, mental illness is a fatal disease. It kills people; and those whom it doesn't kill, it leaves emotionally and spiritually maimed. Mental illness and addiction have killed people in my family. My maternal grandmother, for whom I am named, killed herself by ingesting rat poison at the age of 52, in the throws of menopause. My mother was an undiagnosed and untreated paranoid schizophrenic. On my father's side of the family there are other examples of mental illness and addiction issues that destroyed the fabric of our family unity, and left our family hearth cold and dark.
And I know that I am not alone in these circumstances. However, for most of us, it is the denial of this internal dis-ease that serves up calamitous consequences. It took me a long time to admit that I needed help and then it took more time to actually get help; take medication as directed, get therapy, whatever is indicated.
And here is where the self-loathing, guilt and procrastination puts us on the merry-go-round of chaos and denial. Depression and its side-effects look a lot like sloth, especially to those who, either do not suffer from the disease of depression, or who are also themselves in denial of their own dis-ease. This perceived sloth leads to greater feelings of guilt, to fear, to more denial and isolation. At least that's how it's been for me this past year. Had I not sought treatment when I finally did, I'd probably be dead by now. I didn't want to live in this world anymore, and I was too afraid to ask for help until it was too late to save my law practice, and almost too late to save myself.
My problems started long ago, as the result of multiple childhood traumas that went undiagnosed and untreated for decades. In the 1960s and 70s, there was still much too great a stigma attached to mental illness to encourage the emotionally injured to seek treatment of any kind. You just bucked up and moved on in those days. And here again, I know that I am not alone in this circumstance.
Too many of us are walking around emotionally crippled. Like a fractured leg bone that is never properly medically treated, leaving the injured with a noticeable limp, early emotional injuries left untreated cause a similar and sustaining disability in dealing with every day life. Oh we can walk among our fellows, and even function seemingly well in the land of the living. But inside, we are suffering in our own private hell.
Many of us try to soothe ourselves by self-medicating with drugs and/or alcohol; which often leads to addiction and a whole new set of problems. I know that this is what worked for me for awhile, until it didn't anymore. And when alcohol could no longer disguise the reality of my pain, it became yet another problem, another thing to feel guilty about, another nail in my coffin.
It has taken decades for me to get anywhere near well. After I began dealing with my alcoholism, it took a long sober while for me to be able to deal with the underlying depression at the root of it all. And it is a daily struggle; sometimes easy, sometimes not so easy. Today, I am sober, on anti-depressant meds and learning to live in the real world for the first time in my life. And even though, I have lost much professionally and financially, I have gained a more realistic perspective, and a real love for my real life. I never had that before. I was too busy running away from myself and my dis-ease. I am so glad I don't have to do that anymore. I am too weary of it all.
So, what does all this have to do with Newtown? Is it not obvious that Adam Lanza was at least disturbed? I wonder about his initial injury? Did something happen to him in first grade? He didn't get that way all by himself overnight. That anger and pain was years in the making. What happened to him? Does anybody care?
We should care because when someone as disturbed and angry as Adam Lanza has easy access to guns, what other outcome can there be? There are still lots of Adam Lanzas out there, and it is easier and more acceptable in our society, for the mentally deranged to get guns than it is to get treatment and medication. What does that say about us?
What will we see a year from now? Will there be another 200 American children taken out by gun violence? Or will we see a greater understanding of mental disease and defect? Will we see more resources devoted to mental health? Or will we just keep on doing what we're doing, and keep on getting more of what we got?
It's up to us, here in the US.
Another year has come and gone and another chunk of our future with it; up in the smoke of guns and insanity. What a deadly duo. And I think it is important to discuss them together for neither guns nor insanity alone can be this deadly without the other.
In the year since we lost 24 of the most adorable first graders, an additional 194 children have died of gunshot wounds here in the home of the brave and the land of the free. 194 high school graduations that won't happen. 194 sets of parents who will never hold their baby's baby as happy grandparents. And 194 sets of grandparents who are devastated at the thought of burying their baby's baby. A lot can happen in a year.
I remember where I was when I heard of the massacre of those children. I was on my way home from my first appointment with my therapists, a session which opened my soul a little, and started to let in the light. And then I turned on the radio in my car, only to be horrified at the thought of a mentally and emotionally deranged individual taking out all of his pain on cute little first-graders. I was relieved to finally be taking action that was steering me away from my own darkness, and towards a new light. I was grateful to be attending to my own mental and emotional health, after neglecting them for so long, as I swam in a sea of denial about the reality and severity of my illness.
It's taken more than a year for me to recover from a breakdown, an emotional and mental collapse, that took the legs out from under me and took me completely out of the game. I am neither ashamed, nor proud of this fact; it just is. I must accept it, and accept myself for who I am -- warts, nervous breakdowns, and all. And I know that I must share my story of survival and victory, for I am not alone in my suffering. There are many, many, too many people out there suffering alone and terrified; afraid of themselves and their perceived inadequacies.
You see, mental illness is a fatal disease. It kills people; and those whom it doesn't kill, it leaves emotionally and spiritually maimed. Mental illness and addiction have killed people in my family. My maternal grandmother, for whom I am named, killed herself by ingesting rat poison at the age of 52, in the throws of menopause. My mother was an undiagnosed and untreated paranoid schizophrenic. On my father's side of the family there are other examples of mental illness and addiction issues that destroyed the fabric of our family unity, and left our family hearth cold and dark.
And I know that I am not alone in these circumstances. However, for most of us, it is the denial of this internal dis-ease that serves up calamitous consequences. It took me a long time to admit that I needed help and then it took more time to actually get help; take medication as directed, get therapy, whatever is indicated.
And here is where the self-loathing, guilt and procrastination puts us on the merry-go-round of chaos and denial. Depression and its side-effects look a lot like sloth, especially to those who, either do not suffer from the disease of depression, or who are also themselves in denial of their own dis-ease. This perceived sloth leads to greater feelings of guilt, to fear, to more denial and isolation. At least that's how it's been for me this past year. Had I not sought treatment when I finally did, I'd probably be dead by now. I didn't want to live in this world anymore, and I was too afraid to ask for help until it was too late to save my law practice, and almost too late to save myself.
My problems started long ago, as the result of multiple childhood traumas that went undiagnosed and untreated for decades. In the 1960s and 70s, there was still much too great a stigma attached to mental illness to encourage the emotionally injured to seek treatment of any kind. You just bucked up and moved on in those days. And here again, I know that I am not alone in this circumstance.
Too many of us are walking around emotionally crippled. Like a fractured leg bone that is never properly medically treated, leaving the injured with a noticeable limp, early emotional injuries left untreated cause a similar and sustaining disability in dealing with every day life. Oh we can walk among our fellows, and even function seemingly well in the land of the living. But inside, we are suffering in our own private hell.
Many of us try to soothe ourselves by self-medicating with drugs and/or alcohol; which often leads to addiction and a whole new set of problems. I know that this is what worked for me for awhile, until it didn't anymore. And when alcohol could no longer disguise the reality of my pain, it became yet another problem, another thing to feel guilty about, another nail in my coffin.
It has taken decades for me to get anywhere near well. After I began dealing with my alcoholism, it took a long sober while for me to be able to deal with the underlying depression at the root of it all. And it is a daily struggle; sometimes easy, sometimes not so easy. Today, I am sober, on anti-depressant meds and learning to live in the real world for the first time in my life. And even though, I have lost much professionally and financially, I have gained a more realistic perspective, and a real love for my real life. I never had that before. I was too busy running away from myself and my dis-ease. I am so glad I don't have to do that anymore. I am too weary of it all.
So, what does all this have to do with Newtown? Is it not obvious that Adam Lanza was at least disturbed? I wonder about his initial injury? Did something happen to him in first grade? He didn't get that way all by himself overnight. That anger and pain was years in the making. What happened to him? Does anybody care?
We should care because when someone as disturbed and angry as Adam Lanza has easy access to guns, what other outcome can there be? There are still lots of Adam Lanzas out there, and it is easier and more acceptable in our society, for the mentally deranged to get guns than it is to get treatment and medication. What does that say about us?
What will we see a year from now? Will there be another 200 American children taken out by gun violence? Or will we see a greater understanding of mental disease and defect? Will we see more resources devoted to mental health? Or will we just keep on doing what we're doing, and keep on getting more of what we got?
It's up to us, here in the US.
Friday, December 13, 2013
The id Post: Truth and Reconciliation: What if We Tried That He...
The id Post: Truth and Reconciliation: What if We Tried That He...: by Irene Daniel As Nelson Mandela lies in state this week, I have been reflecting upon the South African experience of Truth and Reconcil...
Truth and Reconciliation: What if We Tried That Here in the Home of the Brave?
by Irene Daniel
As Nelson Mandela lies in state this week, I have been reflecting upon the South African experience of Truth and Reconciliation, wherein hearings, not trials, were held in order to allow the embittered tribes of a new nation to vent their anguish. Much of the testimony was delivered in tears, some in fits of rage. The hope was that this nationwide inventorying and emotional venting would allow all parties to move on after being heard and supported in their grief. And I began to wonder, what if we did that here in America?
After decades of Apartheid, there were many wounds to heal in order for a new nation to move forward in some semblance of unity. With its first President who was one of them -- the black majority; and much of the wealth still controlled by white hands, this was no small task. And while the exercise of Truth and Reconciliation could not solve all the nation's troubles, nor heal all of its wounds, it did allow aggrieved souls a pulpit and an audience to share their messages of terror and grief; and most important, it gave them an opportunity to surrender their right to punish those responsible. And it is in this surrender, that the power of reconciliation lies.
So, I started thinking, what if we did that here in America? Are we, who love living in the home of the brave, really brave enough to open up our racial and cultural wounds in an attempt to heal them, once and for all? And if we did, what would it look like? Who would show up? Who would speak? Who would listen? Who would be healed?
Of course I don't know the answer to those questions, but I think the most important of those questions is, who would listen? And would we be able to listen with open hearts? Or would we, as we almost always do now, listen defensively -- waiting for the moment to pounce upon weaknesses uncovered in the telling?
Would white people be able to listen openly to the realities of 'stop and frisk' and living in a world filled with presumptions about nonwhite people and what they are about? Assumptions that are not only hurtful, but inaccurate and unfair? Would they be able to truly hear the exasperation of those of us who have grown weary of a system designed for our failure, and the success of white males? And would we, people of color be able to deliver a message that was not dripping with resentment?
And what about people of color? Would we be capable of listening to genuine fears among the older and whiter among us, without bitterness? Without sarcasm? Would we be able to understand that this system, which even though greatly benefits whites at the expense of "the other," was not created by the white Americans who walk among us today? Or would we want to ridicule them, discounting their grievances as less severe or important as our own?
And what would be the point? Who would be healed? Who, if anyone, would be harmed?
Forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same thing. Forgiveness can be freely given by anyone at anytime. It does not require anything from the offending party, not even their knowledge of the act of forgiveness. Reconciliation is another matter.
Reconciliation takes place between the victim and the perpetrator, and requires something from each. It requires an act of contrition or acknowledgment of wrongdoing on the part of the oppressor. And from the victim it requires an even greater and more difficult act. For, in order for there to be any true reconciliation between the parties, it is the aggrieved party who must surrender the right to punish. This is essential.
And that is why I wonder if anything like that could actually happen here in the land of the free. There would, no doubt, be plenty of people showing up to vent and air those grievances, but I wonder how many would be willing to relinquish their right to punish.
Our current system here in the USA is still a stacked deck in favor of white males. And that is not the fault of every white person who has ever lived in the USA. It's really more due to a pattern that was set and never reset properly; like a broken bone never medically tended to. As the poet Robert Frost once said, ". . . way leads onto way." Nevertheless, I'm not sure that white Americans are ready to acknowledge this fact of white privilege -- not opinion -- but fact. Nor am I completely certain that all people of color are ready to relinquish their right to punish. I do believe that if we were to approach this task with the typical pattern of needing to convince and convert, and maintain the upper hand, then the necessary ingredients of truth and surrender, i.e., surrendering the right to punish, will escape inclusion, and then nothing good can come of it.
So, I ask again: are we, here in the "home of the brave," really brave enough to tackle the truth of our own need for reconciliation? I wonder.
Friday, December 6, 2013
The id Post: Nelson Mandela's Greatest Legacy: Love Can Build a...
The id Post: Nelson Mandela's Greatest Legacy: Love Can Build a...: by Irene Daniel One of my favorite songs is 'Love Can Build A Bridge," by the Judds. My favorite line is "Love, and only lo...
Nelson Mandela's Greatest Legacy: Love Can Build a Bridge
by Irene Daniel
One of my favorite songs is 'Love Can Build A Bridge," by the Judds. My favorite line is "Love, and only love, can join the tribes of man." With an abiding faith in, and love for, humanity, Nelson Mandela built a bridge of love that united the embittered tribes of his nation. Like Ghandi and Martin Luther King before him, he knew the power of forgiveness and reconciliation; and that in the long run, love really can conquer all. I feel so blessed to have grown up with these examples of loving and humble service; great men who overcame the bitterness of mistreatment, and turned that darkness into light. I cannot help but to be inspired.
How easy it would have been to respond in like kind to those who robbed him of his freedom and nearly three decades of his life. And who would have blamed him? In fact the African National Congress (ANC), which was founded and headed by Mandela, was most likely looking forward to a little payback for all their suffering at the hands of the white supremacist minority. And who could blame them? For these are human emotions and we are all human beings, with human weaknesses.
And this is where the overcoming takes place. For those great Spiritual Transcendentalists -- like Jesus, like Ghandi, like King -- all knew that, while they no doubt felt these human emotions, acting on them would only produce more bitterness, more resentment, more fear and violence. They knew that combatting violence with violence only creates more violence; and that in order to transcend that hatred and to get to the other side of the situation, only love would suffice. And no ordinary love, but an unconditional and unrelenting Spiritual love, could be the only foundation for a new nation; a new nation worthy of the South African struggle, and the new light of leadership taking hold therein.
I remember watching 'Invictus,' the movie about the triumph of the South African Rugby team in World Cup competition shortly after Mandela was elected President, and being so amazed at how this victory transformed the entire nation, and even changed the way the world looked at South Africa as a result. Perhaps it was a miracle, but Madiba -- as he was affectionately called by his people -- knew that even miracles need a soft place to land. It was not enough to conceive of liberty and to believe in liberty. South Africa needed to be prepared to receive the benefits of a new freedom; and Nelson Mandela prepared his country for just such a miracle to take place, just in case. He prepared them all, black and white, with his own example of loving forgiveness and acceptance.
And perhaps this is the greatest lesson that I have learned: to be prepared to receive. And I must do my part, do what I can do to create the circumstances, provide the fertile soil for my dreams to take root. And then, when the time is right, provide the space for them to take flight.
It is not enough to mourn Madiba, or even to celebrate his life. We must do more than that. We must take up his mantle, his torch, his great work. If we believe in the miracles of mercy, then we must do our part to create them by forgiving, first ourselves, and then one-another. We must all follow his example and choose higher. Choose courage over fear, reaching out over isolation, light over darkness and love over hatred. This is his legacy and our unfinished task.
Many are saying that a light has gone out in the world. I don't think that's true. For Nelson Mandela's physical voyage on earth may be over, but his light will never be extinguished as long as we carry it within each of us. Here, now, today, let your light shine; and don't be afraid or alarmed at your own brightness. Then he, and Ghandi, and King, and all the others will truly live forever -- in the love we share today.
Choose higher.
One of my favorite songs is 'Love Can Build A Bridge," by the Judds. My favorite line is "Love, and only love, can join the tribes of man." With an abiding faith in, and love for, humanity, Nelson Mandela built a bridge of love that united the embittered tribes of his nation. Like Ghandi and Martin Luther King before him, he knew the power of forgiveness and reconciliation; and that in the long run, love really can conquer all. I feel so blessed to have grown up with these examples of loving and humble service; great men who overcame the bitterness of mistreatment, and turned that darkness into light. I cannot help but to be inspired.
How easy it would have been to respond in like kind to those who robbed him of his freedom and nearly three decades of his life. And who would have blamed him? In fact the African National Congress (ANC), which was founded and headed by Mandela, was most likely looking forward to a little payback for all their suffering at the hands of the white supremacist minority. And who could blame them? For these are human emotions and we are all human beings, with human weaknesses.
And this is where the overcoming takes place. For those great Spiritual Transcendentalists -- like Jesus, like Ghandi, like King -- all knew that, while they no doubt felt these human emotions, acting on them would only produce more bitterness, more resentment, more fear and violence. They knew that combatting violence with violence only creates more violence; and that in order to transcend that hatred and to get to the other side of the situation, only love would suffice. And no ordinary love, but an unconditional and unrelenting Spiritual love, could be the only foundation for a new nation; a new nation worthy of the South African struggle, and the new light of leadership taking hold therein.
I remember watching 'Invictus,' the movie about the triumph of the South African Rugby team in World Cup competition shortly after Mandela was elected President, and being so amazed at how this victory transformed the entire nation, and even changed the way the world looked at South Africa as a result. Perhaps it was a miracle, but Madiba -- as he was affectionately called by his people -- knew that even miracles need a soft place to land. It was not enough to conceive of liberty and to believe in liberty. South Africa needed to be prepared to receive the benefits of a new freedom; and Nelson Mandela prepared his country for just such a miracle to take place, just in case. He prepared them all, black and white, with his own example of loving forgiveness and acceptance.
And perhaps this is the greatest lesson that I have learned: to be prepared to receive. And I must do my part, do what I can do to create the circumstances, provide the fertile soil for my dreams to take root. And then, when the time is right, provide the space for them to take flight.
It is not enough to mourn Madiba, or even to celebrate his life. We must do more than that. We must take up his mantle, his torch, his great work. If we believe in the miracles of mercy, then we must do our part to create them by forgiving, first ourselves, and then one-another. We must all follow his example and choose higher. Choose courage over fear, reaching out over isolation, light over darkness and love over hatred. This is his legacy and our unfinished task.
Many are saying that a light has gone out in the world. I don't think that's true. For Nelson Mandela's physical voyage on earth may be over, but his light will never be extinguished as long as we carry it within each of us. Here, now, today, let your light shine; and don't be afraid or alarmed at your own brightness. Then he, and Ghandi, and King, and all the others will truly live forever -- in the love we share today.
Choose higher.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
The id Post: Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the America...
The id Post: Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the America...: by Irene Daniel I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because it is about good food to be shared with family and friends. It i...
Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the American Hearth
by Irene Daniel
I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because it is about good food to be shared with family and friends. It is, for me, an authentic celebration of the American hearth, a gathering around. And as we gather around, we eat, drink and laugh and love. It's just the best. Plus, my house gets to smell like my mom's special stuffing. And then, there's pumpkin pie. No gifts, no financial meltdowns. Just food and love. What could be better than that?
On this Thanksgiving Eve, as I prepare my home and my bird for tomorrow's buttery and delicious meal, my mind and heart drift elsewhere from time to time. I remember and I dream, for I still have an American Dream that remains unfulfilled -- my novel. And I am thinking of a special friend who is very ill tonight; he doesn't want to live anymore.
I know that feeling, all too well. Perhaps too many of us do. And that is why this year, I am especially grateful for my somewhat restored mental health. And that's no joke. I can't say that I'm almost back to my old self again because I don't want to go back to my old self. My old self was very ill and didn't know how to ask for help, and so became sicker and sicker; delving into a darkness that often hangs over those of us who suffer from chronic depression and anxiety. I basically broke down after my mother died, barely able to care for myself and my dog. Some days, that was the best I could do. Some days, it's still like that, albeit less often and somewhat less severe.
Every year my gratitude list is topped by my son, Daniel James Boise, followed closely by my grandson, Brody Atticus Boise (named after Atticus Finch -- how cool is that?), my husband Ken Johnson, our granddaughter, Nikki, my BFF Rhonda, and our dog, Maggie. And then there's everybody else I love. And then there is all that I have accomplished in my life -- my education and legal career, as well as my budding writing career.
But when I am in my darkness, I cannot even see all this light and joy in my life, much less appreciate it. Instead of feeling loved and connected, I feel unwanted and undeserving of love and kindness. I remember feeling that everyone I knew would be better off without me because I just never felt like I belonged here. Sometimes I still don't, but I know now that those are just thoughts and feelings and thoughts about my feelings. They are not real, but I am. I am real. And I am human, just like everybody else.
I did not learn these things this past year by myself. I have been on antidepressant medication for some time, and it took over six months to find the right one, the one that worked for me. I am neither proud nor ashamed of that fact. It is hard for me to confront my demons, and years of responding to them with panic and denial only aggravated and enlarged them. I didn't just want to die, I felt already dead and just wanted to escape the pain and harshness of what I believed to be a very cruel and dangerous world. It was only by talking it out with my therapist, with whom it took time and courage to establish trust, that I could permit myself to feel safe enough to deal with all this darkness. And I learned that my darkness is only one side of my humanity, and that it did not grow to such gargantuan proportions all by itself overnight, but was comprised largely of half a century of untreated PTSD and personal insecurities.
Mostly, my demons consisted of decades of guilt, regret and feeling like I was always doing it wrong, whatever "it" was at the time. And when I made mistakes, as we all do, I fed my demons with their denial, as if making mistakes and poor choices wasn't allowed to be a part of my human experience. I realized that I was mostly running away from myself, and that I could stop doing that whenever I wanted to. And when I allowed myself to see who I was in the eyes of those who loved and respected me, it was like a whole new world opened up.
For when that darkness is lifted, if even for only a moment or two, or an hour or two, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty and light of love that has always been with me. In those moments I am a gleaming success story because I love and am loved. And then I realize that this love is greater and stronger than my shortcomings and transgressions; and that I don't need to carry my mistakes around with me, or to wear them for all to see and comment upon. I deserve love and respect, just like everybody else. And I let go of judgment, of myself, and especially of others.
For now I realize that no one deserves to be remembered only by their worst mistake. Nobody is all one thing -- good or bad. We are all a strange, yet uniquely similar, mix of many things; many things that we all need help to face and to share. In so doing, we open ourselves up to others, and we let them in because being alone we lack the strength to keep our demons at bay.
I have found that, in letting my guard down, I let compassion in; compassion for myself and others. How much easier it is to face myself and my life, especially my many foibles and their ungracious consequences, when I am not alone. I hope my friend learns these things too, in his own way. And even more important, I hope that we can, as Americans, learn to deal with mental and emotional health issues in a more dignified manner than we have thus far. It is too great a waste of American talent if we do not, and soon.
On this Thanksgiving, 2013, I know that I am not alone, that I have never been alone, and that I will never be truly alone; for I have loved and I am loved. And it is that love, whether in my home today or only in my memory, that sustains me now. And for that, I am grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, all of my friends. Your love and faith in me has my heart overflowing with gratitude. May you all be richly blessed with all the things that matter most.
I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because it is about good food to be shared with family and friends. It is, for me, an authentic celebration of the American hearth, a gathering around. And as we gather around, we eat, drink and laugh and love. It's just the best. Plus, my house gets to smell like my mom's special stuffing. And then, there's pumpkin pie. No gifts, no financial meltdowns. Just food and love. What could be better than that?
On this Thanksgiving Eve, as I prepare my home and my bird for tomorrow's buttery and delicious meal, my mind and heart drift elsewhere from time to time. I remember and I dream, for I still have an American Dream that remains unfulfilled -- my novel. And I am thinking of a special friend who is very ill tonight; he doesn't want to live anymore.
I know that feeling, all too well. Perhaps too many of us do. And that is why this year, I am especially grateful for my somewhat restored mental health. And that's no joke. I can't say that I'm almost back to my old self again because I don't want to go back to my old self. My old self was very ill and didn't know how to ask for help, and so became sicker and sicker; delving into a darkness that often hangs over those of us who suffer from chronic depression and anxiety. I basically broke down after my mother died, barely able to care for myself and my dog. Some days, that was the best I could do. Some days, it's still like that, albeit less often and somewhat less severe.
Every year my gratitude list is topped by my son, Daniel James Boise, followed closely by my grandson, Brody Atticus Boise (named after Atticus Finch -- how cool is that?), my husband Ken Johnson, our granddaughter, Nikki, my BFF Rhonda, and our dog, Maggie. And then there's everybody else I love. And then there is all that I have accomplished in my life -- my education and legal career, as well as my budding writing career.
But when I am in my darkness, I cannot even see all this light and joy in my life, much less appreciate it. Instead of feeling loved and connected, I feel unwanted and undeserving of love and kindness. I remember feeling that everyone I knew would be better off without me because I just never felt like I belonged here. Sometimes I still don't, but I know now that those are just thoughts and feelings and thoughts about my feelings. They are not real, but I am. I am real. And I am human, just like everybody else.
I did not learn these things this past year by myself. I have been on antidepressant medication for some time, and it took over six months to find the right one, the one that worked for me. I am neither proud nor ashamed of that fact. It is hard for me to confront my demons, and years of responding to them with panic and denial only aggravated and enlarged them. I didn't just want to die, I felt already dead and just wanted to escape the pain and harshness of what I believed to be a very cruel and dangerous world. It was only by talking it out with my therapist, with whom it took time and courage to establish trust, that I could permit myself to feel safe enough to deal with all this darkness. And I learned that my darkness is only one side of my humanity, and that it did not grow to such gargantuan proportions all by itself overnight, but was comprised largely of half a century of untreated PTSD and personal insecurities.
Mostly, my demons consisted of decades of guilt, regret and feeling like I was always doing it wrong, whatever "it" was at the time. And when I made mistakes, as we all do, I fed my demons with their denial, as if making mistakes and poor choices wasn't allowed to be a part of my human experience. I realized that I was mostly running away from myself, and that I could stop doing that whenever I wanted to. And when I allowed myself to see who I was in the eyes of those who loved and respected me, it was like a whole new world opened up.
For when that darkness is lifted, if even for only a moment or two, or an hour or two, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty and light of love that has always been with me. In those moments I am a gleaming success story because I love and am loved. And then I realize that this love is greater and stronger than my shortcomings and transgressions; and that I don't need to carry my mistakes around with me, or to wear them for all to see and comment upon. I deserve love and respect, just like everybody else. And I let go of judgment, of myself, and especially of others.
For now I realize that no one deserves to be remembered only by their worst mistake. Nobody is all one thing -- good or bad. We are all a strange, yet uniquely similar, mix of many things; many things that we all need help to face and to share. In so doing, we open ourselves up to others, and we let them in because being alone we lack the strength to keep our demons at bay.
I have found that, in letting my guard down, I let compassion in; compassion for myself and others. How much easier it is to face myself and my life, especially my many foibles and their ungracious consequences, when I am not alone. I hope my friend learns these things too, in his own way. And even more important, I hope that we can, as Americans, learn to deal with mental and emotional health issues in a more dignified manner than we have thus far. It is too great a waste of American talent if we do not, and soon.
On this Thanksgiving, 2013, I know that I am not alone, that I have never been alone, and that I will never be truly alone; for I have loved and I am loved. And it is that love, whether in my home today or only in my memory, that sustains me now. And for that, I am grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, all of my friends. Your love and faith in me has my heart overflowing with gratitude. May you all be richly blessed with all the things that matter most.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
The id Post: As the World Stopped: Four Days in November
The id Post: As the World Stopped: Four Days in November: by Irene Daniel Tomorrow marks the 50 th anniversary of one of the most memorable week-ends of my entire life: the assassination of Pr...
As the World Stopped: Four Days in November
by Irene Daniel
Tomorrow marks the 50th anniversary of
one of the most memorable week-ends of my entire life: the assassination of
President John F. Kennedy. It was the beginning of an awareness in me, and a
love for history that has sustained me for half a century.
I was in 2nd grade and had come home
for lunch at 11:30 a.m., MST. My mother always watched As the World Turns, which came on at that time. I don’t remember
what my mom made me for lunch, probably a tuna sandwich or a bowl of Campbell’s
soup. But I will never forget the images laid out before my eyes as my family
camped out in front of our TV for four days in November, in 1963.
I remember the bulletin coming on the TV, with just
a voice over; and the look of astonished horror on my mother’s face. We were
frozen in time. And then the official bulletin; we watched Walter Cronkite read
live before our eyes: President Kennedy was dead.
My brothers came home for lunch too, and none of us
went back to school after lunch because we were all crying so hard. Fridays
were usually pretty happy days for us, but not this Friday. The next three days
I remember the news coverage being constant and we would watch until we couldn’t
stand it anymore. Then, my mother would turn the TV on again, and we would
gather around the new American family hearth – the television. As Americans, we have experienced this national collective grief far too often; but that was the very first time.
This atmosphere of extreme and sudden grief was
important for me in another, and very personal, way. I remember watching Caroline and thinking, “I
lost my Daddy too.” Although my father hadn’t died, but was merely divorced from
my mother, the dynamics of our relationships with him changed forever after the
divorce. Our house burned down on Christmas night, 1961, and my brothers and I moved away with our mother; away from the only world we'd known. And all that I knew at the time was that my Daddy, the center of my
universe, was no longer available to play with me, and to love me.
Divorce, especially for a Catholic family, was still
something of a disgrace in those days, and I felt lonely and confused; unable
to navigate the mix of emotions produced by the unusual facts of my young life.
The overwhelming grief that engulfed our nation provided me with a catalyst for
pent up emotions that I did not know how to express. I cried and cried. I cried
for Caroline. And I cried for me. Only such a tremendous showing of shock and
disbelief could provide an adequate outlet for a grief as large as mine.
And yet, in the midst of all of this utter sadness,
I was also bedazzled and awed by all the pomp, dignity and patriotic splendor
on display for all the world to see. We are Americans, and we are a special and
noble lot. The entire world came to Washington, D.C., to pay respects and to
witness the grandeur of our American display of State Ceremony. The world
seemed to stop for those four days in November. It seemed that there was
absolutely nothing in the entire universe that was of greater importance than to
honor our fallen American President Kennedy, our eternal American Prince.
I came away from that from that week-end knowing two
things that I didn’t know before, two things that have sustained me in tough
times these past fifty years. First, I learned that two hearts can understand
the same grief, like Caroline and me. None of us are immune from devastating loss. Whether you were
growing up in the White House or in a small Mexican-American family home in the
desert southwest, losing your Daddy is tough.
And I learned that my country truly must be the
greatest on earth. The awe-inspiring display of military and patriotic grandeur
still takes my breath away when I watch footage thereof. I don’t think we’ve ever
experienced anything like that state funeral in my lifetime. I know I will
never live a moment like that again.
When I watch the footage of little John, Jr. saluting
his father's flag-draped casket as it rolled by, I remember hearing my mother give out a little cry,
a shriek of unspeakable loss as she cried into a bath towel. And it rained all week-end,
as though the universe was acknowledging the gaping hole in our southwestern
American hearts, responding with a gray and weeping sky.
I remember and I appreciate my life-long love of
history and politics. I think it all started during those four days in November,
when the world stopped.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The id Post: When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” Wh...
The id Post: When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” Wh...: by Irene Daniel Richie Incognito says that he’s not racist, and as far as his intentions go, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He, ...
When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” What Does this Really Mean?
by Irene Daniel
However, the use of the “N” word is pretty universally thought to be a word based in negative connotation. That it is still used in certain environments, e.g., hip-hop and, apparently, professional sports locker rooms is, in my opinion, unfortunate. While I understand young African-Americans who want to recapture a word that brought fear and shame upon their ancestors, I just wish everyone would stay away from it – especially white people.
So, who is responsible for creating a hostile work
environment? For that is clearly what it became for Jonathan Martin. He, like many
victims of bullying, don’t want to appear weak and thus subject themselves to
further ridicule, so they put up with it and put up with it until they simply
cannot any longer. And then they seem to erupt in an emotional explosion. Many
of us who have been bullied are familiar with this pattern.
The most profound words of the day on Monday came from Steve Ross, the owner of the Miami Dolphins. During the press conference on Monday, he was visibly shaken and seemed lost; unable to figure this out by himself. And it is that wisdom, knowing that the largeness of this social cancer is beyond any one of us to handle alone, that we must all embrace. For there is not just one right answer to our chronic and dynamic racial woes here in the land of the free. Like it or not, we need each other to figure this thing out.
With a downcast and 'deer in the headlights' look, Steve Ross said, "We all need to look at ourselves." Isn't that the truth?
Richie Incognito says that he’s not racist, and as
far as his intentions go, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He, like most
people when asked point blank, probably does not harbor an intentional malice or
bias against those that he perceives as different from himself. Most of us
would say the same thing about ourselves. However, the truth is, that we are
all, me included – and sometimes especially so – biased in some manner or
another.
Perhaps from a learned response, or from our own
personal experiences, we process this information, and it becomes a third, and
invisible, eye. I know that this fact is no less true of me than any other
person, and yes, I am aware of my biases and how they evolve into social blind
spots. And that is why I find myself not so much angry with Incognito, as I am
curious about his world view.
Many of my friends accuse me of a bias against white
men, and this is a bias to which I must honestly admit; although it is not one
of malice. Rather, my wariness of white males is one born of my many negative experiences with a society
dominated by white heterosexual males; one that I found detrimental to just about all persons
who are not all three of those things. For that reason, I find their perspectives
largely lacking in insight and, therefore, less credible. Far from being a character flaw, it is merely the logical extension of living in a world socially engineered for their success by people like them. They learn what they need to know in order to succeed in a world where the top of the food chain is reserved by and for other white males. They don't know what they don't know, mostly because knowledge of "the other" is largely not required of them. The institutionalized and overt messages of white superiority have dominated our culture to such an extent that we are all affected by it, whether that message was intentional or the subliminal consequence of centuries of indoctrination.
In fact, I have often found myself astonished at how very little white males know about Civil Rights -- even educated ones, even liberal ones. For example, a dear white male conservative friend of mine, who is now of retirement age, possesses a J.D. from UCLA, has clerked for a United States Supreme Court Justice, and has served as an officer in the U.S. Navy. From such an impressive list of accomplishments and experience, one would not expect such a person to be ignorant of American racial history. However, a few years ago we were discussing the movie, 'The Help,' in which he revealed to me that, until he saw that movie he had no idea how prevalent and malicious was the example of white supremacy in the south in 1963. Really? He clerked for Supreme Court Justice, and he didn't know how bad racism was in the south prior to the Civil Rights Movement before seeing a movie? If he could achieve so much, knowing so little about what made my success possible, what state of unknowing must the rest the American white male population be suffering? And 'The Help' was much more fantasy than historical fiction, for it did not even begin to reveal the extent of the constant terrorist activity of the KKK right in the middle of the setting of the story, i.e., Jackson, MS. This story was milk-toast compared to the real thing, and this is what opened his eyes to the cruelty of racism? Wow, is about all I could say to that cheery news.
I am not trying to
justify my bias here, for I realize that there is a difference between being
discerning and being dismissive; and I am often dismissive to those who don’t
see the world my way. And for that dismissiveness, I apologize. In being honest about my bias, perhaps my readers will be
encouraged to do the same. For it is only in honesty and unconditional love
that we can safely discard our defenses from one another, and hopefully create
a dialogue in which we can examine and discuss our biases without fear or need
for venom. I know why my viewpoint makes sense to me. Do you know why yours makes sense to you?
And with sports we also get athletic locker rooms, which can be hotbeds of backwards thinking, given the youthful and often socially naïve players in a testosterone-laden environment. This is especially true if there is no effective leadership to educate and refine the crudeness, recognizing the potential for things to get out of hand. Incognito wants us to think that he is a product of his environment, and I suppose to some extent that's true.
However, the use of the “N” word is pretty universally thought to be a word based in negative connotation. That it is still used in certain environments, e.g., hip-hop and, apparently, professional sports locker rooms is, in my opinion, unfortunate. While I understand young African-Americans who want to recapture a word that brought fear and shame upon their ancestors, I just wish everyone would stay away from it – especially white people.
Because it is impossible to replicate the degree of human degradation experienced
by slaves, it is impossible for any of us in present day to truly understand
how it felt to be called that word every day, instead of your name. Unless you’re black and lived prior to the Civil Rights Movement, you have no idea of the pain of that word. It would be a good idea for white conservatives to stop comparing anything to slavery for this very reason. It creates a very unattractive image for those of us who know better, and reinforces yet another negative stereotype about white ignorance and insensitivity that we all need to get past, instead of having this barrier to unity reinforced.
When nonwhites hear these comments, it only reinforces a negative stereotype about how very little white people know about any American history outside of a revisionist historian's Manifest Destiny dreams. In other words, they know little or nothing about how the Mexicans taught the Europeans how to cowboy in the first place; about Los San Patricios, Irish-American immigrants who fought for Mexico during the Mexican -- American War of 1846-48, because the Mexicans treated them better; how our nation's very impressive Capitol City was built by slaves; as well as the extent of the medieval cruelty imposed upon slaves in the 19th century American south, methods that would have given even Queen Isabela's Inquisition pause.
But back to today's NFL; the evidence suggests that not all
NFL locker rooms allow the free use of that word, or other kinds of bullying behavior.
Shaun King, former Tampa Bay quarterback said that this atmosphere is not
prevalent in the NFL and is unique to the Miami Dolphins and to Richie
Incognito. On Monday night's ESPN coverage, Trent Dilfer commented that, ". . . there are certain lines you do not cross and they were crossed." Steve Young argued that bullying is not necessary to create great football players or winning teams. He went on to say that, "Bill Walsh got rid of hazing," and further offered that neither Coach Walsh nor his teammates, like Ronnie Lott, would have put up with that kind of conduct. And these gentlemen played decades ago.
So the question we come to is this: where was the
leadership in Miami Dolphins’ locker room? Who is responsible for creating an
atmosphere so wrought with racism and emotional abuse? Why did Richie Incognito feel so main-stream
in his conduct?
So, back to Richie: is he a racist? Or is he a
victim of his environment? Every single American receives lessons in Manifest
Destiny, even to this day, albeit subliminally. To this day, little black girls
still choose white dolls as more beautiful than black baby dolls. We have all
been fed the influence of a false white superiority, and we are just beginning
to wake up from the nightmare of the overall and long-lasting effects of our original
sin of slavery. Many white people are unaware that, what they call Manifest Destiny, others call the American Holocaust. It has been reported that when Hitler was planning the Nazi extermination of the Jews, he studied Andrew Jackson's cruelty to Native Americans and African Americans, slave or free, as an example to follow.
I don’t think that Incognito is maliciously racist. I
think that he is ignorantly malicious, and racism is just something that was a
convenient tool in this particular instance. I think that he is probably not
the sharpest knife in the drawer and is more follower than leader, except when
it comes to making someone else feel small. Because it is in making others feel
small that he sees himself as a champion. How sad for him. Racism hurts white people too, when the unintended consequences of the unjust humiliation of "the other" are revealed for what they are: the tactics of an insecure coward.
The most profound words of the day on Monday came from Steve Ross, the owner of the Miami Dolphins. During the press conference on Monday, he was visibly shaken and seemed lost; unable to figure this out by himself. And it is that wisdom, knowing that the largeness of this social cancer is beyond any one of us to handle alone, that we must all embrace. For there is not just one right answer to our chronic and dynamic racial woes here in the land of the free. Like it or not, we need each other to figure this thing out.
With a downcast and 'deer in the headlights' look, Steve Ross said, "We all need to look at ourselves." Isn't that the truth?
Thursday, November 7, 2013
The id Post: My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams
The id Post: My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams: by Irene Daniel I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kath...
My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams
by Irene Daniel
I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kathleen Sebelius before a committee of the House of Representatives. I had it drafted and all it needed was final proofing; a piece about the condescending and sexist tone of the questions and/or rants of the conservative members of the committee in addressing the Secretary. I thought she did a pretty good job of putting up with them. And then a number of obstacles, mostly technical, intervened.
I've been riding the bus more lately, as I want to do more to reduce my carbon footprint. I used to hate taking public transportation because it reminded me of being poor and living without; but now I recognize this insecurity for what it is: my ego telling me that I am not enough. And my latest transformation has convinced me that my ego is not my amigo, and so, I try to choose higher now; relegating my super-sized ego to the back seat instead of the driver's seat of my life. It sneaks up on me though. It is a constant battle.
Last week I was taking a ride on the red line, when I noticed a little old Mexican lady who looked so much like my mother that it gave me pause. I first noticed her on the platform, a short, white-haired lady, who was accompanied by a younger woman. A daughter? Granddaughter?
It was crowded and there were no seats. I watched her enter the train and grab onto a pole to steady herself for the ride. I was about to get up and offer her my seat, when the Mexican man sitting next to me got up and said, "Senora," and motioned for her to take his seat -- right next to me. We greeted one another in Spanish and talked about how cute the puppy was that the Mexican man was carrying in a little blue pouch.
It really took my breath away. She was so real and alive and she looked like my departed mother. I wanted to reach over and just hold her. I wanted to stroke her white hair and feel her head on my chest. A few stops later, the man who had surrendered his seat found an empty one in front of us and facing sideways. He and the woman began chatting about dogs in rapid Spanish, as she petted the black and white puppy. I closed my eyes and I could hear my mother chatting with her comadres, her sweet laughter piercing through at times. I opened them again and the woman smiled up at me. My heart completely melted and I wished that I could somehow communicate how happy I was that she had sat down beside me. It was a bittersweet happiness.
Earlier in the day, I had seen a young dark-skinned man who looked like my brother Gilbert, who died in October of 1988. He was young and thin and was reading with the same intensity that Gilbert had. He was very focused upon his task, reading and working on his laptop. I thought about all the dreams that Gilbert had, for himself and for others. He was a natural teacher, and still one of the best that I was so fortunate to have had. In many ways, his tutelage prepared me for college and law school better than any other. I wish I had told him that when he was alive.
By the time I got home, I felt heavy and sad. Somehow, I lacked the inspiration and focus needed to complete my Sebelius piece. I couldn't get that sweet Mexican lady out of my head. I thought about my family and about Halloween, the gateway to the Daniel family holiday season. I remembered trick-or-treating all over our small town. I swear we went to every house. I remember so many things that seemed so small and insignificant at the time, but now run through my mind, both comforting and haunting me.
Mostly I realized, as we all do, that it is too late to say "thank you" or "good job" or "I love you." I cannot go back and appreciate fully what was once taken for granted, or even unwanted. I can, however -- and must, move forward now. And I know that it is not too late to appreciate fully what and who is in my life right now.
And it's the small things I appreciate the most these days: walking my dog Maggie, picking flowers with my granddaughter, sharing a laugh with my husband, preparing meals, lighting the first fire of the season, playing Monopoly or Scrabble with the people I love, watching the sun go down or taking in a full moon. Life is precious.
It is this message that I need most to share because it is the one I most need to remember.
I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kathleen Sebelius before a committee of the House of Representatives. I had it drafted and all it needed was final proofing; a piece about the condescending and sexist tone of the questions and/or rants of the conservative members of the committee in addressing the Secretary. I thought she did a pretty good job of putting up with them. And then a number of obstacles, mostly technical, intervened.
I've been riding the bus more lately, as I want to do more to reduce my carbon footprint. I used to hate taking public transportation because it reminded me of being poor and living without; but now I recognize this insecurity for what it is: my ego telling me that I am not enough. And my latest transformation has convinced me that my ego is not my amigo, and so, I try to choose higher now; relegating my super-sized ego to the back seat instead of the driver's seat of my life. It sneaks up on me though. It is a constant battle.
Last week I was taking a ride on the red line, when I noticed a little old Mexican lady who looked so much like my mother that it gave me pause. I first noticed her on the platform, a short, white-haired lady, who was accompanied by a younger woman. A daughter? Granddaughter?
It was crowded and there were no seats. I watched her enter the train and grab onto a pole to steady herself for the ride. I was about to get up and offer her my seat, when the Mexican man sitting next to me got up and said, "Senora," and motioned for her to take his seat -- right next to me. We greeted one another in Spanish and talked about how cute the puppy was that the Mexican man was carrying in a little blue pouch.
It really took my breath away. She was so real and alive and she looked like my departed mother. I wanted to reach over and just hold her. I wanted to stroke her white hair and feel her head on my chest. A few stops later, the man who had surrendered his seat found an empty one in front of us and facing sideways. He and the woman began chatting about dogs in rapid Spanish, as she petted the black and white puppy. I closed my eyes and I could hear my mother chatting with her comadres, her sweet laughter piercing through at times. I opened them again and the woman smiled up at me. My heart completely melted and I wished that I could somehow communicate how happy I was that she had sat down beside me. It was a bittersweet happiness.
Earlier in the day, I had seen a young dark-skinned man who looked like my brother Gilbert, who died in October of 1988. He was young and thin and was reading with the same intensity that Gilbert had. He was very focused upon his task, reading and working on his laptop. I thought about all the dreams that Gilbert had, for himself and for others. He was a natural teacher, and still one of the best that I was so fortunate to have had. In many ways, his tutelage prepared me for college and law school better than any other. I wish I had told him that when he was alive.
By the time I got home, I felt heavy and sad. Somehow, I lacked the inspiration and focus needed to complete my Sebelius piece. I couldn't get that sweet Mexican lady out of my head. I thought about my family and about Halloween, the gateway to the Daniel family holiday season. I remembered trick-or-treating all over our small town. I swear we went to every house. I remember so many things that seemed so small and insignificant at the time, but now run through my mind, both comforting and haunting me.
Mostly I realized, as we all do, that it is too late to say "thank you" or "good job" or "I love you." I cannot go back and appreciate fully what was once taken for granted, or even unwanted. I can, however -- and must, move forward now. And I know that it is not too late to appreciate fully what and who is in my life right now.
And it's the small things I appreciate the most these days: walking my dog Maggie, picking flowers with my granddaughter, sharing a laugh with my husband, preparing meals, lighting the first fire of the season, playing Monopoly or Scrabble with the people I love, watching the sun go down or taking in a full moon. Life is precious.
It is this message that I need most to share because it is the one I most need to remember.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
The id Post: Affirmative Action and the Handicap of White Privi...
The id Post: Affirmative Action and the Handicap of White Privi...: by Irene Daniel Last week amidst the 3-ring circus that was our congress at work, the Supreme Court was also at work, hearing yet anoth...
Affirmative Action and the Handicap of White Privilege
by Irene Daniel
Last week amidst the 3-ring circus that was our
congress at work, the Supreme Court was also at work, hearing yet another
argument on the whys and wherefores of affirmative action in college
admissions. Instead of discussing the legal arguments and historic precedents,
I would like to share my experience of affirmative action and its greatest
benefit to me – the revelation of the handicap of white privilege.
In the Spring of 1987, I was admitted to the UCLA
College of Law for the upcoming fall semester. In February of that year, I had
flown from Phoenix to LAX in order to interview with the UCLA La Raza Law Students
Association (La Raza) on the campus of the law school. This story is very important
because, you see, that was the last year that UCLA had a real affirmative
action program that enabled an inclusive and collaborative admissions process.
RIP.
Back in the day, a mere 26 years ago, affirmative
meant something positive and, well, affirmative; instead of the dreaded image
of the need to lower the rope for the “least of these,” in order to give “them”
an unearned opportunity. This inaccurate and unjust narrative of the basis of
affirmative action is yet another example of a whitewashed American tale. The
convenient spin of the lowering of standards in order to allow those in who are
“less qualified” is just more white revisionist history.
For the truth is that nobody lowered the rope for
me. At the time of my interview with 2 La
Raza students, I was a single mother with a full-time job and carrying a full
load of credits at Arizona State University. I was a little nervous in my
interview because I had at that time very little in the way of extra-curricular
activities or activist credentials that would deem me a committed Chicana.
Fortunately, that wasn’t really what the Latino student leadership at the UCLA
School of Law were looking for. They weren’t looking for activists. They were
looking for good students, which I was; and who weren’t using the Latino
affirmative action route as an angle, while growing up essentially white
middle-class, which I definitely was not. They were looking for someone
authentically “one of us.”
Then, they could take that confidence in my
application to the law school and lobby on my behalf to the entire admissions
committee. That’s right. They had a voice at the table, which is really what
Civil Rights and affirmative action are all about. The Black Law Students’
Association (BALSA) and the Asian and Pacific Islanders Students’ Association (APILSA)
also had a vote on the admissions committee; and they too, recruited from among
the entire applicant pool, and advocated for those whom they wanted to join
them at the law school.
The reason those votes on the committee were so
important in creating a dynamic student body is because I had people in that
room that were actually like me – Mexican, poor, smart. They recognized in me
an authenticity that they knew would be a contribution to the Latino law
students, as well as to the legal community in general in the future. And more
than that, they saw me as I was; not as an unknown risk with decent numbers
(GPA & LSAT score), although not the best.
My fellow La Raza alums knew for
themselves that there was more to me than test scores because they too had to
work and go to school, they too had to care for children or aging family
members, they too had much more on their plate during their college years than
studying and going to football games. And mostly, they too had been
underestimated by white people all their lives. That is how they recognized all
that I had overcome with my own talents and resourcefulness; and that is why
they fought for me. They fought for me because they knew that, far from being “less
qualified,” I made it there more on my own merit than those who were admitted
because their families wrote checks.
And that is the handicap of white privilege. I
needed people like me in that room to educate the admissions officers about
just how hard it is for a single mother with a full-time job to consistently
make the Dean’s List. Moreover, those of us who are not white are made aware
every day that we are on the outside looking in, and that this obstacle is not
one recognizable by white people, especially conservative white people.
While it is true that there are many white and poor
students whose experience is similar to mine, whiteness and maleness are still big
advantages in a world that continues to be dominated by white males, and thus
their potential for upward mobility is still greater than those who are not
white and not male. Accordingly, the group of persons most greatly advantaged
by affirmative action programs have overwhelmingly been white women. While they
may have begun with the same limited material resources, the whiteness of their
skin gives an unearned credibility with respect to their perceived abilities. This
fact is neither evil nor, in most cases deliberate; but a natural consequence
of centuries of government-sponsored policies that recognized the false
superiority of white skin.
So in reality, affirmative action is necessary in
order to balance this inequity and to focus attention on true merit, rather
than skin color. And true merit is present in many ways that a white male
dominated society is, as of yet, unwilling and/or unable to recognize in those
of us who are not white, not male and not wealthy.
When I help students write personal statements for
college admission I always remind them that the admissions process is more a process
of elimination, than it is a process of selection. So, you see, to a
middle-class white person, it is easy to eliminate people by using mere numbers
in a system historically designed by and for the benefit of only white people,
especially white men. For those of us who are not white, we know how to see
beyond these instruments of a long-institutionalized white supremacy, whether
consciously or subliminally, to reveal the depths of the efforts and rewards of
overcoming such obstacles. Those La Raza advocates knew me and recognized my
skill and ability, whereas the average admissions officer might see me as
mediocre.
And the paradox is this: white people can succeed in mediocrity; nonwhites usually
need to be much better just to reach the same starting gate. I remember many
occasions in which I was completely stunned at how little my white counterparts
knew about my world: paying bills, caring for children, cleaning house, working
for a living. And there was a lot of resentment on campus among the wealthy and
white towards us “diversity students;” a sense of lowering standards.
But, let’s put it this way: suppose I had been switched at birth with a
wealthy New Yorker baby. Suppose this wealthy white man had instead grown up
poor, female and Mexican, raised by a single mom. And suppose that I had been raised
with all the privileges money could buy. Who would have made it to UCLA Law
School in that instance?
I’m sure I would have made it, for I have already
demonstrated that I could accomplish this goal under much harsher
circumstances. The real question is, would our white prep school friend have
made it? Who had the tougher row to hoe?
So when people talk about affirmative action giving
a pass to the “less qualified,” I see it as another example of the handicap of
white privilege.
Friday, October 18, 2013
The id Post: The GOP's Faustian Bargains and the Political Depr...
The id Post: The GOP's Faustian Bargains and the Political Depr...: by Irene Daniel In the past 40 years, the Republican Party has undergone something of a metamorphosis, and the party that once liked Ik...
The GOP's Faustian Bargains and the Political Depression of 2013
by Irene Daniel
In the past 40 years, the Republican Party has
undergone something of a metamorphosis, and the party that once liked Ike has
been supplanted with a party that now hates all things Obama. This
transformation of the last five decades has been a journey of curves and pivots
that few could have predicted in 1960. For prior to the Civil Rights
legislation in the mid-1960s, the composition of the nation’s two major parties
was quite different; and in some respects the exact reverse of what they are
now. This shift is largely the result of several Faustian bargains the GOP leadership
has made along the way.
During the mid-20th century, tension was
mounting in the Democratic Party between the old southern Dixiecrats – chock full
of long-time white supremacists, and the younger progressives such as John
Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson and Hubert Humphrey. The Republican Party was then the
party of the non-bigots, although they were not exactly championing Civil
Rights the way some Democrats were, especially Johnson as Senate Majority
Leader in the 1950s.
So, when the Democratic Party, with Republican
support lead by then-Senate Minority Leader Everett Dirkson, championed the
hallmark Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, it caused
major upheavals in the once solid Democratic south, and old Dixie abandoned its
Democratic home. Some of the old Dixiecrats ran as 3rd Party
candidates, e.g., George Wallace in the Presidential Election of 1968; and most
eventually ended up in the Republican Party.
This shift created an opportunity for Republicans in
1968, which has long been known in political circles as ‘the southern strategy.’
After their 1968 convention left the Democratic Party appearing headless and reckless,
the GOP polished itself off and presented itself as the “law and order” party;
subtly appealing to those working class whites who saw LBJ’s Great Society as a
huge give-away to “the other”: ethnic minorities, women and the poor. And so
the Republican Party now became the champion of states’ rights and individual
rights, combatting the evils of a socialist handout. And this was their first
Faustian bargain.
The next deal with the devil came in 1980 with the
Reagan Revolution, declaring government itself to be the problem; and began to
convince the upper wealth classes that they shouldn’t have to do without a new
car so that somebody living in some slum somewhere can have an education, or a
meal, or a home, or an opportunity. The support of Evangelical Christians
provided religious cover for prioritizing the subsidizing of wealth over the
investment in children living in poverty in the USA. This new wing of the party
built upon the message of the so-called ‘moral majority,’ which in reality was
neither moral, nor a majority of Americans; but they had a loud and seemingly ‘moral’
message that was just a new spin on the further demonization of “the other.”
This Faustian bargain, which ushered in the age of
Reaganomics, many economists now believe to be the root cause of the Great
Recession of 2008. It is unarguable that those who have benefitted the most
from Reaganomics are those who were already wealthy to begin with. And those at
the bottom rungs of the economic ladder have made little or no progress as a
whole, and have seen subsidies that once funded basic necessities, as well as
opportunities for advancement, dwindle or disappear completely; opportunities
such as those provided by the Great Society.
The George W. Bush era began with the greatest
Faustian bargain of them all: the stolen election of 2000. Let’s face it, only
nine votes counted in that election. If you were not on the Supreme Court in
the fall of 2000, your vote did not matter. An administration beginning with
such a Machiavellian disregard of the very Constitution that created it could
not end well.
The Bush II era also reverted to the failed
Reaganomics of the past; even emulating this Republican icon in claiming to be
anti-government while racking up the debt of two unnecessary wars, as well as
funding a pork-fest in Congress. The unbridled greed unleashed by Bush II and
his cronies made the Reagan years look Amish in comparison.
The election of the nation’s first non-white male to
the Presidency of the United States in the 21st century stunned the
GOP of the last century, and they have been struggling, not to catch up with
the rest of us, but to take us back to 1980, ever since. They lament that they
have been sold-out somehow. They had money on their side, they had Jesus on their
side, and they had most of the white people on their side. How could they lose?
Time and math are not friends to the Republican
Party today. Social mores, and especially demographics, are changing rapidly
and shifting toward the political left. The staple conservative
older white male is daily succumbing to our human mortality, and the new
demographics are not attracted to a predominantly white, predominantly male,
predominantly heterosexual message that resonated fifty years ago.
The largest growing demographics in the nation today
are women, Latinos and millennials. Whether you are selling shoes, doughnuts or
insurance policies; this is your target market. The Faustian deal with
Evangelicals is now an obstacle for attracting women, as well as LGBTs, with
their homophobic rhetoric. Most women, especially those under the age of 50,
are not likely to empower those who make light of their personal and
reproductive rights.
Latinos are overwhelmingly turned off by the subtle, yet
constant, racist assaults on their own tribe, as well as the GOP hardline
stance on immigration issues. And millennials have a world view that is much
more inclusive and less xenophobic than previous generations. Moreover, most of them have
had community service in their curriculum somewhere, and have a broader
understanding of community that lends itself much more readily to a Democratic
message that prioritizes a common-wealth over shrewd and competitive
individuality.
The southern strategy, Reaganomics and Evangelical
judgment cannot appeal to the new demographics. This is not ideology, it’s just
math. The racism, greed and false sense of moral superiority that delivered GOP
victories in the past, cannot do so with 21st century Americans.
What escapes GOP logic of late, is that all debts
come due. Faustian bargains come at a very high price in the long run; and
Faust himself just handed the GOP the check.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
The id Post: I Fell
The id Post: I Fell: I fell into a great waterfall I tumbled and I screamed And I gasped for air Grasping at the falling water Trying to prevent ...
I Fell
I fell into a great waterfall
I tumbled and I screamed
And I gasped for air
Grasping at the falling water
Trying to prevent the smacking crash
Into the river below
When shocked by grace
The water cradled me somehow
And the stinging entry
Did not overwhelm
But I am still falling, falling
Deeper and deeper into darkness
I cannot find the sky
I come up for air
With open mouth and hungry heart
And I am thrust back down again
Bubbles and ripples and currents command
I toss and flail about
Reaching, reaching, reaching
I know not for what
Scrambling, searching, struggling
Darkness all around
And then, as if by magic
As though from hands unseen
My body is lifted to the surface
And I am no longer frightened
Thursday, October 3, 2013
The id Post: 15 Minutes Could Save Our Economy and More: It Cou...
The id Post: 15 Minutes Could Save Our Economy and More: It Cou...: by Irene Daniel What can you do in 15 minutes? We hear commercials all day long about how much money we can save in 15 minutes. And in 15 ...
15 Minutes Could Save Our Economy and More: It Could Save the Souls of Our Children
by Irene Daniel
What can you do in 15 minutes? We hear commercials all day long about how much money we can save in 15 minutes. And in 15 minutes, we could have our government reopened. 15 minutes is about how long it would take for the U.S. House of Representatives to vote on such a measure, if only Speaker John Boehner would call for a vote. That is, if we were still running this country by majority rule, instead of by taking the struggling American economy hostage every time Congress has a check to write.
For there are plenty of votes in the House right now to pass a clean Continuing Resolution in which we take responsibility for paying America's bills. However, because this move would violate the GOP Hastert rule, which would require a majority of the Republican caucus to be in favor before it can be brought to the floor for a vote. So, because Democratic votes are needed to pass the CR right now, the House Speaker refuses to bring the clean CR to a vote. Still think there's no difference between parties?
There is a difference and that difference is visited most directly on our nation's children, especially our nation's poor children. For it is those without a voice, which these days necessitates hiring a K Street lobbyist, who are always the most vulnerable. They can't afford a lobbyist. Many of them come from homes where a single mother can barely afford school clothes, and some of them can't even afford new clothes and must rely on thrift shops and hand-me-downs. They say there's no shame in being poor, but tell that to children who do not understand why they can't have new clothes, or that bike or that video game.
I grew up poor. My family was on welfare when I was young and I remember how much shame and embarrassment I felt all the time; trying to hide my sense of being without and feeling left out because of it. Our food assistance was provided by way of federal commodities, FDA surplus, and we had to go to the welfare office on the other side of town to pick it up. Since we didn't have a car, my brother and I would ride our bikes to the office to retrieve a couple of boxes of food every month. I remember keeping my head down and pedaling very fast so that I could get it over with as soon as possible because I was so embarrassed. I always hoped my friends at school wouldn't see me, and if I saw them before they saw me, I would take a detour in order to avoid them because I didn't want them to see that I had been to the welfare office. I felt "less than." And this feeling was a contributing factor to an already low self-esteem, having recently survived a house fire on Christmas Day, as well as my parent's divorce at a time when divorce was not so common, especially among Mexican Catholics.
Fortunately for us, my two older brothers and I, we were provided not only food for our bodies, but fuel for our futures because we had Lyndon Johnson in the White House. And with Lyndon Johnson came Civil Rights, Voting Rights and the opportunities for jobs and education that were created by Sargent Shriver, the architect of the Great Society. So we had hope. We felt almost like these two men had walked into our living room and handed us a new way of life, instead of the hopeless shame of poverty and dejection.
When I turned on the TV as a child, I saw people who understood what it was like to be me: Martin Luther King, Jr., LBJ, Sargent Shriver, the Kennedys, Hubert Humphrey and many others. And I not only saw that they cared, I heard inspiration in their voices, telling me that I too, a poor Mexican girl growing up in a dusty desert town, could aspire to greater things; greater even than I could have imagined then. And I was inspired by them and took advantage of all that was offered: jobs, scholarships, grants, loans, and it took me all the way to the School of Law at UCLA.
From January 20, 1969 to January 20, 2009, children growing up in poverty didn't have those things, those powerful and empowering cheerleaders, urging me on to an education and a middle class life. In fact, for 40 years they had just the opposite, especially after the Reagan Revolution that brought us, not concern for one another, but the glorification of greed, exploitation and exclusion. While it was somewhat better for poor children after Reagan left office, there has never again been such an overwhelmingly affirming message of hope for those struggling in poverty such as that of 1960s. Let's face it, Bill Clinton sold us out with his welfare reform. I understand the political posturing of the day, but he still threw us under the bus.
It isn't just about government programs bringing opportunity, it was the tone and the atmosphere in which our fate was discussed. The Democrats in power in the 60s, and even some Republicans, spoke to and about the impoverished with respect and dignity; as fellow Americans eager to make our contributions to our Great Society, rather than as lowlifes who are responsible for their own lot. These are children I'm talking about here, not drug addicts, not "welfare queens," but children. Small children. White children. Black, Mexican and Native American children. Poor children. It's not their fault. So, why are they made to suffer the most?
I am no longer that lonely and traumatized little girl who felt dejected all the time. I am a mother and a wife, as well as a retired lawyer, a writer and an activist. I am all of those things because we once had in this country a truly Great Society that told me that I had something special to offer; and those people were right, not because I am more special than anyone, but because we all are. We all have something special to share that no one else has. Inside of all of us, and especially our children (for their dreams are still fresh) is something that only we can do, or give, or discover, or write. Words that only we can say, experiences that need us to bring them to be; we all have these things. And this was the underlying principle of not only the Great Society, but the New Deal as well.
I am not advocating a welfare state. Nor do I want a giant behemoth government that is unable to respond to the needs of the day. But I want a government big enough to feed hungry children and build them a decent school where they can learn and dream in a clean and safe environment. Thanks to Ike, I started first grade in a brand new school. We are big enough and wealthy enough to provide them with teachers worthy of them, who can be entrusted with fragile dreams, and can show them how to turn those dreams into their new reality. Just like me.
As with most such stories, and there are thousands of stories like mine, the subsequent revenue from taxes and creating jobs as middle-class Americans far exceeds the dollar amount expended on my family. And giving back for us was never just about money. All of us gave generously of our time by volunteering for causes we found worthy. The Great Society called to us. It not only gave us hope and a future, it made us better citizens, for now we too were vested in our society, our community and our country. It gave me a true love of my America for all the opportunity it gave me to grow my dreams and invest in my community.
The New Deal and the Great Society were products of their times and their leadership, and we cannot go back, nor could we even if we tried, for there is no political will to do so. Unfortunately for children living in poverty, nobody can make real money lobbying on their behalf, so their sadness and their feelings of being left out will go unnoticed in the cesspool of money that Washington has become.
But one thing we can do is feed them. We can do that, can't we? What if that were your child? Hungry and hopeless and afraid of the future? And we can at least stop talking about poor people as though they were the scourge of the earth. We can do that, can't we? Especially in a nation that professes nonstop its Christian roots?
It is up to us whether those children grow up to go to college, or to prison. A middle-class life? Or the endless cycle of addiction and incarceration? It is we, as a society, who decide these things. Because it is in the messages that we give, in myriad ways every day, that we communicate respect for them, or tell them that they are worthless.
15 minutes. What message do you want to send to our nation's poorest children?
What can you do in 15 minutes? We hear commercials all day long about how much money we can save in 15 minutes. And in 15 minutes, we could have our government reopened. 15 minutes is about how long it would take for the U.S. House of Representatives to vote on such a measure, if only Speaker John Boehner would call for a vote. That is, if we were still running this country by majority rule, instead of by taking the struggling American economy hostage every time Congress has a check to write.
For there are plenty of votes in the House right now to pass a clean Continuing Resolution in which we take responsibility for paying America's bills. However, because this move would violate the GOP Hastert rule, which would require a majority of the Republican caucus to be in favor before it can be brought to the floor for a vote. So, because Democratic votes are needed to pass the CR right now, the House Speaker refuses to bring the clean CR to a vote. Still think there's no difference between parties?
There is a difference and that difference is visited most directly on our nation's children, especially our nation's poor children. For it is those without a voice, which these days necessitates hiring a K Street lobbyist, who are always the most vulnerable. They can't afford a lobbyist. Many of them come from homes where a single mother can barely afford school clothes, and some of them can't even afford new clothes and must rely on thrift shops and hand-me-downs. They say there's no shame in being poor, but tell that to children who do not understand why they can't have new clothes, or that bike or that video game.
I grew up poor. My family was on welfare when I was young and I remember how much shame and embarrassment I felt all the time; trying to hide my sense of being without and feeling left out because of it. Our food assistance was provided by way of federal commodities, FDA surplus, and we had to go to the welfare office on the other side of town to pick it up. Since we didn't have a car, my brother and I would ride our bikes to the office to retrieve a couple of boxes of food every month. I remember keeping my head down and pedaling very fast so that I could get it over with as soon as possible because I was so embarrassed. I always hoped my friends at school wouldn't see me, and if I saw them before they saw me, I would take a detour in order to avoid them because I didn't want them to see that I had been to the welfare office. I felt "less than." And this feeling was a contributing factor to an already low self-esteem, having recently survived a house fire on Christmas Day, as well as my parent's divorce at a time when divorce was not so common, especially among Mexican Catholics.
Fortunately for us, my two older brothers and I, we were provided not only food for our bodies, but fuel for our futures because we had Lyndon Johnson in the White House. And with Lyndon Johnson came Civil Rights, Voting Rights and the opportunities for jobs and education that were created by Sargent Shriver, the architect of the Great Society. So we had hope. We felt almost like these two men had walked into our living room and handed us a new way of life, instead of the hopeless shame of poverty and dejection.
When I turned on the TV as a child, I saw people who understood what it was like to be me: Martin Luther King, Jr., LBJ, Sargent Shriver, the Kennedys, Hubert Humphrey and many others. And I not only saw that they cared, I heard inspiration in their voices, telling me that I too, a poor Mexican girl growing up in a dusty desert town, could aspire to greater things; greater even than I could have imagined then. And I was inspired by them and took advantage of all that was offered: jobs, scholarships, grants, loans, and it took me all the way to the School of Law at UCLA.
From January 20, 1969 to January 20, 2009, children growing up in poverty didn't have those things, those powerful and empowering cheerleaders, urging me on to an education and a middle class life. In fact, for 40 years they had just the opposite, especially after the Reagan Revolution that brought us, not concern for one another, but the glorification of greed, exploitation and exclusion. While it was somewhat better for poor children after Reagan left office, there has never again been such an overwhelmingly affirming message of hope for those struggling in poverty such as that of 1960s. Let's face it, Bill Clinton sold us out with his welfare reform. I understand the political posturing of the day, but he still threw us under the bus.
It isn't just about government programs bringing opportunity, it was the tone and the atmosphere in which our fate was discussed. The Democrats in power in the 60s, and even some Republicans, spoke to and about the impoverished with respect and dignity; as fellow Americans eager to make our contributions to our Great Society, rather than as lowlifes who are responsible for their own lot. These are children I'm talking about here, not drug addicts, not "welfare queens," but children. Small children. White children. Black, Mexican and Native American children. Poor children. It's not their fault. So, why are they made to suffer the most?
I am no longer that lonely and traumatized little girl who felt dejected all the time. I am a mother and a wife, as well as a retired lawyer, a writer and an activist. I am all of those things because we once had in this country a truly Great Society that told me that I had something special to offer; and those people were right, not because I am more special than anyone, but because we all are. We all have something special to share that no one else has. Inside of all of us, and especially our children (for their dreams are still fresh) is something that only we can do, or give, or discover, or write. Words that only we can say, experiences that need us to bring them to be; we all have these things. And this was the underlying principle of not only the Great Society, but the New Deal as well.
I am not advocating a welfare state. Nor do I want a giant behemoth government that is unable to respond to the needs of the day. But I want a government big enough to feed hungry children and build them a decent school where they can learn and dream in a clean and safe environment. Thanks to Ike, I started first grade in a brand new school. We are big enough and wealthy enough to provide them with teachers worthy of them, who can be entrusted with fragile dreams, and can show them how to turn those dreams into their new reality. Just like me.
As with most such stories, and there are thousands of stories like mine, the subsequent revenue from taxes and creating jobs as middle-class Americans far exceeds the dollar amount expended on my family. And giving back for us was never just about money. All of us gave generously of our time by volunteering for causes we found worthy. The Great Society called to us. It not only gave us hope and a future, it made us better citizens, for now we too were vested in our society, our community and our country. It gave me a true love of my America for all the opportunity it gave me to grow my dreams and invest in my community.
The New Deal and the Great Society were products of their times and their leadership, and we cannot go back, nor could we even if we tried, for there is no political will to do so. Unfortunately for children living in poverty, nobody can make real money lobbying on their behalf, so their sadness and their feelings of being left out will go unnoticed in the cesspool of money that Washington has become.
But one thing we can do is feed them. We can do that, can't we? What if that were your child? Hungry and hopeless and afraid of the future? And we can at least stop talking about poor people as though they were the scourge of the earth. We can do that, can't we? Especially in a nation that professes nonstop its Christian roots?
It is up to us whether those children grow up to go to college, or to prison. A middle-class life? Or the endless cycle of addiction and incarceration? It is we, as a society, who decide these things. Because it is in the messages that we give, in myriad ways every day, that we communicate respect for them, or tell them that they are worthless.
15 minutes. What message do you want to send to our nation's poorest children?
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The id Post: The Haves and Have-nots: Everybody Doesn’t Want or...
The id Post: The Haves and Have-nots: Everybody Doesn’t Want or...: What ever happened to the fanfare for the every-day worker? As our nation’s Capitol becomes a whirlwind of vitriol and name-calling, I r...
The Haves and Have-nots: Everybody Doesn’t Want or Need to Be An Entrepreneur
What ever happened to the fanfare for the every-day
worker? As our nation’s Capitol becomes a whirlwind of vitriol and name-calling,
I recall the music of Aaron Copeland and his Fanfare for the Common Man; and wonder why the common laborer has
been abandoned. Meanwhile, here in the land of the free and the home of the
brave, the poor continue to get poorer and the rich continue to get richer. The
poor are free to scrap for the crumbs left them after the vulture capitalists
have come and gone; and they have courage beyond measure to struggle with daily
food insecurity, often with families to feed. And the rich are free to keep
writing the rules that sustain this disparity, and possess all the bravery it
takes, not to mention the money of course, to buy as many politicians as
possible.
How did we get here? Again? The lessons learned in
the early 20th century have long been forgotten it seems, in this
new one. Since concern over wealth disparity is often mistaken for envy and
memories of unfulfilled dreams, I offer this preface: Having long ago exceeded
expectations for a poor Mexican girl growing up in the middle of nowhere in the
Arizona desert dust, I envy no one; for my life is enriching already, and often
in ways beyond simple measure.
However, the messages delivered to most Americans on
a daily basis is one of failure without this particular car, or life insurance
plan, or fancy beer or outrageously priced clothes or décor. It is the steady
barrage of an aggressive marketplace, always telling us how not enough we are
if we don’t have money. And everybody with something to sell wants in on it,
especially a market-driven news media, as if that makes any sense in a true
democracy, that races to bring us footage of our very own race to the bottom –
of everything beautiful and free.
We have now been conditioned to respect and revere
those with the most money because that must mean that they are the best people,
even though this is exactly the opposite of what is written in most western
scripture. Take for example, the TV show, Undercover
Boss. Whenever major networks claim to reveal the “reality” of being the
boss of a major corporation to the ‘little people,’ I grow profoundly
suspicious; but I tried to keep an open mind.
In the particular episode I watched, the CEO of a
major airline was being profiled. He was a nice white Catholic man who lived in
a great big mansion, complete with an indoor basketball court, and had a whole
bunch of kids who all went to private school. When he was working side by side
with the people who do the heavy lifting for his airline, of course he was all
thumbs. That’s what people want to see, right? The boss making a fool of
himself? We all find this very cute and somewhat empowering for the workers,
not to mention humbling for the boss.
Prior to this occasion, the boss had no idea how
working split shifts and taking on more than one of the major tasks that need
to be done because there aren’t enough employees, makes the lives of the workers
that much harder. Until he spoke with them, he had no idea how many of them had
to work other jobs just to put food on their tables. Moreover, he learned of
the hardship that a recent 10% cut in pay had brought to their families, who
were already living paycheck to paycheck. So, the answer was to donate some
money to charity and to restore the 10% cut within the next three years. Wow!
How generous.
Perhaps what a lot of people saw was a good man who
was becoming more aware of his employees and their working conditions. Great.
Perhaps they also viewed the eventual restoration of a lost pay-rate to be a
generous move, even though the workers will still lose purchasing power every
year. What I saw was a man who was asking his employees to suffer in order to
subsidize his lifestyle, and who was unabashed in asking them to sacrifice,
while not noticing that perhaps he could do with less much easier than they
could. I understand that everybody does not perform tasks that are as highly
valued in our labor market, and that those who invest and risk at a greater
level, should be rewarded at a higher rate. I don’t think the new guy in the mail
room should make as much as the chairman of the board. But I do think that the
new guy in the mail room should not have to work 2 or 3 jobs in order to
subsidize his boss’ indoor basketball court.
In many ways and for many years, more and more of
the daily financial risks have shifted from being assumed by corporate
management to being assumed by the employee. Similarly corporate interests have
also shifted their risks, not only to their employees, but to their consumers
as well. So we have gone from defined benefit retirement plans to 401ks; from manufacturer
and/or owner/occupier liability to mandatory arbitration agreements, most of
which nobody reads. All of this means that corporations and those who run them,
have decreased their liability and in so doing, have increased their wealth.
Additionally, the benefits of our latest economic recovery have overwhelmingly
gone to the top 1% of the wealthiest wealthy.
This is not sustainable for a number of reasons.
First of all, people are starting to wake up and get pissed off, and if they
ever unite, a true people’s revolution here in America could make storming the
bastille look like a walk in the park. But even before that happens, markets
cannot be sustained by the wealthy alone. Without a middle-class with the means
necessary to purchase goods and services, there will be no demand and, hence,
no market. This is where we are now, and the situation is made worse by the
congressional dog and pony shows of late.
I remember when I was in grammar school, one of my
teachers explained the difference in incomes and lifestyles this way: Some
people have an entrepreneurial spirit and are somewhat more risk averse than
others. So, if this person started a business, having invested the time, effort
and capital in the business, then he should be paid a higher salary than his
workers. However, if there was not enough to pay himself and the workers, then
he had to pay the workers first, because he had to honor his commitments to
them. And when there was a surplus, because he took the greatest risk, he was
not obligated to share the surplus, and was free to spend it in any manner
without question.
On the other hand, my teacher went on, some people
don’t like taking risks and prefer a steady paycheck and a safe retirement. And
so, this person would get a job, remain a loyal employee whose sustained
efforts contributed to the company profit, and when it was time to retire,
there would be a nice, comfortable pension in place to sustain the worker and
keep him or her from falling into poverty. The key to this model was loyalty –
the loyalty of both parties to one another, in which each was able to see to
the needs of the other. The worker was loyal to the company and the company was
loyal to the worker.
We don’t have that anymore. Conservatives may blame unions for this, although it was the labor movement that created the scenario my teacher spoke of; but I blame congress for everything. And in blaming congress, I blame us, because we were too busy buying on credit to notice that our American way of life -- the one that took decades to build jointly -- was being purchased right out from under us. And we kept electing people who are no longer available to listen to us because they cannot hear us when they are tucked into the pockets of the 1%, et al.
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