Saturday, September 11, 2010
Ex-Girlfriend Sighting
This past Sunday, I saw my most recent ex-girlfriend. She was walking through the passageway between my apartment building and the surrounding shops, oblivious to my entryway. She was eating some Coldstone Creamery ice cream, and seemed to be walking rather nonchalantly with her new beau -- as though she was a regular or occasional shopper in the area -- as though she had never stood outside those very double doors waiting for me to come down and let her in, welcoming her with a big, lifting hug and kiss of her glossy lips. She just walked right on by. And she ate that ice cream rather freely as well, playing with the spoon on her tongue and all. She never ate ice cream with me, and certainly never savored anything like that. She'd eat half of a salad or a few bites of chicken or salmon, and dutifully push the rest aside. She was very concerned with caloric intake, yoga, working out, and staying in perfect shape with me. Now, well, her legs have widened; her body has loosened in areas. From behind, I could still recognize her just by her hair and the curves of her head and ears. Let me be honest, I was somehow pleased when I ensured myself to certitude that indeed it was her. I was happy that she was...not in her best shape. And that if someone else would have her, he would not be having her in her best shape. I actually laughed to myself. No need to call or text her and attempt to bring her back; this was tangible evidence that she was not the girl I remembered her to be! This was proof positive that time, things, and people do change, and that the past isn't always better than the present or future. I convinced myself that I am currently better off than the new beau who has her...in that condition. Mirthfully, I chuckled some more. I am single; I am free! He doesn't have the girl I did. My ex-girlfriend, the one I knew, is gone forever. I can move on now.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Memories, Soap, and a Game
Can it be said that what I cherish the most is the leading cause of my destruction? I have always had a keen memory; it keeps track of everything. Due dates, deadlines, social occasions -- my mind keeps track, and I never use a calendar or reminding device. I'm proud of my memory; it's useful. If you tell me something of import or interest or humor, I will remember that you said it, how you said it, in what context, and when. Even when you think a conversation is over with me, I walk around replaying certain portions. I hear or think or see something that reminds me of, or relates back to, what you said, and I revise my thoughts on our previous discussion. In relationships, this is also of some practical use. It shows people that I paid attention when I remembered what they said as referred to above. Remembering oftentimes equates to people thinking you care more than those who remember less. It's also less annoying for the speaker because he/she does not have to go back over what he/she's already told me. Hence, remembering has some benefit in relationships. But that's about it.
Once I've remembered, I don't know how to forget. There is no erase button. And, unfortunately, while I learn data/rules of law/factual things everyday that would seemingly push out or push back other things held in my memory store, only the trivial and the mundane factual information bits seem to fall back or disappear altogether. The relational memories always remain. So many of my relational memories are triggered by certain cues. By ridding my life of the cues, perhaps I could achieve some reprieve in the continual onslaught of certain memories. For example, I have this soap on the counter by my kitchen sink. It's a "Myers soap," and I must have bought it at a whole foods or organic type store hoping that its natural ingredients would not inflame my tender, eczema-riddled skin. I rarely use it now; it's been in its same position for a few years. When I use it randomly once every two-to-four weeks, I remember everything all at once like a Proustian petit madeleine booming, memory-multiplying experience. When I do, the simple outdoorsy smell makes me think of just one thing -- ________ for just one second, and then everything springs out from her and that time period like an atomic bomb. I remember making breakfast tacos with her every weekend. You see, I can still cook, but I don't bother making anything all that decent anymore. I'm just cooking for me. In my mind, I don't deserve the finest ingredients -- they seem expensive now, and time also appears to be at more of a premium. But back then, a weekend morning was a time to impress, a time to show love and warmth. She deserved the finest ingredients; she deserved the slow steady process to make "Papi's breakfast tacos" (cutting the onions, peppers, and jalapenos just so, drenching them in fresh-squeezed lime juice, sauteeing the onions, jalapenos, and peppers, cooking the applewood-smoked bacon just so, tearing it into small pieces, cracking, beating, and whipping the eggs and cooking them at just the right temperature with the fixings, adding in the best Mexican melting cheeses at just the right time, adding the bacon, making sure the whole wheat tortillas would be warm and ready with the eggs, cutting the cilantro and having it ready, laying out the peach salsa and orange juice, etc...). She would come out and help me with the cooking. She had taken a few cooking classes and had become an expert at chopping up on onion like a pro. She also inspired me to have clean hands when I would go from one thing to another like they teach you on the cooking shows. She never told me that I needed to be washing my hands with the soap. She would do it, set the example, and I would follow like an enamored babe, relatively unthinkingly. Yes, I had eczema then too (far worse actually), but I applied the soap. She would await the feast with genuine, unentitled happiness every time, sneaking in intermittent kisses with unabashed love and devotion. It was a special time. It's all gone now; she's gone. But the soap remains. I could toss it, but I know with certainty what it brings back when, for whatever reason, I decide to use it again. It's a combination of extreme joy (when at first I'm able to place myself completely in the vacuum of the past) and heart-stopping loss (when the present gradually invades, taking with it the fresh, vicarious realness of my thoughts of myself and _____ as the actors and replacing them with aged, dull, treacherous, lifeless ghosts not remotely like her or me). It's a clear window into my past that I can open whenever I want to. Is it best that I hold onto the soap? ...I don't know.
The same thing happens when I see the Scrabble box in the corner of my room. When I was unemployed and depressed, and helping my mom through a divorce emotionally and legally, I became a recluse. I decided I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't socialize; I almost refused to have fun with others besides _____. I was fearful of a further loss of control over my life, and any further dispensing of money. I didn't sleep. I was an anxious, troubled mess constantly spinning a vicious wheel of fears that landed uncontrollably on my mother's divorce, my mother's emotions and well-being, my employment prospects, my floundering career, my past... _____ did not get the attention she deserved, but she cared so much for me. She had everything money could buy, she had friends wishing to be with her at any given moment, and yet she came over to my place with a Scrabble board, complete understanding and zero expectations, and said, "Let's play!" in the most chipper and refreshing voice I can imagine. Again, _____ is gone, but the board remains. Is it best that I hold onto the game? ...I don't know.
All this brings to mind a certain Death Cab for Cutie song (lyrics below). I am contemplating total defeat, but I have not (yet) developed the same courage and callous disregard of the past as the subject of the song. I don't know how to abandon anything, let alone a bottle of soap (that's rarely used), or a simple board game (that collects dust). I can't help but invite a flood of memories still all this time later. You will have to tell me whether I'm drowning because I do not know how to make that meta-determination (from the inside in).
"Your New Twin Sized Bed"
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
With a single pillow underneath your single head.
I guess you decided that that old queen holds more space than you would need.
Now it's in the alley behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free.
And I hope you have more luck with this than me.
You used to think that someone would come along.
And lay beside you in a space that they belong.
But the other side of the mattress and box springs stayed like new.
What's the point of holding onto what never gets used?
Other than a sick desire for self-abuse.
And I try not to worry, but you've got me terrified.
It's like your some kind of hurry to say goodbye, say goodbye, say goodbye.
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
Once I've remembered, I don't know how to forget. There is no erase button. And, unfortunately, while I learn data/rules of law/factual things everyday that would seemingly push out or push back other things held in my memory store, only the trivial and the mundane factual information bits seem to fall back or disappear altogether. The relational memories always remain. So many of my relational memories are triggered by certain cues. By ridding my life of the cues, perhaps I could achieve some reprieve in the continual onslaught of certain memories. For example, I have this soap on the counter by my kitchen sink. It's a "Myers soap," and I must have bought it at a whole foods or organic type store hoping that its natural ingredients would not inflame my tender, eczema-riddled skin. I rarely use it now; it's been in its same position for a few years. When I use it randomly once every two-to-four weeks, I remember everything all at once like a Proustian petit madeleine booming, memory-multiplying experience. When I do, the simple outdoorsy smell makes me think of just one thing -- ________ for just one second, and then everything springs out from her and that time period like an atomic bomb. I remember making breakfast tacos with her every weekend. You see, I can still cook, but I don't bother making anything all that decent anymore. I'm just cooking for me. In my mind, I don't deserve the finest ingredients -- they seem expensive now, and time also appears to be at more of a premium. But back then, a weekend morning was a time to impress, a time to show love and warmth. She deserved the finest ingredients; she deserved the slow steady process to make "Papi's breakfast tacos" (cutting the onions, peppers, and jalapenos just so, drenching them in fresh-squeezed lime juice, sauteeing the onions, jalapenos, and peppers, cooking the applewood-smoked bacon just so, tearing it into small pieces, cracking, beating, and whipping the eggs and cooking them at just the right temperature with the fixings, adding in the best Mexican melting cheeses at just the right time, adding the bacon, making sure the whole wheat tortillas would be warm and ready with the eggs, cutting the cilantro and having it ready, laying out the peach salsa and orange juice, etc...). She would come out and help me with the cooking. She had taken a few cooking classes and had become an expert at chopping up on onion like a pro. She also inspired me to have clean hands when I would go from one thing to another like they teach you on the cooking shows. She never told me that I needed to be washing my hands with the soap. She would do it, set the example, and I would follow like an enamored babe, relatively unthinkingly. Yes, I had eczema then too (far worse actually), but I applied the soap. She would await the feast with genuine, unentitled happiness every time, sneaking in intermittent kisses with unabashed love and devotion. It was a special time. It's all gone now; she's gone. But the soap remains. I could toss it, but I know with certainty what it brings back when, for whatever reason, I decide to use it again. It's a combination of extreme joy (when at first I'm able to place myself completely in the vacuum of the past) and heart-stopping loss (when the present gradually invades, taking with it the fresh, vicarious realness of my thoughts of myself and _____ as the actors and replacing them with aged, dull, treacherous, lifeless ghosts not remotely like her or me). It's a clear window into my past that I can open whenever I want to. Is it best that I hold onto the soap? ...I don't know.
The same thing happens when I see the Scrabble box in the corner of my room. When I was unemployed and depressed, and helping my mom through a divorce emotionally and legally, I became a recluse. I decided I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't socialize; I almost refused to have fun with others besides _____. I was fearful of a further loss of control over my life, and any further dispensing of money. I didn't sleep. I was an anxious, troubled mess constantly spinning a vicious wheel of fears that landed uncontrollably on my mother's divorce, my mother's emotions and well-being, my employment prospects, my floundering career, my past... _____ did not get the attention she deserved, but she cared so much for me. She had everything money could buy, she had friends wishing to be with her at any given moment, and yet she came over to my place with a Scrabble board, complete understanding and zero expectations, and said, "Let's play!" in the most chipper and refreshing voice I can imagine. Again, _____ is gone, but the board remains. Is it best that I hold onto the game? ...I don't know.
All this brings to mind a certain Death Cab for Cutie song (lyrics below). I am contemplating total defeat, but I have not (yet) developed the same courage and callous disregard of the past as the subject of the song. I don't know how to abandon anything, let alone a bottle of soap (that's rarely used), or a simple board game (that collects dust). I can't help but invite a flood of memories still all this time later. You will have to tell me whether I'm drowning because I do not know how to make that meta-determination (from the inside in).
"Your New Twin Sized Bed"
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
With a single pillow underneath your single head.
I guess you decided that that old queen holds more space than you would need.
Now it's in the alley behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free.
And I hope you have more luck with this than me.
You used to think that someone would come along.
And lay beside you in a space that they belong.
But the other side of the mattress and box springs stayed like new.
What's the point of holding onto what never gets used?
Other than a sick desire for self-abuse.
And I try not to worry, but you've got me terrified.
It's like your some kind of hurry to say goodbye, say goodbye, say goodbye.
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
Monday, August 30, 2010
On Racism 1
I went to high school for a year in a scenic town in the hill country. It was my freshman year; I was very impressionable, especially by cute, athletic, fun, and popular girls. One such girl was Holly (for privacy's sake, I have replaced her true name; that is the only fiction in this account). She was a freshman cheerleader; leader of the flock of aforementioned cute, athletic, fun, and popular girls; all-around athlete herself; and exclusively dated the senior varsity jock, testosterone-laden dating pool. We shared several classes and walked the halls as friends. I was something of a funny mascot for her and her group, always offering jokes and attention and further confirming her supreme popularity and desirability. I guess I got something out of it too: her presence as "my friend" conferred some mild elevation of my otherwise rather mediocre status. But, more importantly for me, I clung to the idea that by fostering a close relationship with her I could eventually learn the way to her heart purely through psychological and emotional intimacy. I figured that the older, stronger, wealthier, more popular jocks may have a lot on me, but I was idealistic enough to believe that I could still attain her despite it all. We spoke on the phone every night; we studied together; she had me over for dinners; we watched each other's sporting events -- but I was always just the friend.
Holly's whole immediate family went to Texas Tech -- dad, mom, and older sister. Never once did I see her dad smile, but I often heard him yell. He hid his lips behind a burly grey beard, and he always looked at you with a piercing, bone-baring gaze. No one was comfortable around him; everyone was wrong, and nothing was good enough. He loved to watch Texas Tech football. Other than the countryside and farm equipment (his job was to oversee a ranch), I cannot think of anything he loved more than Texas Tech football, if he loved anything else at all -- including his family. If the house was quiet and Texas Tech were playing, you knew they had to be winning and playing well. Everyone else in the house was constantly bracing themselves for a Texas Tech mistake (even if up 45-0) -- Texas Tech must win so daddy doesn't erupt!! He would never actually let excitement or joy leave his lips, for his dense, protective gray beard would have to part and spring open for him to do that. He would never give anyone that. However, if a pass was dropped, tackle broken, or field goal missed, you heard nothing but cursing, racial epithets, and general rage shaking the house. He would use the n-word any chance he got; the black players always received the blame. As the average D1 college football team roster is comprised of roughly 70% African Americans (and surely the starting lineup must be an even higher percentage), he had plenty of chances. I ate many a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce ruing the irony of this Texas Tech alumnus wanting his unified team to have the best chance of winning (hence he would implicitly support the admission of talented black student-athletes, who would do the bulk of the work on the team) but not showing it, while he relished every opportunity he got to isolate and lambaste particular black players for whatever perceived error he could somehow chalk up to their doing. I knew he was a terrible man, but back then I never saw any semblance of him in Holly. She always acted out against her father's gruff coldness and heavy, ignorant hand. I always thought she was rejecting everything about him that a reasonable, educated person would disdain and then some. I thought she would strive mightily to represent the inverse of her father in those ways of his I hated most.
During that year and several years that followed (as I moved to different high schools and we both went off to different colleges -- yes, she went to Texas Tech), I heard all about her cheating, abusive, demanding, and drug-using boyfriends; she cried to me; I advised, and I was always repudiated for yet another cycle at an ever-increasing level of dysfunctionality. Even at 14 she would do anything for these guys: she snuck out of her parents' house, she quit the very activities she once enjoyed with such a youthful vigor, she did drugs, she had sex, she drove high and drunk, she cut off friends and family. I adamantly believed that none of these guys knew the true Holly. I abhorred her boyfriends just like I despised her dad. As she became less and less of the person I was initially attracted to, my desire to attain and help her only grew at an even higher level. I thought I was everything she needed but didn't quite realize; I pictured her as a lost, innocent, and pure blank slate despite her recent travails. She sat perched atop a lofty pedestal in faraway galaxies that was in my best interest to never reach. I kept reaching.
We lost track of each other mid-way through college after a weekend I visited her in Lubbock. One should never drive more than 30 minutes to Lubbock for a questionable girl -- that's a general rule I feel very strongly about! On the first night of my weekend, Holly got drunk, snorted cocaine, and slept with another guy in his car. I made my way back to her apartment and left for my parents' house the following morning, never looking back. When I heard from her earlier this year, it had been approximately 9 years since we last spoke. She now lives in Dallas. She's had a drug problem, but says she's cleaned up (her parents paid for several trips to rehab, set her up with her current job and house, and bought her vaunted Mercedes at issue below). She's also had an eating disorder, but now she eats, well, kind of. She's had two abortions, yet she proclaims that abortion should be outlawed as, in her words, "it's taking a life." She's never bothered to explain the chasm between her actions and her words. Based on other things she's said, I also suspect that at least one of the abortions was due to the father's identity as a black man. She's single. She said she misses me and wanted to hang out. She said she didn't treat me right and that she always looked up to me. We hung out a few times this year, as I have now always kept her at arms length and seen her as an entirely different person -- that is, probably the person she's almost always been since I've known her. She has the pursed lips and gaunt cheeks of a combined smoker and cocaine user/anorexic. She shakes a lot. She has really never left Texas. It doesn't appear that she opened many books during her time at Tech or subsequently. I didn't like her at all, and I knew this within my first five minutes back together with her after those 9 years. I committed myself to hanging out with her some if she made a big enough effort and fuss, and if she drove. I figured there was something to be said for keeping people from various stages of your past in your present, as long as they weren't doing too much harm to you and you could get away again at any moment. Besides, she provided a lot of interesting thought fodder (although at the time I had not envisioned its use in this blog).
Then she blithely told me a story about a recent drunken experience of hers: She had valeted her new Mercedes at a Dallas bar. Apparently, the valets were black. When she walked out of the bar several hours later and handed the valet person her ticket, they brought her out the wrong Mercedes. Rather than simply pointing out the error, she cursed the valet man with every insult she knew (those same ones I had heard from her dad while eating spaghetti) including vitriolic use of the n-word. The valet men ultimately fixed the simple mishap by bringing Holly the correct Mercedes, and bar management informed her that she could never come back to the bar again. Holly proudly recounted all these events, even boasting as her actions became more and more outrageous. The subtext is that she thinks the valet men were stupid, and that she made fools out of them. Moreover, it is quite evident that she thinks the valet men deserved her excoriation due to what they had done. I told Holly that in no way should she be proud of what she had said or what she had done. I told her that I never wanted to hear stories like that from her. She laughed for a bit, and once she gathered that I was serious she told me that I needed to get off my "high horse" and that indeed her life experiences have confirmed that black people are dumber than white people, that black people are also lazier, and that she would do the same thing if similar circumstances were to arise. Every example and educated argument I gave was met with ignorance and venom. I have several close black friends; I look up to numerous black individuals; I am reading Nelson Mandela's autobiography in awe. How can this girl remain my friend? Should I have kept her on board but tried to avoid any discussion on all the topics that would ignite my reproach? Should I have hoped to rehabilitate her? Should I have hoped to somehow bring back the past and erase the ravages of time and ignorance on her? Ultimately, I gave up on her completely and told her that I would not be her friend anymore. We are, in fact, no longer friends.
I removed her on facebook and denied her follow-up friend request. It must be final.
Holly's whole immediate family went to Texas Tech -- dad, mom, and older sister. Never once did I see her dad smile, but I often heard him yell. He hid his lips behind a burly grey beard, and he always looked at you with a piercing, bone-baring gaze. No one was comfortable around him; everyone was wrong, and nothing was good enough. He loved to watch Texas Tech football. Other than the countryside and farm equipment (his job was to oversee a ranch), I cannot think of anything he loved more than Texas Tech football, if he loved anything else at all -- including his family. If the house was quiet and Texas Tech were playing, you knew they had to be winning and playing well. Everyone else in the house was constantly bracing themselves for a Texas Tech mistake (even if up 45-0) -- Texas Tech must win so daddy doesn't erupt!! He would never actually let excitement or joy leave his lips, for his dense, protective gray beard would have to part and spring open for him to do that. He would never give anyone that. However, if a pass was dropped, tackle broken, or field goal missed, you heard nothing but cursing, racial epithets, and general rage shaking the house. He would use the n-word any chance he got; the black players always received the blame. As the average D1 college football team roster is comprised of roughly 70% African Americans (and surely the starting lineup must be an even higher percentage), he had plenty of chances. I ate many a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce ruing the irony of this Texas Tech alumnus wanting his unified team to have the best chance of winning (hence he would implicitly support the admission of talented black student-athletes, who would do the bulk of the work on the team) but not showing it, while he relished every opportunity he got to isolate and lambaste particular black players for whatever perceived error he could somehow chalk up to their doing. I knew he was a terrible man, but back then I never saw any semblance of him in Holly. She always acted out against her father's gruff coldness and heavy, ignorant hand. I always thought she was rejecting everything about him that a reasonable, educated person would disdain and then some. I thought she would strive mightily to represent the inverse of her father in those ways of his I hated most.
During that year and several years that followed (as I moved to different high schools and we both went off to different colleges -- yes, she went to Texas Tech), I heard all about her cheating, abusive, demanding, and drug-using boyfriends; she cried to me; I advised, and I was always repudiated for yet another cycle at an ever-increasing level of dysfunctionality. Even at 14 she would do anything for these guys: she snuck out of her parents' house, she quit the very activities she once enjoyed with such a youthful vigor, she did drugs, she had sex, she drove high and drunk, she cut off friends and family. I adamantly believed that none of these guys knew the true Holly. I abhorred her boyfriends just like I despised her dad. As she became less and less of the person I was initially attracted to, my desire to attain and help her only grew at an even higher level. I thought I was everything she needed but didn't quite realize; I pictured her as a lost, innocent, and pure blank slate despite her recent travails. She sat perched atop a lofty pedestal in faraway galaxies that was in my best interest to never reach. I kept reaching.
We lost track of each other mid-way through college after a weekend I visited her in Lubbock. One should never drive more than 30 minutes to Lubbock for a questionable girl -- that's a general rule I feel very strongly about! On the first night of my weekend, Holly got drunk, snorted cocaine, and slept with another guy in his car. I made my way back to her apartment and left for my parents' house the following morning, never looking back. When I heard from her earlier this year, it had been approximately 9 years since we last spoke. She now lives in Dallas. She's had a drug problem, but says she's cleaned up (her parents paid for several trips to rehab, set her up with her current job and house, and bought her vaunted Mercedes at issue below). She's also had an eating disorder, but now she eats, well, kind of. She's had two abortions, yet she proclaims that abortion should be outlawed as, in her words, "it's taking a life." She's never bothered to explain the chasm between her actions and her words. Based on other things she's said, I also suspect that at least one of the abortions was due to the father's identity as a black man. She's single. She said she misses me and wanted to hang out. She said she didn't treat me right and that she always looked up to me. We hung out a few times this year, as I have now always kept her at arms length and seen her as an entirely different person -- that is, probably the person she's almost always been since I've known her. She has the pursed lips and gaunt cheeks of a combined smoker and cocaine user/anorexic. She shakes a lot. She has really never left Texas. It doesn't appear that she opened many books during her time at Tech or subsequently. I didn't like her at all, and I knew this within my first five minutes back together with her after those 9 years. I committed myself to hanging out with her some if she made a big enough effort and fuss, and if she drove. I figured there was something to be said for keeping people from various stages of your past in your present, as long as they weren't doing too much harm to you and you could get away again at any moment. Besides, she provided a lot of interesting thought fodder (although at the time I had not envisioned its use in this blog).
Then she blithely told me a story about a recent drunken experience of hers: She had valeted her new Mercedes at a Dallas bar. Apparently, the valets were black. When she walked out of the bar several hours later and handed the valet person her ticket, they brought her out the wrong Mercedes. Rather than simply pointing out the error, she cursed the valet man with every insult she knew (those same ones I had heard from her dad while eating spaghetti) including vitriolic use of the n-word. The valet men ultimately fixed the simple mishap by bringing Holly the correct Mercedes, and bar management informed her that she could never come back to the bar again. Holly proudly recounted all these events, even boasting as her actions became more and more outrageous. The subtext is that she thinks the valet men were stupid, and that she made fools out of them. Moreover, it is quite evident that she thinks the valet men deserved her excoriation due to what they had done. I told Holly that in no way should she be proud of what she had said or what she had done. I told her that I never wanted to hear stories like that from her. She laughed for a bit, and once she gathered that I was serious she told me that I needed to get off my "high horse" and that indeed her life experiences have confirmed that black people are dumber than white people, that black people are also lazier, and that she would do the same thing if similar circumstances were to arise. Every example and educated argument I gave was met with ignorance and venom. I have several close black friends; I look up to numerous black individuals; I am reading Nelson Mandela's autobiography in awe. How can this girl remain my friend? Should I have kept her on board but tried to avoid any discussion on all the topics that would ignite my reproach? Should I have hoped to rehabilitate her? Should I have hoped to somehow bring back the past and erase the ravages of time and ignorance on her? Ultimately, I gave up on her completely and told her that I would not be her friend anymore. We are, in fact, no longer friends.
I removed her on facebook and denied her follow-up friend request. It must be final.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Moral Inferences Based on Religion
If I know nothing else about a person other than that he/she graduated college from Harvard, I safely assume this person is smarter than the average person, more interested in academics and theoretical issues than the average person, harder working than the average person, and more intellectual than the average person. Based on this assumption, I would then act in a corresponding fashion: for instance, I would feel more comfortable speaking about intellectual things, articulating my ideas more thoroughly, and proffering more challenging questions. Surely there are a few instances where this initial assumption would be wrong, but out of 1,000 such people, my assumptions would probably be confirmed on at least 995 people having only known that fact. Clearly, this assumption would serve me well (as I enjoy intellectualizing early on in a relationship with those who share the interest). Now, let's assume that the only fact I know about a person is that the person did NOT graduate college from Harvard. I would not assume the opposite above; that is, I would not automatically assume that someone who did not graduate from Harvard would not be interested in intellectualism and academia. The individual may have graduated from Princeton, Stanford, Columbia, or any number of places, read philosophy his/her entire life in isolation, or simply have been a erudite in a foreign country, never taking part in American "higher" education. In all such non-Harvard examples, the person would still very likely be an intellectual like me. If I only knew the Harvard-inverse fact, I would make no assumption, and I would not change my actions in any way. Without immediately intellectualizing or engaging in the converse of intentionally avoiding all intellectualization forevermore, I would attempt to learn more about the person, observe and process further information from and about the person, and then proceed in my actions accordingly once I had amassed enough data to make a safe assumption on the intellectual issue. I could still adjust my assumptions and actions further over time as my perceptions and understanding of the person came into sharper focus.
Now, let's look at what happens when the only thing a person knows about another is whether or not he/she leads first with religion. Down here in the South, the predominant faith is Christianity and a sizable contingent of folks will lead first in almost everything they do and with every person they meet that they are, in fact, a Christian. They will tell you first that they "love Christ" or "Jesus is my homeboy." There is certainly nothing inherently wrong with being a Christian or letting others know, so please don't misconstrue the point that I am herein making. My problem is with the assumption outside people make once they know one of the two following facts about a new person:
Fact A: I only know one fact about a new person, and that is that he declares himself to be a strong Christian.
Fact B: I only know one fact about a new person, and that is that he does not first declare himself to be a strong Christian (he led with something else).
I know so many people that present themselves as strong Christians and are morally inferior to the average person in terms of scruples. So do you. How many self-presenting "strong Christians" cheat on their wives? Lie, misrepresent, cheat, and steal at their jobs? Are racists? Don't take care of their children? Shirk their taxes? Don't pay child support? Sexually abuse children? Take advantage of their power and authority? With an absurd surfeit of possible examples, I think it's easiest to just let your mind pick any supportive illustrations and save me the time, space and effort here. Yet, based on Fact A above, people will assume that they are with a morally sound individual. They will trust someone who puts himself under the Fact A umbrella more than they would someone under the Fact B umbrella. Only knowing this one fact or its inverse, people will also start an individual under the Fact B umbrella off behind the average person morally. The faulty assumption leads to favorable actions towards a Fact A person and unfavorable actions towards a Fact B person. Knowing what we do about confirmation bias (people start out with certain rigid beliefs, and when they see a random wide array of facts -- some consistent and some inconsistent with the initial impression -- they will discredit, disregard, or even completely ignore the inconsistent facts and hold onto, stack up, and overvalue the facts consistent with their initial impression), we can only expect the moral judgment gap between a Fact A individual and a Fact B individual to widen dramatically in the eyes of a common person, and, hence, for the common person's actions towards the Fact A and Fact B individuals to also diverge substantially. Before long, the common person has placed considerable faith in the Fact A person and reserved any faith in the Fact B person (instead, replacing it with scorn and distrust) when, still so early on, the two individuals still should most likely be on relatively equal moral ground. Many savvy, self-interested (morally unsound) opportunists will also pick up on how the Fact A individuals are treated by newcomers and represent themselves as such, further skewing the accuracy of an initial moral inference based on religion.
This is very troubling for me, for, if you could not already tell, I am a Fact B person. Evaluate me based on how I treat people, what I aspire to, how I make my decisions, how I react to adversity, but not whether or not I lead off by telling you I'm a self-pronounced "strong Christian." This will obviously require time, energy, and observational skills -- maybe even some questioning and thought. So it will not be as easy as the above Fact A/Fact B decision tree, but it will also be far more effective and accurate in both the short and long term.
Now, let's look at what happens when the only thing a person knows about another is whether or not he/she leads first with religion. Down here in the South, the predominant faith is Christianity and a sizable contingent of folks will lead first in almost everything they do and with every person they meet that they are, in fact, a Christian. They will tell you first that they "love Christ" or "Jesus is my homeboy." There is certainly nothing inherently wrong with being a Christian or letting others know, so please don't misconstrue the point that I am herein making. My problem is with the assumption outside people make once they know one of the two following facts about a new person:
Fact A: I only know one fact about a new person, and that is that he declares himself to be a strong Christian.
Fact B: I only know one fact about a new person, and that is that he does not first declare himself to be a strong Christian (he led with something else).
I know so many people that present themselves as strong Christians and are morally inferior to the average person in terms of scruples. So do you. How many self-presenting "strong Christians" cheat on their wives? Lie, misrepresent, cheat, and steal at their jobs? Are racists? Don't take care of their children? Shirk their taxes? Don't pay child support? Sexually abuse children? Take advantage of their power and authority? With an absurd surfeit of possible examples, I think it's easiest to just let your mind pick any supportive illustrations and save me the time, space and effort here. Yet, based on Fact A above, people will assume that they are with a morally sound individual. They will trust someone who puts himself under the Fact A umbrella more than they would someone under the Fact B umbrella. Only knowing this one fact or its inverse, people will also start an individual under the Fact B umbrella off behind the average person morally. The faulty assumption leads to favorable actions towards a Fact A person and unfavorable actions towards a Fact B person. Knowing what we do about confirmation bias (people start out with certain rigid beliefs, and when they see a random wide array of facts -- some consistent and some inconsistent with the initial impression -- they will discredit, disregard, or even completely ignore the inconsistent facts and hold onto, stack up, and overvalue the facts consistent with their initial impression), we can only expect the moral judgment gap between a Fact A individual and a Fact B individual to widen dramatically in the eyes of a common person, and, hence, for the common person's actions towards the Fact A and Fact B individuals to also diverge substantially. Before long, the common person has placed considerable faith in the Fact A person and reserved any faith in the Fact B person (instead, replacing it with scorn and distrust) when, still so early on, the two individuals still should most likely be on relatively equal moral ground. Many savvy, self-interested (morally unsound) opportunists will also pick up on how the Fact A individuals are treated by newcomers and represent themselves as such, further skewing the accuracy of an initial moral inference based on religion.
This is very troubling for me, for, if you could not already tell, I am a Fact B person. Evaluate me based on how I treat people, what I aspire to, how I make my decisions, how I react to adversity, but not whether or not I lead off by telling you I'm a self-pronounced "strong Christian." This will obviously require time, energy, and observational skills -- maybe even some questioning and thought. So it will not be as easy as the above Fact A/Fact B decision tree, but it will also be far more effective and accurate in both the short and long term.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Emerging Adulthood
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html?_r=1&src=me&ref=homepage
The above article has not waned in popularity on the New York Times for over a week now, and with good reason. Whether it's a product of the societal time I find myself in, my own personal background, birth order, or my biological makeup (or some combination), I certainly struggle everyday with defining myself in any available category: Am I child? No, but I don't mind feeling like one at times. Am I a teenager or adolescent? No. Am I student? No, but I wish I still was. Am I an adult? No, well, kind of. I have a job; that's adultish. So I work with adults every day, but I feel different than every single one of them. I long for weekends chiefly because it's a reprieve from forced adult interactions. As their bodies balloon, aspirations plummet, and their lives resemble robots in daily routine, remarks, abandoned "thoughts", and reactions, I vow to never fully enter adulthood. Why should I want to be an adult? When it's not forced on you through life circumstances, what is the reason for one to willfully choose full-on adulthood? I eschew the thought of focusing too much time on the practical; I prefer that my mom handle these things like she always has. Yes, my CPA-mathematician mother still does my taxes, helps me remember to get my oil changed, pick insurance options, etc... This is very comforting for me, and I see no reason to change. I don't want to make decisions about things like life insurance and mortgages and IRA's and the like. I don't keep a calendar. If I remember it, I remember it. If I don't, maybe I will next time (if there's a next time). Let my mind be free for some moments of the day; let me feel alive, not chained to duties, deadlines, and responsibilities! I don't ever plan on entering a practical, businesslike marriage just to have kids and fit into some uppercrust of society more neatly (not that all marriages are like this, but I certainly believe that as people age, looks fade, expectations decline and die out, and career, familial, and temporal pressures rise, so too do marriages of this type surface in greater number). I don't want to have to hang out with married people all the time, or worry about the location, size, and appearance of my house just so it makes a more desirable setting for social affairs and enhances my general adult world status and standing, or make some truly inchoate concept of a "career" become the most important goal in my life. I don't want to give up potentialities for shuttering certainties. That is, the adulthood I see popping up all around me with my peers happens so fast. Within what seems like a couple of years it's all about marriage, wedding, house, cars, children, schools, and, most importantly, extra-specific careers chosen in terms of decades, not years or half-years. I like to believe that I'm this agent of thought -- that I can change my path at any second if I want to. I like to fully examine each relatively important decision before me. I like to make these decisions one-at-a-time. If I feel like I'm losing too many potentialities and too many things may be cemented in a single decision, I will do anything to put that decision off as long as possible so as to feel that I have manifold options and, hence, possibilities before me. I may be extremely individualistic and independent. I may overvalue independence and freedom of thought and time and possibilities. But is this just another way of saying I'm immature? If so, what's so wrong with immaturity? Some will say that this will probably change with time -- something gradual and uncalculated on my part and, poof, several years later I'm a full-fledged adult. I'm not sure that would be for the better. I will vigorously avoid what I know as adulthood for as long as possible.
The above article has not waned in popularity on the New York Times for over a week now, and with good reason. Whether it's a product of the societal time I find myself in, my own personal background, birth order, or my biological makeup (or some combination), I certainly struggle everyday with defining myself in any available category: Am I child? No, but I don't mind feeling like one at times. Am I a teenager or adolescent? No. Am I student? No, but I wish I still was. Am I an adult? No, well, kind of. I have a job; that's adultish. So I work with adults every day, but I feel different than every single one of them. I long for weekends chiefly because it's a reprieve from forced adult interactions. As their bodies balloon, aspirations plummet, and their lives resemble robots in daily routine, remarks, abandoned "thoughts", and reactions, I vow to never fully enter adulthood. Why should I want to be an adult? When it's not forced on you through life circumstances, what is the reason for one to willfully choose full-on adulthood? I eschew the thought of focusing too much time on the practical; I prefer that my mom handle these things like she always has. Yes, my CPA-mathematician mother still does my taxes, helps me remember to get my oil changed, pick insurance options, etc... This is very comforting for me, and I see no reason to change. I don't want to make decisions about things like life insurance and mortgages and IRA's and the like. I don't keep a calendar. If I remember it, I remember it. If I don't, maybe I will next time (if there's a next time). Let my mind be free for some moments of the day; let me feel alive, not chained to duties, deadlines, and responsibilities! I don't ever plan on entering a practical, businesslike marriage just to have kids and fit into some uppercrust of society more neatly (not that all marriages are like this, but I certainly believe that as people age, looks fade, expectations decline and die out, and career, familial, and temporal pressures rise, so too do marriages of this type surface in greater number). I don't want to have to hang out with married people all the time, or worry about the location, size, and appearance of my house just so it makes a more desirable setting for social affairs and enhances my general adult world status and standing, or make some truly inchoate concept of a "career" become the most important goal in my life. I don't want to give up potentialities for shuttering certainties. That is, the adulthood I see popping up all around me with my peers happens so fast. Within what seems like a couple of years it's all about marriage, wedding, house, cars, children, schools, and, most importantly, extra-specific careers chosen in terms of decades, not years or half-years. I like to believe that I'm this agent of thought -- that I can change my path at any second if I want to. I like to fully examine each relatively important decision before me. I like to make these decisions one-at-a-time. If I feel like I'm losing too many potentialities and too many things may be cemented in a single decision, I will do anything to put that decision off as long as possible so as to feel that I have manifold options and, hence, possibilities before me. I may be extremely individualistic and independent. I may overvalue independence and freedom of thought and time and possibilities. But is this just another way of saying I'm immature? If so, what's so wrong with immaturity? Some will say that this will probably change with time -- something gradual and uncalculated on my part and, poof, several years later I'm a full-fledged adult. I'm not sure that would be for the better. I will vigorously avoid what I know as adulthood for as long as possible.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Oppressed Become the Oppressors
After 14 years on the internet, I have finally decided that it's time to start a blog. What shall I write about, and what will the purpose be? More than a smattering of folks I've gotten to know at any depth have told me that I "think too much." Maybe I have kept too many of these thoughts captive in my cage of a brain for too long. Maybe a more optimal internal equilibrium may be achieved just through the process of "publishing" and freeing them. The world wide web of endless musings and blabbing will likely not be bettered in any way by their release, but perhaps I will succeed in feeling like a Pericles in giving a speech above the masses of simple to complex thoughts important to me -- although my "audience" may never turn to me or even know that I'm speaking...Oh well, this blog will affirm my existence, for it will show that I have lived and thought and, at times, thought deeply. This is a simple goal, but one that I am dedicated towards pursuing in my everyday life. So here goes with the first post.
Dostoevsky noted that the seemingly inexorable fate of the human condition is that "the oppressed become the oppressors." Mandela's autobiography cites an easy illustration: The Afrikaners mightily fought the British for control of South Afrika on an ideological platform of freedom and inalienable human rights. Once they had secured these rights for themselves, they almost instantaneously began to concoct schemes and statutes (culminating in apartheid) to deprive the native Africans of the very rights for which the Afrikaners had struggled. On the individual level, a son can lament the way his father held money over his head, neglected, mistreated, and deceived him, always leaving the son to feel defeated and at the whimsical mercy of his omnipotent father. Yet, when son grows up, has a family, and becomes father--seemingly with the ability to model a much improved relationship by simply inverting everything he had experienced--history repeats itself and our new father is an exact duplicate of his most despised, merciless tyrant of a father. When I worked as a waiter, I did not have to start out as a bus boy because I was white. Every Mexican, regardless of his or her English-speaking abilities, had to start as a bus boy. This system was certainly not fair, and I despised it. Can you imagine how shocked I was when an English-speaking Mexican rose up to the position of a waiter and decided (1) he would no longer speak Spanish with the bus boys; (2) he would no longer associate with the bus boys; (3) he would speak poorly of the bus boys with the predominantly white wait staff; and (4) he would now poorly tip the bus boys at the end of the night?!! Similarly, at one's professional white collar employment, there is often a hierarchy by which any incoming employee must "work his/her way up" the ladder, regardless of experience, knowledge, or ability. In such work settings, do rising employees really yearn for increased competence, responsibilities, and a chance for greater impact on whatever constitutes the ultimate goal of their employment? Without hesitation my experience sadly tells me that the great majority of rising employees simply yearn for power -- power over another, anyone, anything. People often assert that money is the great driving force for most people as they rise into adulthood. I have seen too many people leave positions high in pay and low in power for flip-flopped scenarios for me to so readily believe this as I once did. Power is dangerous. I fear what almost anyone will do when they ascend to power; I ever have a slight fear of what I might become if I ever had power. What happens when good people attain power?
I surmise that systems that allow for power differentials teach people to think, almost unconsciously, in terms of power. It is a rare person who can "play the game" within the system while truly thinking of everyone around him or her as an equal. This, though, I think must be the ultimate goal: I must remind myself every day that I am an equal with everyone around me, and I must make this be the prevalent lens through which I see the world and those around me. This should be so easy within the family, for what do I believe in more than an egalitarian marriage? I am sure I will learn that it is not so easy (especially as referred to above), but I remain idealistic for now. Of greater concern is what power will do to me in the workplace. My "power system" lens should only be used like sunglasses -- that is, only when absolutely necessary, like when I am driving into work and there's a glare when I turn towards the sun. The "power system" lens must be taken off at every opportunity -- i.e., I will not be wearing my sunglasses at night, or indoors, or anywhere that they are not absolutely necessary! Part of me would rather go blind than have to wear those shades, but they appear to be a necessary evil within this world of so many power structures. A blind man is a man without a job, a home, or a position from which he can be the rare person to actually exert good whence the tables have turned and he has become, at last, a man in power.
Dostoevsky noted that the seemingly inexorable fate of the human condition is that "the oppressed become the oppressors." Mandela's autobiography cites an easy illustration: The Afrikaners mightily fought the British for control of South Afrika on an ideological platform of freedom and inalienable human rights. Once they had secured these rights for themselves, they almost instantaneously began to concoct schemes and statutes (culminating in apartheid) to deprive the native Africans of the very rights for which the Afrikaners had struggled. On the individual level, a son can lament the way his father held money over his head, neglected, mistreated, and deceived him, always leaving the son to feel defeated and at the whimsical mercy of his omnipotent father. Yet, when son grows up, has a family, and becomes father--seemingly with the ability to model a much improved relationship by simply inverting everything he had experienced--history repeats itself and our new father is an exact duplicate of his most despised, merciless tyrant of a father. When I worked as a waiter, I did not have to start out as a bus boy because I was white. Every Mexican, regardless of his or her English-speaking abilities, had to start as a bus boy. This system was certainly not fair, and I despised it. Can you imagine how shocked I was when an English-speaking Mexican rose up to the position of a waiter and decided (1) he would no longer speak Spanish with the bus boys; (2) he would no longer associate with the bus boys; (3) he would speak poorly of the bus boys with the predominantly white wait staff; and (4) he would now poorly tip the bus boys at the end of the night?!! Similarly, at one's professional white collar employment, there is often a hierarchy by which any incoming employee must "work his/her way up" the ladder, regardless of experience, knowledge, or ability. In such work settings, do rising employees really yearn for increased competence, responsibilities, and a chance for greater impact on whatever constitutes the ultimate goal of their employment? Without hesitation my experience sadly tells me that the great majority of rising employees simply yearn for power -- power over another, anyone, anything. People often assert that money is the great driving force for most people as they rise into adulthood. I have seen too many people leave positions high in pay and low in power for flip-flopped scenarios for me to so readily believe this as I once did. Power is dangerous. I fear what almost anyone will do when they ascend to power; I ever have a slight fear of what I might become if I ever had power. What happens when good people attain power?
I surmise that systems that allow for power differentials teach people to think, almost unconsciously, in terms of power. It is a rare person who can "play the game" within the system while truly thinking of everyone around him or her as an equal. This, though, I think must be the ultimate goal: I must remind myself every day that I am an equal with everyone around me, and I must make this be the prevalent lens through which I see the world and those around me. This should be so easy within the family, for what do I believe in more than an egalitarian marriage? I am sure I will learn that it is not so easy (especially as referred to above), but I remain idealistic for now. Of greater concern is what power will do to me in the workplace. My "power system" lens should only be used like sunglasses -- that is, only when absolutely necessary, like when I am driving into work and there's a glare when I turn towards the sun. The "power system" lens must be taken off at every opportunity -- i.e., I will not be wearing my sunglasses at night, or indoors, or anywhere that they are not absolutely necessary! Part of me would rather go blind than have to wear those shades, but they appear to be a necessary evil within this world of so many power structures. A blind man is a man without a job, a home, or a position from which he can be the rare person to actually exert good whence the tables have turned and he has become, at last, a man in power.
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