Dispatches from the Great
Regression
I woke early on the morning of
November 9, 2016, and just stared at the ceiling. I had fallen asleep trying to
comprehend the surprise consequences of the months of ugliness I had been
watching, hoping to find some humanity in the bleakness. Maybe the night before
was just an incredible nightmare. No, all too real. The world had really
changed. I felt as if I was inside
the third chapter of a Cormac McCarthy novel. "Is this the new dystopian
reality?
Last night the votes had rolled
in from west of the Hudson, west of the Delaware, from the great midsection of
the country. I have heritage there, I have family there, people I love are
there. I thought I knew those people. How could they vote that way? How could
they be conned so badly? Now they seemed so far away, both by land and by
belief. I felt so disconnected from them. In a way, I was never more grateful
to be in NYC.
Amanda lay next to me, awake but
unwilling to rise. She had cried late into the night, and again this morning.
Her nightmare became all too real. She was terrified for her Mother &
Sister. They had come to the United States from Ecuador, not for work, but to
seek better services and opportunities for her autistic sister. Developmental
help, education and adult services didn't exist in Ecuador. Amanda's Mother had sacrificed
connections to family and friends, left her native customs and culture, and
come to a giant city in a strange land. She worked unfathomable hours at
demanding menial jobs to support her daughters. Despite Byzantine
bureaucracies, and decades of service cutbacks, New York City still provided
the best services and opportunities for Amanda's Sister. They entered the US
legally, but had stayed after the expiration of the visa. They just couldn't
take her Sister to Ecuador. So for years they lived at the edge of society,
with the daily fear of the knock at the door and deportation back to Ecuador.
Now, they've watched in terror as a demagogue had arisen preaching suspicion,
degradation, hate, and mass deportation. And they watched emboldened supporters
shout racist, xenophobic, hateful and threatening words. These people had no
concern for the family's dedication and sacrifice. Amanda's tears weren't for a
political loss. She cried from the fear of sudden and heartless deportation.
I was raised as a child of the
Enlightenment. I was brought up with the inherent belief that humanity is
creative and valuable. I was taught to value ideas, learning, reason and
science. I was taught that positive change is possible, to be hopeful and
optimistic even in the darkest of times. That cynicism and nihilism are
obstacles to be overcome, not embraced. My family was blue-collar working class
stock, and I was taught the dignity and honor of hard work, and the dignity of
the human struggle. We live in a pluralistic society and people differ in
region, philosophy, religion, race, class and circumstance. Yet can still agree
on values and morals, compassion and empathy, tolerance and decency, and common
purpose. But, work needed to be done everyday to better our society and
ourselves.
My thoughts flashed to the German Jewish philosopher, Walter Benjamin at
the Hotel de Francis in the town of Portbou, on the night of September 25th,
1940. After the fall of the Weimar
Republic, Benjamin spent most of the 1930s in exile or on the run from the
German authorities. Exhausted,
penniless, without hope, and seeing no discernable path for escape from a
continent that was no longer willing to protect its minority population,
Benjamin surrendered to death. Benjamin's will to live was crushed by his
inability to comprehend the depths of cruelty to which his homeland had sank.
Needing coffee and
to run errands before work, Amanda and I headed out under gray concrete heavy
clouds, unable to weep. The city was eerily quiet. I wondered if this is how
people behaved in a city under seize.
I recalled seeing 12th century tapestries at the
Metropolitan Museum. They depicted the city of Jericho as religious zealots
brought down the walls of the impenetrable city, while God told the
protagonists they had the moral authority to slaughter every man, woman and
child within the walls.
I
think of the siege of the Phoenician port city, Tyre. The city’s natural defense of sea walls caused Alexander the
Great to engineer a mole, a natural bridge, from the mainland to attack the
city from the land. Out of anger
and frustration that Tyre wasn’t an easy city to conquer, Alexander raised the
city, crucified the captured soldiers and sold the rest of its population into
slavery.
Then
I’m reminded of the siege of another Phoenician port city, Carthage. The citizens of Carthage attempted to
hold out against the invading Roman army by turning their city into a fortress. The young Roman General Scipio
Aemilianus having visions of ancient Troy, blockaded the harbor, broke through
the city’s walls and out of spite for Carthage’s insolence raised the city and
sold any survivors into slavery.
Maybe I exaggerate and New York City isn't a city
under siege. But I sense an intellectual and political divide that is now
manifest across the country.
Was the Hudson River the barrier
of my protection, or my walls of Jericho sealing me into a prison? Were the new barricades set up on the
banks of the Hudson like the fortifications of Tyre? Or does that line begin on the riverside of the Delaware?
Or is the Hudson now the river Spree that rolls through my own Berlin
while I wake up on January 31st, 1933; or I’m in Rome November 1st, 1922 and
I’m staring at the Fiume; maybe, Madrid January 31st, 1938 and I watch my
ideals swept away by the Rio Jarama.
I think of West Berlin on August 14th, 1962, the citizens woke to what
was once an ideological separation through quiet terror was now manifest visible
by walls surrounding the city, the Spree indifferent to the divide.
Running errands, I take cover in
the comfort of my routine. I want nothing to do with anything remotely current:
no television, no updates, no electronic headlines. I want no reminders of Twentieth century despots, the
merchants of fear and death. I needed peace. I needed relief.
Back in the apartment, Amanda has
the TV on in the background while she gets ready for a work trip. The pundits and pollsters, the journalists,
who were encased in their own NYC/ DC capsule, had completely missed the red
state revolution, and try to explain their errors.
In attempting to hide their
commitments to powers beyond their own conscious, the press now speaks about
how to be graceful and conciliatory.
I am unable to comprehend how to
be conciliatory to hate, bigotry, misogyny, racism and disrespect. To be
conciliatory means to be yielding, and to find common ground. I have nothing in common with people
that voted for and follow this man. Hearing people on TV saying, now is the
time for Americans to come together, all I can think is, "I will not
appease hate."
I am speechless, and I'm feeling
powerless.
I was raised to respect
competency, skill and accomplishment. "If it's worth doing, it's worth
doing well."
And yet, here is a man who has
driven every business he’s ever had into the ground.
He is a man who pillaged a mostly
minority city already suffering and down on its luck. Only one man took, while the rest of the city was left to
destitution.
I was raised to value honesty and
integrity.
Here is a man who came close to
committing treason on national TV, twice.
I see a man who doesn’t think
about human rights. In fact he’s
advocated torture and to expanding the power of special prosecution beyond even
a special court.
I see a man who doesn’t think of
the environment or basic kindness or empathy or intelligence.
I don’t believe that he’s
evil. I believe that he’s all Id,
all chaos. He is nihilism in the
flesh. To be evil you have to be smart.
To be evil you have to have introspection, an agenda and plans.
Not only has he shown no
discernable plans other than hate and revenge, he has demonstrated a severe
lack of impulse control.
I’m reminded of a documentary I recently saw about the televised debates
during the 1968 conventions between William Buckley, the intellectual founder
of the conservative movement, and Gore Vidal, a self proclaimed liberal
elitist. By the end of the
debates, Vidal had Buckley completely backed into an intellectual corner,
uncomfortable and unable to form coherent thoughts. Vidal had very clinically exposed Buckley’s beliefs as
hatred disguised as policy. Buckley’s
only response was slurs and the threatening of violence. In reflection Buckley’s implosion
achieved the end result of the conservative movement forty-eight years before
the rest of his party.
At one point at a rally He said
that not only was the election rigged, but also there were people who
controlled the media who were promoting an agenda and quote, “you know what I
mean, you know what I’m saying.” A
phrase that blatantly appeals to the anti-Semitic mythology that Jews not only
run the media, but the banks and the world.
Looking north up the island of Manhattan, I was reminded of the America
First Committee of the late 1930s and early 40s. Lead by prominent businessmen and conservative political
leaders, the AFC promoted non-intervention in European conflicts, German
advocacy along with dissemination of anti-Semitic beliefs. At a rally in Madison Square
Garden, American hero Charles Lindbergh gave a speech in front of large
unfurled swastika flags while Nazi flags waved in the crowd, that stressed a
commonality with Germany, racist beliefs and anti-Semitic theories. Any protest in the crowd were met with
booing, forced exits and finally fists.
I think of the summer of 1941 and I think of the summer of 2016.
I know and love people who were
targets of this man's invectives and are now targets of his followers and
minions. I think of all the Hispanic families in my neighborhood. For years, I was told this area was a
no man’s land. And yes, there was
poverty and struggle and the elements that encompass hardships. However, I saw people working,
struggling, trying to help their families, their street, their neighbors. They are real people, with both
strengths and imperfections.
I think of the guys I know at the
local barbershop. On Friday nights, young and old congregate to talk, listen to
loud music, dance and have animated discussions.
When Sandy hit, my neighborhood
was flooded and without power for almost a week. Those same guys protected
their neighborhood and made sure there was no looting or crime on the
street. They hung outside and gave
haircuts from the back of their cars and SUVs. We talked and laughed about the neighborhood having no
power. They were invested in the area and it meant something that the families,
their families and the older women in the neighborhood affectionately called
Abuelas (Spanish for grandmother) were safe.
I had no need to ask them if they
were illegal or if they were taking my jobs, or if they were making our
neighborhood less great.
When I moved in they had accepted
me into their community. I wore my Pittsburgh Pirates, Roberto Clemente jersey
without realizing I was moving in across from the Roberto Clemente elementary
school or that Clemente was the patron saint of the neighborhood.
I was taken aback by how friendly
my new neighbors were.
I think of all the people in my
life who are gay and have given me nothing but support and unconditional love
and friendship. When I came to NYC I worked hard and carefully to find friends
and build solid relationships. Finding
good people, people that appreciated me and that I could be comfortable with,
laugh with, was an arduous process.
By the time I was able to establish a safe network of support, their
sexuality mattered very little to our friendships.
I have no concept of why people
would hate, fear, despise another because of their sexuality, why people would
think that someone else’s sexuality effects them, or even to deny them the same
rights and privileges as any other human.
I think of all the women in my
life that I have ever loved.
I think of my mother who taught
me that feminism is equality, equal pay, equal benefits, equal criticism, for
equal work
I think of my grandmothers’
capacity for love and nurturing. I
think of my mother’s mother and her unwavering belief in hope and in
people. I think of all that was
denied to them as circumstance of the era in which they were born and all that
they were able to accomplish in its spite.
I think of all the Muslims that
I’ve met in my schooling, travels around the world, and meeting in the
city. I think of them wishing me
nothing but peace.
I remember being 19 and visiting my best friend in college, Omar and his
family. Omar’s father was Palestinian and an ambassador. I sat at their dinner
table as Omar’s father explained to me that peace only begins when you’re able
to sit across from someone and acknowledge each other’s humanity.
I think of all the Hindis who
opened up their families to me that showed me love, support and kindness and
blessed my soul. That in spite of
being immigrants to a strange land, and facing their own challenges of racism
and bigotry, I was welcomed into a large cultural family where I addressed my
elders as Aunt and Uncle.
I think of all the poor that work
50 hours a week at the Wal-Mart and still need food stamps and welfare so that
one family and their shareholders can maximize their profits.
I think of the guys in the
kitchens that I worked, who worked twice as hard for half the pay, only to send
half of that to their families back home. The Mexicans, the Pakistanis, and the Bangladeshis,
who worked side by side, only to go live in Stalag 17 type barracks in
neighborhoods where even Angels from Heaven would fear to enter.
Amanda left for her trip and
before she leaves, I promise that one man can’t destroy the structural systems
that our society relies on to exist all at once. I say it aloud for her sake as much as mine.
Then I’m left with my thoughts
and the visions of people that I know, that I have loved and that have shown me
kindness in my life.
I drift back to the people in my
neighborhood, the people in my city, the people with whom I am now living under
siege.
I know people that voted for the
Trump in this election. I even
love some of those people.
I doubt they are struggling with
their decisions as much as I am struggling with their decision. I wonder how we can be so diametrically
opposite in our positions.
On my block is a half –way house
for older adults that are incapable of living on their own. One of their members is an older black
man named Alex who sits on the stairs out front the building. He is there every day living on the
fringes of society by the graces of society. Every time I walk by, Alex says hi and shakes my hand. His face says more about the struggles
in his life then he is able to verbalize.
I wonder when the last time someone
who voted for Him has spoken to a person in their neighborhood whose life
experience is wildly different from theirs?
Or the last time they interacted
with someone who has debilitating mental incapacities?
Or even, the last time they
talked openly to a woman who was violated and victimized simply because she’s a
woman?
Or when they vacation at the
beach or in a tropical island they worried about the acidification of the
oceans?
I bristle when a response is
offered that “all politicians are corrupt” as a dismissive, shallow and
self-serving. I’m stunned by the
professed ignorance of the basic mechanics of how representative democracy
works.
I’m bewildered by the lack of
care or empathy for how tax dollars are spent; to make sure that kids can read and
count; to make sure that bridges don’t collapse; so that the old don’t starve;
so that if a woman isn’t ready to have a baby she isn’t forced to continue an
unwanted pregnancy. I believe that
something has to be said for self-awareness of the inability or desire to be
responsible for another life.
And if people that voted for Him
are so concerned about change why did they elect the same congress?
That morning I was in line at the
local Key Food buying a loaf of bread.
There was an older black woman working the check out counter and I asked
her how she was.
She looked at me with a faint
smile and said she was tired because she was up all night watching the results.
I replied, “I know. Me, too.”
She stopped and looked me right
in the eyes. “This guy has been a
racist asshole for 40 years in NYC.
And now people have elected Him president.”
I looked right back and stated,
“Yes, I know. He’s horrible. It’s horrible.”
After a beat I continued, “All we
can do is persevere,” then, “and trust love.”
Big tears welled up in her eyes,
which made my eyes water.
She never stopped looking at
me. “Yes, we need to trust love.”
I was home, alone and lost in
thought. As usual, I called my
father to hear his thoughts and perspective.
I said my piece. I felt like New York City was my home,
my city, my refuge and now my prison.
I hope that my neighborhood provides better comfort than the walls of
Jericho.
He said, that the country has
endured many things: The Civil War, The Great Depression, The Great Recession
and now we face “The Great Regression.”
Later in the afternoon, the concrete sky started to crack and the rain
finally began to fall in large purposeful drops as I headed off to work.
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