Monday, August 25, 2014

My College Essay

I remember when all my children got into college. For the first three, I heard about it after the fact. I was a master of the universe, working all the time. I was happy for them, and not surprised. Of course they were going to good schools. I went to their high-school graduations. I may have taken one of them to move into the college dorm, maybe two. I don't remember. Pitiful, huh?

After I had my fourth and fifth children (with Meg), I quit being a master of the universe and went into angsty zen mode. Maybe angsty with occasional moments of zen would be a fairer description. I became a writer. I was home all the time and much more involved in their lives (sorry about that, boys). By the time they were applying to college, they probably wished I would go back to a heavy travel schedule. I gave them lots of advice about preparing their college applications. They nodded angelically and did what they thought was best. I got to read their college essays at the same time the admissions committees did. Gulp! They did great, of course. By then they didn’t need me, at least not for that. I suppose that was kind of the point of all those early years.

You do suffer for your children. You would give any part of yourself for them, for their happiness. But ultimately you realize they are separate people, not extensions of you. You revel in their successes and feel the pain of their setbacks, but they are not your achievements, they are not your failures. You do what you can, but their lives are in their hands, not yours.

Now my latest child, which has been home-schooled and has an attractive font and format, is about to apply for acceptance. Writing and parenting are all about making choices: where will the children live (setting), who will be their friends (characters), what experiences will they have (plot). Unfortunately, as much as fiction writers like to say their books have a life of their own, a novel is not an anthropomorphic child that can insulate one from oneself. My novel is me; and as far as it goes, it is all of me. There are no SAT scores, GPAs, no extracurriculars. You read it and you like it or you don't. There is no explanation. No rationalization. No hardship overcome, no privilege misused. It is itself entirely.

So much has been written about writing, about putting oneself out there, about opening a vein and bleeding onto the page, it seems unlikely there is anything to add. As to fiction, the story is everything. No one has ever seen Homer's query letter. I doubt he had blurbs. We read the Odyssey and are transported, or not.

In my way of being self-conscious and oblivious at the same time, of reacting to emotions inside me that I am barely aware of, I was present at the birth and maturation of my story. But I am not god to it. Its creation myth must be teased out of my life. I have been there beside it for a long time, though, and now, as with my children, I will step back and let it make its way in the world.

Good luck, novel. I love you--or at least I like you a lot and am a little obsessed with you, which are two of the principal ingredients of love. Stay in touch.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Brutality in the Neighborhood

No one could remember a time when such terrible things happened. Or when so few seemed to care. Sure, there had been crimes before, but this was different. The murders happened all the time now. No one seemed able to stop them. Honestly, to people who lived elsewhere, it seemed like no one was trying.

I’m not talking about Ferguson, Missouri. Or Chicago's South Side. I'm talking about the United States Congress. In the quiet and sacred capitol, crimes of legislative brutality have become the norm. Like the victims of police brutality, the people harmed are the ones least able to protect themselves, hardworking citizens holding two or three jobs, others looking for work, wondering how they will feed their children.

No actual members of Congress have been harmed in this legislative mayhem. They still have bean soup and cornbread in the Senate Dining room, steam rooms and saunas in the House gym. And excellent healthcare plans. They are safe and prosperous.

In Ferguson, Missouri the people are up in arms over police brutality. They’ve taken to the streets. Angry words and bottles have been thrown. Even the Attorney General has gotten into the act. You have the feeling that something is going to be done, that some justice will be offered. You have the feeling that things will get better in Ferguson, even if only for a while.

But in the United States Congress, there is little cause for any such optimism. Republicans hope to capture a Senate majority this fall. Mitch McConnell, the Republican Senate Minority leader, vows that if they do they will work with the House, which will almost certainly continue to be controlled by Republicans, to pass legislation to scale back government and reverse or restrict President Obama's achievements like the Affordable Care Act and consumer financial protections. If the president vetoes their spiteful fantasy of small government to serve the few rather than the many, they say they will shut the whole thing down. You can't get smaller than that, literally or figuratively.

When an unarmed boy is shot by police in your neighborhood, it makes you mad. When it happens often enough, at the hands of what you perceive to be a racially prejudiced police force, it drives you to the barricades. It happened in Ferguson. It happened in Watts in 1965. Burn, baby, burn. 

But it doesn't seem to happen in response to the murder of legislation that would offer a helping hand to the poor and disadvantaged. It doesn't seem to happen in response to the mugging of education spending and infrastructure investments that provide the platform for equal opportunity. Why is that?

There are lots of reasons, I suppose: Congress seems remote and isolated, impossible to influence if you are an average citizen. Voting is not as cathartic as throwing bottles. No one person's vote matters anyway, right?

No. Not right.

Our vote is our molotov cocktail. We have to throw it. We have to try to light the fire. It’s our form of peaceful revolution. If we don't use it, we may blame Congress for being unresponsive to our needs, but in truth it is we who are not grappling with the problem. Ultimately, politicians do what they have to do to get elected. It's up to us to tell them what that is.

So if you don’t like what’s happening, or not happening, in Congress, don’t get cynical, get mad. Pick up your flag. Grab your friends. Join the crowd in the street. Vote.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

I Hope I Die Before I Get Wise

If I live long enough, I'm going to end up pretty discouraged. Not about myself, but about the human race. I was born into a bubble of optimism and egocentricity that has been deflating steadily ever since. When I was a boy, I didn't understand much about the world. Now I do. It has not been an altogether pleasant awakening. I bit from the apple of knowledge and realized I am naked.

I was at a dinner table with a young man from Bulgaria recently. He said it was rough there in the 1990s. I, showing I still have a lot to learn, asked why. He patiently and poignantly explained the descent into political and economic chaos after the dead hand of communism released its grip. Corruption, thuggery, oligarchy.


He was born in Bulgaria and lives there now, but he spent his teen years in Pittsburg when his mother came to the United States after the Wall fell to try to make a better life for her children. He said that in high-school in Pittsburg he was struck by how little was taught about the history and affairs of Europe and the rest of the world. I guess I come by my egocentricity naturally; apparently it’s a national trait.


It wasn't just the common struggle to find a new way of governing and a new way of organizing business that made things so difficult in the Bulgaria of his youth. Amid the new statelessness, ethnic and nationalistic hatreds dating back to the Ottoman Empire revived. Even today, he said, if you get a Bulgarian and a Macedonian together in a bar and get them drinking, there will be a fight.


As he was talking, I thought of the oligarchs in Russia, the bitter business and national rivalries in Asia, the sectarian wars in the Middle East, the tribal slaughters in Africa and Central America. Considering the durability of provincial antipathies, and the murders committed in their name, even the Tea Party begins to scare me.


I knew about the Cold War when I was a kid. During nuclear war drills, I ducked and covered under my desk with the rest of my grade-school classmates. But I didn't really feel it. I was in my little bubble. In many ways I still am. But it's getting harder and harder to be oblivious to the problems in the rest of the world. I read more about world affairs than I ever have, that's part of it, but the world is just smaller now. With the Internet and constant global reporting, it's like living in my small hometown when I was a boy, where I couldn't hide from scrutiny. Everyone seemed to know what mischief I was up to; now I know what mischief everyone else is up to.


Honestly, I think I liked it better the other way. I'm not sure I want to know as much as I do. The notion that as a species we are unlikely to kick the habit of petty brutality is depressing. I liked it better when I thought I, or at least we, could change the world. I won't say I’m wise yet. I'm a long way from it. I'm just not sure I want to know more.

* With apologies to Pete Townshend, who said that by old he meant rich, like the Queen Mother, who had his old Packard hearse towed because she didn’t like to see it on the street and inspired him to write "My Generation”.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

The Information Super Highway to Liberty

This is what my brother wrote to me this morning: “There is a difference between liberalism and leftism. The left likes to label itself as liberal, or even progressive, but it is not. It is a much more totalitarian mindset, and not particularly kind to its dissenters.”

I wonder if he might not be right.

David and I share a love of our dead father, golf and nostalgia, but we do not share political philosophies. As he put it himself: “I don't agree with the majority of your socio-political stances, and the role of government…But I will say this: there is a difference between liberalism and leftism.”

It was that last twist, the notion that the left and liberalism are different, that caught my attention. It reminded me of F.A. Hayek, the famous Austrian economist who, in the middle of totalitarianism’s worst hour, WWII, wrote The Road to Serfdom, in which he said that well-meaning but foolish socialists were, in entrusting so much to government planning and control, risking autocratic rule. Planners would want to plan, and as they tightened their planning processes and closed their ranks society would lose control of them. The totalitarian communism of the Soviet Union and China after Hayek published his book bore him out.

I’ve always thought that Hayek was writing about history, but I’ve learned from David and others that many believe he was writing about an eternal truth: central planning bureaucracies can’t—and mustn’t—be trusted. I say again: maybe they’re right.

There are so many big problems that look immune to any but governmental solutions—infrastructure, health care, poverty—that I tend to default to government as the remedy. My son Chris, who is a PhD candidate in Economics at Harvard, suggests I be skeptical of government intervention and welcome it only when no other solution is possible. Maybe he’s right too.

Chris and Meg and I were talking about my brother’s and Hayek’s views over breakfast and I asked Chris what viable alternatives to government action exist in the case of some of the important, large-scale roles it now plays. We talked about the spotty record to date of industry self-regulation, for instance, caused by obvious conflicts of interest. He suggested that our ability to get and share information more broadly in today’s high-tech world could make private regulation possible where it has not been before. Think Yelp instead of the FDA. That’s a gross exaggeration, but you get the idea.

Chris could be onto something revolutionary. We are on the cusp of a whole new world of data and data availability. As he put it: All of capitalism depends on market knowledge. I might add, as he suggested, that all effective and democratic government regulation depends on the same thing. Maybe information, and the means to quickly convey it, will be the bridge between those two great institutions: the free market and the government regulation that helps it behave, or at least not misbehave. It might also serve as a kind of vaccine against corruption in each.

Knowledge is power, the old saying goes. In Hayek’s time, few had it. Now many do. Might it not be possible, then, to achieve the lofty (Hayek said naive) aims of socialism using the power of capitalism yoked to broadly available data? And might it not be easier to trust both the government that Hayek feared and the capitalists that seem to have only their own interests at heart if we all had a clear idea of what each was doing? 

The libertarian in Hayek is in us all. The humanitarian in Marx in is in there too. Maybe now, aided by our new information technology, we can for the first time in history open up a real conversation between our competing instincts, one based on information rather than superstition, on understanding rather than fear.   

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Crimes in the Name of God

When ISIS (now called the Islamic State) took over Mosul in northern Iraq recently, its leaders ordered all women to wear full face veils. "This is not a restriction on her freedom but to prevent her from falling into humiliation and vulgarity or to be a theater for the eyes of those who are looking,” they said.

There were also reports that ISIS ordered all girls and women in Mosul to undergo female genital mutilation. These reports are less well substantiated, but the horror they describe is unimaginable.

In parts of India, Hindu widows are still shunned, and a woman who leaves her husband will not be taken back by her own family. Often her only choice for survival is to go to the city and become a beggar or a prostitute. Facing that, some commit suicide by setting fire to themselves in their marital beds.

If you are a Mormon mother, you are expected to stay at home. “The husband is expected to support his family and only in an emergency should a wife secure outside employment. Her place is in the home, to build the home into a heaven of delight.” (From the website of the Mormon Church.)

If you are a woman and a Catholic, you cannot aspire to be a priest.

If you are a woman who works for a company run by someone who, on religious grounds, opposes IUDs as a form of contraception, you must pay for your IUD yourself, even though the Affordable Care Act requires that your employer cover it under your health plan. (U.S. Supreme Court, Hobby Lobby.)

If you have business before the town council of Greece, New York, or many other governmental bodies in the U.S., you will have to miss the very beginning of the meeting if you don't want to hear the prayer that opens the session. (U.S. Supreme Court, Greece v. Galloway.) "When the citizens of this country approach their government, they do so only as Americans, not as members of one faith or another," Justice Kagan said in dissent. "And that means that even in a partly legislative body, they should not confront government-sponsored worship that divides them along religious lines." But for now, they will.

Having to listen to a Christian prayer at the beginning of public business is not the same as having to cover your face with a veil. Having to buy your own IUD is not the same as suffering female genital mutilation. But both the inconvenient and the horrific are ushered in under the same auspices: religious conviction. 

Religious conviction often motivates good works, but it sometimes inspires despicable acts. Which is why we would prefer to keep the government out of the business of sponsoring it. Zeal is dangerous, especially to infidels.

Religion is particularly hard on women. Men aren’t forced to cover their faces or have their genitals mutilated to the point they cannot experience pleasure in sex. Men are not the chattels of their wives' families, nor are they directed to say home and raise the kids. Men are not asked to submit to spiritual guidance exclusively by women.

If you are a woman and you want to stay in a misogynist religion, that should be your choice (if you really do have a free choice). But it is not the place of government to force other women or men to play by religious rules they do not accept. It is, instead, the proper role of government to round up the metaphorical members of ISIS when they force their religious commandments on others and put them on trial for their crimes. For make no mistake, they are crimes.

Friday, July 4, 2014

Flag Waving

They're waving American flags in Murrieta, California. They're taking a bold stand, blocking busses bringing women and children who have crossed into the country illegally but now just need shelter while we decide whether to send them back to the terrible conditions they fled. The Murrieta flag-waver's angry faces are mirrors across half a century of the faces twisted by hatred in the crowd in Little Rock, Arkansas taunting black high-school students trying to be the first to attend a white school there. I was not proud to be a Southerner that day, and I am not proud to be a Californian today.


There is something about national flags that scares me. Meg and I were just in Paris for a month. She has a book coming out about the liberation of Paris in WWII, and we went to museums and looked at a lot of old photos of the Nazi flag draped over the buildings of Paris. Even now, so many years later, those images terrify me. They capture what we are capable of in the name of nationalism. They symbolize intolerance and oppression. They symbolize the notion that one people are superior to another.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." That is the lofty ideal upon which our nation was founded. We have stumbled in fulfilling that promise. We fought a terrible Civil War over it. It took us another century to give blacks anything like equal rights under the law. And now we are struggling with what to do with what amounts to our second big influx of cheap labor. African slaves in the first wave, Hispanic crop workers in the second. We like the work people of color do for us, but it seems that many don't like the people themselves so well.

I understand xenophobia. I understand its roots in our cave-dwelling past. But understanding is not the same as liking. Or respecting. I grew up in the South in the middle of the civil rights movement. Naively, I thought that great struggle, which culminated in the Voting Rights Act, was behind us. That we were moving toward more tolerance, more inclusiveness. When I moved to California, instead of blacks, the minority that did all the hard work was Hispanic. My gardener was Hispanic. My children's nanny was Hispanic. She and her family are dear friends now. California is the Golden State. It's not the bigoted south. Except in Murrieta.

I know better than to believe that everyone will like everyone, or even tolerate everyone. I think we're making progress in learning to get along together, to accept one another, to understand that we all share a common humanity that has at its core a desire for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I don't want to try to tell people how open-minded they must be. They have to find their own way to that. A mind cannot be forced open.

But I do want us to stop waving the flag. I don't want to see it in front of immigration busses. I don't want to see it at libertarian rallies. I don't want to see it at gun shows. I don't even want to see it in politicians' lapels. I don't want to see the easy demagoguery of draping it over bigotry and intolerance. That's not what we fought for when we first raised it. That's not what makes us proud of it today as we celebrate the birth, if not the complete maturation, of our way of living together here in America.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Choices

It drives me crazy when my children make bad choices. They're all grown now, so I don't get to choose for them, but still I think I know best. I'm probably wrong about that--they certainly think so--but it doesn't keep me from cringing when they go off in some direction that I think won't be good for them. Even though I raised them to be independent thinkers, what I think I really had in mind was independent from the idiots out there, not from me. I'd steer them straight if I could, but alas...


So it was with some sympathy that I considered Hobby Lobby's position that their metaphorical children--the employees of their closely held family business, which they founded on Christian values--should be made to do what the business owners, the metaphorical parents, felt they should do. And not just at work, but in their private lives as well. In their most private lives. (I note here that except for advising that tenderness is generally the best foreplay, I have at least stayed out of my children's bedrooms.) 

Hobby Lobby just wants for its employees what I want for my children, that is that they do what Dad, or the boss, thinks is best for them. The difference between us is that I realize I am wrong to want that, and Hobby Lobby does not. Indeed, the Hobby Lobby owners have worked themselves up into a good old fashioned stem-winding religious frenzy about the matter, saying that if they are forced to offer a health plan that pays for contraception, even if they don't foot the bill for it, they are being made to violate their religious beliefs. 

Since the ACA does not require Hobby Lobby to force-feed contraceptives to its employees, nor impose any requirement that any employee ever use any kind of contraception unless he or she wants to, the Hobby Lobby complaint must be seen, simply and nakedly, for what it is: the company owners don't want their employees going against the owners' religious beliefs. Regardless of the employee's individual religious beliefs on the subject, if any, the owners mean to make certain forms of contraception more difficult to choose by forcing their employees to pay for them out of their own pockets.

This is the same trick I tried when I used to tell my children that if they wanted to do something I didn't want them to do I wasn't going to pay for it. In the days when both their allowances and their independent financing alternatives were small, this was pretty effective. I'm not completely sure it prevented the behavior I wanted to discourage (does a parent ever really know what his children are doing?), but I do know one thing it did: it made them resent me, at least for that time and that issue. That kind of resentment builds up. Like steam. Eventually the lid blows off.

We don't like being told what to do. Hobby Lobby doesn't like being told its health plan has to include contraception coverage, even at no cost to it. And I expect none of its employees, no matter how devout, want the boss in the bedroom.

Religious freedom means not being persecuted for what you believe. It means being able to worship when and how you want. Those are the freedoms we sailed across the Atlantic in tiny wooden ships to secure. It does not, almost by definition, mean the right to tell others that they must conduct their lives in accordance with your religious beliefs. Indeed, if they are to be free to practice their own religion, or none at all, it cannot mean that.

I will spare you the legal analysis. The conservative block of the current Supreme Court is, it sufficeth to say, not actually that great at legal analysis: see, eg, campaign finance, gun ownership, voting rights, and now this case. We will be saved from them in time. Hopefully we will not have to wait for that other life in heaven they talk about. If so, maybe I'll have to start going to Hobby Lobby's church.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

In the Window

The first place the tour guide took us on our walk about Amsterdam was the red-light district. We turned a corner, and Voila! Women in windows. Scantily clad women in windows. Like watches or purses, except that I never felt self-conscious staring at a display of watches.


Prostitution is legal here. You know that. I knew that. Still, it's a little shocking--I don't have a better word for it--to pass these little four-foot wide window perches with women sitting or standing there leaving no doubt about why. Pot is legal here too. Actually, it's not; just no one, including the police, cares. 

So what about that? Let's start with pot. I guess its fine. I confess to not having too strong a feeling either way. I don't think getting stoned regularly is the gateway to a productive life. But then neither is getting drunk regularly. So, I don't know. Whatever.

But prostitution bothers me. It's between consenting adults, and all that, so why should I care? Even the state doesn't care. It makes money (taxes) on it. But it's not the way I like to think about women, and more importantly, I don't think its the way they ought to think about themselves.

Prostitution, even if legal, perpetuates the stereotype of women as sex objects. A sex object is different from a sexual partner. Sexual partners are the inspiration for sonnets. Sex objects are the inspiration for scorn.

We don't need to be looking at women as fucks for sale. Something that can be bought, even a woman's body for fifteen minutes, is no different than anything else that can be bought. It is not your equal. It is your possession. It is yours to do with as you please. Without any responsibility on your part for its over-all well being, never mind its humanity. It's yours to buy and use and toss aside. 

That's what slaves in America were. That's what too many women in too many parts of the world still are. We men need to take a stand against looking at women that way. Until we stop seeing them as our disposable sex toys, we cannot truly see them as our equals.

Scammers of the Seine

You won't do this on the first day you're in Paris, or the second or third, or maybe even the first week. There are museums and towers and jardins to see, and bridges over the Seine at night. And baguettes to eat and wine to drink. So much beauty, such good bread and wine. But after a while, when Paris has settled into you, and you to it, I recommend this diversion. Meg and I call it spot the scam.

Go to one of the pedestrian bridges over the Seine, where we all go with our lovers to gaze upon the light on the river, and watch the hustlers work. There are many scams in Paris, but on the bridges, the "gold ring" seems to be a favorite. It's fascinating, really, to watch the women who do it. They sit on the benches looking bored and talk to one another and every once in a while one of them gets up and trolls for a mark. She (always a woman) bends down in front of some prosperous looking person and pretends to find a gold ring. "Is this yours?" she asks sincerely, with a hint of longing. After a time we identified at least a half dozen women and girls, of three generations, languidly working together, chatting up the sellers of paintings and love locks between forays. Theirs was obviously a family business. One of them seemed to handle the money. What we didn't know was how they got it. What the scam was. 

So we watched. Maybe it's a pickpocket diversion, we speculated. One gets the mark focused on the ring while her accomplice lifts a wallet. We watched for a long while, but we couldn't see anything dramatic happening. One of them came toward us. "Look out over the river, like we are absorbed in one another," I said to Meg. Sure enough, the girl produced a gold ring from the ground at our feet and asked if it was ours. About the same time, one of the guys who we had seen being friendly with the women passed behind us. We guessed that if we had stood up he would have magically looted us.

It turns out--thank you, Youtube and Wikipedia--that the scam is more prosaic: if you hesitate when asked, she will say you should take the ring, that her religion forbids her to wear jewelry. When you reluctantly accept, she will tell you she is poor and could use some money for food, for her sister, for whatever. You, already feeling guilty for keeping the ring, fork over a few Euros for a worthless piece of brass.

Another group you see on the bridges and at the Tuileries are the petition girls. "Do you speak English?" they ask, looking earnest and pitiful all at once. Say "Non," if you are wise. A "yes, gets you several of them swarming around you, asking you to sign for freedom for sex slaves. They brush you with the tenderness of a bird's wings as they pursue the freedom they are actually seeking, which is of your wallet from the bondage of your pocket. Pickpockets are legendary in Paris. If you go to the Eiffel Tower, as you're packed in the line or on the elevator like Pringles in a can, you will hear the recorded warning, "Pickpockets are active in the tower." They play it instead of muzak.

Pickpockets practice a vulgar art, though. They may be agile and light-fingered, but they don't play on our own cupidity. The gold ring girls are running a low-level con. When one of the younger ones returns to the bench where a much older woman waits, you can almost here her asking, "Grandma, when are you going to teach me to play the big con?" Newman and Redford would approve.

On the way back to our apartment, just below our third-floor window, we came upon a small crowd gathered around a man squatting over the shell game. He was using shallow wooden boxes, about the size of matchboxes, and a bright white pea. His hands were fast, but he tipped the boxes back slightly when he moved them so that often I could see where the pea was, as could anyone watching carefully. Those in the crowd held out their Euros and guessed where the pea was. Sometimes they were right, sometimes wrong. If you watched long enough, you began to realize that many in the crowd, men and women, were his confederates. 

They were also excellent actors, feigning enthusiasm, nervousness, joy and disappointment. Every once in a while a live prospect walked up. The pea man often let him pick without betting, and when he got it right, one of his peeps would say excitedly, "You've won." She might even offer to lend a reluctant mark money to try her hand. The ultimate result is pretty much what happens to most of us in Vegas, or when we buy lottery tickets. The way the shell man keeps the odds in his favor is by, at critical moments, simply palming the pea. He's good. You never see it. 

But he and his pals see everything. I had my camera phone out, down by my side, and I snapped a few pictures, inconspicuously, I thought. Apparently not, as I drew a finger wagging reproach from one of the helpers. A short time later, Meg photographed them out the window of our apartment. They saw her too, and her long lens broke up the game. As he walked off, the maestro looked up at me. I was standing back in the room, thinking about something else, but somehow his gaze compelled me to look toward him He pointed at me in a way every man understands: this is a game for players, not rats; surely I kew what happened to rats.

I have to admit, I kind of like cons. Harold Hill was always one of my favorites. The best ones   leave you never knowing you were conned. The hustler makes a living and you don't get hurt, or at least you don't know it, not right away anyway. It's so much more civilized than sticking a gun in someone's face and scaring the hell out of them. 

Like Ponzi schemers, the gold-ring and shell-game scammers along the Seine are just looking for an edge, and depending on the greed of others to give it to them. Whom do we have to blame for that? A con artist has no chance except with someone looking to get a little something for nothing.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Taking Back Our Lives

How do you like being told what to do? Not so much, I'm guessing. We put up with it when we have to. Most of the time we know its for our own good. Traffic laws, criminal laws, environmental laws. Sometimes, though, it seems like it's for someone else's good, not our own, and then being made to live in a way we don't want to is galling. This is what has the Tea Party so upset. They don't want the federal government, or any government, telling them what to do.


I see their point. And lately, I'm as mad about what someone is making me do as they are about paying taxes. Like some Texans, I'm ready to secede. The bully that's got my back up is the gun lobby. We need to get organized and throw off their tyranny. We need a revolution. We're being taxed by them, in lives, without representation. They have bullied our legislators and have accumulated Justices on the highest court who are willing to endorse their anachronistic view of our Constitution. Their answer when we complain: "Let them eat bullets."

As a nation, we've always been ambivalent about guns. We don't much like taking them away from folks. Given our heritage, that's understandable. But the bloodletting in our cities got so bad that a few, notably Washington D.C. and Chicago, passed laws designed to get guns off the streets. Not so fast, said the Supreme Court in 2008 and 2010. The Second Amendment guarantees the right of an individual to own a gun.

Many scholars think the Second Amendment does no such thing. Michael Waldman, a law professor, has written a whole book about what the framers meant, reviewed in today's NYT by Joe Nocera. A year and a half ago, after the Connecticut school shootings, I joined the chorus complaining that the Supreme Court got it wrong. But that's what they said; and now that's the law of the land. We can wait for them to change their minds, or we can do something about it, the only thing we can do: Repeal the Second Amendment.

Wait, do you mean take away guns? Not at all. If there were no Second Amendment, guns would be like everything else in a free society: you could own them unless someone passed a law saying you couldn't. In some places, say Wyoming, that's unlikely. In Chicago, I'm sure they'd be delighted to try again to stop the bleeding caused by guns. 

The point is this: Guns don't deserve special protection. Except to the hard-core, the right to own a gun does not have the same sanctity as the right to be protected against racial discrimination or unwarranted search and seizure. A gun is nice to hunt with. If you're really paranoid, you might like to keep one in your bedside drawer (although the statistics indicate it's more likely that a family member rather than a criminal will be killed by it). You should be able to decide how many guns you want in your community, you and your fellow citizens. You shouldn't be forced to live in a town where your personal safety is threatened by the ubiquity of guns, not if you and a majority in your community don't want that.

But that's the situation we find ourselves in now. The gun lobby is fanatical. Some might even say fascist. They have in effect take over the country and are forcing their ideology and unsafe living environment on the rest of us. They are a minority, I believe. Let's find out. Let's put it to a vote. In your town and mine.

But before we can do that, we have to clear away the special protection they have won for themselves through the Supreme Court's wrongheaded view of the law. We have to repeal the Second Amendment.

Ha, you say. True, it's a tall order. But so was emancipation. So was women's suffrage. We've done it before. We can do it again. We just have to believe we can. And we have to care enough to try. I don't know about you, but I can't stand to see another young person murdered. I'm ready to vote against any politician who won't support repeal of the Second Amendment. I'm ready to be like the NRA and make mine a single-issue vote.

Are you with me?


"Will you join in our crusade, who will be strong and stand with me?
Beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?
Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free."

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Writing Myself

In his column a few days ago, Timothy Egan reminded us of Teddy Roosevelt's view of the wisdom of industrial titans: "You expect a man of millions, the head of a great industry, to be a man worth hearing,” T.R. once said. “But as a rule they don’t know anything outside their own business."


Guilty.

I've long been good at getting good at something. You focus and you work hard and you persist and sometimes "Bingo." Man, that feels good. It goes to your head, though, to mine anyway. Especially if it makes money. There's nothing like being able to buy a woman flowers and champagne every day to make you think you've got it all figured out. All the important stuff, anyway.


But I'm a different person now. I blame it on writing. I'm not making enough money writing to keep my girl in champagne and flowers--she loves me anyway; who knows why--but that's not the worst of it. The big casualty of my writing has been my blissful, self-absorbed ignorance. That and my self image. Not the image I have of myself now, but the image I had of myself then. I thought I was hot stuff. Turns out, T.R. pretty much had me pegged.


I cared about others in those days. I had empathy. What I didn't have was time. I worked hard to be successful, and when I wasn't doing that, I was looking after my family. If something didn't have anything to do with either of those pursuits, I just didn't pay that much attention to it. To give you an idea of how bad it was, I thought Ronald Reagan was an okay president.


When you're in that mode--making something new, inventing yourself--big philosophical issues feel like something you left behind in the college library. They are the mountains that run down to the valley that cradles the stream that carries you along. You are too busy swimming to give them much thought. Too busy to ask yourself where you would be if they weren't there at all. Way too busy to wonder whether without mountains there could even be streams.


I have more time now, and I think about these things. Not just because I have time to. Suddenly, urgently, I want to understand. I want to explore the mountains. I wouldn't even mind a peek over to the other side. Like Timothy Egan, I see the global religious, political and social struggles of the day and I think: It can't be as hopeless as it seems. Surely we aren't doomed endlessly to repeat the same mistakes, fight the same fights, as if no one has made them or fought them before, as if no one has learned anything.


Well, maybe we are. 


But even that is interesting to think about. Why that might be. What it means about who we really are. Why can we see the mountains if we are doomed to forget them? What would be the evolutionary point of that? We'd be better off never looking up from the stream. But we do look up. Some of us. Sometimes. The things we learn about ourselves when we do that must be good for something. Why else would we have that capacity?


Perhaps we cannot do and think at the same time. Perhaps we are in a non-multitasking stage of our cognitive development. Do or think. Think or do. Not both at once. Sorry. Come back when Humanbrain 2.0 has been installed.


We are great builders. We are great thinkers. But I fear our two great selves don't spend enough time together. Achievement, meet conscience. You two should talk. I think you'd enjoy one another.

Friday, May 16, 2014

Wars of the World

Every time I go to a war museum it's like the first time. I see the stories of killing and anguish, the photos, the weapons, and I think, How can we do that to one another? Each time I'm as shocked and horrified as if I'd been out for a walk on a pleasant afternoon and stumbled unexpectedly upon a fresh mass grave.

Meg and I went to the WWI and WWII exhibits at Les Invalides in Paris recently, and I left thinking: I must write about this. I turned it over in my mind for a few days and, as I seem always to do, I came back to: What is there to say? This is just how we are. How we've always been.

We are, at base, a primitive species. It takes precious little to strip away our veneer of civility and turn us into animals. And yet, there is that civility. We are not, most of the time, savages. And it seems that as civilization progresses our large-scale outbursts of primitive behavior--murdering each other for money, mates and territory--may be lessening somewhat.

Which makes me wonder about the catalysts for our regressions into the heart of darkness. On an individual level, there is jealousy and road rage. For nations, there is nationalistic fervor. The biggest difference between the two is that a jealous lover may do some damage, but he won't destroy a whole city. Not so for a Hitler.

Can we blame wars, then, on crazy nationalistic ideologues? Maybe. Perhaps there would have been no WWII without Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito. But they needed followers. And from the looks of photos and film clips of the fervent crowds of German, Italian and Japanese civilians in the run-up to that war, they certainly had them. 

Were those people tricked into war? Or did they want it? Were they led astray, or merely taken where they wanted to go? Can we learn to resist demagoguery, or is our blood lust a dormant seed hibernating within us, like a locust in chilled earth, until awakened by the heat of hatred?

Thursday, April 24, 2014

How We Think

I've been thinking again about how we think. About the reasoning processes that produce such paradoxes. About how two of us, with good minds and good educations, can look at a situation, especially one involving our dearest principles, and come to such different conclusions.

Corrupt Legislation (1896) by Elihu Vedder.
Library of Congress
, Washington, D.C.
What got me started this time was Chief Justice John Roberts. Specifically his majority opinion in McCutcheon v. FEC, which opens the door for individual donors to contribute to as many politicians as they wish. The other big campaign finance case during Roberts' tenure, Citizens United, permitted corporations and PACs to spend as much as they wanted on political campaigns. Taken together, McCutcheon and Citizens United all but eliminate limits on political contributions and spending.


I doubt anyone thinks private financing of politicians doesn't influence legislation. There's even a century-old mural depicting legislative corruption in the main reading room of the Thomas Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. So why, when Congress finally worked up the courage to try to wean itself from its money addiction, did the Supreme Court decide to weigh in on the side of deep-pocketed donors? What kind of thinking got them there?


Before Roberts' tenure, the Court thought it so obvious that money corrupts politicians that it welcomed most campaign finance reform. It routinely acknowledged the risks to democracy from "politicians too compliant with the wishes of large contributors." Money--in the form of PACs, businessmen with political agendas, rich ideologues, anyone who wanted his representative to be especially grateful for his financial help--kept up the pressure, though: We're just exercising our First Amendment freedoms. You can't take those away from us. That would be un-American. Un-democratic.


And money found a sympathetic audience in the Roberts Court. The legal reasoning goes like this:


Free speech is essential to democracy and must not be limited except under the most compelling circumstances of potential harm to the public (think, shouting fire in a crowded theatre);


Money is speech;


Therefore, political contributions and spending must not be limited except in the most compelling circumstances, which the Roberts Court found to exist only in cases of outright bribery ("quid quo pro corruption," as the Court calls it).


Chains of logic like this are called syllogisms. Syllogisms are beguilingly persuasive, which is why lawyers like them. One logical step leads painlessly to the next. If you're not careful, though, they can take you to strange places. You're out for a walk on a sunny afternoon, following the path of logic, daydreaming absently, and you look up and find yourself lost. When logic leads you somewhere that is at odds with common sense, it's called "reductio ad absurdum." I used to be so good at it that my favorite professor in law school regularly noted my talent to my classmates. I don't think he meant it as a compliment.


No matter the intellectual seductiveness of the Roberts Court's logic, I think we all sense--indeed, feel pretty confident--that we'd be better off if no one could buy political influence. If a politician has to listen to you because of the way you spend your money for or against him or his positions, you are buying influence. It would be better if currency of political influence was ideas, not lucre.


The irony of the McCutcheon and Citizen United decisions--the reductio ad absurdum--is that the Roberts Court has used an essential theoretical building block of our democracy, the First Amendment, to erect a practical barrier to the operation of that same democracy. On paper the votes of individual citizens will still matter, but the real power to influence those votes, and to anoint the politicians from whom voters must choose, will flow to those with money.
I'm not the first to be dismayed by the decisions. Linda Greenhouse, who writes about the Supreme Court for The New York Times, wrote recently, "Maybe somewhere in the country there is someone sufficiently out of touch with political reality to be open to the chief justice’s persuasion." David Brooks, the Times' thoughtful conservative columnist, gamely tried to make the best of it by saying McCutcheon would strengthen the influence of the political parties, which would serve as a salutary counterweight to ideological big spenders like the the Koch brothers.


The McCutcheon and Citizens United decisions seem so at odds with the ideals of our democracy that what fascinates me is this: Why did Roberts, who is not stupid, decide this way? Maybe, like David Brooks, he's a fan of Edmund Burke, the eighteenth-century political and social philosopher considered by many to be the father of modern conservatism. Maybe, like Burke, Roberts is fundamentally uncomfortable with democracy. Burke didn't trust the masses. He thought the natural order of things was for men with land to govern. Men with money.


Not since the Warren Court of the 1950s has the Supreme Court as actively re-written our social compact. The difference, of course, is that the Warren Court was protecting the little guy, whereas the Roberts Court has made it its mission is to protect the big guy. It's frankly hard to understand why. Except in a revolution, money doesn't need protecting.


The men on the Court who are with Roberts on this (and it's all men) are not rich. They can't be bribed, so supporting monied interests cannot benefit them personally. And despite my idle musings that Roberts might be a closet Burkean, it seems unlikely that he or his colleagues truly mean to subvert our democracy. This leaves me thinking they must have fallen for their own sophistry. Seduced by the arrogant beauty of their pinched logic, they’ve strolled heedlessly along its path into the political theme park where they, and thanks to them, the rest of us, now find ourselves. A place where the rides are glitzy and slick barkers grin and say come on in, but where there are no other attractions to choose from, only the ones money built.

It's enough to make me wish my old law professor had encouraged me to take a judicial clerkship. If I had held onto my youthful skill at laying out a logical path to an absurd result, I would have been an outstanding candidate for Chief Justice of the United States.

Monday, April 21, 2014

No Family, No Chance

Whenever I hear someone say that the solution to our social problems is a return to strong families, I cringe. Don’t get me wrong, I think families are important. I'd have nothing to write about in this blog if it weren't for my family. And there is no question that a good family, one with the emotional and financial resources, and the time, to support one another, gives a child an important head start. Such a family doesn't guarantee success for its offspring, but it certainly doesn't guarantee failure.

That's the problem with a bad family: it almost seems to guarantee failure. If you're abused or neglected and malnourished, if there is no one to help you when you need it, to show you the way when you stray, the odds are you aren't going to have such a good life. You're more likely to end up in prison than college, more likely to pursue drugs than dreams, more likely to engage in risky behaviors that lead to teen crime and pregnancy and effectively end your adult life before it begins.


We have a notion of family as a kind of Platonic ideal: we bear our children and look after them; with every generation the cycle repeats and humans flourish. Maybe that ideal was reflected in reality in some long-ago time, but no one can read Hugo or Dickens and not realize that, especially among the poor, it hasn't been that way for a long while.


There seems to be something in our nature that wants failure to be a choice. If someone is fat, he just doesn't have the willpower to push away from the table; if someone is out of work, she isn't looking hard enough; if a child goes hungry, his parents are lazy or negligent, or both. I suspect the psychological underpinning of this is in part our understandable desire to preserve the illusion that we are in control of our own fates--that bad stuff won't happen to me. But I fear that another part of the reason may be to absolve us from responsibility for doing anything about the adversity that befalls others--that's their problem, it's up to them to solve it. This enables us to feel sympathy, to reassure ourselves that our hearts are in the right place, without having to open our checkbooks.


Let's start with children. Surely no one thinks it's a newborn's fault that he was born with drugs in his system. Surely no one thinks a toddler should be responsible for finding her own food, or that a six-year old should teach herself to read, that a twelve year old should be forced to learn math by intuition. Kids need nurture and education. Can we all agree on that? And if they don't get it, not only are their lives the worse for the lack, society as a whole bears the inevitable cost. We not only lose their productivity, we pay for their prisons, for their medical care later in life, even their burial. And what do we or they get for those societal expenditures? Nothing.


Judith Warner had a good column in today's NYT in which she urged more employer support for families, more generous paid family leave, more flexible work schedules to accommodate family emergencies and needs. Higher level employees already have many of these benefits, but those down the salary scale have few. And it’s those lower-paid employees, the ones without the flexibility of greater financial resources, who most need the benefits. If we want the family to take responsibility for itself, we may have to give it a little help.


As hard as it is in today's political environment to get food stamps and day care for kids, it's even more difficult to get help for their parents. The relentless drumbeat to reduce unemployment benefits is just one example. The feeling seems to be that grownups are not children, and they can damn well look after themselves.


The problem is that many of them can't. Many are young men and women raised in poverty without the education to make much of their lives. Many others are older and have lived in poverty all their lives; as far as they can see, there is no way out. And yet we--not all of us, but too many--we who have ourselves benefited from good families look upon these unfortunates in the same way some look down upon people who are obese: those folks need to get a grip, try harder, pull themselves up by their bootstraps. While that may be a Puritanically satisfying plan of action, it's not going to happen.


Let's talk about obesity. Why has it increased so much in the last fifty years? Did we all just get lazy and fat? Did we all loose our willpower? I don't think so. I think we all started eating refined and processed foods that gave us more sugar, salt and fat, and in bigger doses, than our bodies were evolved to handle. Too many calories equals too much body-fat. Is that our own fault? Yes and no. It's sort of like smoking and cancer: we just didn't realize what these new foods and eating habits were doing to us until it was too late. Now we know, but were hooked. Nothing is harder than quitting smoking, except maybe quitting eating stuff that's bad for you.


The point is that we're not always fully responsible for what happens to us. Humans are good at many things, but changing established patters of behavior isn't one of them. And when those mass behaviors create widespread damage, it has to be the job of all of us to clean up the mess. No one person, no one unit of social organization--like the family--can do that. It's too hard. We have to work together. We have to fill in the gaps. We have to take care of those who aren't being taken care of.


I don't think many disagree with those broad principles. Maybe a few hardcore libertarians, but not many. The problem is that we haven't yet developed remediation systems that we all agree make sense. People worry that the government wastes taxpayers' money with inefficient programs that are riddled with fraud. Private charity hardly makes a dent. Workplace reforms come slowly, because capitalism is a jealous mistress who punishes the unprofitable. In the absence of solutions in which we all have confidence, we’re having a hard time mustering support--within companies, communities and governments--for specific programs.


Okay, so we're just going to go slowly, as we always do. We're going to grope our way. We're going to get better and better over time, but maybe over a long time. While we're on that long journey, though, I think we should be singing "We Shall Overcome" and not "Get a Job."

Thursday, April 17, 2014

The Map of Our Lives

At my father's funeral, the local pharmacist, who had a soda counter where Dad went to eat strawberry sundaes to try to keep up his weight, to try to stay alive to see his fiftieth birthday, told me that the year I got my first bonus as an associate in an LA law firm was the year my dad knew he'd lost me. Until then, I guess he'd hoped I might come back to Nashville. He'd offered to buy me a house there before I left, offered me a junior membership in the country club where I grew up playing golf. But I couldn't wait to get out of there. Nashville was a small town. Everybody knew me and my family, or at least that's how it seemed to me. I wanted a little anonymity, a chance to figure out for myself who I was.

The cities where my children are. Or, "Why is this map smiling?"
Three years later, who I was was a son grieving for his father. His death didn't make me wish I'd not left--not then or even now, with the perspective of time--but it taught me something. Several things, really. For instance, I didn't realize until I heard it in the tone of my father's friend the pharmacist how much my father had wanted me to stay. He offered the inducements I mentioned, but he never really said it. Or maybe I just wasn't ready to hear it. We could have come back together in a few years (maybe I could have enticed him to come to LA), but I needed space first, and then he was gone.

Flash forward a few decades. Here I am again, but this time the shoe is on the other foot. I'm the father hoping his sons will come back home. One is. Not because I want him to (although I’m sure he’s glad I do), but because this is where he means to seek his fortune. He'll graduate in a couple of weeks with a degree in computer science and electrical engineering. Silicon Valley is to him what LA was to me when I was his age: a honeyed land of opportunity. Everything he wants to do is here. Meg's and my good luck is that so are we.

But our other son wants to be an economist, and he's just been accepted into the PhD program at Harvard. I couldn't be happier for him (nothing could have kept me out of Harvard law school if I'd gotten in), but I confess to a bit of melancholy. Before he got his Harvard acceptance, when I'd thought he might come to Berkeley, I'd launched into a not too subtle marketing campaign for California: sunshine, family nearby (but not too close), a lifetime supply of the shorts he loves to wear, that he wore even as an undergrad in Chicago, until the snow was over the tops of his tennis shoes. Who knows, a new car might not be out of the question, I hinted.

I should have known better, right? Wasn't it my own father's solicitations that drove me away? Well, not really. True, I sensed that his bribes were merely a more sophisticated means of controlling me as, with expansive bursts of drama, he had always tried to do, but I was used to that and knew how to deal with it. No, the real problem was that Nashville was a small town in those days, too small for me. Say what you want, but the San Francisco Bay Area is not provincial. And although I do probably make too many helpful suggestions to my children, I am not my father.

Except in this way: I can see myself sitting down with a friend and saying, "Damn, I've lost him now."

I know this because I've already lost three. I married the first time when I was very young and had three children by the time I got out of law school (hence my father's offer of a house, which would have been a weird thing to offer a single young man). By the time Meg and I married, two of my first three kids were in college and the third was a senior in high school. My oldest son went off to the University of Pennsylvania and never came back. He's a lawyer in Philly now, with a lawyer wife and two children. My second son is in Atlanta with his wife and three kids, via college at Vanderbilt (a bit of irony) and business school in Cambridge. My daughter got her MFA in drama in New York and stayed for a while to perform off Broadway. By the time she returned to LA to pursue a career in film, I was gone. And now her mother has left too. Hers is less a case, I suppose, of her leaving her family than of her family slipping out of town while she was working on her dream.

There are, in my experience, three forces that pull and push us as we make our way in the world apart from our parents. There is a positive force, a kind of gravitational attraction to family and place, that pulls us back home. There is a negative force, the dark matter born out of the Big Bang of family stress, that pushes us away. And there is a kind of free-floating youthful energy that has nothing to do with family and that crackles like a Van de Graaff generator with the restless urge to learn and feel and grow, to be vibrantly alive. Whatever the force that propels us, however, if we go far enough away, for long enough, although we might not think much about it at the time, gradually a new way and place of living becomes the status quo. Suddenly, somewhere else is home.

Twenty-five years after I left Nashville, I returned. Meg and I were married and had Chris and Nick. I took a job there that I shouldn't have, that wasn't right for me. I was licking my wounds after a business failure. Maybe subconsciously I was slinking back home. I quit that job after a month, but we stayed in Nashville. Meg was writing, and soon so was I. Nashville was affordable, the boys were in a nurturing elementary school and, most importantly as it turned out, my mother and grandfather were there. In the years we stayed, I reconnected with them and Meg and the boys got to know them. By the time Mom died, I had a completely different appreciation for her than when I'd first bolted from town all those years before. I wouldn't give anything now for those last years with her, even though I admit that if I had found a better job somewhere else, I never would have gone back home. So what is that? Life giving me a second chance?

Sentimentality is not a young-person's game. No one is going to die. There is always time to go back home and catch up. Chances to grab the brass ring, on the other hand, feel urgent and fleeting. If we didn't take them, not only would we feel bitter about opportunities missed, civilization itself might stagnate. Still, if you believe that literature shows us who we are, think about what it tells us. I'm pretty sure there are far fewer angsty, heartbreaking and triumphant novels about jobs and friends than about family. For better and worse, our deepest passions are reserved for our families. Living too far away from them is a little like having a long-distance romance: It can be exciting, but in the end it leaves you missing a lot of love every day.

When I was a boy, I had a cat named Pepper. She disappeared one day. We looked for her, but we had no idea what had happened to her. Big dogs roamed loose in the neighborhood in those days. I imagined an owl had swooped down on her in the night. Years later, an eternity in the lifetime of a boy, she reappeared. She had been gone so long that not only did I not recognize her at first, I almost didn't even remember her. Her reappearance was like a magic trick. I wish I still had that cat. Maybe she could teach me how she did that.