Gone

Opening scene: a man texts his daughter a link to a story he thinks she might like. Above it, on his computer screen, can be seen other texts to her over a period of months. Cute dog videos (she has a cute one herself), messages to call when she would like to talk (her voicemail is full), other messages asking if she is ok. Mostly she doesn’t reply. Once in a while, for his birthday, for instance, she gets back to him with an apology for not staying in touch.

A gift painted when she was sixteen.

Her mother lives with her now. They share a tiny rent-controlled apartment in L.A., where his daughter moved twenty-five years ago to pursue her dream of being a film actress. She’s talented. She has an MFA in drama from a great university; she acted off Broadway. But she has a bad cocktail of brain chemistry that makes her too anxious to promote herself the way one must to succeed in such a tough occupation.

So her life has shrunk down to 430 square feet shared with her mom and an adorable dog.

Her mom is a godsend. His daughter might not be able to manage on her own. Or maybe she could, but her mom doesn’t think so, so she moved in. That’s both the good news and the bad news, in the father’s opinion.

He divorced her mom thirty-five years ago, when his daughter was fifteen. He thought she was happy and carefree then, but he later learned from her that she had been having problems with anxiety for years. She hid them well. He had no idea. Maybe he should have.

Those problems became brutally apparent soon enough. She tried to succeed. He tried to help. Neither was successful.

Now her mother has taken over his daughter’s care…and her life, it seems. Her mother lives in Atlanta but she hasn’t been home in over a year. His daughter wants nothing to do with Atlanta.

At every turn the father and mother felt the other’s choices weren’t the best ones for their daughter. For thirty-five years her mother has refused to to speak to him, so it’s been impossible to work through those disagreements in the normal way. It might have been impossible in any event; they have pretty different perspectives on how to help. 

And his daughter is her own woman. She’s anxious, but she’s otherwise smart and capable. She knows what she wants. The kind of help her mom is giving her.

So he sends her birthday and holiday gifts and texts her cute videos, wondering for the millionth time how it came to this. Wondering if he’s just a fool. If he could have done more, should have done more. Wondering whether his life with his daughter—the delightful, funny intelligent woman who in their times together has brought joy and light into his life—is essentially over.

Pass it On

I taught one of my boys to play chess. He was five. Within a shockingly short time, he was crushing me. 

I taught another how to improve his odds of getting what he wanted from a merchant...or anyone, really. Be charming and go slow, was the essence of it.

Fishing, tennis, basketball, golf. I taught them all that, with varying degrees of success. The fishing and a brief foray into hunting brought me around to feeling that I didn't want to kill anything, even for food. You can get food at the grocery store. You don’t have to personally murder it. Lately, it has gotten hard to think about anyone penning and slaughtering animals to feed me. For just that empathetic reason, one of my sons is a vegetarian. He taught me, rather than the other way around.

I taught them that their word is their bond. That their personal integrity is as important as eating and breathing. They embraced that lesson, with occasional youthful exceptions for Napster and BitTorrent.

I didn’t teach them math, even though all of them are great at it. I flatter myself that by staying out of their homework I was teaching them self-reliance. I think I was just lazy. Also, not good at math.

My kids are all grown now. None of them want me to teach them anything. I get it. These days I confine myself to lobbing in occasional bits of unsolicited advice. Much appreciated advice, I’m sure. “I’m aware,” one of them is fond of saying, in his charming way. The protege become the master.

I taught them to be kind, even though I was not always. That lesson seems to have stuck. Maybe when I wasn’t kind they saw first-hand how much better it is to be so. 

As I said, the proteges surpass the master.

That’s the best part of it, really: raising kids who are better than you. It’s like a last chance on this earth to atone for your sins, to correct your imperfections. To make the world a better place by leaving behind copies of yourself that aren’t copies at all, but are version 2.0, with more good features, better all around, just the way the original model should have been.

American Mujahideen

Kabul has fallen. Ashraf Ghani has fled Afghanistan. The Afghan army, recruited and trained by America to defend the government it installed and supported, has crumpled like a cheap suit. It didn't fit the country. Burkas are the new must-have fashion.

Meanwhile, as the Taliban demands that Afghan women be masked, in America our political extremists insist that they not be. Not women or children or men. As we are all too painfully aware, the masks that our freedom fighters decry are the ones that save lives. 

As to keeping women in their place, American zealots have other methods for that: don't let them have control over their reproductive choices; don't give them child-care assistance; don't give them equal pay. "Keep women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen" wouldn't be far off the mark as the rallying cry for the American Mujahideen.

Zealots. Is that too strong a word? Aren't they just standing up for what they believe in? Isn't that the American way?

I suppose so. But what they believe in is white-male-paternalism. Not that different, really, than the theocracy of Afghanistan, Iran and many other parts of the world. It masquerades as religion, but what it is really about is men. Men controlling other men, certainly, but most of all men controlling women. If you control the womb, you control the future.

Donald Trump built a big following by stoking fear that Mexico was sending us its criminals and rapists. They're coming for our wives and daughters. They must be met with unmerciful force. Our future as a purebred race is at stake. Sound familiar? It worked for a guy in Germany eighty five years ago.

The quest for religious purity driving the Taliban is no different than our quest for ideological purity in American politics. And it has the same root. Fear of the other. Fear he will rape our women.

The refusenik politics of today is not about libertarianism or religious freedom, it is about keeping women in their place. It is the desperate and terrifying death rattle of the dying hegemony of the patriarchy.

Testosterone and hatred combine to create a powerful stimulant, though. Those on it (including the women who, for whatever reason, follow men there) are hard to stop. Perhaps it is they, not the women who unselfishly give their bodies and lives to the next generation, who need to be kept under wraps.

Independence

I need my country, I know that. It gives me security and opportunity, which are in short supply in many parts of the world. From time to time it has given me idealism and pride. Other times, it has disappointed me. In the same way my charismatic father’s bad behavior disillusioned and disappointed me. I learned of some of his worse misdeeds years after his death, when it was too late to confront him; and too late to undo my boyhood worship of him. 

Cognitive dissonance. That’s what psychologists call what I felt, still feel, for my father. It’s what I feel for my country too.

My relationship with both has been complicated. I loved being on the golf course with my father. I loved Fourth of July fireworks celebrating my country.

But my father had a dark side. He was charming and impulsively generous one moment, lecturing and badgering the next. Pull-up-a-chair-and-sit-down kind of lectures. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” kind of lectures

I didn’t know it at the time—he died at age 50, when I was 28–but my relationship with him turns out to have been training for my relationship with my country. He and our nation are the same: restless, rambunctious and brilliant, but with a streak of something like rage that comes out now and then and is truly terrifying. The kind that, after a while, makes you want to keep your distance.

One thing I knew about my father was that he would protect me. This wasn’t theoretical. He pulled me out of many scrapes, from making amends with the local police for my reckless plinking with a pellet gun, to hauling me out of the Duke University hospital where I was sleeping away my sophomore year with mononucleosis brought on by long bouts of staying up too late and sleeping through classes.

I took his protection for granted. I see that now. I also take my country’s protection for granted. I am insanely grateful for the security both my father and my country have given me. Period. Full stop.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t expect more. Security buys my gratitude, but not my love.

Love requires admiration. I didn’t admire the things I saw and later learned about my father’s darker impulses. The same is true for my country.

I never would have guessed some of the things he did, just as I never expected some of the things we Americans are doing now. He could be abusive. We, as a country, are being abusive too. To one another.

The thing about Dad’s misbehavior is that it was so out of character with the man I looked up to, the man he was most of the time. The same thing is happening with my country. I am shocked at the way we are treating one another. I thought we were better than we are acting now. 

I’ve never been a fan of nationalism. Not the kind that sends us to war, anyway. Of course we need to defend ourselves, but we didn’t need to invade Viet Nam or the Middle East. All we accomplished with those misadventures was making a sizable portion of the world that used to admire, or at least respect, us hate us.

As a young man, I moved to LA to get some space from Dad, to learn to be myself. To gain my independence. He died three years later. I often wonder what we would have thought of each other as he got older. What I would have said to him. And he to me. Whether I would have understood.

I won’t have that chance with him, but I do with my country. I’m trying to understand what is happening to us, but one thing I do know: we’re not behaving the way we ought to. We need to take to heart the advice my father, unironically, frequently gave me, which he no doubt picked up in his days in medical training on a US naval airbase: “Straighten up and fly right.”

The Beginning

The beginning of what?

The world has changed.

The way we see each other has changed.

Will we begin now to go back to the way we were?

How was that? Do we remember, or do we imagine?

We are children leaving home.

Restless to be free, unfettered by old bonds.

When our ecstasy subsides and the lightness leaves our step, will we rest and take stock of how far we have come?

Or will we stubbornly trudge on,

looking for something that, 

even as we search, 

we begin to understand we will never find?

A Memory Place

There’s a bench overlooking the beach in Carmel where I stop to sit sometimes and think about nothing. I suppose I never really think about nothing, just not anything in particular. Looking out over the ocean, I let my mind wander, and like the waves my thoughts ebb and flow and now and then wash up something that has been misplaced, a memory.

Underneath the bench is a mailbox. I ignored it the first few times I sat there. Well, that’s not exactly true. I thought it was private, like a real mailbox, and I shouldn’t look. Or maybe it was full of snakes, or drug needles, or condoms. Yesterday, I peeked inside. There was a bag of colored pencils and a half dozen journals. It was a memory box. I closed it without disturbing anything. I did let myself imagine what might be written there, and by whom. Love notes between young Romeos and Juliettes. Or private thoughts of those who had no one to tell them to, for whom a mailbox under a bench near a cypress tree was a confessional. 

A plaque on the bench says it was dedicated in May, 1992, the month and year my son Nicholas was born. I think of that time as a kind of re-beginning of our family’s life. We moved to a farm in Maryland, where Nick learned to call cows in to feed, his brother Chris grew pumpkins as big as he was, and Meg wrote her first novel. We only lived on that farm for three years, but it held onto our hearts for a long time. When that first novel was published years later, we went back there to celebrate it with our friends at the hunt club who had holes in their sweaters and drove old blue tractors to plow us out in snow storms. 

That was also about the time I really got to know Meg’s parents, Don and Anna Waite. We started going to Colorado with them every Christmas. I was a sketchy son-in-law, a divorced man marrying their metaphorically virginal daughter. But in those mountains, they took me in and made me feel part of their family. Anna made us needle point stockings, and Don got up to take Chris and Nick on the early shuttle to the ski slopes, his pockets stuffed with frozen Snickers bars, like treats for puppies.

The thoughts that lapped at me yesterday on that seaside bench were of dinners and brunches with them, of Waite family reunions, of trips and ball games, of Don walking down his driveway and into the street to signal that it was safe to back out after a visit, that no car was speeding around the curve. Their love and generosity are gently soothing tides, coming in and out steadily, dependably, no matter the time or season.

For me, immortality is in the memories of our loved ones. In recollections of laughter and joy, even pain, that are as beautiful as the pearly gates. As worn-smooth and durable as the lives that hold them. Benches by the sea, mailboxes stuffed with journals and colored pencils.

Riding With the Judge

I wonder why some people are so stupid. How can they fall for cons and conspiracy theories? Then I wonder if they think the same thing about me and my beliefs: how can I be so stupid?

Of course they do.

Which leads to the obvious question: which of us is right?

Some things seem so clear to me as to be beyond dispute. The sky is blue kinds of things. Facts.

Close behind are judgements any reasonable person would come to. We should not kill each other; it should not be so easy to buy an assault weapon to commit mass murder. We should not hurt each other by refusing in a public health emergency to roll up our sleeves and take a vaccine.

But many of us—not just the odd eccentric—believe things that make no sense to me. Yes on assault rifles, no on vaccines.

For a long time, I thought they were just idiots. There are so many of them now that I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t re-examine my assumptions about how we should think about things.

An easy answer would be: you think about things however you want to, and I’ll do the same. That would be fine if we didn’t need some agreed-upon principles on which to base our behavior and our public policy. We’re as far from anything like common ground as I have ever seen us. I’m not sure how we come back together. 

There’s a large and violently merry band of libertarians rampaging across the land. They remind me of the troop that followed the Judge in Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Merridian. He led them on nihilistic journey of slaughter and mayhem. To be fair, the Judge in McCarthy’s novel was the devil—not a metaphorical one, but the actual devil. Take your pick for candidates for the role today.

When the Judge and his band of hooligans ride into town, what are we to do? Say, “Listen fellows, let’s sit down and work this out over a beer.”? I don’t think so.

The underpinning for my sorting of views and people into sensible and not is reason. The Judge didn’t give a hoot for reason. His boys had guns. That was all the reason they needed.

Reason is suspended when we’re engaged in sex. Likewise when we’re in a fight. Too bad it’s not sex that’s distracting us now, rather than fighting. That would be more fun, and we’d all be a lot less grumpy.

Better, or Not

  friend:  the pandemic must be over, because the mass shootings have begun. what a fucked up country.

me:  it’s hard to be optimistic right now. but let me ask you this: are people generally better or worse off than 100 years ago?

friend:  well…he says reluctantly and without caps...better. but is that the right comparison?

That’s an exchange I had this morning with a friend. We’ve all gotten a little covid-curmudgeonly, but it's a fair question: are we better off when considered over the span of a century, and is that the right standard?

Most of us want to see progress continue in something like a straight line. That’s what I thought was happening when my friend and I were young. WW II was behind us, Europe was rebuilding; we shucked off Viet Nam and Jim Crow. 

Now I see that our society’s progress is like that of the stock market. The trend may be up, but when you’re in the middle of a painful setback, it can feel like the worst of times.

Jim Crow is back, wearing a suit this time. He’s just as dangerous…or is he? The contempt for blacks in the South of my youth wasn’t spoken in code words, it was right out there in plain language. If you were black, you bowed your head and stepped off the sidewalk when a white man passed.

We didn’t have mass shootings back then, but the violent streak that underlies them was certainly there. Bar fights and the occasional lynching were the outlets.

I just read The Cold Millions, a novel by Jess Walter that paints a frightening picture of labor oppression and police brutality in Spokane a hundred years ago. You wouldn’t want to live through that. Is it worse today on the South Side of Chicago? Maybe, maybe not.

We can’t get away with casual cruelty as easily now as then. There may be just as much of it, but it is called out more often. Racist attacks and sexual abuse, so common a mere generation ago, are less tolerated. Reckonings come more often, and more swiftly.

Maybe the reason things seem so bad sometimes is that we are learning to expect better. We won’t tolerate being kicked around as easily as we have in the past. We have voices. We demand to be heard.

This creates quite a lot of noise, but that’s what it takes to make change. Nothing is gained that is not demanded.

It’s a shame that we never seem to reach our goal of a more just and equal society. We may never. But little by little we are making better communities for ourselves by demanding them. 

It’s exhausting to keep it up, but it must be done.

Pretty Fly for an Old White Guy

I just saw a headline saying President Biden has rolled out the most aggressive climate change agenda of any president. Other headlines have noted his plans to deal with racial and economic inequality. He wants to rebuild our nation’s infrastructure. He wants to rebuild our relationships with our allies. 

If we progressives aren’t cheering, I don’t know why. We may have feared Biden would be a milquetoast, but in his policies he’s roaring like a liberal lion. And he’s staffing our government with experienced, smart people who can make his plans happen. And he’s doing it all fast.

I didn’t even mention his COVID response. He’s doing what the federal government should have been doing all along. It’s just that we got so far off course with you-know-who in charge that ordinary competence seems like a miracle.

It’s a great relief to believe again that our government is doing the right thing.

Biden will be a good technocrat, to use a popular term I don’t particularly like, but I think he’ll be much more than that. In his first week in office, he has shown himself to be humane, determined and decisive. All without polemic. 

Remember the old saying that only Nixon could go to China? (He was on record as strongly anti-communist, so when he traveled to China and restored our relations with it, no one could say he was soft of the Reds.) Well, maybe only a man with well-established moderate leanings could act so boldly now on so many progressive fronts.

It’s early days. Mitch and his gang are still going to be obstructionists. They hated deficits before they loved them, and now they hate them again. Congress will do what it always does when it’s so evenly divided: as little as possible, and that grudgingly. But president Biden is running the Executive Branch, and he will run it for the benefit of all of us, including especially those who have not had their voices heard for too long.

For the first time in four years, I’m going to stop worrying about my government and return to pursuits that are more personal and, though perhaps no easier to achieve, make me feel like I can accomplish something again, and that it won’t be a waste of time because at any moment I might have to flee the land of my birth where for the last four years I'd heard the drumbeats of fascism that Europeans heard in the 1930s as Hitler rose to power and began to marginalize and purge anyone he didn’t like, all to the enthusiastic salutes and rapturous cheers of ordinary Germans seduced by his cult of himself above all else.

The Way We Were

I want my country back.

I’ll admit I’m not completely certain what that means anymore. 

Am I longing for the white-male-chauvanist orderliness of my youth? No, we have to get past that, and we are, and of course rearranging our political and social norms on the scale that we are now engaged in is going to upset some people, maybe most people, but we have to persist. The people who have not had a voice must now be heard, and we must listen.

That’s not what is going on at this moment, though. The anger boiling into our streets, and into our Capitol, is not a cry for mercy and justice. It is the death rage of a group who are losing their grip on power and are digging in to keep it. White supremacists is not too harsh a label for them. Not just for the Proud Boys among them, but as well for the huge number of ordinary citizens who have been quick to pour out their hatred on social media and in public squares, who are ready to take up arms to protect their increasingly marginalized place in America.

They have been inspired and encouraged by our president. He is our very own modern Jefferson Davis. 

Without an actual civil war, he has been defeated. But he leaves behind an angry mob that must be sent back home, or if they won’t go home peacefully, jailed.

We have to stop tolerating the hatred our president has encouraged.

He should be impeached. I doubt he’ll be convicted (even though I think he should be), but he should be barred, under the 14th Amendment, from ever holding federal office again.

Those who rioted in the Capitol should be arrested and tried.

The members of the House and Senate who on January 6 challenged the certification of the presidential election, after those results had been certified by the respective states and all judicial challenges dismissed, should be barred from serving in Congress.

Insurrections must have consequences. Any governor and any parent can tell you that.

Social media must stop allowing itself to be a bulletin board for hatred. 

We have to calm down and go back to striving to be a nation of mutual respect and cooperative industriousness.

That’s the country I want back.

Friends

When we were in college together, one of my oldest friends and I dated girls in the same dorm. They said they would look out the window and see us coming across the quad, he swaying from side to side as he walked, me bouncing on my toes. They said it was comical.

He greatly expanded my vocabulary and taught me that A-1 sauce is brilliant on french fries. We hung out together, dropped out together, resurrected ourselves separately, lost touch, and finally reconnected a few years ago.

One of my newest friends and I walk together too, or did pre-Covid. He taught me about Asia, both past and present, beginning with my attendance at his defense of his master’s thesis on early trade in China, something he undertook late in life. Such a thing would be way too ambitious for me—I still have test nightmares (see above about dropping out)—but his scholarship introduced me to his deep knowledge of the area and his charming way of imparting it.

So: a much better vocabulary at a young age and an appreciation for the varied uses of A-1 sauce from one friend; knowledge of half the world I knew little about from another. Pretty good bookends for me.

I have other friends I’ve learned from, lots of them, but not many I’ve stuck with. Sometimes that’s just my bad luck. I’ve changed jobs or locations. Sometimes the learning became too tedious.

A friendship is like a good long book. It’s comfortable, you enjoy it, and you learn something every time you pick it up. You need all three elements for it to last.

Good dinner-table repartee can be stimulating, occasionally even exhilarating, especially after a few glasses of wine have fortified your views and loosened your tongue, but it’s not always comfortable for the long term. Indeed, the thrill and tension of it make it a rich emotional diet. It’s a Gran Marnier soufflé: delicious in the moment, but too much trouble to make and too many calories for daily consumption.

I have common ground with these two friends, one old and one new, but we’re not in an echo chamber. They’re curious about why things and people are the way they are. Being curious is pretty much the opposite of being certain.

Sure, we kid around about what morons some people seem to be, especially lately when discussing politics, but they would welcome the opportunity to look into the hearts of those on the other side of any issue. They aren’t afraid of what they might find there.

There’s not a whole lot of looking into hearts going on in broad social and political discourse these days. We’re mostly left to deal in generalities and caricatures.

Friends are the opposite of generalities and caricatures. They are specific and nuanced.

I have no illusion that the way I relate to two friends works on a broader, more anonymous scale. Maybe that’s all there is to it. We learn from and grow with our friends and navigate the rest of the world the way one navigates a mountain trail: watching our footing, alert to danger, enjoying the scenery, but not really anxious to camp out full-time in the wilderness.

Born Again

How about that! 

Democrats stole—sorry, won—another big election in Georgia yesterday. Now we have the White House and majorities, albeit slim, in both houses of Congress. It’s been a long time since we've been in that position.

Joe Biden is no firebrand progressive, but he’s the right man for the task before us. He’ll make a sincere effort to heal divisions. If there is anything everyone agrees on about him it is that he is empathetic and sincere. He won’t try to use his congressional majorities to adopt sweeping liberal policies. He’ll be moderate. We need liberal policies for the future, but right now we have to restore faith in government. Half the country voted for Trump and his stingy, nativist platform. We’re not going to win them all over right away, or even ever, in many cases—there are plenty of folks still fighting the Civil War, or the “Lost Cause”, as they call it—but we can do better than Trump did at bringing the country together.

There is so much hard work ahead that we will do well to just make a start on the things that most of us, even most Trump supporters, know we need. Infrastructure repairs, for a start. The economy runs on roads and bridges. The electric grid runs on wires and generators and software. Our water supply runs through underground pipes. All of those are out of date, some dangerously so.

The other area where most of us, as individuals, feel the need for better protection is healthcare. Repairing the Affordable Care Act will be a good start. If we get a chance to do things like add a public option to Medicare, or reduce the age of eligibility, to test how well those kinds of expansions work, so much the better. State aid to the poor through Medicaid expansion is still missing in many states; that is literally killing a lot of people. The Supreme Court ruled that Medicaid expansion under the ACA had to be voluntary for the states, but maybe there is something we can do with a change in the law to push, or coax, reluctant states to get on board.

There are plenty of other sensible and humane policies that we can move forward on now, like immigration reform. Not to mention the power of the President to restore our place in the world as a policy leader and beacon of hope.

I had become a little cynical and pessimistic watching Trump and McConnell and their followers run roughshod over the country. I don’t like that in myself, so I am relieved to feel a new lightness of being, a new hope. 

One might say I am born again. 

I never thought Jesus was a white man, being from the Middle East and all. And now I know he isn’t even a man. With her resurrection of the black vote in Georgia, the role of our savior is now being played by Stacey Abrams.

You’re Right, You’re Right...

One of my favorite movie lines is from “When Harry Met Sally,” when Carrie Fisher’s character realizes (over and over) that the married man she loves is not going to get a divorce: “You’re right, you’re right, he’s never going to leave her,” she tells her long-suffering friends, who never thought he would.

I think of that line often when watching the world. For all my life I’ve been as certain as Carrie Fisher was that things would change for the better, that we would make progress against problems like poverty and its kissing cousin, racial inequality. 

We don’t casually lynch blacks anymore; now police simply shoot them. We don’t have open sewers in our cities; we have sidewalk homeless encampments.

I’m not saying things are as bad as they were a hundred years ago. Most of us have electricity and indoor plumbing now. But those represent technological progress.

Progress of the spirit, of character, has been more elusive. Racial hatred is as white hot now as during Reconstruction. Stinginess and indifference to the economic suffering of others is as hardened as it was in the Gilded Age.

The internet promised to usher in a golden information age. It did, but it also spawned Facebook and Twitter, where facts compete with cons on equal footing. With no trusted guiding light, no Walter Cronkite assuring us “that’s the way it is,” we are in something like darkness. And, as the Phantom of the Opera put it, “In the dark, it is easy to pretend that the truth is what it ought to be.”

Enabled by fake facts, Trump rode a wave of belligerent, aggrieved populism to become a modern George Wallace on a national scale; while Mitch McConnell played Machiavelli to the corrupt princes of what is still called the Republican Party, but which bears a greater resemblance to the white Citizens’ Councils of a century ago.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Our clothes are nicer now, our cars fancier; we have iPhones and YouTube. But we’re still the same as we ever were: tribal and driven by Darwinian urges. Scratch our pretty surface with a crisis or a grievance and you find base metal.

Our unchanging basic nature does make stories from the past relatable. I totally get how Ulysses felt when, after a perilous journey home from war, he found suitors to his wife lounging about his home. The Guillotines of the French Revolution, too, make bloody sense. It doesn’t take that much stress to jolt us into our own episodes of Breaking Bad.

My epiphany is not depressing to me. I wish we could improve (and maybe we have a little), but acknowledging that fundamentally we don’t seem to be able to is empowering. We might as well forget about enlightening our base brains and instead concentrate on how to enlist them to the causes our cognitive lobes find to be just.

This is basically the premise of capitalism. Let everyone pursue their own self-interest, and Adam Smith’s invisible hand will spread around the benefits. Even Smith’s invisible hand, though, is guided by base instincts now and then, routinely shoving more of its benefits toward the side of the table where the masters sit.

So we have taxes and regulations to try to smooth that out. They work okay, better than most other approaches, until the people making the rules are permitted to make them mainly for themselves. Elections are supposed to be a check on that. 

We’re having a little trouble with elections lately.

Which is why what is happening in our democracy at this moment is so threatening. If we don’t have a practical way to throw out those who abuse their position in government, there is no invisible hand of equity. The only hand we’ll be left with is the one reaching into our pockets.

Depending on Others

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much we depend on others. Overall, we’re a self-reliant lot, but we need each other’s cooperation and support more than we like to admit. “You didn’t build that,” Barack Obama famously said in 2012. He was talking about how public infrastructure gives each of us a leg up when we want to start a new enterprise.

His point almost seems quaint now, at a time when for most of us starting a new business is taking a back seat to staying alive. The essence of his thought, though, is more important now than ever. To stay alive in a pandemic, we have to depend on one another.

On our families, friends and neighbors to wear masks and be sensible about where and with whom they gather.

On our legislators to rush emergency aid to those caring for the sick and those who have been forced out of work and can’t afford to put dinner on the table.

On our fellow citizens to pull together, to do the equivalent of buying war bonds, for this is indeed a war.

So, how’s that going?

Don’t want to wear a mask? Grab your assault rifle and surround the home of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer. Or if you’re not into that level of militant vigilantism, just have family and friends over for the holidays, because, you know, that’s what you’ve always done. 

Maybe you’re a Republican in the Senate, considering your political future, which seems to occupy much of the time of many senators. Get behind Mitch McConnell’s opposition to giving aid to suffering state and local governments. Why should you help those wasteful Democrat-run blue states? What did they ever do for you?

You’re not a fancy politician, you say, just an average Joe. Don’t despair. Go to Facebook and troll those vote-stealing, socialist Democrats. You’ll find plenty of company.

We’re an independent lot, we Americans. We don’t like to be told what to do. We’re reacting to Covid restrictions like we do to soda bans.

We’ve always been free to eat unhealthily, and we’re seeing the result of that in staggering obesity rates. Many are insisting on being free to gather and not wear masks, and we’re seeing the result of that in staggering Covid infection and death rates.

You’d think we’d figure out that we’re only hurting ourselves. Maybe we’re slow learners.

All this leaves me wondering about my place in a society that seems hell-bent on libertarianism.  No matter what I think is best for the public good, if we won’t cooperate with each other, at some point it gets down to every man for himself.

Billionaire preppers have escape bunkers in New Zealand. Survivalists of more modest means have mountain redoubts stocked with shotgun shells and canned goods.

Maybe I should reread Cormac McCarthy’s novel The Road for clues about how best to get through this.

The Downswing

After the Civil War, Reconstruction brought economic and political progress for former slaves, only to have both crushed by Southern white backlash. That same one step forward, two steps back happened again after decades of racial progress in the first half of the 20th century came to a halt following (ironically) the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. The culprit, according to Robert Putnam and Shaylyn Romney Garrett in their book The Upswing, was again white backlash and a societal shift from communitarian values to selfishness. 

When we pull together, we all prosper; when we don’t, the disadvantaged get left behind. The course we take depends on the threats we perceive. When they are external, as they were in WW I and WW II, we put aside our differences to defeat the common enemy. If we see them as internal, however, from those among us who are not like us, for instance, our instinct is to weed them out. One might call the last four years under Gold Logo Man an attempt at a “Great Weeding Out.”

The thing about weeds, is they are persistent. Long term, it's hard to see how privileged gardeners can do much more than carve out small botanical sanctuaries for themselves.

What they are fighting is not weeds, but the diversity of our species, the very thing that enables us to survive plagues and pandemics, both viral and economic, that would wipe out a more homogeneous group.

Climate change is an existential threat, but it is not the only one. If we don’t nurture the diverse members of our society who give us the strength of heterogeneity, then even before the swollen seas of climate change swallow Miami, a great upheaval of the kind that inevitably follows the egocentric reigns of monarchies and despots will wash over us, leaving in its wake economic and political wreckage scattered over the landscape like the debris of ruined huts and foundered boats on a tropical beach after a tsunami.

Unprotected

I remember when my father died as if it were yesterday. It was almost fifty years ago. I stayed in his hospital room for the last two weeks of his life, sleeping on a cot restlessly, waiting. 

When he was gone, my mom needed help, and I gave her all I could. I wound up Dad’s affairs, paid his back taxes, found a smaller house for her. My much younger brother could have used some help as well. I wasn’t much good to him, for which I am sorry to this day.

I went back to my life in another state, with my wife and three young children. There wasn’t much time in those busy days to think about what it meant to lose Dad, but I think I understand it better now.

Dad had his problems. He and I argued about everything, but we loved the things we did together, even the arguing. And he had my back, which needed cover more often that I liked to admit. When he was gone, I had to have my own back.

I was young and cocky, so I didn’t think there was a problem with that. It’s a funny thing, though, to lose someone like that. I missed the love, the times with him, but there was another loss that I didn’t understand. Even now it’s hard to describe what it was like to leave his hospital room on that final day and walk into my life without him. “Unprotected” is the best I can come up with.

Waiting out the current presidential election has been a little like staying in Dad’s hospital room. I’m afraid something is dying. Worse, like Dad in his last days, hooked up to a respirator and unresponsive, I’m afraid it’s already dead.

My country? Is that what I mean? 

I don’t think so. I’m not much of a nationalist, never have been. I like America, and I respect our achievements over the past century, but, like Dad, our country is deeply flawed, and a little too sure of itself.

No, what I think I am already beginning to morn is the loss of protection. Not for me this time, but for the millions in our land who need our help. The kind we can only give collectively and broadly through government.

We’ve so markedly and willingly withdrawn our protection from those most in need that, even if we change the head of government, I don’t know if we will ever offer its warmth and succor freely again. We’ve never been great at what people call welfare; we all suffer a bit from the myth that we are self-made, that if we can do it everyone should.

But we used to try.

LBJ dreamed of the great society. Barack Obama summoned our empathy.

We’re not dreaming now. And empathy has been smothered under the crushing burdens of resentment and selfishness.

Dad is dead, and we have to look after ourselves now. I’m not sure we’re up to it.

I Didn't Realize You Felt That Way

I’ve been with someone for many years, and we’ve had a big falling out. One of those where things are said that can’t be un-said, or un-heard. The kind of falling out that makes me think: If that’s how you feel, we don’t have anything to talk about.

Fortunately, I have not fallen out with my romantic partner, or one of my children. Or even a close friend.

It’s both not that bad, and worse. I’ve fallen out with my country.

I grew up in the Jim Crow South, so nothing said today by the proud boys or men toting assault weapons as proxies for burning crosses is new to me. I heard it all in the fifties and sixties in redneck bars and the men’s grill at the country club. It’s just that until the last few years I had thought that kind of racist, misogynist thinking was, if not completely behind us, at least receding in the rear-view mirror.

Now it’s painfully obvious that it has not been receding at all. Like locusts, it has merely been waiting in the dark earth for blood and soil to call it back to the surface. Its terrifying husks of rage are swarming again.

There’s little chance of reconciliation. No one is listening. We’re way past that. I live in coastal Northern California, which is something like living in blue Stepford. It’s fine, but I feel isolated and confined.

I don’t like the tribal solution: I stick with my peeps, you with yours. That just makes things worse. And I can’t look away from the hatred. I see it on faces in the news every day.

I have no illusion that there is a paradise of sensible thinking and tolerance to which I can relocate. The hatred is everywhere, not just in our country. Something has happened to us, as a people, and it’s ugly.

Climate change and the deprivations it will bring, is bringing, are only going to make it uglier. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to march. I just want us to settle down and live our lives with respect and empathy for others.

Maybe the current election will bring kinder people back into government. Maybe they can help us learn to care about one another again. Maybe they can help us heal.

If not, I’m afraid this relationship is over.

We Have Met the Enemy and He is Us *

  Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

Becalmed, we are. 

No wind in our sails. Scanning the horizon for help. Glare on a broad flat expanse that is so empty we can see the unflinching curve of the earth.

So we row, and we hope. We are still alive, while many are not, so we are the lucky ones.

It’s a strange feeling to have to stay away from people. We are lucky if we have that option.

Isolation is probably not evolutionarily adaptive. So we poke our heads out when it seems the danger must have passed, even though it has not.

I don’t know how long we, individually or collectively, can keep it up, or what will happen as we let down our guard, as we already are. We don’t want to believe this is real, so many of us refuse to. We are not a nation of natural mask wearers. 

The pressure to get back to normal is enormous. Both psychologically and economically. But this is a more formidable pathogen than we have faced in living memory. Maybe we’ll get a vaccine. Maybe it will save us. If not, we are going to lose a lot more friends and family before this is over, if indeed it ever is.

How will we handle that? That is the question on my mind lately. Will we pull together or apart?

The conventional wisdom is that a common enemy unites us, but that’s not what is happening this time. We are at war not only with the virus, but with ourselves. 

If we continue that way, we will certainly lose.

______

* Walt Kelly, in a Pogo strip