Friday, December 25, 2020

The Great Christmas of '20

It's a difficult thought to express. After all, this is a season of grief for many people and one of cruel suffering or crushing work for many others. The thought here is only appropriate as a sort of greeting among all whose burden is limited to disappointment, inconvenience, boredom, or loneliness. Where the holiday imagery is not universal, please understand that the spirit is.

Through the first half of the twentieth century and into the second, the Great Snow of '88 was a touchstone of shared experience, then a generational boast, and ultimately a running joke among Americans. By the time "'88" could mean something other than 1888, even the joke had become a mark of advancing years.

The snow wasn't funny when it blew in. The Encyclopedia Britannica tells us of a

winter storm that pummeled the Atlantic coast of the United States, from the Chesapeake Bay to Maine, in March 1888. The blizzard caused more than $20 million in property damage in New York City alone and killed more than 400 people, including about 100 seamen, across the eastern seaboard.

In later years, though, there were many who could look back on it as a scene of sublime terror giving way to great adventures and prized hardships: being stranded in the impromptu society of strangers on a snowbound train or in a shop; coming and going by an upper-story window of your house because the first story -- or two -- had been snowed in. Walking ever so many miles to school through a trackless white wilderness. The Great Snow generation had memories far out of the ordinary.

When all is said and done, ordinary winters beat extraordinary ones. A holiday season without the hardships of a pandemic is the kind we want, really. But when life gives you lemons, the thing to do is whip up an eggnog of a different flavor. We may not quite relish the thing itself, but we'll relish the memory of it. The feeling will become recondite knowledge, a lost chord of piquancy that can never be reproduced. What, exactly, will we have to hold in mind, and how will we hold it?

The memory starts putting itself into words even now. "In the year 2020, something extraordinary happened all over the world. I was caught up in it. Those were strange times, and this is how I got through them. When I was away from home, I wore a mask and kept my distance from other people. We did such things for the common good. At home, I kept myself company (if one was all alone). I returned gratefully to the old sense of recreation. And when the dark year-end days wore on without festivities or friends, I put on another pot of coffee and took down another book."

Monday, December 7, 2020

People of Flesh and Blood

Free the POC millions! Spring them from that cellblock cunningly marked "people of color" to keep us from seeking particular human beings there.

For Americans, this period following the elections of 2020 is the best chance yet to end the misconceived aggregation of ethnic identities into a notional superminority. Ethnic identity is itself a veil traditionally drawn across myriad and varied personal worlds. The construct "people of color" (POC) carries depersonalization to an unsustainable extreme. Though the phrase goes back multiple centuries, through multiple good intentions, it holds a place in the lexicon today because it serves two ends: political coalition-building and rhetorical leverage.

By rhetorical leverage I mean the effect achieved when a writer begins a discourse with "As a person of color, I..." rather than, say, "As a Polynesian, I...." It fills the mental frame with an impressive cross-sectional wall of supporters like those seen behind politicians at rallies. It maximizes the essay's claim on our attention and places the essayist among the voices of a vast constituency. Individuals who want to make "people of color" work for them can do so in this way.

But the main use of the POC construct is coalition-building. In principle, it does make sense for minority groups to join forces. The use of the words “people of color” was once a code for solidarity with black Americans. It served to reinforce the 13% of the population that had historically suffered under slavery and Jim Crow with peers for whom the racial burden might be no heavier than the annoyance of stereotyping. However, a coalition is implicitly a transactional thing; and a coalition that rests on an artificial formulation cannot long stand.

The formulation "people of color" is artificial. Though people of various races share the one attribute of being non-white (which is barely even an attribute), they share no POC history. No POC cultural heritage, no POC language code, no POC food for the soul. Such things, which exist only for traditional groups, are bound to exert a differentiating influence until the very concepts of race and ethnicity lose currency. White progressives tend to overlook that influence. Activists of any hue may depreciate it in their enthusiasm for scaled-up politics. Many of the people being scaled up, however, remain alive to it and correspondingly dead to their supposed bond with other members of the coalition.

The illusory nature of a solidly progressive POC bloc became apparent in the results of the recent elections, which were disappointing for Democrats below the presidential level. Jay Caspian Kang of The New York Times Magazine subsequently wrote on the Times Op-Ed page,

In the past, antiracist messages relied on categorizations like Asian-American, Latino and the umbrella of “people of color.” All three are abstractions that have little grounding in the everyday lives of immigrants. My uncle, who has lived in Los Angeles for 40 years, might now understand in a purely taxonomic sense that he is “Asian,” but he would laugh at the idea of “people of color.” His interactions with his fellow “people of color” have mostly come in kitchens where he works as a chef and speaks a hybrid Korean-Spanish with his Latino co-workers.

As Kang reminds us in passing, even the original category “Asian” is bloodless nonsense. If we hadn’t grown up with the geographical concept of Asia, we’d recognize that it’s wildly broad and arbitrary. We use it because, once upon a time, someone (perhaps Herodotus) started using such a term for the land just across the Aegean Sea from Greece, and over the years Europeans came to let it stand for more and more territory east of that. Now we passively imagine an “Asia” that stretches over an immense range of latitudes and longitudes (but curiously stops in the middle of a landmass), peopled by “Asians” who exhibit no unity of race, language, religion, traditional economy, or culture. As in other parts of the Old World, there’s historically no love lost between neighboring ethnic groups. If their offspring in the US know any communality, it’s that which lies in the “American” part of “Asian-American”. To plead for the “Asian” part is to pay tribute to the ultimate Eurocentric conceit.

It may seem that giving up the term “Asia” would mean losing the one good shorthand we have for denoting a certain region of the world, but we need to remind ourselves that there is no such region and start taking the trouble to deal with discrete realities. We must liberate a multitude of people from our conception of them as Asians. So it is with “Latinos”. So it is, above all, with “people of color”, a formulation that carries breadth and arbitrariness to an extreme.

The term “of color” has a certain appeal as a noble substitute for the negative “non-white”, but both terms become odious when we recognize them as identity thieves and insults to our intelligence. They presuppose a distinct "white" set of people who share a certain experience of whiteness and consequently enviable status. Against this they posit a residual set of people who must, if they are to function as a political interest group, possess something approaching a shared experience of color and consequently unenviable status. But they don’t. Their diversity in appearance, consciousness, lived experience, and status is as great as that of “Asians”. They’re not going to coalesce except in pipe smoke.

The 2020 election results are only the most quantifiable evidence that the POC experiment must fail. We were already seeing signs of a revolt against identity-pooling by black Americans, or at least by activists among them. Far from expanding their political community to encompass non-black non-whites, they had begun to subdivide it between those blacks with roots running through slavery and those without. Vertical heritage is asserting itself against lateral coalition-building.

The apparent sacrifice of numerical strength that comes with the idea of discarding the POC category is not a real sacrifice. In the first place, the trend in the US population to a non-white majority is hardly more epoch-making than the Millennium Bug of 2000. As for political outcomes, it might have been guessed even before the 2020 elections that people would not necessarily vote their skin color. As for economic power and social influence, any shift as a result of demographic change ought to be so gradual that it could be overtaken by a decline in the significance of racial identity. After all, whites will not one day become a beleaguered minority. They will simply go from being a majority of the population to being the largest single category and then, perhaps, to being the second largest for years to come. Nor will power and privilege necessarily change hands in any ordained way.

In the second place, the vision of a superminority -- destined to become a majority -- of people united by non-whiteness is necessarily a mirage. Those members of the constituent minorities who value racial identity will prefer the thick kind to the thin. Those who devalue it will be altogether lost for purposes of aggregation. Minority people will tend to merge with the more advantaged elements of the population when possible, and not linger in the ranks of "people of color" for the sake of grim solidarity. Even now I strongly suspect that at the end of each day, when all the public talking has been done and people retire into their private lives, the words "people of color" mean the most to white progressives. As for their own place in the shifting kaleidoscope of colors, the Harvard geneticist David Reich (cited in a New Yorker article by Douglas Preston) has found

that as recently as eight thousand years ago there were at least four distinct groups of Europeans, as genetically different from one another as the British are from the Chinese today, some with brown skin color. As he put it in an e-mail, "'White people' simply didn’t exist ~8,000 years ago."

POC partisans' triumphalist heralding of demographic revolution in recent years alarmed many white Americans and smoothed the way for a demagogue while distracting people in the liberal spectrum from genuine sources of strength. Shared rhetoric is not shared consciousness. Coalitions are not bonds. Color is not destiny. The most reliable allies are not identified by racial origin, but by moral destination. Your closest political kin are the like-minded.

So free all the people of flesh and blood. Set loose all the minds. Dissolve the biological bars, and discover the ties that benignly bind. Let there be politics.

Sunday, August 30, 2020

The Triple Seal

The outcome of the 2020 presidential election may not hinge on the behavior of Donald Trump's base, but it would be nice to see that base shrink under the crescendo of his incompetence and dishonesty. A combination of three factors may soon fix the seal of impossibility on that hope. It could even cause Trump's base to start doing what it has failed to do since 2016: grow.

What they don't know
John Stuart Mill noted that "facts and arguments, to produce any effect on the mind, must be brought before it." The crescendo of Trump's incompetence and dishonesty has always been muted for his base by Fox News and other sources of information that spare their consumers much exposure to untoward facts and arguments, from a Trumpist point of view. This factor is already notorious. However, it's not decisive by itself. Surveys have shown that Trump voters are not entirely isolated from mainstream news media. We know that they even get perturbing ripples of reality from Fox News itself. So far, then, there exists hope of an awakening.

And what about the palpable human loss and hardship that Trump causes by acts of commission or omission such as his irresponsibility in the face of the coronavirus crisis? There are, after all, facts that bring themselves before the mind unaided.

Mysterious ways
Donald Trump's political base has always been strong in the more paganistic kind of Christianity. Now, many of its members have passed from merely supporting him as a politician to fetishizing him as an instrument of God. They openly speak of him in such terms. So the same cruel assurance which the pious inflict on parents who have lost a child -- that this, too, is part of a divine plan -- can serve to seal fissures in the confidence of Trump's religiously-minded supporters. "God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform." In principle, that all-purpose article of faith can keep even the most painful turn of events from shaking belief in Donald Trump. However, its effect is vindicatory rather than motivational. It lacks any broader appeal than a call to Apollyon-worship.

QAnon
The third, new factor is the stealthy spread of the QAnon cult. What matters about QAnon is not the most conspicuous part of its layered conspiracy theory, the notion of a liberal elite cabal running a pedophilia ring. What matters is the underlying story, which portrays Donald Trump as a secret agent working heroically to defeat the machinations of a bureaucratic "deep state". This conceit, that Trump is not what he seems, has the potential to neutralize every objection to his presidency for a large set of susceptible individuals.

Ignorant buffoonery? Just an act. Spectacles of narcissism, immaturity, mendacity, racism, and subservience to foreign powers? All smoke and mirrors to confound the enemy. Or, if one wishes a particular element -- the racism, for example -- to be real, one can tune belief accordingly. The presumption of a heroic Donald Trump becomes immutable, and everything that seems wrong with him is diligently incorporated into that presumption by the believing mind.

Since Trump's base is largely oblivious of facts and arguments that discredit him, it's primed to adopt the QAnon portrait without much of a strain. Its members are already accustomed to managing the embarrassments that do get through to them by means of broad sophistries: that Trump is no worse than other politicians, or that he's got a plan. On top of that, the sacrilegious view of him as an instrument of God renders his sins irrelevant while exalting his imagined plan to the level of God’s design.

But it's QAnon that will perfect the seal on Trumpism. Its alternate reality will flow into all gaps and over the rough features of all surfaces. Given the single conceit that Trump is an undercover agent waging a struggle more vital than anything we see, it ceases to matter what we see. If he's supposed to be serving some mysterious cause greater than himself, the notion of divine will is always viable. Trump may go on boisterously claiming that it's all about him; but he would say that, wouldn't he? It has already become possible to interpret his words along QAnon lines, as when a New York Times interviewer recently questioned him about his reputation for whiling away too much time in front of a TV set. His reply: "Just the opposite. I don’t watch very much TV. Nobody knows what I do." The Republican National Convention was rife with barely oblique QAnon-signalling.

As the cult of Trump shades into that of QAnon, reservations about the man will fall before the thrill of getting in on what he supposedly represents: a sub rosa movement possessing a vault of secrets and a panoply of symbols. The portentous slogans, the furtively ubiquitous "Q" logo, and the winking freemasonry with other initiates should appeal to more people than Donald Trump himself does, while drawing them to him. His base can then grow at last. By and by, it can easily become a base for someone else.

Friday, June 12, 2020

Anarchy in America

No, it's not about the public demonstrations that are now sweeping the country. That grand movement to build a society free from racism is anything but anarchic. The destruction and looting that have sometimes attended it are fits of chaotic lawlessness, but not anarchy.

Anarchy in America today is slothful, cynical. Muttering, chuckling, sullenly settling like a doomed old house that mocks its inmates. Its embodiment is a political party that has come to resemble an antebellum mansion waiting for decay to run its course. On the shuttered upper floors, grandees guard their treasure and conspire to salt the earth for miles around before they sleep. In the cellar, wayfarers who once stumbled in delirious now pass the time in tapping casks of forgetfulness.

The authorities flouted by this kind of anarchy are fundamental ones: not only principles of democratic government that one discards at one's own future peril, but also sources of accurate, comprehensive information; learning; science; reason itself; even common sense, that rough but serviceable guide that generally kept our ancestors from swallowing arrant nonsense or trusting obvious phonies. The usual anarchist's gamble on improvement through demolition has given way to something more akin to nihilism. Partisans of slothful anarchy are not looking for a way forward, but for a way down and out that will let them casually scar the world as they go. Since they can't prevail, they'll try to leave behind a disabled government, a poisoned society, an intellectual wasteland, and a planet deprived of its last hope.

In America, anarchy has become the province of those who can't abide any change but rot.

Friday, November 15, 2019

Lumping Together, Pulling Apart

As surely as the American body politic has seams, it now appears bent on coming apart at them. The centrifugal force of a blood feud between conservatives and liberals is only half the story. The other half is the displacement of inclusively-minded liberals by exclusively-minded progressives.

The main liberal party of the twentieth century, the Democrats, were always known for disarray. The array of interests represented by the party assured that. Blocs, in the course of vying for influence, were bound to rock the boat. Those Democrats who had no need of a bloc were liable to find the rocking a bit much. Still, at the end of the day, there was a sense of being Democrats all. Underlying shared values were sufficient for cohesion.

All the while, however, something was happening that would lead to a crisis of value-sharing. More and more liberals were casually becoming amenable to the concept of class struggle. People who would never have thought of espousing Marxism itself seem to have thought nothing of picking up Marxian tropes. As they did so, they gave liberalism an aspect of slavishly canting piety. For example, the reflex of depersonalizing responsibility for antisocial behavior and looking for root causes in society got to be so compulsive that the phrase “root cause” became a running joke among the unsympathetic. Some legacy liberals turned away in disgust. They would soon receive the derogatory new label neoconservative from erstwhile peers who, for their own part, were turning to the dogmatically progressive left.

Next the American vision of society as one big assemblage of individuals came under pressure from multiculturalism, with its premise that ethnic identity groups ought to be affirmed, celebrated, accommodated, and given a wide berth; not expected to dissolve in the fullness of time. The liberal abhorrence of lumping people together, founded on the recognition that it's the groundwork of bigotry, became untenable for progressives. Not only did it fit badly with multiculturalist assumptions, but it collided head-on with Marxist ones. Marxist thought doesn't really get rolling until it has lumped people together and designated certain lumps the enemy. Liberals oppose prejudice as a matter of principle. Marxists have less time for principle than for useful prejudice.

Modern progressive politics made a ready basin for a confluence of two dynamics. One was this Marxist imperative to submerge individuals in classes, lest minute particulars make a mess of political clarity. The other was the universal tendency for schools of thought to seek their strong forms over time and for movements to take on the character of their firebrands. Those who are most militant in agitating for racial justice will tend to villainize whites indiscriminately. Those who are most militant in agitating against entrenched ways will tend to villainize elders indiscriminately. The tendency runs to an extreme in the case of feminism, a movement that was bound to act as a magnet for women inclined to misandrous sisterhood. And so, among today's archetypal progressives, political engagement has become war on biological class enemies.

Males. White people. White males. Old people. Old white males. Or old white heterosexual cisgender males. The categories expand and contract, merge and split and morph from moment to moment as progressives improvise exceptions for their perceived clients, traps for their adversaries, and shelters for themselves. Personal virtue is beside the point. Every young white male, be he ever so woke, is in for it when he becomes an old one. Ostracism will come when newly ascendant progressive powers decree it. It came two years ago to one who was not male or particularly old or the least bit backward in her politics. It was sufficient that she was white, and the fact that she was Jewish clearly told against her in the unguarded early moments.

For details, please refer to the article "Women’s March Roiled by Accusations of Anti-Semitism" in The New York Times (December 23, 2018). The gist is that one of the organizers of the Women's March, Vanessa Wruble, was morally isolated and then organizationally marginalized for her identity. The faction that accomplished this consisted of a black woman, Tamika Mallory, and a Latina, Carmen Perez, later joined by the Palestinian-American Linda Sarsour and "another woman named Bob Bland, a white fashion designer who created one of the first Facebook pages about the march". These four proceeded to lead the organization under a cloud of rancor until it was announced in September, 2019, that Mallory, Sarsour, and Bland were "moving on to other commitments".

Meanwhile, Wruble's antagonists had fallen back to the position of deploring anti-Semitism in principle and allowing that Wruble had one foot within the pale inasmuch as Jews had been victims of oppression. They downplayed their ties with Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan (who anyway complicates the puzzle of progressive solidarity by inveighing not only against whites generally and Jews particularly, but also against LGBTQ people). But come what may, these progressive paragons will never appreciate the spectacle they make in the eyes of mere liberals as they stamp through their activist careers, grimly totting up and doling out credit for victim status as if that were the currency of virtue and they the purse-keepers.

Fifty-five years ago, the black civil rights worker James Chaney faced death with two other young men, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner. They were white. They were Jewish. They were not the only whites or the only Jews who put their lives on the line in the cause of justice for black Americans. At the same period, black Americans' strongest ally in this world was the United States Government, personified by a white president who had made up his mind to see the battle through regardless of political consequences ("Well, what the hell is the presidency for?") and an equally resolute Department of Justice, a bastion of white males. America was that rare kind of country in which members of the ethnic majority will rally around a small minority. It's that kind of country today, even while its federal government languishes in piratical captivity. All along, Jewish white Americans, both female and male, have stood in the forefront of efforts to preserve civil liberties and to extend social justice. Yet they are now under attack from people who, if not merely ignorant or merely absorbed in the Palestinian cause (to the exclusion of the Uyghur cause and the Tibetan cause), are perhaps resentful of a moral example which they cannot hope to follow. For more, please see "On the Frontlines of Progressive Anti-Semitism" (The New York Times, November 14, 2019).

When progressives assign themselves and others to biologically determined classes, they escape the need to test their views against common standards of reason or to circumscribe their claims with common values, because they have denied commonality itself. Opinions from across a biological border can always be dismissed out of hand by saying, in effect, “Consider the source.” Fundamental notions of justice or of moral responsibility can, like the literary canon, be dismissed by saying they embody the interests of an oppressor class.

This trick of escaping may be a deliberate strategy, but it takes us on a wild binge at the expense of communal health. Of course, a civic organism as well endowed as American democracy may prove robust enough to experience a binge like the current one and still show up for work in the morning. It does have a history of rebounding from misspent nights to do better work than before. Maybe even this period of fevered lumping-together and pulling-apart will turn out to have been only a phase in the life of a growing nation. Then, if it’s not too late, we can give all our attention to the state of our undeniably common planet.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

On Bone Marrow Aspirations

It may serve a good purpose to share some notes on bone marrow aspirations. I've had four so far.

You lie face down and have marrow drawn from a hip bone for testing. The whole procedure takes about half an hour, followed by another half hour of rest on your back before getting up. It's good to have a book along for that.

My doctor explained that despite local anesthesia I'd feel sharp pain three times for one or two seconds each. And so I did. In contrast, if I stub my toe while barefoot I see stars for about ten seconds and endure slowly diminishing agony for a minute or so. With a typical bone marrow aspiration, three short jolts and you’re in the clear. My first two were typical.

It's only fair to report that the third went wrong. The needle must have struck a nerve, or so the doctor speculated when we compared notes, because it was a royal pain in the hip for most of the hour. Not quite a crisis, and yet a passage of heavy breathing and dark thoughts.

But you must hear about the fourth. This was done by my thirty-something outpatient chemo doctor, who had met my sallies on the subject of Stage IV with unerring tact. I knew her competence, but it began to seem that she’d take forever preparing to do the deed. Then, just as I re-tightened my grip on the end of the mattress, she said it was over.

I have no reason to doubt that she jabbed me; after all, I got the biopsy report. But I can't say it made much of an impression. May others be so fortunate.

Finally, here are my two best tips on bone marrow aspirations:

If you learn that you must have one, plan something fun to do afterward and keep your mind on that.

If you’re granted a life free of bone marrow aspirations, don't go and spoil it by stubbing your toe.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

Reconciled but Hungry

After the family doctor pronounced my test results “awful” and sent me in search of a diagnosis, I made the rounds of specialists as many people do, learning along the way that a doctor's eyes might be made to bulge by the merest lab report.

Finally, a veteran hematologist and old acquaintance got to the root of the matter. A bone marrow biopsy showed twice the normal number of lymphocytes, half of them malignant. This was the work of a lymphoma which treatment can only set back, not cure. A CT scan painted a clear picture of Stage IV.

Early in adulthood I had fallen into the habit of visualizing my life as a finite arc in time. I never entirely forgot that I was headed somewhere on a constantly shortening journey. Mortality was my acknowledged lot. So I couldn't say this allusion to it came as a shock, though it did make a riveting tap on the shoulder. I accepted that I would very probably break with the family tradition of longevity and must put my affairs in order. At the same time, I felt that a settled, fatalistic spirit of gratitude for life was the best ground on which to make a stand. I still do.

Hospital mattresses proved excellent. Nor was the blood patient's unrestricted diet lost on me (though I can say so only because I escaped the severe side effects of treatment that many suffer). A stroll past the other wards, with their genres of malady posted in the corridor, always brought me back to mine untroubled by envy. Meanwhile, the sense of contented reconciliation to mortality bolstered my spirits; and my spirits, as I believe, bolstered my prospects.

The good doctor’s concoction of chemotherapy and monoclonal antibody cleared me of detectable malignancy in short order. Still it was understood that the disease would be lurking somewhere even though it no longer showed up. When, on leaving the hospital to continue treatments as an outpatient, I asked whether there were any cautions to observe in my daily life, the doctor gently replied, "Just do what you want to do." And with that valediction to ponder, off I went. The lymphoma is supposed to reassert itself eventually, but after five years in remission I got the news that with any luck I’d die of something else first. My wife and I went straight to a nice restaurant for a little celebration.

Recent tests show that the cancer is no longer in remission, but in a “smoldering” state at a level that does not call for treatment. My first doctor, whose own cancer proved more insistent, will not see how the journey ends. However, his memory will go the distance in a couple of grateful hearts. My affairs now drift in and out of order, and the two of us continue to enjoy our garden, our occasional travels, our children’s lives, and our own appetites.