AN ESSAY
During the Cold War, America faced a serious intellectual challenge. It fought several wars and invested its entire economy into proving that its free market economic system was superior to communism.
Between 1945 and 1990, communism appeared a viable alternative to the free market. In both theory and practice, the Soviet Union and China loomed as proof that major world powers could function under communist governments. During this era, America did what it could to demonize communist countries: They were repressive; they did not allow free expression; they made it hard to earn a living; they were gray, forbidding places; they did not offer limitless opportunities for wealth; you couldn't own a home. Yet until the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, America did not have really tangible arguments to show that communism was ineffective. After 1991, it gained a valuable new rhetorical weapon. From then on, free market defenders could say: "See? Communism doesn't work. Look what happened in Russia. Our system is better. I told you so."
Many Americans accept this argument without further thought. If educational and social indoctrination did not suffice to bias them against communism, the "Soviet example" put the nail in the coffin. "Our system is better," goes the argument, "because the Russians lost and we won."
But why exactly did the Soviet Union "fail?" And why do Americans use the Soviet failure to claim that "communism does not work?" In my view, the answers are not so simple. To the contrary, the Soviet failure does not reflect that communism is theoretically flawed. It merely reflects that communism did not work in practice in Russia. More vexingly, Americans base their conclusion that the free market is "superior" to communism only after making some embarrassing assumptions about human nature. In a word, capitalist defenders must admit that human beings are greedy, rapacious, egotistical scoundrels in order to sustain their argument that "the free market is better" than communism.
Think about how Americans craft their traditional responses to the Soviet failure. They say: "Well, communism might be great in theory, but it doesn't work because of human nature." What exactly does that mean? After all, in theory, Marxism posits that every human being is equal and that every human being deserves dignity and respect. It warns against the divisive influence of private property on human relationships. It also posits that labor is free and that no man should exploit another for profit. Further, Marxism posits that government has a responsibility to care for people because government is essentially humanitarian. From a Marxist perspective, the people deserve care, not merely the freedom to exploit one another for money. Moreover, Marxism supports these principles by assuming that human beings are naturally good. It also places great emphasis on individual worth as opposed to economic "instrumentalization" that sacrifices individual identity for "usefulness."
Are these bad principles? Do they reflect a vicious attitude toward our fellow man? Certainly not. If anything, Marxism espouses an extremely positive--even brotherly--approach to human nature. Yet according to the capitalist defenders, this approach fails because it misapprehends what humans are "actually like." To defeat the Marxist vision, the capitalist defender must say: "No, this system does not work because humans are not brotherly. Rather, they are conniving rascals who seek at all times to enrich themselves, even if that means backstabbing and betraying their brothers. Individuality is only useful to the extent that some individuals can reduce other individuals to economic servitude. Additionally, this system does not work because humans do not live for equality and dignity, but rather for crass personal gain, even if that means oppressing and exploiting their fellow man. Finally, government does not exist to care for these rascals, but rather to allow them to engage freely in rascalry, because self-interested rascalry leads to economic prosperity."
In a word, the American response to communism confesses that human beings are ruthless, savage, insensate exploiters who have no duty to their fellow man. In a sense, it admits that the communist vision is admirable. But it discounts that vision by sighing: "We are not so noble." In a strangely depressing way, capitalist defenders take solace in the recognition that human beings are brutal competitors without decency or compassion. After all, that brutality and competitive spirit keep the shelves stocked and the children fed. Who cares about theoretical appeal when merciless self-interest gives you all the shaving creams, sneakers, steak varieties and breakfast cereals you could possibly desire?
In this light, I do not believe that the Soviet failure theoretically debunks communism. No historical event will ever discount Marx's hopeful vision of human society, nor will any one State's experience tarnish the communist ideal in theory. Perhaps communism will never escape its theoretical constraints. Perhaps no State will ever live up to its high theoretical ideals. Perhaps we are just not good enough.
But sometimes ideas are beautiful, even if they are not realizable in present circumstances. I think communism fits in that category. We can all dream about utopia, even if utopia is not attainable given our limitations. Still, that does not detract from the dream. If anything, it merely shows that we are not capable of living the dream. And that is not something to be proud of. It is just an embarrassing confession that highlights our weaknesses.
Maybe human beings will never successfully practice communism. But that does not prove that communism is "bad in theory." It merely proves that we are weak, selfish, fungible, vicious creatures. Non-communist governments accommodate that weakness and harness it to good effect. Yet I would argue that there is nothing laudable about our natural weakness. The sad truth is that free market prosperity depends on inequality, exploitation and savagery. Although the benefits might outweigh the burdens, it does not change the fact that it is an ugly business. And the individual only matters to the extent that he can use other individuals to enrich himself. That is pretty bleak.
But this is what makes America strong. What a strange business. In the end, the question is: "Who am I? What am I worth? Does anyone care about me?" The communist says: "You are a valuable individual. Everyone cares about you. If you are in need, you will receive help." The capitalist says: "You are nothing unless you make something of yourself. And if you don't, that's your fucking problem, because no one is going to help you, pal. So get out there and start earning."
Guess which perspective won? So much for humanity.
Showing posts with label Confession. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Confession. Show all posts
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
OESTERHOUDT REVIEWS THE DECADE--AND HIMSELF
A REFLECTION
I've always seen life through the lens of history, including my own existence. I have always been able to remember dates with uncanny accuracy. Over the past week, I took the time to reflect on the decade that just ended. It's worth doing: You don't move into a new decade every day. And memories fade fast.
What a perplexing decade. The first decade of the 21st Century was my first full decade as an adult. On January 1, 2000, I was a wild, mop-haired 22-year-old sapling who knew virtually nothing about life. At the time, of course, I thought I knew everything. On December 31, 2009, I was 32 and had been in a committed relationship for more than nine years. My father had died, I had graduated from law school and no matter how much I learned, I found out how little I really understood about life.
Every year brought a new crisis--and a new crisis in values. I learned to take absolutely nothing for granted. In my first full decade as an adult on this planet, I saw that life is precarious. And I learned you need to savor it. I determined never to let myself forget that.
But today I want to talk about more than myself. I was not the only person (or thing) who changed over the past ten years. No, the world, too, changed immensely between 2000 and 2009. Put simply, these were bleak times. We endured stolen elections, mass murder on American soil, foreign wars, government fear-mongering, out-of-control corporate excess, lending abuses and ultimately the worst economic crisis since 1929. These were the Bush years. These were the years when the world learned to hate the United States more than it ever has in the past.
I am an amateur historian. So today I will try to sum up the decade as briefly as I can. In the process, I will try to encapsulate the spirit of these profoundly difficult times. To that end, I will write a few words about geopolitical developments that occurred during each year in the decade. Then, for perspective's sake, I will write a few words about things that happened in my own life during the same time.
In 2000, America relished dot-com prosperity. Most Americans had good jobs. There was a budget surplus. Still, many Americans did not like the man whose rule made these things possible: President Bill Clinton. They blamed him for fornicating in the Oval Office. That fall, Americans went to the polls. They had a choice: They could pick Al Gore if they wanted to continue the Democratic policies that led to prosperity in the late 1990s; or they could pick George W. Bush, the Texan challenger who offered a chance to chastise Bill Clinton for his sexual escapades. In the end, Al Gore got more votes, but George W. Bush won the election. The Supreme Court decided who would be President by a 5-4 vote. That maddening result set the tone for the decade: Ruthless division in American society marked by mutual accusations of unfair play and unbridled contempt on both sides. The era of George W. Bush had begun.
I finished college in 2000. I had no idea what to do with myself. I knew nothing about commerce; somehow I thought I would use my German language skills to land translation jobs and pay the rent in New York City. I rented a roach-infested one-bedroom apartment with a collapsing ceiling on 146th Street for $600 a month (hey, at least it was near the 'A' train). I rode around the city on a bike during the summer. Somehow--thanks to the heady economic climate at the time--I managed to make money translating German. It was an exciting time for me. I met the love of my life in June; I have been with him ever since. At one point, I even had the most money I have ever had in my bank account: $10,000. I turned 23.
No one will ever forget 2001. In fact, the government doesn't let us forget it, because that's the year 9/11 happened. Islamic resentment against the United States had been brewing for several decades by the time airliners knocked down the World Trade Center. American involvement in the Gulf War--as well as an intrusive American military presence in the Middle East--had long ruffled Muslim feathers. But Bush and all the pundits had us believe that 9/11 was an unprovoked, totally unanticipated attack. Americans suddenly felt vulnerable; no foreign army had ever attacked American soil in modern times. For a brief moment, the pure shock of the crisis united Americans in an unprecedented way; creditors even gave people breaks on debt. That unity swiftly disappeared, however, as Bush polarized the Nation by committing it to a "wartime" stance against "terror." By December, American troops had invaded and occupied Afghanistan. War had come to America. And we're still living with it.
My fortunes changed in 2001, too. My translation jobs dried up as the economy began to crumble in the months before 9/11. I began to worry about money for the first time in my life, and I made the unnerving discovery that my college education had not prepared me at all for commercial existence. I grudgingly began looking for a "real job." My dissatisfaction grew when I found out that my training in German, Russian and comparative literature did not impress corporate recruiters; they were more interesting in my typing speed. Finally, I settled on pursuing a career in law. It seemed the only thing that accommodated my abilities and offered a salary sufficient to pay New York rent. So I started working as a legal assistant, about four blocks from the World Trade Center. On September 8, my partner and I took a trip to Chicago. From there, we saw the Twin Towers fall. We decided that maybe it was time to leave New York for a while. After all, the law firm where I worked was buried in dust. So we moved to Chicago. I went to work at a law firm there making $31,500. The law firm even gave me a Tiffany ball-point pen on my first day. I turned 24.
President Bush maximized his power in 2002. Using Americans' desperate fear after 9/11 to his advantage, he systematically implemented practices that chipped away at everyone's constitutional liberties. Enforcing the "Patriot Act," government agents began wiretapping phones and spying on Americans' reading habits. The military confined so-called "enemy combatants" at secret installations throughout the world, denying them Due Process and access to counsel. Meanwhile, Americans worried that terrorists were planning yet more attacks. The Federal government fanned their fears with a "five-layer color-coded terror warning system." It has never fallen below yellow, nor has it ever risen above orange. And Americans witnessed the Enron scandal in 2002. They got a glimpse into the culture of greed and excess that marked corporate society during the decade. Sadly, they also learned that these were the folks Bush wanted to protect more than anyone else.
My 2002 was relatively unexciting. I got up every morning and rode the Chicago "El" to the law firm, where I shuffled papers and stapled things for about 10 hours a day. Still, I was very much a careerist in 2002. I wanted to prove that I, too, could make a lot of money. To do that, I was determined to get into a top law school and be a better lawyer than the ones for whom I collated copies at the office. I studied for the LSAT. I filled out applications. I chased down reference letters and made phone calls. I researched schools and their statistics. I thought I would waltz right into the Ivy League thanks to my undergraduate grades. But I am not a standardized test ace, and my lackluster LSAT score led all the top schools to reject me. This was a bitter pill for me. It was the first bad news I ever had in an academic pursuit. Yet I blamed the system for the result. I still loved learning; I did not let a bunch of lowly test-writers discourage me. I turned 25.
America invaded Iraq in 2003. Capitalizing on lingering fears about terrorism--and by convincing the American people that Iraq possessed "weapons of mass destruction"--President Bush claimed that Iraq posed a "direct threat" to American sovereignty. So in Bush's mind, it was no invasion at all; it was "self-defense." The military even titled it "Operation Iraqi Freedom," as if America actually cared whether Iraqis had a democratic constitution. The war swiftly toppled Saddam Hussein, leading President Bush to declare in May: "We have prevailed." But this was sheer delusion. A civil war broke out in Iraq. Resentment against American occupation made existing tensions even worse. American casualties rose, as did American commitments. The mission was not "accomplished." In fact, it continues to this day--with 6,000 Americans and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis dead so far.
I got into law school in 2003. I landed a partial scholarship at New York Law School, so I moved back to New York from Chicago. I was overjoyed to be back in school; it was so much better than slaving away at an office for $31,500 a year. For three years, I had not really challenged myself intellectually. But once I started law school, I rediscovered why I always liked being a student. I poured myself into study for twelve hours every day. I did very well in my classes, even if I stressed out about them too much. I felt a real sense of accomplishment. I enjoyed what I studied, even if I could not know at the time that it would not help me in law practice. In 2003, I still thought that the law would make me rich. I had every confidence that my grades would translate into career success. My old law firm in Chicago even said it would hire me the following summer. I also swam a lot in 2003; I went to the gym to counterbalance my studies, and I loved that, too. I liked the way my body looked. I had some difficulties with my parents, but that was about my only challenge in 2003. I turned 26.
America began to understand the Iraq war in 2004. To most people, it became obvious that Iraq had not been "liberated." In fact, more major battles took place in 2004 than in the previous year. Additionally, many people saw that American forces were not as heroic as some sources made them out to be. Americans saw shocking images from the torture chambers at Abu Ghraib prison. In those images, Americans did not appear as noble warriors, but rather torturers and villains. Furthermore, Americans began to appreciate how many civil liberties they had surrendered to advance the "war on terror." They began to see that America was losing serious credibility abroad. Detainee abuse cases became big news in 2004. John Kerry tried to bring these issues to the forefront by challenging Bush for the Presidency. But Bush harped on terror and gay marriage to handedly win the election. Although many Americans began to see how much dignity America was compromising in its open-ended quest to "defeat terror," they could not muster the courage to stop the government's spiral into lawlessness.
I finished my first year in law school in 2004. Relatively speaking, it had been a harrowing experience. I remember feeling overworked and stressed that spring. But my toils had been worth it: I was number 6 in my class of 400. Armed with my grades, I transferred to Loyola Law School in Chicago after my old law firm assured me that they would offer me a job that summer. Unfortunately, after my partner and I had rented an apartment and moved back to Chicago, the law firm told me "they could no longer afford to hire me." This was a serious disappointment. But I made the most of it and attended to my legal studies with the same zeal as ever. In the fall, I contracted a strange infection that damaged my inner ear. I lost my hearing in one ear for several months, and my equilibrium has never been perfect since. I had some troubles with my partner as he struggled with depression and anxiety. I turned 27.
In 2005, America saw who was really important in society. That year, Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and the gulf coast. President Bush famously did nothing, allowing the poor black people to drown and starve waiting for aid. He did not even tour the disaster site, choosing instead to fly overhead, remarking: "That looks pretty bad." Congress passed a law in 2005 limiting consumer access to bankruptcy, further supporting the big business and banking interests that formed the Republican base. As in 2002, we learned who was really important in George Bush's America: The big corporations and banks. At the same time, lenders and traders began profiting from Republican policies that deregulated the financial industry. A false prosperity began to develop, propelled by predatory loans and fraudulent credit practices.
My law school career neared its end in 2005. During the summer, I took my first real "legal job" working as a law clerk at a Chicago personal injury firm. I enjoyed the work, winning many accolades from my bosses for my writing, theory and research. I dove headlong into the theoretical aspects of the law, and that served me well as I molded strategies for every case that crossed my desk. At the same time, I took a passionate interest in constitutional law, which made sense because it represents the intersection between law, history, policy, politics, ethics and philosophy. I had never been so excited about the law. By 2005, I had developed a real fluency in legal doctrine; and I put that fluency to work for me. I had no reason to think that I would not be happy in the profession. I briefly separated from my partner during the spring, but we reunited stronger than ever a month later. My partner reconciled with my parents in 2005. Things were looking very promising for me. I turned 28.
President Bush's fortunes began to change in 2006. Public dissatisfaction grew as the war in Iraq ground endlessly on. Although Bush declared that his 2004 election victory gave him a "mandate" to broadly legislate on major issues, he suffered a critical setback in 2006 when Republicans lost their congressional majority. Without congressional support, Bush's sweeping conservative rhetoric became toothless. Although the Nation continued to bask in deregulated prosperity in 2006, more and more Americans saw that economic trouble lurked just around the corner. Unemployment inched upward in 2006. Mortgage defaults accelerated as consumers discovered that banks held "adjustable rate" powers that tacked interest onto principal, resulting in permanent, increasing debt. Although Wall Street remained strong, ominous signs about the Nation's financial future began to appear.
My life changed for the worse in 2006. In January, my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He fought hard, but by June he was dead. This cast a pall over my existence. I lost interest in the career path that had entranced me for the previous five years. If, after all, everything could end as quickly as it did for my father, why should I really stress out about petty things like money and jobs? Yet through all this I managed to finish law school and pass the Bar Exam. In hindsight, I don't know how I managed it. My perspective on life fundamentally changed in 2006. I carried that new perspective with me as I began practicing law in Chicago. I absolutely hated it. Practice was nothing like the happy legal theorizing I did in 2005. No, practice was all about money. My bosses ridiculed me for indecision. They mocked me for caring too much about justice when money was at stake. At the firm Holiday party that year, I saw "successful" lawyers falling all over each other drunk. They yelled, cursed, boasted and acted like children. At that moment, I decided that I could not practice law. I saw that law was a business, and it chafed against my very spirit. I did not know what I would do. I had spent three years pouring my heart into legal doctrine, yet I could not practice it. I didn't care. My father's death forced me to deeply question all the things that people are "supposed to do" in life. I turned 29.
America blundered ever closer to financial collapse in 2007. As the decade entered its later years, Bush lost more and more influence. Still, the war in Iraq droned forward, claiming more and more lives. Unemployment grew in 2007, even though Wall Street continued to report gains. Deregulation seemed to be working; people could still buy homes without putting money down. A deeper and deeper rift grew between rich and poor in 2007. The bubble was growing. And men like Bernie Madoff took full advantage of it.
Life did not get any easier for me in 2007. Having questioned my career in the law, I toyed with the idea of becoming a judge, or at least a judicial law clerk. If I could not practice, perhaps I could find a place for my intellectual passion in government. It was not to be; no one was hiring thanks to a "budget freeze." So I made ends meet by working as a legal consultant. This suited me. I did not have a boss; I was not under pressure to woo clients or make money. I just put in my time without stress and went home with a paycheck. True, it was not very stimulating. But it gave me a chance to meet interesting people and live my life in some peace. In August, however, disaster struck. My partner suffered a freak burn accident that left him in the hospital near death. He stayed there 35 days. His heart stopped twice on the operating table. I was at his side the whole time. He came home in September; our life has never been the same. I had to learn to be a nurse as well as a wage-earner. I dressed his wounds every day, I managed his medications and I held his hand when he was scared. It has been a full-time job, and it has not ended. Once again, I came face to face with death. I almost lost him, just one year after my father died. That experience convinced me yet again that I made the right decision to abandon "careers" and simply focus on living life without unrealistic expectations. Life is precious; and it can end more quickly that you can possibly imagine. There's no time to worry about inconsequential things. I turned 30.
In 2008, America experienced what happens when you deregulate financial markets. In 2008, America suffered the consequences of Bush-era economic policies. Wall Street collapsed in September, necessitating massive governmental intervention to rescue financial institutions that were "too big to fail." By divorcing government from business, Bush spurred artificial growth during his term. But in so doing, he gave free rein to greed, which ultimately destroyed the economy. Unemployment rose to dizzying heights. People could no longer pay their mortgages. Record numbers pled for government aid. For the first time in decades, Americans wanted increased government intervention into economic and social affairs. Seizing the moment, a new political force arose: Barack Obama. At this critical juncture in American history, Obama fascinated the public. He offered a new path to address modern challenges, a path that focused on oversight and socialization rather than deregulation. Critics claimed he would destroy the free market. But in 2008, Americans had had enough of the free market. They elected him in a landslide.
I spent 2008 caring for my partner as he recovered from his accident. I continued working low-stress consulting jobs. After years of study and toil, I finally had a chance to reflect on what I had become. I still loved the law; I simply did not like the business of law. I continued to study law and think about it every day. But I no longer exulted it. Rather, I began to assimilate my legal knowledge with all the other things I had learned to that point. I delved once more into philosophy and language in 2008. I re-read books I had not opened in ten years; and now I could actually understand them. I also rekindled my Wanderlust. I traveled to Berlin for the first time in years and went back three more times. I started speaking German again. And I started writing. I felt I had amassed enough learning and experience to finally express myself with some confidence. I began this blog in September; since then it has reinvigorated my life. I live to write now. I analyze everything with a new respect. Despite all the setbacks, I found something I loved--and it inspired me in a way I had never felt before. I turned 31.
America began traveling a new path in 2009. President Obama assumed a daunting task: Salvaging the United States from financial ruin. Despite vicious opposition from Republicans, he spent huge amounts in an attempt to "stimulate" floundering enterprises and spur job growth. He also committed America to reforming its health care system. Like perhaps no other social issue, health care is a moral symbol for progressive government. Under Bush, health care was just another article in commerce. That led to widespread injustice because many Americans could not obtain medical care for financial reasons. Obama recognized that and put America on a path to increased social activism in government. As laudable as that may be, the battle over health care has turned into a battle for America's soul. Can we become a more progressive people? Or are we so determined to "pay our own way" in life that we refuse to change for the better? In 2009, America struggled to adjust its focus. Plus Michael Jackson died and Tiger Woods cheated on his wife.
I continued to care for my partner in 2009. Although his physical condition improved, his mental condition did not. He began to suffer from debilitating depression during the winter, so much so that he could not get out of bed for weeks on end. This required me to stay at home full-time. Thanks to generous friends, I did this all year. But my partner did not get any better. During the summer, his depression swung into mania, turning both our lives upside down. Ultimately, he had to stay in the hospital for almost a month. After he came home, I once again assumed the nurse's role, but in a much more pervasive way. He has never been more dependent on me, now even for basic life necessities. I am happy to help him. Despite all the challenges, I wrote my blog almost every morning in 2009. In February, we moved back to New York in order to be closer to friends who can help us. I am happy to be back in the city I love. I turned 32.
I do not know what the future holds. But I am oddly confident. My writing has saved my life in so many ways. I have a feeling that 2010 will be a great year for me, and that I will apply all the lessons I learned over the past decade in the new one.
Wisdom truly emerges over time. By that standard, I am far richer today than I was in 2000.
I've always seen life through the lens of history, including my own existence. I have always been able to remember dates with uncanny accuracy. Over the past week, I took the time to reflect on the decade that just ended. It's worth doing: You don't move into a new decade every day. And memories fade fast.
What a perplexing decade. The first decade of the 21st Century was my first full decade as an adult. On January 1, 2000, I was a wild, mop-haired 22-year-old sapling who knew virtually nothing about life. At the time, of course, I thought I knew everything. On December 31, 2009, I was 32 and had been in a committed relationship for more than nine years. My father had died, I had graduated from law school and no matter how much I learned, I found out how little I really understood about life.
Every year brought a new crisis--and a new crisis in values. I learned to take absolutely nothing for granted. In my first full decade as an adult on this planet, I saw that life is precarious. And I learned you need to savor it. I determined never to let myself forget that.
But today I want to talk about more than myself. I was not the only person (or thing) who changed over the past ten years. No, the world, too, changed immensely between 2000 and 2009. Put simply, these were bleak times. We endured stolen elections, mass murder on American soil, foreign wars, government fear-mongering, out-of-control corporate excess, lending abuses and ultimately the worst economic crisis since 1929. These were the Bush years. These were the years when the world learned to hate the United States more than it ever has in the past.
I am an amateur historian. So today I will try to sum up the decade as briefly as I can. In the process, I will try to encapsulate the spirit of these profoundly difficult times. To that end, I will write a few words about geopolitical developments that occurred during each year in the decade. Then, for perspective's sake, I will write a few words about things that happened in my own life during the same time.
In 2000, America relished dot-com prosperity. Most Americans had good jobs. There was a budget surplus. Still, many Americans did not like the man whose rule made these things possible: President Bill Clinton. They blamed him for fornicating in the Oval Office. That fall, Americans went to the polls. They had a choice: They could pick Al Gore if they wanted to continue the Democratic policies that led to prosperity in the late 1990s; or they could pick George W. Bush, the Texan challenger who offered a chance to chastise Bill Clinton for his sexual escapades. In the end, Al Gore got more votes, but George W. Bush won the election. The Supreme Court decided who would be President by a 5-4 vote. That maddening result set the tone for the decade: Ruthless division in American society marked by mutual accusations of unfair play and unbridled contempt on both sides. The era of George W. Bush had begun.
I finished college in 2000. I had no idea what to do with myself. I knew nothing about commerce; somehow I thought I would use my German language skills to land translation jobs and pay the rent in New York City. I rented a roach-infested one-bedroom apartment with a collapsing ceiling on 146th Street for $600 a month (hey, at least it was near the 'A' train). I rode around the city on a bike during the summer. Somehow--thanks to the heady economic climate at the time--I managed to make money translating German. It was an exciting time for me. I met the love of my life in June; I have been with him ever since. At one point, I even had the most money I have ever had in my bank account: $10,000. I turned 23.
No one will ever forget 2001. In fact, the government doesn't let us forget it, because that's the year 9/11 happened. Islamic resentment against the United States had been brewing for several decades by the time airliners knocked down the World Trade Center. American involvement in the Gulf War--as well as an intrusive American military presence in the Middle East--had long ruffled Muslim feathers. But Bush and all the pundits had us believe that 9/11 was an unprovoked, totally unanticipated attack. Americans suddenly felt vulnerable; no foreign army had ever attacked American soil in modern times. For a brief moment, the pure shock of the crisis united Americans in an unprecedented way; creditors even gave people breaks on debt. That unity swiftly disappeared, however, as Bush polarized the Nation by committing it to a "wartime" stance against "terror." By December, American troops had invaded and occupied Afghanistan. War had come to America. And we're still living with it.
My fortunes changed in 2001, too. My translation jobs dried up as the economy began to crumble in the months before 9/11. I began to worry about money for the first time in my life, and I made the unnerving discovery that my college education had not prepared me at all for commercial existence. I grudgingly began looking for a "real job." My dissatisfaction grew when I found out that my training in German, Russian and comparative literature did not impress corporate recruiters; they were more interesting in my typing speed. Finally, I settled on pursuing a career in law. It seemed the only thing that accommodated my abilities and offered a salary sufficient to pay New York rent. So I started working as a legal assistant, about four blocks from the World Trade Center. On September 8, my partner and I took a trip to Chicago. From there, we saw the Twin Towers fall. We decided that maybe it was time to leave New York for a while. After all, the law firm where I worked was buried in dust. So we moved to Chicago. I went to work at a law firm there making $31,500. The law firm even gave me a Tiffany ball-point pen on my first day. I turned 24.
President Bush maximized his power in 2002. Using Americans' desperate fear after 9/11 to his advantage, he systematically implemented practices that chipped away at everyone's constitutional liberties. Enforcing the "Patriot Act," government agents began wiretapping phones and spying on Americans' reading habits. The military confined so-called "enemy combatants" at secret installations throughout the world, denying them Due Process and access to counsel. Meanwhile, Americans worried that terrorists were planning yet more attacks. The Federal government fanned their fears with a "five-layer color-coded terror warning system." It has never fallen below yellow, nor has it ever risen above orange. And Americans witnessed the Enron scandal in 2002. They got a glimpse into the culture of greed and excess that marked corporate society during the decade. Sadly, they also learned that these were the folks Bush wanted to protect more than anyone else.
My 2002 was relatively unexciting. I got up every morning and rode the Chicago "El" to the law firm, where I shuffled papers and stapled things for about 10 hours a day. Still, I was very much a careerist in 2002. I wanted to prove that I, too, could make a lot of money. To do that, I was determined to get into a top law school and be a better lawyer than the ones for whom I collated copies at the office. I studied for the LSAT. I filled out applications. I chased down reference letters and made phone calls. I researched schools and their statistics. I thought I would waltz right into the Ivy League thanks to my undergraduate grades. But I am not a standardized test ace, and my lackluster LSAT score led all the top schools to reject me. This was a bitter pill for me. It was the first bad news I ever had in an academic pursuit. Yet I blamed the system for the result. I still loved learning; I did not let a bunch of lowly test-writers discourage me. I turned 25.
America invaded Iraq in 2003. Capitalizing on lingering fears about terrorism--and by convincing the American people that Iraq possessed "weapons of mass destruction"--President Bush claimed that Iraq posed a "direct threat" to American sovereignty. So in Bush's mind, it was no invasion at all; it was "self-defense." The military even titled it "Operation Iraqi Freedom," as if America actually cared whether Iraqis had a democratic constitution. The war swiftly toppled Saddam Hussein, leading President Bush to declare in May: "We have prevailed." But this was sheer delusion. A civil war broke out in Iraq. Resentment against American occupation made existing tensions even worse. American casualties rose, as did American commitments. The mission was not "accomplished." In fact, it continues to this day--with 6,000 Americans and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis dead so far.
I got into law school in 2003. I landed a partial scholarship at New York Law School, so I moved back to New York from Chicago. I was overjoyed to be back in school; it was so much better than slaving away at an office for $31,500 a year. For three years, I had not really challenged myself intellectually. But once I started law school, I rediscovered why I always liked being a student. I poured myself into study for twelve hours every day. I did very well in my classes, even if I stressed out about them too much. I felt a real sense of accomplishment. I enjoyed what I studied, even if I could not know at the time that it would not help me in law practice. In 2003, I still thought that the law would make me rich. I had every confidence that my grades would translate into career success. My old law firm in Chicago even said it would hire me the following summer. I also swam a lot in 2003; I went to the gym to counterbalance my studies, and I loved that, too. I liked the way my body looked. I had some difficulties with my parents, but that was about my only challenge in 2003. I turned 26.
America began to understand the Iraq war in 2004. To most people, it became obvious that Iraq had not been "liberated." In fact, more major battles took place in 2004 than in the previous year. Additionally, many people saw that American forces were not as heroic as some sources made them out to be. Americans saw shocking images from the torture chambers at Abu Ghraib prison. In those images, Americans did not appear as noble warriors, but rather torturers and villains. Furthermore, Americans began to appreciate how many civil liberties they had surrendered to advance the "war on terror." They began to see that America was losing serious credibility abroad. Detainee abuse cases became big news in 2004. John Kerry tried to bring these issues to the forefront by challenging Bush for the Presidency. But Bush harped on terror and gay marriage to handedly win the election. Although many Americans began to see how much dignity America was compromising in its open-ended quest to "defeat terror," they could not muster the courage to stop the government's spiral into lawlessness.
I finished my first year in law school in 2004. Relatively speaking, it had been a harrowing experience. I remember feeling overworked and stressed that spring. But my toils had been worth it: I was number 6 in my class of 400. Armed with my grades, I transferred to Loyola Law School in Chicago after my old law firm assured me that they would offer me a job that summer. Unfortunately, after my partner and I had rented an apartment and moved back to Chicago, the law firm told me "they could no longer afford to hire me." This was a serious disappointment. But I made the most of it and attended to my legal studies with the same zeal as ever. In the fall, I contracted a strange infection that damaged my inner ear. I lost my hearing in one ear for several months, and my equilibrium has never been perfect since. I had some troubles with my partner as he struggled with depression and anxiety. I turned 27.
In 2005, America saw who was really important in society. That year, Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and the gulf coast. President Bush famously did nothing, allowing the poor black people to drown and starve waiting for aid. He did not even tour the disaster site, choosing instead to fly overhead, remarking: "That looks pretty bad." Congress passed a law in 2005 limiting consumer access to bankruptcy, further supporting the big business and banking interests that formed the Republican base. As in 2002, we learned who was really important in George Bush's America: The big corporations and banks. At the same time, lenders and traders began profiting from Republican policies that deregulated the financial industry. A false prosperity began to develop, propelled by predatory loans and fraudulent credit practices.
My law school career neared its end in 2005. During the summer, I took my first real "legal job" working as a law clerk at a Chicago personal injury firm. I enjoyed the work, winning many accolades from my bosses for my writing, theory and research. I dove headlong into the theoretical aspects of the law, and that served me well as I molded strategies for every case that crossed my desk. At the same time, I took a passionate interest in constitutional law, which made sense because it represents the intersection between law, history, policy, politics, ethics and philosophy. I had never been so excited about the law. By 2005, I had developed a real fluency in legal doctrine; and I put that fluency to work for me. I had no reason to think that I would not be happy in the profession. I briefly separated from my partner during the spring, but we reunited stronger than ever a month later. My partner reconciled with my parents in 2005. Things were looking very promising for me. I turned 28.
President Bush's fortunes began to change in 2006. Public dissatisfaction grew as the war in Iraq ground endlessly on. Although Bush declared that his 2004 election victory gave him a "mandate" to broadly legislate on major issues, he suffered a critical setback in 2006 when Republicans lost their congressional majority. Without congressional support, Bush's sweeping conservative rhetoric became toothless. Although the Nation continued to bask in deregulated prosperity in 2006, more and more Americans saw that economic trouble lurked just around the corner. Unemployment inched upward in 2006. Mortgage defaults accelerated as consumers discovered that banks held "adjustable rate" powers that tacked interest onto principal, resulting in permanent, increasing debt. Although Wall Street remained strong, ominous signs about the Nation's financial future began to appear.
My life changed for the worse in 2006. In January, my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He fought hard, but by June he was dead. This cast a pall over my existence. I lost interest in the career path that had entranced me for the previous five years. If, after all, everything could end as quickly as it did for my father, why should I really stress out about petty things like money and jobs? Yet through all this I managed to finish law school and pass the Bar Exam. In hindsight, I don't know how I managed it. My perspective on life fundamentally changed in 2006. I carried that new perspective with me as I began practicing law in Chicago. I absolutely hated it. Practice was nothing like the happy legal theorizing I did in 2005. No, practice was all about money. My bosses ridiculed me for indecision. They mocked me for caring too much about justice when money was at stake. At the firm Holiday party that year, I saw "successful" lawyers falling all over each other drunk. They yelled, cursed, boasted and acted like children. At that moment, I decided that I could not practice law. I saw that law was a business, and it chafed against my very spirit. I did not know what I would do. I had spent three years pouring my heart into legal doctrine, yet I could not practice it. I didn't care. My father's death forced me to deeply question all the things that people are "supposed to do" in life. I turned 29.
America blundered ever closer to financial collapse in 2007. As the decade entered its later years, Bush lost more and more influence. Still, the war in Iraq droned forward, claiming more and more lives. Unemployment grew in 2007, even though Wall Street continued to report gains. Deregulation seemed to be working; people could still buy homes without putting money down. A deeper and deeper rift grew between rich and poor in 2007. The bubble was growing. And men like Bernie Madoff took full advantage of it.
Life did not get any easier for me in 2007. Having questioned my career in the law, I toyed with the idea of becoming a judge, or at least a judicial law clerk. If I could not practice, perhaps I could find a place for my intellectual passion in government. It was not to be; no one was hiring thanks to a "budget freeze." So I made ends meet by working as a legal consultant. This suited me. I did not have a boss; I was not under pressure to woo clients or make money. I just put in my time without stress and went home with a paycheck. True, it was not very stimulating. But it gave me a chance to meet interesting people and live my life in some peace. In August, however, disaster struck. My partner suffered a freak burn accident that left him in the hospital near death. He stayed there 35 days. His heart stopped twice on the operating table. I was at his side the whole time. He came home in September; our life has never been the same. I had to learn to be a nurse as well as a wage-earner. I dressed his wounds every day, I managed his medications and I held his hand when he was scared. It has been a full-time job, and it has not ended. Once again, I came face to face with death. I almost lost him, just one year after my father died. That experience convinced me yet again that I made the right decision to abandon "careers" and simply focus on living life without unrealistic expectations. Life is precious; and it can end more quickly that you can possibly imagine. There's no time to worry about inconsequential things. I turned 30.
In 2008, America experienced what happens when you deregulate financial markets. In 2008, America suffered the consequences of Bush-era economic policies. Wall Street collapsed in September, necessitating massive governmental intervention to rescue financial institutions that were "too big to fail." By divorcing government from business, Bush spurred artificial growth during his term. But in so doing, he gave free rein to greed, which ultimately destroyed the economy. Unemployment rose to dizzying heights. People could no longer pay their mortgages. Record numbers pled for government aid. For the first time in decades, Americans wanted increased government intervention into economic and social affairs. Seizing the moment, a new political force arose: Barack Obama. At this critical juncture in American history, Obama fascinated the public. He offered a new path to address modern challenges, a path that focused on oversight and socialization rather than deregulation. Critics claimed he would destroy the free market. But in 2008, Americans had had enough of the free market. They elected him in a landslide.
I spent 2008 caring for my partner as he recovered from his accident. I continued working low-stress consulting jobs. After years of study and toil, I finally had a chance to reflect on what I had become. I still loved the law; I simply did not like the business of law. I continued to study law and think about it every day. But I no longer exulted it. Rather, I began to assimilate my legal knowledge with all the other things I had learned to that point. I delved once more into philosophy and language in 2008. I re-read books I had not opened in ten years; and now I could actually understand them. I also rekindled my Wanderlust. I traveled to Berlin for the first time in years and went back three more times. I started speaking German again. And I started writing. I felt I had amassed enough learning and experience to finally express myself with some confidence. I began this blog in September; since then it has reinvigorated my life. I live to write now. I analyze everything with a new respect. Despite all the setbacks, I found something I loved--and it inspired me in a way I had never felt before. I turned 31.
America began traveling a new path in 2009. President Obama assumed a daunting task: Salvaging the United States from financial ruin. Despite vicious opposition from Republicans, he spent huge amounts in an attempt to "stimulate" floundering enterprises and spur job growth. He also committed America to reforming its health care system. Like perhaps no other social issue, health care is a moral symbol for progressive government. Under Bush, health care was just another article in commerce. That led to widespread injustice because many Americans could not obtain medical care for financial reasons. Obama recognized that and put America on a path to increased social activism in government. As laudable as that may be, the battle over health care has turned into a battle for America's soul. Can we become a more progressive people? Or are we so determined to "pay our own way" in life that we refuse to change for the better? In 2009, America struggled to adjust its focus. Plus Michael Jackson died and Tiger Woods cheated on his wife.
I continued to care for my partner in 2009. Although his physical condition improved, his mental condition did not. He began to suffer from debilitating depression during the winter, so much so that he could not get out of bed for weeks on end. This required me to stay at home full-time. Thanks to generous friends, I did this all year. But my partner did not get any better. During the summer, his depression swung into mania, turning both our lives upside down. Ultimately, he had to stay in the hospital for almost a month. After he came home, I once again assumed the nurse's role, but in a much more pervasive way. He has never been more dependent on me, now even for basic life necessities. I am happy to help him. Despite all the challenges, I wrote my blog almost every morning in 2009. In February, we moved back to New York in order to be closer to friends who can help us. I am happy to be back in the city I love. I turned 32.
I do not know what the future holds. But I am oddly confident. My writing has saved my life in so many ways. I have a feeling that 2010 will be a great year for me, and that I will apply all the lessons I learned over the past decade in the new one.
Wisdom truly emerges over time. By that standard, I am far richer today than I was in 2000.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
INVESTIGATING PEOPLE IS AN UGLY BUSINESS, EVEN IF IT IS WELL-INTENTIONED
AN ESSAYYesterday I saw the movie Doubt. In it, Meryl Streep plays a cantankerous Catholic schoolmaster who is determined to unseat the new parish priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) because she thinks he is abusing a troubled student. She has no direct evidence for her crusade. She has seen him hug the student in the hallway. But everyone else says there is nothing inappropriate about the relationship. The priest says that love is essential to the Christian spirit; he said he hugged the boy because he was enduring ridicule from classmates. In the end, the schoolmaster confronts the priest by claiming that she "spoke to his former parish" about his "history." This leads the priest to leave his post.
Ironically, the schoolmaster later admits to a friend that she never called the priest's former employer. The friend is horrified that her austere confidante would ever lie, even when pursuing a just end. She responds: "In the pursuit of wrongdoing, one naturally steps away from God."
What an incredible line. It made me think about proof and truth, as well as investigations into others' personal history. It also made me think about prosecutors. After all, prosecutions involve the "quest for truth" while "pursuing wrongdoing" through "investigation." Yet that quest--despite its good intentions--often leads prosecutors into serious ethical quandaries, just as it did to the schoolmaster in Doubt. And beyond ethics, investigating people for supposed "wrongs" often brings out the worst in everyone involved.
We all have histories. When someone wants to dig into them, he will always uncover something unpraiseworthy, embarrassing, scandalous or simply ugly.
Meryl Streep's character in Doubt represented a familiar "type:" The self-righteous investigator who wants to find evil in a person's past. Such types do not just appear in Catholic schools or District Attorneys' offices. Rather, they appear everywhere in our society. Whenever a person assumes a morally superior position above another and launches an "investigation" into that person for some "official" purpose, he or she effectively becomes the schoolmaster in Doubt. I have encountered them in private employment, in law practice, in academics and in State licensure boards. There is an inherent condescension in their work: They hold the power; they assemble the knowledge; and they pronounce a judgment on another person's history. All the while, they never acknowledge that they, too, may have "skeletons in the closet."
It is uncomfortable to undergo investigation. When I applied for admission to practice law in Illinois, I had to submit to a grueling "Character and Fitness" inquiry. For months, an entire committee combed through my past. They made me fill out an exhaustive "personal history" questionnaire in which I had to disclose all my addresses over the past ten years, as well as confess any disciplinary infractions, criminal convictions, criminal charges, debts and basically anything else "bad" I had done in my life up to that point. They also deeply wanted to know whether I had ever lied under oath or otherwise been "dishonest" when "investigated in an official capacity." Every question seemed to lay a trap: Should you answer fully? Should you answer everything? Should you try to get away with an omission? It was as if the committee wanted you to think they knew everything, but perhaps might overlook something. Every question radiated mistrust, as if inviting you to risk a lie. The whole process seemed designed to make you feel inferior and minuscule. It left you feeling like a specimen under a microscope. And it was your "character" on the block: You either had to confess or they would find out the "truth" by some other means.
Private employers do similar things when "vetting" potential employees. They want references. They want work history. They run credit checks and peruse public records. They compare your resume to other sources to see if you're lying. They even call former employers to get "outside impressions" about the "kind of person you are." Just as the Bar Committee ruthlessly investigates applicants, so too do private employers subject hopeful workers to a suspicion-laden process in an effort to "certify" them. They get to judge personal histories; it is a one-way street. They might be total scoundrels themselves, but they're not the ones applying.
But sometimes we need investigations, don't we? After all, we want to find out bad things about people so we can punish them, or at least prevent them from working, right? Of course we do. Still, that does not mean that investigations are noble. In fact, as the schoolmaster said in Doubt, the "pursuit of wrongdoing" moves us "away from God." In other words, it is somehow undignified to grub in the ground for bad facts about people. It leads to uncomfortable inconsistencies, awkward explanations and outright embarrassment. And taken to the extreme, it leads the investigator to employ dishonest means to accomplish his "honest" ends. Put simply, the quest to affix "truth" to an individual can quickly degenerate into an obsessive witch hunt. When that happens, we should wonder whether the value of "truth" about people is worth the ethical leaps we perpetrate to find it.
I mention all this because truth interests me. We cannot talk about investigation without talking about truth, because investigation aims to produce "truth." Yet it makes no sense to talk about truth without analyzing the concept. After all, truth is about human knowledge. Human knowledge, in turn, stems from human sense. There are comparatively few things in this world that an individual can sense, and those are the only things that he can really "know as true." We know the sky is blue because we see it; we know we are angry because we feel anger in our stomachs. But how do we know about others' pasts? We are limited to our own senses for knowledge and truth. If we do not see a person act "badly," what proves to us that they are truly "bad?"
Investigators set about assembling all the circumstantial facts that produce the impression that a person is "bad" or has "done wrong," even if we personally know nothing about it. That takes real effort--and it takes a lot of scavenging. That "scavenging" takes us "away from God." Scavenging is dirty; that's what pigs and vultures do. Yet this is also what investigators do, even when they have the best intentions.
Theologians say that only God knows the "truth" about other people. In that light, any human attempt to find it seems a hopelessly imperfect enterprise.
Leaving God to one side, modern-day investigations merely reflect power. The investigator sits back, asks questions, assembles facts and makes a judgment about a person based on his "past." The investigator has a past, too. But he need not answer for it. He's the one doing the investigating. He has his own truth; he keeps it comfortably concealed in his memory. But he gets to affix truth to someone else.
It is, after all, an immense power to declare the truth about others.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
MARCHING THROUGH NEW YORK
A REFLECTION
I don’t like confessing things. But I don’t mind “voluntarily sharing” my thoughts and impressions. When I do, I try my best to recall my own actions as accurately as I can. “Confessing,” on the other hand, implies that I must “tell the truth” to some fatherly authority or face unappetizing consequences. Confession is freighted with judgment; the listener judges and decides for himself whether you’re telling “the truth.” And if you do “confess the truth,” the listener has the power to approve or condemn it. In either case, the speaker is the weak party. I avoid such unfair power relationships whenever I can. That’s why I don’t “confess things.”
Even if I could use language to precisely convey what I did, thought or felt at a particular moment in time (a doubtful enterprise), I don’t like the idea that I must “tell the truth” or face negative consequences. I try to tell the truth because I have a conscience, not because some higher authority compels me to speak. Confessions require external pressure and even subservience; conscience, by contrast, comes from within. I try to be honest with myself; and that’s the only way I can accurately recall my impressions. I do my best to remember what I see and hear. I try to be honest when I recall those impressions. That is my truth; I don’t need to “confess it.” I simply honestly recall what I sensed. And sometimes I forget “the truth” completely. After all, there are too many details in life. You can only grasp a precious few.
Today I want to “voluntarily share” some impressions and thoughts. First, I like dancing. Some might call this a confession. I simply call it a preference. Dancing is not easy. We constantly face social pressures impelling us not to dance. Generally, no one really dances until they get drunk. But have you ever danced while perfectly sober? It’s liberating. It feels really good to move your body simply because you are personally exhilarated about something. Your spirits rise when you let your body move like that. After all, in “everyday life,” we accustom ourselves to holding our bodies in relatively few positions: sitting, standing, walking, lying down. Social custom expects us to hold our bodies in these positions: For example, no one dances at work. Yet when we move in “unexpected ways,” we break those customs. I find that fun. I like controlling my own body. It’s a welcome change.
Second, sometimes I dance when I walk the New York streets. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved walking in New York. I grew up in suburban, sleepy Connecticut. Not much moved on the Connecticut streets. But in New York, the streets burst with energy, even drama. There is always something to see; you rarely see the same thing twice. Put simply, New York moves. During my first years in New York, I used to get excited just to go outside and walk. I walked everywhere, just to feel the energy. I didn’t really have a destination. I just moved because it felt good to move around in such exciting surroundings. And because I felt so good during those walks, sometimes I would break out a dance step. Why the hell not? I felt good, so why not let my body show it? Even now—fourteen years later—I still sometimes feel giddy on the New York streets. True, they’ve changed a lot. But there are some things about New York that never change, like nonstop, vibrant movement on the streets.
I march, too. Just about everyone who walks alone in New York listens to music. Hip-hop started in New York. Hip-hop is basically funk music interspersed with spoken, rhythmic (hopefully) rhymes. Of course, it has changed profoundly since the 1980s; I really don’t like it anymore. But in essence, hip-hop is New York marching music. In the old days, it propelled you forward with attitude. Back then, a good hip-hop song made you want to get up and move with purpose, just the way you feel when you move through the New York streets. It makes you want to say: “Yeah, look at me. I’m in New York; what are you going to do about it?” Hip-hop beats are marching beats. You can dance to them as easily as you can keep in step with them.
Yet people think marching is old fashioned. It isn’t. In fact, marching influences all modern dance music. If you can move to a song, it most likely has a march beat in it somewhere. Soldiers march because marching boosts morale, just like dancing. Marching brings people together under a rhythmic, even hypnotic pulse, just as a great dance song does. Marching is also extremely “manly;” it oozes with masculine braggadocio. When soldiers march, they parade their physical discipline and strength. When people watch soldiers march, they admire their lockstep and smart uniforms. They hear the beat pulsating in the background. They hear hundreds of boots hit the ground as one. And they see the soldiers moving as one with the music, like an inexorable, proud machine. Meanwhile, the soldiers themselves feel strong and united under the music. They move together and they know they are powerful. There is something about a march beat that makes every listener confident and proud. Marches replicate the tempo of a brisk walk. A march beat makes the listener want to move with purpose. Dance beats do the same thing.
Dance beats are little more than embellished marches. Every great dance song is also a march. Listen to one. Can you walk briskly to it? If you can, it’s a march. Is there a bottom line drumbeat that propels you forward? If there is, it’s a march. All modern American dance music derives from marches. Funk, hip-hop and even electronica derive from New Orleans jazz. New Orleans jazz, in turn, took its snare/bass drumbeats from 19th Century military bands. Armies have always known that propulsive music makes soldiers feel strong and unified. Early jazz musicians took marches and made them “fun” as well as “unifying.” Marches have attitude; so does jazz. Marches make want you get up and move with confidence and purpose. So does jazz. And so do all the other funky genres that developed after jazz. They all trace their origins back to the military march. Dance music appeals to us for the same reason that marches appealed to our earliest ancestors. They both spring from a common root: Beats that inspire unifying, powerful movement.
I think about this legacy when I march through New York. It’s easier to move over long distances with a strong beat behind you. That’s why armies always had drummers to spur tired soldiers another mile down the road. Just as marches lifted soldiers’ spirits through movement in the past, dance music lifts our spirits today. Both marches and dance music target our bodies. They make us feel good because the music makes us move our bodies in more daring ways than usual. When we do, we feel confident. When we dance—just as when we march—we dare the world to look at us and we don’t mind. Both marches and dancing immunize us from the normalizing judgments of the outside world. In fact, if we dance or march with enough zeal, those normalizing judgments give way to admiration and even awe. After all, the public always respects a company of soldiers marching to a powerful beat. They might move their bodies in “uncustomary” ways, but they project such raw, confident strength that they inspire respect. Who wants to mess with soldiers who march well? The same goes for good dancing.
I march in New York because marching fits the city’s pulsating energy. In many ways, New York is one vast theater. Everyone knows that everyone else is looking at them, even if they try not to show it. Everyone is playacting on some level. Everyone wants to be special. Vanity is everywhere, even when unwarranted. But that’s what creates the city’s crackling energy. Everyone is striving for something and moving somewhere. Quite simply, everyone is marching.
I like contributing to that energy. That’s why I march in New York. I’m not afraid to say it. But no matter how strange this sounds, this is no confession. I am not at all ashamed to say that I march every day; I am proud that I can let music move me. When a march or a dance song triggers good feelings in my body, it makes me happy. That emotion is mine. No one else experiences it at that moment. Why feel ashamed for a happy moment? Leaving happiness to one side, I think it’s fair to say that it is better to feel confident than to feel insecure. Confident people dance because they don’t care what others think about them. They also march because marching inspires confidence. Put simply, if you can march, you can dance, too. It really doesn’t matter who’s drumming the beat, as long as it moves you.
I don’t like confessing things. But I don’t mind “voluntarily sharing” my thoughts and impressions. When I do, I try my best to recall my own actions as accurately as I can. “Confessing,” on the other hand, implies that I must “tell the truth” to some fatherly authority or face unappetizing consequences. Confession is freighted with judgment; the listener judges and decides for himself whether you’re telling “the truth.” And if you do “confess the truth,” the listener has the power to approve or condemn it. In either case, the speaker is the weak party. I avoid such unfair power relationships whenever I can. That’s why I don’t “confess things.”
Even if I could use language to precisely convey what I did, thought or felt at a particular moment in time (a doubtful enterprise), I don’t like the idea that I must “tell the truth” or face negative consequences. I try to tell the truth because I have a conscience, not because some higher authority compels me to speak. Confessions require external pressure and even subservience; conscience, by contrast, comes from within. I try to be honest with myself; and that’s the only way I can accurately recall my impressions. I do my best to remember what I see and hear. I try to be honest when I recall those impressions. That is my truth; I don’t need to “confess it.” I simply honestly recall what I sensed. And sometimes I forget “the truth” completely. After all, there are too many details in life. You can only grasp a precious few.
Today I want to “voluntarily share” some impressions and thoughts. First, I like dancing. Some might call this a confession. I simply call it a preference. Dancing is not easy. We constantly face social pressures impelling us not to dance. Generally, no one really dances until they get drunk. But have you ever danced while perfectly sober? It’s liberating. It feels really good to move your body simply because you are personally exhilarated about something. Your spirits rise when you let your body move like that. After all, in “everyday life,” we accustom ourselves to holding our bodies in relatively few positions: sitting, standing, walking, lying down. Social custom expects us to hold our bodies in these positions: For example, no one dances at work. Yet when we move in “unexpected ways,” we break those customs. I find that fun. I like controlling my own body. It’s a welcome change.
Second, sometimes I dance when I walk the New York streets. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved walking in New York. I grew up in suburban, sleepy Connecticut. Not much moved on the Connecticut streets. But in New York, the streets burst with energy, even drama. There is always something to see; you rarely see the same thing twice. Put simply, New York moves. During my first years in New York, I used to get excited just to go outside and walk. I walked everywhere, just to feel the energy. I didn’t really have a destination. I just moved because it felt good to move around in such exciting surroundings. And because I felt so good during those walks, sometimes I would break out a dance step. Why the hell not? I felt good, so why not let my body show it? Even now—fourteen years later—I still sometimes feel giddy on the New York streets. True, they’ve changed a lot. But there are some things about New York that never change, like nonstop, vibrant movement on the streets.
I march, too. Just about everyone who walks alone in New York listens to music. Hip-hop started in New York. Hip-hop is basically funk music interspersed with spoken, rhythmic (hopefully) rhymes. Of course, it has changed profoundly since the 1980s; I really don’t like it anymore. But in essence, hip-hop is New York marching music. In the old days, it propelled you forward with attitude. Back then, a good hip-hop song made you want to get up and move with purpose, just the way you feel when you move through the New York streets. It makes you want to say: “Yeah, look at me. I’m in New York; what are you going to do about it?” Hip-hop beats are marching beats. You can dance to them as easily as you can keep in step with them.
Yet people think marching is old fashioned. It isn’t. In fact, marching influences all modern dance music. If you can move to a song, it most likely has a march beat in it somewhere. Soldiers march because marching boosts morale, just like dancing. Marching brings people together under a rhythmic, even hypnotic pulse, just as a great dance song does. Marching is also extremely “manly;” it oozes with masculine braggadocio. When soldiers march, they parade their physical discipline and strength. When people watch soldiers march, they admire their lockstep and smart uniforms. They hear the beat pulsating in the background. They hear hundreds of boots hit the ground as one. And they see the soldiers moving as one with the music, like an inexorable, proud machine. Meanwhile, the soldiers themselves feel strong and united under the music. They move together and they know they are powerful. There is something about a march beat that makes every listener confident and proud. Marches replicate the tempo of a brisk walk. A march beat makes the listener want to move with purpose. Dance beats do the same thing.
Dance beats are little more than embellished marches. Every great dance song is also a march. Listen to one. Can you walk briskly to it? If you can, it’s a march. Is there a bottom line drumbeat that propels you forward? If there is, it’s a march. All modern American dance music derives from marches. Funk, hip-hop and even electronica derive from New Orleans jazz. New Orleans jazz, in turn, took its snare/bass drumbeats from 19th Century military bands. Armies have always known that propulsive music makes soldiers feel strong and unified. Early jazz musicians took marches and made them “fun” as well as “unifying.” Marches have attitude; so does jazz. Marches make want you get up and move with confidence and purpose. So does jazz. And so do all the other funky genres that developed after jazz. They all trace their origins back to the military march. Dance music appeals to us for the same reason that marches appealed to our earliest ancestors. They both spring from a common root: Beats that inspire unifying, powerful movement.
I think about this legacy when I march through New York. It’s easier to move over long distances with a strong beat behind you. That’s why armies always had drummers to spur tired soldiers another mile down the road. Just as marches lifted soldiers’ spirits through movement in the past, dance music lifts our spirits today. Both marches and dance music target our bodies. They make us feel good because the music makes us move our bodies in more daring ways than usual. When we do, we feel confident. When we dance—just as when we march—we dare the world to look at us and we don’t mind. Both marches and dancing immunize us from the normalizing judgments of the outside world. In fact, if we dance or march with enough zeal, those normalizing judgments give way to admiration and even awe. After all, the public always respects a company of soldiers marching to a powerful beat. They might move their bodies in “uncustomary” ways, but they project such raw, confident strength that they inspire respect. Who wants to mess with soldiers who march well? The same goes for good dancing.
I march in New York because marching fits the city’s pulsating energy. In many ways, New York is one vast theater. Everyone knows that everyone else is looking at them, even if they try not to show it. Everyone is playacting on some level. Everyone wants to be special. Vanity is everywhere, even when unwarranted. But that’s what creates the city’s crackling energy. Everyone is striving for something and moving somewhere. Quite simply, everyone is marching.
I like contributing to that energy. That’s why I march in New York. I’m not afraid to say it. But no matter how strange this sounds, this is no confession. I am not at all ashamed to say that I march every day; I am proud that I can let music move me. When a march or a dance song triggers good feelings in my body, it makes me happy. That emotion is mine. No one else experiences it at that moment. Why feel ashamed for a happy moment? Leaving happiness to one side, I think it’s fair to say that it is better to feel confident than to feel insecure. Confident people dance because they don’t care what others think about them. They also march because marching inspires confidence. Put simply, if you can march, you can dance, too. It really doesn’t matter who’s drumming the beat, as long as it moves you.
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