I have long struggled with my addiction to Twitter. I gave it up for Lent, then was right back on the thing as soon as it was "allowed" again. I spend approximately two minutes (not exaggerating) a day on Facebook and multiple hours--spread throughout the day--on the bird-platform. I've talked about it before, so I don't need to rehash old statements. The long and the short of it (#shakespeareiseverywhere) is that I prefer that social media to the Book of Faces.
One of the reasons that I like Twitter so much is that it gives me a chance to read from a lot of unexpected sources and get insights into what a lot of people are talking about. I've purged my follow list a couple of times, trying each time to focus more on what I really want out of the platform: Information regarding agents, writers, and goings-on in the world of my interests (teaching and publication and comic books and video games and Shakespeare and…and…). I do a poor- to fair job parsing down the accounts, then tend to accumulate more and more until I need to winnow again. It seems that time is upon me again. What's happening is kind of inside baseball (to use a phrase I know exists but doesn't make any sense to me), but the basic thrust is this: Comic book and book publishing are getting their turns in the sunlight, and it isn't a pretty sight. I don't buy a lot of comics these days--I don't buy a lot of anything, thanks to Ms. Rona--so I don't know exactly who's doing what and how they're abusing their power. However, this site helps put a finger on the reckoning that's going on. It isn't just comic books, either: The reason that I even found the aforelinked website is because a writer named Myke Cole and his friend (and fellow writer) Sam Sykes both are dealing with allegations of misconduct and abuse. I say allegations, but Myke Cole, during the heat of the #MeToo movement, wrote about it in February 2018--and it seems like he hadn't changed his attitudes or behaviors. I don't know the details of the newest stuff, but both he and Sam Sykes have been called out as perpetrators of sexual harassment. I own one book each from the two men, though I've never read them. (I'm a fan of ebooks in principle, though I tend to prefer non-fiction on my ereader, and since both of the purchases were electronic, well…) Their main interest to me was watching them banter across the internet in some decidedly hilarious interactions. Cole had a lot of worthwhile things to say about the recent protests, about how white supremacy usurps and twists historical concepts to serve their purposes, and the need for police defunding and abolition. Sykes had a number of insightful threads about the creative and writing process, and he was a great amplifier for artists whose work he liked. As far as I knew, they were just normal creatives on Twitter with books for sale. I guess I was right: They were "normal". And that's the problem. It's not hard (like, really not hard at all) to recognize that all people deserve to be treated as human, that their consent and preferences be taken into account when interacting with them, and that they should never be made to feel uncomfortable or unsafe. Women in particular (and by that, of course, I include transwomen--because they're women, obvs--and non-binary people who rely on female designations for whatever reason) are human beings with equal rights, boundaries, and personal agency. Yet women in particular end up becoming targets of sexual harassment (and worse) far too often. Men, too, are put into compromised positions by others in power. It is an abhorrent reality that too many people face. The #MeToo movement helped show us how pervasive sexual misconduct (to put a too-polite word on the behavior) is within American society. Misogyny in any form ought to be anathema to, well, everyone. It has no place in our world. …except that it's here. It doesn't deserve to be here. It's like the divine right of kings: At best a relic of an antiquated age that needs no renaissance, at worst a tool that some may seek to remain in power for whatever personal gain they hope to achieve. (And lest you think that there aren't a lot of people who wish for a king in America, you perhaps haven't been paying attention to the loudest and most ardent followers of President Trump.) Misogyny (and its less-frequently seen sibling, misandry) shouldn't be in the world, yet it is. And we have to do something about it. No cancer is cured without intervention; no malady of humankind will go away without confrontation. There are lots of complexities in this issue, but the part that is most salient, I think, is a recognition of power. As cis-het White males who've been published, both Cole and Sykes are in positions that create a power imbalance. Power imbalances are inherent in our system--parent/child, teacher/student, politician/voter (in theory), employer/employee--and the differences in power positions is the area in which abuses are most likely to occur. The idea that an abuser can do heinous things and get away with it is one of the ways that these power imbalances become more and more entrenched. In the case of two published and visible (comparatively) writers, there's an additional power dynamic that a non-writer may not immediately see: Envy. I can't speak for other creative enterprises (though I imagine it's pretty similar), but in the writing community, aspiring writers are the most vocal and eager component of a fanbase. Book signings are often scenes of long lines of would-be writers hoping to get a bit of the signee's luck to rub off on them. The reason is pretty simple: It is extremely hard to break into writing. It's even harder to make a career out of it. And it's next to impossible to gain a wide readership. The competition is omnipresent and fierce. Going to a writer's conference is going into a place where the air has been replaced with desperation. Aspirants are desperate to learn something that will get them on the other side of the panel--to have "made it" and to be the one dispensing advice rather than writing it down. Published authors are desperate to keep their success going--to shill their books to the attendees and hope that the can earn out sometime in the near future. Editors are desperate to find someone whose work will provide a stable residual income for them; agents are desperate to strike a partnership with someone whose writing they love. Despite the fact that everyone is desperate, there are different degrees here. Power is strongest in the editors. They tend to be the ones acquiring the new talent, going to bat for the new books and new authors. This means that the editors have additional leverage over people who are desperate, and that increased power can far too often translate into heinous abuses. (A non-writing example would have to be Harvey Weinstein, who doesn't need any more thought spared to him.) Though neither Cole nor Sykes is an editor, they're both guys who "made it". They're one step closer to the dream. That means that people who might not normally accept an off-color or sexually suggestive remark will give a partial laugh and half-smile when it comes from an author that they like, or an agent they're thinking of querying. Richard Paul Evens learned the hard way that giving an unsolicited hug to fans can cross a line he didn't realize was there--and he did it, as the article says, probably "thousands of times". Were there thousands of victims? No. But there were some, and they were victimized because of the power imbalance. (Another example of this, though its effects are more diffuse: J.K. Rowling, despite having a lot of progressive concepts and values in her books, is a TERF, and she's recently come under fire for comments that dismiss transwomen. In this case, her power is less personal--she has an immense influence in the writing world, despite the fact that she isn't writing nearly as much as she has in the past--and it has turned into a flashpoint for a number of fans. So while you couldn't say that a specific person is harmed by Rowling's statements in the same way that the victims of Cole's or Sykes' behavior have been, there's still a kind of abuse that's happening here.) The results of these allegations have come rapidly. Cole has removed himself from Twitter for the foreseeable future; Sykes is insisting that victims continue to speak out. Everyone responds to this situation in slightly different ways. In my case, I remain in an uncomfortable crux that I've been in for many years now: What to do with the fact that human beings are behind so many of the things that I love. This isn't to dismiss the negative things that come from the embedded misogyny and racism that has built the world I live in. Being human means making mistakes, of course, but that doesn't mean that success should be deprived you because of those mistakes--but neither does it mean that second (or third or tenth) chances should be afforded, either. In some cases, it's a matter of reception. Milton and Shakespeare are near and dear to my heart and they're also emblematic of the Dead White Male that dominates the English departments. Eve in Paradise Lost moves between shockingly original and disappointingly dismissed. Kate in The Taming of the Shrew is a portrait of Stockholm Syndrome and one of the great tragedies in the canon, despite being a comedy. How can I maintain my feminist credentials, as it were, when embracing these two anti-women writers? Neither Milton nor Shakespeare can be "cancelled"--their presence in the world of letters is settled, at least during my lifetime. Their works are crucial to our modern identities, regardless of whether or not we recognize it. And I can't very well stop buying Milton or Shakespeare--they aren't getting royalties, and voting with my wallet will do nothing to their reputation. If economics is the barometer, the Bard and the prophet-bard are safe from reprisal. But what about Rowling, Cole, Sykes, or any other number of "problematic" authors who've done/said something that shows a sinister side to them that I can't agree with? My dollars will support Orson Scott Card if I buy his book, which means that I continue to empower a known- and proud homophobe. Is buying another round of butterbeer at Universal Studios only prolonging how long Rowling will be visible, pertinent, and capable of spreading her misconceptions about women? Now that I've purchased their books, is my continued non-reading of Cole and Sykes a way of boycotting them? And how is that different than the fact that I haven't gotten around to reading their books in the first place? These kinds of questions have been on my mind, as I said before, for years. And while I may have given examples that don't resonate with you. Maybe there are other views that these people espouse that you fundamentally disagree with--like Cole's calls to abolish the police. So you're okay with seeing his career end (will it, though?) or go on an unexpected and prolonged hiatus. You now will no longer buy books from a guy you weren't planning on buying from anyway. Have you done something to him? A creative's life is one of perpetual rejection (most of it's hidden, as authors don't stalk bookstores and feel personally offended when every patron who walked past her book on the aisle leaves without even picking up the book), so are you doing anything by boycotting his books? People talk about voting with their wallets all of the time--I used the phrase myself in the course of this essay--but I don't think it's quite as clear cut as we'd like to assume. After all, you may be able to buy a book from Rowling or Card or Sykes or Cole, but you could just as easily buy a book from Okorafor or Kuang or Chu or Kowal. All of these authors write in the same science fiction/fantasy genre, so why not pick one of these "less problematic" writers? Except you can't go to Hogwarts with Kuang and Okorfor's version of Ender is a Black girl named Binti, and does Kowal have as much fantasy violence in her books? In other words, you normally can't read one person's book and get the same story from a different author. So if Hogwarts means something important to me, something crucial, then I can't just go anywhere else. See? It's complicated… Or maybe it isn't. What's the difference between writers anyway? If you don't like one person's story, buy someone else's. Write your own books (which only makes sense to anyone who's never tried to write a book before). Don't do research into the humans who make your art. Don't expect them to abide by your own morals. Only buy from those who share your morals. Only retread what you've seen before, keeping your diet safe and vanilla, hypoallergenic and without surprises. Refrain from interpreting, interpolating, or interrogating the books you read--it's just fiction, it's just a story. No need to put anything else into it. I don't know how to square this circle. I bring it up from time to time in an attempt to get my feelings figured out, but it always slips free. I don't want to support people who've done harmful things. I don't want to give a pass to creators whose content I like simply because I like what they've made. I also have to acknowledge that someone has a problem with everything that I like for a whole host of reasons, so I have to understand what my own lines in the sand are…and what that says about me. Lastly, what this whole sordid tale exposes to me is the reality that I, too, have made mistakes. Never have I knowingly acted in a way that was intended to be inappropriate or harassing, sexually or otherwise. But that doesn't mean that I haven't been the reason someone felt unsafe or that I had ulterior motives in what I said or did. I know that there have been times--I can think of a couple--where brave women told me that what I was doing was making them uncomfortable. I immediately apologized and changed my behavior and that was the end of it. How many times have I inadvertently "shot mine arrow o'er the house, / And hurt my brother" (Hamlet 5.2) or sister? Lots of questions, I fear. And, as it happens so often for me, precious few answers. I don't have a lot of interaction with healthcare. At least, not for myself. My family has spent a fair number of weeks, throughout our lives, in hospitals, but I have never been admitted, never had to go to the ER for an injury I've received. I'm lucky, I know. The most I get for my healthcare experiences on a regular basis is when I get my Wellbutrin medication refilled. A couple of weeks ago, I went to Target to get my prescription. It was already waiting for me (always a plus), so the pharmacist/assistant (I don't know the hierarchy behind the counter) started to ring me up. As she went through the multi-stage process of selling me a plastic bottle filled with help, she glanced at my shirt. "You know, my husband loves Shakespeare, but I…" She trailed off as I glanced down. Like most people, I think long and hard about what graphic tee-shirt I'm going to wear, then immediately forget what I've put on because I'm too busy trying to find a matching sock to the one I'm already holding. I was wearing a shirt I bought at the Utah Shakespeare Festival, one which has a picture of the Bard on the front and the phrase "You Complete Me", with a list of all of his plays visible on the back. Clearly, a shirt of no mild fandom. Then she finished her sentence. "I just really don't like his stuff." "Oh," I say, forcing a smile because I'm only a jerk on the inside. "To each his own, I guess." "I saw that one BBC one," she went on, mistaking my politeness for agreement. "It had, oh, what's his name? Tom…" "Tom Hiddleston? From the Hollow Crown series?" "Yeah! There are, like, a million of them!" "There are two," I said, unsure of how to really respond to these comments, "with a handful of plays in each." "Well, it felt like a lot more. And why was he smiling so much?" "I guess," I ventured, having finished the transaction whilst suffering through this conversation, "that if you were the heir to the English crown, you'd have plenty to smile about." "I guess so," she admitted, then she laughed. "Thanks for coming! Merry Christmas!" "You, too," I said congenially, the smile disappearing from my face the instant my back was turned. Here's the thing: I get it that some people don't like Shakespeare in that I have the intellectual capacity to imagine a person with bad taste. In fact, I operate my life assuming that anti-Shakespearean sentiment is the default position for most people. And maybe, if we're friends and sitting down to chat for a bit and the topic comes up, we could discuss it and have a valuable experience. But why would she feel compelled to trash on something that I clearly appreciate. A Shakespeare shirt that says "You Complete Me" seems, I would argue, only a matter of aesthetic degree away from "I Love Shakespeare". Why doesn't Thumper's mother's advice register in a moment like that? It's baffling that she would think that I would care to hear her experience when what I really wanted was my anti-depressants so that I can continue to live in a world with people like her. This comic sums it up. ====
Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Consumption is the way of life; consumerism is something else altogether.
As a teacher, the wherewithal to buy a lot of consumer goods is…limited. No, this isn't a post about how little teachers are paid (I have a take on that, but I haven't written it, yet). After all, compared to many other people the world over, my life--and bank account--is beyond enviable. I mean, I'm typing this on a computer that I own (finally: I bought it on credit from Best Buy right around the time we moved into New Place and I finished paying it off last month) in a warm house with plenty of space and electricity practically oozing out of the walls, anxious to be used to fire up even more gadgets. It's pretty great, honestly. But the problem isn't recognizing what I have; it's tamping down on what I want. And nothing explodes one's sense of self-control quite like the cupidity of the Christmas season. I know that one of the large parts of my antipathy toward the month of December is the incongruity of worshiping a Man who lived his life in abject poverty, despite being a king, and the cultural disapprobation for not splurging to excess--even financial duress--under the same banner of Christ's Mass*. The thing is, I know it's better to be content with what I have. And I struggle--I really do--to keep that as my default. I don't buy books nearly as often as I have the impulse to. I have yet to get new shelves in my office, despite needing them for my ever-growing collection. With a couple of notable exceptions, I don't buy new video games when they come out, preferring to wait--sometimes for years--to buy them at a used price instead. These are luxuries, of course, though there's something to be said for extracting some measure of pleasure out of the dark world in which we live. And that's what gets me: I have plenty and to spare, so why do I allow myself to foster avarice? Here's an example: I have a black desk mat on my office desk. It matches the décor and helps keep the desk from getting scratched. It makes the room feel more professional (until you look at all of the action figures all around me) and I appreciate the way it helps me write, as the edge of my desk gouges into my forearms if I don't use the mat to protect them. And guess what? I really want one of these $60 mats from Angelarium.net. All of the artwork on the website is fantastic--a major inspiration for how I conceived of the sundry goddess and gods in my NaNoWriMo book, Theomancy--and I think it would be so great if I could replace my desk mat with one from the website, preferably the one pictured at the top of the post (which is also the link). There's no practical reason why I should trade up. The mat's dimensions make it so that the expensive, artsy version would cover less of my desk and work less efficiently than my boring-old-black one does now. In other words, the wanting to have it is, in some ways, more appealing than actually having it. What frustrates me, I think, is that I clearly understand the issue. I don't need it. Even if I needed a replacement, I don't need a $60 one. That's madness. But I want it. Like, really badly. I'm considering picking it up with some Christmas money that tends to come my way each year, rather than doling out the dollars at the bookstore as my dysthymia mandates, which is my usual practice. Again: Madness. Why am I like that? I know I'm not alone. Cultural conditioning, social pressures, and psychological impulses all dictate a lot of what's going on inside of everyone's head. And with the annual permissiveness that "It only comes once a year" provides, there's an explicit expectation to splurge, indulge, and allow that greed to winnow its way into the zeitgeist. I'm hardly immune to that sort of thinking and behavior. Every year I read Les Miserables during this time. And every year I'm reminded of what it really means to want, to be unable to know where my next meal is coming from. I have a good life, where much more than I could reasonably expect is part of my day-to-day living. That's not nothing. And every year, I mumble something to my wife about something or other that I would like for Christmas (although I'm actually pretty easy to shop for: I like gift cards to Barnes and Noble, since that's basically where I buy almost everything I want for myself, or something related to Shakespeare or Milton), and then I try hard not to expect to get anything that I would want. It's a strange tension inside of me, one that I can't seem to shake. I resist the avarice throughout so much of the year, the easing up comes unnaturally, yet if I don't resist it and embrace the excess, then I feel guilty for not being a part of the festive spirit. It's all…strange. Life's strange. So, I guess that makes sense, doesn't it? --- * Also, I'm not even Catholic, so why would I worry about different Masses? But if I grinch the season, I'm the Scrooge somehow? Bah. Humbug. I finished listening to the recently released book Economism by James Kwak. I'm not particularly fond of economics--a point that Kwak obliquely critiques--in large part because of my own distinct hang-ups about math and/or arithmetic. Additionally, there's a dogmatization toward the quasi-sacrosanct quality of capitalist economy that sometimes precludes even a mild critique of systems viewed more as incontrovertible natural laws than human constructs. This makes conversations about economy--and (according to Kwak) the more insidious economism.
A definition is in order: What Kwak calls economism is the philosophy that the entirety of the complex world in which we live can be reduced, comprehended, and predicted based upon baseline understandings of "Econ 101". It is, in essence, the insistence that a freshman comprehension of economics is all that's necessary to run the economy. A separate (albeit older and more disheartening) book, The Shock Doctrine, calls it "capitalist fundamentalism", and that works really well for what Kwak sees. He describes the basics, like supply and demand, and shows how well they work on a foundational, theoretical model. His critique of that system, however, becomes the point of the rest of the book. One of the refrains is the challenge to the assumption that we live "in the best of all possible worlds". That acts as an article of faith of economism and it allows for any and every abuse of people for profit as an assumption of immutability. As I progressed through the book, the quote from Ursula Le Guin kept springing to mind: "We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable – but then, so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings." In the context of Le Guin's quote, she decried the trend of publishers replacing the sales departments for the editorial board. The idea of capitulating art to the crushing hunger of capitalism is another way of looking at the same picture that Kwak paints. What really stood out to me was the dogged insistence of economism's veracity. Evidences on economics can vary--sometimes, there's a clear-cut, cause-effect way in which the economy operates. Sometimes, it's murky, with anecdotes and inconclusive analyses. Sometimes, the clear counterexamples to economism's assumptions are laid bare, the inaccuracies and consequences limpid. That reality is, perhaps, the foundational issue: Life is far too complex to be explained by "learning economics". When the 2008 crisis was still in its deep throes, I asked my math teacher coworker why, if economics was mathematical, and numbers are considered unassailable, why we were seeing so many problems in the stock market. His answer has stuck with me: "My brother," he said, "is an economist and you know what? It's all a matter of interpretation." The idea that so much of what we depend on to generate a society is decided upon based upon hermeneutics was shocking to me. On one level, it means that there's a lot more ability to explore, extract, and extrapolate. Things aren't, of ineluctable necessity, any particular way and if there's a problem, we can interfere and change it. On another level, however, it's a terrifying proposition. Theory is all well and good--I'm a big fan of literary theory and I appreciate the uniquely human capacity to generate it--but there's always an uncomfortable friction when praxis meets theory. In the case of the economy, theoretical gains, benefits, and purposes don't operate on a spreadsheet. Real life implications and consequences can arise from economic mismanagement. Money's value may be fiat, but it still matters. Peoples' lives can be ruined--as we saw in 2008--by money machinations. The fact that so many powerful politicians, pundits, and parties base themselves on a rudimentary knowledge of theory without coming to grips with the deeper implications--or, perhaps even more perniciously, the deeply rooted (and often false) assumptions--of the decisions they make really left me shaken by the end of my reading. This isn't (necessarily) confirmation bias, though I admit that's a real possibility. However, for a long time, I have recognized the inherit flaws of capitalism and its outrageous justifications for exploiting human suffering. While my privileges (which are many) have shielded me from the worst injustices of the American system of capitalism, I've seen intimations of just how bad it can be. In other words, I've had stirrings--in manifest areas--that our system is rigged. This book has helped point me in some of the directions in which I can see evidences of that. Finally, if my (admittedly tame) critique of capitalism here in the past 750 words make you upset and you think that I'm now a socialist/pinko, there are a couple of considerations: One, at the outset, I pointed out the problem with thinking that a human-made system is beyond critique. Two, if my self-professed ignorance on the intricacies of economics makes me unqualified to render judgments on that system, how much worse is it that people who are even less-well educated about economics than I am are voted into office and given leave to legislate based on their poor understandings? Three, think about the implications of supporting capitalism if it isn't the "best of all possible worlds". What kind of history have we written if we've done so beneath the belief of a flawed ideology which we mistook for genuine truth? The latest news on Facebook ought to be more and more alarming for most users. There's always been a problem with Facebook's privacy, and the fact that the private data of 50 million users in order to target advertisements in order to sway the 2016 election is just one of many examples of the danger that the platform provides.
While there are plenty of articles and posts that can help you to modify your Facebook settings, the crux of the problem is that Facebook is a pretty horrible place (no offense to those of you on the site, or who come here through Facebook). I get a weird feeling whenever I login, which is why I went on a Facebook-fast last year for Lent. Last year, I would jump on only to post a link to my latest essay. That was it. I disabled it on my phone (since it comes already installed and I can't delete it…which is another reason why I don't like Facebook), so my photos that I've taken tend not to get posted anymore--definitely a downside--but, on the whole, I'm satisfied with my decision. Though I kept my Messenger app (which I hate, but it's a major avenue of communication with a lot of people), I really reduced my Facebook usage. So what do I do now? I visit it maybe once a day to check on any comments or notifications and to keep up on what's going on in my writing group. I also post links to my website for my daily essays. That's pretty much it. I find myself scrolling down after posting something, and it takes only a couple of minutes before I start to feel weird and I turn it off. I don't know why that is. I know a lot of people say that Facebooks makes people unhappy because it looks like everyone else is having such a great time. Most of my Facebook friends are pretty honest: Today went well, today didn't go well. Here's a picture of a cool thing, here's a thing that doesn't work for me. Like, it doesn't sound like a fantasy land of perpetual joy that I'm missing out on. I do see a lot of frustration and anger on Facebook, particularly in this political climate. I have a lot of conservative family and a lot of liberal friends, so the dichotomy of the two takes on every issue can become a frustration. Maybe that's why I spend such little time there? Then again, I love Twitter, and to say that there's political speech on Facebook is a mild observation compared to the trash fire of political shouting on that website. So that can't be the thing that bothers me. Perhaps it's the familiarity? That seems silly: The whole point of Facebook is to keep track of one's friends, right? To stay in the know, to keep in contact, even if it is only in a simple way? I do know that I hate the fact that Facebook decides what my "top posts" are. I've marked my wife's posts to always show first. Other than that, I always want my screen to be chronological. Especially since I spend such little time on the site, it can really feel like a waste of time when I jump on, say, the day after the Superbowl. Almost all of the posts are shouting about plays, commentary on the halftime show, or voicing preference for a commercial or two. The entire experience has been over for hours, but people are "still" talking about it as if it's happening live. That's so irritating to me. (And don't worry: I know that you can change how the feed is sorted. The fact that I can't get it to stay that way is a huge part of what bugs me about Facebook.) You know the saying, "If you don't pay for it, you're the product"? Now that I think about it, Facebook has reduced this to a science. I went through, many years ago, and filled out more information in my profile. Music I liked. Movies I enjoyed. Personal interests. I thought I was documenting that stuff for me, but I really was doing that so that advertisers (whom I almost always ignore*) would know better what to pitch to me. That feels…disingenuous somehow. I definitely understand I agreed to the TOS. But I can also admit that I didn't know what's in the TOS. And that's a problem. I'm not saying that it has to be laid out in pop-up book form, but…seriously. It's kind of ridiculous. Another thing: The complicated way in which terms of service are described is a deliberate obfuscation, and that keeps coming up as Facebook tries to get out of the hot water it's found itself in. Losing billions overnight isn't something that makes me feel bad for Facebook. They keep doing shady things, their CEO is incapable of living in reality, and their platform's ubiquity is dangerously monopolistic. The power of the platform was laid bare recently as we see that Facebook absolutely had a role in the 2016 election--and that a lot of that influence came from outside the country. That's a danger that strikes at our independence as a country--you know, the very thing that we went to war over back in the 1770s? Look, you may like Facebook. That's great. It has definitely blessed a lot of lives, and there have been times when it's been a godsend. There's something about being able to share defeats and victories with others online. It's the primary way that people read any of my essays. And, according to the website that hosts this blog, I have hundreds of unique visitors every week (a mindboggling thing for me to consider, even while knowing that a bunch of them are probably bots). So I'm not denying its usefulness. But there's still something about Facebook that makes me uncomfortable, that feels…wrong. Then again, maybe it's just me. Maybe I want to keep things more private than I think Facebook will allow. I really don't think that's a bad thing. --- * I do a couple of things when I see a Facebook ad. 1) Ignore it. 2) If I think the product looks cool, I open up a new tab and type in the product website. The only time I clicked on an ad recently was because it was for a Shane Koyczan poetry reading that's happening and I really wanted to go…but it was expensive and, though in Park City, that's too far for me to justify the time away. But, I'm not joking, that was the first time I've clicked on a Facebook ad since, like 2012 or something like that. The advertisers are paying money to try to talk to me, and that money is going to Facebook. They aren't getting almost any of it back through me. This is the fifth of my music video analyses. As always, I'm looking to the video to help provide a different reading of the text of the song. In the case of Rage Against the Machine, there's always a lot to unpack lyrically, and the choices they made for this music video add complicated layers. That there is an additional story behind the making of the music video, as well as the video's connection to the band ultimately breaking up after the music video lost to one of Limp Bizkit's back in 2000 drops more potential interpretations into a way to read this piece. Oh, and in case you were unaware of Rage Against the Machine's politics, it's far, far left. Not like "Hillary's on the left!" kind of "left" (which she isn't, but whatever), but I mean--seriously far left. If you aren't down with heavy critiques on capitalism and its inherent injustices and abuses, then you may want to step away today. All right. Let's rock. The Set Up As before, I have the music video below, as well as the lyrics. Once you're up to speed, we'll move along. The world is my expense Critique of the System The video begins with the sound of a typewriter as the words on the screen bring up a familiar idea: "Wall Street announces record profits, record layoffs." The perennial criticism of capitalism is that it's a system that enriches the few at the expense of the many (with the counterargument that rising waters lift all ships, and though some become ultra-rich, a vast majority are bettered because of the system understood but not agreed to). This critique presses throughout the entire video, complete with the understanding of the irony of it all: The band itself, dressed to the nines during their green-screen cuts, gives the appearance of conformity, with their image being bourgeois, their lyrics being bourgeois, their message being proletarian. This critique is further enhanced with the parody of the then-popular TV show, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? For the RATM version, it's Who Wants To Be Filthy F&#%ing Rich? (seen at :35). The criticism of capitalism is reduced down to a binary, which also serves as the parody of Millionaire. In the original game show, contestants had to pass multiple choice trivia questions to earn up to the eponymous millions. The game was more complicated than RATM's version, but the Filthy F&#%ing Rich style relies, as I said, on binaries, drawing a stark line around the problems the song is protesting. The details inside of the questions were pretty much correct for 1999 (when the song was released), including answers about the gender pay gap, quantity of people without health insurance, and the amount of wealth controlled by the top 10% of the earners. In other words, the game provides the commentary about the corruption of the system as the song, in the Voice of the System, crows its successes and mechanisms for maintaining them (the oft-repeated "fire"). Within that commentary, we see people confused by reality (see the woman's response at 1:24 about uninsured people) and obviously guessing at the systemic flaws (see, for example 1:36-1:38). The idea that the system abuses the masses and the masses love it, adore it, accept it is all summarized in the title of the song and its entire refrain: "Sleep now in the fire." The interpolation of the stock exchange reminds me of the film The Dark Knight Rises, which attempted (and failed) to capture the zeitgeist of the then-important Occupy Wall Street movement. Despite the problems with that film, there's a moment of significance when Bane (the bad guy) takes over the Gotham Stock Exchange. "There's no money here. There's nothing to steal," says one of the day-traders. "Then why are you here?" asks Bane, unimpressed. The music video ends with the claim that RATM caused the NYSE to close down...and no money was hurt. One of the reasons director Michael Moore included his arrest--his hand painfully squeezed and pulled behind his back--is to drive home this point. The money wasn't hurt, but a human was. Again, this relies heavily on the motif of being peacefully ensconced within the thing that harms: Sleeping in the fire. And the "thing" here is the system. Look at the different images that are chosen: Rudy Giuliani, looking smug (:07); stereotypical rich men lighting their cigars with dollar bills (2:05); corks popping off of champagne bottles (2:01); the swarming of the NYSE floor at :16, like ants within the hill, all industriously working beneath the symbols of prosperity (the man with the gavel, who strikes on the beat at :21. The audience--whether hired extras or curious onlookers, I'm not sure--is comprised almost entirely of white men. In the crowd scenes, I see glimpses of women and perhaps a Latino or two, but the overwhelming consumers of Rage are white men. They're jumping up and down, screaming--whether at or with is unknown--and pumping their fists into the air. Taken at face value, they're unironically consuming that which they otherwise despise, having taken the commodification of communism that the band endorses as though the rage and system were understood. This is the great subversion and irony of Rage Against the Machine in the broad strokes, made clear in the minute minutes of the music video: Rage sells. The system that propelled Zack de la Rocha and his crew to international stardom and fame was the very thing the entire band despised. I believe that everything de la Rocha raps and screams about is something that he definitely believes, and one of the things that he understands is that there is no atmosphere too rarefied for capitalism to believe as healthful. Yes, the band critiques the things that make them famous, but their motivation is to accumulate that power, wealth, and notoriety in order to bring it down--they aren't motivated by the things that the audience, huddled outside of the NYSE, are motivated by. It isn't about earning stacks of money for the luxurious house or mudbaths (1:54-1:57); it's about decrying the injustices of the system ("over one billion people live on less than a dollar a day" (1:51) and people luxuriating on yachts is the point of the Filthy F&#%ing Rich? game (;50)), using injustice to draw attention to the selfsame. The Voice of the System Zack de la Rocha's lyrical delivery is high pitched, strident, and loud. To be honest, I don't know how he has a voice at all, considering how much he screams. He also will whisper (as during the bridge) to drive home his point. Interweaving history, economic critique, and irony, "Sleep Now In The Fire" is an example of de la Rocha at his best and most angry. Line by line, the song speaks like Smith (Adam Smith, that is) with all pretensions of mutual gain removed. This is the reason that the "poor black man" at the end of Filthy F&#%ing Rich? rejects the ill-gotten, greed-motivated gains--much to the bafflement and surprise of the host. Aside from the utopian vision of the proletariat rising against the bourgeoisie that those final moments (3:03-3:10) portend, it's the "cost of [their] desire"--that those who've caused so many to "sleep now in the fire" to be burned by what they've created. The "poor" man doesn't need money, and the idea that the problems can be solved by the thing that created the problems in the first place is insulting and rejected. De la Rocha takes aim at the specifics of whom he blames as the orchestrators of this built-to-lose game of capitalism, and though he is less direct here than in other songs (I'm thinking of "Bulls On Parade", in which he's calling out the bull elephants of American politics, the Republican party), the invocation of Jesus as being the one who blesses and allows this exploitation puts the target squarely on the so-called "Christian conservatives". The idea of "prosperity gospel" is alive and well in America, and, for de la Rocha, this is utter garbage. That's the entire critique. And considering the rank abuses, done in the name of God, it's little wonder that he's claiming rage* as his foundational emotion. Yet he sings as the Voice of the System, as a naked, ruthless, confident-in-its-audacity version of Capitalism. "What will happen if you stand up to me?" he seems to implicitly ask. The direct answer: "Jail and bury those committed/And smother the rest in greed." Clearly declaring Capitalism's modus operandi, de la Rocha's Voice of the System is shockingly calloused. By stripping away the hypocrisy of capitalism--both in its images and in its lyrics--Rage Against the Machine is predicting inevitable crises (including the moment at 1:04 of a sign "Trump for President") that come from the adoration of capital above all else. The lie is my expense The scope of my desire The Party blessed me with its future And I protect it with fire I am the Nina The Pinta The Santa Maria The noose and the rapist And the fields overseer The agents of orange The priests of Hiroshima The second verse echoes and modifies the first verse, which I've put side by side here. The opening lines of both fit metrically, but their power comes in the substitution: How did the Voice get the world? Through lies. It comes at a "cost" but we can see the "scope" of its success. And substituting "The Party" from "Jesus" (which metrically doesn't fit as snugly, but that doesn't seem to be the point) is a clear condemnation of what has become--or maybe always was?--the way in which American politics works. This is brought home when one recalls that white Evangelicals overwhelmingly support President Trump--as do many Mormons,** despite him being of a character so debased that Mormon Jason Chaffetz couldn't support Trump, but voted for him anyway, then did nothing to stop any of the administrations abuses while in charge of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee, leaving partway through his term for a job on FOX News. Chaffetz is the exact trajectory criticized in "Sleep Now In The Fire": It's likely that he started his politics because of his religious beliefs (though, not being the man, I can't say that's completely the case; his Mormonism certainly didn't hurt his political career, and it's likely that his success came, in part, that his religion is the same as the majority of his constituency), but he certainly traded in whatever religious values as he drifted deeper into the Party's power structure. He famously said that he couldn't support Trump because of moral failings in the candidate, but then turned around, voted for the man, and continued to attempt to persecute Clinton on the Benghazi scandal, despite repeated failures to come to any fault. When his political career turned sour, he pulled a Palin, retired, and turned to broadcast punditry. From God to Party to Capital--all since 2010. De la Rocha hits additional points, alluding to the atrocities of Agent Orange, declaring the nuclear annihilation of civilians as a holy choice (hence "priests of Hiroshima"), and the twin terrors of physical- and sexual slavery ("the noose and the rapist/ The fields' overseer"). His invocations of these deep-seated sins of capitalism are sharp, but when coupled with the fact that this Voice of the System isn't trying to hide behind anything--that is, he isn't trying to justify atrocity because of eventual bottom-line benefits--it puts the critique into an uncomfortable focus. If capitalism were honest, would we still support it? Or is it too strong, too deep, too insistent? What is the cost of our desire? Are we truly sleeping in the fire? Are we secretly relieved that "no money was harmed in the making of this video"? --- * That the Western Tradition, built upon The Iliad, is a tradition of anger may be another interesting avenue of interrogation to the name of the band. ** More than half a million Utahns voted for Trump. You don't get those numbers without a large swath of Mormons thinking he was "less evil" than Hillary Clinton. Or you get people who "vote their conscience" for someone who was not capable of gaining enough country-wide appeal to stop a fascist. But that's a rant for another day. |
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