In which I get political… There's a longstanding platitude--and who can challenge a platitude, save, perhaps, Plato, but then it's just platotudes on platitudes--about fishing. In its many iterations, it tends along these lines: "If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day; if you teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime." I most often hear this idea expressed by devotees of supply-side economics and/or American conservatism/libertarianism. Its superficial meaning is, I think, pretty clear, but--like most aphorisms--its simplicity and superficiality overshadow the deep, inherent problems of the idea. Consider this poem by Kahlil Gibran, one of the most criminally underrated poets of the 20th century: Once there lived a man who had a valley-full of needles. And one Though less known as far as parables go, this one, I fear, more accurately represents the mindset of those who espouse the Fishing Proverb*. And, more than that, I think it comes from a misunderstanding of what's required of people within the Fishing Proverb. The premise is simply: A man comes to you and is hungry. "Teach him to fish" is not a bad idea--it is a useful skill that will sustain him, perhaps for the rest of his life. It's something that can benefit him and, provided he passes on the information to his children, subsequent generations. In many ways, that is literally what I've dedicated my life to doing: Teaching others so that they can benefit and pass on what they've learned.
The problem with using the platitude as a type of panacea for the problems many are faced with is in the first part of the premise: The man is hungry. Who can be bothered to learn to fish when one is about to expire? Using the Fishing Proverb as the response of a person to another's need gets us Gibran's poem, "On Giving and Taking". There's nothing inherently wrong with the man who lived in the "valley-full of needles" believing and giving a discourse on an important topic. That isn't his sin; it's that he gives her something that doesn't help her right now. Ought the mother of Jesus to learn about Giving and Taking? (Well, frankly, she has a better idea of sacrifice than almost any other human, I would argue, but let that go.) Sure. Timing, however, is rather important, and she needs something the man has. And not just what the man has, but what he has through no effort of his own, and an enormous abundance. The fact that he's awash with needles--so many more than he could ever truly need, and giving away one would in no way diminish what he has or could have in the future--is a crucial detail. The mother of Jesus doesn't go to one without and demand of her; she goes to one with bounty and requests a tiny boon. Though the broader principle of Giving and Taking is surely one from which she could learn, the mother of Jesus doesn't need an education at this juncture: She needs a needle. When pundits invoke the Fishing Proverb, it's often as a rationale against handouts and government subsidies. While there's plenty of room to figure out who (and, perhaps, to a certain extent, what) should receive governmental assistance in whatever form, I most often hear the Fishing Proverb used as a closing argument against welfare for the laboring class. (I never, incidentally, hear those same pundits argue against welfare for the corporate class; indeed, they often seem quite vociferous about tax cuts at the top somehow magically benefitting the remaining people below.) The idea, of course, is if you "incentivize laziness", then people will rely on governmental assistance ad infinitum and then where will we be? The thing about the Fishing Proverb is, even if it's only taken at face value, it is not the abnegation of responsibility for the "you" in the proverb to take no action. In fact, it insists on something quite different: The "you" in this is supposed to teach "the man" how to fish. It presupposes that you not only know how to fish, but that you will also take the time to impart that knowledge. In other words, it insists that the person petitioned devote time and energy to imparting skills to those without. Though less explicit than "On Giving and Taking", the Fishing Proverb is still a call to action. In our modern day, money has become the shorthand for almost every interaction. Karl Marx: "The bourgeoisie…has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous 'cash payment'." Be that as it may, ours is a world wherein labor's value is entirely monetized, and the greater potential for monetization, the greater we value that labor. Intrinsic value is ignored--there's a reason people tease humanities majors--because worth has become tied to capital. (The current president was, by some, regarded worthy of the office on the sole qualification that he was a businessman--as if running a business and running a country are somehow comparable.) If this is the way in which we communicate, if economics is the new lingua franca of the modern/post-modern society, then money is the way to provide the "time and energy" component of the Fishing Proverb. Through money, then, we can teach hungry men and women "how to fish". (Additionally, it is through money that we can help feed a man for a day…long enough, in other words, that he can learn to fish.) And that's my job. As a teacher, I am in charge of a very small sliver of my students' overall education. I recognize that--I am one of six or seven teachers that they have each day, during one school year. In the grand scheme of things, I've very little chance to make a difference in the students' lives. That realization--for me, at least--is part of what inspires me to continue to teach as well as I possibly can: I've a limited window of opportunity that I** don't want to waste. Teaching is the potential remedy to the Fishing Proverb's problem, but what of "On Giving and Taking"? In this, we see a clear condemnation of the objectivist's creed that greed is a virtue. The man in the valley has much, much, much more than he could ever worry about consuming or using. He is asked to share a very small piece of his unearned bounty with another; instead, he bloviates about why others should think hard about giving and taking. Lest the comparison I'm drawing is too subtle here, I'm arguing that the American concept of economics is morally debased and men like the man in the valley should not be allowed to act in this way. I'm arguing that a more socialistic approach to the economy is morally superior to the supply-side economics that is currently destroying*** the lives of so many. And this leads me to my final excoriation: The Utah legislature, following the example of Rep. Christ Stewart (R - Utah), has recently made a more deliberate and clear push against socialism (and, because the idea of nuance in American politics is, apparently, impossible, communism as well). In the case of Stewart, he has made an Anti-Socialism Caucus to show…well, I'm not entirely sure. Ostensibly, the "marketplace of ideas"**** should allow the free intercourse of ideas, much like a "free market" should allow the buying and selling of goods without a lot of governmental intervention. Stewart's hypocrisy is hardly the point: Socialism as practiced in the United States is very mild, and is pretty much seen as using taxes to pay for public services…including his paycheck as a representative. I, as a teacher, get my money through taxes--and, as a worker in the state, I pay taxes, too. Like, 30% or so--percentage-wise, twice as much as a person like Utah Senator Mitt Romney did back in the 2012 election (remember when presidential candidates released their tax returns so that we could see if there was any pecuniary conflicts of interest?). I own a house, so my property taxes go toward, eventually, paying me. (It's weird, frankly.) How does this tie into needles and fish? The requirement of the Fishing Proverb is that we help teach those who do not know how to take care of themselves. This idea is not radical, but it does require money. Teachers in particular are in demand for this very thing, as well as being very poorly paid for it. Especially in Utah, we have a continual growth segment of the population: Children. As the linked article points out, one in five Utahns is a child. These are those who need to learn how to fish. But, more strikingly, is the fact that one third of those come from economically disadvantaged backgrounds. (and if you don't think that economic disparity is damaging, you have some research to do). These are the ones who are--sometimes literally--hungry. If we are to take the Fishing Proverb seriously, then being dead last in per-student spending needs to end. Yes, Governor Herbert has proposed an increase--one that translates into a 4% increase on the WPU (how much the state spends on each student). That pushes Utah out of 51st place and into 50th (D.C. is on the list) place, assuming that the extra $280 Utah is adding per student isn't matched by Idaho--the current penultimate place on the list of per-student spending. Granted, the numbers are from 2016, and a lot can change between those numbers and what we actually see implemented. But the point, mixed metaphor though it may be, stands: Utah is more interested in being the man in the valley-full of needles rejecting the mother of Jesus than in truly teaching hungry children how to fish. --- * There are worthwhile distinctions between parables, proverbs, aphorisms, and platitudes, but I'm eager to explore the broader idea and will use them all interchangeably. ** Admittedly, not all teachers feel the same way, but that's their problem…and their students', actually. So, yeah, that's a bit of a problem. There are solutions--imperfect, as almost all solutions are--but they're not the point of this essay. *** I know what I wrote. I certainly wouldn't claim that socialism is perfect. I'm also not such a lackluster student of history as to assume that the crimes of capitalism and the crimes of communism are somehow comparable. Both systems have led to indescribable suffering and misery; both systems have furthered people's lives in positive and fulfilling ways. I reject the idea that capitalism's only alternative is communism, and I assert that there are ways to improve the lives of more people than capitalism can provide. **** A poor way to derive truth, honestly: The popularity of an idea does not equate with the validity of the idea. Just ask Socrates. Note: We've been writing poetry in my creative writing class. This may be a manifestation of that.
From where I sit, a good half dozen trees shiver In the nearly-perpetual breeze that pushes Its way between the hill-created canyon of my hometown. They're all in various shades of annual acne, With some more advanced, Branches like matchsticks and leaves Like individual flames burning up Toward the pumpkin-orange sunset sky. Dusty-brown hills rumple in the distance. My neighbors' lawns look as patchy As a teenage boy's would-be beard, The green and brown of stubborn life Amid inevitable entropy. Dead leaves rattle down the road like lost teeth. The hiss of wind that follows those reminders Of Adam's wicked seed, or the countless stunned Bodies of angels fallen from their celestial trees Also manages to tickle the windowpanes, Attempting with the familiar subtlety of, say, A five year old who has repeated, easily for the Eightieth time, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" because she has the Audacity to pay attention to someone other than him For a few moments--this wind that tries to slide In between the panes of glass with shrill whispers Of the outside's coldness, as if that would be enough For me to open up the window. My son's hair is camouflaged in the lower reaches Of the trees, his orange head a flame on a Lollipop-stick white face, the chips of sapphire that Make up his eyes framed by thick glasses to help Him better see the world. He walks down The concrete stream, meandering in his steps like water Or a kid who doesn't have enough mass To push back the wind. He flows to one friend's House to another, never getting beyond the porch And the gentle rejection of "No, not today," Or "Maybe later." He takes this rebuff with a stolidity Born out of frequent experience--as this is a habit He shares with the wily wind, a persistence In entering others' homes--and trudges back, The apples on his cheeks ripening before He can make it back inside to the warmth of the house. Far away--or maybe it's only next door--a dog Begins to yak at some imagined slight, His lupine heritage giving him the confidence Of absolute knowledge about some danger That only a sonic assault, with a predictable Staccato, can refute. Cars and trucks roll by in the oddly hued evening As the pink of the sunset reflects off the lazy Stretches of lolling clouds, giving the world A shadowless twilight Before slipping, once again, Into the kind of darkness that only October can bring. ==== 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 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! Some of the highest paid celebrities in America are poets. Their names are familiar, and though some (many) might consider the quality of their poetry lacking, they drive discourse, politics and policy, and stand in as idols for millions. Girls scream upon seeing them; boys cheer and dance when the poems are performed. Their social media accounts have some of the highest numbers of followers on the platforms. Tabloids and paparazzi make steady careers off of "covering" the latest fashion decisions made, the most recent scandal. Though broken into many genres, they all seem to have an ability to command words in such a way that people will not only listen, but pay for the privilege.
I'm talking, of course, about singers. Taylor Swift, Drake, Beyoncé, and dozens of others comprise this elite celebrity class. There is a difference between a poet and a singer, though: The latter has musical abilities that have to be utilized somehow. It may be through singing or rapping, but there is an inherent musicality to the lyrical mode which absolutely dominates the poetic world. There's nothing inherently wrong about that--save for the commodification and exploitation that abusive systems propagate for their own self-interests, but that's a criticism that can be leveled at many areas and different types of art--but it is interesting to me that there is an allergy to poetry for most people. I'd wager that, if you were to ask* a half dozen people when they last listened to some poetry, five of them would say that they haven't done so recently. Either that, or you'll get a couple of people who think I'm not being specific enough in my question--which is kind of the point. "What kind of poetry? Does Dr. Seuss count? Does music count? Does my own poetry count?" All of it; yes; yes; yes. That's the thing: We're conditioned (though why, I don't know), it seems, to think of music as separate from poetry, as if the two aren't manifestations of the same will and urge to communicate in a way beyond normal speech. More than that, we don't assume that the jingle on the radio, the album on the phone, the song streaming through Spotify, is poetry. Part of this is a PR problem. Poetry is often thought of as the sort of thing lampooned in So I Married an Axe Murderer (which shows how old my pop cultural references are), or maybe the esoteric wording of a slice of Shakespeare or a moiety of Milton. And, to be sure, there is that kind of writing--poetry readings that have jazz music playing in the background, a beret wearing poet, espresso in one hand, droning through the stanzas in a monotone--but it's hardly indicative of the whole. And that's just non-lyrical poetry. When you think of what a concert looks like when you have a really popular band--think of Foo Fighters or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Panic! At the Disco--play their songs. The audience--almost without exception--is already steeped in the music and poetry (lyrics) of the band. They sing along, they fill in the gaps left by the lead singer, they participate in the poetry. It can be electrifying, honestly, to be involved in that much communal communication. In some ways, it's even a bizarre experience, as the music is not new, the poetry is not new--not, at least, to the people most excited to be there. While a band can have a lot of songs that are deep cuts of previous albums, there's always something that everyone knows. And, in those cases where it's an opening band for the group you're actually there for, there can be an awkwardness. The music--and the words--are new and there's no way to access them save through experiencing them in that moment. It's almost as if the familiarity with the poetry--musical and spoken--is the entire point. When viewed from this angle, we're supersaturated by poetry in ways far beyond even the inventors of poetry could have imagined. But from the stuffy, literary angle, we've never been more impoverished. Part of this comes from the change in technology. Yes, oddly enough, photographs, TV broadcasts, and internet livestreams of events have made some of the original purposes of having a career poet obsolete. Poet laureates of different nations used to commemorate momentous events--inaugurations, coronations, royal weddings--with their oratory and poetic power. People were immortalized in verse (think of Jonson's words about Shakespeare in the first folio) and remembered by the lines that poets penned. Because the recording of these events is now done through alternative means, we no longer rely on poets to be parts of our collective memories. This is one of the reasons that I think that pop songs are really good--not in terms of quality, per se, but in terms of their effect. They return to our culture a poetic inheritance that is too often lost. Could pop music stand to be improved? Yes, absolutely. One glance at the musicality and poetic power in "Bohemian Rhapsody" shows what popular music can be. And though I don't feel qualified to speak too directly to the quality of writing (musically and lyrically) of Beyoncé, it is clear that there's a very strong difference between Freddie Mercury's ideas and skills than the Queen Bey's. This is one of the reasons that I've done those analyses of music videos where I look at both the filmic and poetic qualities of a piece. I feel like our modern approach to poetry is so codified within the visual and musical that only by embracing that can I continue to hone my own ability to read and write and understand poetry. I do wish that more people would seek out poetry qua poetry, rather than "spoonful of sugar"ing it by consuming it almost solely through lyrical and musical forms. It's less that I think lyrical poetry is weak and more to do with the enjoyment I get out of the sheer breadth of possibilities inside of poetry. While some forms get all of the attention--sonnets and epics are the two that jump to mind--there are some really great poems that are out there which deserve attention. Still, if it's a choice between having a muse-ician sing our poetry or remain ignorant of poetry at all, I know which one I would choose. --- * I went ahead and asked that question on my social media platforms. At the time of writing, I don't have any responses, so my assertion remains a supposition. I feel worn out, like a sponge hand-wrung
With all the enthusiasm of anxiety, Tired beyond the behind-the-eyes drag That strikes when there have been only Two nights of poor sleep deep and yet I can't quite get my feet firmly under me. It's the exhaustion of running on rollers, The electrified-wire balancing act of Trying to balance the weight of the words I never say to the fears that I never face And the gravity of gravity, with the Abyss of mystery spread out as welcoming As a prodigal return, vast and nonjudgmental Below my feet. It is the fuel that engines My insomnia, this feeling of understanding only That I don't understand. It is the mire of the Quicksand dreams, those night-terrors of drowning In all of this air we have to live in, yet I'm stuck, My arms limp as flags on a breathless afternoon, Desperate to pull myself to safety. But there are no plateaus where I can catch my Spritely breath, which runs away with laughter And all I meant to say, leaving me suffocated and Mute--these would-be havens that I would as soon Heave myself into, hoping to make this home a heaven Are phantasms of finicky desire and the insubstantial Ghosts of promises never uttered, only inferred. Trawling through the oceans' rise onto the land of the free, My raft of good-intentions springing leaks of reality. I try to bail us out, but I'm not a bank; I'm small enough to fail And when I fall, I'm small enough to not make a ripple In the water. The waves will efface what I'd hoped would never Be erased; a Me-shaped hole in the world is patched over Faster than the speed of light-coming-through-the-gap. I navigate a world in which I am to learn that Mendacity is heralded as marvelous; it becomes the Audacity that I once hoped would make this place Safe. |
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