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Whining Liberals and Clueless Conservatives: A Personal Glimpse into the American Divide

Note: This essay was written two years ago. I never published it traditionally. I share it now so we can ask if things have gotten better or worse.

On December 22nd, 2016, Predator-Elect Donald Trump tweeted, “The United States must greatly strengthen and expand its nuclear capability until such time as the world comes to its senses regarding nukes.” Apparently, our existing ability to destroy the world many times over wasn’t enough. We’ve seen this movie before—Cold War ethos, Mutually Assured Destruction, cloak-and-dagger-black-ops-wetworks as diplomacy. It wasn’t fun the first time. If Trump wasn’t paying attention to politics and the global community, he could have watched Dr. Strangelove, War Games, The Terminator. A wild-west arms race protects no one. It only pushes us closer to the Last Detonation.

On Christmas Eve that year, a Facebook friend posted an article about the dangerous implications of Trump’s tweet and called for American unification in protesting and resisting yet another regressive stance. In response, someone from Europe ignored the spirit of the post and aggressively lambasted the American Left. Our problem, he said, is that the Left needs to examine its own ideas, which are, according to him, as much based on “abuse and fear” as the Right’s. He offered no examples, proof, or context—only certainty.

Where, when, and how, I wondered, have Leftists used abuse and fear as discourse, other than instances in which they are defending themselves from trolls’ direct personal attacks? Certainly, some Leftists embraced Hillary Clinton’s “deplorable” concept quickly and applied it too broadly, but this one instance of belittling the opposition hardly seems like enough evidence to condemn the entire Left and its methodologies.

In response to Mr. Certainty, my friend was gracious and patient. I don’t always embody those qualities.

Case in point: later that day, on my own wall, I shared someone’s tweet about Trump’s attempt to close his charitable foundation while it was still under investigation. One of my own acquaintances, whom I’ll call Frank, responded. I have not seen Frank since high school. If he ever really knew me, he no longer does. He has no idea how I spend my time. Of course, that didn’t stop him from generalizing about me or Leftists as a whole.

“I would bet you whining liberals probably don’t give much [to charity],” he said.  “You all come across as takers.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

What were we supposedly whining about? Perhaps the already-brewing CIA and FBI reports of pro-Trump Russian interference in our election. Does lamenting the undermining of democracy equate to whining?

Perhaps Frank meant the Left’s resistance to plans for building a wall along the Mexican border. Mexicans have metamorphosed into a collective El Cucuy in the Predator-in-Chief’s sick, racist imagination. Does rejection of racist generalizations count as whining?

Maybe Frank was thinking of our protests against Trump’s Muslim registry. Or the administration’s attack on the rights of women and LGBTQ people. Or their continuing fetishization with gutting Medicare. Or how millions are suffering a healthcare crisis because of Republicans are obsessed with gutting Obamacare.

Every one of these conservative positions, beliefs, and plans is a matter of public record. Add them to Trump’s mocking of the disabled, the inherent racism in GOP social contract policies, and constant saber-rattling in the Middle East and the Korean peninsula, and we are faced with a major American political party without a soul. These so-called leaders have supported and extended a white supremacist, capitalist, heteronormative, ableist, allegedly Christian, nativist patriarchy. They are threatening our inalienable rights. This is what Leftists are resisting—not the loss of one election but the selling of the Right’s soul, their embracing a bigoted tyrant for political expediency. Leftists are speaking out because Trump and his administration have tried to ruin millions of lives, over and over and over again.

If that is whining, then the Founding Fathers were whiners. So were slaves and abolitionists. So were suffragists. So were Stonewall activists. So were Freedom Riders, and Martin Luther King’s followers. And on and on.

If you want to hear whining, listen no further than the most vociferous Trump supporters, like Frank, who complain about increased premiums under the Affordable Care Act but ignore insurance companies’ roles in raising those rates and the GOP senators who fight to let them. They whine about the government’s nefarious plan to eliminate guns, even in the absence of substantive gun control measures and absolutely no governmental effort to confiscate firearms from law-abiding citizens. They support slashing aid to millions of people because they once saw that one guy in Wal-Mart use food stamps to buy crab legs. They whine about Benghazi and Clinton’s emails, and they support spending millions of dollars on failed investigation after failed investigation, yet they dismiss hard evidence of Trump’s constant malfeasance. They whine based on anecdotal or no evidence, and they whine about overblown or nonexistent threats, and they whine about ways that helping others might lead to minor inconveniences, and yet they are willing to overlook bigotry and hatred and the threat of nuclear war. In their minds, efforts to resist such actual, real-world, public-record threats are sour grapes, fake news, treason.

As for the rest of Frank’s claim, I spend a lot of time with Leftists—at work, in my social life, in my readings and research, on social media, through activism—and a more giving bunch you will not find. Leftists spend a lot of time, money, and effort working hard for other people through online and in-person activism, donations, volunteer work, written and oral arguments, and more. Look around and ask yourself who is fighting for all peoples’ equality, and I would posit that you will find more Leftists than far-right conservatives. This is true even, perhaps especially, when the individual Leftist does not benefit. How many economically privileged “liberals” can you name who fight for income equality and tax reform? How many economically privileged conservatives?

These are things we should think about.

Later in our conversation, Frank claimed that Trump would be replacing “a useless idiot.” First, Barack Obama is no idiot. In addition to his Bachelor’s degree, Obama holds a Doctor of Jurisprudence from Harvard. He is a published author, an eloquent speaker, a constitutional scholar, a strong critical thinker, and a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. Second, anyone who believes that Obama is “useless” either hasn’t been paying attention or doesn’t care about facts. While I do not agree with everything he has done or said, Obama ended two costly, unwinnable wars, at least one of which was immoral under any sane definition of the term. Over GOP obstruction, he oversaw healthcare reform that brought first-time or renewed coverage to millions and eliminated some of the most execrable practices of the insurance industry. He helped advance women’s and LGBTQ rights. And on and on.

I wonder if Obama is a “useless idiot” to Frank because he is a black Democrat with a funny name.

The last thing Frank said before I ended the conversation was, “You [Leftists] are getting dangerous . . . I am realizing more and more that when y’all don’t get your way, you all get physical and sometimes deadly.”

This would be laughable if it weren’t so sad.

Remember all those Clinton/Sanders supporters who brought weapons to rallies and assaulted protesters? Remember all the left-wing militia groups standing outside of conservative Christian churches, ready to police and violently stop any action, word, or gesture they deemed suspicious? Remember all the liberals calling for a registration of white people or a wall to keep out white male immigrants? Remember the acts of terrorism on American soil against white Christians? Remember the liberal attempts to control men’s healthcare and reproductive rights, including threats of violence outside health clinics? Remember all the hardcore Leftists policing polling stations and harassing white straight Republicans? Remember the left-wing embrace of Nazi gestures, symbols, and ethos?

If you claim to remember any of that, you’re probably Frank—or Trump.   

As usual, Frank had it exactly backward. The kind of mind it takes to see the world through such a distorted lens would beggar the imagination if it weren’t so obviously intentional—a willful ignorance, a strategic dismissal of recorded fact, a determination to cling to what he already believes because to do otherwise would mean that he is wrong, has always been wrong, has both directly and indirectly hurt millions of people.

Conservatives like Frank make it impossible to “reach across the aisle” because they will never reach back. They demand that everyone toe their line, one hundred percent of the time, and when not everyone does, it is always the Other’s fault. They are unwilling to examine their own ideas critically and change their minds, even a little, with new evidence. They are unwilling to hear and value other people’s ideas and experiences. They are blinded by their own bright, shining selves and their image of what being American means. They never acknowledge that America has always been not just a place but also a constantly evolving idea. Conservatives like Frank—who seem, more accurately, reactionary—have elected and are defending a bigot, an admitted perpetrator of sexual assault, a man who needed the help of a Russian strongman to win. In the name of their own individual “freedom,” they are falling into lockstep with an authoritarian, ignoring both that authoritarianism contradicts American democracy and that such authority can be turned upon them at any moment, on a whim.

And no one acts on his whims more than Donald Trump.

I unfriended Frank. I will only beat my head against any one wall for so long. What I will do is continue to resist his vision of America, and Trump’s. I do not reject conservatives; I will listen to and support good ideas, no matter where they originate or with whom. I understand many conservatives are good people who want what is best for everyone. However, it is not my job or my desire to placate those who consciously mischaracterize me and mine, or those who blindly follow the Predator-in-Chief. I have tried reaching them for most of my adult life. It’s their turn. And if they think of Leftists’ outspoken resistance to sociopolitical bigotry as mere whining, perhaps they need to examine their own privilege and rediscover their empathy. I would like to believe it still exists.

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Recent Publications Update #Writer #Writing #WritingLife #Fiction #CreativeNonfiction #ShortStory #Essay

Check them out, won’t you?

“Salvation Is a Joke with no Punchline”–Solstice Literary Magazine

“Mating Behaviors of Urban White Males in the Southern United States”–Bluestem 

“Summer Home”–f(r)iction

“Thy Rod and Thy Staff”–West Trade Review (forthcoming)

“Gillette Is Right, Guys; We Can Get Better” (essay)–Role Reboot

“The 2019 Grammys: A Soundtrack for Change” (essay)–Role Reboot

“The 2019 Oscars: An Improved Show with a Few Huge Missteps” (essay)–Role Reboot

“Meeting a Familiar Enemy: Jordan Peele’s Us” (essay)–Role Reboot

“The Best of Enemies: It’s Still All about Whiteness” (essay)–Role Reboot

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It’s a Moneyed Man’s World: Roma and Gender and Class Privilege

Alfonso Cuarón should make movies more often. Though his directing career began in 1983; even though his global profile grew exponentially with the release of Y Tu Mamá También, a Spanish-language film that also helped introduce world audiences to Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna; despite his steady work as a writer, producer, and cinematographer, he has made only four feature-length films since 1998. Each is excellent: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, the first truly superb and perhaps strongest entry in that series; the dystopian thriller Children of Men; the Academy-Award-winning space-survival movie Gravity; and now Roma, his return to Spanish features and, perhaps, his most personal film to date.

Loosely based, allegedly, on Cuarón’s experiences as a child in early-1970s Mexico, Roma chronicles—to borrow Cheryl Strayed’s term—the ordinary miraculous in the life of Cleo, a maid in the household of a somewhat-prosperous family in Mexico City. The film begins with images of water splashing over and over across a stone-tiled floor. An open window, or perhaps a skylight, is reflected in the water, a square of brightness against the darker, dirtier stone, and through this not-quite-window, we see an airplane flying through an otherwise-empty sky. The motif of a single plane flying over Mexico repeats several times throughout the film, reminding us of a world beyond Cleo’s, of the possibility of escape, of both literal and figurative rising for those with means. As a domestic worker, though, Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio, who manages to appear utterly unburnished and luminous at the same time) has no means. She lives with a second maid in a single-room apartment on the family’s property, always an exasperated shout away.

Viewers who value plot over character study may find Roma too slow, perhaps even plotless. One could view the film as a two-hour-plus slice-of-life story, wherein we learn that Cleo serves as a crutch for her sometimes-compassionate, sometimes-impatient employer, Senora Sofia. Except for one shocking scene in which a student protest is violently suppressed by government forces and an oceanfront sequence wherein a strong current endangers Cleo and two of Sofia’s children, not much “movie drama” happens. Cleo cleans up dog feces and makes tea. Cleo and fellow maid Adela go to the movies with their boyfriends. The kids wonder where their absent father is, and Sofia makes excuses for him. Groceries are bought. Beds are made.

Yet in representing the everyday reality of domestic workers and, more specifically, women, Cuarón turns the everyday drabness of Cleo’s existence into something more—a study in privilege and the complexities of professional domestic work.

In America, according to sources like The Huffington Post and Al-Jazeera, women comprise up to 95% of domestic workers, and the majority of those women are either immigrants or African-American. In 2019, those reports should surprise no one but the most clueless, white-privileged people among us. As in the old questions about who buries the undertaker or who cuts the barber’s hair, though, we might wonder who does domestic work for women of both color and means. In Roma, the answer seems to be other people of color, mostly women without means. It is difficult to watch the film without noting the class differences between Sofia’s family and Cleo. Sofia takes her children on several trips, where they and other families of their class drink and shoot guns and eat while poor women cook, clean, and watch the rambunctious children. When Cleo becomes pregnant by her boyfriend Fermin (Jorge Antonio Guerrero), she breaks the news during a make-out session in a movie theater. He excuses himself to buy refreshments and disappears. As Cleo sits alone and realizes he isn’t coming back, Cuarón holds the shot, forcing us to watch her nearly expressionless face and guess what she is feeling—sadness? Shock? Despair? Fear?

Luckily, in one of Sofia’s displays of compassion, she not only continues to employ the pregnant Cleo, but she also takes the young maid to a doctor and pays for the medical care. Yet, in other scenes involving Sofia’s unhappy marriage, she takes her anger and frustration out on Cleo, who has little choice but to take it. Where else would she go?

Not with Fermin. When Cleo eventually tracks him down, he denies paternity and calls her a “fucking servant,” though he lives in a hovel located in a neighborhood that makes Rio’s infamous City of God favela look upscale. He threatens to “beat the shit out of” Cleo and her “little one” if she ever accuses him of paternity again, exercising his male privilege of walking away from a pregnancy, leaving full responsibility to the woman. His disdain for her domestic work seems absurd, given that Fermin’s job, at that moment, seems to be undergoing bogus martial arts training, though his reasons for doing so later become heart-breakingly clear.

For all her class privilege, Sofia cannot escape the consequences of male privilege, either. After an early appearance in the film, her husband, a doctor, disappears, ostensibly on a research trip to Canada. In one remarkable moment outside the movie theater, though, we discover that, like Fermin, the doctor has used his male privilege to change his life, wife and children be damned. Sofia, like Cleo, is left to fend for herself.

Luckily, both Sofia and Cleo are more than capable. Though they can never truly bridge their class difference, they do form a sisterhood of sorts—two discarded women who work, nurture children, and strengthen familial bonds, not just surviving but, in their small and everyday manner, thriving.

In Roma, men wield most of the power, and women must negotiate the consequences of their whims. Educated women with money enjoy more choices than uneducated domestic workers. These power dynamics are never glossed over. Yet there is a kind of hope in the film—hope that, despite the sins of men and the upper classes, single working women of color can live lives of meaning and strength, even if their monetary situations make different meanings and different lives. The movie also reminds us that Cuarón is an artist we should treasure. Hopefully, we will not be forced to wait another five to seven years for his next feature.

Dispatches from Minneapolis and other Points Abroad, #AWP15 — V

NOTE: What follows is a hastily composed, mostly unedited account of this year’s AWP from my perspective. I don’t claim that it’s representative of anyone else’s experience.

Day 5

 And so it ends—most of my friends had already hit the airport by the time I got up at 10 am CST. Checkout time was noon, our departure at 5:40 pm CST, so why hurry? We got ready and finished packing and headed out, most of our purchased books and journals (and my AWP bag) already on the way to Vegas via UPS. We ate lunch at North 45, a lump crab cake sandwich with aioli on a ciabatta roll for me, burgers for Kalene and Maya. After the meal, we hung out in the lobby until the shuttle arrived. I graded papers. Maya read and played video games. AWP ’15 was truly over.

The shuttle arrived a few minutes early, and the three of piled in, along with three or four other writers with late departure times. One carried a bag that read, “Poetry.” I guess that’s about as direct as it gets, like Richard Castles’ bullet-proof vest with “Writer” printed on it. (CASTLE, by the way, has always seemed like PATV to me—perfectly acceptable television, fun enough on its own merits but not memorable or important. It’s really like a younger-skewing MURDER, SHE WROTE with more romance angles. I’d watch Nathan Fillion in pretty much anything, of course, but it bugs the hell out of me that real-life, highly talented, even previously published writers I know can’t get their current project published, yet you can go into Barnes & Noble and find works by Richard Castle, who doesn’t even exist. You should have seen me roll my eyes when JANE THE VIRGIN’s title character stated her desire to be a writer. “Of course,” I said. “Why not?”)

At the airport, we found that our usual luck was holding; our drop-off point was about a mile away from our ticket counter, which was itself about a mile away from our gate. At least there were almost no lines. We reached the gate with two hours to spare, which is what always happens when we get to the airport two hours before departure and what never happens if we’re even fifteen minutes later than that; in those latter cases, half the world is flying with our airline, and everybody’s got fifteen bags to check, and none of them know how to navigate security. Anyway, our gate had free wi-fi and lots of plug-ins, so we got more work done as the area got more and more crowded. Soon, three gates’ waiting areas were packed, and more passengers milled about in the aisles and shops and restaurants, probably anywhere from seven hundred to a thousand people. Meanwhile, the only men’s bathroom in the area had maybe five stalls and six or eight urinals. Not cool, Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. Not cool.

Our flight was packed to the gills—everybody wants to go to Vegas, right?—and we stuffed ourselves into the tiny coach seats, three on either side of the aisle. Maya and I sat together, along with a guy who was traveling from Minneapolis to Vegas for his own convention, kind of our trip in reverse. Kalene had the window seat across the aisle. My seat’s “locked and upright position” seemed about ten degrees forward out of true, so by the time we could move about the cabin, my back was killing me. I fell asleep as we were ascending (I was exhausted), so when I woke up, the crick in my neck nearly matched my back pain.

Of course, when I say “move about the cabin,” I am only speaking for the five or so minutes of the three-hour flight when we could actually do so. The seatbelt light stayed on for most of the flight, which was the most turbulent I have experienced since a stormy trip to Philadelphia back in 2000 or so. We rattled and shook and bounced and laughed nervously and prayed and sweated until we were descending into Vegas. My bladder was near to bursting after my in-flight coffee; every time someone got up, the flight attendants would cluck (and, once, announce that we were taking our lives and those of our fellow passengers’ in our hands), but I tried once anyhow. I found that the muscles required for standing up in a jittery plane were precisely the ones I needed to relax before I could pee. Plus, I kept seeing vivid images of getting a flow started just as we hit some bad air and spraying the entire compartment and my clothes and shoes, so I finally just gave up.

Naturally, we landed at McCarran terminal three and had to get our bags in terminal one, so another long hike took us to baggage claim and then to the shuttle parking area. There, we waited nearly 45 minutes, because Silver Se7ens shuttles run on the hour. At least they sent a stretch Hummer for us.

We retrieved our car and, starving and too tired for a store trip or cooking, we decided to eat at Friday’s, one of the only places nearby that wasn’t closing soon. I had a Long Island Iced Tea and some fried shrimp. An hour later, we finally got home, where our cat yelled at us all night. Apparently she has abandonment issues, even though one of our good friends came over a couple of times a day to feed and play with her.

As of this writing, she’s still clingy. She keeps cutting me off as I try to walk and hip-checking me, herding me toward her food bowl, even when it’s full. It’s as if she’s convinced that she’s going to starve if she can’t see us at all times. One wonders how much our absence traumatizes our pets.

I have other things to say—a comparison of this year’s conference to last year’s, the nature of community in writing, and more—but I’ve got about three hundred things to do this week, so that will have to wait. Watch this space for more.

Given world enough and time, more later.

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