Showing posts with label hubris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hubris. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 16, 2020

My Five Hundredth Post



Hello reader,
Got life change?

Let's end this blog
   to live anew,
for my dear life,
   and this blog too.

I have moved 
to
seanessay.com


About my new, exciting, delicious, IMPROVED blog, seven FAQs (Frequently Asked Questions)

1  Will there be nice long posts?
A: No, nothing over 900 words. Guaranteed.  

2  Will it be a different sort of writing?
A: Yes!... Surprise!

3  How different?
A: Sorry, I don't quite know, and I dare not tell you in advance, in case I fail in my "life renewed."

4   Your last post was a “focused letter” to Derek Sivers, about One to One Conversations.
Will there be more focused letters to Derek?

A: Yes, letters are fun. Besides, I end up revealing more about myself, which is healthy. My first new blog essay is a letter: My Child to be a Leader
UPDATE: Actually, my very first piece is a post to introduce me, called  Me In My Own World.
5  Will there be journalism posts that are “dull but good for you?” Like broccoli? 
A: No, but neither will I write about dogs in funny hats.

6  Will you finish posting your War of the Worlds poems?
A: Maybe, but only a half dozen poems are left, about after the Martians are gone.

7 I like how for years you kept making an essay per week, for 500 essays.

A: You're welcome.... After all those man hours, let's hope I learned something!

Sean Crawford
June-July 2020 (Note to self: My last meta-blog was in February, called How You Learn) 

Tuesday, June 9, 2020

Commentary on One to One Conversations


Hello Reader,
Got one on one conversations?

I wrote to Derek Sivers, commenting on his 44 hours of being interviewed. (link) Who is he? See the beginning of any interview.

Dear Derek,
Greetings from the best half of North America.

You liked conversing with an Olympian who said, “I do not hang out;” you very much preferred one on one conversations;  when a fellow would surprise you, at a scheduled get together for you and him, by showing up with friends, you would be so disappointed. I can relate.

Commentary
I’ve noticed that when a few people in conversation are interrupted, no one picks up the old conversation thread. I guess because they were merely “hanging out.”

The problem with small social groups? For me? I have to politely go by the “slowest ship in the convoy” regarding vocabulary, intimacy, frivolity and so forth.

As for good group socializing: A young lady confided to me that she despaired of talking too much in the bar. This would be—people varied from week to week—after our campus Toastmasters Club meetings. Despaired. 
I advised her that I secretly count heads, do division, and then only talk my fair share of the time. One day she looked so happy to tell me, "Your advice really worked!"

One afternoon, there I am in the bar with two not-so-young ladies. One has a fiance whom I had never met. The topic was so cool! Intimate and interesting! The fiance enters the bar, walks up, and —like something out of a feminist caricature— he abruptly speaks several flat sentences, as an oblivious centre of attention, hijacks the conversation, and the topic is gone like smoke. I lost a lot of respect for the man, and I was not surprised, when I met the lady only a few years later, to learn she had divorced.

To prevent hijacks, whenever one is late to bars, convention seminars or in everyday life, it helps to remember the old Chinese proverb: “When you go outdoors, look at the weather; when you go indoors, look at the faces.”

I can tell you who truly prefers to converse, as opposed to hanging out or relaxing: 
The social crowd of young 1930’s Paris intellectuals including 
(“but not limited to,” my lawyer hastens to add) 
Simone De Beauvoir and her boy friend, Jean Paul Sartre. I suppose sometimes the whole gang arrived in a group to a big cafe. Simone explains in her memoir something that amazed the cafe manager, given that her friends all knew each other: 
When a pair of people were talking, 
(Of course the pairs would mix and match from day to day) 
and another pair came in, the second pair would find their own table, as would the next pair too. Easily explained: They all relished one on one conversations.

As I found in Derek Siver's notes on the book Geography of Genius: “We’re not talking about conversation as a form of entertainment. We’re talking about conversation as the piling up of premises leading to a conclusion. We’re talking about conversation that takes an issue forward, conversation as a way of getting somewhere.”

I am writing to supportively say that you and I are not the only ones to seek Paris friends. I for one am still seeking.


Sean Crawford
Note: My new blog, at seanessay.com, has an expanded draft of this posted October 2020.
June 2020

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

Guilt and Toronto

Hello Reader,
Got annoyance at Toronto snobs?


Preface 
Audre Lorde, down in the U.S.A., taught a college English class:
“…I wish I had recorded some of it. Like the young white cop in the class saying, “Yeah, but everybody needs someone to look down on, don’t they?””
Your Silence Will Not Protect You, page 75.

… I am writing this in Toronto, under the spell of Audre Lorde, a member of several minority groups: Black, and a woman too, “but a traitor” with a nonBlack partner, raising children, but “without a  family values marriage,” lesbian, and speaker of truth to hands-on-ears fellow feminists… 



Grrr, those elitist Toronto people—who do they think they are? I mean, they go around feeling like “guilty white liberal middle class” types.  

Not me. I’m a westerner, I own two cowboy hats, and I don’t do guilt. For one thing, my middle class “membership” is rather honorary, the result of getting a university degree. I’m still poor, not  rich. My big family (Dad had eight siblings) is solidly blue collar working class. (I have five siblings) I still retain our old-world fear of impulse buying, let alone going into debt.

Today, as a regular guy, I refuse to criticize minorities for things they can’t help… It logically follows I feel no guilt when I can’t help being born white and male. As for my various privileges, including being born into the biggest country in the free world, well, what the heck can I do about it, to avoid guilt? Besides, that is, virtuously saying, “Women and children and oppressed people first!” Hard to say with a straight face, I know, easier to look serious if I am yelling it.

Guilt, to my eyes, is useless. It adds no energy for the good fight, no political empowerment, no spring to my step. What it does do, out east in Toronto, is something yucky: I keep reading that guilty white liberal females are disempowering their white Arab sisters by wearing islamic hijabs “in solidarity,” forgetting that not all Arabs are religious-and-conservative. 

In fact, some Arabs are atheists, just like some Israelis, while others are religious-and-liberal. Some of my white Muslim sisters are born right here, smack dab in the First World, where just as I do they disagree with those parts of religion that supposedly call for Iran to murder protesters in the streets, and maintain a big infamous torture prison. Let’s speak truth to middle-class power: Our Muslim sisters are against war, holy or otherwise, against oppression of women, and against domestic abuse. Me too. This as guilty Christian liberals would “help” their sisters by wearing the tools of the oppressor.

Regular people, back west where I live, can only know about liberal guilt in Toronto if we read the newspapers, reading about poor and non-guilty women desperately pleading, begging, trying to reason with the rich middle class liberal women that no, the burka (big tent with eye holes) and hijab (hides the hair) are not in the Islamic scriptures. I am sure Lorde would agree with me on this: Throughout time and space, every patriarchal culture, no matter how “religious,” manages to physically hobble its women in ways the culture just doesn’t use to hobble its men. (And has invisible hobbles too) Because that’s what “patriarchy” does, of course, feeling entitled to do so.

Naturally, I could be wrong about Toronto, since it’s so far away. At my Toastmasters club two different people who came here from out east told us of having misconceptions about the west, and one of them was especially embarrassed: She was a retired schoolteacher, and had been teaching western history wrong for years. To be charitable, maybe distance does that—or maybe Toronto people are just racist, geographically and culturally racist.

I am still chuckling from the time I left Alberta, and crossed several mountain ranges to go further west into another time zone, visiting my sister up in cattle country in central British Columbia. In the kitchen my niece asked, “Uncle Sean, are you a red neck?” Her father answered for me. “He’s an intellectual red neck.” 

Meanwhile, in Toronto—the only city in Canada which can, bizarrely, hold the Grey Cup game with only sports fans caring, without any citywide buzz of excitement—the rich liberal racists probably don’t grasp that you can have a degree, be artistic, and also have dear friends and relations who are blue collar. I think Toronto racists won’t grasp that you can live back west and still be a world class artist.

Am I angry? How can you tell? Here’s what burns my neck red: A fellow writer endured a negative and utterly rude book review by a Toronto elitist, a rudeness my friend is convinced she would not have endured had she lived within the city of Toronto, or even in the greater Toronto area. As for Audre Lorde, she had her own mighty frustrations with white feminist racists, just as I surely would in Toronto. Reading  Lorde, I scrutinize her word “entitled,” and her definition of “racism”: It is nourished by, motivated by, and produces… a sense of entitlement.

If the artsy elite, entitled to be snobs, who avoid the Grey Cup, are racist against westerners and their Muslim sisters, then maybe their entitlement produces… a passive sense of guilt. A guilt where a “liberal” member of parliament (Justin) disagreed with anyone who would call genital mutilation, here in Canada, “barbaric.” Really Justin? Please STOP your misplaced guilt—If it’s not barbaric, here in the 21st century, then tell me: What exactly is it?…  “Grotesque?” 
(Not a good word for immigrants with English as a second language)

Like playing rock paper scissors, the action of “giving up entitlement” beats guilt. Simple. But out east in Ontario it’s very hard for a liberal rich man to do so, standing there beside his camel and needle.

Too bad I can’t ask anyone here what’s going on between Toronto ears, since nobody I know back west—and hey, some of my best friends are liberals—feels guilty. Here on the prairies I haven’t seen the wind, but I have seen my friends and I taking action against injustice and oppression. 

As for Toronto folks, for the sake of my artist friends back west, I sure wish they would stop feeling entitled to snobbery. More importantly: I wish the middle class ladies out there would drop their guilty support for domestic violence and inequality.


Sean Crawford
In the Toronto airport, 
and 
In the fuselage of a 
Westjet,
March
2020

Footnotes:
~Joke: The graphic Mad Magazine once proved how it is possible to get a camel through the eye of a needle. You tie a rope around the camel’s belly, lift it up with a helicopter, and fly through a giant needle. “Nobody said how big the needle had to be.”

~ In Canada, soon after Star Trek ended its run, we de-cloaked our invisible hobbles by using consciousness raising circles. …But in our new century those pesky Romulans have cloaked again.

~A self-defensive note: (In a tired voice, after mentioning white Arabs) Yes, my politically correct friends, I do know there are Black Muslims, and Pacific Muslims, with millions in the city of Jakarta alone; yes, I know one can do holy terror without being Arab, with the worst country for “global reach” into Europe being Pakistan…. But many of my readers, as in that country song, “don’t know Iraq from Iran,” and so I concentrated on Arabs. …Besides, experts on the vanished Indo-European language say Arabs are part of the Aryan nations, from Eire (Ireland) to Iran, so that makes them white to me, and why can’t racists see that?

Sidebar 
Audre Lorde’s World
Long before 9/11 raised our consciousness  about the existence of Islamic family violence, Audre Lorde visited the Second World and quoted a woman feeling triumphant against hijabs and honour killings. I quoted them both in As Epilogue a Feminist Regards Muslim Uzbekistan archived October 2017.

As for Audre, it’s a small world: The last time I was in London, at the Tate Modern Art Museum, 
(the most visited London attraction, according to a recent BBC News article)
I bought a green book of her essays. This time around, in a Bloomsbury store, I bought a pink book that has her essays and poems. Many of her poems are referenced in her essays,
 (including A Conversation with Adrienne Riche) 
which is delightful because Lorde thinks by using poetry first, not by using words. 

(Other ways of thinking are in my essay How You Learn, archived February 2020)

The Tate exhibit was of U.S. Black political art, and it was so very sad for me to see some old black and white TV sets, outside in the lobby, each showing a person speaking, all of whom were dead except for Angela Davis. I think she survived because she was in prison during the police killings. When they took her away, Black writer James Baldwin said (I forget) something like, “Dear Angela, if they come for you in the morning, they will come for me in the evening.” 

I had already known about police shooting up a Black Panther headquarters in a surprise attack, but the exhibit included a door of someone’s home with many police bullet holes: Shot while soundly sleeping. I do believe I once read about a third such door too.

For any readers who still wonder why U.S. Blacks, including sweet gentle sisters, gave their brother, O.J. Simpson, the benefit of the doubt after his arrest, a memory has popped in: 
Back in the 20th century, perhaps from submarines mysteriously going missing in remote waters, we had a saying: Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Trust and Ugly Americans

essaysbysean.blogspot.com

Hello Reader,
Got Trust Issues? …
Got Ugly Americans?
Got an idea how the two are connected?


The previous blog post , URLs Again, had some interesting links (web addresses) 

Ugly American
One of the links was to a post by a famous blogger, Mark Manson, called Ten Things Most Americans Don’t Know About America. (footnote) As I was putting that link into context for my dear readers, I realized something. The “penny dropped” as I wrote:
“…written by an American, but not by an “Ugly American,” Mark Manson, living abroad, has truly mingled as an equal, and has a Brazilian wife.”

As you may know, the book The Ugly American, later a Marlon Brando movie, was a best seller that introduced that phrase into our culture. (and inspired the creation of the Peace Corps) The book came about because two well-traveled men thought America was “shooting itself in the foot” (my phrase) during the Cold War, that time of desperate competition with the Second World for the hearts and minds of the Third World. They first typed out an entire book of nonfiction, ripped it up, and then resorted to a series of short stories. In their book, the writers said the best advertisement for democracy was the Americans themselves, back home, where they are plain spoken, humble and gracious to guests, but… as soon as they put even one foot across their border—Whammo!—they turn ugly. Turn into snobs.

In Vietnam, just as in the book, this meant Americans staying with the snob elite in Saigon, while totally avoiding the villages that were… one, by one, by one… voting to go communist and support the guerrillas. (Viet Cong) In Iraq, as is well documented, this meant segregating themselves inside the elite “green zone.” Americans, as you know, were waging America’s War on Terror through their great task of striving for their noble goal of instilling democracy in Iraq. And equality. This while somehow avoiding all the common cab drivers, barbers and interpreters who, if any, any Americans had cared to humbly ask, would have unanimously advised, “Are you crazy? You can’t just…”

Snobs, eh? Would Canadians agree? Well, not about all Yankees, let’s not stereotype, but put it this way: I am still chuckling over folks in a charter flight to England, while still on the tarmac in Toronto, being addressed by their Canadian tour guide, who reminded them, “When we get to England, don’t act like American tourists.” People groaned. Did I say it was a charter? Of veterans and their spouses? Half the passengers were U.S. citizens. Who, by the way, got along well with their fellow North Americans, members of the Royal Canadian Legion.

Would Americans agree? Some are so ashamed of their ugly countrymen that when they backpack in England they put a Canadian flag on their pack. I’m still chuckling at a Canadian saying to a pair of young men in Paris, “Hi guys! What part of Canada are you from?” “New Jersey.”

Would I agree? I don’t know any more than the two writers do about the mystery of why Americans turn ugly, but I can humbly offer two small pieces to the puzzle: I think one reason is that Yankees don’t mingle as an equal. As we know from everyday life back home, snobs just don’t mingle well. They isolate. A second reason would require a whole page to explain: Trust Issues.

Trust Issues
Snobs don’t trust the natives.

My past is relevant to a recent slowness to act. “I was not always the man you see before you.” Many years ago I lived in a dark place. Compared to later years, my everyday self esteem was very much lower, my ever-present shame very much greater. Happily, I did personal growth, to the point that my chaplain noted my very voice had changed. (Not from aging) An old army roommate, honourably discharged and now a social worker, said to me, “You’re a success story.” His words I would gladly set up on the same shelf as my awards and medal. (Significantly, perhaps, we both stayed in the city of our last posting)

Part of my growth was from being in one or more self-help groups. At our meetings I would not talk of abstract things, however good, nor of what I was “gonna do” but rather, I told of specific events during my past week, of what I had just done and what it meant. I was admitting my mistakes, and sharing my strength and hope. In our sharing we were leading by examples of the good, the bad and the ugly. 

I suppose our meetings worked like evolution where, from our sharing about behaviours with consequences, over time the fittest behaviours would prevail. We found it useful to talk in simple non-medical terms, such as “isolating” and “boundaries.” I don’t think we ever said the term “trust issues” but I am saying it now. Until recently, I had known only two such unfortunates. (Now my ex-boss is a third)

One was a lady in my shared house. She was an angry communist who distrusted the capitalist world, meaning: just about everybody. The masses, including you and I, were too stupid to rise up for a revolution. An illustrative example of her trust issues: We found someone’s cat. Of course we only kept it temporarily. The thing was this: She hid the cat, when the owner came by, for fear that “owner,” a respectable ordinary looking woman, was not the real owner.

The other such person I knew was my girlfriend, angry and impatient with society. It seemed to me back then that our relationship meant trusting that we were safe to be emotionally intimate, use silly pet names and be naked. We managed to do the naked part but… it took me a while to grasp that no amount of me being honourable and trustworthy, again and again over time, would ever get her to feel trusting of me… She wasn’t a communist, but she did have a comparable superiority, believe that 90% of the population had an addiction, that everybody lives in daily grave danger of falling into an addiction to something.

Some might say: Too bad most people don’t know the joys of abstaining and only drinking plain water. Some might say: Too bad most people are too unenlightened to realize the joys of socialism. I would say: Such views are a form of snobbery. Great Superiority is a counterfeit coin: the obverse side is Greatly Distrusting. I would add that superiority is a crutch most unworthy.

From both my childhood and our popular culture (think schoolteacher getting mad or an angry sargeant) comes a “social contract”: You are allowed to be angry from having your higher standards, and in return you have to know what you are doing. But of course the contract is a sham. My best sergeants only raised their voices for emphasis, not anger. Same with each of the most accomplished ladies and gentlemen I have ever met. Even folks dealing with medical life and death, such as nurses and folks in my own profession, disabilities, will not be angry but instead firm and fair.

One of my imperfections as a young person was that I was too stubborn to name drop, place drop, or do other things to look cool. It worked out alright for me, as the friendly folks and the most secure cool folks would still want to get to know me. I thought: Never mind the rest. 

Another imperfection, partly as wimp-proofing, and partly as distrust, was my philosophy of “never complain, never explain.” My distrust: What if I tried to state something as a mitigating factor, and was then accused of making an excuse? Or worse: what if my side of the story wasn’t believed? What if I was called a crazy liar? My self esteem was low enough already without accusations. Better to be tough. It would all work out, I thought, because if someone worked or socialized with me over time, then they would surely get to know the real me far beyond my poor power to add or detract.
(Note: In healthy everyday life, with common sense trust, I do try to respect you and me when we complain or explain) 

I confess: Recently, at a certain part-time (fortnightly) workplace, my own unease around a boss with “trust issues” might have meant I gave up on him too easily. Then again, I try to be humbly conscious, as a “creative artist-type,” that I might be wrong about things, and that I might be wrong as to how much he and others should believe in inclusiveness and respect. 
(Two topics I’ve used for essays in the summer of 2018) 

Now, after making allowances, I have surely done all I can. In fact, I have at last taken action: I have resigned. This essay helps to put my “time-to-resign” insights into perspective.

Where my imperfect philosophy breaks down, of course, is when I encounter an angry superior isolating Ugly American. Because if such a person has trust issues… then despite rubbing shoulders over time I never can build any credibility. The “penny dropped” when I realized that if my boss is superior and disrespectful of everyone else too—and he surely is, grotesquely so, as much as my housemate and girlfriend—then almost no one he knows ever earns any credibility. Everyone in his world is forever at square one. Not just me. 

So I can say to myself, “Self, don’t take it personally, and give up any hope for change over time.” An illustrative example, which I won’t give any details for, was when my boss and I had a slight altercation last week, including his unethical breaking of the “social contract.” We simply weren’t dialoguing properly, certainly not as equals, but rather, with me as the native and him as the Ugly American. I did not offer a certain useful opinion, or a certain useful fact, because I knew from his anger he wasn’t interested. Was the issue “too angry?” Nope—Too disrespectful! Too bad, as it was a useful-to-him fact, too.

Of course I won’t divulge any historical workplace details: Too private for him, too distasteful for me, and—(cough)—too revealing of my formerly low self esteem. I am sad to say: A normal person would have resigned much earlier. But besides other reasons, I wanted to work on my own issues, on “my own side of the street” first… Snobs don’t ask for my help, and no I won’t, even now, give that boss any constructive feedback. No figurative exit interview.

(…Partly I won’t because there have been other folks quitting: If I have no value with that boss, then fine, let them give the feedback… except, as I only now realize, they wouldn’t feel valued either, not enough to offer vulnerable thoughts from their hearts and minds…)

Why not give feedback? Because it wouldn’t have worked for my old housemate: Character flaws are impervious to advice or logic. Besides, I don’t like to take chances with people who bizarrely don’t trust me; better to practise being strong and silent.

As for Americans in Iraq, I can sympathize with their initial culture shock at others having different opinions and beliefs, along with the almost inevitable “blame the natives” for one’s own discomfort, that’s merely human nature, but… After time has passed? Still? I wonder: How many Americans departed Iraq with their trust-level and respect-level for Iraqis no different than when they had first arrived and hadn’t even interacted with any natives yet? 

Snobs don’t change.


Sean Crawford
Calgary
2019

Footnotes:
~Here’s the (link) to the above post of Mark Manson.

~Don’t worry, my ex-boss won’t have his feelings hurt by reading this. I’m sure he doesn’t even read mass newspapers and flyers, let alone obscure web essays.

~The functional way to trust is to start in the middle trust level, and then raise or lower trust over time based on experiences such as from socializing together, or from seeing the person flinch at “too much information.” One might avoid the latter mistake with “share, check, share, check.”

~Among the least of reasons for not writing about any work details is my old self-help group’s concept of “don’t take (scrutinize) someone else’s (flaws) inventory.” Among the least of the reasons for this advice is wimp-proofing: Every minute spent thinking about another person is a minute of escaping any work on one’s own issues. 

To illustrate: That fellow that bitterly stalked his ex-girlfriend for ten years? I think he spent his ten years without getting any new girlfriend. 
By the way, as reported on CBC radio, the stalking didn’t stop until he died in a car accident. The police, for ten years, beginning with their saying, “He’ll soon get over it,” had been useless. Ten years of terror.

~For any young survivors reading this: 
Please don’t lose hope from reading my recent story. I know, I was wrong to stay too long at a gig unworthy of me, one where I was not valued, but that gig is only a very small blip on my big radar screen of life: I can assure you that right now at my functional full time job I am greatly valued for doing great work.
(As for documenting growth, last Monday night a poet at a coffee house microphone singled me out to people, last Friday night at a formal kickoff party I was singled out: In both cases I had to raise my hand to show myself to the crowd. Tonight I will be at a microphone myself, with enough self esteem to speak clearly and feel warmly valued from a monthly open mic community) 
Personal growth is real and possible. I can say this because I have done so.

Once you have experienced stage fright, you are always aware that it could be just around the corner waiting for you, just waiting for you to get cocky and overconfident. So you treat the body and the brain with much more respect, and you remain conscious always of the shadow in the corner.
Lawrence Olivier
For me, the capacity for shadowy self doubt always remains. 

I got that line from a fellow with a Ph.D, a successful writer, in his book The Content of Our Character. He, Shelby Steele, was (unknown to his family) verbally abused during class by a white racist during just a single year of elementary school. Other parents got the man fired, and the boy was told it wasn’t his fault, and this was logically true, but for the rest of his successful life the capacity for self doubt was always there. He thought the tension between everyday self esteem and this capacity was a distinctive part of each person’s makeup. I think the abusive year made him a better human, better able to dialogue with young black undergraduates and with white “fellow middle class” folk.


As Tiny Tim said, “God bless us, everyone.”

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Alienation and Isolation

Hello Reader,
Can you keep a straight face?
As, with a fool’s overlarge smile, I proclaim, “I”m proud to be a member of society!” ?
Me neither.


Sometimes, out on the open highway, among fields or in mountain valleys, I have an interpretation: I sense a cluster of cars far ahead of me, a cluster far behind me, and here I am, no cluster, alone in my big bubble. Maybe it’s even true, I don’t know.

What I know is that at work or play, in various parts of society, my default is to see myself in a bubble of one: There’s everybody else, and then there’s me, different. And I know this default interpretation of mine is wrong. To reduce this concept to simple high school terms: Even the most popular cheerleader or confident student council member would nevertheless, on occasion be binary: “There’s all the other students, and there’s me, different.”

I only clued in when I was in high school myself, in tenth grade. That’s when my English teacher, Mr. Wong, one the very few teachers I still remember, had a semester long theme: Alienation and Isolation. Words that apply to not just hermits, but to all of us. I finished his class knowing that for years to come my temptation to lapse into my default of “Alienation and Isolation,” would remain, always and forever. All I can do is make such lapses fewer and fewer, by using my intellect and fierce self discipline: I will tell myself, “Don’t be silly,” as often as necessary.

Because Alienation and Isolation are a natural universal things, it is easy to write poems and popular songs around them, and these we took in Mr. Wong’s class. As for songs, Sounds of Silence was one. I am a rock was another. Both are by Simon and Garfunckle. Average people who never abuse alcohol could relate to Johnny Cash as the alcoholic singing Sunday Morning Coming Down. As for poems, from Mr. Wong we took a poem about being in fog, another about a boy amongst conformity who committed suicide, and another about a citizen with a number for a name, which ended, 

“Was he happy?
The question is absurd.
Had anything been wrong,
we most certainly would have heard.”

What we can never hear is the sound of folks collapsing into their default.

For me, the default seems to click in when I am Hungry, “Angsty,” Lonely or Tired. HALT. Self-discipline helps, as does a sense of humor. I suppose typical student angst (unfocused fear of the state of the world) is first cousin to Alienation. As it happens, the “A” in HALT commonly stands for Angry. (HALT can be a warning signal for misuse of gambling, a substance or sex)

How silly I was as I first arrived, alone in Calgary, when I viewed the glass elevators and futuristic elevated glass tunnels as being only for “those real Calgarians,” not me, as I humbly stayed down on the sidewalk. I think if I was a “new Canadian,” then it would be easy to see the community as {(real immigrants + real natives) and little old me.}

That sort of thinking would be both normal and silly. Better to do whatever it takes: Play music, read poems, volunteer with high school students, anything, rather than be so mistaken.


Sean Crawford
Spring
2019

Footnotes:
~The Calgary tunnels, like so many gerbil tubes, are to beat the cold. Called the “plus 15” (elevation) system. In Edmonton they have the “pedway.” In Houston, someone told me, they put their tunnels underground to beat their fierce heat.

~I’m thinking today of “social isolates”: Surely they are conflicted between wanting community and wanting to be alone. Here is a passage about the hero in Lee Child’s mystery-thriller The Hard Way, page 2:
QUOTE
 That put him against the cafe’s outside wall and left him looking east, across the sidewalk and the width of the avenue. He liked to sit outside in the summer, in New York City. Especially at night. He liked the electric darkness and the hot dirty air and the blasts of noisy traffic and the manic barking sirens and the crush of people. It helped a lonely man feel connected and isolated both at the same time.
UNQUOTE 

~Here’s a link to a warm fuzzy story behind that unhappy Sunday sidewalk song.

~Here’s a link to a fan video for the song I Am a Rock on Youtube.

~Here’s a link to a nice post, inviting the reader to feel “yes” and a sense of community, from February 2019 about how writing on her blog would “hold memories” and “change perception of time” and “extend time.” Well expressed. I couldn’t comment on it myself, because the comment thingy would not take my URL, but you may have better luck.


Update: I FOUND A QUOTE, from the Wall Street Journal bestseller by Cait Flanders, The Year of Less, page 82, regarding the first staff Christmas party she had attended while into sobriety:

QUOTE
I bought a new turquoise dress and a pair of black patent leather heels. This is what twenty-eight-year old women should wear at parties, I thought when I tried the dress on in the store. When I walked into the party, however, I felt like I was the only person pretending to be a grown-up in a room of actual grown-ups. Everyone was drinking and laughing and falling over, and yet looked beautifully put together. I wasn’t drinking and I didn’t feel at all like myself in that outfit. I knew then that I did not fit in here anymore. I spent the majority of the party hanging out in the kitchen with a few friends, looking over their shoulders and feeling jealous about how much fun everyone was having without me.
UNQUOTE

One might tell me she was perfectly correct that year to feel like a minority one, yet the very next year…

QUOTE
…I wasn’t exactly thrilled about being the only sober person in the room, but I was excited to spend time with everyone, especially the core six. I tried to mingle with some of the new members of the team, but it was not my strong suit anymore…
UNQUOTE


My conclusion, dear reader, is that what had changed in the year between the two parties, was not outer reality but her inner attitude at feeling equal and the same… an attitude within everyone’s control. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Second Opinion on Life

Hello Reader
Of course you are right, but—
Got second opinion? 


From the 1970’s come two TV characters from two shows, All in the Family and Happy Days—The bigoted father, Archie Bunker, and the cool “bad” motorcyclist with his white T-shirt and leather jacket, “the Fonze.” They had something in common: Both would get lockjaw trying to say, “I was w-w-w-wrong.” Same as my dear brother-in-law. Recently I’ve been looking in the mirror…

Even that epitome of cool, the Fonze, ( raising his thumbs to affirm, “Ehhhh!”) couldn’t be right all the time, no, not even in fanciful TV land. In my everyday world, it would be such a comfort to believe everyone has common sense, and that “of course everybody knows” common things—but no. There is a good reason why newspapers and traditional media, on a continuing Big Important Story, on each successive day, must retread the same old ground, and keep on repeating what has just happened. People don’t always know. Maybe “they should” but the plain truth is they don’t.

People are like some chunks in a box of cold cereal: After lots of shaking around by life, every chunk “should” be the same size, but there are always a few big pieces that seem to have slipped through the process. To me, every one of us are “big chunks:” We all seem to have “missed out” on different things, having gaps in our knowledge. Why? Easy: we live in a complex society. 

It’s so common to miss out on common things: I’m still chuckling over my friend, a university graduate, who didn’t know the “dirty thirties” were caused by the Wall Street stock market crash of late 1929. She innocently thought the Great Depression was caused by the mid-west “dust bowl.” 
(My principal told us how a farmer would plow a field all day, then, during the night, lose every last teaspoon of his topsoil, gone with the wind)

Respect for human nature, and for ordinary ethical journalism, is why my essays will have abbreviations spelled in full, explanations in brackets, and even the odd “as you know, comma.” I do this to be gentle on my readers. In school we took a short story about (from memory) The Man From Kalgoorlie who managed to go an entire year without knowing World War II had broken out. Yes, that’s only fiction, but stranger things have happened. 

(As you may know, the war started September 1, 1939, when the Germans, as part of the Axis powers, invaded Poland. Canada declared war on September third, and the First Canadian Division was in Britain later that year… The attack on Pearl Harbor, by some different fascists, was not until December 7, 1941. At least the major fascist countries learned a lesson. I can’t speak for smaller axis countries like, say, Italy or Romania, but I know that today Germany and Japan are peaceful to a fault)

Any remedy? Yes, a partial one: Listening, as humbly as I can, from knowing I surely have gaps. It’s not rocket science. The Chinese say, “When you go outdoors, look at the weather; when you come indoors, look at the faces.” While I am talking, I modestly check faces to see if I have abruptly sounded like an idiot. That is, unless we are imbibing and gesturing wildly in a pub—then we can all be idiots together.

In a social group, whether I’m flocking with delinquents on a street corner or hooting with a parliament of owls, it’s common sense: Don’t assume a motion or topic is worth discussing unless there is figuratively a seconder to the motion. And here’s another common sense metaphor: As a sailor, I don’t assume my “sea story” is worth telling to a crowd of sailors relaxing in the fo’c’s’le. Not unless I have first tested it on the ship’s cook, and then secretly lingered outside the hatch, to check to hear whether he tells it to the next fellow to enter the galley. (footnote)

The only thing you can’t test out is how to break bad news. A dozen mountain ranges away lived my dad. A few days after the death of dear old dad, my sweet sibling let me know. Some days later my friend Judy had a disturbed face: She just had to get back to me to ask why getting the news took a few days: “Is your family estranged?” 
“No, just slow.” 
(How slow? Dear Mom passed away later, in the summer of 2016, and today, Easter of 2019, with two of my slow siblings as co-executors, there is no sign yet of any estate money for us chickens. It’s no big deal—at least the taxes, submitted around Easter of 2018, have finally been done, I think)

As for estrangement, I once skimmed a link on the web. Turns out folks can be estranged, can be giving a relative the silent treatment for years and years, while at the same time the relative doesn’t know about the treatment, let alone know why. I can relate: Certainly I can hold a grudge for a long, long time without the other person having a clue. That may be OK for acquaintances, but for family? That would be too dumb. And too unworthy of me. Theoretically. 

And yet… I can remember telephoning my father across many mountain ranges to his time zone to ask, in effect, whether our family believes that just one thing can be “a deal killer,” as in being “not good enough to love.” I know, right? Shouldn’t have to ask, right? And yet I had felt so degraded, keeping shameful and silent about my family, as my bank manager remarked that even Jesse James, after robbing trains, was loved by his folks. 

There’s a good reason for the Good News story in the New Testament about a prodigal son. There’s another Gospel story, nearly two thousand years old now, of a man washing his hands and asking, “What is truth?”

The truth is that if I am especially ashamed and keeping silent about some notion I have, then I am especially needful to ask someone, anyone, for a “seconder to the notion.” Not asking my bar tender, who may solely listen, but asking someone who will answer my truth with his or her own truth. Perhaps by saying, “Yes, yes I do think you are wrong… being silly… and wrong.” How easy to be told I’m wrong about some exciting tavern trivia game, how very hard, something to be approached with fear and trembling, to be told I have been wrong about a close relative who has—which is “had” in the present tense—severely hurt my feelings. So often the “easy way out” is to feel offended, not hurt.

Something about offended anger is this: It’s always there, waiting, even if I change my mind about people. Like a hand-eye coordinated sports move, it remains to be called on, years later. Like how “everybody knows” that the same folks who have known peace since the 1998 Good Friday peace agreement would shoot and bomb and kill if tomorrow a customs “hard border” appeared across Ireland after Brexit. How queer: A baby born on Good Friday of that year would be 21 years old now… 

How tragic when nations who have strained and strived and finally achieved peace can just throw it all away, abruptly surrendering to an impulse for hatred. The capacity for anger remains. Today I desperately need my higher reasoning to know that life has moved on, that it’s silly, and that my old thinking, today, is something I was w-w-w-wrong about.

Today I’m avoiding my mirror… yet I just had to write, for me and you.


Sean Crawford
Trying not to subconsciously rebel about de-cluttering,
April
2019

Footnotes: 
~The sea story advice is from novelist Jan De Hartog in his nonfiction book, A Sailor’s Life. (You may download the book for free as a PDF, link)

~Some folks get their opinions from social media and false news. That’s a problem: The consensus is that social media is, too often, easily and wrongly forwarded by deniers of media ethics, just as as easily as folks will spread false gossip. For the journalism ethics practised by true ladies and gentlemen, see my three journalism essays archived in May and April of 2018. 

Note to my Irish-American cousins: You might snobbishly feel superior to the British Irish for their reverting to violence from seeing a “hard border,” (customs police in grim buildings) but hey, have you looked in the mirror? 

You and your pals wear flowers in your hair for a street protest, swearing up and down to each other that your march will be “a peaceful demonstration…” But then you riot… and the next morning? You tell news reporters it was the mere sight of hard armoured riot police that “made you riot.” Does that sound very adult of you, “they made me riot”? So don’t you go feeling superior to the Northern Irish.

~Funny: As for the hard border, my cousin Crazy Eddie thinks it should staffed exclusively by contractors from south of the border, Catholics, solely of the female gender, wearing mostly frilly pink civilian clothes from home, working in tents and pavilions gayly painted like gingerbread houses, with the real police, on call by walkie-talkie, sitting cozy, south of the border, in Irish pubs… Yup, there’s a reason why we call my cousin Crazy Eddie.