Fear or desire?

From today's Writer's Almanac:

“[Aldous Huxley’s] Brave New World is often compared with George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four (1948), since they each offer a view of a dystopian future. Cultural critic Neil Postman spelled out the difference in his 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death:

“‘What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture. ... In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that our desire will ruin us.’”

Assuming Postman’s analysis is correct (I have not read either book for years), who was right: Huxley or Orwell?

Could it be both were/are?

And is it too late to avoid ruin?

He’s still actually running for re-election, maybe

Some of my readers—well, nearly all of you probably—may be feeling a bit nervous that our current president may try to subvert the November election, either by claiming voter fraud or by posting his newly-formed military-type force at the polls to make sure we all “vote right.”

I have good news for you: he is still trying to win by getting more votes that Joe Biden gets.

How do I know?

Because his campaign keeps emailing me appeals to give to help him win.

Yes, our current president’s re-election campaign continues to fill my [spam/suspect] inboxes with appeals for a contribution, until recently beginning at $42 and going up from there. In exchange for my generosity, I could receive everything from a new-style MAGA cap, to an iconic yard poster, to a chance to have my gift somehow multiplied 500%, to an opportunity to be chosen by the current president himself to get my way paid to the Republican National Convention!

I was almost hooked by an email from the current president’s son (“POTUS, Jr.”) a couple of days after that RNC-raffle invite. The email’s subject line whined, plaintively, Why are you ignoring my father? and went on to remind me that You haven’t sent in your $42 yet.”

A couple of days later, Eric Trump, apparently knowing I still hadn’t given, emailed me that You can do better. And Lara Trump then reminded me I was in danger of missing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The man himself asked me in an email last week, What are you doing in August?

(Not going to Florida, that’s for sure.)

All of these appeals are extremely personal. They claim that our current president knows that I, Keith Dean Myers, am one of his most loyal supporters, that I helped him get elected in 2016, and that he longs to see that I have given to his current campaign. In fact, the first thing he does every morning when he gets to the Oval Office is to look to find my name on the list of those who’ve donated in the last 24 hours. I am relieved that he has his official priorities straight.

But Sunday’s email revealed an interesting development. It offered me an OFFICIAL 2020 (INSERT OUR CURRENT PRESIDENT’S NAME HERE) PLATINUM MEMBERSHIP! Just another appeal, I thought. Then I scrolled down to see that the threshold giving amount has been reduced to $35.

This presidency is not only for sale, it’s on sale.

I am, of course, deeply moved by all of this personal attention from the most powerful political leader in the world. It makes me feel that somehow, in some strange way, I might matter in the whole scheme of things, that I have value.

Then I remember that he is just using me. As he uses everyone he can get his big (!) hands on.

Vote for Joe.

Time for new leadership at the top

I am torn this morning between rage and resignation. The state of our republic has been so weakened by often-conflicting forces that I wonder if we will survive with any semblance of being a free and independent people.

I am tempted to assign all the blame for this state of affairs to people and forces with whom I disagree. I freely admit that I assign far more blame to them than to those with whom I agree. But I am not so blinded by my rage that I do not see the faults and failures on all colors of the political spectrum. It’s easier to be enraged if everything is either good or evil, positive or negative, and never a mixture of both.

I am tempted to resignation when I think of how little I actually know first hand about the events that are swirling around us. I think I know a fair amount, but I also know am totally dependent upon the reports, which are often subtly entwined with interpretation, of others for what I think I know about most of those events. I hesitate to take a stand because I am not sure I know for sure what I am talking about. I am sure someone who does claim to “know for sure” will call me uninformed, or worse, and I don’t like that.

I do know this: the future prospects of our nation and of the world have only gotten worse since the current president and his administration took office. We may have had a booming economy until the virus—the one he still pretends is not out there, but I believe it was booming today by courting ecological disaster tomorrow—a coming disaster he also pretends is not out there. Other than that short-term good, what has improved? Where has he shown real, conscientious, thoughtful, persistent leadership in anything other than the pursuit of his own re-election?

This morning we learned that the White House’s current resident is moving portraits of former presidents around. Sounds like “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic” to me. “Fiddling while Rome burns” also comes to mind.

I don’t want to add to the negativity that’s swamping our ship of state. I do want to be clear, however: we need new leadership that is positive, compassionate, intelligent, informed, committed to serving our richly diverse common good, that smiles more that it scowls…my list of what we need now goes on and on.

All of which is why I will vote for Joe Biden for president.

No, Joe Biden isn’t perfect (old news: no one is). But I believe he will give us a shot at getting back on the path toward being the nation and people I truly believe most of us long to be.

Boy on Bicycle with Feather, or Young America

The boy on the bicycle in Andrew Wyeth’s 1950 color lithograph looks as if he is the freest person on earth. Dressed in 1950’s-cool style with rakish hat, he casually pedals along a level, hard-surface road (surely not of his own building), across a wide-open landscape, a red, white, and blue-dyed feather tethered to a front fender brace and flying high above his head. He turns his head, perhaps looking toward the distant horizon.

What, or who, could more accurately represent Young America, one of the two names I find assigned to this picture?

The world is his to see, to imagine, to explore, and perhaps to conquer. He is more than a Boy on Bicycle with Feather; he is Young America.

In recent weeks I have been looking with new eyes at my print of this picture. New eyes, after seeing it for some 50 years. New eyes, on this, the 244th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence.

What if the boy on the bicycle were Black, or Asian, or Hispanic, or Native American, or visually identifiable as anything other than European? Would he be as relaxed as this boy is out here all by himself? Would he need to be sure to keep his eyes glued to the road just ahead lest he be picked up for reckless riding? Would he dare to look at any horizon beyond his immediate experience? Would he proudly attach our nation’s colors to his bike?

What if the boy on the bicycle were not a boy at all, but a girl? Could she dream of a future that was hers to choose to follow, unhindered by sexism, fear, and any sense of inadequacy inculcated in her because of her gender? Could she fully honor what the colors of her homeland represent?

What if the person on the bicycle were LGBTQ…would they need to keep glancing back over their shoulder to see if someone might be coming up behind them to frighten, intimidate, even to kill them? Might they show colors they do not really trust in an attempt to keep themselves hidden, even while in plain sight?

What if this boy were Jewish, or Moslem, or Sikh, or atheist, or any other of the many varieties of religion and non-religion that belong in our nation? If he is anything but Christian, might he be riding away from the school where he is forced to declare his differentness because he cannot pretend to pray in the name of Jesus Christ? Might he display the colors in defiance of the American popular religion that mixes patriotism and quasi-Christianity?

If this Boy on the Bicycle with Feather were any of the above, or more, would they be certain that the laws of their homeland and the practices of their neighbors would allow them to see, to imagine, to explore…to at least give them a fair shot at conquering some piece of their worldly existence?

Most likely, not.

My eyes—forced opened by the frustration and anger of so many who were not white boys on bicycles in America’s 1950s—my eyes are examining the assumptions of my own experiences against the realities of their experiences. I assumed everyone could, if they wanted to, ride the same kind of road I have ridden to take their own version of the kind of journey I have taken, all the while gratefully waving the red, white, and blue without a second thought. What I have assumed was wrong.

I love Wyeth’s print, hanging near the door into the room in which I am writing this. It speaks to me, to my memories of growing up on a bike in Iowa. But it also speaks of the privilege that has been and is mine by accidents of my birth. What it says to me this 4th of July unsettles me.