Factoring in Fear

Blogging for me began back in 2002. I occupied a cubicle in a soul-sucking job for a major disability insurer. Every minute I spent there was a minute I’d never recover. Fortunately, I didn’t invest  much energy into furthering Whitey’s corporate agenda and instead began planning my plan of exit.

A co-worker with topnotch design skills built a functional website at my behest. He never charged me a penny, either. The most important element of the site was that it including a blogging platform. As a writer looking to up my game and work on my craft, I was off to the races with a space to publish my own writing.

Since 2003, I’ve had several blogs including this one. My writing has been bylined in a host of print publications and online. I’ve hit the markers I set out for nearly 20 years ago.

Occasionally, I look back at something I wrote. The blog I maintained from 2004 until I launched this one in 2012, Words Matter, is still out there. Since I just completed rereading George Orwell’s dystopian classic, 1984, I was curious about what I might have picked up previously and perhaps noted somewhere.

Interestingly, these prior blog posts serve as a “trail of breadcrumbs” back to what I was thinking at the time. Just like in the present, I was concerned about the use of fear and hysteria (back in 2006) and also, the limbing of what is considered “proper” in what we are allowed to think and say. These are both central tenets to Orwell’s book that I’m amazed was written in 1949 and is still eerily relevant—just as if he’d written it last week.

In my blog post from 2006 at the Words Matter blog, I wrote this about fear:

Yesterday, while driving home from some appointments in Dover-Foxcroft, I was scanning the radio dial for something tolerable, or at least wouldn’t put me to sleep. For a five minute period, my better judgment took leave and I found myself listening to the demagoguery of Sean Hannity, during his afternoon exercise in right wing ideological indoctrination. This man is certifiably insane. His propaganda-laced tirades are lapped up eagerly by his brain-addled listeners, who subscribe to this kind of bigotry-infused and racist rhetoric. He was prattling on about the need for the U.S. to support their friends (in this case, Israel) in the battle against “Islamofascism,” a term invented by the haters on the right.

Fourteen years later, I could rewrite this, change a few names and terms and it would read this way to detail something that happened to me back in April. I haven’t looked back: Continue reading

Moving Past the Midterm

I am a progressive, politically. I’m fine with the label, “radical,” also. There’s a tie-in to the late historian, Howard Zinn on the latter point. Zinn was a man who I admired and I’m glad Mark and got to hear him speak at Bates College one year during his Wheaton years, when he was home for Thanksgiving.

Tuesday’s election results are being interpreted in a myriad manner of ways. Much of the parsing of the final tallies of voter’s choices land along a narrow ideological divide. While certainly someone who can be called a “partisan,” Ari Melber’s trenchant analysis on MSNBC nailed it, IMHO. Spin it however you want: it was a historic night!

Tuesday was a historic night for Democrats.

For those deniers of “blue waves” or believers who thought Beto might win in Texas, a state redder than a ripe tomato, Wednesday morning delivered disappointment. If you were hoping for something less—simply restoring some check on the Orange-Menace-in-Chief—then you might be okay with the outcome. Of course, being the narcissist that he is, The Trumpinator made his push for Republicans what some were calling “a referendum.” As he told one reporter, “In a sense, I am on the ticket,” said The Donald following one of his rallies.

Sharice Davids, left, celebrates with mother, Tuesday night. (Jim Lo Scalzo photo)

Continue reading

In Praise of Short Stories

The short story has been a neglected writing style in my reading. This summer, I made a point of addressing it when I read Ottessa Moshfegh’s excellent collection, Homesick For Another World. After I finished, I vowed to read more similar collections.

A perk of working with high school-age youth is having the chance to revisit writers and writing that you were equally clueless about when you were the same age as these young charges assigned to you.

Of course, being a tutor, sometimes you must scramble in reacquainting yourself with said writing from the past. A few of those writers? Try James Thurber, J.D. Salinger, George Orwell, and Shirley Jackson. Orwell and Salinger haven’t been tough. I read The Catcher in the Rye last year and have read it several times over the last decade. Ditto for Orwell, and in fact, I made a habit of annually rereading 1984 during the 2000s and the Bush presidency. Thurber and Jackson are less familiar.

A week ago, I was time-traveling back to Thurber’s “The Catbird Seat,” and dull little (or so we think!) Mr. Martin. Admittedly, I have never loved Thurber like some literary types have.

On Sunday, I was co-reading Shirley Jackson’s short story, “Charles,” and helping a student craft a paragraph about parents not recognizing flaws in a child. The discussion that ensued was meaningful to me on several levels.

Shirley Jackson, American writer (seen in this April 16, 1951 AP photo)

Save for “The Lottery,” few people who travel in non-literary circles know Jackson’s work. This New Yorker article is worth reading if you’d like to know more about a wonderfully (weird) and “haunted” writer.

“Charles” wasn’t particularly strange or odd. It was a story that had humor and was what might be called an “unsentimental” look at life as a mother during a particular time in America. In Jackson’s case, this would be the 1940s, a very different time period than our own. As a writer, Jackson shaped it with sly parental incredulity and humor, too.

Apparently, the story was published in Mademoiselle and later, was included in her collection, The Lottery/The Adventures of James Harris.

It begins thus:

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me. . . . 

Like the parents Jackson is writing about, most think their child is the best. Love compels you to want to feel this way. This also opens the door to the possibility that you’ll overreach and have unrealistic expectations, too.

Of course, it’s special when parents of a child get to witness an adult who validates the faith they had in him or her.

Lies, or incompetence?

There were plenty of places to get news about Wednesday’s mass shooting in San Bernadino. The old-line news networks were wall-to-wall and buzzing with coverage as soon as word went out that there was yet another shooting at a workplace, this time in California. I rarely consider CBS, NBC, or ABC—save for perhaps my early-morning weather forecast for the day.

Newspapers once practiced who, what, and why journalism, but now, they’re more than likely to be peddling politicized sentiments dressed up as fact. Plenty of media sources, but which one to consider?

I don’t know why, but I kind of like the Wall Street Journal. I know—it’s a Murdoch product these days and anti-business types hate that they take the side of the owners and bosses. There is a certain style and consistency inherent in how the WSJ covers stories, though. As to the matter of “truth,” well there are few places to shop for that particular commodity, at least if we’re comparing the mainstream models.

For the purposes of this blog post, let me focus on how the Journal covered what they were calling, a “Deadly California Rampage.” Granted, the print story I read was probably “put to bed” late in the evening on Wednesday in order to get out Thursday’s paper. I don’t know what their cut-off is for news stories to be filed.

As of Thursday morning, the names of Syed Rizwan Farook and Tashfeen Malik were being offered as the suspected killers. Both had been shot and killed in a gun battle with law enforcement after a car chase ensued after the multiple shootings at the Inland Regional Center. (this information came from the Los Angeles Times, not the WSJ)

But back to the Journal.

Something jumped out at me in reading the 750 word story. Near the middle of the article, there is this.

Incompetent, or a liar?

Incompetent, or a liar?

The White House said President Barack Obama was monitoring the situation. And in what has become a ritual in the aftermath of a mass shooting, he repeated his call for stricter gun control laws. Continue reading

Destroying Words

There was once a book, one that I learned about in school. Granted, when I first went to school back in the 1960s, the world was a different place. While it was beginning to shift and change, language was still fairly static. That’s no longer the case.

George Orwell wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four, or 1984 in 1949, which compared to when I began school could be considered the Dark Ages. The name he was given at birth (in 1903) was Eric Blair. I bet you didn’t know that.

Big Brother is watching!

Big Brother is watching!

I used to have a blog called Words Matter. I named it that because when I was learning words and how to write them, they really did matter.

Orwell’s book had a profound effect on me when I first read it during my high school years, during the first term of a president named Reagan.  I’ve subsequently read 1984 at least 15 times since then. Continue reading

Perpetual War

I’m reading a biography of Howard Zinn. I picked it up at the Maine State Library, my bi-weekly way station where I gather books and do research for whatever article I’m writing, or thinking about writing.

Zinn, who left us with one of the best quotes about the inanity of the ideology that fuels America’s never-ending need for war and killing that I’ve ever run across, said that “There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people.” Continue reading