The Nazi room

Some friends have said that they regret using Facebook because it makes them like their peers less. That someone they would probably like in person becomes someone they can’t stand because of the opinions they post. I understand this sentiment, and at times I can relate to it. But at the same time, it’s hard to believe that somebody’s defining beliefs and overall worldview would never be expressed face to face if you know them well enough. And if they are hiding certain values, I’m not sure I’d rather be unaware of what those values are.

In the past, I have written that there is no single “true” self. People are multifaceted, and we can be kinder and more complicated than our belief systems. I don’t believe that a human necessarily has only one set of values; they can have several at odds with one another. But even if their values aren’t a neatly matching set, others can still feel alienated by a particular belief they have—even with the awareness that it isn’t their only belief. I know I will distance myself from a person if they express specific beliefs, just as I know I’m not exempt from alienating others with mine.

The internet is a paradoxical place. It’s a space where humans are bolder and more confrontational about expressing themselves, and at the same time more cautious if their words are for public consumption. It’s a place where individuals can perform a one-dimensional version of themselves, and where they can also share sides of their psyche that are not usually seen. It’s a meeting ground where people dismiss each other more readily because it’s easier to see a human as a set of pixels or an algorithm, but people also might offer each other more time. Because the online world is us, an outgrowth of both space and time.

Just as the internet is people and the internet is a place, people are places. Some are homes. Some are locations we think are homes, but turn out to be stops along the way. Some are havens we visit routinely, but where we don’t ultimately live. That’s why I think of a personality as a house. Some houses have consistent themes throughout. Those homes are cozy and predictable. Some prefer that, others find it dull. Some houses are neat and affable in the rooms that are meant for showcasing, but complete chaos in the private quarters. And others don’t hide their mess.

This is the type of home I’d find most disconcerting: The social, guest-receiving rooms are open and embracing. The living room contains an MLK poster and books about environmentalism and civil rights. Then, somewhere tucked far down a hallway, there’s a study full of KKK propaganda and Nazi memorabilia. The resident is flustered upon guests discovering it, but insists it’s “not a racist thing.” They say they have no problem with (X minority group), they just “don’t want them in their country.” (So what does “having no problem with them” mean? Not objecting to their basic existence, provided that existence occurs far away and they never have to inhabit the same space?) The person who owns and maintains this house may not see the space dedicated to bigotry as their “true” room. They may see it as just one coexisting with all the others, no more of a core space than anywhere else. They may even like to have minority friends in the house; just not in that area. But the guests who liked the main quarters won’t feel comfortable there anymore, and it would be especially scary if the house was a place where they’d regularly enjoyed spending time.

That figurative house is who some people are. Some may not actually be aware that they contain that specific room. Others might know about it but blame others for putting the contents inside, not acknowledging that they choose to hold onto those things. And I know my definition of welcoming is subjective; some would feel a lot more embraced in the bigotry room than in the main socially presented areas. But that is how I see it, and I think the internet provides a window into rooms that might not otherwise be seen—even by those who live in the house. The difference lies in whether or not the homeowner justifies that room; whether they respond to its discovery by more carefully hiding the contents, by bringing them out into the open, or by trying to renovate.

The ethics of size

When someone looks at a massive work of human effort, like architecture or a giant mural, they feel a sense of awe because it reminds them of their own smallness in proportion to the world. But what they’re looking at isn’t natural expanse; it’s human bigness. Maybe it’s not a reminder of our insignificance, but the opposite. We wonder if we also contain multitudes, or if we’ll always be microscopic compared to the neighboring giants.

I voiced this to Mike and he sees it differently. He thinks that when we look at human creations, we’re affected more by physical scale than by thoughts of psychological size/effort. He then showed me a game he’s been playing called Katamari Forever, in which the player starts out tiny and steadily grows bigger as they roll up their surroundings into a giant ball that eventually becomes a sacrifice to a god and is made into a star. When they’re smaller, they’re dominated by their surroundings and are easy prey. But then as they grow and start to absorb people, and then trees and buildings and eventually sea monsters and floating islands and planets, everything starts to look more abstract to the point where individuals don’t even register anymore. And then you’re reminded of your smallness again when you present the ball of everything to the deity, and he accepts or rejects it seemingly on a whim.

I’d like to believe that people, and living beings in general, interact on a more profound level than predator vs. prey, and that we can resist the urge to crush or absorb others once we reach enormity. And that it takes something other than intimidation to remind us of compassion. I like that game, but it seems to reduce consciousness to those binary terms, and I’m not sure I identify with that.

The Iconoclast Effect, or how Lisa Simpson teaches us to kill our heroes

            We've all become disillusioned with a personal hero at some point, whether it was someone we knew or someone idolized by many. When I hear a news story exposing a beloved figure for corruption, I'm often hesitant to share it. Not because the truth is secondary to the ideals a person may represent—it's not—but because it's painful to see their admirers' respect shattered. I've never wanted to be a killjoy. There are times when I wonder if it's really worth posting about the less positive aspects of Pope Francis, seeing as he (or at least his public image) brings hope to so many LGBT Catholics. Or if linking to articles about Mother Theresa's exploitation of the poor is too demoralizing to people who are currently living in poverty and hold her dear as an icon. Or if talking about the fact that John Lennon beat his wife is discouraging to people who find solace in his beautiful, although hypocritical, pleas for peace. I wonder if the end justifies the means, when those who admire these public heroes don't actually promote corruption or bigotry. They admire those figures because they believe them to stand for compassion. But if a person supports someone who commits harmful acts or holds toxic beliefs, then are they inadvertently promoting that same negativity? That may be the case, especially if victims of their behavior are still alive and continue to be affected. This doesn't mean it's wrong to enjoy a person's work, as the work itself may transcend its creator. But it does mean it's best not to see the creator as noble or to excuse their behavior because of what they've made.
          This always makes me think of a Simpsons episode from 1996 called "Lisa the Iconoclast." In the storyline, Lisa discovers that a historical town hero named Jebediah Springfield was actually a fraud. The whole town has revered him for a century, to the point of having a local holiday and parade in his name. Lisa tries to expose the truth about Jebediah with limited success. She writes an essay which is met with dismay from her teacher. She makes flyers to hang up on the Kwik-E-Mart windows, but Apu panics and forbids her to display them. At the end, she's standing in front of the parade and prepared to make a public statement. She's about to announce to the town that Jebediah was a murderous pirate operating under a false identity. But at the last minute, Lisa changes her statement and tells them he was great. Afterwards, the head of the Springfield historical society asks her why she did it. Lisa answers that it was more important to keep the townspeople happy than to expose Jebediah for who he was, because his legend inspires them and provides a sense of community.
           This ending bothered me a great deal as a child. I didn't see it as upholding a loftier goal, but as backing down on her principles. Springfield hero-worshipped a mass murderer and lived in ignorance. What could be more important than the truth?
           In hindsight, I see this episode as a lot more ethically complex. None of the people who had been robbed or otherwise wronged by Jebediah Springfield were still alive, and neither was anyone who would have been aware of his crimes. Placing the flyers on display in the Kwik-E-Mart would have likely jeopardized Apu's safety—not only because of the message, but because he was an Indian immigrant living in Springfield. Their region was insular and strongly focused on town pride. He was already seen as an outlier, so granting a platform for criticism of Springfield's beloved founder would have further reinforced that status. He would have gone from an outcast to a pariah. Lisa herself would have caused outrage, but most of it would have been directed at her parents. After all, her character is only eight years old. Everyone sees a young child's opinions as a direct reflection of their parents'.
            So, in Lisa's situation, I understand why she reached the conclusion she did and decided it was not a cause worth pursuing. The ending still leaves me unsatisfied, though. It feels like an injustice, both to Lisa's diligent efforts and to Jebediah's victims, to see her bury that fiery righteousness in order to appease the majority.
           In my imagination, there's an alternate world in which the Simpsons universe is real and the characters aren't suspended in time. Lisa grows up and publishes her research, which has not gone to waste. She doesn't have to announce it in front of an idealistic crowd, but it's there for those who want to find it. That's the ending I want to believe.
           And, in the end, that leads me to my conclusion about exposing flawed cultural icons. I think it's generally the ethical thing to do, but with caution and sensitivity and respect for the faith their admirers hold in their ideals. It may be difficult to find that balance, but it's worth striving for. It means knocking over a house of cards, but leaving the deck stacked for a more stable foundation.

Can you believe terrible things without being a terrible person?

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to definitively answer that, since illustrative examples are include too much gray area for any person of any ideology to feel fully comfortable with.

Hating already-marginalized groups is certainly more likely to lead somebody to do terrible things. As I’ve said before, beliefs don’t exist independently of consequences. They profoundly affect the way you treat everyone around you. People of all belief structures will often say their worldview has brought them peace, but inner peace counts for nothing if it doesn’t also entail bringing that peace to the outside. By “peace,” I don’t mean complacency or avoidance of conflict if those conflicts are needed to bring about positive change. I mean making an active effort to comfort people, to encourage them, to expose abuse and to do our best to end injustice. I mean motivating others toward goals that will instill social peace in the long run and right the wrongs in society.

If someone claims to have “inner peace” on account of their political or religious perspective but then only uses that perspective to make people feel hopeless or bring agitation for no reason, then their “peace” is not productive. I’m thinking of Christians who tell non-Christians they’re going to hell. I’m thinking of atheists who troll internet prayer groups and tell someone whose mother has cancer that there’s no use praying for her because heaven is a fairy tale and she’ll only end up as worm food. I’m thinking of conservatives who proudly embrace bigotry because they think it makes them brave and unique, free from the “politically correct” masses. I’m thinking of far-leftists who tell more mainstream liberals that all of their views and causes are worthless unless they become radicalized and embrace Leninism. I have met people who fit every single one of those descriptions.

I used to say you can tell you’ve become an extremist if you think it’s impossible to go too far within your own belief structure, and if you think anyone who disagrees with you is extreme. I still maintain that for the most part, although I don’t think it’s possible to go “too far” with the belief in equality, because equality by definition is fair. Most people will say they champion equality, but will differ in their ideas on how to achieve it—as well as in their perspective of who is actually being persecuted. We all believe we root for the underdog, but we’re largely defined by who we believe the underdog to be.

Even white supremacists think they are defenders of equality. They’re convinced that the way to achieve it is to restrict the rights and freedoms of non-white people, because they are genuinely certain that racial minorities are privileged and that whites are being oppressed by said minorities, as well as by self-hating white liberals. You see it in their propaganda all the time. “Anti-racist is really code for anti-white.” “Diversity=white genocide.” Of course their beliefs are not deserving of equal consideration or respect. They’re wrong, plain and simple. Wrong in a way that’s empirically and statistically provable, as well as morally bankrupt. They have a long-standing history of doing horrendous things in defense of their beliefs.

But I think it’s important for everyone to remind ourselves that even if we believe the right thing, we’re also capable of taking it in negative directions.

In recent years, I have been called an extreme ultraliberal. Maybe I am—although I have only been called that by people who are far-right conservatives, rather than those I would consider mainstream. Maybe the fact that I see them as radical means I am radical, or maybe they really are extreme. But I do know there are people who are further left than myself, and further left than I’d strive to be. For example, I’m not a socialist. I have socialist friends whom I highly respect, but it’s not a camp I fall into. I was raised intensely conservative. My father used to say that most Democrats are closet socialists, and that socialism will lead to communism in the same way that HIV often leads to AIDS. He said that communism is socialism perfected. I grew up fully believing that, but then I met plenty of liberals who don’t identify as socialists or communists. I met socialists who say that communism goes too far. Eventually I became liberal, and I recognize the difference. Liberalism is by no means a monolith.

To my dad’s credit, he never discouraged me from making friends with leftists. Some of his closest friends are liberal, and he once told me that sometimes it’s not worth it to argue with people you like. The lessons I’ve chosen to retain from my upbringing are scarce, but that’s one I still carry.

One of the problems with believing liberalism=socialism is the assumption that all socialists are socially progressive. The Nazis are solid proof that it’s not true. Many conservatives like to hold up Nazi Germany as a socialist boogeyman, but their beliefs and practices were heavily socially conservative. They restricted abortions and birth control for the Aryan women they encouraged to reproduce, while forcing eugenics on those they deemed “undesirable”—the non-white, non-Christian, mentally ill, LGBT, poor, and disabled populations, all of whom are still popular scapegoats for social conservatives today. They used fundamentalist Christianity and an entirely literal interpretation of the Bible to drum up hatred of Jews and other non-Christians, which is still a common tactic among the religious right. I am not going to make the same sweeping assumptions about All Conservatives that I used to make about All Liberals. There are conservatives who don’t espouse bigotry, but most of these types of bigotry do seem to be espoused by those of a conservative bend.

At the same time, it’s definitely possible for a left-leaning person to behave terribly and think it’s excusable because they hold progressive beliefs. I’ve known my share of liberal activists who treated others with complete inconsideration and rudeness on an individual level, but thought that was justifiable because they cared about humanity in an abstract sense and because they were fighting for the correct political causes. I had one former friend who stands out particularly in that sense. She thought she’d become a better person because she had honed her Marxist philosophy, but she was still just as narcissistic and manipulative as ever. She didn’t become a better person, just a better communist. Some might say that meant she wasn’t a “true” communist; that real communism would have resulted in the improvement of her character. But whether or not that’s true, it falls too close to the No True Scotsman territory.

Some beliefs may justify or excuse someone’s preexisting negative traits, but it’s hard for me to believe those views are entirely responsible for creating them. Unkind people tend to be drawn to unkind ideologies. A good person may be brainwashed into a terrible worldview, and they may say and do awful things as a result, but I have faith that their natural drive toward decency will save them in the end. And a cruel, vindictive person can adopt a benevolent belief system but refuse to practice it properly, using it to rationalize their abusive tendencies instead.

It’s hard to tell for certain where beliefs start and identities end. I just think they form circles which often overlap one another and sometimes even eclipse.

Every college philosophy class has That Guy (or girl)

In every college philosophy course, there seems to be at least one student who's completely engrossed in the topic and ends up hijacking every class discussion. This may be true for every subject to an extent, but it seems especially relevant to philosophy.

In a course I once took, there was a monologue-prone man who always did this and kept making jokes about Georg Hegel that nobody understood. In another, there were two students who would always play conversational tug-of-war. One was a hilarious stoner whose mind was constantly blown by the ideas introduced (he was basically a real-life version of the Keanu Reeves meme--and no, I don't mean he actually was Keanu Reeves). The other was a conservative Christian fundamentalist who was offended by most topics and heavily disapproved of Stoner Dude's enthusiasm. They'd go back and forth all the time.

And in the first philosophy course I ever took, it was me. I totally was That Person Who Never Shut Up. So, my apologies to anyone who was there.

Utopia is unattainable, but it's still worth the chase

About two weeks ago I posted this thought on Facebook: "I think that helping others (including people, animals, and the environment) is the highest goal, both for individuals and society as a whole. But sometimes I wonder what would happen to that goal if its ends were finally universally achieved? Would the helpers then feel a lack of purpose, or would they come to focus on protecting the new, better status quo? Would some people undo progress just for the sake of re-fixing it, like a firefighter who commits arson in order to put out the flames? By no means do I believe that the majority of humanitarians would respond this way, nor that this negates the importance of striving to better the world. Just wondering what would happen in a hypothetical scenario in which those aims were realized; if some who had structured their lives and sense of self around working toward positive change might then be at a loss for what to do. How do you think this would be resolved?"

This led to an interesting discussion with some friends. One of them said she believes that goal will never be reached, and that in a way, my post in itself shows why. Our societal problems can never be entirely resolved because we're in a constant state of flux and peoples' interests rival one another. I agree. I don't believe it's possible for society to reach a state in which all major setbacks have been fixed, so the thought is purely hypothetical.

I also believe that a perfect society is impossible because it's collectively composed of flawed individuals. This thought has been met with resistance when I've expressed it in the past. People thought that by saying a utopian society is unrealistic, I was claiming it's pointless to try to achieve it. That's not what I'm trying to say. It's still a worthy cause, since excellence is achieved when perfection is sought. Similarly, acknowledging the existence of barriers to success, such as structural and institutional oppression, does not equate to telling people to give up trying. To recognize those setbacks is not to tell disadvantaged people that their future is hopeless; it's to say there are injustices which need to be challenged and dismantled for the betterment of the world. It's a call to action; the opposite of advising them to give up. It's encouraging them to fight for themselves and for others.

Our Creations, Ourselves

What we create is often an extension of ourselves, so destroying a person's work could be seen almost as an act of violence against them. This raises some odd questions, like does it count as a form of symbolic cannibalism to eat a meal that somebody else cooked? (Not that this should ever stop someone from eating. It's just food for thought.) This isn't meant to say that property is on par with life, or that nothing that's been built should ever be dismantled. But where do we end and our creations begin? I think this is worth examining. Some people take the concept too far in viewing their children, the people they've formed, as a part of themselves to a point where they don't want their kids to have free will. Others define their own value completely by what they've made, which can lead them to feel worthless if they're unhappy with a project. There has to be a middle ground in which we value our creations but are able to separate ourselves from them to a certain degree and say, "This may be an extension of me, but it doesn't encompass me." And in turn, we apply the same standards to others.

Political approaches to non-political beliefs

People often approach both political and non-political philosophies in ways that are similar to government. Someone who practices and spreads their beliefs in a capitalistic way wants to compete with other worldviews and try to dominate them. However, they may accept peers with other viewpoints as long as those people have influence and can possibly do them favors.

Somebody who approaches their own opinions in a more socialistic sense wants their standpoint to be communal, but abides by others having their own views on an individual level. They just don't want the ideologies which are diametrically opposed to theirs to have overarching political/social influence.

A dictatorial approach to one’s beliefs is more or less self-explanatory.
              This isn’t about the actual belief in capitalism, socialism, or dictatorships. A supporter of socialism could express and relate to their views in a capitalistic way, or vice versa. And this doesn’t just pertain to political philosophies. It could be the way one chooses to look at and disseminate any of their perspectives. This is probably a major oversimplification of all of those ideas, and maybe I’m not informed enough about the structures of capitalism or socialism to make this an accurate metaphor. It was just a thought that occurred to me.

People I cannot be friends with

There are two specific kinds of people whom I have tried to befriend and engage in constructive dialogue with, but it never seems to work. And those are social Darwinists and religious fundamentalists. When a person is invested in either of those mindsets, I can never be close friends with them. This is why:

Social Darwinism is, essentially, a sociopathic philosophy. It teaches that we as human beings have no moral responsibility to help others in need, and that those who are deemed "weaker" (due to disability, mental health issues, addiction, poverty, or physical ailments) should just be left to die off if they can't help themselves. I suspect that most who identify as social Darwinists are selective with whom they apply it to. It's doubtful that most of them would refuse to help family members or friends, and if anyone close to them were struggling, I don't think they'd want to let them suffer or die. Nonetheless, they hold a selfish and unsympathetic attitude in regard to most people. A social Darwinist who makes no exceptions, however, is a true sociopath.

Religious fundamentalism can easily become sociopathic as well. If you honestly believe that anyone who doesn't intellectually assent to a specific set of theological statements (even if they subscribe to your religion; just not your particular strand of it) will be punished with eternal torment, you will react in one of three ways. The first way is to be crushed with anxiety on behalf of everyone you care about who does not share your beliefs. You'll pray and worry about them constantly, expending all your efforts on trying to convert them, which will likely drive them away. If you don't respond with fear, there's a second option: you’ll get angry. You will resent anyone who has a different religious perspective and choose to cut them out of your life because keeping that distance shields you from the pain of believing they're going to hell. Getting angry rationalizes what you see as their fate; you decide they deserve it, so you don't have to feel sorry or scared for them. The third option is avoidance. You'll just push it to the back of your mind and try to ignore the cognitive dissonance. Friendships between fundamentalists and non-fundamentalists rarely seem to work, because the closer you are, the more tense it becomes. If a fundamentalist can't convert you to their specific form of religious thought, they'll eventually cut you off—or you'll walk away because you're tired of being judged and preached at.

A religious fundamentalist believes you deserve unlimited suffering if you don't share their beliefs, and a social Darwinist believes you deserve unlimited suffering if you don't have the money or inner resources to dig yourself out.

I've tried to be friends with people of both of these philosophies, because I thought it would be hypocritical of me to expect others to accept my beliefs unless I also accepted theirs. But some beliefs truly kill compassion and connection, or justify a lack of compassion that the person already has. I won't say they're necessarily hopeless. I used to believe all kinds of destructive things, and if there was hope for me, there's hope for anyone. But that doesn't mean you're obligated to stick around and mutually try to change each other's minds.

Infusion

One from the archives. I wrote this in January of 2012.

*    *    *

             When you find yourself observing a new place, you absorb the essence of it. As this happens, you either perceive a presence or an absence. Spirit is presence; a perpetual emotional imprint.

            The words of a book are infused with spirit. Long-dead authors continue to speak. Their chorus arcs and curves along the space-time continuum, collectively dancing its verbal ballet. Living writers are also partly encompassed within their works, but not bottled up inside. A tome is not a tomb. Books preserve their authors, rather than contain them.

            Written exchanges also hold spirit. Messages are scrawled on bathroom walls; words traded between strangers. These conversations retain their vitality and awaken every time they are read.

            Everything that has ever been touched emanates spirit. We connect with others through a chain of shared objects, laying hands on one another vicariously.

            All songs have spirit. Born in the composer’s imagination, the brainchild is adopted by those who hear it. Each note sounds different to each ear. The musician’s intentions and the listener’s impressions all dwell in the tune. In this rich variance, it thrives. The notes stem from one seed, and then flourish into countless branches bearing fruits of inspiration.

            Spirit permeates nature. Trees harbor remembrance of everyone they encounter. Silent witnesses to centuries, they sustain the birds nesting on their boughs, squirrels burrowing into their crevices, and humans etching memories into their bark.

            Foggy days are rife with spirit. Mist juxtaposes against crisp cityscapes, suffusing our reality with haze. Even if we can’t see the mist, we feel it in rooms that balloon with presence, like lungs inhaling a breath.

            Ghost is the inverse of spirit. It is hollowness and hunger. A ghost is the silence between words; the empty space between objects.

            An abandoned house is a ghost. Parts of it contain spirit because it has been touched and experienced, but altogether it is a husk. It lacks any tokens of the former residents. They don’t linger in the edifice; it lingers in them. They gave it any sense of character it acquired, and this cannot be severed from themselves. When they depart, so goes the home.

            A ghost is a missed opportunity. It abides in a 24-hour diner with a buzzing neon sign, sipping coffee with a man who sits alone. He recalls the woman who once sat across from him; how they were enmeshed in conversation until 3 a.m. It was a biological destiny. Their DNA codes cracked the combination lock to a shared mental universe; an ecstatic neurochemical tango. Their steps were in perfect rhythm with the dance of written words.

            A ghost is left in your wake if you do not share your life with others. Instead of a mark, a void remains. This happens when you seal yourself up in a snow globe and refuse to be shaken. Your mind becomes a bubble expanding with self-contained knowledge. When you’re gone, all you’ve ever learned passes away with you.

            I’d like to think that if we share ourselves, we impart on the world after we die. This means that we won’t be anywhere, because we’ll be everywhere. I believe that when this takes place we are not present; we are presence. We disperse and transform into everything we have ever touched, written, read, sung, built, drawn, and loved.

           Instead of vanishing from the world, we become it.