When the underprivileged are not political

I often hear the opinion that saying “I’m not political”, or choosing to avoid conversations about politics, is an act of privilege. That only sheltered people have the option of non-involvement. I would agree that if you’re personally effected by an issue, you are far more likely to care about it. I also recognize that people who are poor, or non-white, or immigrants, or women, or not straight, are often judged as “being political” when they’re just relaying their everyday experiences, because their existence itself is deemed political. All of this is true. But there are also ways in which marginalization can prevent political focus. Here are some examples.

A person who is homeless and living on the street is more likely to be focused on the basics of everyday survival than on contemplating political topics. If you’re expending all your time and energy trying to find food and shelter, you’re not going to spend hours reading about politics on the internet. You (most likely) won’t attend marches. You don’t have money to donate to causes, and can’t boycott products because you need to take what you can get.

Back in the fall of 2011, I was involved with the Occupy movement in New Haven. I’m glad to have taken part, as I learned a lot and met some wonderful people. Many of them made efforts to give to the homeless people on the New Haven green, which was good. They gave them food and offered a media platform to those who wanted one. But not every homeless person was enthusiastic. Some of the Occupiers were sleeping in tents on the green, and a homeless woman informed me she didn’t like it because “me and my friends need this space.” There was a notable moment when a fellow Occupier tried to high-five a homeless man in solidarity. He shook his head, clearly not enjoying the gesture. I’m not going to assume that none of the homeless people cared about politics, but many were too focused on their immediate needs to invest themselves in philosophical theories and keep up on current events.

If a person is not homeless but still living in urgent poverty, they may be too busy to pay attention to politics, get involved in community organizations, or similar things. They could be working so many hours that they barely have time to sleep, let alone dedicate large blocks of time to an ideology.

Additionally, mental health can play into this. I know people who disengage from social justice issues and choose not to involve themselves in political conversations—not because they’re apathetic, but because it will throw them into a psychological crisis. Extensive involvement in these things can be very detrimental to some peoples’ mental health, particularly if they struggle with depression, anxiety, PTSD, or agoraphobia. There are people with these conditions who choose to be involved, and that’s perfectly fine. But I respect the choice to disengage for their own well-being. Sometimes the ones who are most impacted by these topics are the ones who most need to pick and choose their battles, or else they strain themselves to the breaking point.

Some who are impacted by these social issues don’t have access to education that will teach them about it. Some are politically invested, but not liberal. I know people of marginalized identities who have right-wing values. Some don’t have the time, and others care so much that it drains them and they need to maintain distance for the sake of their health.

Many privileged people are involved in politics—and that can be a problem when they’re out of touch with others. It’s true that privilege can also play into non-involvement or apathy, but it can be more complicated than that.

Why "The Christmas Shoes" don't fit

Many of you likely remember that back in Ye Olde MySpace circa 2005, there was a bulletin feature. The bulletins were very much like Facebook statuses, but with one difference: you had to click on a hyperlink, in the form of a title, to read them. This sometimes tricked you into reading annoying chain mail. It was clickbait of the mid 2000s.

One of the varieties of chain mail was a saccharine, poorly written story meant to elicit strong feelings. There were multiple ones, but they usually followed this formula. I’m inventing this one, but they all sounded like:

Once a boy n his girlfriend were sitting @ a park. The gurl asked, “Do u like me???”

The boy said no.
The girl asked, “Do you want me?”
The boy said no.
The girl asked, “Do u want to be with me now??”
The boy said no.

The gurl ran off crying and on her way home she was hit by a car an died!!! Later, her bf stood @ her grave with tears in his eyes and said, “I said I didn’t like u because I meant that I LOVE you. I said I didn’t want u becuz I meant that I NEED you. And I said I don’t want 2 b with you now, because I want to b with u FOREVER. But now it’s too late.”

Friends, never be afraid to tell people how you feel!!! Repost if u cried.”

This was generally followed by a string of hearts and sad face emoticons.

In its defense, this was probably written by a twelve-year-old. And it was probably most often reposted by twelve-year-olds. But, to me, the song “Christmas Shoes” meets the same level of emotional depth. This becomes especially apparent as it’s played nonstop on the radio and in shopping centers throughout the holiday season. If you like it, I don’t look down on you for it. This is not a diatribe against you. But please allow me to explain my aversion.

Some of you may be thinking, “It’s about the true meaning of Christmas, which is giving to people! It’s about an impoverished boy with a terminally ill mother. How could that not move you?”

And that’s the problem. The implication, if not the direct response, from so many of the fans I’ve known is that you are fundamentally heartless if you’re unmoved by the narrative. That if you dislike the song, you must hate Christmas! And poor people! And children with terminally ill mothers! And Jesus! And shoes!

The reactions of the audience may not be the fault of the songwriters, but I believe the creators use aggressive tactics to shake out a response. This is how.

Manipulation within fiction is not inherently bad. When you choose to engage with fiction—whether through novels, illustrations, or songs that tell stories—you are, on a certain level, consenting to be emotionally manipulated. This does not mean deceived and lied to. This doesn’t mean being harmed. Rather, it means being purposefully made to feel things. But in that process, you want a nudge and not a shove.

The most skilled storytellers are ones who don’t let you know you’re being manipulated. You want to feel like you’re listening to a song, not being played as the instrument. The best puppeteers don’t let you see the strings. You want to feel, but to believe you have arrived at those reactions yourself. It feels patronizing to be made into a marionette, thrust clumsily around the stage by your own heartstrings.

What the songwriters and singers have done with “Christmas Shoes” is hit you over the head with a sentimental mallet. They start off the song with that little twinkly instrument that sounds like someone waving a fairy wand, to insinuate something magical will happen. They describe the boy as looking as visibly forlorn as possible, and then comes the gut punch: His mother’s dying and he just wants to buy her a pair of pretty shoes so she can look beautiful if she “meets Jesus tonight.” And he can’t afford the shoes, so the charitable narrator buys them for him at the end. It culminates with a sad sounding child singing the chorus, in case a Southern-accented vocalist evoking images of ‘Murica’s heartland isn’t enough. This is along the same vein as Hallmark cards and Nicholas Sparks novels. My husband described it as “a musical Thomas Kinkade painting.”

Aside from the maudlin quality, and the blunt force coercion, it looks on the surface like a critique of consumer culture. Everyone is going out and spending money, but this boy teaches the narrator the true meaning of Christmas by being so generous that it changes his outlook on life. This little child has nothing, but he’s breaking the bank to buy nice shoes for his mother so she can feel beautiful before she dies. At face value it looks like it flies in the face of materialism. But upon closer examination, it actually promotes it. This is why.

First, it pushes the idea that in order to be considered adequately poor to receive help, you must look as shabby as possible. The boy has torn clothes and his body is filthy. He is visibly helpless. This reeks of a “trauma porn” narrative, where writers exploit others’ pain in order to peddle inspiration.

The child does not want his mother to look as deprived as himself. He doesn’t want her to be denied lovely material things just because she’s poor. This is fair and it makes sense. But the plot line of this song plays into the very same moral it purports to defy: the idea of buying gifts you cannot afford to prove your love to others. That’s why this boy is so noble and selfless, because that’s what he’s trying to do. Also, since he’s a child, you wonder where he got the cash. He’s probably trying to buy his parent a present with her own limited money—not that he would likely have other options. That’s why the kindly adult who meets him in line decides to intervene and cover the cost himself.

The second factor that rings an alarm is not simply that she wants to feel beautiful, but that she wants to look pretty for Jesus in case she imminently dies. The song was originally written and performed by a Christian band, but it contradicts Christian values to imply that you need to be aesthetically pleasing to Jesus. That he is impressed with appearances and may turn you away if you don’t look fancy. This idea can be used to coerce people into buying things they can’t afford. If you want an example of how this manifests in real life, look at all the money people feel pressured to spend on expensive church clothes. I don't see this entirely as the fault of one song; the song is a symptom.

I understand this can all be seen as overanalyzing, and that sometimes a pair of shoes is just a pair of shoes. But songwriters, musicians, and producers place a great deal of thought and analysis into what they create. Nothing included in the final product is an accident.

I’m not immune to enjoying cheesy music. My playlists include an Avril Lavigne song and a massive Goo Goo Dolls catalog. But I do maintain that there’s a difference between emotional manipulation and emotional pressure, and “Christmas Shoes” stamps audiences under its soles with the latter.

Intersections

Anti-poor and anti-gay attitudes often echo one another's talking points.

People who are classist and those who are homophobic (and many are both) believe they are choices; that they're the fault of those who are oppressed for living with the labels. Bigoted individuals insist that a person's financial circumstances, sexual orientation, and gender identity can be easily changed at will. They believe people choose those identities or those stations in life out of laziness, fear, or a desire for "special rights" and validation. They honestly think that being LGBT or being poor are privileged statuses that shield people from any kind of accountability. This perspective insists that those who fall under both umbrellas are pampered, attention-seeking brats who refuse to live as adults.

Gay, bisexual, trans, and non-gender conforming identities would exist regardless of society's attitudes about them*, and there would be no danger to living as a LGBT person if those negative attitudes didn't exist. Poverty, however, is a social construct--and by that, I don't mean it's any less real, but that it only exists because people cause it to. Layers of oppression cause and perpetuate poverty. But people are judged as responsible not only for their financial struggles and for their gender and sexual orientations, but for others' reactions to it as well.

              There are, of course, straight people living in poverty who espouse anti-LGBT beliefs, and financially well-off LGBT individuals who look down on the poor (although it's worth noting that the common perception of gay people as affluent is largely a myth). But both groups are discriminated against on the same basis, even if members of those groups sometimes discriminate against one another.

Anyone who knows what it's like to be poor is painfully aware that nobody would willingly choose it. Where's the "luxury" in putting off going to see a doctor as your health takes a nosedive, and then ending up spending more on emergency care? Where's the luxury in having to decide whether grabbing so much as a Snapple or a cup of coffee is worth the indulgence, even if it's your only frivolity of the week, and then having to answer to a frustrated spouse if you do choose to spend that money? And then seeing the guilt and inner conflict on your partner's face because they want you to be able to enjoy such basic pleasures? Where's the luxury in having to constantly arrange your social outings around watered-down (or almost liquidated) finances and turning down invites when you would love nothing more than to go? Or living in terror of pregnancy, not because you don't love children or wouldn't want them, but because even providing for yourself is such a strain?

The same is true for being non-heterosexual or not fitting into a proscribed gender mold. Nobody would choose an orientation that's too controversial to be represented in most media because you are not "family friendly." No one would choose an identity that isolates you from family, friends, and ideologies which are deeply committed to not understanding. Nobody would opt to be seen as an objectified prop, either to bolster someone else's progressive credentials or to serve as an experiment for somebody who says they're just curious. It's so hurtful to be referred to as "practice." Practice for what? For a relationship with someone of another gender, because that's the only legitimate kind? For someone who says you're fun to hook up with and they love you as a person, but you're no more than a friend? Meanwhile, you want to draw their every mesmerizing feature and hand them bouquets of blooming words and show them all your favorite books and songs and know all of theirs in return. To bring them to all your treasured spaces, both tangible and mental, and bask in a shared world you can add to together. No person would ever choose an identity that's spat at and called immoral, even though nothing can be more moral than love.

If any of those examples sound autobiographical, it's because they are. They're all problems I have faced at different points in time, but those stories are not only mine. They belong to anyone who doesn't fit into the middle class and strictly heterosexual mold. People who think these are choices do not believe we face those kinds of struggles. They convince themselves that we live in taxpayer-funded bubbles of decadence, but they are the ones who live in insulated bubbles and are terrified of having their illusions popped.

*Gender norms are a social construct, but gender itself is not. Also, it's important to remember that sexual orientation and gender identity are separate things.

Remember Her Name

           I was heading down to the bus stop on Chapel Street to wait for my ride to work. It was unusually balmy for an October morning, and the city dwellers seemed restless. On the way over a lone cockroach had caused a hilarious uproar on the bus, to the scorn of a pair of New Yorkers. From the time I stepped onto the bus until leaving the Green, I had been called Strawberry Shortcake and Carrot Top. I’d been approached by separate strangers suggesting I take their business cards, get tattoo sleeves, become a Jehovah’s Witness, and smoke weed with one of them in the bathroom (apparently in that order). They had a lot of strong opinions about what I should do with my day. It could get a little overwhelming, but I loved the energy of downtown New Haven. I always came home bursting with stories.

            Passing Foot Locker, I noticed there were a number of people lounging on the benches at the bus stop. There was one open space next to a woman, so I sat beside her. A bald, middle-aged man spoke up.

            “Miss, you got a husband?”

            They used to ask if I had a boyfriend. Maybe I was getting old.

            “Yeah. Sorry, man.”

            “Oh.” He paused. “You got fifty cents?”

            The woman seated next to me laughed. “Gary, are you trying to pick up white girls again?” She turned my way. “Is he bothering you?”

            I shook my head and smiled at her.

            The woman was dressed in baggy black clothes. Her skin was dark and she had long dreads pulled back in a bandana. Her face was very kind, and strikingly ageless. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. There was a beer bottle in her lap, wrapped in a crinkled brown bag. She sipped from it periodically.

            “What’s your name?” she asked, holding out her hand.

            “Emily.” I shook it.

            “I’m Stacey. You going somewhere?”

            “Yeah, taking the bus to work. It won’t be here for a while.”

            “Where do you work?” she asked.

            “New Haven Register.”

            I was about to ask her the same question but caught myself.

            Stacey craned her neck to peer at someone behind me.

            “Quick, let’s switch seats,” she said.

            I complied, letting her sit closest to the sidewalk.

            “There were some men I know over there and I didn’t want them to see you,” she explained in a hushed voice. “They bother girls over here. Not me, though. They leave me alone.”

            “Thank you.”

            She winked and took another swig of her 40. “Us ladies, we gotta look out for each other.”

            We chatted for a few minutes before she said, “Are they paying you enough at your job? You make sure they are. Go to the higher-ups if they’re not.”

            “I’m doing all right,” I said.

            “Well, that’s good. Me, I’m not working right now.”

            I fumbled for a reassuring reply. “Yeah, the economy’s been doing a number on everyone…”

            “It’s not the economy. It’s me. I have a real problem,” she said, gesturing toward her beer. “I made some bad choices.”

            “We all have,” I told her.

            “They don’t land everyone here, though. Hey, you don’t have a dollar, do you?”

            The way she asked, it didn’t sound like the discussion had been leading up to that request. It seemed like a peripheral thought.

            “I’m sorry. I only have enough for bus fare,” I said. It was true.

            “It’s okay, hon. You keep your bus money.”

            I rummaged around in my bag and pulled out a cake pop from Starbucks. “You can have this if you want.”

            Stacey’s eyes lit up as she took the pastry. “Is that chocolate? I haven’t had chocolate forever! I have to make this last. Before I eat it, I’ll watch it melt a little in the sun. It’ll look real pretty.”

            A pang of sadness struck me, but I thought maybe I shouldn’t be sad. She was appreciating something I wouldn’t have even noticed.

            A mother and daughter stood in front of us on the sidewalk. The girl must have been about four. She bounded around her mother in circles, chattering excitedly.

            Stacey hadn’t touched her 40 in a while. She looked thoughtfully at the cake pop.

            “I think I’m gonna give this to her,” she said. “I have a daughter, too. I’d give her the candy if she was here. But my daughter…she had to get taken away.” Her voice caught in the air and she was quiet for a moment. “Have to do it when the mama’s not looking, though. Don’t want her to think I’m trying to poison her kid.”

            There was a lump in my throat that hadn’t been there before.

            “That’s really considerate,” I said.

            Before it could fully sink in, a wiry old man ambled up to our bench, struggling to hold his pants up. He was laughing and babbling exuberantly, much like the four-year-old child. His two front teeth were missing.

            “Harvey, get your skinny ass over here!” Stacey reached over to re-buckle his belt, tutting in disapproval. “I gave you this belt. At least wear it right, not like some fool kid with his pants around his ankles! How’s anyone gonna want to help you, looking like that? How’s anyone gonna give you a job?”

            She tucked in his shirt and he lowered himself onto the bench opposite from ours, swaying slightly.

            “You’re like a mom to them,” I said.

            “Well, somebody has to be.”

            As she chided and joked with her friends, I was ashamed to realize that I’d never thought homeless people would have such comradery. Wouldn’t they be fighting for the same resources? But here they were, laughing and teasing one another and fixing each other’s clothes. How could I have been such an ignorant snob? How could I have ever assumed that people wouldn’t need each other, especially if they had nothing else?

            Stacey glanced back at the girl and her mother.

            “Not everyone here looks after their kids,” she sighed. “Some of these kids—twelve, thirteen years old—they run around the Green at night. Run wild. Sometimes they kick us in our sleep. And we can’t tell nobody, cause then they’ll come after us even worse.”

            A chill spread over me. “That’s horrible! Is there anything I can do?”

            Stacey shook her head sadly. “I’m not worried about me. It’s just awful no one raised them right. You’d never do that. I wouldn’t, either. I was raised to treat everyone with dignity, no matter who they are.”

            I was ready to burst with the insistence that something had to be done, that there was no way a just or even marginally decent society could sleep at night knowing that homeless people couldn’t. But Stacey continued.

            “Let me tell you something,” she said, gazing at me intently. “This is important. Not everybody has parents, so cherish yours. Treasure and honor them. I wish I still had mine. I lost my mama a long time ago, and it fucked me up in a lot of ways.” She cast her eyes down and took a deep swig.

            It seemed that as brutal irony had decided, Stacey started drinking when she lost her mother and then lost her own daughter because of it. They might have been trapped in bottles generationally; living in glass houses, floating out with desperate messages inside. I thought of baby bottles evolving into the other kind. She could no longer be a mom to her daughter, but she could be one to everyone else.

“If you want to help me, there is one thing you can do,” Stacey went on.

            I waited.

            “You work for the newspaper, so look for my friend Carton’s obituary. He was a good man. He…had an accident. You don’t have to bring me the obituary. Just find it. People don’t remember our names, Emily. I just want his name in the paper. And even if I never see you again, remember my name, too.”

            My bus was approaching but I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t look away and didn’t want to.

            As the bus shuddered to a halt in front of us, Stacey fell against me. She dropped her head on my shoulder and clutched my arm with icicle fingers. I couldn’t breathe.

            I tried to jerk away, but she only wanted a hug. I held her.

            Her eyes glazed over for a moment. She drew my face close, speaking in the most intense whisper I’d ever heard.

            “God told me to tell you something,” she said. “He said you’re special. If you help somebody else, God is gonna help you.”

            We broke apart in time for me to catch my bus. She waved goodbye. I waved back and told her I’d look for Carton’s obituary.

            I never did find it, but I remember. I haven’t seen Stacey since.

            For the rest of the day I felt heavier, but not in a burdened way. More like I’d been entrusted to carry something invaluable and find somewhere safe to keep it. So I’m putting it here on this page, and trusting you with it, too. We can all look after it together.

            I don’t think Stacey’s message came from a god. It breached to the surface from somewhere inside her, outside of the bottle and straight from her core. She thought I was special just for listening and caring, but I’m not special. I’m a hypocrite.

            I still don’t give her friends money, but I try to carry food around to have something to offer. I promised to make sure she won’t be forgotten, but put off writing this for a year because of my own discomfort. I lost sleep thinking about her, but she doesn’t even have a bed.

            I’ll never forget Stacey’s story, and I hope you remember it, too. Remember that there are friends who become family and take care of each other when no one else will. Remember the children who roam the Green at night, kicking homeless people while they sleep because their parents never taught them not to. Remember there are people who give each other everything they have, and everything they don’t, no matter what it costs them. And remember there’s an ageless woman in New Haven who sees beauty in chocolate melting in the sun.

            Her name is Stacey. Remember her name.

Struggle and sacrifice

People with addiction problems are assumed to be lazy or completely self-serving, but often those stereotypes are untrue. Addiction is not laziness. If anything, you have to exhaust huge amounts of time and effort in accessing whatever you're addicted to. You have to think, plan, and act constantly in service to it. This is not about selfishness or decadence. Addicts sacrifice a great deal of personal comfort in order to maintain their habits. If anything, it's a compulsive need to serve the substance or activity—not to serve the self. The self gets lost in the process.

Same is true for homelessness, and it's no coincidence that so many homeless people are immediately assumed to be both lazy and addicted. Those associations are frequently lumped together, and people jump to conclusions. To survive on the streets is not lazy. Those who do it are not sitting around and relaxing all day. They're constantly vigilant, looking over their shoulders to make sure nobody attacks them or robs them of what little they have. There's also a lot of planning that goes into basic, day-to-day survival and making sure their immediate physical needs are met. This is why so many can't plan for the extended future, but they still get criticized for it.

Once Upon a Recession

A poem I wrote in December of '11.

  

*   *   *

Once Upon a Recession

There was an old lady who lived in a shoe

Slung over a telephone wire

With all her expenses and bills overdue,

She could not afford to retire.

Her dear friend Peter Pumpkineater

Had a wife and couldn't feed her.

Residing in a pumpkin shell,

They knew their home would never sell.

Old Mother Hubbard lived down the street

Disabled, she dwelled all alone

Her kitchen cupboard held nothing to eat

And no one would throw her a bone.

In this mass Plutocracy

They had such meager means

Because the aristocracy

Spent gold on magic beans.

The king did teeter dangerously

Atop a great stone wall

He'd built a castle in the sky

So it was doomed to fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Could not put the economy together again

But Peter, Peter Pumpkineater

The lady in the shoe

And Old Mother Hubbard

Knew exactly what to do.

Apart, they each were small enough

To live in boots or shells

But then they all united

And stormed the citadels.

They occupied the castles

They occupied the gates

The guards all tried to stop them

But it was far too late.

Millions had joined them

Reaching fever pitch

Demanding fairer wages

And taxes for the rich.

It was no easy trial

They had to persevere

The process took a while

They did not yield to fear.

After strife and labor

They won their due reward

Each man and his neighbor

Had lives they could afford.

Peter and his lovely wife

Moved from their pumpkin shell

To an urban condo

Where they fared quite well.

The little old lady who lived in a shoe

Finally retired.

And Old Mother Hubbard filled up her cupboard

With all the food she desired.

So if you think you're much too small

To have your rights upheld

Remember those who changed the world

Stood up
And rebelled.