Donations can be sent to:
Morrigan Phillips
PO Box 301128
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

Very sorry about the mistake.

It would seem that the Social Work Licensing board of Massachusetts and my employers have caught on to the fact that I have not yet taken my licensing exam. I do not agree with the assertion that social workers must be licensed. My reasons are many but boil down to the idea that when licensed by the state, the state has something over you. Drive badly enough, they take your license.  As a social worker dedicated to social change and anti-oppression work I don’t want the state holding anything over me. Furthermore licensing a social worker doesn’t make him or her good. The field of social work is so varied and diverse that there can be little oversight to ensure that all licensed social workers are actually doing no harm. And really, if you look at it plainly, if you are acting in the best interests of the state and without challenge to the social service institutions that perpetuate marginalization of whole segments of our communities then you are doing harm. Plus I didn’t spend $50,000 getting a MSW to not be able to call myself a social worker because I haven’t taken some test.

Another reason I have not taken the exam is that it costs $263.00 that I don’t have.

But it has come to this – my job description requires that I have a license because in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to call ones self a social worker one must be licensed. This is bullshit of course (see my earlier point about the cost of my education).

In such economic times as these and given that I value my work and the job I get to do I can not entertain the idea of quitting in protest or getting fired for not taking the exam.

Really the two barriers between me and licensure are my own stubbornness and finances.

I will overcome my stubborn nature but will need help in overcoming my financial limitations. I must then prevail upon the good people of my beloved community. In the next 2-3 weeks I will need to raise this $263.00 to pay for the exam.

So I humbly ask for your assistance, in whatever amount you can manage. You can mail contributions to:

Morrigan Phillips
PO Box 301128
Jamaica Plain, MA
02130

Or you can shove it in my back pocket sometime when I’m not looking.

In exchange for this support I will name a cookie after you, send you a letter from space and be the best damn social worker working for social change that I can be all in your name.

Love abounds!
m.bot

Its no secret that I am afraid to fly. Not afraid exactly, more like immobilized by terror at the the mere thought of flying. Planes flying over my house are capable of tapping into this deep seated fear, sending my stomach in to tumbles of anxiety. My ‘BFF’ Mahsa can attest to this. She is perhaps the only one among my friends and family who has seen me fly. I cried the whole flight. She sat next to me speaking encouraging words in between trying to get me to weigh in on the Simple Living holiday gift guide. All this while she held my hand like a true hetero-life buddy would when their ‘BFF’ is in throws of irrational terror. She had done this once before. We were on a 740 mile canoe trip through the wilds of the great northern forests when we encountered Lake Champlain. Crossing Lake Champlain was a bit like being on the open ocean. Half way across my nerves failed me. I began to make irrational threats about me jumping out of the canoe and just swimming to shore. Somehow that felt safer. Mahsa (not able to hold my hand owing to the fact that she was in the front of the canoe holding a paddle) kept up a a non-stop stream of encouraging word: “I see the houses on the other side” “I can see the windows now” “I can see the curtains in the windows” “I can see the make of the cars in the driveways on the other side” Most of these were lies. She later admitted that she was terrified and couldn’t see anything on the other side except the outline of the shore. But it means a lot that she would lie such as that to me despite her own fear.

My fear of flying prevents me from traveling, but I don’t mind for the most part. I like staying home and the “stay-cation” is my preferred way to spend time off. When I do travel I take the train. I do love the train. I once took the train across the country to see my family for Christmas. Nearly four days on the Amtrak crossing the northern states from Boston to Spokane, WA. It was glorious. Well Garry Indiana wasn’t glorious but it was beautiful in that sad post industrial sort of way. It reminded me of the movie What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. A story like that could easily happen in Gary. But the people would be rounder and instead of a water tower it would be a smoke stack.

I had a sleeper car on the trip. I barely left it. I made it like a nest full of snacks, books and DVD’s. I watched all the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings and more then a few Pixar classics. I also sat and starred out the window for hours. While traveling through Montana I saw wolves, actual wolves. They were running across what I am sure was ranch land. Possibly looking for cattle to gnaw on. And so rages the endless battle between ranchers and wolves. As someone who doesn’t really go in for believing in god I do believe that if there is a god then Montana is gods country. Land expansive enough to make any human feel small, a sky so large it makes you feel that same frustration you feel when a NASA wonk says the universe is expanding into itself. Outside of Butte there is nothing in Montana that is not beautiful. Sorry Butte, but you know I’m right. When you town is a super fund site you can’t in, in good conscious, say you are beautiful. Unless that is you are going in for that tragic kind of beauty found in art films. If I had to meet my maker I’d want it to be in a place that looked like Montana and should I not pass muster to be let into the eternal afterlife of fluffy clouds I would want hell to be having to out run wolves on an open plain. Yes, send me back to earth as a cow or sheep on the open ranches of Montana. I would be fine with that.

The limits that my fear of flying places on my travel is regrettable only if I were to buy into the idea that plane travel is nice and and wonderfully acceptable way to get from one place to another. I don’t and am perfectly happy on the train. In fact I find the train delightful (even with the brat behind me incapable of not talking on her cell phone). Take for example the ride I am to on now. I arrived at the station and had no one search my bags. My shoes remained on my feet the whole time. I didn’t have to dig around in my over stuffed back pack for my wallet to show anyone my ID. I have lots of leg room and have had my tray table down the whole ride and don’t plan on putting it up anytime soon. I have had my electronic devices on since before I boarded the train. For dinner I had sushi and for a snack I had a mix of olives, cheese and crackers and Persian cucumbers. I even have a persimmon in my bag I plan to eat later. I have internet, power plugs and in the bathroom there is a little hook on which I could hang my purse. Everything about the train feels dignified. What is more I get to see all the worst parts of every town I pass through. Because with exception of New York Amtrak station tend to be literally on the wrong side of the tracks.

A flight from Boston to DC takes roughly an hour. A train ride nearly seven hours. So far on this trip I have read one entire book. I appreciate the time the train allows me to do things as selfish and sit and read for hours upon hours. In my daily life my reading time is limited to my 20 minute subway ride to and from work each day and the 10 minutes I read before I pass out in my bed, exhausted and sleep deprived. It takes me months to read a book. Heck, it would take me two weeks to read one issue of Readers Digest. But one train ride to DC and I’ve already finished a book.

The odd assortment of people that ride the train is charming too. In the Northeast its not nearly as entertaining as a cross country trip. Out in the wilds of the Dakotas you get people for whom an airport is too far away and anyway, there isn’t an airport near where they are going so the train is what keeps them connected to family. There is a vastness out there populated by little clusters of people how are connected by empty highways and trains. There’s are lives that almost operate outside of all I am connected to. That makes me a little sad.

I suppose in truth, this post is dedicated not to Ms. Talk-til-tomorrow, who is still carrying on a inane conversation that has no importance other then demonstrating that she, like so many today, is incapable of shutting up and being quiet. Rather I dedicate this to trains and all the lovely people who make them run.

At the time of inception, the US constitution only guaranteed things to landed white men. Much of the original wording of US constitution remains to this day in all its white supremacist glory. Of course the bill of rights is not document to dismiss. I would actually say I put more stock in the bill of rights then the constitution. After all the bill of rights represent s the work of many in struggle to write wrongs written into the constitution.

Seeing words of the constitution so prominently displayed at Occupy Boston, as the back drop to the General Assemblies, concerts, speakers and other events, was unsettling. The manner of this banners display suggests that those words are an umbrella under which we all gather.

When I first began to come into my own as an activist and organizer it was a part of the anti-globalization movement. I remember convergence centers plastered with posters that read “Ya Basta!” “Break the Bank!” “Economic Justice Now”. The imagery was colorful and incorporated the global aspect of the global economic justice movement. This included posters from South Africa, Thailand and India. Social movements of Latin America featured prominently in the protest imagery as well, particularly the Zapatistas. The issues represented to, were wide and varied but all came back to the idea of economic and social justice.

Standing at Occupy Boston, seeing the words of the constitution splashed on the largest back drop at the site could not have filled me with a more opposite feeling then seeing the signs up at the convergence centers I remember. Rather then hope and excitement and interconnectedness I distinctly felt my differences from many of the people at Occupy Boston. I felt frustrated.

Dedicated Occupyers tout the horizontalism that flows through the encampments and directs the process. I remember when horizontalism was all the buzz years ago when Argentina was boiling with discontent and defaulting on its IMF debt. Factory workers took over their work places, building horizontal structures. At Occupy Boston, the excitement and context that introduced me to horizontalism are absent in this moment it seems. In fact all too often Occupiers talk to me about not only horizontalism but also occupation as if they have invented both.

I have worked to tread carefully when it comes to my commentary and critique of Occupy Boston and other Occupations. As when I was first engaged in intense and large scale mobilization organizing there is a risk of older organizers commentary and influence falling into snarky pessimism. I want to support the joy and triumph many are feeling in their success at launching a movement and to find a place for my experiences and critiques to fit in.

I have held back from being harsh or judgmental. I am insightful enough to know that often those kinds of reactions are born more out of trying to deflect other emotions. In this case I think I would be deflecting disappointment. Disappointment and sadness.

It has been some number of years since I was fully immersed in organizing. Partly because of less opportunity as the anti-globalization movement declined in activity and partly because of having a father with ailing health I wanted to spend more time with and of course partly because of burnout (a topic, which itself could take up volumes).

Time away from the intensity of organizing I was a part of has been welcomed, but perhaps until now I didn’t know how much I missed it. In particular the community of people I was a part of and very much the movements I was tied to. Watching the Occupy movement unfold has filled me with nostalgia, no question. I have missed, more then I knew, the excitement of feeling like I was part of a collective of people on the cusp of great change. In the anti-globalization movement a lot of people and groups around the world did some awesome shit. We won a lot of battles, set president, created new methods and tactics and practice methods and tactics of the past. We fought with each other, made life-long friendships and employed creativity in most of what we did.

I remember walking into the anti-globlization scene and being presented with a movement that valued training, skill building, learning and knowing history. Not perfectly and not universally but generally.

While I am filled with nostalgia for those times , I am frustrated at how little of what was then, remains to be a part of today’s Occupy movement. There are a whole lot of people out there who have no knowledge of what went down during the anti-globalization movement. Whether because they were young or because they ignored what was going on, I wasn’t part of any effort to ensure that the movement made a lasting impression on people who weren’t a part of it. Don’t be fooled though. Anti-globalization organizing has left its mark. We stopped World Bank projects, we change the WTO and let’s face, we helped change the public discourse on globalization.

Other difference between what I see at Occupy Boston and what I experienced in the anti-globalization movement have to do with the state, police and security culture. We always assumed cops were in our meetings and watching what we were doing, but that didn’t meant we were foolish. I have trouble accepting the lack of concern people seem to have around Occupy Boston with regard to undercover cops. But also troubling is that lack of analysis about the police and the role they play in protecting wealth and access to resources. Law enforcement, the police are institutions that protect and serve those in power and their interests. The play a role in a system that criminalizes poverty, addiction and mental illness, validating societal structures that pit people against one another and push everyone to consume. If you are consuming properly then you’re not poor after all.

Perhaps this acceptance of the police in a way I’m not comfortable with hints at another thing that has troubled me about Occupy Boston. There is no lack of analysis of greed, corporations and capitalism. But there is a distinct lack of an analysis of poverty.

There are a lot of people in the 99% and it is far from homogenous.  Many have written about the inadequacy of the 99% meme, so I won’t too much. I will say that what strikes me about the “We are the 99%” message is a sense of arrogance among those who would just lump all but the wealthiest into one group. Speaks to a lack of self-reflection on class and privilege.

Poverty in the US is epidemic. The New York Times ran a series of articles on the latest poverty numbers that show that more people are in poverty today then in the past 30 years. But what is poverty? Where does it come from and what help is there for the impoverished…the poor. Banks and the financial system are just part of the problem. More is a societal wide abandonment of the poor. Decades of cuts to funding for programs to aid the poor have gone relatively unchallenged as have increased ways the poor can be turned into criminals. You can not endeavor to fight capitalism without understanding poverty. You can not endeavor to demand social change without consideration for the poor. And let me tell you, the poor that, as a social worker I work with, are not part of Occupy Boston’s 99%.

An exploration of poverty brings with it the necessity to explore gender, race and class as well as the history of social and political oppression over whole populations of society. Poverty is an insidious condition perpetrated by corporate capitalism and many in the 99% benefit from that same system.

You can not also ignore war and military spending, which the Occupiers seem very willing to do, while also condemning the current financial state of things in the US. Where is the money to pay for social services? It is at war. Uncomfortable as it may be, challenging the financial system to benefit more people, also means challenging military spending.

Lastly I have to says something about the word occupy. I tweeted this a few days ago

“The deeper we go into bringing analysis & anti-oppression into the #occupy movt. the more problematic the word occupy becomes #occupyboston”

It garnered a good number of responses, one in particular that I’ll share:

“@mbotastic please be careful.The name is and should remain a teaching pt but we shouldnt get hung up on it. Implications of changing it=huge”

I won’t go into the irritating use of “please be careful”. My response to that was “fucking, patriarchal control bullshit.” But the part saying “should remain a teach pt but we shouldnt get hung up on it…” well that’s another story. Of course, let us not get held up on colonialism. Or let us not get held up on the fact that in parts of the world occupations are deadly weapons.

What conjured my original tweet was a conversation I was a part of at a meeting where people were talking about how neighborhood and community groups could be more a part of the Occupy moment. The conversation led towards discussing targets in the community where the word ‘occupy’ could by used to describe acts of gentrification and displacement. Both presently and historically.

Another note on occupation. Here in Boston, the occupy is in action and encampment. There have been exciting conversations among some community groups about utilizing occupations as a more mobile and diverse tactic around the city to actually occupy and hold space at specific targets, like the welfare office, developers offices or even the State House. Places where the presence of people would be a disruption to the very activity or system in question. That’s what occupations do best.

Presently the nostalgia has me itching to get back to organizing and taking part in direct actions and mobilization organizing. I have been described as a facilitation nerd in the past and I have to admit it’s true. I love facilitation. But something pulls me back. I have a hesitancy. I think this is partly due to some linger issues related to burn out. I think I should probably write about those too at some point. But I think also, I am wary of the dynamic at play at Occupy Boston. I feel bad, that it feels so bad to me.

Keep reading to see the original review of Tron Legacy that sparked my indignation.

on Tron

Personally, I liked the Tron Legacy. Now, I am a self-admitted fan-boy of the first film, but I graded Tron Legacy as a whole as a B-, the Story as a C, the characters/acting as a C-, but as a work of Science Fiction it was an A-.

Science Fiction is about the WORLD… it doesn’t need plot, it doesn’t need characters, it doesn’t need realism, and this movie is a good example of a work without all of those. However, the digital world in Tron Legacy is intricate, and detailed. Now, if you are not interested in the world, that’s fine, but that means your not really interested in hard-sci-fi for it’s own sake. That’s fine too, but you have to expect a movie entitled Tron Legacy to be HARD science fiction!

So what is so interesting in the world of Tron Legacy? To understand that, we must briefly look at the first Tron movie: Tron is a piece of RELIGIOUS fiction, that is to say the issues of the world of Tron or spiritual and dogmatic issues. It is a very thinly veiled Christ-Story: Flynn is a God-made-Man… AKA User-made-Program. He defeats the great empire of the MCP (analogous to the Roman Empire in the Christ Story) and then ascends bodily to heaven after defying death itself (Can’t be derezed, and throws himself into an I/O beam).

Tron Legacy is likewise a piece of religious fiction. It is pretty clearly a take-off of Paradise Lost. Clu is an obvious Lucifer, made in the image of his God. The Iso’s are a clear example of the favored creation. (Flynn is willing to abandon his original plan in favor of the Iso’s, in much the way that God’s favored creation is not Lucifer and the angles in Paradise lost, but rather the Son, and Man. Clu wishes to literally storm the gates of heaven, and is opposed by the Son of Flynn… Even Tron, being co-opted, and then breaking free of Clu’s influence recalls the Angel Abdiel in Paradise Lost who was willing to listen to Lucifer’s argument, but ultimately was not swayed by it. What are some of the religious ideas explored in this way? The idea that life will come into existence spontaneously if given the proper conditions, this is a fun question because it calls into question the need for a creator in a world where the existence of a creator (Flynn) is unquestioned. The question of whether a creation can ever exceed its own creator is explored with the struggle between Clu and Flynn. The idea of attack by inaction is explored in Flynn’s strategy in that conflict.

So, as a piece of Science Fiction, exploring philosophical and religious issues by encoding them in the structure of the world (exactly what all the best Sci. Fi. does), Tron Legacy is a fine movie. But the action sequences, the eye-candy, the special effects… that’s all beside the point.

Me: Have you guys seen Tron Legacy?

Co-worker: No, why?

Me: Well besides being a scientifically inaccurate film….

Co-worker: wait what? I can’t believe you just said that.

Me: Huh?

Co-Worker: well it’s a fantasy film. How’s it supposed to be accurate?

Me: That’s not the point!

Co-worker: Then what is the point?

Me: That they botoxed the hell out of Jeff Bridges face!

Co-worker: But how is that inaccurate?

Me: No, I’m just saying…

Co-worker: I mean if he’s a computer generated person then he wouldn’t age. Seems pretty accurate.

Me: Lord. Stop changing the subject.

Co-worker: what subject?

Me: Botox

Co-worker: I thought we were talking about Tron Legacy

Me: As a way to talk about Botox!

Co-worker: Why? You thinking of getting Botox?

Me:  no! Just saying his face looked like plastic.

Co-worker: is it a good movie?

Me: No. But the lead actor is very, very attractive. So that’s nice.

Co-worker: Jeff Bridges!? Hahahahahahahahahhaaha!

Me: Ugh. No. The other guy. His last name sounds like hell hound.

Co-worker: I’m so confused.

Me: well that’s what happens when you don’t pay attention.

Co-worker: That’s inaccurate!

Me: Hahahahahahahaha. You know what is inaccurate this whole idea that an army of computer generated people can come out of a grid and wage war on earth. If they did manage to get out they would be tiny!

Co-worker: huh? What is this movie about?

Me: Are we having the same conversation?

Co-worker: Yes and it makes no sense.

Me: Would you ever get botox?

Co-worker: only if I was going to a fabulous party where I would be judged by rich people.

Me: mmmmm. Makes sense.

Co-worker: Would you?

Me: No, I’d just where really great shoes. Rich people love good shoes.

Co-worker: mmmmmmm

End.

The end.

As for the year ahead? At the start of each year I like to dig through books and find some bit of wisdom that can help guide my approach to living throughout the year. Last year I found great hope and solace in the poems of Wendell Berry’s. They grounded me to the earth and reminded me that life is about building, building and building.

In previous years I’ve taken guidance from Sherman Alexie, E.B. White, Willa Cather, Martin Espada, and Ursula K. Leguin. Over the past three or so months I have been stuck on three ideas: bravery, honesty and love.

Honesty: Being honest with oneself, ones community and with the world. Can you do one without the other? While a lie is an explicit form of being dishonest, what are the more implicit ways we can be dishonest and what is the cost?

Bravery: What is it to be brave? Is being brave like being courageous in that it is being afraid of something but doing it anyway because it is the right thing to do? Is there a cost to being brave and if so what is it and is it predictable?

Love: How does one grow the power of love within to the point where, on the day to day, you feel its white hot intensity? Are love and heartache faithfully interconnected? To love with white hot intensity all those around you, your passion, your visions, your work for justice and to write the wrongs in the world put you at risk for incomprehensible heartache? Or is it remorse….does love work in tandem with remorse?

Like most times when I am wrestling with these sorts of ideas and questions I have turned to books and the writings of some writers with far more well ordered minds then my own.

I picked up a collection of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay and flipped the pages to a poem called Conscientious Objector. The poem opens with the line “I shall die, but that is all I will do for death”. Death is that mass of injustice that hangs over us, occupies our past, present and future. But I am the resistance and I shall never sell out those who write the map to liberation or assist the mass. “Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me shall you be over come.”

While this expresses bravery, I think this also expresses honesty. The most honest person I can be is the person who will be unceasingly true to the values I hold and the vision of the “city” we will build. Never through me or because of me will these plans be compromised.

In my thinking about bravery I have found plenty of writings to go back to for inspiration. I re-read the Grapes of Wrath and the Dubious Battle, both by John Steinbeck. The bleak ending of the Grapes of Wrath is also hopeful. In misery and defeat a fire is lit that spreads to start other little fires.

But it is in a series of books that I have read and re-read countless times that I found a bit about bravery that has stuck in my head. Many people have been bemused by my love and borderline obsession with the Harry Potter books. I find great guidance in many matters through fiction. Fiction writing is a wonderful way to express ideas and concepts with which we all struggle.

In the fourth Harry Potter book a boy, Cedric Diggory, is killed by the primary villain of the series, Lord Voldemort. It is the first major character death in a series that is, in essence about lateral death and that kind of Death that Edna St. Vincent Milay writes about. Lord Voldemort represents a remorseless, hateful, bigoted and violent idea that is so destructive and corrosive that there is no choice left but to fight against it. No matter how afraid, the characters must fight and they do so willingly. Not with out fear and second thoughts, but they do fight.

At the end of book four the Albus Dumbledore, the wise and fatherly figure to Harry and a powerful wizard pays tribute to Cedric while delivering a speech to Harry and his fellow students.

“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.”

It is not lost on me that drawing on books such as the Harry Potter books for inspiration and strength risks being silly and weird. But it can not be helped. It is what it is.

The ideas of remembering Cedric is something like remembering all those people, past and present whose bravery, love and honesty and inspiration have laid plans for our “city”. And when I am faced with what is easy and what is right, I should remember them and do what is right. My father used to say that the most radical idea in America is the long memory. I am beginning to see the power in that idea. I will have to be brave in all parts of my life, not just in working for a better world, but in all aspects of living. Taking on what is right, even if it is not easy, using the power of remembering all those who have come before me and their good intentions for me.

Love. Love is such a simultaneously under-explored and over explored idea. Love can be mutated and manipulated to be an excuse for all manner of hurtful and dangerous things. But Martin Luther King Jr. knew that love could be a force to be reckoned with if channeled and embraced. Hate is corrosive, love is restorative. You don’t have to love your enemies; you just have to have an abundance of love for what you dreams, for the collective aspiration to live in a better world.

The Harry Potter books are filled with references to love and its power for good. Dumbledore in different ways throughout the series tries to convey to Harry that the greatest weapon he has is his ability to love. Implied in what Dumbledore is saying is also that Harry can feel remorse and that remorse is, at times, part of love just as grief is. But it is love that gives Harry and his friends the power to fight evil such as the world has never known. Love blossoms and spreads while evil withers. But it takes a long time for Harry to realize that the abundance of love in his life: the love of his mother which saved his life when he was a baby, the love he has for his friends and the love they have for him is indeed their most powerful weapon.

It is the white hot love of life and what is good and beautiful that can bind you to others and compel great changes, leaps forward and transformations.

In the next year I want to know each of these things: honesty, bravery and love in new ways. I want to share in this exploration with others of course in the hopes that 2011 is a banner year for all.

My blogs health:

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is doing awesome!.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 5,400 times in 2010. That’s about 13 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 26 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 119 posts. There were 118 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 119mb. That’s about 2 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was February 12th with 100 views. The most popular post that day was The Impending Hatching of a Baby Snuffleupagus.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, twitter.com, Google Reader, en.wordpress.com, and powlsy.tumblr.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for earthsea, snuffleupagus, pegasus, airline ad, and san francisco fog.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

The Impending Hatching of a Baby Snuffleupagus June 2009
1 comment

Is it a bird? Is it a Plane? Eh…is it a Night Club? June 2009
1 comment

New Zine – Get in on the Action February 2009
3 comments

Road Trip Through the Washington Palouse and the Channeled Scablands of my Childhood December 2009

Giving Birth in Chains: The Shackling of Incarcerated Women During Labor and Delivery July 2009

D.B. Downer hates to feel vulnerable; that kind of vulnerability that comes from being open and receptive to the world around us. Making everything about politics and political identity makes it possible to look at the catastrophe of the world around us and not feel pain, confusion, fear, sadness, rage, or hope. When you wall yourself up you miss out on the chance to feel things that remind you what you’re fighting for. For example, we’re not just fighting for everyone to have a home, but I’m fighting for Helen, the women I buy street my copy of Street Sense (the local homeless paper) from because I’ve talked with Helen and her fear at another winter on the streets is in her every word. I fight for the clients I see each day who speak of hopes that one day they will one day be cured of a disease that as of yet has no cure. I certainly fight for the memory of the forests around the place I grew up that were so mercifully clear cut.  Because when I visit those clear cuts the energy of the earth to want to regrow is palpable. I don’t fight for anarchy, I don’t fight for revolution. Those are things that may or may not come to pass. What I fight for is what it will feel like when we are free – calming, cooperative, joyous, smooth, seamless, loving, hardy, healthy, growing, lustrous – just to name a few ways I think it will feel.

Alas, D.B. Downer only feels for the political. Politically he will say how it will or will not feel. Politically he can identify what needs to change. VegasaurusRex on the other hand is like a porous sponge that sucks up the feelings of the world around her for processing and wringing out over and over. But where this argument started was with writing. D.B. Downer saying that only the political I worth writing and VegasaurusRex arguing, rightly I would say, that the articulation of the world to come is one that can be written in so many ways.

In the end D.B. Downer just couldn’t see it and VegasaurusRex in a huff asked me how to fix D.B. Downer. I thought for a moment. Thought real hard. In the end my mind when straight to what I know best – fiction books. I find a great power in the use of words to tell fantastical stories of great meaning for every day use. Fiction, particularly speculative/fantasy/sci-fi/visionary fiction can help us to articulate whole new ideas of making and shaping the world we live in, new ways of relating to each other and the earth, and help us grapple with big questions of power, violence, and race.

So I brought to my friend this: In Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series there is the concept of the One Power. This power moves the Wheel of Time. Half of the One Power is male and the other female. Some can channel the One Power, but most cannot. It can’t be controlled, the One Power just is, but it can be tapped into, or channeled for use by those who can channel.

In a great battle to defeat the Dark One (again with dark and light) the saidin or male half of the One Power was corrupted in an effort to seal the Dark One in a prison. This corruption, which I will simplify for you, led to the breaking of the world and war, strife and general chaos and upheaval. Another thing it led to was that now any males who can channel will eventually go insane and often become quite dangerous.

Ok, still with me? This is where I remind you to stick with me; it comes out in the end.

What I said to my friend was something like this:

It’s sort of like he can’t tap into the One Power without going insane. It’s a lot to take on, feeling the world around you – being empathic and open to pain as well as joy. To this she replied by asking why he would go insane if he really started feeling things. Well, I thought about it again and said, the world’s been busted pretty badly by men, mostly men and that’s heavy stuff. We all feel our privilege differently and some have a lot more than others. Some of us can hide bits of who we are and where we came from, while others can’t. My dad talked to me a lot about privilege. He referred to privilege as bags we carry and that we have to start opening up those bags and casting them off. You do this by living in real time with the world around you, feeling everything. Deconstructing differences you feel with other people because of privilege, not just recognizing these differences. Building relationships with people, being genuine, living with and among people in a cooperative way, highlighting similarities instead of standing behind differences  – this is a lot of how my dad looked at privilege. VegasaurusRex called this “keeping it real”. That pretty much sums it up.

Well anyway, D.B. Downer maybe can’t handle taking a look at his privilege and doing more than just taking a look at it. He can’t live without looking at…he can’t live actively trying to deconstruct it.

To this VegasaurusRex asked again how she could fix D.B. Downer. I said the only thing you can do is just love. Be open and boundless with love. It won’t fix people but it will be a source of power and comfort.

So another part of the One Power and the corruption of the male side is that the female side can do what is called “gentle” a saidin. This is sort of like a frontal lobotomy. Not cool. But so, stick with me here. Applied in this context it could be that to gentle someone is to love them, boundlessly and openly. For real. Martin Luther King knew it, Dorothy Day knew it, Mother Jones knew it, Ammon Hennacy knew it…shit. Dumbledore knew it. Yet love, in activist circles, especially white ones that are very male, is an over looked and under appreciated source of power. Well, deal with it. Love is, to get unreasonably cheesey, like a One Power. It’s kind of scary but don’t worry, we won’t let it make you go insane.

All of this is to say: you can learn just about anything in a fantasy novel if you try hard enough and if that fails you can always turn to the movie Clueless – you can always learn something from clueless. Always.

PS. VegasaurusRex called this our corniest conversation ever.

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The street was dark besides the yellow glow of a street lamp filtered through the trees that lined the street.  My attention was mostly kept by looking at the way the wet side walk glimmered. It had rained all day, all week in fact and it wasn’t until an hour ago that it had stopped. Walking home all was quiet. All the rain had kept people inside so much they probably didn’t know how to come outside anymore. Normally this time of year people would have had their windows thrown open to let in the cool evening breeze. The days this fall had been hotter then average, but the nights had been wonderfully average.

I was startled out of my thoughts by a loud crash. Just ahead at the next intersection a car had collided with a newly installed small round-about.

The city, in all its infinite wisdom, wanted to bestow upon our rather down trodden little neighborhood the gift of a beautification campaign. The round-abouts were some city officials I idea of making our neighborhood nicer. The round-abouts were place at random throughout the neighborhood, each including 4-5 large concrete planters containing dirt and the pitiful beginnings of some flowers. Most residents viewed these odd constructions and just another weak attempt by the city to show it cares for our neighborhood.

I approached the intersection looking cautiously at the car now resting with its passenger side up on the round-about rammed up against one of the large flower planters. Dirt was tossed all over the hood of the car along with one lone pansy. The engine was still running. Walking around to the driver side I saw the door flung open and a large man sprawled face down on the bricks.

“Uncle Hank. You alright” I said nudging the man with my foot. “Uncle Hank!” this time I yelled. I got a faint mumble followed by a groan. Slowly he rolled over. “Oh lord” I said and went to help him sit up. As I knelt down to help him up I caught a nauseating whiff of liquor mingled with body odder.

“What the hell happened!” uncle Hank growled. “Fucking thing came out of nowhere. Goddamn…:” he trailed off in a string of angry mumbles.

Now in sitting position, legs sticking straight out in front of him I got a good look at my uncle Hank. He was filthy, wearing a dingy white undershirt and an old worn pair of blue jeans. His white off-brand sneakers were untied and his dark brown hair rumpled.

Uncle Hank was a round man up top with skinny legs. A little like a potato with legs. With his round face  he looked up at me. His eyes were rimmed in red and blood shot.

“Hmph. Where the hell’d you come from? He said

“Walk’n home” I replied conversationally while leaning on one of the other planters.

“Fucking thing, came out of nowhere,” he gestured at the round-about. “What the fuck!

“It’s a new round-about. The City put them in last week” I said.

“Fucking European bullshit”he yelled tossing some dirt from the ground.

At this he made to get up, rolling onto his hands and knees. With an almighty lurch he made a good go of it but stumbled and wound up on his butt.

“Don’t get up uncle Hank,” I said moving forward. “Let me move your car first”.

I went to the car and uncle Hank blurted “what’s the damage?”

“Not too bad Uncle Hank.” I walked around to the passenger side noting the crushed front headlight. “Good news,” I called over to him “the passenger side now matches the driver’s side”. He didn’t make any comment.

I got into the car, which was filthy, littered with empty bags and food containers from Johnny Rockets. Being that the nearest Johnny Rockets to us is in Reno this confirmed my suspicion that uncle Hank had been off in Reno the past month. He usually was heading out to Reno for extended stays as long as I can remember. My mom always said he would leave when his Social Security check a came in and came home when it ran out. I suppose he just gambled it away.

Shaking my head I put the car in reverse and began to back off the round-about. A screeching sound accompanied the process as the bumper dragged on the concrete. Once of the round-about I cut around the corner and parked his car.

Uncle Hank was still sitting in the same spot when I walked back. “Come on Uncle Hank let me help you home,” I said. Wincing at the odder he carried I placed my arm over my shoulder and wrapping my other arm around him, propping him up best I could. Together, me walking, him stumbling we made it the short distance to his house.

I grew up next door to uncle Hank and still lived in my parents house next door in a small basement apartment. Walking him up the path to his house I thought of all the times I would see my mom looking disparagingly at his unkempt yard. This night, as always, his yard was mostly dirt with a few patches of though weeds. The shrubs were so brown they almost looked burned. Tonight there was also a bag of trash in the middle of yard as if it had been thrown from the front door on its way to the curb for trash collection. Not surprising actually.

Up the steps onto the unpainted and sagging front porch. Uncle Hank fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door. He went straight for the living room. Tossing himself into one of the reclining chairs, he turned on the TV set. My uncle’s house is just like the my parents house, architecturally speaking. All the houses on our street are pretty much the same: two stories, peeked roves with big front porches. His home, if it had been well furnished, cleaned and maintained would have been a fine little house. As it was, it was shabby and messy. The front hall had boxes full of who-knows-what all stacked up three to four high. The living room had a couch, a recliner and an old sitting chair, a TV and some book shelves. Until then I’d never noticed the book shelves. Built into the walls with little glass doors, they seemed to actually be full of books. The dinning room had a table, but it was covered with an assortment of objects, old magazines, stacks of newspapers, records and boxes full of what looked like old electronics. Standing by the entry way looking around the house it appeared to me for the first time that uncle Hank had a lot of interesting things lying around the house.

I looked at my uncle, well on his way to watching TV the rest of the night and made my way to the kitchen. It seemed the least I could do was cook some dinner to help him sober up. A month away meant that my uncles’ kitchen was more bare then normal. I did manage to find a canned ham, some frozen peas and a box of instant mashed potatoes.

While I cooked and listened to the sound of the TV coming from the living room I thought back on what I knew about my uncle. This wasn’t much. I knew he had always lived alone and he had always been a drinker. My dad always took a lot of time to be with his brother though. He would invite my uncle over sometimes just to sit and watch as my dad did yard work. Sometimes they would talk but mostly they would just be in each others company, my uncle drinking cheep beer. My mom obviously disliked uncle Hank. Well, I’m not sure if she disliked him, but she certainly disapproved of him and the way he lived. But she always seemed to accept his being around and being a part of the family.

The dinner done I plated the food and took it to the living room. Uncle Hank in apparent expectation of food given the smells of the cooking had set up two TV trays. He sat in the recliner and I sat in the old arm chair he’d pulled up to the TV. This reminded me of those few occasions when my parents would leave me in the care of my uncle for a few hours while they went out. Most of the time my and uncle and I would take these same seats in front of the TV. My uncle watches a lot of M.A.S.H. re-runs. We would sit for hours eating these small soft pretzels he would get from this bakery in town. We would hardly speak on those days, but for some reason I always like the time I spent with my uncle Hank.

We began to eat our dinners without speaking. Both of us watching the old episode of Family Ties on the TV. Glancing over I saw my uncle Hank was eating everything but the peas. He never did like vegetables. Clinking of forks on plates mixed with the sounds  of the TV. With a loud sigh uncle sat back in his recliner declaring himself finished eating. I reached over and took is plate to finish the peas.

“Did you know our father; your grandfather owned the Capitol Theater?” He said this without looking at me and it startled me since my uncle rarely spoke much that wasn’t a mumble. “It was the first integrated theater here in Salt Lake City. ” he went on. “In ‘48 he invited Marian Anderson. She was a black opera singer, to come and perform. I remembered we went to the, to the train station to pick her up. Dad took her to the biggest hotel in town, The Hotel Utah, but they wouldn’t let her stay there, because she was black.”

I was playing with my peas now, wondering if I should says something. But he went on.

“You grandfather, he was so embarrassed.” He looked down and mumbled something like “she was no doubt humiliated”. I was now starring at my uncle. Never had he spoken so many words at once to me.

“She ended up staying at our house. Your grandmother made ham.”

He didn’t say anything after this and seemed to go back to just watching the TV show.

“you know, I went to Korea. Fought in the war.” I did know this. My dad had mentioned it before.

“Ya,” I said “dad talked about it once”. I said tentatively.

“When I went off to Korea I…” he trailed off. The silence had that heavy quality. “I don’t know if I killed anyone in Korea. Just don’t know. But it was hard. Too hard for me to not know. Probably be worse to know. I had no idea what I was doing there but there I was. You can’t imagine the humidity. My clothing was rotting on my body, my boots had big holes in them from the rot. Eventually I just left. Went AWOL.”

He was leaning back in the recliner, looking down at his hands which were twisting in his lap. My fork full of peas hovered in front of my mouth, which was wide open. My eyes focused on the TV, but it wasn’t watching the show. I’d never heard much about my uncle Hanks life, ever, least of all from him. Sort of felt odd, like maybe he was speaking to someone else or that I was listening to something I shouldn’t hear.

“I ran down to Seoul City,” He continued. “Found my way to a place called the Korea House. It was a place run by Korean civilians’ reaching out to G.I.’s. They would give an AWOL soldier a place to hide for two, three weeks.”

“Late one night when it was pretty stormy, the rain falling in sheets we walked through the mud and the rain to a concert at the Women’s University. I was so much taller then anyone else. Sort of stood out.” He almost smiled at this and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I was still holding my fork up, but the peas had all fallen off.

“The auditorium had shell holes in the ceiling. Rain pouring through the holes, and lights on the stage hooked up to car batteries. And there on stage, performing was Marian Anderson. There she was, singing “Oh Freedom” and “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” He gestured with his hands as if the TV were the stage.  “And I watched her there, through the rain coming through the ceiling.” He almost whispered this last part.

Before I could utter much my uncle settled back in his recliner and focused on the television. After a moment where I struggled with trying to find something to say I just got up and picked up the plates. He uttered thanks for dinner.  I said no problem. In the kitchen I cleaned up. Sounds from the TV telling me the episode of Family Ties was ending, I walked from the kitchen through the dining room and looked around. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a box of old records on the table and there on top was a Marion Anderson album. I picked it up turning it over in my hands.

“Goodnight uncle Hank. I should be going.” I walked through the living room and put the record on the chair next to him.

“G’night kiddo. Thanks again” he said back, looking up at me only briefly.

I put my hand lightly on his shoulder as I walked by and said, “Yah, no problem. Have a good night.” I left, closing the front door behind me hearing the sounds of the TV being turned off. Maybe uncle Hank was ready for bed too.

That night in his sleep my uncle Hank passed away. On his old record player was the Marion Anderson record. He had played it before bed.

In the coming weeks I learned that uncle Hank had been in Reno again as I had thought. But not to gamble away his Social Security check. Turns out there was a VFW post there he liked to go to. Some veterans he was in Korea with went there too.

My mother and father quietly went through the motions of making the funeral arrangements. I stood apart from it all wondering to myself how much my parent knew. Now all their interactions with my uncle, the reproachful looks now seemed to be looks of concern, the inclusion in family, acceptance rather then duty. All the quiet afternoons my dad and uncle Hank spent together were really just one brother trying to be there for another.  I wondered if they knew the story of Marion Anderson.

Eventually I moved into my uncles house and have been going through his books and records with great care ever since.