The Streets of Heaven

Since it was first made an occasion in 1776, the 4th of July has long served as an opportunity for remembrance and a time to honor those who have fallen since our first Independence Day. Remembrance is good. The brave souls who have given their lives in defense of our city upon a hill deserve to be honored until our republic is swept from the mountainside.

Unfortunately, this remembrance can often take the form of blind, unthinking patriotism that only serves as a tool to further divide the world into "us" and "them." Glimpses of this attitude can be seen in Bill Pullman's immortal speech in the movie Independence Day, when a ruggedly handsome but wounded president implored the world to unite against an alien menace.

As psychologically satisfying as this type of language and this type of patriotism is, it is important to remember that, in the real world, our enemies are not an unstoppable alien scourge, but rather an assortment of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, lovers and friends. When we go to war, we don't fight against some hyperbolic evil; we fight against people just like us.

As unlikely as it seems, a 1970s sitcom may have done a lot better than the 1996 blockbuster. In an episode of M*A*S*H, Father Mulcahy spends the entire half hour trying to write a war song that captures his experience with bloodshed and violence. His simple and poignant elegy to the dead is a haunting reminder of the cost of war. You can listen to the audio file here, or just read the lyrics below.

There's no one singing war songs now like people used to do

No "Over There," no "Praise the Lord," no "Glory Hallelu"

Perhaps at last we've asked ourselves what we should have asked before

With the pain and death this madness brings, what were we ever singing for?

In my opinion, Martin Sheen makes a much better fictional president than Bill Pullman. His character, Josiah Bartlet, provides a better example of how we can honor our heroes, while still appreciating the complexities of our world and respecting the dignity of all human life.

This is certainly the time for heroes, American or otherwise. And we reach for the stars.

Language Misapplied to Humanity

Far too often I find myself in the company of people who freely use epithets to distinguish themselves from those who are politically, theologically, or superficially different. People who use such words openly could care less about what other, non-bigoted people think about them. Then there are people who claim to abhor racism and bigotry, yet freely use various words to refer to those with a different skin color, sexual persuasion, etc. when they are in the company of people they feel comfortable around. They de-censor themselves when they're among friends/family, and obviously that’s when their true colors show. There are a few things wrong with this--the obvious one being their hypocrisy--but one other that really gets me is the fact that they have to make a conscientious effort to censor themselves in the first place when in public. This is painfully obvious, particularly in small Pennsylvania towns.

It’s anathema, but on the positive side there are enough people who recognize it as such and do their best to avoid thinking of others in derogatory terms. Even better, there are people who take a firm stance on bigotry of every variety, and do their best to stamp it out when they come to it, as well as teach younger people that it’s wrong to use such words and be generally small-minded. This stance clearly makes the world a better place, but I don’t believe it can genuinely improve anything when nations like ours use words like “illegal” to describe people.

The term is political—an illegal alien is one who is not legally allowed to stay in the country—but the affects are social. When people use the word “illegal” to describe another human being, it has a dehumanizing effect on the non-citizen. Tying in the individual with the idea of the law takes away their humanity, and makes it easier for people to foster animosity to those they refer to as illegal. Hitler’s Germany comes to mind, as language was clearly a powerful motivator of atrocities; by dehumanizing and distinguishing portions of the population, language made it possible for people to bypass moral judgement--judgement that's consulted when people deal with other people.

I'm not suggesting a "slippery slope" here; the above example was one historical extreme, but the idea that descriptive language affects social perception has existed long before Nazi Germany and of course and will last as long as humanity endures. The problem is that a latent form of this institutional xenophobia is evident today, and in our country no less, when cities like Altanta, Georgia don't have a transit system that extends from urban areas to the suburbs for fear of bringing in "undesirables" (not a very objective word, is it).

Using the word "illegal" to refer to other humans has the effect of making murders such as this seem less heinous than they really are; what's worse, when such murders of "illegals" do occur, there's always people who try to defend it. When the question of the legitimacy of a person is raised, you have only two choices when referring to that person--legal or illegal. Let's consider the other half of this marginalized immigrant population: they are not illegal aliens, but rather legal aliens. Generally, we as a country don't use that term to refer to such people--we call them things like US citizens, or even "fellow americans," and suddenly all semantic suggestions of judicial terminology go out the window. But If we were to be consistent, would calling someone a "legal alien" sound any better than "illegal alien"? Any "alien," legitimate or not, can only seem to exist in our national peripheral when words like "illegal" are used.

Institutionally, we need a sea change in what words we choose to apply to other human beings. It's not easy to come up with a word that would adequately replace the ones we currently use so frequently--a word that would describe a significant portion of people without stripping them of their humanity in the process--but we need to find one.

The City Upon a Hill

I've just finished reading the final chapter of In Search of Identity, the autobiography of Anwar el-Sadat, the third President of Egypt. Sadat was a hero, a patriot and a statesman who valiantly served both his country and the cause of peace until his assassination in October of 1981. Any student of foreign policy or of American action in an increasingly dangerous and complicated world should take the time to read his memoirs. Reading his account of the 1970s, I couldn't help but think about the promise of the United States, and how often we fall short of the course set by the nature of our better angels.

When Sadat reopened the Suez Canal to international navigation in the summer of 1975, he was unable to do it by himself. The Egyptian Navy did not have the capacity to clear the canal for commercial transport. In order to reopen the canal, Sadat had to ask for help from the United States, a country that Egypt had been on cold, hostile terms with for nearly thirty years. In that moment, Sadat writes, "The United States stood by me and showed her real face, scarred though it was by the Vietnam War." Within 24 hours, the USS Iwo Jima, a helicopter carrier, arrived in the Suez Canal and began clearing it under the supervision of the Egyptian Navy.

In the past eight years, the face of America has become even more covered with scars. Yet if you look deeply into the mirror, past the damage done by mistakes and ill intentions, the true character of American hope still exists, as vibrant and youthful as it has ever been. The soul of America has always been in her eyes.

This promise, this potential, this vision of an America that is the summation of all that is best within us was shown by President Obama in his recent speech in Cairo. Perhaps the New York Times put it best:

When President Bush spoke in the months and years after Sept. 11, 2001, we often — chillingly — felt as if we didn’t recognize the United States. His vision was of a country racked with fear and bent on vengeance, one that imposed invidious choices on the world and on itself. When we listened to President Obama speak in Cairo on Thursday, we recognized the United States.

Every single thing in this world carries with it equal capacity to save the world or to destroy it. Too often, we forget our capacity for both. We can still be "as a city upon a hill", a shining example for all those who dare to look.

How Am I Not Myself

"Every person is the creation of himself, the image of his own thinking and believing."

So, yes: this was the fortune in my cookie from the Pearl House today...but I thought considering my circumstances it was completely appropriate. Every person is the creation of himself...I'm finding it difficult to isolate the "self" in me. If I created it, I must have done a piss poor job. I'm not thinking or believing in much of anything anymore...guess that makes me without self.

My question: any thoughts on this? What defines us? I feel like a 3d grade writing prompt generator but HONESTLY. I need answers or at least directions so any perspective on the topic would be helpful.

Anniversary: 20 Years Since Tiananmen Square

Today and tomorrow, June 4th and 5th, mark the Twentieth Anniversary of the "Tank Man" at Tiananmen Square. Inspired by peaceful protests in the mid to late 20th Century, students began a hunger strike in the square nearly a month earlier on May 13th, 1989.

The world was changing and fast. Communist governments began falling everywhere. Over 100,000 students and intellectuals joined the seven week protest that resulted in a government crackdown, sending thousands of it's own citizens to the hospital. The number of deaths cannot be tallied. Rumors vary. Some claim the PRC burned many of the bodies slain.

But on June 5th, a man known only as the "Unknown Rebel" or "Tank Man" stood in defiance of the government's order to withdraw. Photos of this man spread through a world mortified by the violence.

Today, this photo is iconic, representing the power of one against the might of the worst nature in man, our abuse of power.
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Later that year in 1989, the Berlin Wall fell. Could this other iconic and symbolic moment have occurred without the "Unknown Rebel's" defiance? I can't say. But I cannot deny the reverberations outward that one tiny pebble makes taking a plunge into water.

Today's Philosophy Works Quote of the Day from the Dalai Lama argues it best:

"If you think you are too small to make a difference, trying sleeping with a mosquito."

Also, check out the recently released photograph. Terril Jones was on the ground and snap a shot of "Tank Man" mere moments before the lead tank stopped feet away from running him over. From this perspective it's so much more awestriking as you can put yourself into his circumstance a little easier and ask yourself what the hell inspired him to risk everything he had, his life.

Should creative writing be taught?

>> Read the original article in the New Yorker Magazine

This article will be of particular interest to anyone who calls him/herself a writer and has taken a class in creative writing in an educational setting.

The basic argument here is that a professor cannot necessarily "teach" a student how to become "a publishable writer." This, I think, is true, for the same reason why a vocal instructor or a director can't teach someone how to become a world-renowned artist: it's up to the individual to find his/her personal artistry, the niche that will set him/her apart from others in the field.

"What is usually said is that you can’t teach inspiration, but you can teach craft" (5). Though the article itself goes on to counter this opinion, it is one that I readily accept. In my experience, creative writing classes are based upon two premises: (1) the deconstruction of popular literature in a given genre and (2) the assignment (however artifical) of writing-based activities, which encourage students to both think and write independently. As my former creative nonfiction once put it, (I'm quoting very roughly here), "If you were a football player, you'd have to watch hours and hours of tapes to see how others are playing the game. Then you'd come up with your own strategy of how to make yourself a great player. That's what we're more or less trying to do as writers."

What she's saying is that so much can be learned by sitting down with a Hemingway novel or a Didion essay and analyzing the elements that make it great: the structure, the attention to detail, the syntax, the dialogue. When you read, you absorb--consciously or not--techniques and strategies that will aid you in your own writing.

This is not to say that every writing program or class produces great writers. That would be an overstatement. What I am saying is that creative writing classes provide an awareness about the written word that is quickly disappearing in our science/technology-oriented world. Sure, our viewpoints about what makes "good literature" or "good writing" will differ, but that's why the field continues to be so interesting.

For those of us who love consonants and vowels and syllables and phrases, literature and writing classes are one of the few things that sustain us. What we are really looking for in a writing class, I think, is the opportunity to find others like us (those who actually enjoy reading and thinking--I know, it's difficult to come by these days!) and the time/space to do the things we love best: reading and writing.


Also consider reading: "How to become a writer" by Lorrie Moore, for a more playful take on this subject.

I'm really talking about myself

Last night, drunk as I was, I tried to describe to someone how amazing it is that the theme of Dylan's newer work is usually love. I failed to convey this irony. How a man made famous for his cynicism, originality and skeptical, biting voice could at long last, with all he has tried, despite all his snake-skin layers of personae and insights has come around to the same obvious truths we all already know when we're children.

Listen to this tortured journey through confusion and disillusionment that he penned in his twenties. It's alright ma, I'm only bleeding. A letter back home describing the pain of living in a fucked up unexplainable world. He's so serious. He's so pained. I know what he means. My mind has exploded too. I've wandered out into the cold too. This song encapsulates for me the very thing that made this man inspire me in the first place. If you can feel it, you can say it.



Now listen to this. All these years later, lost as ever in the same wilderness he's no longer spitting fire at it. He's no longer needling through the threaded mess of the unknowable. He just wants a hand to hold while he wanders closer and closer toward the abyss. wow.

Storyteller's License

So, I had a party last night. Come nightfall, here gather some of the most interesting people in my life. A girl of unique energy and eyes that delicately watch everything handed me a book borrowed from the local library. She thought I might enjoy some "uncommon thoughts on common things."

Just then, an old friend of the Hills celebrated Bob Dylan's birthday with the touch of his finger to the Pandora app on his new ipod touch. "Mississippi." It was the song I had introduce Bob Dylan to him and two other close friends. It was some uncommon perspective on common things which I handed to them on the dock of a placid bay under the full moon of a sticky Florida night.

Sychronicity, perhaps.

So I figured to supplement the previous post on Orwell's advice on writing, I'd share with you an excerpt from a note of the author at the beginning of the book I was handed last night, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten" by Robert Fulghum:

"This license gives me permission to use my imagination in rearranging my expereince to improve a story, so long as it serves some notion of Truth. It also contains the Storyteller's Creed:

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge.
That myth is more potant than history.
That dreams are more powerful than facts.
That hope always triumphs over experience.
That laughter is the only sure for grief.
And I believe that love is stronger than death."

True gifts too seldom are given over the superficial, material tokens we exchange over holidays and special occassions. True gifts carry weight and meaning. I shared Dylan's "Mississippi" in hopes that it would be heard as something more than just a favorite song. I've accepted this book knowing it's more than just a good read.

Politics and the English Language

According to Orwell, the following habits pollute prose writing in English:

1) Dying Metaphors
2) Operators, or verbal false limbs
3) Pretentious diction
4) Meaningless words
---"Words like romantic, plastic, values, human, dead, sentimental, natural, vitality...are strictly meaningless, in the sense that they do not point to any discoverable object, but are hardly even expected to do so but the reader" (109).

Furthermore, Orwell writes that "The whole tendency of modern prose is away from concreteness" (111) and that political language "has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging, and sheer cloudy vagueness...Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them" (115)".

For serious writers looking to write clearly, concretely, and concisely, Orwell suggests to ask the following questions before writing:

1. What am I trying to say?
2. What words will express it?
3. What image or idiom will make it clearer?
4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?
5. Could I put it more shortly?

And, most importantly:

6. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly? (113)


Once again, Orwell proves he is ahead of his time!

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From Why I Write

 To start for beginning's sake: a picture and a quote.  (More to come later.)

 

         

“It is the food which you furnish to your mind that determines the whole character of your life.”

     - Emmet Fox (1886 - 1951).

 

Courtesy by The School of Practical Philosophy.