you didn’t have to eat
the churros like that,
especially after the pizza
and the salad
and the two gibsons
and the multiple whiskies
and the poker
and the need
for more
and more
and more.
consume,
devour,
more
and more
and more.
turn up the volume.
this how you
were built
from the start.
insatiable.
ravenous.
yes over no.
it is
never
enough.
you didn’t have to,
but you knew
you would.
we’ll deal with
tomorrow,
tomorrow.
never sacrifice
now
for
the future.
Showing posts with label Consumption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Consumption. Show all posts
May 21, 2021
141/365
October 16, 2016
The Purge
Today was the day of The Purge.
The Purge is a day of yelling, guilt, cleansing, shame, sneezing (all the dust make me sneeze), happiness, head-shaking, judging, reflecting, and ultimately of rebirth.
When you are lucky enough to live a life of unbridled privilege, your kids end up having too much stuff. The desire to make sure that they are happy and have more than you ever had as a child will result in lots of stuff.
Too much stuff: Clothes, shoes, dress up clothes, legos, toys, knick-knacks, crayons, markers, notebooks, dolls, doll’s clothes, action figures, stuffed animals, art supplies, craft projects, science equipment, children’s tool sets, jewelry, jewelry boxes, beads, earrings, coloring books and more. And more. And just more stuff.
All of it jammed into drawers and under beds and closets and storage containers.
You have been places, met people with so little. No toys. No outfits. No shoes. Just crusty feet, tired hands and an insatiable hunger.
So filling the bags with garbage and donations fills you with a sense of dread and guilt. How did you kids get so much stuff? Much of it comes from random birthday gifts and parties, but you too have bought this stuff for them, and now here you are yelling at them for not playing with it enough. For not appreciating it enough. As if a seven year old can understand why nine My Little Ponies might be too many.
In the past, I would always commit The Purge at night when the kids were asleep. I would go through their stuff and find the things that they never touched, the stuff that was buried in the drawers and haul it out to donate or throw away, but this year, we felt it was time for the kids to go through the process themselves. To let go. Say goodbye. Weed-out.
“Does this give you joy, Skyelar?” Kaia asks Skye.
Where did you hear that?
“Youtube.”
It took all morning with coffee and toilet paper, my nose was dripping like a hose, but we purged both kids’ rooms. Countless bags of trash and a car full of bags for The Salvation Army were expelled from our house. In between the lectures and the shaming, we tried to talk about the oppression of things, but there was a lot of attachment to that one random piece of plastic junk that so and so had given or a birthday four years ago.
After it was all said and done, their rooms looked beautiful. Sleek and efficient. Filled only with markers that work and have caps. Drawers that are bare enough to reveal toys that they can actually play with. With every piece pf garbage that went out, we discussed impulse buying and the need to have toys that are junk and bad for the environment. (I'm looking at you Shopkins!) We cherished the toys that we have had for years, that were useful and well made and we said goodbye. Hoping that another child might be able to find joy in that awesome puppet or riding horse.
After The Purge we were all spent. We had planned to go to The Projector to watch the original Ghostbusters, but we decided to crawl into bed at 4:30, turn down the blinds, sip some Prosecco and watch it at home instead. When it was done, we took a break and got some take out Indian and watched Ghostbusters II. It was that kind of night.
The kids are asleep now and the house feels quiet and clean and lighter.
The Purge was a literal act today and a necessary one, but it has got me thinking about what else I might need to purge periodically to achieve the same feeling in other aspects of my life.
The Purge is a day of yelling, guilt, cleansing, shame, sneezing (all the dust make me sneeze), happiness, head-shaking, judging, reflecting, and ultimately of rebirth.
When you are lucky enough to live a life of unbridled privilege, your kids end up having too much stuff. The desire to make sure that they are happy and have more than you ever had as a child will result in lots of stuff.
Too much stuff: Clothes, shoes, dress up clothes, legos, toys, knick-knacks, crayons, markers, notebooks, dolls, doll’s clothes, action figures, stuffed animals, art supplies, craft projects, science equipment, children’s tool sets, jewelry, jewelry boxes, beads, earrings, coloring books and more. And more. And just more stuff.
All of it jammed into drawers and under beds and closets and storage containers.
You have been places, met people with so little. No toys. No outfits. No shoes. Just crusty feet, tired hands and an insatiable hunger.
So filling the bags with garbage and donations fills you with a sense of dread and guilt. How did you kids get so much stuff? Much of it comes from random birthday gifts and parties, but you too have bought this stuff for them, and now here you are yelling at them for not playing with it enough. For not appreciating it enough. As if a seven year old can understand why nine My Little Ponies might be too many.
In the past, I would always commit The Purge at night when the kids were asleep. I would go through their stuff and find the things that they never touched, the stuff that was buried in the drawers and haul it out to donate or throw away, but this year, we felt it was time for the kids to go through the process themselves. To let go. Say goodbye. Weed-out.
“Does this give you joy, Skyelar?” Kaia asks Skye.
Where did you hear that?
“Youtube.”
It took all morning with coffee and toilet paper, my nose was dripping like a hose, but we purged both kids’ rooms. Countless bags of trash and a car full of bags for The Salvation Army were expelled from our house. In between the lectures and the shaming, we tried to talk about the oppression of things, but there was a lot of attachment to that one random piece of plastic junk that so and so had given or a birthday four years ago.
After it was all said and done, their rooms looked beautiful. Sleek and efficient. Filled only with markers that work and have caps. Drawers that are bare enough to reveal toys that they can actually play with. With every piece pf garbage that went out, we discussed impulse buying and the need to have toys that are junk and bad for the environment. (I'm looking at you Shopkins!) We cherished the toys that we have had for years, that were useful and well made and we said goodbye. Hoping that another child might be able to find joy in that awesome puppet or riding horse.
After The Purge we were all spent. We had planned to go to The Projector to watch the original Ghostbusters, but we decided to crawl into bed at 4:30, turn down the blinds, sip some Prosecco and watch it at home instead. When it was done, we took a break and got some take out Indian and watched Ghostbusters II. It was that kind of night.
The kids are asleep now and the house feels quiet and clean and lighter.
The Purge was a literal act today and a necessary one, but it has got me thinking about what else I might need to purge periodically to achieve the same feeling in other aspects of my life.
April 4, 2016
I Wish I Knew
I love TV. I love talking about it. I love reading about it. I love watching television and I always have. It is my American right to love the stuff. I was raised on it. I loved watching Silver Spoons and Different Strokes and Who’s The Boss and staying home from school to watch I Dream Of Jennie and Bewitched. I loved watching Three’s Company with my Iranian grandmother and Love Boat with my mom.
You can say that TV is making us dumb, but I won’t deny my love. I binge watch The Sopranos and Mad Men and Game of Thrones. I like the smart stuff, the artsy stuff and even the dumb stuff. I love television. I love following the arcs and exploring the sets and listening to the music and noticing the glassware and the costumes and deconstructing the scripts and marveling at the acting and falling in love with the characters and being crushed when a series end and freaking out when new love affairs begin.
I love watching TV with Mairin and on my own. I love staying home on a Friday night to watch a show or looking forward all week to a night when our shows are released. I even like some reality TV. Monday nights are good TV nights for us these days in Singapore.
Tonight we put the kids to bed and cracked open two bottles of wine- one white the other red. Sure we are a middle aged cliche, but the Walking Dead season finale was on and I could give two shits about being predictable. Did I mention I love TV? We watched and gasped and loved it and hated it. There was so much to appreciate and even more to criticise. We are six years invested into these characters and so we demand a lot. I read reviews and suggested improvements. I am not sure where I am with the show, but I know I'm still in.
Then we watched Girls. Another show I adore. I thought about the color palette and how sophisticated the show is looking in season five. The directing and writing is at a zenith these days and it is beautiful how much they can pack into an episode.
I wish there was a way that I could work on a TV show. I wish there was a way that I could take a year to teach middle school students how to write an 11 episode TV series. That is all we would do. We would watch and learn and copy and write and shoot and fall in love with TV. I am not sure how to write a TV show, but I know what I know and what I love and what I can teach and I think I can teach kids how to write and how to shoot and how to create.
(Side note- I love watching gay men kissing on TV, because although in the past it has made me feel “weird” I think the more we see gay people on TV being themselves, the closer we will come to understanding love and humanity and all the things we find so hard to understand.)
Then we watched Togetherness. One of my favorite shows, only to find out that next week is the series finale. Series! WTF? Really two seasons and that is from the Duplass brothers? This show is gold. If you are not watching it than get on it. If you are forty-two and slightly buzzed on red wine on a Monday night, and listening to the first Bon Iver album and wondering if you are cool or lame and swimming in words, then this might be a show for you.
I love TV and tonight was a night to spend with my love.
The rest of the day was uneventful- got home. Ignored the kids for most of the day. Let them re-acquaint themselves with themselves, their rooms and their toys. I lounged on my bed, played a lot of guitar, took a shower and poked around the internet on my phone. We had dinner at Bergs and oh-did I mention the TV?
…
Last night I wrote about my desire to Jet Ski. This got me thinking about other things I want.
I tend to paint myself as a non-consumerist type, and while it is true that I try to not give in to all my materialistic desires, I am still, like everyone else, mired in the consumerist societal assault on what I should want. Here is a partial list of what I want if I had all the money in the world:
A long board. Yup, a long board skate board to ride up and down East Coast park. I will also need a pair of “real” sunglasses. I am thinking a pair of Ray Ban Way Fares ala Bob Dylan in the 1966 black and white era, the time he was tight with Allen Ginsberg. I also want some kind of hat other than a baseball cap. I am thinking fedora, but not so wooly or beaver hair or whatever those things are made of. I want straw, but not the kind every other douchy middle aged guy has. I want to be cool and original, but I have no idea what that means anymore, so maybe I just want a cool hat and sunglasses and my long board.
I want this miniature guitar I saw at the music store. It is the size of a ukulele but has six strings and is tuned like a guitar. I want it for travel and hotel rooms. I want to cover it in stickers, because I don’t like stickers on my real guitar. I want a case for said guitar and I want to take it with me wherever I go. I may want to add pick ups on it so I can plug it in, so I might want a small amp and maybe a few effect pedals. As long as I am wanting in this field, I want a full Marshall stack and a Gibson SG ala Soundgarden and Black Sabbath. I want a mandolin and a clarinet.
I want new headphones and a Go Pro or similar waterproof camera. I want a bigger TV and an Xbox. I want fancier shoes and a better wardrobe. I want to be able to pull off a man scarf. I want a monthly massage package and a custom made back suit ala Vinny Chase. I want books and books and more books. I want a record player and every Pearl Jam record on vinyl. I want one of their tour posters in a frame, maybe the one fro the Golden Park show where Vedder passed out after four songs. I want better speakers and surround sound system for my movies. I want the new Apple TV and a better set of pots and pans. I want a knife block and a set of whiskey drinking tumblers. I want a fully stocked bar and a set of scotch bottles from duty free. I want Martini glasses and my own pickled onions like I had in NYC. I want the house painted in warm maroons and blues, and I want more art on the walls and a new car- something green and sustainable, maybe a Prius.
I want more tattoos- full sleeves, shoulders and back. I want to get my ears pierced. I want an herb garden and bigger trees for every balcony. I want new curtains and a new love seat. I want that funky clock and a display case for the lego. I want more lego, especially that 1968 VW bus. I want a nice set of color pencils and a new a new a new a new……I want. I want a new……I wish I knew.
You can say that TV is making us dumb, but I won’t deny my love. I binge watch The Sopranos and Mad Men and Game of Thrones. I like the smart stuff, the artsy stuff and even the dumb stuff. I love television. I love following the arcs and exploring the sets and listening to the music and noticing the glassware and the costumes and deconstructing the scripts and marveling at the acting and falling in love with the characters and being crushed when a series end and freaking out when new love affairs begin.
I love watching TV with Mairin and on my own. I love staying home on a Friday night to watch a show or looking forward all week to a night when our shows are released. I even like some reality TV. Monday nights are good TV nights for us these days in Singapore.
Tonight we put the kids to bed and cracked open two bottles of wine- one white the other red. Sure we are a middle aged cliche, but the Walking Dead season finale was on and I could give two shits about being predictable. Did I mention I love TV? We watched and gasped and loved it and hated it. There was so much to appreciate and even more to criticise. We are six years invested into these characters and so we demand a lot. I read reviews and suggested improvements. I am not sure where I am with the show, but I know I'm still in.
Then we watched Girls. Another show I adore. I thought about the color palette and how sophisticated the show is looking in season five. The directing and writing is at a zenith these days and it is beautiful how much they can pack into an episode.
I wish there was a way that I could work on a TV show. I wish there was a way that I could take a year to teach middle school students how to write an 11 episode TV series. That is all we would do. We would watch and learn and copy and write and shoot and fall in love with TV. I am not sure how to write a TV show, but I know what I know and what I love and what I can teach and I think I can teach kids how to write and how to shoot and how to create.
(Side note- I love watching gay men kissing on TV, because although in the past it has made me feel “weird” I think the more we see gay people on TV being themselves, the closer we will come to understanding love and humanity and all the things we find so hard to understand.)
Then we watched Togetherness. One of my favorite shows, only to find out that next week is the series finale. Series! WTF? Really two seasons and that is from the Duplass brothers? This show is gold. If you are not watching it than get on it. If you are forty-two and slightly buzzed on red wine on a Monday night, and listening to the first Bon Iver album and wondering if you are cool or lame and swimming in words, then this might be a show for you.
I love TV and tonight was a night to spend with my love.
The rest of the day was uneventful- got home. Ignored the kids for most of the day. Let them re-acquaint themselves with themselves, their rooms and their toys. I lounged on my bed, played a lot of guitar, took a shower and poked around the internet on my phone. We had dinner at Bergs and oh-did I mention the TV?
…
Last night I wrote about my desire to Jet Ski. This got me thinking about other things I want.
I tend to paint myself as a non-consumerist type, and while it is true that I try to not give in to all my materialistic desires, I am still, like everyone else, mired in the consumerist societal assault on what I should want. Here is a partial list of what I want if I had all the money in the world:
A long board. Yup, a long board skate board to ride up and down East Coast park. I will also need a pair of “real” sunglasses. I am thinking a pair of Ray Ban Way Fares ala Bob Dylan in the 1966 black and white era, the time he was tight with Allen Ginsberg. I also want some kind of hat other than a baseball cap. I am thinking fedora, but not so wooly or beaver hair or whatever those things are made of. I want straw, but not the kind every other douchy middle aged guy has. I want to be cool and original, but I have no idea what that means anymore, so maybe I just want a cool hat and sunglasses and my long board.
I want this miniature guitar I saw at the music store. It is the size of a ukulele but has six strings and is tuned like a guitar. I want it for travel and hotel rooms. I want to cover it in stickers, because I don’t like stickers on my real guitar. I want a case for said guitar and I want to take it with me wherever I go. I may want to add pick ups on it so I can plug it in, so I might want a small amp and maybe a few effect pedals. As long as I am wanting in this field, I want a full Marshall stack and a Gibson SG ala Soundgarden and Black Sabbath. I want a mandolin and a clarinet.
I want new headphones and a Go Pro or similar waterproof camera. I want a bigger TV and an Xbox. I want fancier shoes and a better wardrobe. I want to be able to pull off a man scarf. I want a monthly massage package and a custom made back suit ala Vinny Chase. I want books and books and more books. I want a record player and every Pearl Jam record on vinyl. I want one of their tour posters in a frame, maybe the one fro the Golden Park show where Vedder passed out after four songs. I want better speakers and surround sound system for my movies. I want the new Apple TV and a better set of pots and pans. I want a knife block and a set of whiskey drinking tumblers. I want a fully stocked bar and a set of scotch bottles from duty free. I want Martini glasses and my own pickled onions like I had in NYC. I want the house painted in warm maroons and blues, and I want more art on the walls and a new car- something green and sustainable, maybe a Prius.
I want more tattoos- full sleeves, shoulders and back. I want to get my ears pierced. I want an herb garden and bigger trees for every balcony. I want new curtains and a new love seat. I want that funky clock and a display case for the lego. I want more lego, especially that 1968 VW bus. I want a nice set of color pencils and a new a new a new a new……I want. I want a new……I wish I knew.
September 5, 2010
Intrution of the Machine
Holy shit! I try not use “bad” language too often here at the Flame, but Holy Fuck! I mean Holy shit. Holy fuck. There are no other words to express how I am feeling right now. I am speechless and angry and scared and spinning out of control. I feel powerless, guilty, and disgusted with the world, myself, and everything else there might be.
I just watched Consuming Kids: The Commercialization of Childhood. Let me start by saying that is a very well made documentary. According to the website:
I like to think of myself as a petty well-informed and aware father, so why do I feel so powerless? Do I need to move my family completely off the grid in order to be able to live a life free of the intrusion of the global capitalist machine?
Don’t get me wrong; much of my guilt and shame is not derived by playing the victim. This film has made me realize how I have often encouraged much of the behavior I abhor. It is easy to sit and judge far off parents for the choices they make, but it is disillusioning to think that I have made some very bad choices myself.
I am not only writing this post to help change the bad habits I have noticed in my daughter, but more importantly to help identify my own habits and behaviors that have influenced her.
What this film helped me realize is that, we are dealing with a bigger problem than just having kids want to eat this cereal or that one. We are dealing with an assault on human values and family beliefs. I can, and think that I do, try my hardest to create an authentic, organic, and real experience for my daughters but how much can I do? How much can I shield them from a value system that encourages them to believe that happiness comes from things, when I myself am consumed by things?
Perhaps this post is a bit pre-mature and I need to let the ideas settle. I am sure I will get a few comments telling me to calm down and that I am overreacting again. Well, I am tired of that response. My kids are the most important things in my life and if I am not gonna freak out about it who will?
Perhaps I need to watch the flim again and talk about it with my wife, but I felt the need to write something right after watching it. I felt the need to invite you to join the conversation. You can watch the film in its entirety, broken into segments on youtube starting with Part One. I encourage you to watch it and leave your initial thoughts in the comment section below and help talk me off the edge. Help me find a way to move forward and not be terrified of the signs of a creeping consumerism, I can already see in my daughter at the age of four.
Here is the trailer:
and part one:
I just watched Consuming Kids: The Commercialization of Childhood. Let me start by saying that is a very well made documentary. According to the website:
Consuming Kids throws desperately needed light on the practices of a relentless multi-billion dollar marketing machine that now sells kids and their parents everything from junk food and violent video games to bogus educational products and the family car. Drawing on the insights of health care professionals, children's advocates, and industry insiders, the film focuses on the explosive growth of child marketing in the wake of deregulation, showing how youth marketers have used the latest advances in psychology, anthropology, and neuroscience to transform American children into one of the most powerful and profitable consumer demographics in the world. Consuming Kids pushes back against the wholesale commercialization of childhood, raising urgent questions about the ethics of children's marketing and its impact on the health and well-being of kids.Let me just say that this is a must see for anyone who deals with children at any capacity. It is easy for me to be thankful that I don’t live in the USA and that my daughters are somewhat shielded by certain aspects of the relentless advertising saturation that surrounds most people, simply by living overseas, but after watching this film I am not sure how well of a job I am doing, even having isolated myself in far off lands for the duration of my children’s lives.
I like to think of myself as a petty well-informed and aware father, so why do I feel so powerless? Do I need to move my family completely off the grid in order to be able to live a life free of the intrusion of the global capitalist machine?
Don’t get me wrong; much of my guilt and shame is not derived by playing the victim. This film has made me realize how I have often encouraged much of the behavior I abhor. It is easy to sit and judge far off parents for the choices they make, but it is disillusioning to think that I have made some very bad choices myself.
I am not only writing this post to help change the bad habits I have noticed in my daughter, but more importantly to help identify my own habits and behaviors that have influenced her.
- Number one! Less screen time! I don’t mean just TV, because Kaia actually doesn’t watch too much TV, but I have noticed that it has become a crutch for her boredom. Keep in mind that there are no commercials on the TV here, but the fact that she has become infatuated with Dora, Mickey and others is cause for concern. I can see that many times when she is bored she reverts to watching TV.
- But when I said less screen times I didn’t mean just for her. That means me too. I need to spend less time online, on my computer during her awake hours. I am not comfortable with the amount of times in a day I say things like, “ I will be right there, let me just finish this, or post that, or check this.” I pledge to spend more time working on projects, creating situations where we have creative play, and time using our imaginations.
Too often because I am tired or not in the mood, I simply expect her to entertain herself, and while I no there is value in that, I need to be able to structure more creative activities for her, rather than letting her veg out in front of the TV. When given the choice she will always choose playing with me over TV, I cannot say how much longer that will last. - I have allowed the mosquitoes to keep us hostage in the house, but I pledge to spend more time outside. One of the reasons I wanted to leave Doha so badly was because I hated what we saw outdoors. Now we live in a beautiful compound with massive trees, grass, and flowers. Time to get on the bike and head outdoors.
- Do my best to buy as many products that are character free as possible.
What this film helped me realize is that, we are dealing with a bigger problem than just having kids want to eat this cereal or that one. We are dealing with an assault on human values and family beliefs. I can, and think that I do, try my hardest to create an authentic, organic, and real experience for my daughters but how much can I do? How much can I shield them from a value system that encourages them to believe that happiness comes from things, when I myself am consumed by things?
Perhaps this post is a bit pre-mature and I need to let the ideas settle. I am sure I will get a few comments telling me to calm down and that I am overreacting again. Well, I am tired of that response. My kids are the most important things in my life and if I am not gonna freak out about it who will?
Perhaps I need to watch the flim again and talk about it with my wife, but I felt the need to write something right after watching it. I felt the need to invite you to join the conversation. You can watch the film in its entirety, broken into segments on youtube starting with Part One. I encourage you to watch it and leave your initial thoughts in the comment section below and help talk me off the edge. Help me find a way to move forward and not be terrified of the signs of a creeping consumerism, I can already see in my daughter at the age of four.
Here is the trailer:
and part one:
July 15, 2010
Bowels of a Beast
I had a simple enough task to accomplish today. I was to go to the cargo area at the airport in Jakarta. Please understand that I have traveled enough to understand that anytime you are forced to deal with any kind of bureaucracy, whether in a developing country, or our more esteemed developed countries, you should brace for the worst. I have dealt with the immigration offices of Mozambique, the airport in Angola, and the New York City Board of Ed. I have bathed in inefficiency and come out filthy. Experience has taught me to bring a book, plenty of identification, and ample stores of patience and understanding. It goes without saying that the Buddha himself would no doubt leave a situation like the one I had today with a taste for blood, but what else can one do but grin and bear it. After all if one looks at every situation as a possible story to tell then nothing truly ever bad happens.
I have learned during my brief stay in Indonesia that everything costs money. Not in the traditional sense that you buy a good or pay for a service rendered, but in a way that the money trickles from your hand. Everyone wants to “help” you and then expects that you pay them an undisclosed amount upon completion of said services. Put simply, it is a guessing game with nefarious rules and what feel like hidden agendas.
Perhaps, I am being too harsh. The reality looks more like this: Everybody is trying to get a piece of the action. They are not necessarily trying cheat you out of money, not in the sense we are accustomed to, no it is more of gentle familiarity. Everyone is your new friend, and friends help friends, but since we just met a tip would be appreciated, and if you can’t or won’t tip then maybe we really aren’t friends, so maybe I won’t help you get what you need. It is as if the cast members are all saying, “look man, you are bringing in four suitcases worth of baby clothes and shampoos, my kid barely has two outfits, let me snack a bit on what you’re feasting on.” At the end of the day who can blame them?
The cargo area at the Jakarta airport is like an ant colony on crack. It bustles and jives with a pace that is incomprehensible. Stacks of goods and cargo move up and down, right and left like life size Tetris pieces. Maneuvered and controlled by an army of forklift operators, captains, swindlers, and brutes. It is a scene straight out of a Steinbeck novel.
From the second I made contact with this group of actors I was swept away and quickly lost control. A more experienced director may have known how to reign in the situation at the very beginning, but I was green and unfamiliar. The wind was pushing me about, but it would be naïve to say I was sailing. They saw me coming before I even left the car.
After asking the security guard if we were in the right place, I was told to wait. A short man wearing a mustache that bespoke of third world authority looked at me and nodded in the universal language of gestures to follow him. It is truly astounding how much of the world’s business can be accomplished with the sole use of body language. I am constantly impressed by our ability as primates to control our environments as well as we do, despite the fact that we seldom really understand each other.
We moved quickly and with purpose. Dodging troops of small tanned men carrying loads no Westerner has ever been asked to carry. Being a card carrying “first-worlder” has its perks. A quick tap on a window and we were joined by another man, who strangely looked like an Indonesian version of Mike Tyson, minus the face tattoo of course. Short, stocking and with eyes that were squinting and nervous, as well as calming and kind. Suddenly our entourage was three and just as quickly we were four! We had mysteriously picked up a third man. His eyes were silver with cataract, but his calm voice and reassuring demeanor and grasp of English later proved his value. The newly assembled team obviously answered to the first man who had met me at the gate. He strutted about the place like the cock-of-walk, patting people on the back, ordering large machinery out of the way, and graciously accepting one salute after another. I was certain he was in charge as he commandeered by airway bill and other documents to start the first step of what would eventually prove to be an exhaustive and never ending process of liberating my four suitcases from the clutches of the bureaucratic beast.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. A series of duplicated forms were erratically stapled in what can only be described as a dossier. We had given birth to a quickly growing stack of signed, stamped papers, which were all placed in a green folder and ready for stage two. Customs.
Suddenly our peacock captain hit his ceiling. The same man who had just moments ago held the strings of the puppet show firmly in his hands revealed that he too had scars on his shoulders from the next tier of ring leaders. He now nervously smoked one cigarette after another waiting to see how his higher ups would play their hand. Now that it is all said and done, I am sure he was wondering how much in “fees” this tier of the circus would take from me. For whatever I had to pay at customs would be less for him and his crew.
Let’s take a short break from our tale for a look at the inner workings of my mind at this stage. What is the difference between an accepted fee and a bribe? One could easily go to a “respected” business and be told that they have to pay a variety of fees. For example, you must $80 dollars for a new US passport, but if asked by a guy to pay a little for his troubles, we suddenly take offense and call it corruption. After all these guys were performing a service for me. I knew the whole time they would demand payment. I guess the issue is that with a fee you know up front what you are expected to pay, and so you feel somewhat in control. “$80 for a new passport that is outrageous,” you grumble but pay nonetheless, but when you do not know how much you will pay you feel helpless. This is the sting of corruption. It is not about money it is about power. And when person A wants something from person B and is not sure what it will take to get said object, person A feels weak and powerless. That is how I was beginning to feel, as I began to see the scope of how any people would need to be paid before this was all said and done.
At this moment, our fearless leader knew that the customs official could demand anything from me and I would have to pay, thus negating all the hard work he and his gang had put in so far. Ironically, the customs official did now ask me for anything. Yet.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. The dossier grew.
We were ready to enter the actual bowels of the beast. The four us snaked our way through the loading docks and into the cargo warehouse. Our leader had regained his confidence and smoked his cigarette with a reborn coolness and poise that would have been impressive had I not just moments ago saw him cowering in the corner like a beaten puppy. Before we entered the warehouse, I noticed the slow moving bulbous clouds and various shrubs and shades of green growing out of every inch of exposed soil I which thy were allowed.
I though of this land hundreds of years ago. This fertile island blanketed by a lush rainforest must have been something extraordinary. What had we done to it? Is this it? I thought. The legacy of our species is to have transformed a languid, luxuriant, lazy lifestyle into this? We have torn down acres of forest, destroying our only connection to our planet, shifted our priorities so we can move goods around the planet? Establishing incestuous hierarchies and pecking orders, just so we can move things from one place to another. Things we don’t even need. I thought about the amount of oil being used not only to create these things but also used to power the machines that raised and lowered them from the machines that would bring them to our lives. It all seemed so empty and futile. So ridiculous. I wanted to stop the entire process and tell the people to go back to their homes. Forget about this stuff, but I knew that it was now beyond anyone’s control. The market demanded a pound of flesh from each of us, and we would pay whether we liked it or not. But that was outside. We were inside the hive now. I am not sure how much time had elapsed since we started this adventure, but I had yet to even see my suitcases.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Wait. This was going to take much longer than I could have ever imagined.
Then like a group of molested refuges I saw my suitcases making their way to the cage where they would be examined by another set of customs officials. They looked tired and abused. Both the men and the luggage had lost their original shapes and now looked like deflated balloons from some hysterical parade celebrating progress. They had made their way through the bowels of the international cargo racket, and now, lying on a wooden crate had ended up here in the toilet. I dreaded what it would look like inside, but like a scientist searching through scat we began the dissection.
Midnight Express, The Queen of Bali, scenes from every movie about drug trafficking that I had ever heard of raced through my mind; I envisioned myself no longer the pet of the mustachioed captain who had taken a shine to me, but rather his prisoner. What if he had people working on the inside and had somehow planted a few kilograms of narcotics in my bag? After denying possession of such contraband materials, I would be asked to pay a “fee” or spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell under his supervision, being constantly reminded of the betrayal to our friendship. The thought was so terrifying, that I quickly took up my book, The Great Gatsby and followed the trial and tribulations of James Gatz and his crew instead.
Back in the cage everything in the middle of the suitcases was damp. No wet. Soaking wet. The clothes that we had spent so much time, money, and energy shipping half way across the world looked as if they had been used to mop up some mess. “Everything is wet.” I said to no one in particular. And in appropriate fashion no one responded. Everyone just looked at me. There eyes were saying, “Really? These clothes? This is what you are spending so much time, energy, and money on?” I shrugged, but no one noticed. The bags were zipped up and I was told to wait. The man with the silver eyes snatched the newly stamped folder and darted down a narrow corridor. Wait. I found it ironic that these clothes had probably been made in some sweat shop around the corner, been flown to some store in the US where my mother-in-law had purchased them then sent to Qatar, and now they had made it back home. Full circle.
Mairin called and asked how it was going. “I should be out of here in about 20 minutes. So far so good.” Silver eyes returned and said we had to go back to the customs office. “But we are in the customs office.” This is the warehouse office I was told. Before we left however it was time to discuss the fee. Their fee. The fee and their fee. I was told that I would have to spend $80 on storage fees. I asked to see any documentation that said this storage fee was legit. I knew they were lying, but I didn’t know what to do. We had all invested so much in this relationship. We’d shared a soda, broken conversations, and the last two hours of our lives. If I refused to pay, what would happen? Where would I go? Who would help me if not these men? I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and I knew that this was the team that would get me there. I swallowed my pride and said, “Okay, what else?” Through a series of smiles, shrugs, and miscommunications, I was coaxed into believing that this was standard operating procedure. I was still listening. Then they conferred with themselves. Made calculations.
How much do you think we can get from him? He went for the storage bullshit pretty quick. He must be loaded. Did you see how many pairs of baby were in that suitcase? He must be made of money. I say we go for broke and ask for two million? (that is roughly $200) No way, he looks smarter than that. We will lose him. Pull him in slowly. I say 1.7. That is too high. Give him room to negotiate.
You will pay us 1.4 million, which includes the storage fee. And we will load everything in your car. Check, check, check and he gave me a high five. I had come with one million expecting to pay the equivalent $100. I told them this. They smiled. They looked at each other. They conferred. We shook hands. Everyone was happy.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this machine on my own. I had anticipated paying someone something to make sure I would leave with my four suitcases. Back to the difference between fees and bribes. If I had been told when I arrived that I would have to pay a fee of $100, I would have grumbled, but would not have felt like I was being duped. But knowing that this gang had sized me up and decided an amount they could squeeze from me was disheartening. The $40 for their help filling out forms was absolutely acceptable, but the bullshit about the storage fees was just greedy. Perhaps in a few months, I will be more experienced and my Bahasa will have improved so I can argue my case more aggressively. I could have won that fight with a little experience behind me.
Believe it or, we were sent back to the customs officials office, for another round of smile, sign, wait, stamp. I was now like a prized show dog, being walked on an invisible leash. I was asked to pay another $50 for taxes, but after some shaking of hands and gestures of empty pockets, the taxes somehow disappeared. I was cleaned dry and everyone knew it. This latest office had come to the trough to late and were left empty handed. The leader of our team smile triumphantly as we exited the office. His dog had won and he had been paid.
I know this is must be a repetitive nightmare to read. Believe me, it is a chore to document as well, but living it was even worse. Yes, reader, I was asked to go back to the warehouse and wait on the loading dock for my cargo to finally be delivered to my waiting car. I had finished The Great Gatsby at this point, so I let my mind wander one last time.
This experience would make a great school field trip I thought. The entire day would be a great lesson. Many of the students I teach live in such a bubble, that a glimpse into the bowels of modern goods transportation would be an eye opening experience for them. At school, we celebrate group work in artificial settings, so why not have a group of students come to the cargo office at a major airport and try to retrieve some baggage? See how they deal with stress, patience, cultural understandings, morality, racism, and class. Let them see what goes on in order for them to get their cheap goods onto the shelves. You can show them The Story of Stuff, or you can bring them to the docks and let them watch the sweat fall of the brow of the army of men who haul these goods from plane to truck. You can tech them about political structures or you can simply let them watch the pecking order in real life. This is to say nothing of the poetry and films that can be created in environments like this.
I was given a pat on the back and we shared a final round of handshakes. I genuinely thanked these men, because although I may have been cheated, I felt that we all got what we deserved in the end. I was not yet experienced enough to navigate this maze on my own. I needed their help. I could appreciate the fact that they saw me coming and carefully masterminded their graft for the day.
After all this and another hour and half long ride in traffic home, the suitcases arrived and where met with frustration and anger. Mairin was not happy that everything was wet, but I was too exhausted to offer consolation. She threatened to write an angry email to the airline, but all I could do was smile inside. What happened to these bags was a far more complicated process than any email could solve. The men responsible for this mess had nothing to do with emails.
Now that this post is finished, I hope that I did not create a biased or harsh portrait of Indonesians. So many times, expatriates see locals in a certain light and forget that many of the traits we judge can be found in our own societies. I suggest viewing season two of The Wire for a look at cargo corruption on a much larger scale. I also want to add that most of the people I have met in the first two weeks I have been in Jakarta, have been more that kind and generous. So far, I find Jakarta to be a chaotic yet warm place. The people go out of their way to meet you and help. Yes, sometimes they me demand a “fee” but more often than not they are simply happy to meet you and want to show their kindness and hospitality.
I have learned during my brief stay in Indonesia that everything costs money. Not in the traditional sense that you buy a good or pay for a service rendered, but in a way that the money trickles from your hand. Everyone wants to “help” you and then expects that you pay them an undisclosed amount upon completion of said services. Put simply, it is a guessing game with nefarious rules and what feel like hidden agendas.
Perhaps, I am being too harsh. The reality looks more like this: Everybody is trying to get a piece of the action. They are not necessarily trying cheat you out of money, not in the sense we are accustomed to, no it is more of gentle familiarity. Everyone is your new friend, and friends help friends, but since we just met a tip would be appreciated, and if you can’t or won’t tip then maybe we really aren’t friends, so maybe I won’t help you get what you need. It is as if the cast members are all saying, “look man, you are bringing in four suitcases worth of baby clothes and shampoos, my kid barely has two outfits, let me snack a bit on what you’re feasting on.” At the end of the day who can blame them?
The cargo area at the Jakarta airport is like an ant colony on crack. It bustles and jives with a pace that is incomprehensible. Stacks of goods and cargo move up and down, right and left like life size Tetris pieces. Maneuvered and controlled by an army of forklift operators, captains, swindlers, and brutes. It is a scene straight out of a Steinbeck novel.
From the second I made contact with this group of actors I was swept away and quickly lost control. A more experienced director may have known how to reign in the situation at the very beginning, but I was green and unfamiliar. The wind was pushing me about, but it would be naïve to say I was sailing. They saw me coming before I even left the car.
After asking the security guard if we were in the right place, I was told to wait. A short man wearing a mustache that bespoke of third world authority looked at me and nodded in the universal language of gestures to follow him. It is truly astounding how much of the world’s business can be accomplished with the sole use of body language. I am constantly impressed by our ability as primates to control our environments as well as we do, despite the fact that we seldom really understand each other.
We moved quickly and with purpose. Dodging troops of small tanned men carrying loads no Westerner has ever been asked to carry. Being a card carrying “first-worlder” has its perks. A quick tap on a window and we were joined by another man, who strangely looked like an Indonesian version of Mike Tyson, minus the face tattoo of course. Short, stocking and with eyes that were squinting and nervous, as well as calming and kind. Suddenly our entourage was three and just as quickly we were four! We had mysteriously picked up a third man. His eyes were silver with cataract, but his calm voice and reassuring demeanor and grasp of English later proved his value. The newly assembled team obviously answered to the first man who had met me at the gate. He strutted about the place like the cock-of-walk, patting people on the back, ordering large machinery out of the way, and graciously accepting one salute after another. I was certain he was in charge as he commandeered by airway bill and other documents to start the first step of what would eventually prove to be an exhaustive and never ending process of liberating my four suitcases from the clutches of the bureaucratic beast.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. A series of duplicated forms were erratically stapled in what can only be described as a dossier. We had given birth to a quickly growing stack of signed, stamped papers, which were all placed in a green folder and ready for stage two. Customs.
Suddenly our peacock captain hit his ceiling. The same man who had just moments ago held the strings of the puppet show firmly in his hands revealed that he too had scars on his shoulders from the next tier of ring leaders. He now nervously smoked one cigarette after another waiting to see how his higher ups would play their hand. Now that it is all said and done, I am sure he was wondering how much in “fees” this tier of the circus would take from me. For whatever I had to pay at customs would be less for him and his crew.
Let’s take a short break from our tale for a look at the inner workings of my mind at this stage. What is the difference between an accepted fee and a bribe? One could easily go to a “respected” business and be told that they have to pay a variety of fees. For example, you must $80 dollars for a new US passport, but if asked by a guy to pay a little for his troubles, we suddenly take offense and call it corruption. After all these guys were performing a service for me. I knew the whole time they would demand payment. I guess the issue is that with a fee you know up front what you are expected to pay, and so you feel somewhat in control. “$80 for a new passport that is outrageous,” you grumble but pay nonetheless, but when you do not know how much you will pay you feel helpless. This is the sting of corruption. It is not about money it is about power. And when person A wants something from person B and is not sure what it will take to get said object, person A feels weak and powerless. That is how I was beginning to feel, as I began to see the scope of how any people would need to be paid before this was all said and done.
At this moment, our fearless leader knew that the customs official could demand anything from me and I would have to pay, thus negating all the hard work he and his gang had put in so far. Ironically, the customs official did now ask me for anything. Yet.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. The dossier grew.
We were ready to enter the actual bowels of the beast. The four us snaked our way through the loading docks and into the cargo warehouse. Our leader had regained his confidence and smoked his cigarette with a reborn coolness and poise that would have been impressive had I not just moments ago saw him cowering in the corner like a beaten puppy. Before we entered the warehouse, I noticed the slow moving bulbous clouds and various shrubs and shades of green growing out of every inch of exposed soil I which thy were allowed.
I though of this land hundreds of years ago. This fertile island blanketed by a lush rainforest must have been something extraordinary. What had we done to it? Is this it? I thought. The legacy of our species is to have transformed a languid, luxuriant, lazy lifestyle into this? We have torn down acres of forest, destroying our only connection to our planet, shifted our priorities so we can move goods around the planet? Establishing incestuous hierarchies and pecking orders, just so we can move things from one place to another. Things we don’t even need. I thought about the amount of oil being used not only to create these things but also used to power the machines that raised and lowered them from the machines that would bring them to our lives. It all seemed so empty and futile. So ridiculous. I wanted to stop the entire process and tell the people to go back to their homes. Forget about this stuff, but I knew that it was now beyond anyone’s control. The market demanded a pound of flesh from each of us, and we would pay whether we liked it or not. But that was outside. We were inside the hive now. I am not sure how much time had elapsed since we started this adventure, but I had yet to even see my suitcases.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Wait. This was going to take much longer than I could have ever imagined.
Then like a group of molested refuges I saw my suitcases making their way to the cage where they would be examined by another set of customs officials. They looked tired and abused. Both the men and the luggage had lost their original shapes and now looked like deflated balloons from some hysterical parade celebrating progress. They had made their way through the bowels of the international cargo racket, and now, lying on a wooden crate had ended up here in the toilet. I dreaded what it would look like inside, but like a scientist searching through scat we began the dissection.
Midnight Express, The Queen of Bali, scenes from every movie about drug trafficking that I had ever heard of raced through my mind; I envisioned myself no longer the pet of the mustachioed captain who had taken a shine to me, but rather his prisoner. What if he had people working on the inside and had somehow planted a few kilograms of narcotics in my bag? After denying possession of such contraband materials, I would be asked to pay a “fee” or spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell under his supervision, being constantly reminded of the betrayal to our friendship. The thought was so terrifying, that I quickly took up my book, The Great Gatsby and followed the trial and tribulations of James Gatz and his crew instead.
Back in the cage everything in the middle of the suitcases was damp. No wet. Soaking wet. The clothes that we had spent so much time, money, and energy shipping half way across the world looked as if they had been used to mop up some mess. “Everything is wet.” I said to no one in particular. And in appropriate fashion no one responded. Everyone just looked at me. There eyes were saying, “Really? These clothes? This is what you are spending so much time, energy, and money on?” I shrugged, but no one noticed. The bags were zipped up and I was told to wait. The man with the silver eyes snatched the newly stamped folder and darted down a narrow corridor. Wait. I found it ironic that these clothes had probably been made in some sweat shop around the corner, been flown to some store in the US where my mother-in-law had purchased them then sent to Qatar, and now they had made it back home. Full circle.
Mairin called and asked how it was going. “I should be out of here in about 20 minutes. So far so good.” Silver eyes returned and said we had to go back to the customs office. “But we are in the customs office.” This is the warehouse office I was told. Before we left however it was time to discuss the fee. Their fee. The fee and their fee. I was told that I would have to spend $80 on storage fees. I asked to see any documentation that said this storage fee was legit. I knew they were lying, but I didn’t know what to do. We had all invested so much in this relationship. We’d shared a soda, broken conversations, and the last two hours of our lives. If I refused to pay, what would happen? Where would I go? Who would help me if not these men? I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and I knew that this was the team that would get me there. I swallowed my pride and said, “Okay, what else?” Through a series of smiles, shrugs, and miscommunications, I was coaxed into believing that this was standard operating procedure. I was still listening. Then they conferred with themselves. Made calculations.
How much do you think we can get from him? He went for the storage bullshit pretty quick. He must be loaded. Did you see how many pairs of baby were in that suitcase? He must be made of money. I say we go for broke and ask for two million? (that is roughly $200) No way, he looks smarter than that. We will lose him. Pull him in slowly. I say 1.7. That is too high. Give him room to negotiate.
You will pay us 1.4 million, which includes the storage fee. And we will load everything in your car. Check, check, check and he gave me a high five. I had come with one million expecting to pay the equivalent $100. I told them this. They smiled. They looked at each other. They conferred. We shook hands. Everyone was happy.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this machine on my own. I had anticipated paying someone something to make sure I would leave with my four suitcases. Back to the difference between fees and bribes. If I had been told when I arrived that I would have to pay a fee of $100, I would have grumbled, but would not have felt like I was being duped. But knowing that this gang had sized me up and decided an amount they could squeeze from me was disheartening. The $40 for their help filling out forms was absolutely acceptable, but the bullshit about the storage fees was just greedy. Perhaps in a few months, I will be more experienced and my Bahasa will have improved so I can argue my case more aggressively. I could have won that fight with a little experience behind me.
Believe it or, we were sent back to the customs officials office, for another round of smile, sign, wait, stamp. I was now like a prized show dog, being walked on an invisible leash. I was asked to pay another $50 for taxes, but after some shaking of hands and gestures of empty pockets, the taxes somehow disappeared. I was cleaned dry and everyone knew it. This latest office had come to the trough to late and were left empty handed. The leader of our team smile triumphantly as we exited the office. His dog had won and he had been paid.
I know this is must be a repetitive nightmare to read. Believe me, it is a chore to document as well, but living it was even worse. Yes, reader, I was asked to go back to the warehouse and wait on the loading dock for my cargo to finally be delivered to my waiting car. I had finished The Great Gatsby at this point, so I let my mind wander one last time.
This experience would make a great school field trip I thought. The entire day would be a great lesson. Many of the students I teach live in such a bubble, that a glimpse into the bowels of modern goods transportation would be an eye opening experience for them. At school, we celebrate group work in artificial settings, so why not have a group of students come to the cargo office at a major airport and try to retrieve some baggage? See how they deal with stress, patience, cultural understandings, morality, racism, and class. Let them see what goes on in order for them to get their cheap goods onto the shelves. You can show them The Story of Stuff, or you can bring them to the docks and let them watch the sweat fall of the brow of the army of men who haul these goods from plane to truck. You can tech them about political structures or you can simply let them watch the pecking order in real life. This is to say nothing of the poetry and films that can be created in environments like this.
I was given a pat on the back and we shared a final round of handshakes. I genuinely thanked these men, because although I may have been cheated, I felt that we all got what we deserved in the end. I was not yet experienced enough to navigate this maze on my own. I needed their help. I could appreciate the fact that they saw me coming and carefully masterminded their graft for the day.
After all this and another hour and half long ride in traffic home, the suitcases arrived and where met with frustration and anger. Mairin was not happy that everything was wet, but I was too exhausted to offer consolation. She threatened to write an angry email to the airline, but all I could do was smile inside. What happened to these bags was a far more complicated process than any email could solve. The men responsible for this mess had nothing to do with emails.
Now that this post is finished, I hope that I did not create a biased or harsh portrait of Indonesians. So many times, expatriates see locals in a certain light and forget that many of the traits we judge can be found in our own societies. I suggest viewing season two of The Wire for a look at cargo corruption on a much larger scale. I also want to add that most of the people I have met in the first two weeks I have been in Jakarta, have been more that kind and generous. So far, I find Jakarta to be a chaotic yet warm place. The people go out of their way to meet you and help. Yes, sometimes they me demand a “fee” but more often than not they are simply happy to meet you and want to show their kindness and hospitality.
November 30, 2008
Long Roads
In an effort to focus on the positive aspects of life and refrain from brooding on the demise and fall of mankind, I have chosen to showcase the beauty and power of the human spirit, rather than focus on our most base and ugly features.
I have chosen not to write a post about the disgusting scene at the Long Island Wal-Mart this past Friday. We have a long way to go to move people away from an angry mob possessed by their consumption, to creating and fostering imaginations capable of this:
Or this:
I have chosen not to write a post about the disgusting scene at the Long Island Wal-Mart this past Friday. We have a long way to go to move people away from an angry mob possessed by their consumption, to creating and fostering imaginations capable of this:
Or this:
November 8, 2008
A Monopoly of Ideology
Albtraum has been taking it to the hoop pretty strongly lately through his comments. I have been letting it go , because I know he is a very intelligent guy whom I respect greatly as a thinker and as a friend, but his last comment was a foul, and I need to call him on it.
I am here to argue, however, there is a difference between a healthy system based on profits or compensation and exploitation. Every one deserves to be paid for services or products rendered, but what I think many people fail to see is that capitalism is based on exploitation. It is a system based on one class, the capitalists exploiting the laboring class. Wealth is generated by the severity of this exploitation. Because this class is in control of not only the means of production and capital but also the media, the state, and all of the fundamental economic governing bodies like the IMF and World Bank, they have forced us all to believe that this current economic system based on a globalized, unregulated, privatized, free market is, not only the best choice, but our only remaining option.
Oops. I wasn't going to get into jargon. Listen, although I agree with much of Marxist philosophy, I am not here to promote a communist alternative. So please spare me the Mao, Stalin, fall of the wall rhetoric. I am only saying that a system, which depends on perpetual growth, cannot survive with a finite resource pool. The system we are immersed in today is only possible because of cheap fossil fuels. It generates wealth for a very small percentage of people, because it steals resources through privatization schemes after forcing nations into unmanageable debt, and when that doesn't work there is always war.
This is not a system based on honest profit, this is a system based on greed and injustice. It is this system that makes me uncomfortable and fills me with angst.
Another point worth examining is that we are viewing the world through the lens of capitalism. In order to maintain their hold on power and maximize their wealth, the capitalist class must maintain that theirs is the only viable system. Through media, through public schooling, through an attitude of a global culture based on profit and consumption, we are led to believe that our purpose here on earth to buy and sell commodities.
I hope that we are here for more than that. My last post was simply trying to find a way to move toward an alternative. I am not sure what that alternative will look like, but that is why I got into teaching. I hope that we can work with young people today and rethink everything we have been taught since the dawn of the industrial age. Hell maybe since the dawn of man.
A monopoly of ideology leads people to not even bother thinking that another system may be possible. John Molyeaux says it best:
We need to be focusing on turning this entire thought system on its head.
“Since the day a caveman discovered fire and immediately started charging his friends mammoth meat and sexual favors if they wanted some, every human system has been based on certain people profiting far more than others, for various reasons and through various methods. There never has been and never will be a human society that is not based on profit.”I will try to keep this brief and not get caught up in socialist jargon. There is no doubt that human beings desire profits and most of us are greedy and operate mostly through self-interest and self- preservation. The animal in us has needs. Our biological, evolutionary need to survive often trumps any weighty spiritual or political ideologies.
I am here to argue, however, there is a difference between a healthy system based on profits or compensation and exploitation. Every one deserves to be paid for services or products rendered, but what I think many people fail to see is that capitalism is based on exploitation. It is a system based on one class, the capitalists exploiting the laboring class. Wealth is generated by the severity of this exploitation. Because this class is in control of not only the means of production and capital but also the media, the state, and all of the fundamental economic governing bodies like the IMF and World Bank, they have forced us all to believe that this current economic system based on a globalized, unregulated, privatized, free market is, not only the best choice, but our only remaining option.
Oops. I wasn't going to get into jargon. Listen, although I agree with much of Marxist philosophy, I am not here to promote a communist alternative. So please spare me the Mao, Stalin, fall of the wall rhetoric. I am only saying that a system, which depends on perpetual growth, cannot survive with a finite resource pool. The system we are immersed in today is only possible because of cheap fossil fuels. It generates wealth for a very small percentage of people, because it steals resources through privatization schemes after forcing nations into unmanageable debt, and when that doesn't work there is always war.
This is not a system based on honest profit, this is a system based on greed and injustice. It is this system that makes me uncomfortable and fills me with angst.
Another point worth examining is that we are viewing the world through the lens of capitalism. In order to maintain their hold on power and maximize their wealth, the capitalist class must maintain that theirs is the only viable system. Through media, through public schooling, through an attitude of a global culture based on profit and consumption, we are led to believe that our purpose here on earth to buy and sell commodities.
I hope that we are here for more than that. My last post was simply trying to find a way to move toward an alternative. I am not sure what that alternative will look like, but that is why I got into teaching. I hope that we can work with young people today and rethink everything we have been taught since the dawn of the industrial age. Hell maybe since the dawn of man.
A monopoly of ideology leads people to not even bother thinking that another system may be possible. John Molyeaux says it best:
… we have to remember that the human behavior we experience is behavior under capitalism and that capitalism massively conditions people towards selfishness. Of course the system preaches morality and altruism to children but look at how schools are actually organized: the children required to compete to come top of the class (or be punished for not trying), to pass exams, to gain entry to ‘good’ schools and top universities, to get the best jobs, and with any deviation from this self interested agenda subject to severe condemnation.
We need to be focusing on turning this entire thought system on its head.
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