An Open Letter to the Democratic Party

A week ago a handful of too-big-to-fail Wall Street banks threatened to withhold campaign donations from Senate Democrats in response to the efforts of Senators like Elizabeth Warren and Sherrod Brown to rein them in. The move was petty, vindictive, even cowardly, leaked as it was on background, the threat as much symbolic as actual, though its implications rang clear enough: Stop messing with us, or we’ll cut you off.

I’m here to urge the DSCC, and the Democratic Party in general, to take them up on it.

I know, it’s probably foolish to expect a political party to turn money down, especially in the age of Citizens United. But it’s not only the right thing to do, it’s the smart thing, too. Continue reading “An Open Letter to the Democratic Party” →

Cooking Your Food Without Burning the House Down, or Why Capitalism Is Like Fire

I think it’s clear to everyone that capitalism in the United States has gotten pretty out of control lately. Inequality is at or approaching Gilded Age levels. Job security no longer exists for most people. The middle class is vanishing, even though no one will admit it, most especially those who’ve slipped a rung or two on the economic ladder. Yet by the numbers the economy’s doing pretty well, and mostly recovered from the shock of the housing bubble popping. Which is true, if you’re a too-big-to-fail corporation or a member of the one percent.

For the rest of us, not so much.

It doesn’t have to be this way, and once upon a time not that long ago, it wasn’t. Say what you will about the three decades spanning the mid-forties to the mid-seventies; economically speaking it was kind of a Golden Age. Thanks to the safeguards put in place after the Great Depression (and some frankly redistributive top tax brackets), there were decades of consistent economic growth, the fruits of which were more widely shared than at any time or place in history. If you’re not old enough to remember, ask your parents or grandparents what it was like back in the day, when you could get a good-paying job right out of high school that could buy a house and support a family and came with lifetime security and a pension and a raise every year.

So, how did we get from there to where we are now? More importantly, how do we get to a better place, economically speaking, one where the incredible prosperity that capitalism can produce is more widely and fairly distributed? Because let’s face it, no other way of organizing economic activity human beings have ever tried has come even close to producing the plenty that properly regulated capitalism can.

There are lots of answers to the questions I’ve just posed, things to do with tax law and the regulation of banks and financial institutions. But the first thing, to my mind, is to reframe the way we think about capitalism. Thanks to a combination of the Cold War and the tenets of market fundamentalism and trickle-down economics, contemporary discussions of capitalism, at least in the United States, tend to be pretty reductive: you’re either fer it or agin’ it, with nary a shade of nuance in between. The success of this either-or narrative is a big reason we are where we’re at.

So how shall we reframe our thinking about capitalism? The most useful answer I’ve been able to come up with to that question is this: Continue reading “Cooking Your Food Without Burning the House Down, or Why Capitalism Is Like Fire” →

I Read Only Books by Women For a Year: Here’s What Happened

I read a lot of great books, is the short answer.

So, a few days ago writer K Tempest Bradford published this article, in which she challenged readers to stop reading white, straight, cisgendered male authors for one year. Sadly (and predictably), certain corners of the internet exploded in rage at the notion (she has assembled a lovely collection of rage-tweets here, if you enjoy that sort of thing). I won’t reprise their objections, which savvy interneteers will likely be able to intuit themselves, nor pass judgement on any validity those objections may or may not have. But it so happens that I recently spent the better part of a year doing something very similar to Ms Bradford’s challenge. From roughly November 2013 until late last year, I read only books by women(*), many of them women of color, others not cisgendered (two of the new favorite writers whose work I discovered are married).

I did so for my own reasons, both personal and (for lack of a better term) professional. On a personal level it was simply the realization that the vast majority of the books on my overstuffed shelves were by men. I fought it for a long time, that realization. I mean, these were great books, each easily defensible on the merits. I have, if I may say, damned fine taste in literature, and reading material in general. Ask any of my friends. I’ve been an obsessive reader since kindergarten, the kind of person who never goes anywhere without a book and hasn’t since he could carry one. But looked at en masse, the unconscious bias in my collection was (and is) painfully clear (in my defense, I actually am a cisgendered white male).

When I was younger, the notion of placing any kind of limitation on my reading material for a whole year would have seemed preposterous. Now comfortably ensconced in middle age, it didn’t seem like that big a deal. It wasn’t like I was going to run out of good books to read, and while it might mean holding off on some things in my to-be-read stack, it’s hardly without precedent for a book to be in that stack for years before I get around to reading it. Really all I had to do was rearrange the order, though of course I used it as an excuse to go book-shopping, which is one of my favorite things to do.

The timing that November seemed propitious. I’d started writing Continue reading “I Read Only Books by Women For a Year: Here’s What Happened” →

One Man International Rescue Mission: After Action Report, Part 3

(Part 1 here, Part 2 here)

The Rio Quijos Eco Lodge sits not far from the bank of its namesake river, a well-known and -regarded star in the constellation of meaningful places in the river kayaking world, with many miles of class four and five rapids though the stretch the lodge sits on is lazy and calm. Across the river is a wall of green, forty feet high and infinitely detailed, overwhelming in its undulous profusion. The perimeter of the well-maintained property is the same, trees stacked on bushes competing with palms and bamboo for space in the alluvial soil. Banana plants grow between the stone-lined gravel pathways that lead between newly built cabins and a large timber and stone lodge. Off to one side, a ragged net hangs on a volleyball court whose edges are growing in. The lodge is simple and rustic, made from local materials (funny how the locavore lifestyle we pay such a premium for in Seattle is just how life is in much of the world), and pleasingly authentic, the furniture made from fitted stripped logs, the interior subtly modern, the rooms walled with rough-cut planks stained a pleasing and comfortable dark walnut color.

Michael was downstairs when I woke up, stretched out on the more-aesthetic-than-functional couch watching Netflix. His color was improved, and he looked to be in good spirits, though he was still pretty weak. I met Kathy, the lady in charge, and she made me breakfast while another man — whose name I never learned but who also worked at the lodge — kept yelling ‘El Toro!’ at Michael and telling me Michael’s problem was too much masturbating. I agreed, but I agreed much more with Kathy’s opinion that it was likely some kind of food-borne parasite that had done Michael in. I was inclined to agree, both because she probably sees this kind of thing all the time and because Michael is always hungry (that he hadn’t eaten in days told me a lot about how sick he’d been) and not always picky about what or where he eats. Kathy was obviously quite taken with Michael, who has the sort of unthinking charisma that both causes and comes from things just kind of working themselves out in his favor most of the time. It gives him the sunniest outlook, and because he’s genuinely happy most of the time people respond very positively to his presence, which perpetuates the cycle (a quick f’rinstance: on his way down to Ecuador, Michael managed to get his river kayak, packed with gear, checked onto the airplane for free, just by being Michael and saying ‘aw, shucks, I didn’t know’). As super-powers go, it’s a pretty good one.

But every super-power has a downside. Intestinal parasites are immune to charisma, and because things mostly work out for Michael he hadn’t done his traveler’s due diligence before coming to Ecuador. He hadn’t gone to a travel clinic and made sure his immunizations were updated and that he got whatever vaccines might be necessary for where he was going. He didn’t have a bottle of wide-spectrum antibiotics just in case, or a stash of over-the-counter vitamins and meds to keep his body strong. He’d declined the fifty or sixty extra bucks for the catastrophic travel insurance (you know, to deal with situations exactly like this one) when he bought his plane ticket. He hadn’t even learned any Spanish.

And it had worked until the parasite. After all, here we were, in gringo paradise, because Michael, being Michael, had scored a gig as a river guide for the tour company occupying the eco lodge, who were putting him up for free in this lovely gringo bubble in paradise.

At least he picked a good spot to get sick in. Continue reading “One Man International Rescue Mission: After Action Report, Part 3” →

One Man International Rescue Mission: After-Action Report, Part 2

(link to Part 1 for those readers just joining us)

I turned on my phone, which didn’t have service, and wandered the length and breadth of the arrivals terminal at Mariscal Sucre, looking for anyone who might be looking for me. No one was.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette, tried my phone again, went back inside and made another circuit. I checked out the cabbies, thought about renting a car. I’d google-mapped the directions before I left in case I needed them (and/or to double-check against where my theoretical driver actually drove me; you never know, after all) and it looked pretty straightforward on paper. Of course it wouldn’t be, and I didn’t relish the idea of driving off into the jungle at night, but if my contact didn’t show I’d have to decide between that and negotiating with whoever I could find at the airport. That theoretical person might or might not know the way, might or might not be on the up and up, and would have to be negotiated with in Spanish. After twelve hours in transit, neither option had much appeal. At least I didn’t have to worry about changing money.

I decided I’d give whoever might be coming half an hour, then either find a hotel near the airport or start negotiating (whatever uncertainty that entailed, I decided renting a car would be my last fallback, and not something I’d chance til morning if it became necessary). I went outside and smoked another cigarette. It was good smoking weather: the air was cool, but it felt nice after the recycled atmosphere of the plane, and the new airport is far enough outside the city for the air to be comparatively fresh (the old airport was in the middle of town, a much more overwhelming transition).

I wasn’t quite worried, but I was relieved when I went back inside and saw a young Ecuadorian man holding a sign with my name on it. He led me outside and called the driver, who was waiting outside the airport so he wouldn’t have to pay parking. We talked a little, but my Spanish wasn’t back online and I was too tired to say much, anyway. He told me Michael was feeling better and then the driver showed up in a brand new mid-size, quad-cab Chevrolet pickup. We loaded in and were off into the night, along shiny, well-lit, brand-new highways that were nicer than most of the interstates I’ve driven on lately. Up in the front seat, the driver and my contact, whose name I later learned was Eduardo, chatted amongst themselves while I looked out the window and tried to follow what they were saying. Their relationship wasn’t clear, and though there was little overt cause for concern I was now in an unmarked vehicle with two other men and a bunch of cash in my pocket. I was ninety percent sure it was all good, but the non-negligible remainder bothered me enough I started gaming out scenarios for how it would go down if I was wrong, and how I might handle it. I knew I was probably just being paranoid, but if something did happen I would need to be mentally prepared to react quickly and decisively, the odds being what they were.

Hey, I told you I’m obsessive/compulsive. Used properly, it can come in really handy in life, though as with all super-powers there are downsides.

We went through a few roundabouts, and I watched the signs. We seemed to be going the right way. I couldn’t follow Eduardo and the driver’s conversation in terms of what they were actually talking about, but the nonverbal cues were pretty clear. They were just two guys, minimally acquainted, making conversation to pass the time. Eduardo, being young, spent a lot of time on his phone, and the driver seemed maniacally focused on taking every turn and stretch of highway as fast as possible, while being as delicate with his brand new vehicle as he could, which meant a lot of quick acceleration and sudden braking. The radio filled the cabin with the major-chord melodies and sprightly rhythms of Ecuadorian country music.

I got a little sketched out when we pulled off the highway onto what looked like a dirt road. I’d turned on my Kindle, gone back to reading Hild — if for no other reason than to spare myself the mental strain of a conversation in Spanish — and was just checking in with reality every now and again to appease my paranoia. The driver, as solicitous of his brand-new vehicle as he was determined to exploit its accelerative capabilities, announced the turn with a sudden and definitive application of the brakes and next thing I knew we were on dirt and rocks, heading toward darkness. I ramped up just in case, started paying attention, but the vibe in the cab hadn’t changed, and we went around a bend and there was a tractor-trailer, which we passed, and then we were past the place where they were expanding the highway and back onto pavement, a perfectly serviceable two-lane road that twisted and climbed and generally just snaked its way through the mountains, which the driver took with his by-now familiar blend of attentive aggression and gusto. I would later discover just how beautiful the country I was passing through was, but all I could see was darkness out the window except when we passed what few vehicles were out on the highway.

They were driving me into the middle of nowhere, sure. But that’s what I was paying them to do. I put my paranoia to bed and settled back into Hild for the drive. Continue reading “One Man International Rescue Mission: After-Action Report, Part 2” →