With Friends Like These

Back when it became clear Joe Biden was gonna beat Donald Trump in the presidential election, I kept seeing tweets from other Biden voters urging people like me to recall my disappointment in 2016 and show some sportsmanlike compassion toward my Republican friends. All I could say to that was, “My who?”

I don’t have Republican friends. I’ve had Republican acquaintances; I suppose we were friendly in the way of saying things like “hello” and “how are you?” I’m mainly thinking of old coworkers. But I don’t see them much now that I’m unemployed and home all the time. We certainly don’t seek each other out on social media. I’m not interested in what they think about anything happening in this country right now and I doubt they care to read my takes either.

Maybe you consider me intolerant. It’s true, I don’t have much tolerance for people with terrible values. Whether they care more about their personal wealth than the common good, blame immigrants for their problems, think black people deserve to be over-policed, believe poor people get too much free stuff, or prioritize ending abortion over all other social concerns, they seem pretty morally icky to me. And that’s not even accounting for the high potential for COVID denial and other forms of right-wing conspiracy theory. They’re not friendship material. 

Perhaps you’re wondering if I can’t handle someone having opinions that differ from mine. Oh, I can have a lot of fun with a difference of opinion. I love taking hard stances on issues like “Which licorice do you prefer?” (black) or “Who is the best Beatle?” (George). I’ll happily argue about that stuff all day. But if I discover my friend is a misguided red licorice/John fan, I still respect them because their bad opinions don’t make our world a worse place for others to live. 

No doubt some of you centrists who have Republican friends are shaking your heads in dismay because you take pride in having pals who disagree with your political beliefs. I’m curious, does that mean you have Maoist friends? Any anarchist buddies? Are any of your gun enthusiast pals arming up for the communist revolution? I have friends in all those categories. We don’t share identical political beliefs. But they’re still my comrades because as far as I’m concerned, we’re not THAT far from each other on the spectrum. Maybe you get along with Republicans because you’re not that far from them. I don’t think that’s anything to brag about, personally.

But hey, if you really like your reactionary pals, I wish you the best. I’m not here to talk anyone out of those relationships. My political goals — building democratic, multiracial, working-class people power — do not depend on that. But I will say this — if you do feel inclined to dump your Republican friends because you’re sickened that they voted for Trump again, or you can’t believe they’re defending the mob that stormed that Capitol, or maybe they were there themselves, just know that ditching them is a totally legitimate choice and you shouldn’t feel bad about it. If they call you a snowflake or say you’re weak for letting a difference of opinion get in the way of friendship, that’s just their way of coping with their inner ugliness. As with all breakups, the mutual ill will and lack of closure will feel weird for a while. But I predict you’ll feel better without them in your life, if their terrible values bother you that much.

From Roald Dahl’s “The Twits”

Plaudits for the Planless

As terrible as this pandemic has been, props to this situation for rewarding my one personality trait that always felt like a shortcoming before 2020 — my utter lack of vision. I’m not talking about my astigmatisms (though perhaps it’s fitting my eyesight is also abysmal). Rather, I mean my inability to imagine a lofty-yet-achievable long-term goal and a strategy to accomplish it. Some people had big plans for this year, only to now mourn their dashed dreams. I don’t tend to plan beyond “what’s for dinner tomorrow” or “at what point this week should I schedule this meeting,” so I haven’t experienced that much heartache. Before 2020 I always felt like an oversized kid for never having had any big goals in life. But this year, for the first time ever, I feel like a goddamn genius for not getting hung up on how things were supposed to be.

I did set one goal for 2020, which I managed to accomplish by August — I led our local Democratic Socialists of America organizing committee into official chapterhood. My big motivation for accomplishing this goal was knowing we would hold executive committee elections as soon as we became a chapter and I could stop being the leader. Especially after I began a grueling political campaign job in July, I could not wait to be free. I wasn’t a bad leader. I make a fine administrator because I’m detail-oriented, conscientious, and I know how to keep my ego out of the operation. But sometimes when you’re the leader, people think you’re supposed to have big ideas about the direction of the organization. Hahaha! I don’t have big ideas about anything. That’s the business of philosophers and spokespersons. I’m just a very organized workhorse.

Learning that about myself was one of the most comforting things to come out of this trash fire year. It’s okay that I don’t have big visions. I have a couple other characteristics that are just as important — work ethic and good taste in ideas. I don’t need to come up with a plan to win. Rather I look for people and groups with good plans, see if they have a place for me, and then I dig into the work. I know how to get others to show up (the secret is contacting them directly and asking) and that is where I prove to be a useful leader. But all this complex business within DSA — the factions and the caucuses and the bitter feuds — doesn’t mean much to me. That’s not to say it doesn’t matter, just not where I wish to invest my energy.

I guess I’ve come to the understanding that, for me, socialist organizing is a job I do to help win a better world. It isn’t a lifestyle or a friend group. It occupies a specific space in my life, along with my writing and my various hobbies and interests. Like any other job, I will happily clock out at the end of the day and focus on something else I find meaningful. It has boundaries. I will keep doing it, in whatever way seems most helpful, until it is no longer necessary. Given our country’s history and the current state of things, I assume that means I’ll keep going until I die. I don’t foresee any kind of retirement from work or organizing in my future. Doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Like I said, I’m not very good at that vision thing. But I always maintain hope that I could be wrong.

The Fool card from the Morgan-Greer Tarot

My Only Resolution is to Survive

Perhaps like me you’ve grown fatter in quarantine. I’m here to tell you it’s fine. If you’re gaining weight, you’re alive. That’s what I tell myself as I pat the pot at my midsection. “Thank you, round belly of life!” Not only have I not been killed by COVID, I am clearly not starving from austerity. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten as many delicious, home-cooked meals in my whole life put together as I have this year. What the hell else am I gonna do sequestered in this house for months on end, exercise? My husband and I love to dine on decadent meals prepared from our weekly farm-fresh deliveries of organic produce and meat, augmented with lots of heavy cream and Kerrygold butter. We can afford that since we’ve somehow remained employed and haven’t gone out to a restaurant in nine months.

So yes, I think of this paunch as my jolly pandemic baby, who consistently reminds me I’ve been living well in some ways despite the daily horror. But unlike a human baby, it’s not ready to come out. No, this little guy’s probably gonna stick around many more months before this thing is over. Yes, I know, the vaccine is here. But my understanding is that I won’t feel it in my veins for quite some time. I see no point getting my hopes up for a sooner end. It’s like when the airplane parks at the gate, that little bell dings, and everybody jumps to their feet to grab their bags and get going. But no one is budging until they open the door. What’s the point of standing in a throng that won’t move when you could just sit? Also, remember air travel?

Anyway, I did reach a point last week when this potbelly got a little too big. When the once-baggy “Thanksgiving” pants start to feel snug, that’s when I know I need to eat less or move more. I’ve opted for the latter, in the form of a daily one-hour walk plus two rigorous workouts per week. I’m a fan of instilling these healthy habits during the holiday season instead of waiting for January.

I am also a big fan of having at least seven new year’s resolutions, but for 2021 I’m keeping it real simple. My only resolution for the coming year is to survive the pandemic. I’m also open to the possibility that this will be a 2022 resolution as well. For as long as I’ve known that the coronavirus would be an unstoppable force (roughly since the end of February), I’ve been 100% certain this country would handle it the worst and suffer the most. My expectations going forward remain extremely low, which is why I take quarantine quite seriously. I haven’t lounged in a bar or restaurant since early March. No friend has seen the inside of my home since then, either (except the bathroom at the back door). The only time I go out for leisure is to take a walk in the neighborhood or drive to a park and walk there. I did drive with my daughter to Michigan in June to quarantine with my mom. We brought all our own food for the road and only went inside rest stops to use the bathroom. The riskiest part of the trip was when my car got banged up in a hit-and-run and I had to pay a visit to my hometown police station, where no officer was wearing a mask. What a very 2020 experience that was.

I’m not listing all these precautions to give lessons on pandemic safety. If you’re reasonable you’re doing the same things, maybe more. If you’re taking more risks than me, I don’t believe anything I’m saying will sway you toward caution. The fact that our country has allowed 300,000 people to die proves that we are fucked regardless of what our various opinions and habits are. Our leaders had an opportunity to institute a proper shutdown, pay everyone except truly essential workers to stay home, give people all they need to survive isolation, test everyone, and contact trace those who got sick. We did almost none of that. I don’t see our nation’s ruling class proceeding differently next year, even under a Democratic presidential administration. Going into 2021, we are as being left to our own devices as much as ever. And I will be very surprised if we don’t lose hundreds of thousands more lives.

I’m gonna try to not be one of them, and I’m also gonna try to not spread the virus to others. I have some agency. Not everyone does. Some people take huge risks because they must in order to pay their bills. Others take huge risks because they can’t shake their passion for indoor dining and world travel. Many of us fall somewhere in between, but none of that matters because we do not live in a civilized society. So I’ll do the best with the choices I have, limited as they may be in number and scope.

I hope you’ll do the same in 2021. And please don’t give yourself a hard time if you got fatter. I’m glad you’re still here, no matter what shape you are. 

New Year’s Baby 1921 by JC Leyendecker

Walk Out to Winter

December just started, and it fully feels like winter here. After a gloriously mild Thanksgiving weekend, Monday brought chilly rain. A bitter breeze arrived with Tuesday the 1st’s sun. My 9 year-old daughter and I walked the dog that afternoon. Halfway around the block, a sudden gust whipped us, shaking dead leaves from trembling branches. I turned to my kid to say, “It feels just like a slap in the face,” when I saw her grinning from behind the hot pink lining of her parka.

“Feels like winter already,” I said. “How’s it treating you, B?”

“I love it,” she said with the mysterious glee of one who was raised in the south. “This is my favorite time of year.”

I guess the glow of her appreciation helped steel me against the wind. I returned home grateful for the warmth of my household rather than miserable from the elements. Getting out in the light of day was worth it.

Winter is generally my most depressive time of year. I handle it better in North Carolina than I did in the upper midwest, mainly because it’s three months shorter. But I’ve never thoroughly shaken the winter blues. I’d have to globetrot to get away from bare trees and shorter days. Truth is, if I could, I probably would. Grey chill brings out my worst. I don’t know how to cope with any kind of difficulty when my hands and feet are cold. Most days I need a scalding hot shower beating down on my chest just to reacquaint myself with humidity, and how it makes me feel emotionally (cushioned and comforted). Fuzzy slippers, cardigans, and throw blankets are what I use the rest of the time I’m indoors, which is almost always.

But socializing indoors presents danger this winter. The only sensible way to maintain friendships in a pandemic is outside. And I just don’t know how much of that I have in me this season. Especially right now, as the virus surges across the country (we had 1.94 million cases in October, then 4.25 million in November). I have no desire to be in any crowd, indoors or out. I can handle an occasional backyard meetup with a friend or a couple. We even got an outdoor heater to make our space more welcoming. But on blustery days like December 1st, 2020, I just can’t imagine lounging.

I don’t want to become very lonely this winter. But every one of my instincts tells me this is the time of my life to sequester myself as much as possible, and not just six feet physically. I recently finished an electoral campaign job in which I spent 90% of my time on the phone and/or on Zoom. All you do in that line of work is try talking to strangers about a topic that makes them tense. I don’t take it personally when someone screams at me for calling on a Sunday morning, but I also need some time to recuperate from that energy. And when you add all that intensity together, I’m just not ready for much telecommunication these days.  

I look forward to attending trainings and organizing as a rank and file member of the Democratic Socialists of America. I’m glad that will be my primary engagement with Zoom going forward. I don’t see myself using it to hang out with people. The internet ain’t a great place to be friends right now. I keep scanning social media to see what’s up. Most everyone seems drunk, cranky (perhaps hungover), or sad. I don’t begrudge anyone those feelings; I’ve certainly had my share. But I don’t particularly feel like joining them on that journey. Because in some ways I feel very contented right now — to be free of the election from hell and my professional responsibilities to it, to be able to say what I really think, but to also not think quite so much. We socked some money away so I don’t have to worry about finding another job immediately. I can cook, spend time with my kid, give my professor spouse a hand while he wraps up a pandemic semester, maybe play some video games. Before the weather turned cold, I took these long, meandering walks around my neighborhood and listened to the dreamy sounds of Van Dyke Parks as I admired the early-to-mid-20th-century architecture. This hermit time I so desired when I was hosting marathon phone banks in October has finally arrived, just in time for yuletide season.

But of course the cold came as well. In a time of rapid climate change, I suppose I should be grateful for these glimmers of the old normal. Part of me hopes for snow. A sicker part of me wouldn’t completely mind a balmy January to help make the most of quarantine. But whatever happens, I’m determined to keep up those meandering walks. Perhaps I can convince friends to join me. My goal for this season is to somehow become more sociable in the frigid outdoors while keeping my home a cozy sanctuary for positive vibes. But even if I spend a lot of that outdoor time alone, I can savor the the brightness that filters through bare trees and the smatterings of green in ivy and pine. You can find vegetation year-round in the Carolina Piedmont, but you have to go look for it. 

“Boulevard in the Evening” Isaac Levitan, 1883

And Yet I Remain Hopeful

My therapist seemed perturbed that I was not more upset about the Democrats’ dismal showing in North Carolina’s general election. I admitted I was initially pretty disgusted that, even with 75% voter turnout and district maps recently redrawn to their favor, we did not elect a Dem to the Senate or flip the General Assembly. Ultimately all our electoral votes would go to Trump. But as I told her, I’ve long grappled with how deeply racist this country and this state are. And seeing the Dems fail is no surprise to me, given that they push such lackluster candidates. I should know. I knocked hundreds of doors for one of them.

I shared these thoughts with her and she surmised, “Well you’ve described yourself as a pessimist. Maybe part of that is that you don’t have high expectations that lead to disappointment.”

Now it was my turn to feel perturbed. She got that analysis half-right. It’s true, I’m a big proponent of keeping one’s expectations in check (especially where the Democratic Party is concerned). But I’d never describe myself as a pessimist, because that is not who I am. Not by a long shot.

I suppose my harsh truth-telling leads some to believe I have a negative outlook on life. But when I say things like “we are maybe ten years out from irreversible climate apocalypse and most of that damage was done in the past thirty years” or “the Democratic party establishment doesn’t care if you’re dying from lack of health care and low wages because doing anything substantive about it would upset their donors” or “the police exist mainly to protect personal property and the wealthy, and they share many of the same values as white supremacist hate groups,” that’s not me having a downer point of view. That’s just me describing reality. If you wanna meet some true pessimists, come chat with my friends and comrades who believe there’s almost nothing we can do to stop any of this.  

I’m not exactly sure we will stop any of these things, but I’m endlessly hopeful about our opportunities and our fight. I believe we can win a world where everyone is healthy, safe, housed, educated, and fed. But that faith also requires believing many more everyday people like me will wake up and realize no one is coming to save us. We need to save us. We can’t just sit back and hope that the politicians and the business leaders and the “good” police will all come together to lead us out of these very scary realities and into the promised land. They all answer to the super rich. It’s us against the super rich. So I would like everyone who’s waiting on our leaders to do the right thing to please understand you are living under false hope. And that will inevitably lead you to disappointment.

Our real hope is multiracial, working class solidarity. People power! See, I’m a very sunny hippie beneath all my dark soothsaying. This is why I call myself a Morbid Pollyanna. I tried explaining that concept to my shrink but I guess what she absorbed was “pessimist.” Perhaps that’s because I say things like “I see a lot of death on the horizon.” But for real, how does one not see a lot of death on the horizon?! We are in the dog days of a pandemic that’s already claimed almost a quarter million lives in this country alone. Again, I’m not imagining the worst. I’m shining light into darkness.

Fortunately, I see another kind of death that heightens my sense of hope — I see the death of complacency, indifference, and toxic individualism. I see the death of false hope in institutions that do not serve our communities. I see the death of capitalism. I see rebirth. I see communities of everyday people coming together in solidarity to claim collective power. I see many, many individuals assuming that power with a sense of responsibility to one another.

You don’t need to be afraid of the truth. But at some point you’re going to have to decide whether or not you want to be part of making a positive change. I think that choice is what really scares most people.

from The Rust Belt Tarot by David Wilson (Belt Publishing)

On Being a Humble Gear

The other night I asked my husband Dan, who organizes tenants, why he’s drawn to social justice work. He said, “It makes me angry when things are unfair. And I like to watch snakes squirm.”

Then he posed the same question to me and I said this: I’m morally obligated to help create a better world that I know is possible. We have a big pile of work that needs getting done if we wanna win. If everyone chipped in we’d win right away. But some people cannot do the work and some aren’t ready. I’m ready and able, so I take on extra. 

I excel at operational stuff — planning meetings, recruiting for canvasses and phone banks, managing events — which makes me well-suited for electoral work. I have a knack for troubleshooting because my brain automatically preps contingency plans for the many pitfalls I might encounter. I’m also good at talking to strangers, listening to their problems with empathy and respect, and hiding my true feelings when necessary. This is because I’ve worked in customer service most of my life; anyone who tells you that’s unskilled labor has obviously never worked with me. 

I’m a chunky gear in a massive machine, churning for justice. I help keep the operation running by turning lots of little gears. I am not a charismatic leader. I won’t be leading the march with a megaphone, speaking at a press conference, or running for office. You won’t read about me in the news. I spin and turn those little gears quietly.

I don’t like being called an activist. An activist is a person in the limelight. I’m an organizer, which is a very pragmatic and unsexy thing. I’ll be honest, I don’t trust a lot of people who assume “activist” as an identity. Some people come into the movement looking for social media fame or a paid job. Most of them aren’t half as charming or effective as their narcissism leads them to believe.

The movement needs true charismatic leaders like my man Dan — people who make a spectacle of confronting power — because watching the snakes squirm inspires all of us to do more. But we also need lots and lots of gears of various size, turning in tandem, powering us through that big pile of work. Those are the people I tend to recruit, the quiet, deliberate ones.

Vintage Soviet Fabric from the 1920s

The Dream House

I dined in my sister Mary’s backyard a couple weeks ago, and took a tiny peek at the inside of her home on the way to and from the loo. She gave me a high speed tour of all the niceties she and her wife had acquired during quarantine — the colorful kitchen rug, the round coffee table perfectly situated in the center of their cozy living room, a retro-style microwave in powder blue and chrome. For a moment I relished the novelty of a comforting interior space besides the one where I spend 98% of my time.

I miss the houses where I don’t live. They’ve always been very special to me. As a child I spent long summer days playing with a hand-me-down Fisher Price Little People house, which resided next door to the Hello Kitty house I’d gotten for Christmas when I was 7. For my Barbies I’d use old shoeboxes and stacked books to create abodes where they could get dressed up for their dates with Ken. Every autumn when we’d get the JC Penney catalog in the mail, I’d dog ear the page with the Barbie Dream House and spend many winter afternoons staring at that page and daydreaming about how I’d rearrange all the furniture.

Around the time I got too old for dolls, I discovered a more sophisticated outlet for my obsession. It started one winter Sunday evening, when my family attended evening mass at St Alphonsus church. The stale air inside the building always put me to sleep on those dreary nights. When my snoring became embarrassing, Mom nudged me awake and sent me to the family van to finish my nap. Sitting there on the beige vinyl bench seat, I felt fully awake in the cold night. The street lamps shone through the windows and I noticed a paper bag of Home magazines my grandma Blanche had given to my mom. With nothing better to do, I grabbed an issue and flipped through the glossy pages, full of interior design pics and ads for high end furniture and cigarettes. Eventually I landed on the matte paper section in the back that had floor plans for a wide variety of homes — from humble bungalows to vacation A-frames to sprawling Victorian abodes boasting turrets and wraparound porches. I marveled at all those spacious rooms flowing into one another — the foyer leading to the great room, to the dining room, to the kitchen, to the breakfast nook. They were like maps of wonderful places I’d probably never explore. At that moment I fell into a rabbit hole where I rested quite happily for the next several years.

From ages 10 to 15, I obsessed over floor plans. I subscribed to Home Magazine and purchased every one of their catalogs I could find (those were my favorites because there was no journalism, just the blueprints). I found books full of plans at the library and checked out several at a time. Just as I had once obsessively eyeballed the JC Penney catalog, I’d spend hours perusing these plans and imagining how I’d live in those spaces. Eventually I invested in graphing paper and created my own. I drafted home designs for a set of characters I’d also write plays about. The protagonist was a girl named Anna, who had long, curly hair and her own bedroom in a large Victorian house. She was more confident and popular than me, and had two best friends who thought she was just great. 

One of my designs, circa 1990

Being a kid, I didn’t question my obsession or wonder why I was so happy to daydream about these imaginary spaces. In hindsight, I realize it was escapism — from my own humble bungalow with seven tall children and a couple of extremely stressed out parents, from the tension of Irish Catholic patriarchal dominance, from the chilly basement bathroom with the dank corners I did my best to ignore. By the time I was 12 most of the older kids had moved out and there was certainly more space to be had (I even got my own bedroom). But there was always an air of disappointment about our surroundings. This wasn’t the home my parents had wanted. It was the one they’d settled for when my dad got laid off and we moved from Buffalo to Dearborn.

I have vague memories of the Buffalo house, which we vacated when I was four. Since I remember it from a small person’s vantage point, my impression was that it was huge. It had two full floors plus a 1/2 third floor with dormer ceilings. That was the boys’ bedroom. I remember the built-in drawers in that space, and the time I got to watch Alfred Hitchcock Presents on a spare black & white tv they’d somehow acquired. I remember the second floor bedroom I shared with Mary, and staring at the wood grain on the underside of the top bunk bed. I remember standing in front of the living room fireplace and listening to Elton John. As I get older these memories become more dream-like. I know that place was real. I have pictures and stories from five older siblings who recall many details. But now nearly forty years since we left, it sometimes feels like my time there never really happened. It may as well be a dream.

Quarantine has a way of making memories feel more distant. Even the memory of a good friend’s home, right here in the town where we both live, feels completely made up at this point. If the inside of a house exists but only the people who live there see it, does it actually exist for me? I think about how it felt so strange standing in Mary’s cheerful bathroom, with the red walls and checkered tile. Suddenly this place where I do my most mundane business felt like reuniting with an old friend.

Last week my brother Dan shared a found treasure with our family Facebook group. Someone (we don’t know who, it wasn’t any of us) made floor plans of that Buffalo house. Out of nowhere, the old rabbit hole burst open before me. I finally had the deep satisfaction of knowing that the space really was what my preschool memory recalled. There was the corner of the bedroom where Mary hummed Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration” and told me, “I like that song.” And there was the hallway where I ran into my sister Eileen one early morning and she said, “Wow, it’s roasty toasty out here.” There were the kitchen stools where we’d get ready to eat our morning cereal and groan when Mom busted out the powdered milk. All those little flashes of recollection are based on something real. And at least for a little while, on a Monday afternoon six months into a pandemic that’s made my current home the site of two full-time jobs plus a third grade classroom, I felt anchored to something outside this one house that is my world.

RIP Red Carpet

My pandemic-addled brain was so excited to remember that the Emmy awards were on Sunday night. I love a dumb awards show, but kinda forgot they existed. What would all that pomp and glamour look like in a virtual format during a pandemic?

Overall, I thought the safely distanced Emmys were an improvement on the traditional format. Host Jimmy Kimmel acknowledged at the start that doing this kind of event in such dire circumstances feels silly and superfluous. But as he noted, when were the Emmys anything but? So the Television Academy turned it into a fundraiser to feed impoverished kids, which helps both the stars and the viewers feel less terrible about this indulgence. I appreciated that. I also appreciated the DJ who spun dance hits in place of the stuffy orchestra that plays people offstage when their speeches go too long. But my favorite part was getting to see the celebs’ living rooms via this surreal Zoom meeting of the stars; now we now know that Christina Applegate has a very nice fireplace and Laura Linney is a Chapo Traphouse fan. Those voyeuristic morsels helped make up for the absence of an awards show staple that cannot be replicated in a socially distanced format — the red carpet.

The red carpet arrival is usually the best part of any awards show (especially the Oscars, which I’ve found increasingly boring over the years). We love to see the stars be their most unimaginably beautiful and glamorous selves. When I imagine that grandeur, I always think of the opening scene from Singin’ in the Rain. 

Set in 1927 at the end of the silent film era, the movie opens with throngs of young fans gathered at Grauman’s Chinese Theater for the premier of The Royal Rascal. A procession of Rolls Royces deliver a bevy of starlets, including the mysterious and elegant Olga Mara in a spider-inspired, black sequined gown and Zelda Zanders (portrayed by a bouncy, young Rita Moreno) in a shimmery flapper dress. But they’re just appetizers for the main course. When Royal Rascal stars Don Lockwood and Lina Lamont arrive at last, the fans go absolutely bananas for these gorgeous figures clad in gleaming white. When we see people so perfectly styled, we naturally wish we could be them. How could life be anything short of fabulous when you’re surrounded by flashing cameras and adoring fans?

But of course this is all artifice. That’s what Singin in the Rain is about, how the dawn of talking pictures revealed that some performers — such as shrill, dopey Lina — could not act. But it also breaks down the illusion that glamorous stars must lead rewarding personal lives. Even there on the Royal Rascal red carpet, we get hints of the ugly truth. Gossip columnist Dora Bailey announces the arrival of each star with her very Hollywood commentary. Like when Zelda arrive with her aged sugar daddy, Dora notes he’s the latest in a long line of boyfriends, then adds, “Maybe this is true love at last.” My favorite is her comment on Olga and her aristocrat husband — “They’ve been married for two months already, but still as happy as newlyweds!” After Lockwood and Lamont arrive, Dora presses Don for juicy details on their rumored romance. He insists that he and Lena are just good friends. They look so great together, you want to believe otherwise. We soon soon learn Don hates Lina, though it helps both of their careers for him to pretend otherwise. Yet for those few, fleeting moments when we seem them looking absolutely stunning, we love to believe their personal lives match that beauty. 

If anything, this year’s Emmys made it clear that the stars are not doing great right now. Sure they’re wealthy, but most of them are stuck at home and out of work; it’s a good time to remember that in a Marxist sense they are also workers beholden to the whims of far wealthier bosses. Their garments seemed to reflect the whole gamut of quarantine moods, ranging from formal wear to business casual. It is a Zoom meeting after all, not everyone is going to try that hard. Apparently the Television Academy sent awards-bearing employees in hazmat suits to every nominees’ location, so no one would know until the last moment whether or not they won. When one of them handed a trophy to Regina King (wearing a truly rad Breonna Taylor “Say Her Name” t-shirt under a hot pink blazer), the disoriented actress said, “This is all so weird.” Actor Ramy Youssef tweeted the words “when you lose the emmy” with video of his hazmat suited friend waving bye-bye through a closed door. Every effort to keep the awards show spirit alive while also being safe just reminded us that we are living in surreal and unsettling times.

Will we ever return to the artifice that made the red carpet so dreamy? I just don’t know. Maybe this is quarantine brain speaking, but I can’t help feeling like the red carpet is dead. I just don’t see the entertainment industry coming back from all this tragedy and economic depression with that same unabashed display of excess. Or perhaps this is just a hiatus. In the meantime, we’ll have to find other distractions from an ever-harsher truth that we are living through a pandemic under rising fascism and looming climate collapse. Good thing we have this huge backlog of TV shows and movies to keep us entertained as we do our daily best to survive. And if you haven’t seen Singin’ in the Rain, I suggest starting there.

Problematica: Tami Taylor, Leftist Organizer

Consuming pop culture is one of my favorite introvert activities. In Problematica, I’ll explore the political implications of a specific pop culture piece — a song, a character from a film or book, a TV episode, etc. — that I love, regardless of how good, bad, or mixed its politics may be.

In July, I was hired as a field organizer for a local progressive electoral campaign. This includes participating in intensive training on the basics of organizing and how to persuade voters who may not be fully aligned with our anti-capitalist agenda. I love this work, way more than any job I’ve ever been paid to do. But striving hard to get better at it during a limited time period has been a mammoth and deeply humbling challenge.

I’m currently on a three day vacation in the Virginia mountains, trying to think about work as little as possible. Right after my last shift I got sucked into a Friday Night Lights marathon, which made me remember my favorite scene from the series: Dillon high school principal Tami Taylor convinces a misbehaving student’s parents to allow him to keep playing football. Coming fresh off a training on persuasion, I’ve decided Tami is one of my organizing role models.

In season 3 episode 7 “Keeping Up Appearances,” Dillon Panthers fullback Jamarcus Hall gets in trouble for accidentally lighting a science lab on fire. Since this isn’t Jamarcus’s first trip to her office, Principal Tami arranges a meeting with his parents. She explains that Jamarcus must improve his behavior or he could get suspended and miss some games. Turns out Mr. and Mrs. Hall had no idea their son played football. Tami later tells Coach Eric Taylor (who is also her husband) that the Halls have decided to pull Jamarcus from the team. Coach loses his temper, saying he wishes she had let him discuss the fire incident with Jamarcus’s parents. Tami insists that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he did, the result would have been the same. 

Coach and Tami later visit the Halls at home. As they walk up to the front door, Coach says, “Just let me do the talking.” Tami counters that she has an established relationship with the parents, but Coach snaps, “I know what I’m doing.” Tami just shrugs and follows him inside.

Mr. Hall doesn’t waste any time explaining his and his wife’s point of view. “We’re just not football people.” He’s an engineer at the local plant who’s moved his family several times, and says they’re “just passing through” Dillon. As Tami silently watches, Coach launches into his philosophical defense — “Football is about community spirit.” Now Mr. Hall snaps at him, saying, “All this time I thought it was just a dumb game that this whole wacked-out town is obsessed with.” 

Just gonna pause my recap here to say, I love this character. For me he might be the most relatable character in the entire series. I also don’t give a damn about football and would find a town like Dillon extremely alienating. I’ve got nothing against isolated, economically blighted, rural communities with few prospects for young people, because that’s just a small town version of the rust belt suburb where I grew up. But if I were expected to fangirl over my high school’s football team, or spend every Friday night at the game because it is the life blood of my community, I would have been miserable. 

But of course Coach can’t relate to that because he loves the game, so he becomes defensive. “I don’t think I’d be devoting my life to some dumb game.” Seeing where this is going, Tami defies their agreement and jumps in to acknowledge Mr. and Mrs. Hall’s viewpoint. “It took me a long time to understand all this fuss about football… But I’ve seen football do great things for kids.” Tami credits Coach for helping his players develop personal responsibility, which also pays off academically. When Mrs. Hall counters that their son has been lying to them for a year, Tami picks up on their need for discipline and assures them that Coach “will make him regret the day he ever did that.” Having made her case, Tami invites the Halls to attend the next game so they can see their son play. They agree, and Coach silently eats shit as he and Tami walk back to the car. Meanwhile she teases him mercilessly. “I think that went well! You’re opening the door for me? Oh, so sweet.”

I realized when I rewatched this scene that Tami employs a persuasive organizing tactic called Affirm-Answer-Redirect. The Halls want to pull their son from the team because they think football is a stupid distraction from his schoolwork. Instead of getting huffy like Coach and arguing that football is actually good, Tami affirms their opinion (she didn’t get the fuss either), answers the concern (it can actually help Jamarcus be a better student), and redirects the course of action (come see him play and then make a decision). Her strategy works because, as she told her husband, she’d already met the Halls. But more importantly, it works because she listens and responds to their concerns instead of coming in with some grand, prefabricated argument.

I’ve always loved and admired Tami as a mom but it only recently occurred to me that her empathy and listening skills would also make her an incredible organizer. They’re the qualities I recognize in the best ones I know. And wouldn’t you know it, most of them tend to be women and nonbinary folks. Effective organizing doesn’t hinge on star power, charisma, or telling people what to think. It’s about listening when people tell you what they want and need, finding common ground, and then encouraging them to become part of the solution. Of course Coach, being a strong-willed man, thought he would be the one to persuade the Halls. But naturally it was Tami — equipped with the skills of a former guidance counselor — who moved them to change their mind.

I also love that Tami values her own gifts. As she later explains to a nerdy student who is second-guessing the bright future she predicts for him, she says, “I am right 100% of the time. You can ask my husband.” 

Problematica: He Was a Wonderful Father

Consuming pop culture is one of my favorite introvert activities. In Problematica, I’ll explore the political implications of a specific pop culture piece — a song, a character from a film or book, a TV episode, etc. — that I love, regardless of how good, bad, or mixed its politics may be.

A few weeks ago my husband and I listened to this “Democracy Now” interview with Mary Trump (Donald’s niece), who recently published a tell-all book about their deeply dysfunctional family. In the book, Mary talks a lot about her grandfather Fred Trump, drawing parallels between his cruel, misogynistic behavior and that of our president. 

Of course Donald Trump doesn’t appreciate his niece’s new book, as expressed in this clip:

“But look, let me just tell you, my father was — I think he was the most solid person I’ve ever met. And he was a very good person. He was a very, very good person. He was strong, but he was good. For her to say the kind of things — a psychopath? That he was a psychopath? Anybody that knew Fred Trump would call him a psychopath? And you know what? If he was, I would tell you. And I would say, “You know, Chris, I was with my father, and it was imposs”— my father was — he was tough. He was tough on me. He was tough on all of the kids. But tough in a — in a solid sense, in a really good sense. For her to say — I think the word she used was ‘psychopath.’ What a disgrace! She ought to be ashamed of herself. That book is a lie.”

As soon as I heard those words, I turned to my husband and slurred in my best drunk Irish Catholic lady voice, “He was a wonderful father.”

If you’ve watched and rewatched 30 Rock as often as we have, perhaps you may know this is a reference to season 1, episode 17 “The Fighting Irish.” In this episode, NBC network exec Jack Donaghy learns from his estranged brother Eddie that their deadbeat father Jim has died. In the spirit of family and forgiveness, Jack lets go of his resentment toward his brother and father, and even arranges a wake with their siblings. The scene in which the Donaghy children gather in Jack’s office to reminisce and guzzle Jameson shots is one of my favorite from the whole series. 

The scene begins with Jack introducing employee Kenneth to his brother Patrick and sisters Patricia, Katherine Catherine, and Margaret. Most of them are drunk and laughing a little too hard as they swap stories about their deceased dad. Katherine Catherine proposes a toast. Jack remarks with slight tension, “We’ve been toasting pop for over an hour now,” but she continues pouring shots anyway.

That’s when Patricia chimes in with this weepy observation — “He was a wonderful father. Always ready with rum balls in his pockets for the the kids.” She’s on the verge of tears, but you sense she’s just moments a from a seething outburst. Sure enough, when Katherine Catherine toasts their dad as “the sorriest bastard there ever was,” Patricia screams at her for talking trash about her “daddy.”

“He was a wonderful father” quickly become a personal meme for my husband and me. Whenever someone is in denial about their parent being garbage, I channel that moment. It’s the overcompensation that kills me. It isn’t enough to simply pretend that patriarchs like Jim Donaghy or Fred Trump didn’t physically or emotionally abandon their kids. These broken adult children have to tell themselves that their bad dads were “wonderful” or “the most solid.” But something about layering that denial with alcohol-fueled rage just gives it an extra punch (one that resonates for me personally, given my Irish Catholic upbringing). The way Patricia shifts from sentimental sobbing to rage — thanks to Siobhan Fallon’s pitch-perfect portrayal — really captures the soppy drunk’s version of this cognitive dissonance. 

I remember an old therapist telling me that his job was tossing grenades at dysfunctional families, blowing up the whole order, so at least his client could get free. When I look at a fictional family like the Donaghys or a real life family like the Trumps, I perfectly understand the motivation behind that grenade toss. What if somewhere along the way we saw a whole generation of children stop pretending their terrible dads were anything but? What if, instead of creating more Patricias and Donalds and Don Jr.s, we broke the cycle of lying to oneself? Just admit your miserable dad really was the sorriest bastard there ever was and maybe you won’t be such a disaster yourself.