The Nature of Belief

This morning, as Zoe was headed for another week of 9th grade, she said she still liked school, but what she didn’t like was being in school for eight hours to get two hours of learning.

I knew just what she meant. By her age, I’d been feeling that way for a couple of years already. Eighth grade was as far as I got in any kind of conventional schooling. I couldn’t stand the idea that I was being trained in the indispensable skill of being bored. It feels like a deliberate crushing of your spirit. It makes you employable.

We’ve been saying “post-industrial” since the 1970s, even before the Reagan-era watchwords “automation,” “offshoring,” and “rustbelt.” Fifty years on–and with my retirement from engineering to focus on writing–I’m getting visions of what post-industrial life it might really be like.

One day in 1985, in my senior year studying civil engineering, I took the subway downtown to a job interview. The firm was in a converted loft building, in the garment district. The sewing machines had been supplanted by carrel desks, in melamine rows, where white-shirted men sat, many of them with copies of the American Institute of Steel Construction manual. I recognized the red leatherette cover, the way each man had hedgehogged his copy with paper clips marking pages with the key tables, so he could look up the entries to his calculations. They were sizing girders and beams and braces for bridges and skyscrapers, writing the calculations on paper sheets, formatting the calculations to allow ready checking and review.

The first IBM PCs had already arrived in that office. Those men’s jobs were about to evaporate, in favor of better calculation methods (finite element analysis) that can analyze structural designs more beautiful and elegant than what came before.

At its best, engineering education instills a mental closeness to material properties. This closeness is akin to what is required for, say, baking or leatherwork, but at the higher, more abstract level made possible when the material properties are made consistent by quality control in manufacturing. The engineer’s confidence in a design–confidence that the bridge or building will stand up and not fall down–is derived from confidence in the mathematical representation of how the steel compresses or stretches or bends, rather than direct observation. But it is still, in some sense, still felt, and as such, it is still craft.

As the post-industrial future comes into focus, I’m feeling that the transition in the daily experience of work–its phenomenology–is away from the rote and regimented, away from looking things up, away from rule-based judgements. Those are all things computers, and artificial “intelligence,” can do faster, better, cheaper than human beings. No one needs to sit in rows, in carrels, doing a job.

We do need to practice craft, though, and more of it. We are swamped in commodities but have a deficit of value–and value comes from the application of human skill to material substance. Being able to practice craft requires discipline, grit, and the capacity to tolerate discomfort. But it doesn’t require–I don’t think–practice at boredom.

I envision a world, not within my own lifetime but possibly within Zoe’s, where work as we now know it is mostly replaced, not by leisure but by craft. Where human engagement in production of things, of commodities, is bit by bit replaced by the everyday application of feeling, creativity, and mastery to unique problems. And the output of that engagement is beauty, or service, or caring, or glory. But not money.

I can’t bring myself to say anything nice about Robbie Robertson, who wrote The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.

1969 marked the rise of a southern inflected Americana in “hip” popular culture—Dylan’s Nashville Skyline was released that same year. On the folk side, it departed from the protest music of the Phil Ochs, the Weavers, the early Dylan. On the blues side, it left behind the intense experimentation that came out of Muddy Waters and led to Hendrix.

The southern-inflected Americana was mellower than those styles, it hit savory notes of homecoming and rightful place,; it wasn’t threatening or jazzy or strident. The 60s were becoming the 70s. Hippiedom had leaked from the college campuses and artists’ ghettos; a lot of regular guys came back from ‘Nam and found they couldn’t fit in either, grew their hair out, and pretty soon you couldn’t really be sure that someone who wore long hair and beads and smoked dope was actually aligned with the values in the Port Huron Statement. Politically, they could be anywhere, and you might be rebelling against anything, or nothing.

And soon after there was country rock and southern rock and Olivia Newton John. And the revolution was postponed; it was over really, and Nixon’s men would soon be Ford’s, and then Reagan’s, and (some of them) eventually Trump’s men.

If I was charitable (or as charitable as I ever get) I could dismiss Robertson as just an ignorant Canadian, a commercial opportunist cashing in on a reactionary trend, like so many smart and ambitious people do when a nation drifts toward fascism.

Except I can’t be charitable, here, I have to be pissy and damning, because there are, out there, white folks whose need for feelings of comfort and reassurance outweigh any moral sensibility, and who will, as a result, make excuses for that song, or even for (God help us) Sweet Home Alabama, which sound the same notes as the lame excuses you’ll hear many white people make for Trump supporters (because they’re low-information or tied to the land and have economic anxiety, or something).

Those excuses reveal what “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” reveals, which is not only latent longing for a more potent and virile white supremacy, but something deeper in the souls of white folk: A craving for a fake version of authenticity that can paper over the deep-down inauthenticity that defines them.

You see, the Canadian Robertson’s latching on to Americana was a cynical cashing in, but it was much more than that, it was an ingestion and spewing out of the endless lie that is the American South itself, the lie that imbues every twangy syllable, every fatty overly salted meal, every exhausted acre of farmland. Just this week, it had to be said that no, there is no redeeming quality to the history of slavery. None. And there is no genuine authenticity to be had in any of its trappings.

No matter how you try to twist it.

There is great power in throwing it all away, in finally dismissing that fake Southern white bid for authenticity, in dismissing all of it, for what it was and is. And that power is to be allowed to seek something new, a new grit and authenticity in the American soul, one that recognizes the Southern white lie, calls it out, stamps on it, and then looks forward to something better.

(Crossposted to DailyKos, where it generated some interesting discussion.)

A friend reposted this cartoon today. It’s from the 7/1/2015 New Yorker.

Let me deconstruct the experience here. Attention is first drawn to the child, and the carefree, joyous innocence of childhood. What could possibly be wrong with a parent’s impulse to protect that innocence?

Then, in the caption, the innocence is revealed as a shameful lie: The carefree moment on the swing is steeped in—inseparable from—the injustice of racism.

It is the parent speaking, of course. These “wonderful, precious years” are not only the child’s, but the parent’s too, because the parent is experiencing (and appreciating) this carefree, joyous innocence in the context of their privileged white family. And what could be wrong with appreciating the safety, security, and uplift that one derives from family?

The cartoon illustrates how whiteness imposes inauthenticity. Innocence, joy, family, security, are conferred to us by an unfair society. When we celebrate what we have, we are must either ignore that unfairness, and thereby magnify it, or else taint our happy moment with an acknowledgement of the unfairness. This mother’s statement in the caption is performative, dour—a come down.

And inescapable.

Can we learn to appreciate our privilege—including wholeheartedly living moments like the one represented in the cartoon—and simultaneously revile our privilege? And do so without irony?

What happens inside you during these moments?

US Representatives Marjorie Taylor Greene and George Santos showed up in NYC, outside Donald Trump’s arraignment, on this day, April 4, which happens to be the 55^th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King.

Here is the key fact that most people on our side—the side for democracy and against authoritarianism—will miss about the spectacle.

I could start by saying “The lying is the point,” which is to say that Trump and Greene and Santos and their supporters don’t really believe what they claim to believe. They know it’s all a lie, that Trump is a liar, and what they are defending, there on the streets, is not so much the content of the lie, it is the act of lying itself.

I believe I know this from having grown up in the 1960s south, where everything that white southerners had to say about Black people—most of it horrendously racist, of course—was not really a matter of belief, but a matter of saying, like a school song or an incantation. The act was to repeat the lies; the purpose of the act was to have the power to be gained by repeating the lies. The falsity of what was being repeated gave the act more power, not less, because it takes a commitment to tell a lie, and the power derived from telling the same lie all together is what has held their version of America together since before its founding. The point of repeating the lie is not to express a mistaken belief, nor to convince anyone that the lie is truth but—much more effectively—to entice and browbeat others to join them in repeating a lie known to be false. This is a necessary feature of a truly brutal society.

That is why the small but dedicated crowd of pro-Trumpers gathered outside the arraignment was yelling “USA! USA!” It is a contentless chant, signifying nothing, and the phrase is equally available to either side, except that in context, as it is chanted at rallies and in stadiums, this is what “USA! USA!” means: We uphold the lie of white racial supremacy, even when we know that it is a lie, because we know the lie, and this group repetition of the lie, is what maintains our political power.

By the way, this is why those who don the trappings of red-staters—such as guys who equip their pickup truck with a gun rack and confederate flag sticker and listen to country music and speak with a drawl—this is why those guys come off as authentic. Almost everything they believe is a lie, and they know that what they believe is a lie. But they are genuine in the sense that they are fully committed to upholding their lies, to the point of never showing any doubt, which is easy for them, because their deeply held emotional commitment to lying effectively crowds out any other thoughts they might have about this subject, or just about any other subject for that matter.

Compare this to the painful-to-witness inauthenticity of characters like David Brooks. Brooks knows, just as well as any gun-toting Trumper does, that the ideology of white supremacy is a lie, but instead repeating this lie in a simple and earnest way, endeavors to find some way to make it palatable—to top the lie with enough refined sugar to make it pass for the truth. For example, when the extreme right targeted “wokeness,”— known and defined by both sides as “…the belief there are systemic injustices in American society and the need to address them” (to quote an aide to DeSantis)—Brooks recharacterized and redefined “woke” as a tool of elite Democrats. In this way he aims for a middle ground, neither too far left nor too far right, where he can enjoy the power of the lie and the mantle of the truth at the same time. This inauthenticity is why the so called “moderate” right has no political traction at present.

Which brings me to lessons for our side, the side for democracy and against authoritarianism. The Trumpers are making a last stand, or feel they are making a last stand, for the cause of white supremacy and against the cause of equality. Fact is, no one really knows what a post-white America will look like or be like. This uncertainty can make us falter, hedge our bets, step back when we should stand up. And I see it in my cohort, among progressives generally: a desire to return to some kind of imagined normalcy, sometimes a personal flight to safety, or a dismissal of politics or political possibilities.

But we can win only by finding truths and advancing those truths together, and with common fervor. It’s a hard job, but not impossible. Perhaps we can start by each looking at our own fears, our own individual hesitation to be bold and radical in asserting a social justice agenda, and by reassessing our strategy toward most white Americans, who continue to stand firmly for lying and for the lie of white supremacy.

It does no good to tell the truth to a knowing liar. Instead, it is necessary to convince them of the futility of continuing to repeat what they know is a lie.

Republicans: Really, ban gas stoves? Outrageous! Intrusive!

Democrats: We’re not really proposing to ban gas stoves. Well, at least not right away.

The Republicans’ outrage is performative. The Democrats’ response is weak, unconvincing, entrapped.

What causes this? It’s not just the Democrats’ messaging, as bad as it’s been. We’re working from a bad paradigm, an outdated framework for our understanding.

The paradigm for environmental health, and environmental protection, posits an ideal, “healthy” condition. The news is almost always about a departure from the ideal.

Like the effect of gas stoves on asthma. The story? One in eight cases of childhood asthma are caused by gas stoves.

Start with the Democrats’ well-meaning initiative. Yes, gas stoves contribute to indoor air pollution. Indoor air pollution disproportionately affects children in disadvantaged households and disadvantaged communities, because they are also affected by other sources of air pollution and respiratory stress. Facts.

But the narrative is based in grievance. Children ought to be protected from harm. They are not protected, and something must be done.

What if we placed the facts in a different narrative? Like:

“Technology for cooking at home continues to improve. Not that long ago, houses burned wood or coal for cooking. Piped-in gas was a big improvement: better air quality, fewer fires. Now we have hoods and ventilation and better yet, electric induction stoves that cook better and faster, and are safer and more convenient. Research shows that these technologies are very effective in protecting children’s lungs.

“It’s unfair and concerning that, while many families are investing in new technologies, others are unable to enjoy these benefits to their safety, to their health, and especially children’s health. We are looking for ways to accelerate the transition to healthier indoor air that everyone can enjoy.”

Same facts, but a different story—one that celebrates and motivates progress. And is much harder to oppose.

Why are “progressives” resistant to the narrative of progress and so immersed in our narrative of threat and grievance?

My take: Our privileged intelligentsia, even the most liberal of us, have a class-based bias against progress and change. The epoch of our privilege is waning. The demise of our privilege is hastened with each shift to new modes of producing and living: globalization, automation, and free flow of information. We tend to deny the massive progress in the overall human condition in recent decades, and substitute our own fears, when telling the story.