So, in one of the most colossal whoops-a-daisys of our time, former Chairman of the Federal Reserve Alan Greenspan has admitted to being wrong about government regulation being the big, bad enemy of the market.
I believe this is what’s known as a pyrrhic victory, no?
While being questioned during a hearing on the role of federal regulators in the current financial crisis, Greenspan declared: "I made a mistake in presuming that the self-interests of organizations, specifically banks and others, were such that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders and their equity in the firms" (The Financial Crisis and the Role of Federal Regulators, preliminary transcript, pg 34, ln 768-772).
Well, stop the presses! Is Greenspan actually suggesting that the folks who work with money and finances—other peoples' money and finances—actually need to be monitored? Their SELF-INTEREST won't keep them honest?
Huh.
Ok, but still, maybe Greenspan and all the other "invisible hand" devotees are on to something; maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this notion of self-interest being a positive guiding force--
How about we get rid of all those pesky referees and other sports officials—just let the players, coaches, and trainers call all the games? Or the fans, should it be the fans? The owners? No? Or wait, jeebus, what am I thinking? "Call" the game? Hell, no! Let’s just toss out all the rules! Pure and simple deregulation folks—let the folks who play the game decide how to run the game. Maybe they’ll choose to honor the old rules, maybe they’ll make new rules and stick to them, maybe they won’t—but surely they know best; I mean, they have their self-interest to guide them.
A weak parallel that may be, but still, the shrill attacks on government regulation really do seem to me as ridiculous as the notion I present above. I mean, how many times and how badly does deregulation have to fail in order for it to quit being touted as a viable economic strategy?
I also cannot help but wonder just what it is about businessfolk in the first place that created the perception that they were capable of policing themselves. It’s not like this is a new notion, either; government has been sucking business’s cock for years. I mean, despite all the rhetoric to the contrary, government frequently extends to businesses and corporations the sort of hand-outs and immunities that are seen as blasphemous when given to individual citizens in need. Of course, in turn, government uses business and corporations to spread American influence beyond our shores.
And so, yeah, I recognize how the incestuous relationship between capitalism, government, and business has coalesced into a blunt instrument that is used to manipulate and bludgeon most of the American citizenry into a flaccid, placid, docile mass of overworked, underpaid, underinsured, exhausted drones, just as this instrument has been used to “sell the American Dream” on a global scale. I mean—I see that reality, and I even understand why the people with money and power have made the decisions that they’ve made; what I cannot and will not ever understand is how the tiny minority of folks who benefit from that costly brand of United States democracy and capitalism have gotten the remaining, massive majority to be the protectors of a system that exploits and dehumanizes them.
Capitalism is brutal and vicious, with a vociferous appetite for flesh and blood. How else to describe a system that cannot exist without a class of people ripe for exploitation, a system that devours those who are used to perpetuate it?
In the article I read at Mother Jones, David Corn writes that Greenspan’s testimony sends "decades of Ayn Rand down the drain," and oh, my, the ire that this statement raises among the Randites who comment on the story.
What-the-fuck-ever.
Greenspan and Rand had a decades-long connection that began when Greenspan was a young man and joined Rand's salon, where he became a fierce believer in Rand's notion of Objectivism, a radical philosophy of individualism and self-interest built upon a framework of unfettered capitalism. I have never read The Fountainhead or Atlas Shrugged, but I have read interviews with Rand, and I think she is vile—her ideas about feminism and homosexuality, her glorification of the individual over the collective, her notion of rational egoism …
No, thanks.
And see, I didn’t say a thing about the rape scene … Or about what a truly awful writer she is.
But this wasn't supposed to be about Ayn Rand or Alan Greenspan, even, beyond my using his confession as a springboard to something that I just can’t seem to get at here...
I wanted to write about … how lost we are, we Americans, we pilgrims, we beaten-down rebels, we dreamers of dreams …
But here’s the rub: we have always been adrift, fumbling toward a more perfect union, grasping for the promise of our greatest thinkers and of our most-exalted documents—we have never truly been the "America" that exists in patriotic imaginaries.
The America that real people move through, each and every day, has always been harsh, uncompromising, and unjust, and though we have had both the blueprints and the wise words of brilliant thinkers to guide us, for more than two centuries, now, still we fail, as citizens and leaders, as comrades, as humans.
America's sun has never shone evenly on all her citizens, and a great many toil daily even while staying faithful to this dream that has more than likely left them out of the fold. Looking nostalgically toward a mythological America that fulfilled the promise of its framers is naïve and wrongheaded—that America has never existed. From the very beginnings of this project we call "these United States," this land has been populated by both the free and the chained. Think of it—if we were to revert to our exalted founding fathers' earliest vision, only white, land-owning men would have the right to vote—and no Catholics, Jews, or Quakers, either, white and propertied or not. I mean, this country has not even existed for 100 years with full suffrage for its citizens. And, with dirty polling tricks still in existence, I really don’t even feel comfortable using the phrase "full suffrage" to define the United States in its current incarnation.
Can our government do better for its citizens? Can we move closer toward the ideal that thus far has existed only on paper and in our collective yearnings?
Absolutely.
But not without our urging, our demanding, our clamoring.
And still, even with a government that functions in a just, even-handed manner, there will be those who stumble, there will be those who fall, out of sight, and without hope. This, where even good government fails, is where we must step in ourselves and lift up our brothers and sisters.
Because this is America, and we are kindred.
Aren’t we?
Jukebox Hero
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Crimson and Clover
Many moons ago, I was "tagged" on myspace to compose one of those "Ten Things You May Not Know About Me" blog posts. One of the things I shared was a story from my past about passing as a boy when I was a wee queer. Recalling that story seems to have opened the proverbial flood gates for me, because since then, I have been working, off-and-on, on a writing project focusing on my life as a sentient little queer.
The story below is an expanded version of the one that first appeared on my myspace page. Out of all the personal stuff I have posted here, making this public leaves me feeling very fragile and exposed--treat me gently, but feel free to comment, criticize, or just shake your head at what a little freak I was.
Was?
Whatever.
Crimson and Clover
The days of my purposely trying to pass as a dude are far behind me, but, up until about 60 pounds ago, it happened quite often that I was seen and addressed as a guy. I guess I was about 10 or 11 years old the first time I successfully "passed." Up until then, when I was mistaken for a boy, my mother would quickly declare that I was a girl. In fact, I found out quite young that the people around me—family, friends, even strangers who recognized my inherent girliness—would "jump to my defense" when my sex was in question and quickly proclaim, all defensive-like, "She's a girl!" I always felt such a rush of emotions when that happened—pleased, of course, that someone had recognized the inescapable fact of my boyishness, and ashamed, of course, for failing so completely at being what I was supposed to be—a girl. It made me feel bad for my parents, too, when it happened in their presence, because it seemed to make everyone involved feel so incredibly uncomfortable—I hated, so much, being such a constant source of embarrassment.
So, anyway, I wasn't trying to pass on this particular day in 1978 or '79—when I was 10 or 11 and all skin-and-bones and (mostly) heavy-hearted because I knew I was queer, and I was pretty sure that it would someday crush me or get me killed. It was the weekend, it was sunny and hot, and my friend Shelly and I were at the elementary school on our skateboards, daring each other into more and more ridiculous stunts. Shelly lived in the house behind ours—in less than a minute I could walk out my back door, across our small backyard, hop the fence into her yard, and then be knocking at her door. Her house was pretty similar to ours in layout and size, except it had a basement with a pool table and, best of all, a full-sized, honest-to-goodness, genuine pinball machine. We just had a crawl space filled with bugs and mice.
Shelly lived with her mom and two brothers, who were the short, compact, amazingly-athletic kind of boys who seemed capable of any physical feat. They were track and field superstars at school and rode BMX bikes and skateboards the rest of the time—all the time. They built a half-pipe in their backyard, and Shelly and I would lay in the grass watching them and their friends kick, push, grind, fly … Whenever their energy took them out of the backyard and onto the sidewalks and streets, Shelly and I would immediately attack the half-pipe, mimicking their moves and earning bruises and scrapes that we wore like badges. Shelly was also compact and athletic like her brothers, and though I think I may have possessed more natural athleticism than she did, she made up for it with her total fearlessness. We pushed each other physically but got along effortlessly; Shelly had a peacefulness about her, and she was as kind and decent as she was courageous. We never talked about being queer, though I guess I thought somewhere inside that she was like me; we both wore our brothers’ old clothes, had short hair, played sports, didn’t have crushes on boys.
We spent our time together on skateboards or bikes, or playing some sort of sport or catch, or in Shelly’s basement listening to music and playing pinball or video games or with the racetrack or maybe just drawing. Once in a while another girl would join us—one of our cousins or the daughter of one of our mom’s friends or just someone from school, or from around the corner, or from wherever, and it would always be the most awkward scene: Shelly and I suggesting we play with the racetrack or ride skateboards or play spy or something, and the visitor looking totally dumbfounded and asking if we had Barbies or if we could play school or store…
The only time Shelly and I ever fought, it was when smoky-voiced Samantha came home after school with us. Samantha had dark, shoulder-length hair and possibly the first really green eyes I had ever seen, and she had that voice. I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11, but even then I recognized that her voice was sexy. I loved to hear her talk, god. I think Shelly felt all the same things that I felt, because at some point, a pool game devolved into an actual, physical fight between the two of us. We had already had a strange three-way tussle, borne of some sort of cop/chase game that Samantha had actually suggested we play, though she was the first to disengage herself from the tangle, and she certainly seemed edgy afterwards. It was then that we tried to play a game of pool, but Samantha just sort of coolly watched while Shelly and I played, and I guess we just could not handle the tension of it all, because soon, Shelly and I were brawling. Samantha left while we were rolling around on the pool table, flushed and angry with each other in a way that we never had been before. Once we heard the door slam and came to our senses, we were both pretty embarrassed and ashamed. We made up and bonded over finding ways to blame Samantha for what had happened, though we never talked about any of it again.
At school, Samantha did a strange thing—she called me weird and giggled with her friends whenever I was around, but she asked the boy who sat across from me to swap seats with her, and he did. Shelly and I never fought or argued again, though we spent nearly every waking minute together, and though we encountered more girls together.
So, one impossibly sunny Saturday afternoon, Shelly and I were using the elementary school’s entrance ramp and its steel guard-rails to practice ollies and grinds. As usual, Shelly was quietly and determinedly pushing herself harder and faster and higher, though I’m the one who still has a quarter-sized scar on the outside of my left knee from spilling onto the ramp that day and dragging my knee along the cement for a few feet. I remember being pleased with the way the blood streaked down my leg and turned the top of my sock crimson. After crashing, I rode a little harder, emboldened by having crashed badly and lived, enjoying the way the wind stung my torn skin.
After a while, some girls rode their bikes into the schoolyard and spotted us. At first they just straddled their bikes and watched and talked amongst themselves, but soon enough they were sitting on the ground laughing and eating snacks from the nearby party store. There were three of them, all long-haired and honey-skinned from the sun.
Foxes.
Stone foxes.
Shelly and I didn’t say a word, but we each upped our games, flying higher and higher and slapping palms and laughing as we landed crazier and crazier tricks. Soon, the unimaginable happened, and the girls were flirting with us—hooting and hollering as we rode, calling out their names and asking ours (Shelly answered “Shane” and I went with "Mac," though, thankfully, it was misheard as "Max"), doing little cheers as we performed.
I still remember the look that passed between Shelly and me as we realized what was happening, and I still remember how it felt to catch air that day, the sun hot on my back, my board impossibly light, landing everything. I remember, too, walking toward these stone foxes once Shelly and I had completely exhausted ourselves. How my heart lodged in my throat. How the sun shone. How my legs shook. I had just pulled off some pretty sweet tricks on my board, but rolling across those ten feet of flat concrete seemed too risky on legs that suddenly felt like silly string, and so I picked up my board and walked, carefully.
Shelly, normally so quiet, was bold and talkative, and she let one of the girls try to stand on her board. They laughed together as the girl wobbled and Shelly steadied her. I absolutely could not believe what was happening. I stared at the clover-covered patch of earth, feeling light-as-a-feather, and then the girl with the darkest eyes and softest laugh offered me a pull off her bottle of Coke. Sharonda. Our fingers brushed and then held for a few beats longer than necessary, and when she smiled at me, I got dizzy and stared at my feet. She dropped down onto the ground and gently traced a circle around my wound, asking, “Why don’t you sit down?” I really had no choice, since her touch had taken the last bit of strength out of my ridiculous legs. I sat. She crossed her legs Indian-style, allowing her knee to rest against my thigh. It was one of the first moments in my life that I never wanted to end. I kept stealing glances at her knee on my thigh, her skin against mine, the clover beneath us. Too soon, one of the other girls said it was time for them to go, and so Shelly and I skated away, pumping hard, not saying a word, but in my head: Sha-ron-da, Sha-ron-da, Sha-ron-da...
The story below is an expanded version of the one that first appeared on my myspace page. Out of all the personal stuff I have posted here, making this public leaves me feeling very fragile and exposed--treat me gently, but feel free to comment, criticize, or just shake your head at what a little freak I was.
Was?
Whatever.
Crimson and Clover
The days of my purposely trying to pass as a dude are far behind me, but, up until about 60 pounds ago, it happened quite often that I was seen and addressed as a guy. I guess I was about 10 or 11 years old the first time I successfully "passed." Up until then, when I was mistaken for a boy, my mother would quickly declare that I was a girl. In fact, I found out quite young that the people around me—family, friends, even strangers who recognized my inherent girliness—would "jump to my defense" when my sex was in question and quickly proclaim, all defensive-like, "She's a girl!" I always felt such a rush of emotions when that happened—pleased, of course, that someone had recognized the inescapable fact of my boyishness, and ashamed, of course, for failing so completely at being what I was supposed to be—a girl. It made me feel bad for my parents, too, when it happened in their presence, because it seemed to make everyone involved feel so incredibly uncomfortable—I hated, so much, being such a constant source of embarrassment.
So, anyway, I wasn't trying to pass on this particular day in 1978 or '79—when I was 10 or 11 and all skin-and-bones and (mostly) heavy-hearted because I knew I was queer, and I was pretty sure that it would someday crush me or get me killed. It was the weekend, it was sunny and hot, and my friend Shelly and I were at the elementary school on our skateboards, daring each other into more and more ridiculous stunts. Shelly lived in the house behind ours—in less than a minute I could walk out my back door, across our small backyard, hop the fence into her yard, and then be knocking at her door. Her house was pretty similar to ours in layout and size, except it had a basement with a pool table and, best of all, a full-sized, honest-to-goodness, genuine pinball machine. We just had a crawl space filled with bugs and mice.
Shelly lived with her mom and two brothers, who were the short, compact, amazingly-athletic kind of boys who seemed capable of any physical feat. They were track and field superstars at school and rode BMX bikes and skateboards the rest of the time—all the time. They built a half-pipe in their backyard, and Shelly and I would lay in the grass watching them and their friends kick, push, grind, fly … Whenever their energy took them out of the backyard and onto the sidewalks and streets, Shelly and I would immediately attack the half-pipe, mimicking their moves and earning bruises and scrapes that we wore like badges. Shelly was also compact and athletic like her brothers, and though I think I may have possessed more natural athleticism than she did, she made up for it with her total fearlessness. We pushed each other physically but got along effortlessly; Shelly had a peacefulness about her, and she was as kind and decent as she was courageous. We never talked about being queer, though I guess I thought somewhere inside that she was like me; we both wore our brothers’ old clothes, had short hair, played sports, didn’t have crushes on boys.
We spent our time together on skateboards or bikes, or playing some sort of sport or catch, or in Shelly’s basement listening to music and playing pinball or video games or with the racetrack or maybe just drawing. Once in a while another girl would join us—one of our cousins or the daughter of one of our mom’s friends or just someone from school, or from around the corner, or from wherever, and it would always be the most awkward scene: Shelly and I suggesting we play with the racetrack or ride skateboards or play spy or something, and the visitor looking totally dumbfounded and asking if we had Barbies or if we could play school or store…
The only time Shelly and I ever fought, it was when smoky-voiced Samantha came home after school with us. Samantha had dark, shoulder-length hair and possibly the first really green eyes I had ever seen, and she had that voice. I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11, but even then I recognized that her voice was sexy. I loved to hear her talk, god. I think Shelly felt all the same things that I felt, because at some point, a pool game devolved into an actual, physical fight between the two of us. We had already had a strange three-way tussle, borne of some sort of cop/chase game that Samantha had actually suggested we play, though she was the first to disengage herself from the tangle, and she certainly seemed edgy afterwards. It was then that we tried to play a game of pool, but Samantha just sort of coolly watched while Shelly and I played, and I guess we just could not handle the tension of it all, because soon, Shelly and I were brawling. Samantha left while we were rolling around on the pool table, flushed and angry with each other in a way that we never had been before. Once we heard the door slam and came to our senses, we were both pretty embarrassed and ashamed. We made up and bonded over finding ways to blame Samantha for what had happened, though we never talked about any of it again.
At school, Samantha did a strange thing—she called me weird and giggled with her friends whenever I was around, but she asked the boy who sat across from me to swap seats with her, and he did. Shelly and I never fought or argued again, though we spent nearly every waking minute together, and though we encountered more girls together.
So, one impossibly sunny Saturday afternoon, Shelly and I were using the elementary school’s entrance ramp and its steel guard-rails to practice ollies and grinds. As usual, Shelly was quietly and determinedly pushing herself harder and faster and higher, though I’m the one who still has a quarter-sized scar on the outside of my left knee from spilling onto the ramp that day and dragging my knee along the cement for a few feet. I remember being pleased with the way the blood streaked down my leg and turned the top of my sock crimson. After crashing, I rode a little harder, emboldened by having crashed badly and lived, enjoying the way the wind stung my torn skin.
After a while, some girls rode their bikes into the schoolyard and spotted us. At first they just straddled their bikes and watched and talked amongst themselves, but soon enough they were sitting on the ground laughing and eating snacks from the nearby party store. There were three of them, all long-haired and honey-skinned from the sun.
Foxes.
Stone foxes.
Shelly and I didn’t say a word, but we each upped our games, flying higher and higher and slapping palms and laughing as we landed crazier and crazier tricks. Soon, the unimaginable happened, and the girls were flirting with us—hooting and hollering as we rode, calling out their names and asking ours (Shelly answered “Shane” and I went with "Mac," though, thankfully, it was misheard as "Max"), doing little cheers as we performed.
I still remember the look that passed between Shelly and me as we realized what was happening, and I still remember how it felt to catch air that day, the sun hot on my back, my board impossibly light, landing everything. I remember, too, walking toward these stone foxes once Shelly and I had completely exhausted ourselves. How my heart lodged in my throat. How the sun shone. How my legs shook. I had just pulled off some pretty sweet tricks on my board, but rolling across those ten feet of flat concrete seemed too risky on legs that suddenly felt like silly string, and so I picked up my board and walked, carefully.
Shelly, normally so quiet, was bold and talkative, and she let one of the girls try to stand on her board. They laughed together as the girl wobbled and Shelly steadied her. I absolutely could not believe what was happening. I stared at the clover-covered patch of earth, feeling light-as-a-feather, and then the girl with the darkest eyes and softest laugh offered me a pull off her bottle of Coke. Sharonda. Our fingers brushed and then held for a few beats longer than necessary, and when she smiled at me, I got dizzy and stared at my feet. She dropped down onto the ground and gently traced a circle around my wound, asking, “Why don’t you sit down?” I really had no choice, since her touch had taken the last bit of strength out of my ridiculous legs. I sat. She crossed her legs Indian-style, allowing her knee to rest against my thigh. It was one of the first moments in my life that I never wanted to end. I kept stealing glances at her knee on my thigh, her skin against mine, the clover beneath us. Too soon, one of the other girls said it was time for them to go, and so Shelly and I skated away, pumping hard, not saying a word, but in my head: Sha-ron-da, Sha-ron-da, Sha-ron-da...
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Spreading the Wealth Around? Why Not?
Hey folks. I lifted the excellent article below from Common Dreams. Buzzanco, in addition to having an awesome name, has written a passionate, compelling, timely essay addressing the gaping, yawning, staggering divide that exists between the rich and the rest of us, in regards to income, wealth, and power, in these United States.
Spreading the Wealth Around? Why Not?
by Robert Buzzanco
According to the Republican candidate for U.S. president, John McCain, whose family wealth exceeds $120 million, and who owns eight houses and thirteen cars, Democrat Barack Obama poses a grave threat to our democracy and economy because he will, as he told a voter in Ohio, "spread the wealth around."
Though socialism has been essentially dead for decades, and there is no viable left in the United States, the McCain campaign is resurrecting claims of "class warfare" and calling Obama a radical. On one point, McCain is right: there is class warfare in the United States, and for the past three decades, it has been waged from the top down, by the wealthiest class, the likes of John and Cindy McCain, against the middle- and working-classes of America.
Since the 1970s, middle- and working-class Americans have seen a fairly steady decline in real income, with brief spurts of recovery in the 1990s. Overall, however, the trend has been downward. By the year 2000, average net worth for Americans, adjusted for inflation, was less than it had been in 1983.
Subsequently, propelled by tax cuts for America's wealthiest and deregulation of financial markets and corporations, between 2001 and 2006 the average income of the top tenth of Americans increased about 15 percent a year, to about $250,000, while the average income of the lower 90 percent decreased, the first time since such data was first collected in 1917 that those conditions of increased wealth at the top and decline for everyone else had occurred. More to the point, the average income of the top tenth of wage earners is about 8 times greater than the bottom 90 percent, a wealth gap greater than that under Herbert Hoover during the Great Depression.
Since the mid-1970s the top 1 percent of households have doubled their share of national wealth and now have more wealth, 60 percent or more, than the bottom 95 percent. Meantime, in the late 1980s and 1990s, inflation-adjusted net worth for a median household fell, from about $55 to $50 thousand dollars, and about 20 percent of households had zero or negative net worth [more debt than assets]. Those numbers are growing rapidly, especially as home foreclosures reach record heights.
Again adjusting for inflation, weekly wages for workers were down over 12 percent from the early 1970s, when that notable liberal Richard Nixon, who instituted wage and price controls to combat the recession of 1973, was president. Indeed, the Nixon years may have marked the heyday for American workers, as family incomes today are about the same as they were in the early 1970s and far more families have two wage-earners than they did thirty-five years ago.
Today, about two-thirds of Americans make less than $50,000 per year. The bottom 40 percent of Americans controls just 0.2 percent of wealth; the next 40 percent has about 15 percent of national wealth; the next 10 percent owns about 13 percent of wealth; and the top tenth has the rest.
Once could continue with such statistics ad infinitum but the point is obvious. Unless one lives in the rarified air of the top ten percent, she or he has experienced an economic downturn over the past decades, and a particularly acute decline in wealth in the past 8 years. That, of course, does not even take account of the current economic disasters in housing, credit and in the stock market, as jobs are lost and pensions are disappearing. Most families now survive by going deeper into debt and household debt as a percentage of personal income has risen from about 60 percent in the early 1970s to about 90 percent, and is increasing, today.
Given such stark data, and the drastic decline in income and wealth for nine-tenths of Americans, the idea of having state policies and a tax system to "spread the wealth around" is simply a recognition that our current economy has collapsed, as if the housing bubble and stock market eruptions haven't shown us that yet anyway. Too few people hold the overwhelming share of our national wealth, and the vast majority of Americans have to survive by using a credit card, not simply for "luxuries," as the conservative canard goes, but to pay for food, rent, and medical care.
Rather than complain about "class warfare," John McCain should recognize his privilege and promote policies that would make his family, his class cronies, and American corporations, especially those who ship jobs overseas, pay their fair share -- not seek more tax cuts for those who have already gotten rich at the government trough. And if that involves "spreading the wealth around," then it's long overdue.
Robert Buzzanco is a professor and Chair of the Department of History at the University of Houston.
Spreading the Wealth Around? Why Not?
by Robert Buzzanco
According to the Republican candidate for U.S. president, John McCain, whose family wealth exceeds $120 million, and who owns eight houses and thirteen cars, Democrat Barack Obama poses a grave threat to our democracy and economy because he will, as he told a voter in Ohio, "spread the wealth around."
Though socialism has been essentially dead for decades, and there is no viable left in the United States, the McCain campaign is resurrecting claims of "class warfare" and calling Obama a radical. On one point, McCain is right: there is class warfare in the United States, and for the past three decades, it has been waged from the top down, by the wealthiest class, the likes of John and Cindy McCain, against the middle- and working-classes of America.
Since the 1970s, middle- and working-class Americans have seen a fairly steady decline in real income, with brief spurts of recovery in the 1990s. Overall, however, the trend has been downward. By the year 2000, average net worth for Americans, adjusted for inflation, was less than it had been in 1983.
Subsequently, propelled by tax cuts for America's wealthiest and deregulation of financial markets and corporations, between 2001 and 2006 the average income of the top tenth of Americans increased about 15 percent a year, to about $250,000, while the average income of the lower 90 percent decreased, the first time since such data was first collected in 1917 that those conditions of increased wealth at the top and decline for everyone else had occurred. More to the point, the average income of the top tenth of wage earners is about 8 times greater than the bottom 90 percent, a wealth gap greater than that under Herbert Hoover during the Great Depression.
Since the mid-1970s the top 1 percent of households have doubled their share of national wealth and now have more wealth, 60 percent or more, than the bottom 95 percent. Meantime, in the late 1980s and 1990s, inflation-adjusted net worth for a median household fell, from about $55 to $50 thousand dollars, and about 20 percent of households had zero or negative net worth [more debt than assets]. Those numbers are growing rapidly, especially as home foreclosures reach record heights.
Again adjusting for inflation, weekly wages for workers were down over 12 percent from the early 1970s, when that notable liberal Richard Nixon, who instituted wage and price controls to combat the recession of 1973, was president. Indeed, the Nixon years may have marked the heyday for American workers, as family incomes today are about the same as they were in the early 1970s and far more families have two wage-earners than they did thirty-five years ago.
Today, about two-thirds of Americans make less than $50,000 per year. The bottom 40 percent of Americans controls just 0.2 percent of wealth; the next 40 percent has about 15 percent of national wealth; the next 10 percent owns about 13 percent of wealth; and the top tenth has the rest.
Once could continue with such statistics ad infinitum but the point is obvious. Unless one lives in the rarified air of the top ten percent, she or he has experienced an economic downturn over the past decades, and a particularly acute decline in wealth in the past 8 years. That, of course, does not even take account of the current economic disasters in housing, credit and in the stock market, as jobs are lost and pensions are disappearing. Most families now survive by going deeper into debt and household debt as a percentage of personal income has risen from about 60 percent in the early 1970s to about 90 percent, and is increasing, today.
Given such stark data, and the drastic decline in income and wealth for nine-tenths of Americans, the idea of having state policies and a tax system to "spread the wealth around" is simply a recognition that our current economy has collapsed, as if the housing bubble and stock market eruptions haven't shown us that yet anyway. Too few people hold the overwhelming share of our national wealth, and the vast majority of Americans have to survive by using a credit card, not simply for "luxuries," as the conservative canard goes, but to pay for food, rent, and medical care.
Rather than complain about "class warfare," John McCain should recognize his privilege and promote policies that would make his family, his class cronies, and American corporations, especially those who ship jobs overseas, pay their fair share -- not seek more tax cuts for those who have already gotten rich at the government trough. And if that involves "spreading the wealth around," then it's long overdue.
Robert Buzzanco is a professor and Chair of the Department of History at the University of Houston.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Music and Politics
So, I’ve gotten all sorts of feedback in response to my "Joe the Plumber" post, and some of it was actually positive and supportive (thanks, Carrie : ).
I’m not surprised by the anger and hostility; mostly, it just leaves me disheartened.
Though, I guess I was ridiculously provocative myself, calling Joe a “prick” and a “dumbfuck” and…
Huh.
Well, I have never pretended to be adept at using reason and logic to prove a point, especially since barbed-wire wrapped exasperation and sarcasm drip so easily from my tongue. In fact, I fear I am a little bit like McCain—huffing, puffing, impatient. Wow, I really cannot believe that I just drew a comparison between me and that ruddy little troll, but it sort of gets at something that has been nagging at me, especially since the first presidential debate—McCain’s supposed connection to the floundering American populace. Here is an excerpt from a writing project I was working on with my awesome friend Ryan, a smarty-pants who’s doing some really great thinking and writing regarding this year’s election. The passage here was written by me as part of an email conversation Ryan and I had following the first presidential debate:
My overall, shallow interpretation is that both candidates mostly seemed to merely repeat their already well-known policy positions as well as their criticisms of the other’s former decisions and future plans; I felt that anyone on the fence would not have been impressed enough with Obama to jump to his side; I have this idea that he lacks the sort of pugilistic, angry nature that Americans have come to expect and respect in their politicians. I worry that McCain, somehow, and so PERVERSELY, actually seems more populist than does Obama, because McCain seems angry for the citizenry in a way that Obama does not. It’s that damned cool, rational, intellectual nature of Obama’s—even if it’s a superior framework for leading nations and solving problems, it just seems detached, in some way, from the desperation of the truly fearful, even as it connects so solidly with most middle-and upper-class progressives …
While I feel infinitely more comfortable with Obama’s chances since last week’s debate, I am still wary and anxious, too, and sort of braced for a lashing. At my weakest moments, I wonder what makes me believe that this election will even take place (what will be our Reichstag, I wonder?) or that our votes will be tallied as they are cast. And I am still uneasy about the very same issues I mentioned above—if you spend any time reading news articles and subsequent reader comments, then you know there really does exist a significant portion of the American population who believe any number of unfortunate untruths: that Obama is a terrorist; that he is the anti-christ; that he is responsible for the housing crisis; that he wants to kill and eat tiny babies; and, of course, just as mind-boggling but more sinister, really, that McCain is better-qualified than Obama to lead this country…
You know, I started this post to talk about my use of the term “culture wars” in my “Joe the Plumber” post, but I have gone so far off-track that I’m just going to wrap this up by posting Ryan’s take on the first debate—“old news”, I know, but the message here is still current and vital. I referred to this earlier as a writing project of mine and Ryan’s, but I merely edited this a tiny bit; this is Ryan’s work, and the credit goes to him. Oh, and Ryan's objective was to strike that reasonable, logical tone that is so elusive to me--he lives in Texas and was writing this in order for it to be published in his local newspaper; his strategy was to avoid alienating Republicans while still providing ample reasons for supporting Obama over McCain.
And jesus, while you're reading, listen to Nina Simone’s “Funkier than a Mosquito’s Tweeter”. Absolute aural ecstacy. And then some Balkan Beat Box, and definitely do not miss "Damn", by Kinny and TM Juke.
It's all there, on my awesome jukebox, and I do it for you, for all of you, because, you know, I love you.
And stuff.
Be good.
And here, as promised, more reasons to vote for Obama:
Last night I nerded out with some colleagues over drinks while taking in the first debate between presidential hopefuls John McCain and Barack Obama. The polls are showing that Obama won this first bout, but I saw things differently. True, as the candidates spoke about the economic crisis, I felt bad for Johnny McSame—he looked out of his element and, frankly, like he was about to cry. If I had played the role he has played in deregulating the banking industry and stock market, I'd probably cry, too. But it was foreign policy discussion that took center stage this evening, and when all was said-and-done, I shocked my fellow Democrats by doffing my cap to the old hawk.
What I saw in McCain was the coolness of a guy who has been on the most important foreign policy committees since the war with the Barbary Pirates. The depth and breadth of his knowledge and experience are stunning, and for the most part, he presented that knowledge with remarkable clarity and force. A one-term senator, even one with Obama's foreign policy experience, just can't compete with that level of understanding and competence.
Still, McCain’s show of strength didn't make me waver in my vote one iota.
Why?
The easy answer is, of course, judgment, and McCain’s lack of even a shred of it. And though Obama drove that point home again and again last night, my support for him is rooted not just in McCain’s dearth of good sense, but also in the very fundamentals of the commander-in-chief role and Obama’s understanding of those fundamentals.
For example, McCain's depth and breadth of foreign policy knowledge, as impressive as it is, is easily matched by other senators and lifelong government folks, including, of course, Joe Biden. Recognizing Biden’s experience and skill, Obama chose him as his running mate, beefing up the Democratic ticket’s foreign policy muscle. Obama recognizes that you need that sort of deep knowledge among all of your advisors—the National Security Administration, Secretary of State, and Secretary of Defense—and his well-reasoned choice of Biden suggests that he will stock those posts with equally knowledgeable folks.
Still, knowledge, as we all know, isn't enough. Not many people knew more about the international arena than did Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld. How well did that turn out? Ronald Reagan, on the other hand, entered office with not much more than the idea that Communism is Bad, and Democracy and Capitalism are Good. Still, even my fellow liberals have to admit that in the foreign policy arena, Reagan was pretty successful.
Now, it's dangerous to compare a relatively inexperienced politician with Ronald Reagan, but let's remember that upon taking office, Reagan actually had less foreign policy experience than Obama has now. What Reagan did have, and in spades, was the ability to inspire hope and confidence in scores of American people and in our allies during fairly difficult and scary times. Sound familiar? Because unless you flat out hate him, you just cannot look at Obama's travels through the Middle East, Africa, and Europe and not be impressed, nor can you deny the significance of his positive international image.
It is evident that foreign leaders, particularly in Europe—where our allies are alienated but much needed—love Obama and are willing to work with him. Like Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Reagan before him, Obama has inspired hundreds of thousands of Europeans to wave American flags, and—and this is significant—pro-American populations elect pro-American governments. This is no small thing; recall that after Bush invaded Iraq and gave Europe the finger, those Europeans elected leaders who were unwilling to work with America on a whole host of issues, particularly in the foreign policy arena.
Further, people and leaders in Africa, of course, adore Obama. Why does that matter? Because those impoverished African nations are prime breeding grounds for both anti-Americanism and terrorist recruitment.
Regrettably, neither of our presidential candidates is really able to scare any Middle Eastern terrorist groups. People who are willing to strap bombs to themselves and slaughter innocent men, women, and children are not cowed by angry posturing in the United States. If anything, they seem to get a sick jolt from it.
"Bring it on," taunted Bush.
And so they did.
It seems evident, too, that the leaders of any Middle Eastern country willing to work rationally with us would respond more positively to diplomacy than to additional angry posturing. And frankly, though probably not very importantly, that middle name of Obama's just might be a bit of an advantage in bending their ears…
Beyond everything else, Obama does what Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Reagan did best: he inspires. Now that Reagan is dead and gone, conservatives easily dismiss hope and inspiration as misplaced sentimentalism, as if they never anointed Reagan "the great communicator" or waxed poetic about his visions of a shining city on a hill. In sharp contrast, John McCain scares the bejeezus out of people, here at home and abroad. His hawkishness is resented in nearly every corner of the globe, and he is seen in foreign policy terms as the second coming of Bush, albeit a smarter version. Even if McCain's military strategy is superior to Obama’s—I certainly do not believe it is, and apparently more retired generals agree with Obama than with McCain, if that counts for anything—what is needed most desperately right now is successful diplomacy. If Iraq has taught us anything, I hope it's the bloody, costly, reputation-tarnishing lesson that we don't have the manpower or money to go it alone again.
Finally, there is the Palin factor. Not to be crass, but McCain is three years short of the average life expectancy, and his body has been brutalized by torture, 20 years of smoking, various surgeries, and every type of skin cancer known to science. The odds of Palin taking office are ominously high compared to other vice presidents across history, and after watching the three interviews that her campaign allowed her, it is clear why her advisors are so desperate to shield her from public scrutiny. The Couric interview alone was chilling, and that was Katie Couric—not exactly like staring down Putin, whose head, Palin seems to think, might any day soon come flying over Alaska…
In summary, while McCain most certainly does have foreign policy gravitas, he falls short in nearly every other measure of fitness for becoming commander-in-chief, and in Palin he has made a truly appalling and terrifying vice-presidential selection. Obama, on the other hand, has consistently shown himself to be a fully rounded candidate, ready to lead the United States into a safer, more prosperous future, with Biden a tested and talented counterpart.
I’m not surprised by the anger and hostility; mostly, it just leaves me disheartened.
Though, I guess I was ridiculously provocative myself, calling Joe a “prick” and a “dumbfuck” and…
Huh.
Well, I have never pretended to be adept at using reason and logic to prove a point, especially since barbed-wire wrapped exasperation and sarcasm drip so easily from my tongue. In fact, I fear I am a little bit like McCain—huffing, puffing, impatient. Wow, I really cannot believe that I just drew a comparison between me and that ruddy little troll, but it sort of gets at something that has been nagging at me, especially since the first presidential debate—McCain’s supposed connection to the floundering American populace. Here is an excerpt from a writing project I was working on with my awesome friend Ryan, a smarty-pants who’s doing some really great thinking and writing regarding this year’s election. The passage here was written by me as part of an email conversation Ryan and I had following the first presidential debate:
My overall, shallow interpretation is that both candidates mostly seemed to merely repeat their already well-known policy positions as well as their criticisms of the other’s former decisions and future plans; I felt that anyone on the fence would not have been impressed enough with Obama to jump to his side; I have this idea that he lacks the sort of pugilistic, angry nature that Americans have come to expect and respect in their politicians. I worry that McCain, somehow, and so PERVERSELY, actually seems more populist than does Obama, because McCain seems angry for the citizenry in a way that Obama does not. It’s that damned cool, rational, intellectual nature of Obama’s—even if it’s a superior framework for leading nations and solving problems, it just seems detached, in some way, from the desperation of the truly fearful, even as it connects so solidly with most middle-and upper-class progressives …
While I feel infinitely more comfortable with Obama’s chances since last week’s debate, I am still wary and anxious, too, and sort of braced for a lashing. At my weakest moments, I wonder what makes me believe that this election will even take place (what will be our Reichstag, I wonder?) or that our votes will be tallied as they are cast. And I am still uneasy about the very same issues I mentioned above—if you spend any time reading news articles and subsequent reader comments, then you know there really does exist a significant portion of the American population who believe any number of unfortunate untruths: that Obama is a terrorist; that he is the anti-christ; that he is responsible for the housing crisis; that he wants to kill and eat tiny babies; and, of course, just as mind-boggling but more sinister, really, that McCain is better-qualified than Obama to lead this country…
You know, I started this post to talk about my use of the term “culture wars” in my “Joe the Plumber” post, but I have gone so far off-track that I’m just going to wrap this up by posting Ryan’s take on the first debate—“old news”, I know, but the message here is still current and vital. I referred to this earlier as a writing project of mine and Ryan’s, but I merely edited this a tiny bit; this is Ryan’s work, and the credit goes to him. Oh, and Ryan's objective was to strike that reasonable, logical tone that is so elusive to me--he lives in Texas and was writing this in order for it to be published in his local newspaper; his strategy was to avoid alienating Republicans while still providing ample reasons for supporting Obama over McCain.
And jesus, while you're reading, listen to Nina Simone’s “Funkier than a Mosquito’s Tweeter”. Absolute aural ecstacy. And then some Balkan Beat Box, and definitely do not miss "Damn", by Kinny and TM Juke.
It's all there, on my awesome jukebox, and I do it for you, for all of you, because, you know, I love you.
And stuff.
Be good.
And here, as promised, more reasons to vote for Obama:
Last night I nerded out with some colleagues over drinks while taking in the first debate between presidential hopefuls John McCain and Barack Obama. The polls are showing that Obama won this first bout, but I saw things differently. True, as the candidates spoke about the economic crisis, I felt bad for Johnny McSame—he looked out of his element and, frankly, like he was about to cry. If I had played the role he has played in deregulating the banking industry and stock market, I'd probably cry, too. But it was foreign policy discussion that took center stage this evening, and when all was said-and-done, I shocked my fellow Democrats by doffing my cap to the old hawk.
What I saw in McCain was the coolness of a guy who has been on the most important foreign policy committees since the war with the Barbary Pirates. The depth and breadth of his knowledge and experience are stunning, and for the most part, he presented that knowledge with remarkable clarity and force. A one-term senator, even one with Obama's foreign policy experience, just can't compete with that level of understanding and competence.
Still, McCain’s show of strength didn't make me waver in my vote one iota.
Why?
The easy answer is, of course, judgment, and McCain’s lack of even a shred of it. And though Obama drove that point home again and again last night, my support for him is rooted not just in McCain’s dearth of good sense, but also in the very fundamentals of the commander-in-chief role and Obama’s understanding of those fundamentals.
For example, McCain's depth and breadth of foreign policy knowledge, as impressive as it is, is easily matched by other senators and lifelong government folks, including, of course, Joe Biden. Recognizing Biden’s experience and skill, Obama chose him as his running mate, beefing up the Democratic ticket’s foreign policy muscle. Obama recognizes that you need that sort of deep knowledge among all of your advisors—the National Security Administration, Secretary of State, and Secretary of Defense—and his well-reasoned choice of Biden suggests that he will stock those posts with equally knowledgeable folks.
Still, knowledge, as we all know, isn't enough. Not many people knew more about the international arena than did Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld. How well did that turn out? Ronald Reagan, on the other hand, entered office with not much more than the idea that Communism is Bad, and Democracy and Capitalism are Good. Still, even my fellow liberals have to admit that in the foreign policy arena, Reagan was pretty successful.
Now, it's dangerous to compare a relatively inexperienced politician with Ronald Reagan, but let's remember that upon taking office, Reagan actually had less foreign policy experience than Obama has now. What Reagan did have, and in spades, was the ability to inspire hope and confidence in scores of American people and in our allies during fairly difficult and scary times. Sound familiar? Because unless you flat out hate him, you just cannot look at Obama's travels through the Middle East, Africa, and Europe and not be impressed, nor can you deny the significance of his positive international image.
It is evident that foreign leaders, particularly in Europe—where our allies are alienated but much needed—love Obama and are willing to work with him. Like Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Reagan before him, Obama has inspired hundreds of thousands of Europeans to wave American flags, and—and this is significant—pro-American populations elect pro-American governments. This is no small thing; recall that after Bush invaded Iraq and gave Europe the finger, those Europeans elected leaders who were unwilling to work with America on a whole host of issues, particularly in the foreign policy arena.
Further, people and leaders in Africa, of course, adore Obama. Why does that matter? Because those impoverished African nations are prime breeding grounds for both anti-Americanism and terrorist recruitment.
Regrettably, neither of our presidential candidates is really able to scare any Middle Eastern terrorist groups. People who are willing to strap bombs to themselves and slaughter innocent men, women, and children are not cowed by angry posturing in the United States. If anything, they seem to get a sick jolt from it.
"Bring it on," taunted Bush.
And so they did.
It seems evident, too, that the leaders of any Middle Eastern country willing to work rationally with us would respond more positively to diplomacy than to additional angry posturing. And frankly, though probably not very importantly, that middle name of Obama's just might be a bit of an advantage in bending their ears…
Beyond everything else, Obama does what Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Reagan did best: he inspires. Now that Reagan is dead and gone, conservatives easily dismiss hope and inspiration as misplaced sentimentalism, as if they never anointed Reagan "the great communicator" or waxed poetic about his visions of a shining city on a hill. In sharp contrast, John McCain scares the bejeezus out of people, here at home and abroad. His hawkishness is resented in nearly every corner of the globe, and he is seen in foreign policy terms as the second coming of Bush, albeit a smarter version. Even if McCain's military strategy is superior to Obama’s—I certainly do not believe it is, and apparently more retired generals agree with Obama than with McCain, if that counts for anything—what is needed most desperately right now is successful diplomacy. If Iraq has taught us anything, I hope it's the bloody, costly, reputation-tarnishing lesson that we don't have the manpower or money to go it alone again.
Finally, there is the Palin factor. Not to be crass, but McCain is three years short of the average life expectancy, and his body has been brutalized by torture, 20 years of smoking, various surgeries, and every type of skin cancer known to science. The odds of Palin taking office are ominously high compared to other vice presidents across history, and after watching the three interviews that her campaign allowed her, it is clear why her advisors are so desperate to shield her from public scrutiny. The Couric interview alone was chilling, and that was Katie Couric—not exactly like staring down Putin, whose head, Palin seems to think, might any day soon come flying over Alaska…
In summary, while McCain most certainly does have foreign policy gravitas, he falls short in nearly every other measure of fitness for becoming commander-in-chief, and in Palin he has made a truly appalling and terrifying vice-presidential selection. Obama, on the other hand, has consistently shown himself to be a fully rounded candidate, ready to lead the United States into a safer, more prosperous future, with Biden a tested and talented counterpart.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Joe the Plumber: Lost in the House of Dreams
You never can tell what sort of thing may inspire a “comeback” (but don’t call it a…).
Some of you know I have been unraveling for a while now—those who know me really well probably can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like this was happening. So, in that sense, I guess, yadayadayada, huh? As the yadayadayada has been happening, my writing (blogging, emailing, journaling), for the most part, has come to a stand-still, though up until about three weeks ago, I was putting a lot of time and energy into a personal writing project focused on my experience growing up as a sentient queerchild ; ) But now, even my work on that project has ceased, though I am thinking of posting parts of that endeavor here.
Anyway.
I compose blogs in my head all the time, but I have lost the ability to translate my musings to the screen. I was just doing this—composing a blog in my head—after reading an article about that stupid prick, Joe the Plumber, when I decided to give making my thoughts public another try.
Though I am now so disturbed by my own characterization of what I am doing—“making my thoughts public”—that I feel stymied all over again.
OK. Whatever.
Joe the Plumber.
Watching the final presidential debate, I learned that Joe the Plumber, McCain’s “everyman”, was considering purchasing the quarter-of-a-million dollar plumbing company that employed him (that is not like any man or woman I know, let alone everyman), but Obama’s proposed tax plan, should he be elected, was somehow going to keep Joe from fulfilling that dream. In between grunts, grimaces, and eye-rolls, McCain worked in as many “Joe the Plumber” references as he could, until I wasn’t even sure that this plumber was a real guy—I thought maybe McCain had resorted to some sort of biblical parable-speak.
But, no, turns out Joe the Plumber is, indeed, a real guy. Funny thing, though—he’s not a licensed or registered plumber.
His real name is Joe Wurzelbacher, and he’s been the focus of some major media attention ever since Obama visited his Toledo, Ohio neighborhood in order to greet voters and seek support. As Obama made his way through the neighborhood, Wurzelbacher challenged him about his tax plan and said that he wanted to buy the plumbing company that he worked for, but that Obama’s tax plan would make it prohibitive. Obama responded by explaining that he wanted to be able to give tax breaks to 95% of working Americans and that he wanted to help all the folks who were hoping to get a start in a small business (read: businesses with annual earnings of less than $250,000), and he mentioned something about “spreading the wealth around” (oh no he di’n’t)(oh yes he did).
So this Wurzelbacher fellow, our Joe the Plumber, in addition to not being an actual plumber, also seems in a poor position to purchase the plumbing and heating company for which he works, as his divorce papers show that he earned about $40,000 in 2006. Then, in 2007, there was a lien placed against him for about $1200 in personal property taxes that he hadn’t paid. So, although Obama’s tax plan would actually benefit this dumbfuck far, FAR more than McCain’s proposal would, he insists that he would not want Obama’s promised tax cut, should Obama be elected. It seems his delicate, working-man sensibilities were injured by this talk of “spreading the wealth around,” because Joe the Dumber buttresses his blustery claims with vague comments about socialism and about how it’s wrong to “take someone’s money because they work a little harder.”
Beyond how utterly pathetic it is, all these poor slobs who vote as if protecting some future wealth that they have not yet accumulated—and never will under the policies of the leaders they support—it nearly makes my head explode, this feeble-minded buffoon’s grasp of socioeconomics, not to mention his empty-headed parroting of the ridiculous notion that folks who make a lot of money work harder than those who make a little money. If hard work increased earnings, my grandpa—who worked sunup to sundown from the time he was a boy, until multiple strokes and bouts with cancer whittled him down to a whisper; who finally succumbed to death while digging up a weeping cheery tree just as stubborn and rebellious as he was: its branches refused to “weep,” thus my grandpa’s fight to uproot it that quiet April day—should have died with more money than Warren Buffet.
Another hard-work vignette: The people across the street from me struggle to keep their lights on, to heat their home, to eat. They earn a portion of their living from junking and scrapping—they scavenge dumpsters and trash cans, abandoned houses and empty lots, hauling, carrying, and dragging hundreds and hundreds of pounds of metal to their yard almost daily, where they disassemble it with brute force—smashing big things with sledgehammers and little things with claw hammers. They then separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, and haul the prized metals to the scrap-yards. I have seen them disassemble an entire car in a matter of hours. They do this work every day, sometimes until late into the evening. I often drift off to sleep and awaken to the same repetitive sound of hammer on metal, a ringing thunk thunk thunk in the air. This is hard work. It is heavy, dirty work. It tears skin and bruises knuckles and breaks backs.
These people are also pretty fucking scandalous, which I mention lest I have unintentionally painted too sensitive a portrayal or romanticized their scrappin’ ways. For example, soon after Elizabeth moved into the neighborhood, the oldest son in the scrappin’ house set her up to be robbed, as he had done for nearly every house on the block, including his own. So.
Back to Obama’s “spreading the wealth” comment … I am completely flabbergasted by the negative response this comment generated—all this wild-eyed talk of socialism and wealth redistribution, all this swooning and calling for the vapors. I got news for you motherfuckers: wealth is redistributed, it just moves from the bottom up, you know?
Same old fucking thing—as soon as there’s talk of moving wealth from the top down, it’s class warfare—just like William Sloane Coffin said:
When the rich take from the poor, it’s called an economic plan.
When the poor take from the rich, it’s called class warfare.
In a short email exchange with a friend recently, I lamented about all these folks who have been so negatively affected by the culture wars that they align themselves with the cruelest, coldest, most terrifying leaders. All this brainwashing, all this polarizing and factionalizing, all this effort to ensure that Americans somehow have less solidarity, as a people, than they have nationalism—you know what I mean? All this “proud to be an American” bullshit, all this “they hate us for our freedom” bullshit, all this “America is the best” bullshit, but then, somehow, Americans just hate the fuck out of each other, you know?
Worse, we don’t even hate the right people. The "American Dream" has been so deeply implanted in our psyches that poor and working-class folks most often recognize each other as competitors for an ever-diminishing slice of the money pie, when we should be recognizing each other as comrades (oh no she di’n’t) (oh yes she did). I mean, what level of delusion does it take for a loser like Joe the Plumber to think that *he* can join the ranks of the folks who slice the pie and, with it dripping from their soft, smooth hands, smear it all over their greedy faces?
Someone should tell Joe that around 20% of the American population owns 85% of America’s privately held wealth. And yes, this means that the rest of us—80% of the population—share the remaining 15% of American wealth. I mean, I don’t even know how to add commentary to those figures, because they make such a powerful statement all on their own.
Here’s another stunner: The richest 10% of the American population hold 85% to 90% of stock, bonds, trust funds, and business equity, and over 75% of non-home real estate. So, as the site I lifted these numbers from points out, that means that about 10% of our population owns this country.
The last set of statistics I will throw at you concerns the gap in annual pay between a CEO and an average American factory worker: this ratio rose from 42:1 in 1960 to as high as 531:1 in 2000. It was at 411:1 in 2005. You are, indeed, reading that correctly. So, for example, if a factory worker makes $25 an hour, the corresponding CEO rate would be $10,275 an hour. We live in a country where people can't afford health care, where people live on the streets, where people go to bed hungry, while other people are making $10,000 an hour.
Again, I have no words that could make those statistics any more meaningful or powerful than they are on their own.
And I am totaly bumming myself out, anyway.
My friend "the injector" invoked Bruce Springsteen in her last blog and talked about “The Rising.” I think that may be a nice way for me to wrap this up, as well—posting the text of this absolutely beautiful speech the Boss has been giving at voter registration events.
Peace.
I am glad to be here today for this voter registration drive and for Barack Obama, the next president of the United States.
I've spent 35 years writing about America, its people, and the meaning of the American Promise. The Promise that was handed down to us, right here in this city from our founding fathers, with one instruction: Do your best to make these things real: opportunity, equality, social and economic justice, a fair shake for all of our citizens, the American idea, as a positive influence around the world for a more just and peaceful existence. These are the things that give our lives hope, shape, and meaning. They are the ties that bind us together and give us faith in our contract with one another.
I've spent most of my creative life measuring the distance between that American promise and American reality. For many Americans, who are today losing their jobs, their homes, seeing their retirement funds disappear, who have no healthcare, or who have been abandoned in our inner cities, the distance between that promise and that reality has never been greater or more painful.
I believe Senator Obama has taken the measure of that distance in his own life and in his work. I believe he understands, in his heart, the cost of that distance, in blood and suffering, in the lives of everyday Americans. I believe as president, he would work to restore that promise to so many of our fellow citizens who have justifiably lost faith in its meaning. After the disastrous administration of the past 8 years, we need someone to lead us in an American reclamation project.
In my job, I travel the world, and occasionally play big stadiums, just like Senator Obama. I've continued to find, wherever I go, America remains a repository of people's hopes, possibilities, and desires, and that despite the terrible erosion to our standing around the world, accomplished by our recent administration, we remain, for many, a house of dreams. One thousand George Bushes and one thousand Dick Cheneys will never be able to tear that house down.They will, however, be leaving office, dropping the national tragedies of Katrina, Iraq, and our financial crisis in our laps.
Our sacred house of dreams has been abused, looted, and left in a terrible state of disrepair. It needs care; it needs saving, it needs defending against those who would sell it down the river for power or a quick buck. It needs strong arms, hearts, and minds. It needs someone with Senator Obama's understanding, temperateness, deliberativeness, maturity, compassion, toughness, and faith, to help us rebuild our house once again.
But most importantly, it needs us. You and me. To build that house with the generosity that is at the heart of the American spirit. A house that is truer and big enough to contain the hopes and dreams of all of our fellow citizens. That is where our future lies. We will rise or fall as a people by our ability to accomplish this task. Now I don't know about you, but I want that dream back, I want my America back, I want my country back.So now is the time to stand with Barack Obama and Joe Biden, roll up our sleeves, and come on up for the rising.
Some of you know I have been unraveling for a while now—those who know me really well probably can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like this was happening. So, in that sense, I guess, yadayadayada, huh? As the yadayadayada has been happening, my writing (blogging, emailing, journaling), for the most part, has come to a stand-still, though up until about three weeks ago, I was putting a lot of time and energy into a personal writing project focused on my experience growing up as a sentient queerchild ; ) But now, even my work on that project has ceased, though I am thinking of posting parts of that endeavor here.
Anyway.
I compose blogs in my head all the time, but I have lost the ability to translate my musings to the screen. I was just doing this—composing a blog in my head—after reading an article about that stupid prick, Joe the Plumber, when I decided to give making my thoughts public another try.
Though I am now so disturbed by my own characterization of what I am doing—“making my thoughts public”—that I feel stymied all over again.
OK. Whatever.
Joe the Plumber.
Watching the final presidential debate, I learned that Joe the Plumber, McCain’s “everyman”, was considering purchasing the quarter-of-a-million dollar plumbing company that employed him (that is not like any man or woman I know, let alone everyman), but Obama’s proposed tax plan, should he be elected, was somehow going to keep Joe from fulfilling that dream. In between grunts, grimaces, and eye-rolls, McCain worked in as many “Joe the Plumber” references as he could, until I wasn’t even sure that this plumber was a real guy—I thought maybe McCain had resorted to some sort of biblical parable-speak.
But, no, turns out Joe the Plumber is, indeed, a real guy. Funny thing, though—he’s not a licensed or registered plumber.
His real name is Joe Wurzelbacher, and he’s been the focus of some major media attention ever since Obama visited his Toledo, Ohio neighborhood in order to greet voters and seek support. As Obama made his way through the neighborhood, Wurzelbacher challenged him about his tax plan and said that he wanted to buy the plumbing company that he worked for, but that Obama’s tax plan would make it prohibitive. Obama responded by explaining that he wanted to be able to give tax breaks to 95% of working Americans and that he wanted to help all the folks who were hoping to get a start in a small business (read: businesses with annual earnings of less than $250,000), and he mentioned something about “spreading the wealth around” (oh no he di’n’t)(oh yes he did).
So this Wurzelbacher fellow, our Joe the Plumber, in addition to not being an actual plumber, also seems in a poor position to purchase the plumbing and heating company for which he works, as his divorce papers show that he earned about $40,000 in 2006. Then, in 2007, there was a lien placed against him for about $1200 in personal property taxes that he hadn’t paid. So, although Obama’s tax plan would actually benefit this dumbfuck far, FAR more than McCain’s proposal would, he insists that he would not want Obama’s promised tax cut, should Obama be elected. It seems his delicate, working-man sensibilities were injured by this talk of “spreading the wealth around,” because Joe the Dumber buttresses his blustery claims with vague comments about socialism and about how it’s wrong to “take someone’s money because they work a little harder.”
Beyond how utterly pathetic it is, all these poor slobs who vote as if protecting some future wealth that they have not yet accumulated—and never will under the policies of the leaders they support—it nearly makes my head explode, this feeble-minded buffoon’s grasp of socioeconomics, not to mention his empty-headed parroting of the ridiculous notion that folks who make a lot of money work harder than those who make a little money. If hard work increased earnings, my grandpa—who worked sunup to sundown from the time he was a boy, until multiple strokes and bouts with cancer whittled him down to a whisper; who finally succumbed to death while digging up a weeping cheery tree just as stubborn and rebellious as he was: its branches refused to “weep,” thus my grandpa’s fight to uproot it that quiet April day—should have died with more money than Warren Buffet.
Another hard-work vignette: The people across the street from me struggle to keep their lights on, to heat their home, to eat. They earn a portion of their living from junking and scrapping—they scavenge dumpsters and trash cans, abandoned houses and empty lots, hauling, carrying, and dragging hundreds and hundreds of pounds of metal to their yard almost daily, where they disassemble it with brute force—smashing big things with sledgehammers and little things with claw hammers. They then separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, and haul the prized metals to the scrap-yards. I have seen them disassemble an entire car in a matter of hours. They do this work every day, sometimes until late into the evening. I often drift off to sleep and awaken to the same repetitive sound of hammer on metal, a ringing thunk thunk thunk in the air. This is hard work. It is heavy, dirty work. It tears skin and bruises knuckles and breaks backs.
These people are also pretty fucking scandalous, which I mention lest I have unintentionally painted too sensitive a portrayal or romanticized their scrappin’ ways. For example, soon after Elizabeth moved into the neighborhood, the oldest son in the scrappin’ house set her up to be robbed, as he had done for nearly every house on the block, including his own. So.
Back to Obama’s “spreading the wealth” comment … I am completely flabbergasted by the negative response this comment generated—all this wild-eyed talk of socialism and wealth redistribution, all this swooning and calling for the vapors. I got news for you motherfuckers: wealth is redistributed, it just moves from the bottom up, you know?
Same old fucking thing—as soon as there’s talk of moving wealth from the top down, it’s class warfare—just like William Sloane Coffin said:
When the rich take from the poor, it’s called an economic plan.
When the poor take from the rich, it’s called class warfare.
In a short email exchange with a friend recently, I lamented about all these folks who have been so negatively affected by the culture wars that they align themselves with the cruelest, coldest, most terrifying leaders. All this brainwashing, all this polarizing and factionalizing, all this effort to ensure that Americans somehow have less solidarity, as a people, than they have nationalism—you know what I mean? All this “proud to be an American” bullshit, all this “they hate us for our freedom” bullshit, all this “America is the best” bullshit, but then, somehow, Americans just hate the fuck out of each other, you know?
Worse, we don’t even hate the right people. The "American Dream" has been so deeply implanted in our psyches that poor and working-class folks most often recognize each other as competitors for an ever-diminishing slice of the money pie, when we should be recognizing each other as comrades (oh no she di’n’t) (oh yes she did). I mean, what level of delusion does it take for a loser like Joe the Plumber to think that *he* can join the ranks of the folks who slice the pie and, with it dripping from their soft, smooth hands, smear it all over their greedy faces?
Someone should tell Joe that around 20% of the American population owns 85% of America’s privately held wealth. And yes, this means that the rest of us—80% of the population—share the remaining 15% of American wealth. I mean, I don’t even know how to add commentary to those figures, because they make such a powerful statement all on their own.
Here’s another stunner: The richest 10% of the American population hold 85% to 90% of stock, bonds, trust funds, and business equity, and over 75% of non-home real estate. So, as the site I lifted these numbers from points out, that means that about 10% of our population owns this country.
The last set of statistics I will throw at you concerns the gap in annual pay between a CEO and an average American factory worker: this ratio rose from 42:1 in 1960 to as high as 531:1 in 2000. It was at 411:1 in 2005. You are, indeed, reading that correctly. So, for example, if a factory worker makes $25 an hour, the corresponding CEO rate would be $10,275 an hour. We live in a country where people can't afford health care, where people live on the streets, where people go to bed hungry, while other people are making $10,000 an hour.
Again, I have no words that could make those statistics any more meaningful or powerful than they are on their own.
And I am totaly bumming myself out, anyway.
My friend "the injector" invoked Bruce Springsteen in her last blog and talked about “The Rising.” I think that may be a nice way for me to wrap this up, as well—posting the text of this absolutely beautiful speech the Boss has been giving at voter registration events.
Peace.
I am glad to be here today for this voter registration drive and for Barack Obama, the next president of the United States.
I've spent 35 years writing about America, its people, and the meaning of the American Promise. The Promise that was handed down to us, right here in this city from our founding fathers, with one instruction: Do your best to make these things real: opportunity, equality, social and economic justice, a fair shake for all of our citizens, the American idea, as a positive influence around the world for a more just and peaceful existence. These are the things that give our lives hope, shape, and meaning. They are the ties that bind us together and give us faith in our contract with one another.
I've spent most of my creative life measuring the distance between that American promise and American reality. For many Americans, who are today losing their jobs, their homes, seeing their retirement funds disappear, who have no healthcare, or who have been abandoned in our inner cities, the distance between that promise and that reality has never been greater or more painful.
I believe Senator Obama has taken the measure of that distance in his own life and in his work. I believe he understands, in his heart, the cost of that distance, in blood and suffering, in the lives of everyday Americans. I believe as president, he would work to restore that promise to so many of our fellow citizens who have justifiably lost faith in its meaning. After the disastrous administration of the past 8 years, we need someone to lead us in an American reclamation project.
In my job, I travel the world, and occasionally play big stadiums, just like Senator Obama. I've continued to find, wherever I go, America remains a repository of people's hopes, possibilities, and desires, and that despite the terrible erosion to our standing around the world, accomplished by our recent administration, we remain, for many, a house of dreams. One thousand George Bushes and one thousand Dick Cheneys will never be able to tear that house down.They will, however, be leaving office, dropping the national tragedies of Katrina, Iraq, and our financial crisis in our laps.
Our sacred house of dreams has been abused, looted, and left in a terrible state of disrepair. It needs care; it needs saving, it needs defending against those who would sell it down the river for power or a quick buck. It needs strong arms, hearts, and minds. It needs someone with Senator Obama's understanding, temperateness, deliberativeness, maturity, compassion, toughness, and faith, to help us rebuild our house once again.
But most importantly, it needs us. You and me. To build that house with the generosity that is at the heart of the American spirit. A house that is truer and big enough to contain the hopes and dreams of all of our fellow citizens. That is where our future lies. We will rise or fall as a people by our ability to accomplish this task. Now I don't know about you, but I want that dream back, I want my America back, I want my country back.So now is the time to stand with Barack Obama and Joe Biden, roll up our sleeves, and come on up for the rising.
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