For
months, news of the “Occupy Wallstreet” protest satellite in Chicago has been
trumpeted from the TV, radio, internet and in my email inbox. In the last
couple of weeks, those media outlets warned Chicagoans of the upcoming G8
Summit that was placed in President Obama’s “home city.”[1] When
I get home to my apartment after work on the Friday before the Summit, my
thoughts focus in on my weekend plans downtown. I think how they are so
extravagant against the atmosphere of global politics and public protest: Those buses of protesters have arrived from
other cities.... There were some nurses at Daley Plaza midday today,
right? Shit, Jon and I need to get to the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel for
Ryan & Kim’s wedding reception tomorrow by 6:00pm; there shouldn’t be too
much traffic in Streeterville[2] since
that’s way north of the protests, isn’t it?
I start
to become upset. Worrying about logistical details is the gentle breeze of
anxiety, but it’s enough to kickstart the turbine. The turbine is my own
personal self-loathing machine that powers constant anxiety. (At least it’s an
alternative to fossil fuels?) When I’m nervous, I rifle through things like my
purses for loose change, my coats for receipts, pick the skin from under my
nails or squeeze blackheads from my chin, because I feel better when I clean
things out. Now I’m fucking with my hair. Then I check around for a lighter so
I can go smoke on the porch. Remember when you got on that bus to NYC for
the RNC protest of 2004? Sara, you’re only 26. How have you become so valueless,
disimpassioned and disengaged already?
You’re just dead weight. And a lot of it. Yeah, go ahead and get that cheese
from the fridge, you thoughtless consumer. You’re no better than the pigheaded
corporate giants and corrupt politicians who exploit and drill and take take
take!
When the turbine runs, I forget to
breathe. I can’t find my lighter, so I pause a moment to look out my new
apartment windows. We get to see the trees and the sky and the apartment
complex across the street. It reminds me of the suburban developments where I
lived from birth through high school, sort of Nordic, like Ikea developments.
The main difference here is I can see in each apartment. Every other one is
freckled with flickers of light. As of two weeks ago, this is the first time
I’ve been able to see a literal cross section of an apartment building and see
just how many people are watching TV. I suspect this problem has gotten worse with
time, labor laws and exponentially increased show budgets, especially since my
own television consumption has become somewhat of an obsession. See, I was only
half-raised on TV, the other half I took care of myself with
books and homework, tree climbing and soccer. As a person affected by the likes
of Wells, Orwell, a Clockwork Orange and Brazil, the thought that so many
people are glued to the boob tube make my stomach lurch a little. But really
only a little. In order to distract myself from this unnerving feeling, I’ll
just go ahead and turn on the TV.
No, Sara! You can resist! Finish
this essay, and maybe I’ll reward you with the latest episode of Once Upon A Time…
Instead of sitting down to finish
this essay, I walked out onto the back
deck of my building and smoked a cigarette, looking out over the city where I
knew those protests specific to the G8 were starting for the weekend. I walked
out there to calm down. The open air always brought me peace, like my brain is
an overstuffed belly and walking outside is unbuttoning a constricting pair of
jeans. But instead, the act of calming down just reinforced that I felt
overwhelmed. I get that way when I have to write. It’s a hot feeling. It begins
in my gut, as most meaningful emotions do, splays out through my veins and
finds its release in the capillaries of my face and ears. From what I
understand of the sensation through self-diagnosis is that it is equal parts
fear, anger, resignation and envy. I fear this essay is terrible. I am angry
that I cannot become the person I want to be. I resign to the TV when fear and
anger propel my blood too fast. I envy everyone. Including the person I used to
be that joined the protest against the RNC eight years ago. On second thought,
maybe the feelings are not equal parts. The sum of them incites an intravenous
hurricane of anger that rages until I drink a glass of beer or wine, act on the
subject of the storm or fall asleep. Most nights I’ll fall asleep. I never have
any trouble with that because the exhaustion that comes after the physical
tension of worry and ire and jealousy is enough to keep me from staying awake.
I am lucky my boyfriend knows all this, because I can tell him I am angry, and
he understands he has not upset me, but I have upset myself yet again.
I feel packed in, so maybe it will
help to unpack. Sara, why are you upset really?
As a teenager who was raised in a shopping-mall
and corporation oriented suburb of Chicago, I was snarky and longed to
participate in public forums that expressed dissatisfaction with the status
quo. By status quo, I mean that landscape of the economy of conformity: Obsession
with buying new curtains, new lawn chairs, new appliances, even when you have
two of each. Computer red-eyed and hunched over a desk in a cubicle. Pacing on
phones with grins because the client and your mother-in-law can hear it if
you’re not smiling. Daily complaints to
your loved ones about your boss’ condescending remarks or how the dogs won’t
stop barking or how you just can’t get help like you used to. But you need to
make enough money to live in homes with the same floor plans as your neighbors.
Mini-mansions popped up behind our townhomes when during the 2000s recession
since management in the corporate headquarters down the street were doing quite
alright for themselves. It was around that time the cops started citing my
friends and me “gang activity” when we’d play a game of football in one of our
dead-end driveways.
While I couldn’t be 100% certain, I
don’t think my craving for joining a community of nonconformists was awoken
like some sleeping dragon of stereotypical adolescent rebelliousness. The kind
that emerges too cool to actually wake up, but won’t mind telling you to “fuck
off” first. No, no. See, I also grew up with my father, in part, in small art
galleries in less homogenous towns. The artists would express their individual
realities through their visual art while I watched from my post next to the
cupcakes or the dry ice machine. I remember one woman who was made of long
limbs created two-story canvases she covered in moss colored acrylic. She hung
the vague shapes of female bodies from them. Their skeletons were made of wire,
papier-mâché for the flesh, and their skin, a slop of the same peaty paint.
They looked like a vertical swamp with bog bodies[3]
bursting from the wall. Once, my father showed a piece he made with naked
Barbie dolls, slathered in barbeque sauce, swinging by their smooth plastic
hands from the inside of a rusted birdcage. After I saw that installation, I
didn’t want to play with Barbies like my friends did anymore. Everyone there
was so much older than me back then, though they may have been about my age at
this moment. I remember I wanted to be like them when I grew up. I wanted to be
a part of a community of artists.
But I wasn’t. There were honors
classes, a couple part time jobs, parties. There was always enough pot to haze
the days away without succumbing to my greatest worry: That I don’t belong
anywhere.
It was this foggily suppressed dormant
worldview with which I started college, after all that. I attended Lake Forest
College, a whole fifteen minute drive east of my beloved suburban home. While
Lake Forest was the third “top earning town” in the nation in 2008 according to
CNN Money online, at least it produced Dave Eggers. Maybe I could be Dave
Eggers! Anyway, one of the first people I met was Stephanie, a political type
who lived just down the hall from me in the only single sex dorm on campus.
We got on famously, as she was a
self-proclaimed rare liberal from a conservative, wealthy city in Arizona and I
from just around the corner with all my aforementioned contradictions to
clumsily contribute to conversations with her. We both hated our origin stories
in relation to the way we thought the world ought to work. I know I didn’t have
any productive ideas, but we knew it wasn’t with Dubya’s[4]
decisions. He sent people to a war that facilitated the procurement of cheap
gas that fueled the status quo. This was funded by the taxes of people who needed
it more at home (presumably and ideally in our minds for something other than
another lawn ornament or light switch covers), not to mention the lack of
funding for other domesticky things like public education, arts programs or
veteran services. We believed that the war in the Middle East was of interest
to those corporations whose top executives lived both our home towns and
especially in the city we resided in for college. It wasn’t to “spread
democracy” like the government justified it to the public. How does that even
work anyway? If that’s what they were even setting out to do, it would somehow
be the military pointing weapons at people, forcing them at gunpoint to believe
whatever they want now? No, it’s oppression in liberation’s disguise, the
proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Besides, isn’t the belief that you are
free to choose your beliefs a belief in and of itself? To me, the war was like
a mermaid milking a goat, then threw it into the ocean and yelled back to it as
she swam away to her corrupt little milk mongering cronies, “You’re free to
swim!” Yes, that absurd. Not to mention politics confounded me a bit back then.
The first few weeks of college, we
walked by the by the much-larger-than-mini-mansions overlooking the ravines with
Stephanie to our World Politics and Intro to Sociology classes every day. We
saw their lush gardens, the lavish stone lions overlooking their yards, the
white pillars, white fences and brown faces that tended the gardens and walked
the white faced children in strollers during the day. While it was, in the
proverbial vacuum, so breathtakingly beautiful, and I could have chosen to go
to another school… Well, Lake Forest College offered me the largest
scholarship, which did not, at the time, puncture my ass-headed[5]
view of the world. I was different, damn it. When Stephanie asked, “do you want
to…”, I hesitated not. I was going to
prove it by hopping on a bus to New York City to protest the September 2004
Republican National Convention[6].
We rode the Metra together thirty
miles south to the loop in Chicago, then walked to the edge of Grant Park where
buses were supposed to load up people for a free ride to NYC. We didn’t see
buses, but we saw people. Our people. Among the trees, Steph and I gathered
anarchist leaflets and smoked cigarettes, scanning the crowd of people to see
if there were any small, inviting looking group (read: clean 18 year olds?) through
which we could enter into the larger scene. Instead, a tall, dark haired and coke-eyed
man(iac) locked in on our wandering eyes. He darted toward us. We did not
cower; that’s not what we were here for, cowering. We were here to stand tall
for justice. So we froze. Close enough. While we were not even close to
appearing like small frightened bunny children, he introduced himself as
Patrick. He was glad we were here! And would we like a copy of The Socialist
Times?! And see you on the bus! …aaand gone. Phew.
Of course, being the young things we
were, we met two boys our age that were dressed in khaki shorts. They were
standing next to a of androgynous drum circle of whipping leather limbs, hemp
everything and white-people dreadlocks. I’m almost sure we thought we were all
the same, being present for the same cause and all. One of the boys joked, “I’m
just here for a free trip to NYC!” I know that I… certainly… wasn’t a little
bit interested in that part of it. I was
relieved when the buses finally arrived. When we boarded the ancient yellow
school bus, Patrick announced that we needed to write down the emergency
numbers to call in case we got beaten or pepper sprayed or tazed or gassed or
especially arrested. Stephanie and I, who sat next to each other in the
cramped, tall-backed seats bus squealed with adrenaline at the thought. Arrested!
We each raised our jean shorts from the thigh. We scrawled the emergency
numbers on our thighs in black marker. For a badass photo-op we also wrote, on
my left thigh IN CASE and her right OF ARREST. Our first protest temporary
tattoos inscribed. We were off to make a difference.
After a full night on the road, with
the mandatory stops for diet cokes and bags of Chex Party Mix on the way there,
we finally made it. To New Jersey. I’m glad I was listening when we were told
we would take the commuter train into NYC. The protest was already so crowded
that the main streets, of Manhattan I think, were all shut down. When we arrived
at our stop on the subway, emerging from the ground we could hear thousands of
people already chanting, whistling and drumming. When we met the horizon, we
squinted in the light, our faces and feet flushing with the heat of the
pavement and excitement. I closed my agape mouth and craned my neck in either
direction, scanning the protest panorama. T-shirts and shorts, posters,
puppets, costumed Penises that mocked the former Vice President Dick Cheney,
bikini clad protesters with signs that read “Give Bush a Brazilian[7],” every
color hair and every color sweaty flesh. Plainclothes protesters like us picked
up paraphernalia, from BUSH LIES and KERRY 4 PREZ buttons to bongs disguised as
bracelets. I bought an “Imagine Free Speech in Central Park” t-shirt, since the
city wouldn’t allow protesters to congregate there. Look at me; so in the know!
We were proud to be one of almost 100,000 fractured lives in together in solidarity
against The Bush Regime. Here, among strangers,
I felt big. I felt more swollen with importance and more included than I had
ever felt before. Nobody here turned away when I caught their eye. Everybody
screamed and smiled, scrunching their eyes and baring their teeth. Being a
participant in this collective voice, it was akin to the feeling I get of
simultaneous largeness and smallness next to the ocean when I believe in that
moment I am both the sky and a grain of sand, but with people. But with
purpose.
Speaking of sky, I wasn’t wearing
any sunscreen. The sun beat harder and harder as the drums beat less and less
frequently. After our go around of the main, blocked-off streets, we stepped
onto the sidewalk to find relief under storefront awnings. We picked up iced
tea from a convenience store. Stepping in the shop seemed to burst the burst
the bubble. Having to wipe sweat from my embarrassing sweat-mustache, pull my
shirt down to cover my midriff and speak in an inside voice to the attendant, I
remembered what society I’m from. Rejoining
the hullabaloo didn’t feel so swollen. We found a drum circle to hover by, and
the music stretched out what was left of the day’s magic. Before getting back
onto the subway, I took in a good deep breath of New York City. I did something
today.
When we returned to Chicago, then to
Lake Forest, both Stephanie and I returned to our routines. In the months
following, the news trumpeted louder to her than it did at me. She tuned in
while I was busy flirting with the bassoon player in concert band and avoiding
my roommates. But come November, it was time to cinch the experience at the
protest with my first time ever at the polls on Election Day! I turned eighteen
just in time! Since I only lived fifteen minutes’ drive from my polling place
in Vernon Hills, I secured a ride there with my mother. On November 2, 2004, at
the last minute, my mother backed out on her promise to drive me to the poll. I
couldn’t even vote. I was devastated. I was furious. Honestly, it was mostly
because she let me down again, not because I couldn’t vote. That part just made
me feel like a schmuck.
While “every vote counts,” when it
was all said and done, mine didn’t anyway. In fact, many votes that were
supposed to have counted did not, and those that shouldn’t have been weighed as
heavily counted infinitely more. Not too many people know how the Electoral
College system works in the U.S., and this 2004 election caused quite a stir. Everyone
votes in their own state, and each state has a certain number of Electoral
College votes based on the recorded population garnered by the U.S. Census Bureau.
For example, in 2004, Illinois got 21 votes, New York got 31 votes. States like
Alaska, Wyoming and Delaware get 3 each. The announcement of the winner of the
election was delayed one day, because of a debate as to whether to recount do a
recount in Ohio. Unofficially, though, George Bush won.
Stephanie heard this breaking news
first. She stormed into my room sobbing, and then broke the news to me in
garbled wails. She hugged me, and I remember thinking that I should feel guilty
that I didn’t care as much as she did. What kind of monster doesn’t care? Then,
I felt detached in disbelief, like we were in some movie where Bush’s election
win was just a plot twist that would come undone soon enough. When we were in
New York, it felt like we really closed the book on who would win. The people
said No, we said No. All that. Then again, I didn’t even vote. So is it futile
to think about the futility of the electoral system if I’m not even going to
participate? Oh Well I thought as Stephanie gathered herself up enough to start
sobbing all over again to her brother on the phone in her room. I needed a
cigarette. And then I needed another one when the presidency was locked in
January after the final Ohio recount. Happy Birthday Bush.
Through the next few semesters in
college, I had taken a genuine liking to Sociology classes. Cultures! So thaaat’s what I’d been
picking up on in the humanity ether throughout my life. Suburban culture.
Artist culture. Economic sociology. I spoke Spanish fairly well, so I also took
Latin American Studies classes that overlapped with Sociology classes. More cultures! Clashing! Class warfare! I learned about literal imposition of European
bodies, thought, and culture on the Americas. In Cuzco, Peru, the conquistadores enslaved the Incas of
that city, forced them to tear apart the stones of their downtown, which was on
top of a hill, sacred, closest to the heavens. They rolled the massive rock down the hill to create the
foundations of the Spanish churches in the center of Cuzco, since that is the
western vision of city planning. Today, this same European influence over the
continents take the form of government sanctioned military coups and free trade
agreements. White American politicians carried on the tradition of general
imperialism based on the procurement of cheap, if not free, resources. All the
while, the U.S. government exploits the natural resources of foreign lands like
the oil fields of Iraq or the forests of Brazil. U.S. corporations outsource
labor to take advantage of pennies-on-the-dollar “human capital” in, say, the
sweatshops of China, Taiwan and India or the maquiladores of Mexico. The tradition of insistence that spreading Freedom
and opportunity is the reason of the season continues as well. With this comes
the violence of European cultural influence. Whether it’s a religious mission,
a War on Terrorism or the abuse of slack international labor laws, they
overpower and conquer the natural expression of people they felt were
different, they feared or believed to be inferior.
This forceful infiltration and
penetration of homogeneity and manipulation felt familiar to me on a base,
human level, even though I am white myself. I felt it in the mall. I felt it
every time I saw an advertisement on TV. I felt it when my step-father made fun
of “the Mexicans” in Vernon Hills’ neighboring town for being stupid and lazy. I
worked as a teenager and young adult side-by-side with Mexican and Puerto Rican
guys who worked harder than anyone I ever met before. Plus, he never even tried
to learn Spanish, so qué diciste, Señor
Anderson? I felt it when I walked around my college campus when sorority
girls dressed in mini-skirts and Northface jackets in the goddamn wintertime and
ridiculed anyone who participated in theater. I feel it when I find myself
scared of homeless men on the train on my way home from work. When I make fun
of modern dance. When I feel ashamed that I don’t understand the stock market
or somehow intuit that I am not taking full advantage of my white privilege.
As I wrap up this essay at the
Psychology Department of Northwestern University in my administrative
assistant’s chair, I realize that I have. I have taken as much advantage as I
can without becoming an asshole. Then again, it could be the reactions people
have had to my female being that have tempered the asshole potential in me. Of
course women are organized, smart, nurturing, and responsible. That’s who I
grew up to be and that’s why I’m here, both at the university and in the role
of administrator. I dare you to Google Image Search “administrative assistant.”
For some reason, working for a non-profit organization, even one as large as
this, makes me feel less like a white devil. At the same time, across the hall
from my office on the back of a professor’s door, there is taped a cutout from
an article about the rising employment rate of adjunct professors and the
simultaneous decrease of tenured professors.
I find I try very hard to reconcile
the way I see the world and the way I see the world. Ok, I know I work at the
university, but no, I’m not high. There is a conflicting yet complimentary
dual-awareness in my head through which I experience the kaleidoscope of
reality. (Still not high.) Imagine life is a painting made of only
abstractions. No canvas, no paint or pastel or pencil. A painting made of the
interaction of ideas. For me, the landscape of this painting is the economy of
conformity. The economic exploitation of one another might be
our desert. The insistence that my reality has to look like just like the TV
ads might be our reflective ponds. The belief that we are not, in fact, equal
might be our mountains. The pontification of politicians and their false
promises might be the wind. The hatred and fear of difference might be our tundra.
Now, the people in my painting are made of
rugged individualism and the radiant glory of artistic and intellectual
expression. While I envy you all for your beauty against the
harsh landscape, I think I can be in there with you.
How about we turn off the TV
together? One… two…
[1]
This is untrue, he grew up in Hawaii, but the European PR folks did not fact
check before making their informational video. They also said that Chicago is
the capital of Illinois.
[2]
Streeterville is the Chicago neighborhood closest to the loop to the north. It
is just north of the Chicago River, and on Lake Michigan. There are those,
including me, who do or have mistaken if for part of the loop since it is where
you’ll find Navy Pier, but not quite the loop.
[3]
Bog bodies are archeological finds in the peat bogs of northwestern Europe. The
reason for their presence in the bog is unknown. There is evidence of trauma on
many of the bodies, such as punctured skulls and leather nooses preserved
around some of their necks. The microenvironments in bogs allowed for some of
the hair, skin and bone to be totally preserved, but not others, such as the
internal organs. http://www.archaeology.org/online/features/bog/
[4]
Dubya: the disrespectful nickname given to the former president George W.
(hence “Dubya”) Bush. It was a play on his southern accent and how informal he
tried to come off to the American public. Well, most of us didn’t think he
tried, he was just such an idiot that conducting himself formally wasn’t a
thing he was capable of doing. Of course, who knows with politicians?
[5]
It’s a Democratic Party pun party up in here!
[6]
Daily Show “coverage” of the event
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/fri-september-3-2004/back-in-black---rnc-protests
[7]
A “Brazilian” is a form of pubic hair removal that requires every follicle on
the groin region be stripped clean via waxing.
No comments:
Post a Comment