I have to be honest: I’m surprised. What I’m worried about now is whether or not this decision is actually a death knell for the possibility of a single-payer system.
We’ve fought for so long to taste just a hint of victory, I worry that the Dems will be too gunshy to even consider putting the idea of UHC back on the table.
I know I’ve missed the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square rebellion by two days now, but I only just now stumbled upon this picture.
Hopefully everyone is familiar with the iconic “Tank Man” photograph, but this is the first time I’ve seen this version, that shows a wider angle and emphasizes the scale of the crackdown.
I know many people are optimistic that he got away, that if he truly had been arrested and/or executed, the government would have announced it proudly and loudly to make an example of him.
I admit I cannot give that benefit of the doubt to the Chinese government, not then and not now. When you do things right, people won’t be sure you’ve done anything at all.
“I guess some of this mad right-wing love comes from the idea that in America, anyone can become a Rich Guy if he just works hard and saves his pennies. Mitt Romney has said, in effect, “I’m rich and I don’t apologize for it.” Nobody wants you to, Mitt. What some of us want—those who aren’t blinded by a lot of bullshit persiflage thrown up to mask the idea that rich folks want to keep their damn money—is for you to acknowledge that you couldn’t have made it in America without America. That you were fortunate enough to be born in a country where upward mobility is possible (a subject upon which Barack Obama can speak with the authority of experience), but where the channels making such upward mobility possible are being increasingly clogged. That it’s not fair to ask the middle class to assume a disproportionate amount of the tax burden. Not fair? It’s un-fucking-American is what it is. I don’t want you to apologize for being rich; I want you to acknowledge that in America, we all should have to pay our fair share.”
via Stephen King: Tax Me, for F@%&’s Sake! – The Daily Beast.
Rick Santorum’s staff has confirmed to the NY Timesthat he is dropping out of the presidential race.
I’m not convinced this was entirely of his own doing. I wonder if this is part of a larger GOP strategy that involves trying to regroup the splintered conservative vote against the unified liberal Democratic vote.
In any case, it is absolutely possible ole Mittens will come back with a familiar frothy mix of anal lube and fecal matter as his running mate.
But for now, so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.
I had a curious run-in the other day that left me bemused and reflective, but more importantly, conflicted.
I was at a signing for Col. Glenn D. Frazier’s book, Hell’s Guest, at the National WWII Museum in New Orleans. While I waited in line, a lady who shall remain unidentified made small talk with everyone. I had already noticed her singling out the non-White persons in the crowd, making their respective ethnic backgrounds the topic of conversation. A Guatemalan family, the children all born in New Orleans. A Chinese boy, moved to the US at age 4. I got a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach.
If you’re an ethnic minority, you already know which feeling I mean. That small voice in your head that says, get ready — the uncomfortable churning in your belly, the tightening in your chest. The feeling that reminds you, you’re only as much a person as your race. Not an individual. A representative.
As I approached the table where the Colonel was busy signing, the lady smiled widely at me.
“Well, aren’t you beautiful!” Her voice was a cheerful, comforting drawl. Less Paula Deen, more Loretta Lynn.
Thank you, I said. I smiled uncomfortably, the same way I do whenever I am paid a compliment. Inanely, I wondered if my mascara was smudged. In those uncomfortable moments, your mind will cling to any insignificant detail it can to escape the reality of the situation.
Her hands gripped the plastic table as she leaned forward. “And where are you from, darling?”
I winced, inwardly. I knew it was coming and yet, I thought maybe not. But there it was. Asians know this question well. There are a couple of ways to approach it. Most other American-born Asians I know go with, “Well, I was born in America.” (Here, a pause.) “But my family is from XYZ.”
Tell them the truth, but give them what they’re really asking for. Because, in the end, you understand the implication. Where are you from, because it’s not America. You couldn’t be American.
I used to do that. Then one day, without my realizing, something bitter grew deep inside me. Something small, but it still won’t let me give in.
I was born in Baton Rouge, I tell her. End sentence. Full stop.
She clasped her hands to her chest, a revelatory gesture that belongs in a church, not at a book signing.
“Well, I was, too, honey! Well, we live in Alabama now but I’m from Baton Rouge originally.” She sat back in her chair and surveyed me head to toe, not unkindly.
“My, my.” She grinned widely, and it was genuine, endearing. “Imagine that. A Cajun girl with slant eyes.”
I wish I could say there was a sudden stillness in the room, an undercurrent of disapproving murmurs at this outdated and loaded turn of phrase. But in fact, if it weren’t for my boyfriend surreptitiously glancing at me, I might not have even thought it occurred. If you asked me later, I might say I hallucinated the whole thing. A delusion. The fevered imagination of a racial activist gone wild.
My smile faltered a little bit. She was totally unaware, convinced that we were getting on swimmingly.
“Do you love to eat crawfish as much as I do? I just love fresh boiled crawfish, but of course we can’t get it as much in Alabama…” Her eyes glazed over, fond memories of spicy crustaceans no doubt filling her head.
I forced out small talk about boiled crawfish, and fresh Ponchatoula strawberries baked into pies. Then my book was signed, the Colonel bookmarked the page with a picture of him in the infamous Bataan Death march, and I shuffled off to my seat. End of awkwardness.
But the incident stuck with me. Really, as far as these sort of interactions go, it was mild. In fact, it was probably the best kind of situation I could find myself in, all things considered. If you asked me later, Was that lady racist, I would tell you, Maybe.
It’s an interesting issue. Some people would say, Definitely, absolutely. These people would probably subscribe to the view that “language defines our worldview.” The person who continues to use racist words lives in a racist world.
But I’m not completely convinced. I wonder. Despite my bitterness, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not necessarily for their sake, but for mine.
And yet at the same time, I know that it is so. Maybe not always. But usually. More often than not.
There’s a great debate, one that’s raged for the past couple of decades and one that will probably continue indefinitely.
Can non-Black people use that word? You know the one.
Nigger.
There’s even debate on the acceptable use of its “friendly” counterpart, nigga. Yet, strangely, curiously, there’s little-to-no debate about the usage of Negro, Nigra, colored, darkie, tar baby, mulatto, quadroon — I could go on, but you get the idea.
I don’t even like typing it out, to be honest. The word in any form fills me with unease. Some people might say this is ludicrous. Words are words. They only have as much meaning as we give them.
Up to a point, this is true.
There’s another word I don’t like. Cunt. I don’t like seeing it in print or hearing it said out loud.
In the UK and Australia, it’s an everyday word, if not a term of endearment. But it has different meaning in America, to me.
Words are words for a reason. They mean something. They represent ideas and concepts, both tangible and intangible.
I heard a White person say once, It’s ridiculous if people get offended by ‘nigger.’ Words can only hurt if you let them.
But that’s completely useless. Specifically, it’s victim-blaming. It’s akin to telling a woman who has just been raped, It’s ridiculous for you to feel violated. You can only feel violated if you let them.
But it’s been done. The act has been committed, and it is on the aggressor, not the target, to shoulder the responsibility.
A rapist may not always know the depths of his actions. He may not understand what he is doing is hurtful, wrong. But it doesn’t matter. He’s already erred.
A person who uses racist terms may genuinely, honestly, truly not understand the emotional impact of these words. That’s part of what we call ‘white privilege.’ He may not know the feelings these words evoke.
Hurt. Betrayal. Shame. Confusion. Anger. Sadness. Bewilderment. Pathos. Resignation.
Words are words for a reason.
These people might be well-meaning. They might honestly — bless their hearts — believe that we live in a post-racial society. One where these words are no longer loaded with negative connotations. After all, we “took” them back.
I challenge these people to go to their mother, or their wives, or their sisters and call them, plainly and without malice, a “bitch.”
Women call each other this all the time. Like “cunt” in the UK, it’s a wretched, demented term of endearment. Once used to denigrate, it is now used to denote affection.
Hey bitch, let’s go shopping.
I’m going to bet these women will react unfavorably. We women “took” it back. But you still can’t use it. Even if you’re another woman.
Because I don’t know you like that. Because you can’t “take” this word back, when you shouldn’t have been using it in the first place.
Because words are more than words. They’re how we communicate. People say all the time, they’re great communicators, it’s other people who are bad listeners.
But that’s not how communication works.
And we don’t live in a post-racial society.
We live in one where minorities are judged uniformly.
But despite this, we also live in one where, just because your Black friend says it’s OK to use “nigger,” doesn’t mean it’s OK to use that word at all. He might not mind.
But the fact is he’s not every Black man. He’s certainly not every Black woman.
He is not a representative of the Black race. He’s a person, an individual, flawed as much as you are with his own opinions, who also happens to be Black. Maybe, let’s pretend, he had the privilege of never hearing that word directed at him with hatred. Or maybe he honestly doesn’t care. But it doesn’t matter.
There are a lot of words we don’t use anymore.
“Oft” comes to mind. Perchance, ’twas, yonder, merkin.
They’re dated, out of mode. No one not from the Elizabethan era speaks like that anymore.
If you use those words in normal conversation, chances are people around you will think you’re a pretentious prick. More importantly, your use of these words signals to them, This person wishes he lived in 16th century England.
Just like if you use the word “nigger,” people around you will think, This person wishes he lived on a slave plantation.
Maybe not everyone who uses racist words is racist. But the onus is not on us to suss that fact out.
I think back to that day, and I still get a small twinge of regret, that activist buried deep within me who says, You ought to have said something. Politely. ‘Ma’am, I understand you meant no harm, but I feel like you ought to know those words are inappropriate and may come off as racist.’
But she’s an older lady. I say this not to absolve her of guilt. In fact, the opposite. I know older people who are not racist — people who were already grown men and women in the midst of the Civil Rights era, who don’t use those words.
If they didn’t know, they learned. They figured it out.
Because, in the end, the burden is not and should not be on the minority to educate the White person.
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Twinkie, Interrupted 