 This is the top half of the list, continuing from the bottom, which is available here. 10. Crossing, by Levan Akin. 106m. Domestic Trailer.  “What would you tell her if you found her?” It's possible this belongs much higher up on this list. I need a rewatch in order to write intelligently about it. There's a lot going on in the deceptively simple story, about an aging aunt seeking her long-lost (trans) daughter. It has a cumulative power I wasn't expecting, and like Audiard's work manages to be many things at once, albeit in a quieter and more focused key. Regardless of what a second viewing reveals: what an ending!! A powerful reminder that regardless of how convinced some are by bigoted views and putting up walls between themselves and others, tolerance always– always– ages best. Acceptance even moreso. 9. Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, by George Miller. 148m. Trailer 1.  “You can never balance the scales of their suffering.” An auteur action picture. In a sea of indistinguishable summer multiplex vanilla, the authorial voice is instantly identifiable here, as is the refreshing reliance on practical effects. Miller proves himself once again the consummate craftsman, in sequence after sequence of maddening ingenuity (the mid-film truck chase alone took 87 days to shoot, longer than the full schedule for many features nowadays). He challenges himself to a different aesthetic than 2015’s equally stunning Fury Road, forgoing that film's two-hour car chase format for something structurally more akin to a symphony, with adjustments and cycles of pace and mood. He also favors (slightly!) longer takes over Fury Road's quick cuts, blocking three or four beats in one shot rather than one per, and concludes with a dialogue-based climax (anathema in this genre) that surprised me with its maturity. You know this preposterous narrative is working when we find ourselves unexpectedly moved when Anya Taylor-Joy decides to go back and save Tom Murphy. 8. Conclave, by Edward Berger. 120m. Trailer 1.  “Our faith is a living thing precisely because it walks hand-in-hand with doubt. If there was only certainty and no doubt, there would be no mystery. And therefore, no need for faith." There are not enough films about old people just being people. And not enough films that recognize a difference between religion and faith, and explore seriously the questions brought on by both. If only the recent electoral disaster had taken some cues from this film's remarkable conclusion, which represents hope during a time when we may feel bereft of it. Also– props to Berger's highly unusual deployment of score, wherein he somehow gets away with telegraphing dread through music alone, a direct counter to our current practice of not relying on music to telegraph emotion; and his courageous willingness in creating a mise-en-scene that's utterly unafraid to depict the Vatican as a cesspool as human as any other space of power– that is, a breeding ground for corruption, myopia, and cutthroat competition. 7. The Brutalist, by Brady Corbet. 216m (230 theatrically). Trailer.  “Laszlo, I am alive.” What an opening line. It's one for the ages. Neither of the lead couple discusses their concentration camp experiences, but it is those traumas which inform the action here. Brutalist architecture was an attempt to dispense with the past and create a new history by looking only forward. It is creativity born from trauma, but neither character is of the inclination or the generation to talk much about these motivating forces; their traumas are privately lived. The American-born characters around them don’t understand where they’re coming from, but we do. We feel their loneliness. There are very few films about the relationship between the artist and the financier. Every artist knows how frustrating it is to have to justify all creative decisions from a financial perspective, and this film has the guts to demonstrate what too often ends up happening between the two parties (hint: it isn't the artist who comes out on top). I disagree with the film's final line, but understand why the characters, who have been through what they've been through, would cling to it as a truism. We choose the ideas that make sense of our lives. If you saw it in theatres, you got the 15-minute intermission, shaved down to 1 minute for home video, which accounts for the difference in runtimes above. I felt it to be an important part of the film; to be confronted with the photograph for that time, while listening to the modernist piano performance that echoed softly while the timer counted down. I spent the time walking slowly around the huge room, regarding the photo from up close and far away. There was time to reflect on what we'd just seen, and we learned the power a great image has when held for a long time. It was also a highly impactful way to introduce the Erzsébet character. 6. Monica, by Andrea Pallaoro. Trailer.  “She doesn’t know who I am.” I'm taking advantage of delayed domestic release dates to sneak this 2022(!) picture in, because it deserves the praise and nobody's heard of it. A trans woman returns home to her mother, who doesn't recognize her. Queer stories lend themselves well to exploring the universal condition of loneliness, and this quiet masterpiece is no exception; director Pallaoro emphasizes the singularity and solitude of the protagonist’s experience with a boxy 1.33 frame and shallow depth of field (don't try this focus pulling at home!). Even aside from its deeply moving and humanist narrative it would deserve a place here on the strength of its ravishing visuals alone. Some of the films on this list aren't for everyone (Love Lies & Furiosa perhaps too violent; Anora too profane; Kindness and Needle too misanthropic; Brutalist too long; and then there's Perez). But Monica deserves a chance. Try the trailer, above. Who doesn't relate to the loneliness of being oneself? 5. Anora, by Sean Baker. 139m. Trailer.  “I don't have Instagram. I'm an adult, man.” The qualities of this Palme d’or– and four-time Oscar winner have been discussed extensively elsewhere. It's a portrait of people at work, and a portrait of four people who form a bond that, although antagonistic, is a bond nevertheless, and one their bosses cannot access. As a champion for the working classes myself, how can I resist this punky, vibrant salute to a collection of lives its tuxedo-clad Cannes audience wouldn't have known the first thing about how to make a movie about? Thank goodness for Mr. Baker's talent and empathy, and nerve in ending as he does; the film plays better on repeat viewings because the final scene reveals the film is aware of dynamics we haven't yet considered. Ani is so good at putting up a guard, at confrontation and conflict, standing up for herself, and usually she's in situations where these skills are required; hence her mastery of them. But like no small amount of folks I've met on the street, she's utterly unprepared when confronted with vulnerability, decency and kindness. I wonder if she knows it's her loss. As a friend said afterward about the ending, “It's a sad film. I'm glad it knows it's sad." 4. La Chimera, by Alice Rohrwacher. Domestic Trailer.  “Those were not intended to be seen by the eyes of humans, but by those of souls.” Technically a 2023 release in the States, I'm once again looking to UK release dates to sneak a gem in. A film that in its narrow focus ends up being a film about everything. Like Sean Baker, Rohrwacher knows about worlds that most major filmmakers are too wealthy to have access to. She milks this advantage on all her projects, illuminating beauty we didn't know existed. Chimera has an awareness of class that American movies lack, and explores the ribald relationship between the present and ancient past as can only happen in Italy. How do we assign value to the invaluable? Why do we bother? What cost does the soul pay when we ‘get away with’ something? Rohrwacher uses the tale of an English foreigner robbing Etruscan gravesites to explore these questions and more. I recently tried to rewatch this at home, but found that I couldn't. Footage originating on 16mm is often unacceptably pixelated on streaming services, where the bitrate of an internet signal simply can't keep up with the amount of changing data asked of each pixel (this is why any streaming movie suddenly looks terrible when there's shots of fire or ocean waves; too much movement). Rent the Blu-ray if you can; the Kanopy stream looks like VHS, and I only know this film has beautiful cinematography because I saw it in theatres. At once a celebration and a lament, about time, love, and loss– in other words, again, everything. 3. All We Imagine As Light, by Payal Kapadia. 118m. Trailer.  “You have to believe the illusion, or else you'll go mad.” This should maybe #1, but I'm not sure, as I only saw it once, unlike the below titles. Ms. Kapadia’s film for me recalls The Godfather: a smart young director making a dense and perfect film that feels both classic and new, with an obvious awareness of cinema history, told in a new voice with deft storytelling economy, about characters responding to shifts in the world around them without being aware of it. Except instead of that film's insidious spread of corruption due to honorable intentions and the maintaining of family bonds, this film involves a slow build towards acceptance, in part due to the questioning of family bonds. Don't expect The Godfather (or you'll be disappointed with all films!); but do expect a quietly astonishing little gem that knows exactly what it is, and that you know you'll have to watch again. Who can forget that brief melancholic interlude regarding Mumbai as a city, with the voices of various unseen souls in reflection? Alongside Malick she may be the only director using sound as counterpoint to the image. 2. Dune, by Denis Villeneve. 155 & 166m. Trailer 1 for Part II.  “You will never lose me… as long as you stay who you are.” I'm referring to both installments and considering them a single story, as per Villeneuve’s intention. A major work. By any measure it is intelligent, demanding, and rewarding on all levels, not least of which is Villeneuve's distinct brand of stately, brooding gravitas, which I find hypnotic. Only Nolan is also making work at this budget scale for adults, and without meaningful creative compromise. Aside from these two we have to go back to Kubrick or 90s Spielberg to see a massive blockbuster this redolent of a singular authorial voice. That ending is the bravest thing I've seen a studio film do since… well, Oppenheimer, but you get what I'm trying to say here! The work has personal relevance for me (SPOILERS) because I went through a breakup strikingly similar to the Zendaya character's journey, abandoned by a partner blissfully unaware of their transformation, in ways that, without getting too much into it, nigh-perfectly paralleled the films’ emotional arc (minus the sandworms, of course…). And this all happened in between the release of the two installments. Do you know that sensation, where the film feels like it was made for you alone? The tragedy that is the ending is something I'm sure many of us can relate to: after you've been railroaded by love, or the illusion of love, sometimes there's nothing left to do but hop on your own sandworm, and carry on by yourself. 1. Wildcat. Starring Maya Hawke as Flannery O'Connor, and directed by Ethan Hawke; based on Flannery’s short stories. 108m. Trailer.  “Joy is sorrow overcome.”
Is it because I also write short stories? Or because I’m so enamored with literature, female authors, and the interiority of the writing process, a state of existence I so rarely see films accurately portray? Wildcat may be the best recent film about writing I've seen, partly because of its awareness and reverence for the observational headspace a writer possesses, and partly for its attention to how the self gets split up during writing, and how perception changes because of the act. (Notice how Flannery perceives her Mom, as seen in the stories, as slightly different from who Mom actually is.) Bravo to both Hawkes for tackling risky, challenging subject matter with consideration, tact, and force; for once Ms. O’Connor isn't rolling in her grave over an adaptation. Ethan outdoes himself here visually, with wide-angle lenses, rich desaturated blues, and minimal cutting. There are few films about the inner life, and fewer still about belief systems that don’t ask the viewer to believe a certain way, but simply ask us to reflect on faith, the lifelong wrestling match we have with ourselves. This is only the second film I've ever seen to conflate artmaking and spirituality as an overlapping transcendent act; the first being Tarkovsky’s 1966 Andrei Rublev.
1 Comment
 We need art now, like we never have before. In times of ease and peace we forget its value, and confuse it with entertainment. Entertainment has to be 1) fun and 2) easy to understand. Art, on the other hand, is not so limited. It can transcend mere fun, and shake your soul. Art is the only profession that explores what it means to be alive. Unlike science, religion and philosophy, it is not constrained by the obligation to provide answers. It just is. As Milan Kundera wrote, "Only the most naïve questions are worth asking. They are the questions with no answers." And Art is all about such big questions. This is why AI has nothing on art and never will: it is incapable of experience. It can only acquire knowledge, never wisdom. It cannot conceive of the intangible. Art is how we will find each other again, make sense of our squandered age, and build back up anew. Below is my list of films for last year. Film is the great empathy-building machine, and there was never a more urgent time for empathy. We've been atomized by communications technology, isolated and alienated. This is how they make society incapable of uniting, of revolution, of communal love and respect. Smartphones, social media and the 24-hour news feed have made everyone else in real life an Other, and each of us into an island, our old communities replaced by digital approximations of community. Maybe we once thought the positives of this would outweigh the negatives. Maybe they do. But these days, I feel the negatives. Film and other art is a solace for me. My training is in filmmaking and photography; this list is not critic's list but a filmmaker's list, so form/style/aesthetics is as important to me as subject; and, I'm trying these days to remember not to evaluate Art as if it's supposed to be Entertainment. Art doesn't have to be easy to understand. It can be about challenge, or even pain. All the most important moments in life involve pain. Only art can help us through those moments. Escape is not an antidote to despair. Somehow we seem to innately grasp all this when it comes to music. People value the great breakup albums (l have my favorites), and they don't require answers from music. I see cinema in the same way. This is not a list of fun or easily digestible films, but don't click away! We never remember those for very long anyway. This is instead a list of ten (okay, actually twenty) interesting films, films with flaws but which take on challenges, ask hard questions, and the best of which push the medium to new places. Beginning from the bottom: 20. Love Lies Bleeding, by Rose Glass. 104m. Trailer.  “Anyone can feel strong hiding behind a piece of metal. I prefer to know my own strength.” The ending shot is a question, and an acknowledgment of accepting flawed humanity. The most interesting relationship in this fascinating picture is the one between Sterwart and her father, Ed Harris. What is Stewart thinking in that last shot? (SPOILERS:) That, perhaps, I am not so different from the father I was desperate to distance myself from, whom I thought was so different than me. What am I doing here, performing the exact same action he once did, and which I so detested: burying undeserving innocent bodies in holes in the desert? It is a reconciliation of sorts, after the fact. She has a choice about where she goes from here, now that she can name this similarity. We are always more like our parents than we realize. Like Drive, another contemporary ~100 minute genre thriller that's actually about loneliness, Bleeding’s violent moments are too violent for me. But the rest, including Kristen Stewart's incomparable performance (another masterclass in indistinguishably fusing acting, reacting and being), make it worth the journey. 19. Pigen med nålen (The Girl With the Needle), by Magnus von Horn. 123m. Trailer.  “The world is a horrible place. But we need to believe it's not so.” Contemporary European art cinema (my favorite subgenre) flying high. An unnervingly dour portrait of 1910s Copenhagen, with production design, costumes and lighting fully capturing how roughshod life would've been in these environs. Reminiscent of Hard to be a God in its fully realized setting, too strange and awful to turn away from, and yet this film's world is our world, a past not too distant, with similar moral quandaries and hidden horrors. 18. The Outrun, by Nora Fingscheidt. 118m. Trailer.  “The past follows us. Energy never expires.” The film concludes with a style of montage I’ve only seen climax one other film: Terrence Malick’s The New World. And by the time we get there, it feels earned. Included are moments of both light and dark, because all of it, at the end of the day, was important and worthwhile. I liked in particular the Melvillean focus on process– both on some very strange jobs, the haphazard nonlinearity of recovery, and the act of being alone as an important and necessary project of fulfillment. Fingscheidt has great instincts for immersing us aurally and visually. It's a big-screen picture. 17. Cerrar los ojos (Close Your Eyes), by Victor Erice. 169m. Trailer.  “I dreamt he was alive more than once.” One of the most affecting special features I've encountered is the Victor Erice interview on the Criterion disc of his unfinished 1983 gem, El Sur. In it he describes, years later and with great detail, what the second half of his film would've been, had he been able to make it. The exacting specificity of Erice’s memory reveals what a crushing blow this was for him. You can feel the heartbreak. He wouldn't make another fiction feature until this one, 40 years later. What did Erice do, now finally willing and able to make a film again? Did he shoot the rest of El Sur, and try to make right the past? No. Close Your Eyes is about an aging director beguiled by a film he started 40 years earlier but never got to complete. Erice knows we cannot correct the past; we can only process it. You can feel the cathartic liberation of Erice working through the pain, channeling his frustration into art, finding something beautiful in the journey. I wonder if he knows that El Sur is a better and more mysterious film in its incomplete state. This new work suggests that, at long last, he does. A film about belief, the unknowable, and peace. 16. Kinds of Kindness, by Yorgos Lanthimos. 164m. Trailer.  “That woman who says she's Liz... chopped off her finger last night and served it to me to eat. I didn't, of course, eat it. The cat did.” Poor Things, creative as it is, features two elements that helped its popularity: a prescriptive, role-model hero and an obvious villain. Kindness, filmed concurrently, illustrates the difference between entertainment that is artful and art that is entertaining, though I’m not even sure if Kindness qualifies for the latter adjective. It certainly is high art– as challenging, difficult and rewarding as Flannery O’Connor or the Franz Kafka short stories. Like these authors, Lanthimos here presents three stories which are parables in the true sense of the word– that is, like the biblical parables, stories whose meanings we argue about. One doesn’t watch Kinds of Kindness; one wrestles with it. Lanthimos and cowriter Efthimis Filippou somehow manage to blend apparent simplicity with baffling opacity. It's the most active viewing experience of the year, and one that illustrates the towering capacity of cinema as unadulterated, uncompromising, capital A-art. In this painful film's depths lie multitudes. 15. Bird, by Andrea Arnold. 119m. Trailer.  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Andrea Arnold takes so long in between making her portraits of young women on the cusp of self-awareness that each of her last three outings represents a portrait of a different generation. Bird, the latest, is the first to dive deep into a world of youngsters who grew up with the Internet, smartphones, social media and all the splintered multitudes they bring. Her empathy for even these oft-derided souls astounds me, and humbles me with its sincerity and gentle glow. It is easy to dislike the unfamiliar, and young people live in a world unfamiliar to me; but Ms. Arnold, generations older than both me and her subjects, reminds us all how universal a quality goodness remains, and how valuable a perception aware of it is. 14. Parthenope, by Paolo Sorrentino. 137m. Trailer.  "It's very difficult to see, because it's the last thing you learn.” Okay, I'm not going to try to defend the film's squarely male gaze (the cinematographer actually being a woman should be noted)- the film isn't perfect, and there are moments I can only call preposterous… but one thing this reworking of the eponymous myth can't be called is misogynist. It isn't dismissive or contemptuous of any of its female characters, least of all its witty and thoughtful heroine; it's a celebration, not of physical beauty but of an attitude that transcends it. Like her mythic namesake, the protagonist is shackled by her beauty and the effect it has on others. But she isn't defined by it, nor by romantic or familial obligation. If beauty opens doors for her, it's her intelligence that gets her across the threshold every time. This Parthenope doesn't throw herself into the sea after being rejected by Odysseus, as per the ancient story; she instead bears the sorrow of losing a loved one to that act, and chooses to embrace life, joy, optimism, and possibility, alongside the undercurrent of melancholic mystery that never leaves those of us who have lost. Although there may be things to criticize here, I see much to treasure. Notice how Parthenope returns the gaze of Mr. Sorrentino and Ms. D’Antonio’s camera with a gaze of her own, cheekily taking over the agency of sight at key moments. Most of all, I shake my head in awe at the wisdom of Sorrentino’s writing (I was actually pausing to scribble down lines in the third act, they were so attuned to the questions I ask of life), and his inspiring inability to judge any character. A film that leaves you elated by its end, utterly committed to go out there into the world being your beautiful best self. 13. Emilia Pérez, by Jacques Audiard. 132m. Teaser.  “Truth is the most painful form of freedom.” I know, I know, I know. Hear me out here. We forget that this was well-loved when it played at Cannes, that it got great reviews both stateside and in Europe… but we do remember when American audiences subsequently discovered it via its slew of Oscar nominations and Twitter fallout with one of its actors, and how much they hated it. It's become especially fashionable to hate Pérez online, but my concern here is with the film itself and nothing surrounding it. Mediocrity in filmmaking bores me, and one thing Pérez can’t be called is boring. I have a weakness for wild swings, and Pérez is a wild swing if there ever was one, imperfect but endlessly intriguing. I’m actually not sure the film is about transitioning so much as Audiard’s career-long fascination with the possibility of the second self. He presents different outcomes of this concern in each of his pictures; here, the supporting character played by Karla Gascon has such clear aims for good, and is mostly successful... but she cannot quite escape her first self (I'm not referring to gender here, but character: her entitlement and treatment of others), and in doing so she both reveals her humanity and signs her fate. I’m aware this is an awkward thematic overlap, but Audiard trusts the intelligent viewer to recognize the distinction. His question here is: How many of us are able to transcend our habits? Gascon's character aspires to be a saint. The final scene is a question only the viewer can answer. 12. La passion de Dodin Bouffant (The Taste of Things), by Tran Anh Hung. 135m. Trailer.  “Happiness… is continuing to desire what we already have.” Like Jean-Pierre Melville and Michael Mann, and myself, Hung is fascinated by people at work, and specifically by process. If you are too, this film’s for you, in which the cooking can go on in uninterrupted stretches lasting over half an hour, and which Hung somehow manages to stage in such a way that they feel like action scenes, if action was not just urgent but also absorbing and reflective. Also, watching Benoit Magimel act is always a great use of time. He makes sitting still riveting (as he does in Pacifiction). The Sean Penn of France, if not better. Binoche rivets us as well, but that's no surprise! 11. Nickel Boys, by Ramell Ross. 140m. [No trailer because all trailers include a major visual spoiler.]  “If I look the other way, I'm as implicated as the rest.”
Stupefying. Imagine if for the first century of literature, all books were written in the third person… and then someone decided to write in first person. The effect can't be overstated. Ross’ first fiction feature is also the first dramatically successful attempt in cinema history at what it's trying (no, Lady in the Lake and Hardcore Henry don't count), and the most formally audacious film I've seen in years. In all other films we learn about characters by watching them behave; here we learn about them by watching what they see. Also, note the deft economy of how the film teaches us how to watch it, when it plays a scene twice to introduce the Turner character’s perspective. Click here for Part II!  I'm still blown away with gratitude that this even happened. I bow to Rocco DeVito and everyone else who helped put this together, and who took a chance on me playing such a significant role in this wonderful conference. Thank you to all of the friendly faces, all the kind comments in passing, liminal exchanges in hallways and tables and parking lots, the backs of conference rooms and along the trails of the park outside. I take none of it for granted. Enjoy the video below and share it around! For those who weren't there, this is a speech about the importance of integrating community and humanity into transit planning, and features updated versions of two bus stories, followed by a Q&A.  All of us have a friend, or relative, whom we like but who has views we can't tolerate. We like them because we know people are better than their worst qualities. You know this because you are yourself better than your stupidest mistakes, and because people can change. You’ve grown. Right? Maybe someday they will too.
I tend to let people be who they are. I don’t reject those who have different values, partly because on the road, I can't. I rub shoulders amongst, well, everyone, including some of Seattle’s most misogynistic, homophobic, and transphobic communities. I feel sorry for the smallness of their prejudiced worlds. But I can’t hate them, because I’ve spent time with them. You can only hate people you don’t know well. I try instead to focus on the good things, listening and leading by example, reminding myself that a person is always more than one thing. But battle lines are being drawn in our great country, and we are entering a new era focused on violating the rights of women, immigrants, people of color, those with disabilities, the elderly, and the poor. That's basically everybody. Some people support this subjugation, wrongly thinking they’ll benefit from it. I speak now to you folks. This post is not for the choir, because preaching to the choir is lazy. It’s for the haters. I reach out to you without judgment, because I happen to like some of you, and I think you’re better than this. Read on. -- Somewhere along the way, somebody awfully clever suggested that feminists hate men. This is not accurate. Women often love men, especially men who are respectful. They simply want their own needs to be addressed too. You know, like how you put on your own oxygen mask first on the airplane. Women want an oxygen mask of their own, that they get to put on–protections, guarantees, support, respect; things men have always had and take for granted. Feminism is a fight not for dominance but equality. When was the last time someone treated you like your desires and opinions don't count, like you’re less intelligent than you really are, less educated, don't make as much money, or don't have as much experience? Ask your female and POC friends if they ever run into this. Wouldn’t it frustrate you too? You know our current president is “pro-rape.” He thinks being a rapist (meaning, a psychopath incapable of empathy, who can violate and permanently traumatize others without the faintest idea of what that’s like to go through) represents a compelling go-getter attitude useful in business and politics. It’s a new phrase, a new idea. I cannot abide by it. Because it, all of it at the end of the day, boils down to this: I was raised to treat others the way I want to be treated. You were too. You’ve heard of the Golden Rule. All religions have a variant of it, because it’s incontestable. Without it all societies would crumble. Also, pragmatically speaking, there's this: If people around you are doing better, you will do better too. You don't lose anything if society treats women and people of color fairly. Men are taught subconsciously that they have purpose if they're providers, and this is why the independence of women scares them- what purpose does a man have if there's no one to provide for? But men can be more than just providers, just as women can be more than homemakers, admirable as those roles are. Not everyone wants to get married and raise kids. If women can control their bodies (meaning their lives) and innovate, contribute, grow, as they choose, rather than being forced to do what others say, forced to put aside their dreams forever... if immigrants can get a foothold and complete, say, medical school (that’s more people who could cure cancer–your cancer, or your kids’)… quality of life improves for everyone. You can be a man supporting the opportunities of others for purely selfish reasons, and it would still make sense. Human rights don’t exist in limited supply. They aren't like food or money. And anyways, why support ideas that make life harder for your own loved ones? Politicians love to manipulate using fear because it's easy. Don’t give in. You're not afraid. Talk to people from other walks of life, ask and listen. Aren't they so much more like you than you thought? The way forward is one where everyone feels empowered, where your needs and theirs are met. This is how we increase the general welfare and the blessings of liberty for all. How did our leaders make you forget what you always knew was true? Treat others as you would want to be treated. Measure everything by that. It’s all you need to remember. I know it’s pointless to try to change others, but I believe in diplomacy first. The most powerful weapons are not weapons, but ideas. Words. I use them now because I want to believe we can get somewhere by having a dialogue. And I may be wrong. Maybe those kids you’ve read about, those teen boys who bully girls by chanting, “your body, my choice….” Maybe I’m wrong, and they should all just be summarily taken out and shot. I can think of no attitude the world would be better off without than theirs. Maybe you can’t talk to these people, just like you couldn’t talk to Hitler or bin Laden. But can you blame me for trying? -- It’s not for me to have the last word on this subject. Here’s Vera Brittain, author of Testament of Youth and the first woman to write a book on war. Food for thought: In spite of the feminine family tradition and the relentless social pressure which had placed an artificial emphasis on marriage for all the women born, like myself, in the 1890s, I had always held and still believed it to be irrelevant to the main purpose of life. For a woman as for a man, marriage might enormously help or devastatingly hinder the growth of her power to contribute something impersonally valuable to the community in which she lived, but it was not that power, and could not be regarded as an end to itself. Nor, even, were children ends in themselves; it was useless to go on producing human beings merely in order that they, in their sequence, might produce others, and never turn from this business of continuous procreation to the accomplishment of some definite and lasting piece of work.  Trolley buses remind me of manual transmissions in cars. They demand qualities which require added effort, but which make us better drivers: attention, focus, present concentration, a continual honing of skill, a talent for timing, and an ability to read the road further ahead than normal. No, they're not the easy choice. But easier is not always better. Aren't knives best sharpened against the unpleasant resistance of stone? Muscles best created through effort and strain? Challenges make us better, and trolleys are a skill set with a steep learning curve. I think they're the best work in the system. Read on for tips on how to excel while you're at Atlantic. One day you'll have the seniority to pick away from here, but you just might find yourself wanting to stick around...
If needed: click here for a breakdown of what trolley buses are and how they work. Now, let's begin: Navigating through special work Don’t power through deadspots. It’s bad for the electricity (you’re arcing the power every time you do that, and you may blow your fuses), and it gives a jolt to the passengers, which they don’t like, especially if you’re doing that for the whole ride. Instead, coast through them. How?
Landmarks and difficult special work: an example Let's use outbound 5th and Jackson as an example, and go through it step by step, together. Assuming we're using a sixty-foot trolley (the deadspots will be in different locations in a forty-footer):
General reminders
Stopping smoothly on an uphill Using the hill holder rather than the service brake can make this smoother. Here's how:
Resetting your poles from one lane of wire to another
Resetting your poles after losing your poles I try to be aware of where the poles are at all times, and the minute I’m not sure, I check visually, either by the mirror or by actually stepping out. You want to be sure. This way, you only ever have to move poles from one lane of wire to another, rather than having them fly off and go everywhere. But let’s just say that’s just happened anyway, because sometimes it does. The poles have just flown off and are swinging around, settling on top of the coach.
Merging during switches You’re southbound on 3rd, approaching Union.
Pulling into the yard
Qualifying on trolley routes Pay attention. Stand at the front. Ask questions. For the love of all things holy, don’t sit in the back with your headphones in. Trolleys are a challenge, and you don't need to learn all this the hard way. We're a team at Atlantic. Try qualifying with someone who speaks your native language, so you can hash out all the details. If the driver isn't being a good teacher, try a different bus or come find me. Third Third Avenue has the highest amount of bus traffic of any road in the world. Don't clog it. Here’s a recap for how to do the Weave in three lines:
Thank you for being a professional. The only thing left to say is the one thing that's more important than every single little detail above: We're a team. Let's look out for each other.  This intersection is a living thing. You come upon it slowly, visible as it is from a distance in all four directions, but it still surprises you. Its capacity to shock surpasses the imagination. How debased can humans become, in their treatment of others, of themselves? How thoughtless, how distracted, self-obsessed, how cruel? You cannot know if you haven't spent solid time here, and I don't just mean passing through. I've given up trying to explain it to people. Bosch would shake his head in rueful understanding. Even the more reflective Bruegel captures it in his 1560 Children's Games. This is simply part of who we humans are.
Twelfth and Jackson's current state is the logical extension of our society's preoccupations: a bottomless appetite for escaping present reality, especially anything involving pain or challenge; a tendency to look after one's own needs and no one else's; and– to paraphrase Hanlon's razor, an endless capacity for what looks like malice, but is really just ignorance and laziness. If you could get an entire city's power structure to continue kicking its biggest problems down the road, you'd get 12th and Jackson. So why do I love going through there so much? Why do I relish the opportunities to step outside there, helping people with their walkers and strollers and carts and wheelchairs? To let them know through my actions that I see them as equals? What is it about these castaways, who reject the capitalist system that rejects them, who've found its weak points and milk them without apology, who remind us that the only thing we all have in common is our stupefying talent for making mistakes? Perspectives I haven't always felt this way. But tonight, with the infamous zone now closed, as I drop off my peeps at 8th instead of 12th, and watch them now have to walk the four long uphill blocks to their destination, my heart begins to tell me things my mind has forgotten. These are the most hated, feared, avoided, abandoned, talked-about people in the city. They will be gone someday, and for the first time I realize I'm going to miss them. Why do I find myself having a soft spot for these rejected souls?
Faces Underdogs find each other, sometimes in unexpected ways. Tonight a trans girl of color and a scruffy young white guy enter as friends, nevermind that assumptions tell us they never would, the former gregarious and the latter with that distinctly rural silence you acquire when you know the loneliness of vast spaces. Because 12th is no longer a zone I have to explain the closure to everyone, and this invites conversation. She says, “Why are you the only nice bus driver? Or like, the only driver that's nice to us?” I know I'm not the only one, but I play along. She means the general state of affairs. “I don't know!” I exclaim. “It's not that hard to be nice to people, right?” “I guess it is!” “I guess it is.” “Well, I know you drivers have to deal with a lot of shit.” “That's true. But people are mostly pretty all right. Lotta people struggling these days, can't expect ’em to be at their best.” The rural guy nods silently. I'd remembered the girl from previous rides, when she seemed too distracted to notice anything about the driver, but tonight she shared that she had, “and the next time I got on the 7 I was like hold up, what happened to the friendly bus driver?" Another young man echoes these words later on, appreciating how I announce the stops. "Thanks man," I reply. “I like being out here. I'm glad somebody notices!” “Oh yeah. Sometimes I'm having a shitty day and I blow right past you, but I notice.” His humanity comes into focus as we continue chatting, talking about his days fishing in Alaska, about waves, swells, and finally about the film Interstellar, the two of us united, transported, seen by each other as we rhapsodize over what is both one of our favorite films, enthusing on various aspects of its cinematography and especially that magnificent score. Who could ever say these guys are less than human? I've written often about how respect is the currency of the street. All street fights are about perceived disrespect. Respect on the street, when it is perceived, is often acknowledged with gratitude. Maybe I like the 12th and Jackson crowd for the simple fact that (when they're not having an episode or high out of their minds) they respect me. It feels good, frankly. You don't have to demonstrate respect and gratitude in Bellevue. You can, but you don't have to. But in the spaces I drive, doing so can save your life. And being on the receiving end of it brings me up. Saying hey to Vern, an old-timer I haven't seen in a decade. He slept on my bus for years, but he was always going somewhere, on his way toward something, just like he is today. Witness his quiet surprise that I remember his name. He smiles to himself, feeling seen anew, perhaps a rare feeling for him. My heart warms correspondingly at other gents who remember my name, especially two grizzled men slightly too old for all this mess, the one with piercing blue eyes, who fought in Afghanistan because he wanted to help end Saddam’s crimes against women. Catching up with Nemo on his way to 12th, a young man effusive with praise and gratitude, the kind of angelic personality I've never seen get angry, despite his circumstances. I watch him bring out the light in his friends. “I'm so glad you're still here," I say, "still goin’ strong.” These people can have preciously short lifespans. Here is a jeep at 3rd and University southbound, pulling up alongside me after dark. It's tricked out with a custom paint job, glossy red rims, and an elevated chassis. There's a sunroof, tinted black like all the other windows, and it's opening now, and there's a man standing up through it, the driver's head and torso rising into view. He's gesturing, trying to get my attention. I'm illuminated by my driver's dome light. What does he want? I take a chance and open my window. “Yo," he exclaims, continuing with words of appreciation and gratitude that I'm blushing too furiously over to repeat here. “You got me through that shit for real, all that mothafuckin’ bullshit!” He gestures toward the mayhem back there at the bus zone, presumably referring to a period of homelessness and struggle and late nights on buses. I return his words with appreciation of my own. We wish each other Happy New Year, and I watch with glowing joy as he drives away, a man who's put in the work and gotten through it, driving a fancy tricked-out vehicle that clearly means a lot to him. He dreamt of one day getting here… and he has. “I don't like that man," Abraham Lincoln once quipped. “I must get to know him better." I like this derided crowd because I've gotten to know some of them. When I feel safe– which isn't all the time– but when I do feel safe, and my needs are met, I'm able to feel empathy for them. I imagine this would be true for any of us. Mirrors The single most valuable piece of instruction I got in bus driver training was the great Bob Dowd telling us: Respect everyone, especially the people whom you think deserve it the least. What helps nurture this skill? Art, and for me especially cinema, is the great empathy-building machine. I think of Roma, Keane, Mati Diop, Andrea Arnold’s work, Scorsese, this year's Nickel Boys, Millet, August Wilson's plays; I think of Tolstoy, Hardy, Wharton, Richard Wright. These works and countless others offer suggestions of what it's like to walk in another's shoes. They remind me that all great stories are actually about loneliness, because loneliness is the premier and universal human problem, especially of our time. I watch them walk the long walk up Jackson, and I see myself in their solitude, their uncertain futures. I regard their ignorance and confusion, the restless narcissism of drug-addled youth; I regard the ethnic minorities they disrupt and displace (whom I picture above, and who've lost transit through no fault of their own). I consider my coworkers, suspicious and afraid. All suffer in varying degrees; each of us has something to be bitter about. The difference is that my outcast peeps in the street have nowhere to hide. The rest of us walk our hard walks behind closed doors, playing up our facades of competence and class. They walk their walk in plain sight. -- P.S.: Things I don't appreciate about 12th and Jackson:
 Click here for both interviews. The short version (6 minutes) is at the top of the page, and printed; Scroll down for the long version (19 minutes), which goes into further detail and covers issues like fare, shields, and back-door boarding. Further context:
I post new material at the start of every month. Check back soon!  I always called him by his full name because it made him laugh. Shawn and I crossed paths in the lunchroom, on the road, at our lockers, the bullpen, the layovers, and everywhere else. We moved in similar circles. He and I both had the seniority to pick away from Atlantic Base, home of the hardest and most challenging routes; and we both had the seniority to pick away from night work, but for different reasons we wanted to be there, working our night shifts together downtown. I do it because I like the people and the pace; Shawn did it because he needed the money, and overtime is best found on the routes, times, and places that are least desirable.
But the 70 is such a cush route. It doesn't even go to 12th and Jackson. It's too short for sleepers. It's just the 70. Shawn wasn't downtown, either. This happened in the U District. And, reading this at home, you might think 3 AM is a uniquely dangerous time, but it isn't. In post-COVID Seattle there's no difference in safety between 3 PM and 3 AM. Both are equally fraught. Remember the new full-timer who, perhaps because he was African, was [REDACTED to protect operator privacy]. That happened during afternoon rush hour, broad daylight with tons of people around. Our city allows this sort of thing. Let the terrible sentence live now as it did then, in that poor operator's horrific experience. He will never forget those minutes. The same is true for the ten people recently stabbed near 12th and Jackson within a 36-hour period, by one deranged individual who attacked all of his victims unprovoked and mostly from behind. There are good folks up there at that notorious intersection, from the small business owners to the seniors in affordable housing to yes, the youngsters outside struggling with drugs. I happen to really like some of those people. They don't deserve to be stabbed. Neither did Shawn. I consider his final moments with the paralysis of intimate sorrow, intimate because I’ve probably driven the very same vehicle was sitting in, and because I know exactly the terrain and timbre of his final time and place. Shawn Yim as he stumbled away from the bus, making it only a short distance before collapsing on the concrete, over there in the alley behind Wells Fargo, a young and healthy 59 year-old dying alone, collapsing not just in loss of blood but also in belief. How could it possibly end this way, so badly and so soon? All the things I'd planned for, hoped for, wanted to do, fix, see, live…. You remember that I was in the Paris terror attacks in 2015. My next book dives deep into that. But you also remember how decisively Paris, as a system of governance, took action in responding to something even as nebulous as terrorists, taking preventative measures while pursuing the appropriate action behind the scenes, swiftly and with the use of considerable resources. They ensured safety when the enemy was unknown and few. Our situation is different. Seattle’s problems and dangers are not hidden but obvious. They repeat in predictable and terrifying ways. Violent behavior happens here without intervention. Life-destroying drugs can be used in broad daylight without consequence. Unstable souls with desperate needs, dangers to themselves and others, are dumped on the street and left to rot amongst the crowd. Hundreds of millions of dollars and years of lip service are expended in the name of solving these crises, while 3rd Avenue remains exactly as unsafe as it was four years ago. The fact that it was Shawn Yim crushes me. A robust and friendly man, one of the few Korean-Americans at Atlantic Base besides myself. I rarely brought up our shared heritage but it was always there between us, an unspoken bond the others couldn't share. We would joke about the miserable state of things, the jesting laughs of our brief interactions emboldening us to carry onward. “I don't know how you do it, Nate," he'd smile, watching my enthusiasm as I prepped for another night on my 7. It happened five minutes into his last trip of his shift. Home stretch, almost done. He probably took the piece (we call shifts pieces) thinking this'll be easy, route 70 at night no big deal, nice easy route during the hours when there's no traffic, even better. What was he saving up for, working all those hours? The pain of losing Shawn is the fact that I always hoped to know him better. We were both of us continuously in motion, rushing through our lives, aware that we'd get more out of knowing each other but, you know, duty calls. Our friendship was a lifetime of unfinished conversations. Who was he, deep down? The two of us standing by the microwave, Shawn with his polished wire-frame glasses and trademark light blue oxford–only senior operators wear those, because the uniform store no longer makes them–with a reflective vest on top. His bald head and thoughtful eyes plus the professionalism of the glasses, contrasted with that safety vest, cast him as a sort of urban intellectual, the kind of person you can’t quite pin down, because they don’t fit into any one box. I always wanted to ask another question, share a little more. He knew my partner, and would joke about how good her Korean is. “That’s so creepy, you sound like my sister!” he'd tell her, laughing with that handsome, tired smile of his. Other times he'd be driving the bus I was riding, and we’d wax reflectively about human nature and the state of the city. Of course I wish I could remember our exact conversations. But how can I, sitting as I am in the shell-shocked immensity that is violent death? At least I can still recall the feeling, the easy sensation of another day with one of your favorite coworkers, joking the trip away while watching the road together. He was so good at letting me be myself, even when he had different views. I did the same for him. We never tried to change each other. Talking with him brought me joy. Why do we delay the things that matter most? It is the City’s responsibility–our leaders and ourselves–to make Seattle safe. To foster environments where people don't have to risk damage and death by merely using transit. After all that has happened and continues to happen, who among our leaders would dare to say meaningful progress has been made? My friends on the street and I know differently. We watch and wait as ever we have, waiting for legislation that could so easily reverse a lot of the things Seattleites have to suffer, waiting for someone with the agency and power and courage to come forward and make some real moves. That person will be named a hero. But whoever they end up being, they will be too late for Shawn Yim.  Stalkers are no fun. They make me uncomfortable. It's something female operators and I commiserate about– the problem is more common than you think. One night a colleague walked into the base after her shift with three massive– and exquisite– bouquets of roses.
“What's the story?" I asked. “Oh, they're from my stalker," she replied. “I can't say no, or else he flips out. These are hunnerd dollar bouquets! I'm like, sure! Now I'm ’onna go put ‘em on my Dad's grave! Din't tell him that though!” "Right?? Hey, makin’ the best of it!” She grinned with relief when I and another operator listening shared we have stalkers too. It's an occupational hazard that isn't discussed enough. In past days I was always embarrassed to share about mine, though in retrospect I have no idea why; maybe I thought I was the only one. Shame follows us in curious ways. Of course, stalkers never think they're stalkers. They think they're boyfriends, or girlfriends. For the longest time I thought the best way to deal with them was to stay on their friendly side– you know, “keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer"– by giving them what they wanted in a boring, unfulfilling, and boundary-ridden manner that would hopefully make them lose interest and finally stop bothering me (newsflash: this doesn't even come close to working). I've always been too nice. I didn't know the first thing about speaking up for myself, or how to ask for help. And I'm particularly at risk for stalkers because I have a high threshold for what I think constitutes friendly behavior: more than once have I been accused of sending mixed messages, and more than once has my friendliness been misinterpreted for flirtation. I can hardly blame such accusations; people (myself included) see only what they're looking for. All this to say that there's an antsy knot that appears within me when people refuse to leave the bus, especially at terminals. The invasion of privacy that is someone refusing to let you take your break alone is (strangely) similar to the sensation of being stalked. Both involve an ignorance of your need for personal space. It can be hard not to take personally. That anxiety manifested itself in frustration this afternoon, when I noticed a man in his eighties nodding off when we arrived at the Queen Anne terminal. I told him we were at the end of the line, that it was time to hop out, but he couldn't be bothered. He gazed up from behind his walker with glassy eyes, staring fixedly out the window, then at me. He wore green corduroy pants and a clean oxford button-up. He had a large Nordstrom Rack bag. It looked brand new. I took a deep breath and sat across from him, resigned to having lost my break due to his presence, trying to hide my irritation while reminding myself that this was no stalker, obviously, just another bewildered soul who got on a bus without reading the destination sign, trusting to fate that it'd take him where he wanted. I said, “Where you tryin’ to get to?" "Boren and Minor,” he said. My brain hiccuped. Aren't those parallel? “Well, lemme take a second and look that up. Boren and Minor, that's tricky. You got a good one. Usually I know where stuff is!” I've removed all web browsers and social media from my phone, but I still use Maps. Together we confirmed that there was no such intersection, and that what he wanted was the Capitol Hill QFC on Pike. Still bewildered, he said, “You always drive this route?” “I've done most of the routes, but usually do the 7 and the 49.” “The 49, where's that go?” I reminded him. “That's right, the one I'm spossa be takin’.” I was coming around to the guy. His slow-birthing confusion reminded me of early childhood, the age-old puzzlement we feel looking out at existence, so full of questions we never find answers for. He had that quality of paralysis I've felt in times of grief, when just being takes great effort. “We'll work it out,” I said. “How's your day been otherwise?” “Been good. I woke up this morning.” “Exactly yeah, good to be above ground, nice beautiful day like this. I like this job.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I been driving these buses 17 years.” “Oh! Long time!” “Yeah man, 2007. I still like it. Where’d you work before?” “Postal service. It was real uh, blue collar type work.” He had a soft voice, thin, and no teeth, but there was just barely enough articulation to make out his words. “Hey, that's you and me both,” I exclaimed in agreement. "I respect that so much, real work doin’ somethin’ with your hands. Feels like you've actually done something at the end of the day. Did you like it?” “Hell no, I just wanted that retirement!” We laughed. The silence he wore so well couldn't stay put for long though, a silence of memories lived and lost, hazy, emotions waiting in forgotten rooms. He said, “My twin sister she passed just as you was startin’, in 2008. We were real close.” “I'm sorry to hear it.” “Thanks,” he said, with real appreciation. “We were real tight, every day. She taught me to read and write, taught me how to cook.” “Sounds like a good person.” “She was.” “What was her name?” “Kathy. Kathy –.” I paused. Somehow it was important to continue, to respect his presence with spoken interest, engagement. You get ignored too often in later age. No one likes to feel invisible. “You been in Seattle a while?” “You bet. Came here 1953.” “Oh 1953, wow! I bet you seen some changes.” It's a line I often share with the old-timers, the better to make their memories feel heard. It unleashes the wound-up slipstream of memory inside them. Having been here thirty-plus years myself, there's always a lot to share, here in this metropolis even I now barely recognize. But he had a different answer. “Um. Not really. It's pretty much the same.” No one's ever said that about Seattle! But I realized he was much older than most of the old timers I chat with. He wasn't fifty or sixty; he was at least mid-eighties, if not moreso. He had the perspective to have seen not just one rise or fall, but several of each. I found myself grinning with newfound optimism. By way of paraphrase, I said, “…Everything changes, everything stays the same!” “Ha! You got that right!” “People are happy, people are sad, joy and sorrow, highs and lows.” “Highs and lows for sure." We learned each other's names and shared further words and silences, as I let his humanity reach me. He was about as far from being a stalker as one could be. When we finally arrived at his stop, I went back to alert him, and walked out with him together, showing him how to cross the street and where, for his connecting route. I'm often moved by the solitary figure walking away from the bus, and was once again as I watched him. The figure striking out, alone, amidst a vast throng of indifferent souls, all moving and thinking faster than he. We can only hope that when we are one day as old as he is, if we're fortunate enough to live that long, as rich in memory and perspective, that a youngster or two will take time out of their day to slow down and help. To meet us at our pace, and trust that once, long ago, we were kings.  In reviewing the recent electoral catastrophe, I find myself seeking answers. Am I wrong about my own views? Is it me or them? How did this train wreck happen, and why? It's similar to how I feel when confronted with cruelty and apathy on the street. I'll witness a moment of extreme selfishness and wonder, where is their best self, their considerate self? Why this instead? Selfishness happens most naturally when one's survival is at stake… or when one thinks one's survival is at stake.
Rural white poverty has always been, numerically, the largest type of poverty in the US, and as ever, it remains the least studied. Sociological studies of the poor tend to stem from major cities and the diverse demographics within them. Many of us have relatives who live out there, with baffling perspectives we cannot share. And don't forget– they find us equally baffling. Perspectives come from education, whether in school or from lived experience. What sort of education do we imagine exists out in the red states? To what degree are our rural and working-class neighbors equipped to decode the clever messaging politicians send their way? 1. Breaking it Down Literacy comes to mind as an effective unit of measure. And literacy is more than being able to read and write. Let's briefly review the PIAAC’s (Program for International Assessment of Adult Competencies) six levels of literacy (more here). -Below Level 1: basic vocabulary only; can understand info on a familiar topic. -Level 1: can fill out basic forms; can't make inferences from written material (unable to understand correct dosage on a medicine label). -Level 2: able to make comparisons and simple inferences; unable to evaluate reliability. (can understand product reviews. Able to write a paragraph about your day). -Level 3: able to read multiple pages of text. Can evaluate sources and infer complex ideas; can identify inappropriate or irrelevant info (can compare two bus schedules and plan a trip). -Level 4: can understand non-central ideas from multiple texts to evaluate subtle claims and persuasive discourse (able to detect subtle bias and form one's own conclusion). -Level 5: can synthesize contrasting points of view; select key info to evaluate conceptual models of ideas; aware of rhetorical cues and high-level inferences requiring specialized background knowledge (can write a PhD dissertation). These are not measures of worth. I write the above without condescension. There are numerous types of knowledge, including all those the PIAAC system can't even begin to measure. Many of my favorite people, from the street or otherwise, are exactly those whom the above criteria would deem limited in their ability to decode written or spoken messages. I happen to like some of these people, and I respect and learn from them. I find something to admire in a certain freedom they sometimes exhibit, a freedom from the homogenizing intellect-based worldliness that becomes so tiresome after a while. But when an election is going on with this much at stake, you need to be able to understand what you're looking at. And as it turns out, 54 percent of the US is below a Level 3. This means they can't identify bias, evaluate reliability, or make inferences about what's irrelevant. They can read headlines, but not multiple pages of text. This map has breakdowns of literacy levels for every county in the US. You might be surprised to discover how many counties are mostly illiterate at levels 3 thru 5. You'll also notice a certain vast, recurring and undeniable correspondence between… you guessed it, counties with limited literacy levels and a high Trump voter response. 2. Feelings & Distractions All of us humans nurse a loneliness we pretend we don't have. We yearn to belong, to be seen and heard and wanted. What vast pocket of Americans has been continuously ignored, ridiculed and overlooked, by the wider culture, by media, news, politicians and governments? You know the answer. They have spoken now. They don't care about your needs, because survival is a selfish act and they imagine their survival is at stake. They believe the lies they've been told, the reassuring pronouncements that their needs will finally be addressed. They've fallen for the urgency capitalism wants us to think is true: that only some can survive. A person who feels ignored, especially in the sense of being able to sustain their livelihood, as rural and working-class folks today do, is going to respond enthusiastically to a politician who claims to see them, not condescendingly but equally, who claims to be one of them, who will save them from the rest of the world that ignores them and their needs. Who wants to burn down the whole broken system that's sidelined them for so long. Fear and frustration: these are the ways to manipulate the masses, especially if they're not looking too closely. Which is where the literacy part comes in. Trump is not “one of them,” and never was. You know this. He's an unstable billionaire with dementia seeking to make life easier for himself and other billionaires. He’s a convicted serial rapist and 34-count felon who absolutely does not care about poor white people, as his previous administration makes numbingly clear. Those folks are doing just as badly as they always were. No, he cares about rich white people. He distracts the poor with hot-button social issues that shouldn't even be political, taking advantage of people's shortsightedness on class, while making economic decisions that disadvantage everyone besides his own tax bracket. Only in a country that turns such a blind eye to class could voters fail to comprehend this massive and thoroughly obvious oversight. I'll refrain from discussing the many other oversights. Literacy. That's what this election was about. The ability to decode rhetoric. To read through advertising, to perceive the culture's political tricks for what they are. They fell for it, millions of them, to the point that they voted against their own self-interests. 3. In Summation This great, young country of ours strikes me now as an adolescent, a fiery, brilliant, impassioned creature who seems fully formed but isn't, who has difficulty understanding basic truths, who responds not intellectually but emotionally. Puberty. It's when you make your worst decisions, when you think only of yourself and ignore the needs of others. Sometimes there's nothing harder than having to share the room with a teenager. Especially when they get to make all the decisions. --- What lies ahead? As a society, we have no choice. It's a cancer diagnosis. As individuals though, we do have choice: to help the person next to us. To foster community locally. To remember we do better when those around us (different as they may be) do better. Helping others takes patience and effort. Let us breathe. We don't get to choose the times we live in, but we do get to choose how we live in them. I'll see you out there. --- Sources and Further reading: Trump
Literacy
Rural white poverty
Although I feel compelled to share the above, this won't become a political blog, I promise! As Paul Currington said, politics and opinions push people apart... whereas stories bring people together. Right now we need the latter. |
Nathan
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