Growing up, my parents used to tell me that you just can't reason with the unreasonable. The phrase usually arose during any discussion of domestic criminals or foreign enemies, with the implication being that you have every reason to dispose of them. I was recently reminded of the phrase during a discussion with my mother about health care reform, not because my mother is a criminal or a tyrant; rather, she has simply become unreasonable through years and years of exclusive media consumption--conservative talk radio during the day, Fox News programming at night. This poisonous combination has been described by some as constituting a "noise machine" and an "echo chamber," and in my experience, I find the characterizations to be apt.
My mom, like many others in this country, believes that the current plan proposed by the Democrats will kill her, literally. She worries that the Democrats wish to transform this country's exceptional health care system into a socialized nightmare in which the government has a vested interest in putting people to death. No doubt, she has gotten this impression from listening to Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Newt Gingrich. But during the course of our discussion and my attempts to allay her misplaced and irrational fears, I realized just how powerful and effective the right-wing noise machine has become.
I responded to my mother by pointing out that, according to UN data, the health care system in the United States is far from the best: The US ranks in the 30s when it comes to life expectancy and infant mortality rate (IMR), which are the two most commonly used metrics for assessing health care quality. Her response? "Oh, of course the UN would say something like that. You expect me to believe statistics that come from a corrupt organization like the UN?" She continued, without a tinge of irony, by citing statistics relayed by a Republican congressman on Fox News about the dangers posed by the proposal in the House.
It was at this point that I realized that the right-wing noise machine has succeeded at far more than merely the reinforcement of partisan positions. It has succeeded, more insidiously, in dismissing and subsequently discrediting all sources of information that could be used to refute its claims. Sure, movement conservatism has long detested and demonized the "mainstream media," represented by such reputable outlets as the New York Times and the Washington Post. But it was only at this point in my conversation with my mother that I realized just how potent this demonization has become.
Unless someone pulls from an "appropriate" source--read: a source sanctioned by Fox News or movement conservatism--the data are inadmissible. As a result, the only possible refutation of a position must come from a source that does not--indeed, cannot--exist. Thus, people most deeply embedded in the "noise machine," i.e., those who consume media from no other source (e.g., my mother), become insusceptible to reasoned discourse. It has indeed become impossible to reason with the unreasonable.
I nevertheless sent my mother a lengthy email debunking the claims she had heard. I ended my email with an impassioned plea for her to stop watching Fox News and listening to talk radio. I doubt she even read the thing, but despite the apparent hopelessness of the endeavor, I felt obligated to do it. She is my mother, after all.
August 12, 2009
August 8, 2009
On Perspective
Earlier this afternoon, my roommate and I were watching an MLS game--the LA Galaxy versus the New England Revolution, for those interested--when a rather poignant commercial came on. The commercial was one of several PSAs released by the MLS, in partnership with the Youth for Human Rights International, meant to inform viewers of basic human rights that everyone is entitled to. This particular PSA dealt with the subject of education.
In the ad, a mother, who is white, is driving two little girls to school--one is her daughter, the other has a darker complexion and is "new to the country." Once the children arrive at school, the white girl talks--or more accurately, complains--to her darker-complected companion about school: She whines that school is such a burden, that it is criminal that they are required to attend. All the while, the other girl is oblivious to the complaints, as she stands in awe of the schoolhouse, the other children, and the wonderful opportunity before her. After the white girl concludes her tirade about how much school sucks, she asks the foreign girl how many schools she has in her village, to which she responds, "None." It's pretty powerful.
Here's the ad:
Now, the ad deals with the universal right to education, which--not surprisingly--I support. But what struck me about the ad dealt not with education but rather with the complete lack of perspective demonstrated by the little white girl. Her offensive lack of perspective reminded me of a sentiment I encounter all-too-frequently from others.
How much of our lives is spent complaining? How many things that we complain about are things that, in reality, we should be grateful for? All-too-many of us have an overwhelming sense of entitlement, an overwhelming lack of perspective. We fail to realize just how lucky we are to have the luxury to complain in the first place: We complain about difficulties at work, when many around the world can't find food, let alone a job; we complain about traffic on the way home, when many around the world have no car, let alone a home to drive to; and as this commercial demonstrates, we complain about school, when many are denied the opportunity to learn, let alone the luxury to complain about it.
When I was younger, I spent a few weeks in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, a tourist destination for many, but a learning experience for me. When I arrived, I was appalled by the vast disparity between rich and poor: Villas on the hills, cardboard shacks in the valleys. On one particularly memorable morning, as I exited my hotel, I witnessed a homeless woman on the sidewalk squat over a sheet of newspaper, to defecate. The image haunts me to this day--not because I witnessed a woman shamelessly defecating, but rather because she was forced to do so in the first place. The experience was jarring, and it made me that much more grateful for things I had, up to that point, taken for granted.
My trip challenged me: How much of our lives is simply fortune? I could just as easily have been born into poverty in Rio de Janeiro. I could have been born into a penniless family with no prospect for a nightly dinner, let alone a first-rate education. I had no control over where or to whom I was born, and neither does anyone else. And yet, we so frequently hear discussion of personal responsibility for one's failings.
How much of our failing is the result of our own actions? Conversely, how much of our success depends on the actions and status of others? It was this line of questioning, I think, that led me to take an interest in sociology. Everything I had thought about responsibility, about accountability, about blame was in error: How can I condemn a woman for defecating on a sheet of newspaper? Who am I to judge?
This is not to say that we in the privileged class--and anyone with the luxury to read mindless blog entries like this one are most assuredly privileged--have no right to complain about anything. To be sure, there is much to deplore: wealth disparities, health disparities, civil rights violations, and so forth. But it's important that we take the time to reflect on just how fortunate we are to be able to raise objections like these in the first place. In short, it's important that we have some perspective.
So, the next time you want to complain about your boss, your classes, or about the ice cream sandwich that you absolutely must have, think about the child who goes to sleep on an empty stomach, about the woman who must defecate on the sidewalk. Your life could be much worse, the object of your complaint much more dire. The degree to which we complain suggests that life is terrible, and in many ways, it is. But it's more terrible for others than it is for us.
In the ad, a mother, who is white, is driving two little girls to school--one is her daughter, the other has a darker complexion and is "new to the country." Once the children arrive at school, the white girl talks--or more accurately, complains--to her darker-complected companion about school: She whines that school is such a burden, that it is criminal that they are required to attend. All the while, the other girl is oblivious to the complaints, as she stands in awe of the schoolhouse, the other children, and the wonderful opportunity before her. After the white girl concludes her tirade about how much school sucks, she asks the foreign girl how many schools she has in her village, to which she responds, "None." It's pretty powerful.
Here's the ad:
Now, the ad deals with the universal right to education, which--not surprisingly--I support. But what struck me about the ad dealt not with education but rather with the complete lack of perspective demonstrated by the little white girl. Her offensive lack of perspective reminded me of a sentiment I encounter all-too-frequently from others.
How much of our lives is spent complaining? How many things that we complain about are things that, in reality, we should be grateful for? All-too-many of us have an overwhelming sense of entitlement, an overwhelming lack of perspective. We fail to realize just how lucky we are to have the luxury to complain in the first place: We complain about difficulties at work, when many around the world can't find food, let alone a job; we complain about traffic on the way home, when many around the world have no car, let alone a home to drive to; and as this commercial demonstrates, we complain about school, when many are denied the opportunity to learn, let alone the luxury to complain about it.
When I was younger, I spent a few weeks in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, a tourist destination for many, but a learning experience for me. When I arrived, I was appalled by the vast disparity between rich and poor: Villas on the hills, cardboard shacks in the valleys. On one particularly memorable morning, as I exited my hotel, I witnessed a homeless woman on the sidewalk squat over a sheet of newspaper, to defecate. The image haunts me to this day--not because I witnessed a woman shamelessly defecating, but rather because she was forced to do so in the first place. The experience was jarring, and it made me that much more grateful for things I had, up to that point, taken for granted.
My trip challenged me: How much of our lives is simply fortune? I could just as easily have been born into poverty in Rio de Janeiro. I could have been born into a penniless family with no prospect for a nightly dinner, let alone a first-rate education. I had no control over where or to whom I was born, and neither does anyone else. And yet, we so frequently hear discussion of personal responsibility for one's failings.
How much of our failing is the result of our own actions? Conversely, how much of our success depends on the actions and status of others? It was this line of questioning, I think, that led me to take an interest in sociology. Everything I had thought about responsibility, about accountability, about blame was in error: How can I condemn a woman for defecating on a sheet of newspaper? Who am I to judge?
This is not to say that we in the privileged class--and anyone with the luxury to read mindless blog entries like this one are most assuredly privileged--have no right to complain about anything. To be sure, there is much to deplore: wealth disparities, health disparities, civil rights violations, and so forth. But it's important that we take the time to reflect on just how fortunate we are to be able to raise objections like these in the first place. In short, it's important that we have some perspective.
So, the next time you want to complain about your boss, your classes, or about the ice cream sandwich that you absolutely must have, think about the child who goes to sleep on an empty stomach, about the woman who must defecate on the sidewalk. Your life could be much worse, the object of your complaint much more dire. The degree to which we complain suggests that life is terrible, and in many ways, it is. But it's more terrible for others than it is for us.
August 5, 2009
On Guilty Pleasures
No, I'm not talking about masturbation.
My guilty pleasure deals with one of those musical offerings that we like but are ashamed to admit it. For the most part, our guilty pleasures exist only in secrecy, for fear that our friends would mock or abandon us were they to find out. Guilty pleasures need not be kept secret, however, and the purpose of this post is to clear the air, as it were, with regard to one song that I can't help liking, no matter how much my pride or aesthetic taste try to persuade me otherwise.
My failing upsets me greatly. The song is perhaps the most vacuous ever to be released, with scarcely any redeeming factor, save its "beat," and I've always hated when people say they like a song for its "beat," phat or otherwise. The song is the Black Eyed Peas' recent single "Boom Boom Pow." Just how atrocious and nauseating a song is it? Here are the lyrics:
Can someone translate this gibberish? Chickens jacking style? Stepping on leprechauns? Shitting on me? Perhaps I'm so 2000-and-late, but I can't make heads or tails of any of this nonsense. Lyrics aside, the vocals are overproduced and pushed through a vocoder, making the song resemble, if ever so slightly, Cher's insufferable "Believe."
But what bothers me most is that, despite my recognition that this has to be the one of the most asinine songs I've ever heard, I can't resist it. In fact, I can't wait for for will.i.am to drop the beat.
Kill me...now.
My guilty pleasure deals with one of those musical offerings that we like but are ashamed to admit it. For the most part, our guilty pleasures exist only in secrecy, for fear that our friends would mock or abandon us were they to find out. Guilty pleasures need not be kept secret, however, and the purpose of this post is to clear the air, as it were, with regard to one song that I can't help liking, no matter how much my pride or aesthetic taste try to persuade me otherwise.
My failing upsets me greatly. The song is perhaps the most vacuous ever to be released, with scarcely any redeeming factor, save its "beat," and I've always hated when people say they like a song for its "beat," phat or otherwise. The song is the Black Eyed Peas' recent single "Boom Boom Pow." Just how atrocious and nauseating a song is it? Here are the lyrics:
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself:
Gotta get that
Boom boom boom
Yo
I got the hit that beat the block
You can get that bass on the low
I got the that rock and roll
That future flow
That digital spit
Next level visual shit
I got that (Boom boom boom)
How the beat bang (Boom boom boom)
I like that boom boom pow
Them chickens jackin' my style
They try copy my swagger
I'm on that next shit now
I'm so 3000-and-eight
You so 2000-and-late
I got that boom boom boom
That future boom boom boom
Let me get it now
Boom boom boom (gotta get that)
I'm on the supersonic boom
Y'all hear the space shit zoom
When, when I step inside the room, them girls go apeshit
Y'all stuck on Super 8 shit
That low-fi stupid 8-bit
I'm on that HD flat
This beat go boom boom bap
I'm a beast when you turn me on
Into the future cybertron
Harder, faster, better, stronger
Takes the ladies extra longer, cuz
We got the beat that bounce
We got the beat that pound
We got the beat that 808
That the boom boom in your town
People in the place
If you wanna get down
Put your hands in the air
Will.i.am drop the beat now
Yep yep
I be rockin' the beats (Yep, yep)
I be rockin' the beats (Yep yep yep, yep)
Here we go, here we go
Satellite radio
Y'all getting hit with (Boom boom)
Beats so big I'm steppin on leprechauns
Shittin' on y'all you with the (Boom boom)
Shittin' on y'all you with the (Boom boom)
Shittin' on y'all you with the...
This beat be bumpin' bumpin'
This beat go boom boom
Let the beat rock
This beat be bumpin' bumpin'
This beat go boom boom
Can someone translate this gibberish? Chickens jacking style? Stepping on leprechauns? Shitting on me? Perhaps I'm so 2000-and-late, but I can't make heads or tails of any of this nonsense. Lyrics aside, the vocals are overproduced and pushed through a vocoder, making the song resemble, if ever so slightly, Cher's insufferable "Believe."
But what bothers me most is that, despite my recognition that this has to be the one of the most asinine songs I've ever heard, I can't resist it. In fact, I can't wait for for will.i.am to drop the beat.
Kill me...now.
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