Dear Senator Obama,
Again, I pray this note finds you well.
I will reiterate that it seems backwards to begin a series at number 6. But I have been known to be a little backwards; just ask my neighbors. And it will appear equally backwards that I should find fault with your taking advantage of, and even to exploiting, the hearts of youthful voting Americans.
I recall my college years all too well: I was full of idealism about making the world a better place, about injustice and greed and the great corporate menace which was America. I recall being captivated in my dorm room one Saturday afternoon 23 years ago by a book denigrating capitalism; I can remember shaking my head in angry disbelief as I read about the disparities between those who have and those who don't. I remember walking through the then new-Copley Plaza (circa 1984) in Boston and being disgusted by the gratuitous display of wealth and privilege; I can still feel myself torn between the desire to embrace ambition and financial success and the desire to rain down revolution as I walked through that center of contrasts, Harvard Square. (For a fuller picture of my thoughts about the war on poverty, please see this series.)
But I also remember from those years as a young adult not merely this sense of injustice (at least insofar as my prejudices and convictions proved how far America had fallen short of my vision of the ideal world); what I also remember is that I was really quite full of fear. And, I am afraid to say, I was full of envy.
The fear is easy to understand: I would look at the emblems and benchmarks of achievement -- educational and economic success, career standing, home ownership, marriage, parenting, planning for retirement -- with a great deal of trepidation. Clearly my anxiety was born of one simple fact: Life is not promised to be easy. Hard work, risk, competition, failure; all of these daunted me, especially since I was beginning my journey already in the grip of significant debt. 'Why, oh why, did it all have to be so hard?' I would ask myself.
My fears were also born of the seeming imminence of war, of the looming challenges before us -- not only as a culture and nation, but as a civilization -- in the face of aggressors from the east and west. Nuclear war was nearly daily talked about; it may have been a Cold War, but those of us who were young could feel the infernal fires. And then, of course, there were the ubiquitous fears about the environment.
Couple all this with my envy of those who already knew privilege and my shame at my own privileges when I would compare myself to those less fortunate, and you had a young man who concealed envy and resentment, and all his fears, in the language of social injustice, inequity, and unfairness. My politics were shaped by a sense of inadequacy and simple envy (and its corollary, shame at being envied both by the American poor and the underprivileged the world over).
In short, I was, without question, a rather haughty socialist-leaning young adult.
Of course, even though I had done well in my college economics studies, my anxieties, fears, envy and anger blinded me in such a way that I could not understand one simple thing, namely, where wealth and prosperity and jobs and even liberty actually came from. In some sense, I thought money was just 'there', and that the wealthy were simply the greedy and avaricious, the hoarders and pack rats of capital. I believed that their wealth was directly related to my poverty; I believed that their wealth caused my poverty. (And how was it fair that one college graduate left school in a new BMW 320i while I had to repair an old Buick Skylark?)
As many observers have already pointed out, you, Senator, are relatively unknown: you are something of a blank slate onto which we all, if we choose, project our deepest hopes and desires, and our deeply masked fears and resentments. Seemingly countless Americans have pinned what strikes me as an inordinate hope on you, expectant that you will right all wrongs, that justice and fairness will be our new prosperity in the light of your deft leadership; that all our fears and jealousies shall be allayed, and life will be, in the end, easier.
My disagreement with you is that you have essentially promised that you will make life easier; from student loan reform to job creation to tax relief to 'spreading the wealth,' you have appealed to the young not only like a Peter Pan, you've played Pan's flute, and have become the Pied-Piper of our day. You know it is all too easy to sing the sort of tune young adults want to hear; rock-and-roll songwriters have known the art all too well, tapping into youths' alienation from the 'great machine' and the expectations voiced by a meaningless corporate American life. No, you not only have promised hope you cannot give, you have promised meaning and purpose, and an ease of conscience. America will finally be better, because it will be easier, safer (and cleaner).
When I was a young man I remember listening to the 1984 Democratic National Convention. I recall listening to the keynote speaker that night (I can't recall who it was) and hearing something that began to change my fundamental beliefs. The speaker said that America was only great if its policies were bent toward the care of the lower classes. But what I heard was something far more insidious: I heard the denigration of life. What I heard was the religion of the state. For what the speaker was ultimately telling me, a young man who was indeed poor, who was indeed of the lower classes (and even the disenfranchised), was that I could not live a meaningful, enfranchised life, one fraught with purpose, unless the state forced my betters to assist me. And I also heard that the lower classes could not be happy, content, important or engaged unless they had the things common to the more affluent middle and upper classes.
Needless to say, I recoiled at what I heard; it seemed an audacious insult. For clearly I was being told my life was less than it could be because I had less money; less ease. And clearly my life -- and my sense of worth -- were being compared to those above me, and that my salvation would come from their beneficence. I also heard that my betters would take care of me; this not only seemed an insult, it seemed a convenient boast for those who deemed themselves more compassionate.
In short, I heard something akin to oppression, to negation. I heard a denial that worth was mine to define for myself or that it was given me by God. No, my intrinsic value, my own sense of meaning and purpose, were contingent on some standard determined and created by others, those who had such things settled and now could "give back." In the end, I heard a religious proclamation, that my deepest longings were defined and fulfilled by the state, the beneficent state.
But ultimately I heard a criticism of all that the poets, prophets and religious teachers had taught me: I heard a profound contradiction. For I was told by the philosopher and poet that meaning was not found in status, class, wealth or opportunity. I was told by saint and sage that material goods did not liberate, nor did they impart meaning or satisfy the human heart. But from my liberal betters I heard the speech of emptiness; I heard the promise that material goods and class standing and money were the very essence of a person's worth. And I heard something from them that seems utterly easy to justify, and also to speak, even though it is inherently self-canceling: "The wealthy have too much, they are too materialistic. We must make compassion and charity a matter of law; we shall take from those who are too materialistic so we can foster materialism in the poor." (Of course, it is not said this way. If it was, it would never appeal to but the most puerile voter.)
In the end, it all sounded to me a lot like a form of slavery.
Senator, for me, I hear that sort of language from you. Your hope is to the religiously and philosophically sensitive listeners really quite vapid; and it is, in an ironic sense, an emptiness that over-reaches. You have promised too much; you have claimed too great a place in history, in the world, and in the souls of men and women. Your message, and your masses, are not what the world, or one single soul, should be or ever has been waiting for. Sadly, you have tapped into the hearts of too many young people, giving them a solidarity and purpose that should be forged independent of the masses; you have appealed to their profound vulnerabilities, and you have offered them what cannot ever be given. Nor should it be given.
A stronger humanity comes through struggle, competition, challenge. Ease should never be a campaign promise. Compassion and justice can never be meted out by tax codes, or redistribution of wealth.
Speak, if you will, to the very ideals of American youth, but do not offer to our youth promises that no president should be making.
Blessings to you, and peace.
©2008. All Rights Reserved.
Again, I pray this note finds you well.
I will reiterate that it seems backwards to begin a series at number 6. But I have been known to be a little backwards; just ask my neighbors. And it will appear equally backwards that I should find fault with your taking advantage of, and even to exploiting, the hearts of youthful voting Americans.
I recall my college years all too well: I was full of idealism about making the world a better place, about injustice and greed and the great corporate menace which was America. I recall being captivated in my dorm room one Saturday afternoon 23 years ago by a book denigrating capitalism; I can remember shaking my head in angry disbelief as I read about the disparities between those who have and those who don't. I remember walking through the then new-Copley Plaza (circa 1984) in Boston and being disgusted by the gratuitous display of wealth and privilege; I can still feel myself torn between the desire to embrace ambition and financial success and the desire to rain down revolution as I walked through that center of contrasts, Harvard Square. (For a fuller picture of my thoughts about the war on poverty, please see this series.)
But I also remember from those years as a young adult not merely this sense of injustice (at least insofar as my prejudices and convictions proved how far America had fallen short of my vision of the ideal world); what I also remember is that I was really quite full of fear. And, I am afraid to say, I was full of envy.
The fear is easy to understand: I would look at the emblems and benchmarks of achievement -- educational and economic success, career standing, home ownership, marriage, parenting, planning for retirement -- with a great deal of trepidation. Clearly my anxiety was born of one simple fact: Life is not promised to be easy. Hard work, risk, competition, failure; all of these daunted me, especially since I was beginning my journey already in the grip of significant debt. 'Why, oh why, did it all have to be so hard?' I would ask myself.
My fears were also born of the seeming imminence of war, of the looming challenges before us -- not only as a culture and nation, but as a civilization -- in the face of aggressors from the east and west. Nuclear war was nearly daily talked about; it may have been a Cold War, but those of us who were young could feel the infernal fires. And then, of course, there were the ubiquitous fears about the environment.
Couple all this with my envy of those who already knew privilege and my shame at my own privileges when I would compare myself to those less fortunate, and you had a young man who concealed envy and resentment, and all his fears, in the language of social injustice, inequity, and unfairness. My politics were shaped by a sense of inadequacy and simple envy (and its corollary, shame at being envied both by the American poor and the underprivileged the world over).
In short, I was, without question, a rather haughty socialist-leaning young adult.
Of course, even though I had done well in my college economics studies, my anxieties, fears, envy and anger blinded me in such a way that I could not understand one simple thing, namely, where wealth and prosperity and jobs and even liberty actually came from. In some sense, I thought money was just 'there', and that the wealthy were simply the greedy and avaricious, the hoarders and pack rats of capital. I believed that their wealth was directly related to my poverty; I believed that their wealth caused my poverty. (And how was it fair that one college graduate left school in a new BMW 320i while I had to repair an old Buick Skylark?)
As many observers have already pointed out, you, Senator, are relatively unknown: you are something of a blank slate onto which we all, if we choose, project our deepest hopes and desires, and our deeply masked fears and resentments. Seemingly countless Americans have pinned what strikes me as an inordinate hope on you, expectant that you will right all wrongs, that justice and fairness will be our new prosperity in the light of your deft leadership; that all our fears and jealousies shall be allayed, and life will be, in the end, easier.
My disagreement with you is that you have essentially promised that you will make life easier; from student loan reform to job creation to tax relief to 'spreading the wealth,' you have appealed to the young not only like a Peter Pan, you've played Pan's flute, and have become the Pied-Piper of our day. You know it is all too easy to sing the sort of tune young adults want to hear; rock-and-roll songwriters have known the art all too well, tapping into youths' alienation from the 'great machine' and the expectations voiced by a meaningless corporate American life. No, you not only have promised hope you cannot give, you have promised meaning and purpose, and an ease of conscience. America will finally be better, because it will be easier, safer (and cleaner).
When I was a young man I remember listening to the 1984 Democratic National Convention. I recall listening to the keynote speaker that night (I can't recall who it was) and hearing something that began to change my fundamental beliefs. The speaker said that America was only great if its policies were bent toward the care of the lower classes. But what I heard was something far more insidious: I heard the denigration of life. What I heard was the religion of the state. For what the speaker was ultimately telling me, a young man who was indeed poor, who was indeed of the lower classes (and even the disenfranchised), was that I could not live a meaningful, enfranchised life, one fraught with purpose, unless the state forced my betters to assist me. And I also heard that the lower classes could not be happy, content, important or engaged unless they had the things common to the more affluent middle and upper classes.
Needless to say, I recoiled at what I heard; it seemed an audacious insult. For clearly I was being told my life was less than it could be because I had less money; less ease. And clearly my life -- and my sense of worth -- were being compared to those above me, and that my salvation would come from their beneficence. I also heard that my betters would take care of me; this not only seemed an insult, it seemed a convenient boast for those who deemed themselves more compassionate.
In short, I heard something akin to oppression, to negation. I heard a denial that worth was mine to define for myself or that it was given me by God. No, my intrinsic value, my own sense of meaning and purpose, were contingent on some standard determined and created by others, those who had such things settled and now could "give back." In the end, I heard a religious proclamation, that my deepest longings were defined and fulfilled by the state, the beneficent state.
But ultimately I heard a criticism of all that the poets, prophets and religious teachers had taught me: I heard a profound contradiction. For I was told by the philosopher and poet that meaning was not found in status, class, wealth or opportunity. I was told by saint and sage that material goods did not liberate, nor did they impart meaning or satisfy the human heart. But from my liberal betters I heard the speech of emptiness; I heard the promise that material goods and class standing and money were the very essence of a person's worth. And I heard something from them that seems utterly easy to justify, and also to speak, even though it is inherently self-canceling: "The wealthy have too much, they are too materialistic. We must make compassion and charity a matter of law; we shall take from those who are too materialistic so we can foster materialism in the poor." (Of course, it is not said this way. If it was, it would never appeal to but the most puerile voter.)
In the end, it all sounded to me a lot like a form of slavery.
Senator, for me, I hear that sort of language from you. Your hope is to the religiously and philosophically sensitive listeners really quite vapid; and it is, in an ironic sense, an emptiness that over-reaches. You have promised too much; you have claimed too great a place in history, in the world, and in the souls of men and women. Your message, and your masses, are not what the world, or one single soul, should be or ever has been waiting for. Sadly, you have tapped into the hearts of too many young people, giving them a solidarity and purpose that should be forged independent of the masses; you have appealed to their profound vulnerabilities, and you have offered them what cannot ever be given. Nor should it be given.
A stronger humanity comes through struggle, competition, challenge. Ease should never be a campaign promise. Compassion and justice can never be meted out by tax codes, or redistribution of wealth.
Speak, if you will, to the very ideals of American youth, but do not offer to our youth promises that no president should be making.
Blessings to you, and peace.
©2008. All Rights Reserved.
