Michael Ventura

Dancing in the Dark

Joe Hill was a labor organizer executed on trumped charges in Utah in 1915. The night before his murder he telegrammed his comrades: "Don't waste your time in mourning. Organize."

I once shook the hand of a man who shook his hand. In the spirit of passing that handshake on, here are some thoughts post-election:

It's after a defeat that you find out what you're made of. Cry if you must, cry it all out, but don't let the bastards sap your vitality.

In 1964 arch-conservative Barry Goldwater was crushed at the polls. Everybody thought conservatism was forever politically dead in America. But conservatives re-grouped, re-thought, and organized patiently from the ground up; when fundamentalist religion became a force in the mid-1970s they were ready to take advantage of it. In 1980, they elected Reagan. Dig: It took them 16 years. American progressives seriously started mass-scale organizing only about a year ago. In just one year we came within reach of victory.

That's remarkable. Now is no time to quit.

Iraq is a mess and it'll get worse. Our military is way over-extended. To keep present troop levels, Bush will renege on his promise and institute a draft – probably next spring, so that he can recover by the mid-term elections. Rural poor are already fighting this war; a draft won't change their vote (though continued failure in Iraq might). But the conservatives of the middle class will be hit hard by a draft; that will change the present equation considerably. Progressives must stay organized and ready to help them. Reach out to save their kids – and ours.

Former Federal Reserve Chairman Paul Volker said recently that he sees a 75 percent chance of "financial catastrophe" within five years. That's his polite Establishment way of saying that an economic shit-storm is on the horizon and could hit anytime. Any mix of oil hikes, credit trouble, unemployment, interest hikes, etc., could set it off. Also: the European Union, China, and Southern Asia, have been hanging back, hoping we Americans would clean our own house and vote Bush out. We failed. They can't afford to hang back any longer. The U.S., thrown into heavy debt by Bush, now depends on these powers to buy our bonds. Their collective hand is on our financial spigot and they'll start turning it slowly toward "off." They'll do it carefully, but they'll do it, because it's the only check they have on Bush America. They needn't cut their investment much to make us hurt. Combine the two – our internal weaknesses and dependence on foreign financing – and we're in big trouble. Bitching about that won't be enough, as this election proved. Progressives must offer an analysis and alternatives, and present them in a way that badly educated people can understand.

Since the mid-1960s, progressives lost white working stiffs because we talked down to them. We dissed their work, their desires, their beliefs, their religions. We made them Other, matching their bigotries with a new own all our own. On Election Day 2004 we paid full price for that. No working man or woman is my enemy. Their struggle, their endurance, is to be respected. They may be foolish and desperate enough to follow people who lie to them, but they've got too much self-respect to follow people who look down on them. They're terrified. They're unequipped for the complexities and paradoxes of the 21st century and they know it, and they resent like hell all those who accept leaving them behind as the price of entering the 21st century. Progressives have got to accept what this election made painfully clear: Either we all proceed or none of us do. It's the greatest challenge and the biggest lesson of this election: We've got to learn how to talk to these people. They are our fellow-sharers in America. They may not know or want that, but we must; and we must act and speak accordingly. Whitman must be our guide: "I will not have a single person slighted or left away."

Don't demonize people who disagree with you. That's how Bush and Cheney behave. Behavior is more important than belief. What does belief matter, if your behavior apes your enemy's? Behavior shapes reality. Belief merely justifies reality. Demonization creates demons. Your enemies are as human as you are. If you treat them that way, the outcome may surprise you.

Never underestimate the power of the Irrational. At every critical juncture of history, the irrational has been a potent, often decisive force. At times whole peoples go insane – Europe in World War I, Germany throughout Hitler's reign, America during the Red Scare. This is one of those times. Realize that you're in the midst of it. Things may get so irrational that nothing will work. In that case, what's our job? To dedicate our lives to preserving and passing on what we love, so that if things ever get sane again there'll be something left. Which may be a way of saying: like Joe Hill, lose beautifully. That beauty may be something the future can build on.

This election was about identity. The concrete issues – Iraq, the economy – ultimately didn't matter. Bush didn't lose the debates, after all. He incessantly told his base that their wish to return to the national identify of the 1950s was personified in him. He reassured them that America was a force unto itself, an entity that could create its own reality, and that that reality was anything he said it was. He told them, through coded language that they well understood, that the 21st century would be the same as the 20th, and that being an American was identity enough. He was saying to the terrified and the left-behind: "You don't have to grow, you don't have to change, you don't have to be anything other than what you are – leave the rest to me. I will fill your emptiness, validate your God, still your terror."

Kerry's logic couldn't pierce that. His command of the facts threatened everyone intimidated by the very facts that seemed to win him the debates. They didn't want to hear it. Reasoned judgment versus passionate belief? Passion wins over reason every time. Democrats played reason, Republicans played passion. End of story. A progressive strategy? Never surrender reason but remember: we're passionate too. Passionate about genuine liberty and genuine justice for all. Compromise that – play to a now non-existent middle ground – and all is lost.

Let's say this loud: THE ISSUE OF GAY MARRIAGE DID NOT DOOM THIS ELECTION. You may measure the unhappiness of heterosexual marriage by the ferocity of the opposition to gay marriage. Listen to the country music that rural red counties listen to: the hits are about the failure of males and females to get together. In trailer park or penthouse, half the marriages end in divorce and many that don't are shameful compromises. Marriage, in America, is in a state of unbridled panic. That panic, not gay rights, helped doom this election – the panic of people trying to hold on to something that really isn't there anymore. Progressives must stand passionately with all who seek their fair share of the Bill of Rights.

My friend Deborah said today: "Bush manipulated through fear, and the people who voted for him are filled with fear. We're buying into it somehow. He generated it, we voted against it, but now we're creating it. That's something that leaves us vulnerable. We're not any different from the other people." She's right. Bush's re-election has driven many into a despairing fear. Which is just where he wants you to be. That fear you feel inside – that's Bush himself, inside you. Act out of fear and the fear will increase. Courage doesn't mean not being afraid; courage means doing what's necessary in spite of your fear, even because of it.

Remember: we've only been organizing on a mass scale for about a year and we almost won. If more of the poor, the endangered, and the young had voted, we would have won. We must keep those we organized and reach out to those we failed to organize. The poor and the endangered don't have many computers, they're not on the Net. Politics is still local. Organizing from the ground up means from the ground up, face to face, speaking words that people can understand, showing them how they can have a chance to change things and helping them take that chance. It's only a chance but it's not a delusion. Election Day is not set in stone. Our world is in ferocious flux. In that flux, in the very thing that frightens us most, is our chance.

Just one more thing: Nothing is less appealing or more boring than solemnity. The old-time lefties who gave us Social Security, the civil rights movement, the 35-hour week, and the original (now shredded) social safety net – they partied, sang, danced, fetted, all the damn time. They were famous for it. These are dark days and they're going to get darker, but the dark side of the day has always been my favorite time for dancing.

Protecting Your Privates

President George W. Bush has been skipping around the country accusing Sen. John Kerry of "flip-flops." Well ... I gotchyer flip-flop right here. It's a doozy. And it threatens not only the privacy but also, in a quite direct way, the privates of the citizens of these United States.

In 2000, Bush ran on a platform that loudly supported medical privacy. He has said, "I believe privacy is a fundamental right." In April 2001, he promised to protect, he said, "the right of every American to have confidence that his or her personal medical records would remain private." Tommy G. Thompson, secretary of health and human services, chimed in: "We are giving patients peace of mind in knowing that their medical records are confidential and their privacy is not vulnerable to intrusion."

That promise has been broken. On March 6, The New York Times ran a polite headline on page eight: "Administration Sets Forth a Limited View on Privacy." Decide for yourself the extent of the flip-flop -- and whether the story didn't call for starker headlines on page one.

The Bush-Ashcroft Justice Department is attempting to force hospitals and clinics to turn over medical records on thousands of abortions. More than 2,700 files have been demanded in the San Francisco area alone. Files are also being sought from Kansas, Missouri, Pennsylvania, and Washington, D.C., as well as the cities of L.A., Philly, Pittsburgh, New York City and still counting. Ashcroft claims these records will help him defend a new law prohibiting partial-birth abortions. Doctors are challenging the law on the ground that it prevents certain abortions even when they're medically necessary.

Fundamentally, Bush's claim is that the government can instruct doctors on the needs and treatment of their patients. One function of law is to set precedents. If the government has the right to dictate one aspect of medicine, and if that right is unchallenged and/or upheld, then a precedent has been set for government to dictate other medical priorities. There are honorable arguments for and against abortion, but it is difficult to imagine an honorable argument for the government's right to dictate specific medical care. If government can dictate something so intimate and personal then what, according to that precedent, can it not dictate?

Flip-flopping drastically on his 2001 promise, Bush's Justice Department now states that patients "no longer possess a reasonable expectation that their histories will remain completely confidential," adding that federal law "does not recognize a physician-patient privilege." Do not overlook a point that should be as alarming to conservatives as to progressives: These sweeping statements do not single out abortion cases; they cover all medical practice. The government is claiming the right to pry into any medical records -- psychiatric, for instance, or records of substance-abuse treatment, AIDS, rape, incest, anything at all. Your privates, in short.

That is a radical reversal of two centuries of American legal practice. It is also a reversal and denial of what every American expects and assumes when in need of a doctor's help. When is anyone more vulnerable than when they need a doctor? The Bush administration is claiming the right to intrude upon that vulnerability.

This point was not lost on federal District Judge Phyllis J. Hamilton, who denied the Justice Department access to abortion records from San Francisco area hospitals and Planned Parenthood clinics. The Times reported her stand that "forcing the providers to turn over records would undermine the privacy rights of patients and could dissuade some from seeking treatment." Judge Hamilton said, "There is no question that the patient is entitled to privacy and protection. Women are entitled to not have the government looking at their records."

When put that baldly, it's astonishing we're even having the argument. Of course people are entitled to not have the government snoop on their medical treatment. Bush doesn't agree, but, this being an election year, he's been forced to flip-flop back slightly. On March 9, Justice withdrew subpoenas from Planned Parenthood clinics, stating that "we will not move at this time" but might "renew our requests if necessary." For "if necessary" read "if re-elected." As of this writing, hospitals are still being harassed.

A Justice Department sop to privacy has been that names would be deleted from the records. But note: That nicety is not in their basic contention that people "no longer possess a reasonable expectation" of patient privacy and that federal law "does not recognize a physician-patient privilege." Judge Hamilton said the records the government is demanding contain "potentially identifying information of an extreme personal and intimate nature," including the age of first sexual experience, types of contraception used, details of abuse and of sexually transmitted diseases. Bush doesn't say why he needs those details, but he claims the right to know them.

The Times summarizes other critiques of his efforts: "If patients have no reasonable expectation of privacy ... the government may be more aggressive in seeking records from hospitals, insurance companies, and other businesses in criminal, civil, and administrative cases." That's putting it mildly. The only possible motivation for claiming such sweeping rights is to assemble dossiers of intimate material that, if Bush wins this issue, can then be used against dissenters of all kinds. (Remember that under the USA PATRIOT Act, many forms of dissent can be classed as "terrorism" at the president's whim.)

As is Bush's usual practice, he sent a small fry to publicly defend these drastic subpoenas, a spokesman named Trent D. Duffy (where does the far right get these names?!), who assured us all that this president is "strongly committed to medical privacy." The Bush White House does not answer questions. Instead it issues sweeping statements and is unconcerned that its statements arrogantly contradict its actions. Trent D. Duffy did not mention that the government has not informed any of the patients concerned that it wants their records. Nor did he comment on what else the government is demanding. This is the Times' summary of the government's demands:

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Reflections On Turning 52

Age. For most of human history, to be old has been a mark of honor. Today it's a source of fear, even shame. Yet my 50th birthday was strangely joyous. It began as my days usually begin: I walked to the corner cafe, drank my coffee, read my New York Times, watched the world go by for a while. (Tough life, right?) Usually, after this languid beginning, I do what writers call "work," off and on all day and way into the night (when these columns get written).

A writer's work is a kind of restless hunting, tracking a strange beast in the jungle of oneself. In my case, this looks like hours of pacing up and down, smoking lots of cigarettes, and drinking many cups of strong tea while staring out the window. (When the beast is finally found, the writer-hunter must then refrain from killing it; rather, you get very still and let the creature devour you.) But on my 50th birthday I gave myself the day off (very tough life), and walked.

And walked, and walked, and set myself the walking-task of remembering every birthday as far back as I could. I focused until I could recall at least one specific thing about each: a friend, a song, something said or left unsaid. The quiet girl who sat at the next desk in fifth grade. The fight with Ginger on the way to a Springsteen concert. Roy Orbison singing "The Eyes of Texas" at Soap Creek. Alone in the Mojave reading the poems of Seferis. Chris in a witch's wig. Mama pretending she wasn't ill when the heat got shut off on Decatur Street. Mama, when I was 7 screaming "Your birthday is a day like any other!" Our Senior Class Halloween party for the kids, and a dark-eyed, scared-eyed tiny girl, and how she came straight up to me and took my hand and wouldn't let it go for the whole party.

Once a specific bit of memory was retrieved, it became easier to see who I was that year. In this way I met long-gone Michaels I'd forgotten -- it was painful how many, and why I'd needed to forget them. I was embarrassed by some, ashamed of some, some I even feared; but some were still my pals, and of three or four I was very proud. "That 13-year-old Michael saved my life, and how did he know to do it, what did he have to go on? I like that kid." That kind of thing. I wouldn't have imagined it possible, but through searching for something specific about each day, I "saw" something of every birthday all the way back to age five. My life walked beside me, a gang of Michaels, many of them strangers to each other, but walking together, for this one day, with a grateful feeling of companionship.

When I told this to a friend she said I was forgiving myself, but I don't think so. I don't think we have the right to forgive ourselves. Forgiveness is for those we've sinned against, if they find it in their hearts, and perhaps for God, if God is interested. Rather, that walk was a look into my own eyes -- the eyes of the many I'd been and am. I suspect that looking into your own eyes, or another's, is a tougher task than forgiving. Looking, seeing, and living with -- or choosing to live without -- what you see.

When that walk was over, I recalled something my brother Aldo said to me: "Unless you practice seeing yourself you become invisible to yourself." I felt less invisible to myself that day. Lighter and darker, both. It was a good way to walk past my half-century mark.

But... well, sometimes you try to see yourself and you see something else, something you didn't expect at all. It is you and not-you -- or perhaps a you that has always been waiting within. This was the lesson (learned not for the first time, and probably not the last) of my most recent birthday, my 52nd.

On this day, too, I planned nothing. I've learned to leave birthdays planless, or almost so, letting the day unfold on its own. For a birthday is a teaching day, it has something to reveal. Too many plans constrict its ability to speak. Left to itself any day will, at some unexpected moment, find its voice, give its message. This is especially true of birthdays. For, as Thomas Hardy once observed, your birthday exists in relation to another day, a day which it is not possible to know: We pass silently, every year, over the day that will mark the anniversary of our death.

At 40 you may have half your life in front of you; at 52, it's not likely. At 30 you have maybe 35 years before serious deterioration sets in. At 52, you don't. In your thirties you may worry about losing your looks; in your fifties you worry about losing your capacities. Ten years left of reasonably adequate strength? Less? Fifteen, maybe? If your bad habits don't get you first?

Every age has its wisdom (youth knows truths that most of the middle-aged can no longer bear), but one difference between being young and no-longer-young is: The young don't know they are going to die, not really; the no-longer-young know. We know, consciously or not, that one unknown day of the year is the anniversary (the counting-backwards anniversary, if you like) of our death. So we walk more softly through our days, or more bitterly, or even more recklessly, depending on our natures; but our walk does alter, because, as James Baldwin wrote, "there will come a day you won't remember," the day you die.

There is an Old One inside that helps with this. One of the tragedies of America today is that it ignores and shames this Old One.

It's become a cliché that inside everyone there's a child -- an "inner child," as they say. Pop culture is an enormous omnipresent machine for tantalizing and tricking this Young One within. The Young One seems the only part of you that our commercial culture takes seriously. Your Young One is seduced into consuming like an adult while remaining too young to think like one. Your Young One is flattered into thinking it's your truest self, the one you must always look like, the one you must never leave behind.

This gives the Young One burdens, responsibilities, beyond its capacities -- making your Young One all the more insecure, all the more vulnerable, and thus all the more susceptible to the lies you are being sold. And selling is the object of this delusion. As we age, we're frightened into buying all manner of chemicals, operations, concoctions, to retain some ghost of the Young One. Few see that what they're really doing is devoting lots of time and money to being afraid, nor that this only feeds their fear and makes it stronger.

The most insidious result is that, by buying into this cult of the Young One, we insult and shame the Old One.

The Old One has been in you from the beginning, just like the Young One. You can see its expression sometimes even in the face of an infant -- or in your own face in a childhood photograph. Or in the sudden wisdom of a grade school or high school kid -- something utterly true and perceptive, completely beyond their experience, yet theirs nevertheless. It's the Old One talking. The Old One is in you, waiting to take over from the Young One when it's time.

When other eras taught their young to "respect your elders," they were also respecting the Old One who lived in the young -- strengthening the Old One, giving the Old One a source of pride, so that it would be up to its tasks when it was needed. But our culture insults and shames the Old One at every turn -- and sells the idea that, in order to be accepted, you too must insult and shame your Old One by trying to stay young. After 50 years or more of insult and shame, our Old One is weak and frightened and riven with self-doubt. And then it's no wonder we are afraid of aging, for how can such an Old One come forth in us and be strong when its time has come?

Much fear of aging, in our era, is our intuitive sense that both we and our culture have conspired to degrade the Old One within to such an extent that our Old One is useless to us, crippled. What it was born knowing, it no longer knows. It has absorbed too many insults, and is too full of doubt. So we are left with only the Young One with which to face infirmity and death. But that's not something that the Young One is prepared for, for the Young One is incapable of believing in death. You might say that its job is not to believe in death. Not to value, much less respect, death. That's part of its beauty. With that audacity, the Young One gives us great strength, at the proper time. But that time passes. And, when it passes, only the Old One can give us the strength we need. But it's difficult to be strong after a half-century of ceaseless shaming.

52... the Old One came to me. Not-yet-me, but me. My Old One counseled me not to be repelled by the changes in my face, in my body, and the graying and loss of my hair. Bid me to respect him, feed him, sing him, speak to him, listen to him, walk with him. To cease shaming him, and to not allow others to shame him, and to comfort the shamed parts of him. Make a place for him to occupy, to do his job, when it's time. For time doesn't kid around. It will come soon enough, the day when I'll awake and be very lonely and frightened if the Old One isn't there or isn't able.

Michael Ventura is a Los Angeles-based writer.

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