Living in a YOYO World

[Note: part of this post was written before the president decided unilaterally to bomb Iran. But as you will see, in some ways, it makes my point.] 

As many of you know, I turned 79 on Valentine's Day. There are lots of stereotypes about women and aging, and for far too long, we were all told to lie about our age. I'm not going to do that. I'm 79, and it's okay. I'm happy to be alive. I'm still working, and I'm happy about that too. I continue to be a professor; and I love it because every day, I learn something new, or I learn that something I've long observed actually has a name. For example, this semester, I'm teaching a class in Organizational Communication, and the textbook talks about how we used to be in a WATT ("we're all in this together") culture; but these days, we're in a YOYO ("you're on your own") culture. The authors described the WATT culture as a time when employers provided not just a salary but medical and dental benefits to their employees; companies had local roots, and working in a place for a long time was the norm (my father worked for the same company for more than four decades, and he was not the only one). Back then, the government provided a social safety net, and those who needed assistance were able to get it. 

And then, led by Ronald Reagan and others, we moved into a culture where self-sufficiency was held up as the ideal. Employers reduced benefits or eliminated them entirely; many companies, which were now part of multinational conglomerates, preferred hiring workers as independent contractors. Even universities had a small group of full-time professors and everyone else was a lower-paid "adjunct" with no job security at all. More and more workers found themselves frequently changing jobs, or turning to gig work and side-hustles to make ends meet. And the government began slashing the social safety net-- and often demonizing the people who needed it. Cable news and social media made it easier and faster to rail against folks you didn't even know. And there was the constant messaging that anyone could succeed if they really wanted to. See those billionaires? They just worked harder and that's why they did so well. And if you were poor, it must be your own fault-- you were probably too lazy, or you had a bad attitude, or something. In a YOYO world, success or failure were all in your hands. 

A relentless 45-year campaign of elevating -- and making excuses for -- those who were rich while blaming society's problems on various disfavored groups (the poor, immigrants, women, minorities, people with disabilities, etc.) was quite successful. These days, we can see our government engaged in numerous acts of performative cruelty, and a percentage of the voting public thinks this is just fine, because it's directed at certain groups they've been taught to dislike or distrust. We can also see folks on social media lashing out at anyone who has a viewpoint they disagree with (several days ago, someone online called me a liar and a fraud... someone who has never met me but didn't like something I had posted during a chat about Rush's upcoming tour. It doesn't have to be about politics-- anything can quickly becoming a hot button issue and a reason for outrage). Being online as much as we are seems to have left some of us disconnected from how to talk to people in real life. 

When I was growing up, people didn't talk this way to each other. There was an expectation of courtesy. There were norms that encouraged people to talk to each other in a civil manner. Of course, it wasn't perfect. There were plenty of bigots and bullies. But as a culture, politeness was valued, and so was the ability to collaborate. There were many opportunities for people from different backgrounds to work together. In addition to work, we were members of volunteer organizations, civic groups, sisterhoods and brotherhoods at churches and temples. Like it or not, we had to get along with each other, and we learned from a young age that what each of us did, how each of us acted, would affect the other people in our lives. But in a YOYO system of things, you are only responsible for yourself, and there's no collective "we." Each of us is an island. Each of us is trying to overcome the obstacles. But none of us need to feel responsible for anyone else-- they're on their own too.  

So, the president decided to bomb Iran. I will leave it to you to decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But he did it in typical YOYO fashion. Unlike in past generations, he wasn't at the White House-- he was at his private club in Mar-a-Lago. He didn't try to build consensus, not even with the voters to whom he had pledged he wouldn't get involved in foreign wars. He didn't discuss it with congress (according to the constitution, only congress can declare war). He didn't discuss it with NATO (he doesn't like NATO, nor does he like consulting with our allies). He may have talked to his close-knit circle of supporters, who tend to agree with him whatever he says, but he announced it to the public only after it had happened. And then... he went to a fundraiser. If he thought about how his actions might affect us, or how it might affect our allies, he never said a word. 

I have to admit there are times when I miss the WATT culture-- when we all felt a sense of responsibility to each other-- the times when we shared the same experiences, and fought together for the causes we believed in. And one thing that most of us believed in was our democracy. We believed it was worth defending and preserving, and that as a society, we really were all in this together. I hope we can get back to that sense of shared purpose, because we shouldn't all feel that we are on our own. There are times we really do need each other... and now may indeed be one of those times.   

The Courage to Make a Mistake

First, my thanks to everyone who reached out on my birthday: some emailed, some messaged me on social media, and a few even sent old-school birthday cards. I always appreciate the number of folks who take the time to let me know they're thinking of me. It was also very cool spending some time on WBZ Radio with my friend Morgan White Jr. I miss the years I spent on the air, and whenever Morgan asks me to be a guest on his show, I really enjoy it. We did a Valentine's Day theme, talking with the callers about romantic couples on TV and in movies, favorite love songs, etc. We got a lot of nice calls, and that always makes me feel good too.  

I've spent a lot of time over the past several weeks thinking about the upsides and the downsides of being in the public eye. For example, when I was a deejay, back in the days when we played vinyl records, sometimes one of them would skip; or the cart machine (which played the commercials) suddenly jammed; or there was some unexpected loud noise that could be heard in the studio. I had to keep the show going, no matter what, in spite of the problems. I might be upset, but I couldn't let it affect me. My job was to be a good communicator and entertain the audience. All of us were live on the air, and we knew that any mistakes we made were heard by anyone who was listening. But somehow, we had to laugh it off and keep going; we couldn't let it ruin our show (that was easier said than done sometimes).  

Several weeks ago, our local pro football team, the New England Patriots, competed in the Super Bowl. I'd be lying if I said they looked good. In fact, they looked surprising bad for a team that had such a great season and won so many games. The quarterback, Drake Maye, was especially ineffective, but he wasn't alone: there were many other players who didn't play well, nor did Mike Vrabel, their award-winning coach, come up with a plan to turn things around. Many mistakes were made during that game, and football fans from all over the world saw (and commented on) every single one. And yet, as poorly as the Patriots played, they had to face the media not long after the game ended; the coach and many of the players had to answer questions they probably would rather have avoided. But there they were, despite their personal disappointment, trying to act like professionals.

The same could be said for the athletes who have been competing in the Winter Olympics: many have delivered impressive performances. But a few made disastrous mistakes-- star figure skater Ilia Malinin, often called the "Quad God," showed he was not a deity after all-- he turned out to be quite human. Ilia was supposed to dominate his event, but he had two shocking falls (which were played over and over on TV and on social media). Falling unexpectedly during an event that is supposed to be your best must be painful enough; having to analyze and explain it in real time could not have been easy. And yet, it is expected of the athletes that they will speak about how they did, and Ilia was no exception to that rule.

In a way, I'm glad I was only moderately well-known during my radio years. Not that many people knew, or cared, if I had a bad show. But imagine if I were famous and committed some major faux pas on TV: I would hate to think about having to explain it to reporters and viewers. For example, I've seen politicians struggle when the teleprompter failed (which is actually an old problem-- even Dwight Eisenhower, as far back as 1952, ran into this), and they were subsequently expected to answer endless questions about the problems they had (these days, they are also mocked relentlessly on social media by folks who never did a radio or TV show in their lives, and have no idea how they would handle a day when everything went wrong).

Perhaps we should critique our cultural tendency to want famous people to subject themselves to our scrutiny and explain their mistakes to us in painstaking detail. But I take away a different lesson from these moments of public humiliation. I think it's quite courageous to pick yourself up and face the questions (even when you'd rather just hide). With few exceptions (our current president comes to mind), the folks who had the bad day don't make excuses for it; they own what happened, and they try to respond honestly when questioned about it. That's commendable. It's also important. In life, whether we are famous or not, things can go wrong. We may not be able to change a terrible day, but how we react to it, and what we do going forward, is what matters.

I fully expect the Patriots who played poorly to work even harder and do much better next year. I fully expect the Olympic athletes whose performances were far below expectations to get back up and commit to doing a better job in the future. And the vast majority of politicians and celebrities understand that having a bad day or making a gaffe or doing something embarrassing doesn't necessarily mean they will never recover from it. And there's a lesson for us too: we should not allow ourselves to be defined by our worst day. We should not label ourselves as "failures," nor allow others to do that. Rather, we should learn what we can from what went wrong, and then get back on our feet and move on. In the immortal words of those great philosophers Led Zeppelin, "Yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there's still time to change the road you're on." Words to live by, wouldn't you agree?      

Keep on Singing

I can't imagine where I'd be without music. That may seem like an obvious thing to say, given that I used to be a deejay, but even during times when I wasn't on the air, it was often music that helped keep me going. Perhaps you can relate: I am thinking of some difficult times in my life, when it just seemed that everything was awful and nothing was getting better. And then, almost like magic, I'd hear a certain song, and the lyrics expressed exactly how I felt, and the mood I was in gradually lifted, as I sang along. I guess I derived some comfort in knowing that someone else (in this case, the songwriter) had been exactly where I was. And in that moment, I felt a little less alone. 

That's one reason why I wanted to be a deejay. This may sound silly, but I saw it as a mitzvah. When I was a kid, my favorite deejays felt like friends to me. And I wanted to pay it forward; I wanted to be a friend to some other lonely kid. I loved being on the air: if I could play a song that cheered you up or made you smile or made you feel a little less lonely, that was something worth doing. As a college radio deejay, I had more latitude than my colleagues on AM top-40 did. FM album rock radio (often called underground or progressive) was still new, and our playlists were much wider. I always sought out album tracks that I knew would resonate with my audience in those turbulent days of the late 1960s. 

There was so much excellent anti-war music from folk-rock singer-songwriters like Bob Dylan, Tom Paxton, and Phil Ochs; and there were rock bands like Country Joe & the Fish, Jefferson Airplane and Creedence Clearwater singing out against the war too. The now-classic Buffalo Springfield song "For What It's Worth" did not begin its life as an anti-war song, but the movement soon embraced it, and the lyrics fit perfectly. It was an inventive and creative and often-courageous time in music, when rock bands were taking chances. AM Top-40 ignored much of this (or tried to-- but some of the songs we played became crossover pop hits, like Creedence's "Fortunate Son"). Meanwhile, on FM, I was able to use my show to articulate the feelings of my listeners, whether about the war or about other issues so many of us were facing.

What brought all this to mind was what has been happening in Minneapolis, as thousands and thousands of people from all walks of life, tired of the cruelty and brutality that the Trump administration inflicted on their city, took to the streets to protest. The bitter cold did not deter them. Threats of violence (and the deaths of two protesters) did not deter them either. The common wisdom was that nothing would change, and yet, the people kept marching, kept chanting, kept protesting. And Bruce Springsteen wrote a new song about it, and he came to Minneapolis to perform it. In New England, the Dropkick Murphys had a protest song for us too. In fact, all over the country, people are marching and protesting (and singing) and refusing to be deterred. 

And no, having lived through the Vietnam era, I don't expect things to improve immediately. The fact that more people are standing up and speaking out is encouraging; and the fact that over the past few months, a growing number of musicians too have been making their voices heard is a plus. But this is an ongoing process. It will take time. Back in the 60s, I recall how powerful the music could be. When we heard certain songs, whether on the radio or at a concert, we would sing along. The music helped to rejuvenate us. And then, it helped to motivate us, reminding us of what we needed to do. And we got back out there to do it. 

I see signs of that now, wherever I look: in Minneapolis, they're standing up for our democracy every day, joined by folks from red states and blue states who are tired of the brutality and the cruelty, and who want to see sanity restored. And all I can say is, wherever you are, make your voices heard too. If the way things are going in Minneapolis seems wrong to you, now is a good time to speak out. There are people determined to silence you, determined to persuade you that there's nothing you can do. Don't believe them. Keep making your feelings known. And above all, keep on singing.   

The People We Remember, the People We Forget: Some Thoughts About Dr. King's Birthday

She was tired, and it had been a frustrating day, and she just wanted to go home. So, she took a seat on the bus. But before she could relax, the bus driver angrily told her to get up and give her seat to someone else. It was 1955, in Montgomery, Alabama, and the bus lines, like much of America, were segregated. She was Black, and sitting in a seat that a White person wanted. But she was tired and upset and something inside her told her not to comply. So, she didn't. She knew the consequences, but she refused anyway. And she was forcibly removed from the bus and arrested. And her name was... Claudette Austin, later Claudette Colvin. She was only fifteen, and a high school student. Her name is on the 1956 lawsuit that ultimately ended segregation on the bus lines. But it was the name of Rosa Parks that would be remembered. Claudette's name was not. When Claudette died the other day at age 86, few people had ever heard of her.

That's unfortunate, because the Civil Rights Movement did not begin with the amazing act of one person, nor was it some accident that came out of nowhere (contrary to the way Rosa Parks is often described as an "older woman" and a "seamstress," she had a long history with the NAACP and with the fight for civil rights in the south). And writing Claudette out of the story was a choice: the leaders of the movement worried that she'd be perceived as a "mouthy teenager" and not taken seriously; she was also pregnant, and in a time when being pregnant outside of marriage was frowned upon, the decision was made to select someone who would be less threatening and a more sympathetic figure. And yet, it was Claudette's courageous act of resistance that was an important part of ending segregation on Montgomery's busses.   

What brought this to mind is the upcoming celebration of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. We are living in a time when some politicians, including our president, would prefer that Dr. King's life not be celebrated. Worse yet, there are schools in numerous red states where even a mention of race (or racism) is now forbidden. And for those who say I am exaggerating, there are colleges that are now eliminating entire courses, rather than violate new policies, which are often driven by politics, rather than by an interest in learning. As a professor, I find this problematic. I fail to see the harm in exposing students to a wide range of perspectives, and I fail to see why teaching kids about the fight for civil rights is controversial.    

In fact, I'd like to see not just Dr. King's life remembered but the lives of others who laid the groundwork, or helped to make the civil rights movement a success-- for example, the historian Carter G. Woodson, who proposed what we today know as Black History Month. Back in 1926, he set aside a week each February when the accomplishments of Black people could be studied and remembered. He said this was important because, "If a race has no history, if it has no worthwhile tradition, it becomes a negligible factor in the thought of the world, and it stands in danger of being exterminated." And by preventing students from learning about Dr. King, or about Dr. Woodson, or about numerous others who helped to end segregation in America, we not only do them a disservice-- but we contribute to their being erased.

And maybe that's the point? It certainly seems that some folks today prefer the way things used to be. They want us to return to a time when people who look like them had absolute power and nobody could challenge their authority without facing severe consequences. They want to banish anyone from the "wrong" color or the "wrong" religion or the "wrong" political beliefs. They want to silence anyone who dares to complain. They want a country where everyone knows their place. And they want us to forget the people who said "no, I don't want America to be like that." That's why it's a good idea to celebrate Dr. King's life: to remember him, and all the others who worked so hard to made the country a better place. And it's a good reminder, especially in times like these, that even small acts of courage can eventually lead to big results. Rest in peace, Claudette Colvin. And thank you.