• “Parable of the Sower” – A Rereading

    I first read Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower in 2019. Originally published in 1993, Parable of the Sower gained renewed attention in the mid 10’s — reaching the NYT Bestseller list for the first time — for its prophetic depiction of a Trump-like presidency. Parable‘s President Christopher Donner, familiarly, vowed to return a crumbling United States to a long-lost golden age.  

    The book, at the time, felt foreboding. I distinctly remember the feeling of pique when narrator Lauren Olamina expresses shock at news of a measles outbreak. At the time, a measles outbreak was sweeping through New Jersey. How portentous! I thought. No, the word “portentous” didn’t actually sail its way down my stream of consciousness, but the novel nevertheless struck an excitingly sinister cord — the same feeling I used to get playing Bloody Mary with my friends. 

    Last week, I finished reading Parable of the Sower for the second time. My friends and I decided to start a book club. When someone suggested Parable of the Sower, I recalled the thrilling goosebumps of my first read, and happily agreed to pick it up again. For the month that followed, everyone in my life had to endure my exclamations of how the book was “too real.” 

    The fact that Octavia Butler predicted the “Make America Great Again” movement with surgical accuracy feels like an afterthought to the ways in which Parable depicts society as fractured, isolated, and self-serving. The poverty that disempowers, the paranoia that leaves everyone fending for themselves. Reading the book in 2019 felt like a glimpse at a possible future — reading in 2025 felt like holding a mirror. 

    In the afterword to the novel, writer Nnedi Okorafor talks about her own experiences with reading and re-reading Parable at various stages of her life. She charts her own trajectory from idealistic student activist to adult pragmatist through her interpretations of Parable at ten year intervals. Okorafor expresses gratitude to Butler for the lessons these readings have continued to afford her, letting her peel back new wisdom with each subsequent reading. 

    I wonder what lessons are left to learn now? I am being somewhat hyperbolic and morose for effect — but only ever-so-slightly. I am starting to think that what this book has to teach us is less a matter of opening our eyes and more a means of survival. Survival, at times, feels like all there is left.

    . . .

  • All my heroes are dead

    You could say I’m a fan of Radiohead. You could say I’ve spent more than half of my life listening to them, own all of their albums, tattooed myself with lyrics from Karma Police before I was even 20 years old, have seen them in concert on multiple occasions and in multiple countries, each experience rapturous. Yes, you could say I am invested.

    And yet, today I sit here disillusioned by this group of five men from Oxfordshire, who are nowadays looking much less like keen-eyed and sharp-tongued auteurs and more like lolling middle-aged rock stars (Jonny Greenwood basically said as much while promoting his artisanal olive oil brand — the very existence of which says all you need to know). Nowhere has this shift  felt more apparent than the band’s “can’t we all just get along” stance on Palestine. 

    This isn’t new territory for Radiohead, admittedly. Ahead of a 2017 Radiohead concert in Tel Aviv, Roger Waters publically encouraged Radiohead to cancel the concert in support of the BDS movement. This came after repeated attempts at private discussion. Many Radiohead fans expressed support for Waters’ perspective. Thom Yorke responded in a lengthy statement that lambasted Waters and BDS — saying that their “black and white” way of thinking was unproductive, and demands paternalistic at best. The concert went on as planned. 

    Now, in light of the daily starvation, murder, and ethnic cleansing happening in Gaza, fans have renewed their requests to the band to stand up for Palestine. I am among them. I admit, my desire to have Radiohead speak on the issue is rooted in equal parts altruism and selfishness. I believe that we all have a moral calling to amplify the cries of Palestinians to the best of our ability. I also hope that artists who have been so important to me are brave enough to agree.

    Last week, Thom Yorke — who, by the way, has released four albums and toured extensively in the last two years — finally released a statement via his Instagram. I admit I was optimistic as I began reading Yorke’s perspective on, as he put it, “the unfolding humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza.” My hopes quickly fell. 

    What could have been a long-awaited opportunity to correct the record and join the chorus of voices in support of the oppressed was, instead, a pale lamentation on celebrity coupled with half-baked centrist politics. Yorke expressed surprise that his “supposed silence was somehow being taken as complicity” and that the “social media witch-hunts” have taken a “heavy toll on [his] mental health.” I can’t say for sure, but I imagine the mental health toll of watching your entire family burn alive is likely worse. 

    Yorke pressed on: “[T]he unquestioning Free Palestine refrain that surrounds us all does not answer the simple question of why the hostages have still not all been returned?” Ignoring the fact that this sentence structure resembles a college freshman’s attempt to appear erudite, Yorke’s derision of pro-Palestinian activists as unthinking horde cut to my core; cut through 15 years of admiration, late nights driving home alone, taking the long way so I could sing along to In Rainbows, posters taped above bedframes, and songs carefully selected for mix tapes. 

    The man I have so long felt a connection with has turned out to be a paper-thin bourgeois faux-intellectual fence-straddler. His words are the words of those who wish to be perceived as progressive, while maintaining their access to comfort and power. 

    Yorke’s statement concluded with finger-pointing at Netenyahu and Hamas, as opposed to a century-old colonial settler project, and platitudes about how much is meant to transcend borders and other self-serving bullshit. Maybe the fault was mine to begin with. What was I thinking, idolizing a 56-year-old British man? It was a project doomed to fail from the start. Either way, I am left wondering where to go from here. 

    Maybe I shouldn’t wonder too hard. Centering myself and my feelings makes me no better than the man who I have allowed to let me down for the last time. 

    . . .

  • The Protest Vote

    It’s an election year, which means that the amount of time I spend getting dragged into arguments on Reddit has tripled in the last quarter. I know, I know — it’s a complete waste of my time and energy (and I am proud to say this tendency has decreased since my early 20’s, life being too short and all of that, but still. It’s a thing, so work with me here).

    As I was saying, it’s an election year. In 238 days, the United States will relive 2020’s hellish showdown between two rich, senile ghouls. Given this, the moderate rhetoric around every urgent political issue has shifted to the “vote about it” angle. It feels borderline hysterical, the way that large swaths of our society shriek about the need to “vote!” It’s so rare that this instruction to vote is ever coupled with any encouragement of something to vote for. It’s almost as if it doesn’t matter.

    This year, things feel a bit different. In a show of protest against the United States’s involvement in the Palestinian genocide, organizers are successfully encouraging voters to select “uncommitted” on their ballots, as opposed to an actual candidate. In my home state of Massachusetts, 10% or 55,000 voters declared themselves uncommitted.

    The goal of this organizing strategy is to send a message: our votes are not guaranteed. Every four years the Democratic Party relies on youth, relies on women, relies on people of color, relies on the disenfranchised and vulnerable to prop them up without question — all the while their policies and figureheads inch further and further rightward. An uncommitted vote is meant as a wake up call that — shocking — we actually expect our candidates to engage with and to act based upon our ideas. Seventy-six percent of Democrats are asking for a ceasefire, but no Democratic candidate is willing to reflect the will of the majority. Oh right: we live in a republic. Sorry, I forget myself.

    The funny thing is, I’m actually not the cynical one. I remain unsurprised and unjaded by the actions of my corporate-sponsored overlords. It’s freeing — you should try it! The choking mass of cynicism all around us becomes apparent why you try to encourage someone to think beyond the CNN and Fox News binary. You will be informed that by doing so, by demanding more from the powerful, you are the threat. You are the one putting the entire system at risk. The neoliberal mindset would have me believe that I am the sole barrier between democratic order and authoritarianism. Me? How charming!

    Regarding the aforementioned Reddit debates, I did find myself at the center of such ungodly controversy last week when I proclaimed my pride that tens of thousands of my neighbors opted to vote for “uncommitted” in the primary. People whose post history was comprised largely of thinly-veiled racism towards brown people pleaded with me not to “throw away” my vote. “You don’t get it — it will be so much worse if we lose!” About three seconds of introspection could illuminate that complacency does more to uphold individuals like Donald Trump than I ever could.

    I will speak more on that individual as well, as it unfortunately needs to be said. A complete lack of imagination has lead us to a general discourse where any overt critiques of the Democratic Party are perceived as a “de facto” endorsement of Trump. How shameful. What I would love to know, though, is what any of these weak-minded individuals were doing the four years Trump was actually in office. I surely didn’t see them doing much more than sharing whatever Saturday Night Live segment was relevant that week. Were you at the airport after the Muslim Ban? Were you in the streets screaming out against his lawmaking against transgender people in the military? Were you working to ensure that reproductive freedoms would remain protected? No, I don’t think you were — because I was there and didn’t see any of you.

    This will be the third presidential election in which I am an eligible voter, and it turns out — per the violently desperate superpac emails in my inbox — they are all the most important election of my life! Wait…I’m getting a vision. Something tells me that no matter who wins this election, life in the United States will continue to deteriorate at a rapid pace — and 2028 will officially be the most important election of my lifetime.

    I do feel deeply sorry for the vote-crazed. You wake up every morning and you really see the world as a pale and changeless mass of rot. You think to yourself “I won’t even try for something better, I will just eke out my meager existence on this plane and be grateful that I don’t have it quite so bad.” The guys who do have it quite so bad don’t even enter the equation. What an unfortunate way to be — your only joys in life are for voting (just the simple act will do — it’s all style no substance for you anyway), and bemoaning those who yearn for more as unrealistic troublemakers.

    I am, and proud of it! I will go down kicking and screaming, asking to live in a world worth living in. I will never be satisfied; I will continue to beg for more. Please, just a scrap of a better future. Just a drop! Anything!

    . . .

  • An Outlet for the Rage

    Today, I am filled with unspeakable anger. It’s the kind of anger that makes me want to scream, to lash out, to make a fool of myself.

    Earlier today, the Israeli military bombed al-Shifa Hospital. Without electricity, Palestinian doctors are currently keeping 39 newborns alive by hand-pumping oxygen. One infant has already died. This incident alone is unspeakable — a representation of the suffering that humankind is capable of inflicting in the name of settler-colonialism — and yet it is only another minute in another day of a month of bloodshed. 11,000 more Palestinian martyrs lie beneath the rubble of Gaza. Entire families, entire communities. Gone.

    My taxes pay for the bombs used to kill. My government endorses the killing, despite the masses calling for a ceasefire. Around me, people lose jobs and opportunities because they refuse to be complicit in genocide. I have disengaged from friendships, lost respect for professors and colleagues, because they refuse to believe what is in front of us all. How shamelessly they share this information, too. So many masks have fallen to the ground, revealing a lust for blood I didn’t know possible. Perhaps it’s twisted sort of blessing to have the chance to see someone as they really are. Still, I feel shame for the admiration I once felt, and sorrow for what is now forever lost.

    The cognitive dissonance swirls and swirls and swirls without end. How does one function? What is there to do but vibrate with rage?

    . . .

  • New Clip: Trump and the long, dangerous history of politicizing abortion

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    Via The Daily Dot

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