The latest issue of the NYRB arrived today. I looked through it, as I always do, to see
what its theme is—what its articles have in common—and it seems to be artists
and writers hitherto ignored or marginalized by what used to be called the intelligentsia,
that dwindling minority who decide what constitutes culture for that dwindling minority
who still think it matters.
This issue contains not only articles by and about artists and writers in the American empire’s overseas colonies, but also articles by and about the barbarians within its gates—black Americans first and foremost, but gay and lesbian Americans as well, because all lives matter.
The attention being given to these minorities raises the possibility that genuine change may result from the current crisis—unlike the ‘60s, when we marched for civil rights and against the Vietnam war, congratulated ourselves on winning the right for blacks to vote when voting no longer mattered and ending the war when the government had already decided it was unwinnable, and told ourselves we’d done enough. But if genuine change does come this time, it will be too late. The ‘60s were the last decade in which we could have saved the empire by turning the American dream into reality. The empire is so corrupt now that any attempt to reform it will only hasten its collapse, as perestroika hastened the USSR’s collapse.
Thinking about this made me think of Justin.
This issue contains not only articles by and about artists and writers in the American empire’s overseas colonies, but also articles by and about the barbarians within its gates—black Americans first and foremost, but gay and lesbian Americans as well, because all lives matter.
The attention being given to these minorities raises the possibility that genuine change may result from the current crisis—unlike the ‘60s, when we marched for civil rights and against the Vietnam war, congratulated ourselves on winning the right for blacks to vote when voting no longer mattered and ending the war when the government had already decided it was unwinnable, and told ourselves we’d done enough. But if genuine change does come this time, it will be too late. The ‘60s were the last decade in which we could have saved the empire by turning the American dream into reality. The empire is so corrupt now that any attempt to reform it will only hasten its collapse, as perestroika hastened the USSR’s collapse.
Thinking about this made me think of Justin.
He’s British, but like many Brits he's just as much a chauvinist and white
supremacist as any American. I fear that may prevent the project I agreed
to help him with from succeeding.
I’m finding the government officials Justin needs to contact—middle level bureaucrats whose power, never much to begin with, is slipping away as the empire collapses, and are glad anyone still takes them seriously, so not only are they ready to speak to me, but they respond to my emails by calling me, and inviting me to call them back—but when Justin calls they do not call him back, and let his calls go to voice mail. I wonder what he says to them.
When I was still employed, people would always call me back—not only from Europe, but from Mongolia, Turkey and Japan. The Turks scolded me for speaking bad Turkish, but still they called me back, no doubt because I spoke their language—not well, because I knew only enough Turkish to ask if anyone in their office spoke English. Every overseas office of a certain size has someone who speaks English, but I knew that in order to find that person I needed to know enough of the local language to ask for him or her. My co-workers never bothered to learn those few words. Those who called overseas, as I did, spoke only English, called only the UK or Australia, and always made xenophobic jokes that established the superiority of Americans before they could do business with foreigners. I doubt Justin makes xenophobic jokes when he calls overseas, but he might do better if he did—a little humor would take the edge off his xenophobia.
I’m finding the government officials Justin needs to contact—middle level bureaucrats whose power, never much to begin with, is slipping away as the empire collapses, and are glad anyone still takes them seriously, so not only are they ready to speak to me, but they respond to my emails by calling me, and inviting me to call them back—but when Justin calls they do not call him back, and let his calls go to voice mail. I wonder what he says to them.
When I was still employed, people would always call me back—not only from Europe, but from Mongolia, Turkey and Japan. The Turks scolded me for speaking bad Turkish, but still they called me back, no doubt because I spoke their language—not well, because I knew only enough Turkish to ask if anyone in their office spoke English. Every overseas office of a certain size has someone who speaks English, but I knew that in order to find that person I needed to know enough of the local language to ask for him or her. My co-workers never bothered to learn those few words. Those who called overseas, as I did, spoke only English, called only the UK or Australia, and always made xenophobic jokes that established the superiority of Americans before they could do business with foreigners. I doubt Justin makes xenophobic jokes when he calls overseas, but he might do better if he did—a little humor would take the edge off his xenophobia.
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