Life and literacy narrative
This narrative is meant to demonstrate a translation of self. I will let the narrative speak for itself regarding my translation. In it, I adopt a conversational tone, as if telling a story orally, in homage of Utah Phillips, a teller of stories.
literacy of the river and bridges
I dropped the slip of paper into the box and the nice lady smiled and thanked me. I hadn’t known for long whom I would vote for, but I was sure I had made the right decision. We had a newfangled computer program with it’s gaudy American theme, red-and-blue “yes” and “no” buttons which, when clicked on, would drop down, falling like leaves, onto the scale of justice at the bottom of the screen. “Do you support illegal aliens?” a red “no” dropped; “Do you support gun control?” a blue “yes” dropped; and so the scale of justice filled with yeses and noes, swaying back and forth, until, at the end of the quiz, the scale of justice tipped and settled—my political destiny was made clear. Now I was sophisticated. Now I was mature. Now I was enlightened. I was a fifth grader, and I was Republican.
Mind you, I never actually watched the news and knew nothing about aliens beyond what W. C. Smith had taught me a few years earlier through his true-to-life documentaries: Independence Day and Men in Black. In some ways, I suppose my fifth grade voting ignorance is symbolic of how many Americans vote without understanding anything more than talking points meant to deceive. But, even though I was ignorant of the issues, I was taught something: I was part of a social network far larger than my fifth grade classroom, far greater than my school, I couldn’t really fathom it, but far more massive than my home city.
This sense of nexus was fleeting, and almost as quickly as it had expanded, my worldview contracted. Seventh grade me was a Wildcat, and my world was Ben Franklin Middle School. Mind you, I was dreaming big now, I was going to be a rock star. Santa gave me a guitar for Christmas and I was spending all of my spare change buying CDs. For years I amassed towers of discs: rock, pop, blues, alternative, oldies, bluegrass, punk—oh boy, did I ever love the punk rock. Eventually, I stumbled upon an album that’s a combined effort of Ani DiFranco, who was a musician of some fringe popularity at the time, and Utah Phillips. Now, Utah is a folk singer, but first and foremost, he’s a collector of stories. In the album, The Past Didn’t Go Anywhere, Utah tells some of the stories he has collected while musical accompaniment composed by Ani plays in the background.
As an ominous bass guitar track loops, joined by a drum set reminiscent of a slowly progressing train, Utah recounts a story of how he went to war in Korea, and what led up to him deserting, realizing “It was all wrong, and it all had to change, and that change had to start with me…I learned in Korea that I would never again, in my life, abdicate to somebody else my right, and my ability, to decide who the enemy is.”
Meanwhile, we, the United States of America, had officially been in Afghanistan for five years and Iraq for three; media coverage on The Daily Show had long been critical of the war; perhaps this had something to do with why Utah’s words about Korea resonated in my skull. As the album’s play-count shot well past one hundred, I was able to recite the stories verbatim with the intent to entertain and challenge friends. Something about his stories had a rather profound effect on me, something I wanted to share with everybody, something I had only glimpsed years ago; they made me feel so…human, so connected. Connected to a vast history of human beings moving through time, like Utah said,
Mind you, I never actually watched the news and knew nothing about aliens beyond what W. C. Smith had taught me a few years earlier through his true-to-life documentaries: Independence Day and Men in Black. In some ways, I suppose my fifth grade voting ignorance is symbolic of how many Americans vote without understanding anything more than talking points meant to deceive. But, even though I was ignorant of the issues, I was taught something: I was part of a social network far larger than my fifth grade classroom, far greater than my school, I couldn’t really fathom it, but far more massive than my home city.
This sense of nexus was fleeting, and almost as quickly as it had expanded, my worldview contracted. Seventh grade me was a Wildcat, and my world was Ben Franklin Middle School. Mind you, I was dreaming big now, I was going to be a rock star. Santa gave me a guitar for Christmas and I was spending all of my spare change buying CDs. For years I amassed towers of discs: rock, pop, blues, alternative, oldies, bluegrass, punk—oh boy, did I ever love the punk rock. Eventually, I stumbled upon an album that’s a combined effort of Ani DiFranco, who was a musician of some fringe popularity at the time, and Utah Phillips. Now, Utah is a folk singer, but first and foremost, he’s a collector of stories. In the album, The Past Didn’t Go Anywhere, Utah tells some of the stories he has collected while musical accompaniment composed by Ani plays in the background.
As an ominous bass guitar track loops, joined by a drum set reminiscent of a slowly progressing train, Utah recounts a story of how he went to war in Korea, and what led up to him deserting, realizing “It was all wrong, and it all had to change, and that change had to start with me…I learned in Korea that I would never again, in my life, abdicate to somebody else my right, and my ability, to decide who the enemy is.”
Meanwhile, we, the United States of America, had officially been in Afghanistan for five years and Iraq for three; media coverage on The Daily Show had long been critical of the war; perhaps this had something to do with why Utah’s words about Korea resonated in my skull. As the album’s play-count shot well past one hundred, I was able to recite the stories verbatim with the intent to entertain and challenge friends. Something about his stories had a rather profound effect on me, something I wanted to share with everybody, something I had only glimpsed years ago; they made me feel so…human, so connected. Connected to a vast history of human beings moving through time, like Utah said,
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Time is an enormous long river, and I’m standing in it just as you’re standing in it. My elders were the tributaries, and everything they thought, and every struggle they went through, and everything they gave their lives to, and every song they created, and every poem that they laid down flows down to me, and if I take the time to ask, and if I take the time to seek, if I take the time to reach out, I can build that bridge between my world and theirs. I can reach down into that river and take out what I need to get through this world.
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Well, after deserting the war, Utah met one of my tributaries, a man named Ammon Hennacy, a “Catholic-anarchist, pacifist, draft-dodger of two World Wars, tax-recuser, vegetarian, one-man revolution in America.” When Utah told Ammon he would try to become a pacifist, Ammon said,
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That’s not enough! You were born a white man, in mid 20th Century Industrial America; you came into the world armed to the teeth with an arsenal of weapons; the weapons of privilege: racial privilege, sexual privilege, economic privilege. You want to be a pacifist—it’s not just giving up guns and knives and clubs and fists and angry words—it’s giving up the weapons of privilege, and going into the world completely disarmed. Try that.
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Hearing these words, I began to ask myself, “Who am I?” I was a white man, born into late-20th Century Industrial America. I, too, was armed to the teeth with an arsenal of weapons: racial privilege, sexual privilege, economic privilege. What was I going to do about it? Well, I certainly didn’t have all of the answers, but I figured I ought to use my privilege in order to better the world.
It wasn’t a state secret that the “War on Terror” had been massively profitable—not for America per se--but for the military-industrial complex of which many powerful politicians and talking heads that led the charge to war were cardholding-members of. It also wasn’t a state secret that much of the American populace was dissatisfied with the “War on Terror”; be it because they had come to believe it was based on pretexts; or because they were disgusted with the publicized torture tactics at locations like Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay; or because they didn’t see desired results as Al Qaeda and the Taliban flourished; or possibly, at a fundamental level they had come to understand some part of what Dr. Martin Luther King had been saying years before, that “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy, instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.”
Well, as I was saying I knew I didn’t have all of the answers, but I knew I had to get involved somehow. I had been made aware of my privilege and I was going to harness it, so, it only seemed natural to me, I was going to go to law school and become a lawyer or politician; I was going to be a reputable voice fighting against the abuses that our government had been perpetrating, I would defend the ideals I had been told our country stands for.
At eighteen years old, having the opportunity, as I saw it, to vote against the “War on Terror”, was something I took seriously. I refused to let rhetoric scare me; I knew I wasn’t voting for terror, I was voting against senseless violence. With Senator Obama putting forth a sixteen-month withdrawal plan from Iraq and a plan to train Afghan security forces to take care of themselves, my choice was made clear. Instead of dropping bombs, I dropped my slip of paper in a box. I had done my part, and in a way, I was relieved. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a challenge to make the world a better place after all.
But here we are, still, in this enormous, long, river. Here we are, still, in this senseless, violent, crusade. Six years later and still, we talk about ending our invasions. It will happen, we say. We have plans, again.
Now, I can look back at fifth grade and chuckle. Yet again, I didn’t really know what I was voting for. I had, of course, heard the jokes. A lawyer awaking from surgery asks the nurse why the window blinds are closed. The nurse says, “Well, there’s a fire across the street and we didn’t want you to think you’d died.” I suppose there's some truth to this. Lawyers often find themselves in positions where doublespeak is not merely an option but rather a necessary weapon for maintaining economic prosperity. It is, after all, a hazard of the competitive job market to defend people and ideas that they would rather not. Their livelihood is linked to their employment, which is linked to their reputation, which is, in turn, linked to winning the case, no matter what. To be extremely successful, manipulation has to become a sort of mantra. Our politicians are extremely successful.
Maybe I’ve finally learned that lesson from fifth grade. About knowing what you’re voting for; about doublespeak; about being a part of an enormous, long, river. Writing this, I thought I’d look up Utah Philips. Maybe, contact him, or go to a show. Reach out and let him know the impact he’s had on me. I’d never taken the time to do that, reach out. Turns out he’s dead. He’s been dead now for six years. And, Utah, he’s the type where when someone important to him dies, he would go and write them a song, a death song, telling a story about their life. But me, I think I’ll just build a bridge, from my life to his. I’ll take the time to ask, take the time to seek, take the time to reach out, and take from him what I need to get through this world.
If I had to pick the most worthwhile struggles I’ve taken from him, they’d probably be always thinking for myself, and giving up my weapons of privilege. I suppose these are life-long lessons, and things I will struggle with until I, too, like him, die. Utah has for a long time been a mentor to me, an inspiration. And, in some way, though I hadn’t admitted it to myself, I’ve known that I don’t want to law school; it’s just not who I am, or what I believe in.
I’ve known for a long time that I believe education is much more important than manipulation--I don’t mean telling people what to think, or telling people how to think, but just teaching people that they need to think, and that they need to think for themselves. And maybe they too can be inspired by stories as I was. I want to be a teacher who goes into the classroom completely disarmed. A teacher who goes into the classroom with words that aren't weapons. A teacher who doesn't force students to believe or think in a particular way, but serves as an example to get young adults engaged, get them thinking for themselves. I want to be a teacher who builds bridges that connect with students, and shows them that they too can build bridges to anyone, in this enormous, long, river.
It wasn’t a state secret that the “War on Terror” had been massively profitable—not for America per se--but for the military-industrial complex of which many powerful politicians and talking heads that led the charge to war were cardholding-members of. It also wasn’t a state secret that much of the American populace was dissatisfied with the “War on Terror”; be it because they had come to believe it was based on pretexts; or because they were disgusted with the publicized torture tactics at locations like Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay; or because they didn’t see desired results as Al Qaeda and the Taliban flourished; or possibly, at a fundamental level they had come to understand some part of what Dr. Martin Luther King had been saying years before, that “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy, instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.”
Well, as I was saying I knew I didn’t have all of the answers, but I knew I had to get involved somehow. I had been made aware of my privilege and I was going to harness it, so, it only seemed natural to me, I was going to go to law school and become a lawyer or politician; I was going to be a reputable voice fighting against the abuses that our government had been perpetrating, I would defend the ideals I had been told our country stands for.
At eighteen years old, having the opportunity, as I saw it, to vote against the “War on Terror”, was something I took seriously. I refused to let rhetoric scare me; I knew I wasn’t voting for terror, I was voting against senseless violence. With Senator Obama putting forth a sixteen-month withdrawal plan from Iraq and a plan to train Afghan security forces to take care of themselves, my choice was made clear. Instead of dropping bombs, I dropped my slip of paper in a box. I had done my part, and in a way, I was relieved. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a challenge to make the world a better place after all.
But here we are, still, in this enormous, long, river. Here we are, still, in this senseless, violent, crusade. Six years later and still, we talk about ending our invasions. It will happen, we say. We have plans, again.
Now, I can look back at fifth grade and chuckle. Yet again, I didn’t really know what I was voting for. I had, of course, heard the jokes. A lawyer awaking from surgery asks the nurse why the window blinds are closed. The nurse says, “Well, there’s a fire across the street and we didn’t want you to think you’d died.” I suppose there's some truth to this. Lawyers often find themselves in positions where doublespeak is not merely an option but rather a necessary weapon for maintaining economic prosperity. It is, after all, a hazard of the competitive job market to defend people and ideas that they would rather not. Their livelihood is linked to their employment, which is linked to their reputation, which is, in turn, linked to winning the case, no matter what. To be extremely successful, manipulation has to become a sort of mantra. Our politicians are extremely successful.
Maybe I’ve finally learned that lesson from fifth grade. About knowing what you’re voting for; about doublespeak; about being a part of an enormous, long, river. Writing this, I thought I’d look up Utah Philips. Maybe, contact him, or go to a show. Reach out and let him know the impact he’s had on me. I’d never taken the time to do that, reach out. Turns out he’s dead. He’s been dead now for six years. And, Utah, he’s the type where when someone important to him dies, he would go and write them a song, a death song, telling a story about their life. But me, I think I’ll just build a bridge, from my life to his. I’ll take the time to ask, take the time to seek, take the time to reach out, and take from him what I need to get through this world.
If I had to pick the most worthwhile struggles I’ve taken from him, they’d probably be always thinking for myself, and giving up my weapons of privilege. I suppose these are life-long lessons, and things I will struggle with until I, too, like him, die. Utah has for a long time been a mentor to me, an inspiration. And, in some way, though I hadn’t admitted it to myself, I’ve known that I don’t want to law school; it’s just not who I am, or what I believe in.
I’ve known for a long time that I believe education is much more important than manipulation--I don’t mean telling people what to think, or telling people how to think, but just teaching people that they need to think, and that they need to think for themselves. And maybe they too can be inspired by stories as I was. I want to be a teacher who goes into the classroom completely disarmed. A teacher who goes into the classroom with words that aren't weapons. A teacher who doesn't force students to believe or think in a particular way, but serves as an example to get young adults engaged, get them thinking for themselves. I want to be a teacher who builds bridges that connect with students, and shows them that they too can build bridges to anyone, in this enormous, long, river.