A Text about Birds Pushes Me Over the Edge
As horrible as these are, shootings are
part of daily life for many Americans. I live in Paterson, New Jersey, named one
of America's most dangerous
cities in April, 2022. During the May 14-15 weekend, ABC news reports,
thirty-three people were shot, five fatally, in Chicago. These weren't headline
hate crimes; they were just the drumbeat of daily life for many of us.
"I want to run away," and I'm
not alone. I think we've all been a bit tense lately. There was the COVID
pandemic and shutdown, and the U.S. death toll of one million, and Russia's
invasion of Ukraine, inflation and high gas prices.
I don't know how people economically
better off than I am are experiencing inflation. For those of us who had,
previously, just been getting by, inflation isn't an inconvenience. Inflation
is the monster under our beds. I had a panic attack in a supermarket parking
lot the other day. At first, I had no idea what was going on. I texted a
concerned friend. "My chest is suddenly tight. Finding it hard to breathe.
Don't know why." I gave it some thought, and I realized. I used to feel so
grateful that I lived in the U.S., where food is cheap. I had lived in
countries in Africa, Asia, and Eastern Europe under Communism, where food was
hard to come by and it took up a big percent of available income. In America,
even though, as an adjunct professor, I was one of the "working
poor," I could afford, not just enough to fill my belly, but enough to be
healthy, and to allow myself treats like the occasional Lindt dark chocolate
bar with roasted almonds.
I'm not good at math, but, without
trying, I memorize product prices. Aldi's pretzels are now twice the price they
used to be. Aldi's hummus, previously a staple midday snack, is now beyond my
pocketbook. It's been a while since I could find, as I used to, good apples for
less than a dollar a pound. I grew up among Eastern European peasant
immigrants, and they passed down to me their fear of hunger. That fear has
morphed, in recent days, from the villain of the occasional nightmare to a
stalking specter. I keep telling myself that I'm being irrational. I am not so
sure.
The comments I hear from the current
White House about inflation do not inspire confidence. I am told that Joe
Biden's strong points are his relatability and his compassion. I have to
disagree. I keep trying to reassure myself that competent people are in charge.
I can't find any support for this reassurance. The administration's handling of
the baby formula crisis isn't helping.
I've been poor all my life and those Democrats
who anoint themselves as my spokespersons and saviors do not represent me at
all. Bernie Sanders is a shameless, criminally dishonest snake oil huckster and
I yearn for the day when someone takes him down on camera, merely by
confronting him with simple truths. Alexandria Ocasio Cortez is a hot former
bartender, a poseur from comfortable suburbs who pretends to street cred,
elevated by leftist male fans' lust and female fans' delusion that if they purchase
her lipstick they, too, can share in her Kardashian-esque fifteen minutes.
Contrary to wealthy and powerful would-be saviors, I know from a lifetime of
experience that "a
rising tide lifts all boats." When the American economy is humming,
life is better for me. Having lived in the Soviet Empire, where smalec –
lard – was one of few reliably available foodstuffs – I witnessed firsthand the
collapse of government efforts to make everyone economically equal.
On May 2, Politico leaked a
SCOTUS draft document overturning the Roe v. Wade decision on abortion. Even if
this leaked document proves accurate, the overturn of Roe v. Wade will not
result in abortion becoming illegal. Abortion will remain legal in many states,
states with large populations and distributed across the map, on the east and
west coasts, in the South, north, and Midwest. Even so, hysteria followed the Politico
leak. Democrats blatantly pretended that abortion would become illegal; abortion
advocates on social media spread the same "fire in a crowded theater"
falsehood.
Social media posts targeted
Catholics for abuse. Ruth Sent Us, an activist group, called for attacks on
Catholic churches, and vowed to "burn
the Eucharist." This scapegoating of Catholics reminded me that KKK
used to stand for "K---s,
Katholics, and Koloreds." "My mother's earliest childhood memory
is of the Ku Klux Klan burning a cross in her front yard. My mom's parents were
Irish Catholic … Grandma was home with her four young children listening to
hateful yelling and banging on the house," Iowa doctor Charlotte A.
Cleavenger wrote
in 2017.
Merely visiting my Facebook page, I
could hear echoes of those Klan members banging and snarling. People I had
previously thought of as friends were sharing noxious hatred against one of the
most precious things in my life, my faith. As they posted one bigoted meme
after another, as they denigrated, ironically enough, specifically, not
Catholic men, but Catholic women as beneath contempt, I could feel shrink
rapidly the already small circle of human beings around whom I share any sense
of community. In the midst of all this, though, a devoutly Jewish friend popped
up to say, "I'll happily buy you rosary beads to celebrate your faith and
I find anti-Catholic bigotry despicable." And he did! God bless him.
Polls indicate that Democrats may
experience a major loss in the November midterm elections. The New
York Times and National
Public Radio both report that Democrats hope to exploit abortion to win in
November. Democrats, fomenting hysteria over a lie, set one American against another
for their own selfish gain. Meanwhile I keep waiting for the Democrats in power
to say something serious about inflation or gas prices or the rising crime that
menaces poor, majority-minority cities like mine. I wait in vain.
"Shared joy is double joy; shared
sorrow is half a sorrow." When I was growing up, Lindt chocolate bars were
not a possibility. We were poor, and so was everyone around us. One winter day
Regina, Irene, and I went out to play. We had one sock we took turns wearing on
our hands. It was our only glove. But you know what? We had fun. And we had no
idea how poor we were. In our small, factory hometown, full of immigrant
parents and underfed kids, we shared joy; we shared sorrow. How about in
current America? Are we halving our sorrows by sharing them? We've got social
media, right? Where we can share joys and sorrows? Are we responding to our
fellow citizens with patience and compassion, and a focus on our shared
humanity? Alas, not so much.
Our political leaders, for their own
gain, encourage us to think of each other as members of enemy camps to be
defeated, rather than as fellow citizens to be lifted up. Mayor Andre Sayegh
just rechristened Paterson's Main Street as "Palestine
Way." Of course Paterson already has Bangladesh Way, Jalalabad Street,
and Peru Square. I see more and more women in full niqab – only their eyes are
visible – and more and more women walking several steps behind the Islamically-mandated
male guardian. Muslim women in Paterson have complained to me of hijab forced
on them by male family members, of unhappy polygynous marriages, forced child
marriages, and threats of honor killings. There are lots of Muslims in Paterson
who tell me privately that they want America to be America for them, not a
carbon copy of the homelands they left for good reasons. Politicians, though,
cater to identity extremists in every group.
When Governor Phil Murphy came to
Paterson to campaign and tell us what he'd do if elected, he outlined goodies
he'd distribute, specifically, to black Patersonians, Muslim Patersonians, and
Hispanic Patersonians. I stayed for his entire talk and he never mentioned ever
treating us all as Americans. So much for e pluribus unum. Robert
Putnam's research shows that emphasizing difference, rather than shared
American identity, drives people apart.
I'm not just anxious – rather, terrified
is a better word – about crime, inflation, division and war. There's another
Apocalyptic horseman stalking the land, one John of Patmos never got around to
naming. I don't know this horseman's name, but it goes by many: Orwellian
codes; thought police; Woke. A beloved, veteran teacher refers to a female
student as "her,"
and is fired. A
teacher refuses to indoctrinate his students in racist ideology, and is
forced to leave his job. A student makes a
transparently false accusation of racism, and innocent, blue collar campus
employees suffer grievous harassment. A university attempts to
force a professor to use inaccurate pronouns to refer to a male student;
the professor must sue for justice. A
Wisconsin middle school accuses a 13-year-old boy of a Title IX-violation,
that is, "sexual harassment," because the boy referred to a fellow
student by an accurate pronoun.
Is this mass hysteria? Am I surrounded
by people obsessed with Woke cleansing of my brain, body, and soul?
In a May, 16 broadcast, Matt Walsh
shared screencaps of what appears to be a McLaughlin and Associates opinion
poll. According to this poll, when asked, "Do you believe it is possible
to distinguish between men and women?" 93% of respondents said,
"Yes." Their response violates Woke; they could be fired for such a
response on many campuses. When asked if transgenderism is a healthy human
condition, 64% said "No." When asked if they felt safe expressing
this opinion publicly, 34% of these respondents said, "No." When
asked if elementary schools should teach sexual identity, 42% said
"No," and 30% said that such instruction was not only
"inappropriate" but also "dangerous." Should minors undergo
so-called "transitioning" medical treatments? 90% oppose it. I don't
know the accuracy of this poll, but if it is accurate, many Americans disagree
with our Woke overlords, but they are afraid to speak up.
"I want to run away." I love
nature. I live for the end of the workday when I can go for a walk, even if
only on a garbage-strewn highway margin here in Paterson, where I might see an
oriole overhead. Birdwatching transports me. I forget about whatever was
troubling me. I am woven into the miracle of creation. I tread to the edge of
Eden.
I have been without a camera most of my
life, for multiple reasons. I don't like to own a lot of things, and cameras cost
money, and I am not technically oriented. But I admire photography, and when a
Facebook friend kindly sent me her old camera, I had fun with it. I have just
purchased my first phone that comes with a camera, and I'm having fun with
that, too.
Photography has progressed leaps and
bounds since my childhood. When I was a kid, photographers could not capture
crisp images of hummingbirds in flight, because their wings move too fast – up
to eighty beats per second. Now, such photos are common. The bird photography I
see shared on Facebook is higher quality than the bird photos in the 1964 National
Geographic bird books that my mom gave me one Christmas – and that I still
have. (Best. Gift. Ever. Thanks, Mom!) I know I can't take photos that compare,
at all, to the breathtaking close-up and action shots that I see on Facebook. I
can't afford a telephoto lens or to spend all day waiting for that perfect
moment. But "a joy shared. " As amateurish as my photos are, I crave
to share my joy with others.
Again, I used to think of cameras as
luxuries, and my own life as one of Christian simplicity, but I've since
learned, late in life, that my monkish judgment was wrong. Cameras aren't
luxuries. Cameras capture and share beauty and life and doing so is a
necessity. So many times I have felt despair, or even just the leaden feeling
of a late winter day, when slush and mist, overcast skies and early sunsets,
conspire to bar my door and nail my butt to my chair. I force myself to gear
up, to pocket the camera, and step outside, and determine to find some image I
must share with others. No matter how low the day, I always do, and sharing
that image lifts me above my own inertia and narrow vision. This process
underlines Genesis better than any sermon I've ever heard. "And God saw
that it was good," Genesis repeats again and again, as God creates his
world.
"I want to run away," and I
did, on Sunday, May 15. That is, I went for a walk to look for birds, my
camera/phone in my pocket. I wanted, I needed, desperately, to escape the grief
that current events are causing.
I spotted a black vulture spreading his
wings and jumping up and down atop the remains of a 125-year-old water tower.
The water tower had served a former silk mill, one of the mills that once gave
Paterson its nickname, "Silk City." Paterson is, now, alas,
"Heroin Heaven." Drug addicts camp out in abandoned silk mills and
set fires for warmth. Two years ago, most of the water tower and the mill it
once served burned
down. The ragged hulks of these two mementoes of American manufacturing
might crumble slowly into dust along McBride Avenue.
The heroin users I see in Paterson are
majority white. Online mugshots of addicts
arrested for heroin possession support this impression. The other day I
passed four feet away from a young, attractive, well-dressed white woman,
crouching between two cars in a parking lot, injecting herself. The image was
so disturbing that I immediately texted "Rick." Rick is one of those
rare good people with whom I feel comfortable sharing my joys and sorrows. In
the ensuing text conversation, I groused about white people coming from
better-off suburbs to buy heroin in Paterson. One such person I mentioned to
Rick was a young white girl from an utterly gorgeous New Jersey town studded
with million-dollar homes. A couple of months ago, she killed herself with
heroin purchased in Paterson. If I meet that girl in the afterlife, I will want
to swat her.
When I saw the black vulture preening
and posing like a runway model atop the remains of the water tower, I pulled
out my phone and snapped a few photos. I was thrilled. The photos captured the
vulture's gymnastics and the evocative setting. I immediately texted the photos
to beloved Rick and two other friends with whom I was eager to share my joy. I
captioned the photos, "Black vulture on what's left of an antique water
tower burned by drug addicts."
Three minutes later, Rick replied.
"Where's the black culture? Or do you mean that burning by drug addicts is
an expression of black culture?"
I panicked. I felt my circle of
community constrict. I felt the grip of Woke close around me. I had tried to
share my great joy, birding, with someone I hold in high esteem, my friend
Rick, whom I thought to be totally above Woke and its policing of speech.
I began to text frantically.
"Vulture."
"Vulture not culture."
"It's a bird species."
I went on to explain why black vultures
are especially intriguing to me. When I was a kid, there were no
black vultures in New Jersey, I explained. The only vulture species in New
Jersey was the turkey vulture. Then black vultures moved up from the south.
They are more aggressive …
And suddenly I looked at my text with
the eyes of the thought police, and realized that everything I was saying might
appear as some racist code. "Not native … moved up from the south … more aggressive."
Oh. My. God.
"They've possibly moved north
because of climate
change."
And again panic. Climate change is
politically controversial. Would Rick yell at me for mentioning climate change?
Anything was possible at this point. Perhaps he'd "unfriend" me
because of that vote for the Green Party that I cast in the 1980s.
I found the Cornell University "All
About Birds" page for Coragyps
atratus, the black vulture. I texted the link to Rick. This page, I
wanted to shout (in all caps), backs up everything I said! They are indeed
called "black vultures!" They do indeed come from the South! They are
more aggressive!
I realized that Rick would never look at
the page. The point was not to share information; the point was to
"correct" a "friend" for a "racist" statement. In
any case, "The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of
the same matter do not wholly exclude each other," as Kafka wrote in The
Trial.
Rick responded to my texts. He pointed
out that he had, indeed, received a message that read "black culture"
rather than "black vulture." The implication was that I'd made a
Freudian slip.
No, I said. The pictures are clearly of
a vulture, I said. In fact Rick knows that I use the voice function for texts.
That is, I don't type into the phone; I speak into it. The voice function is a
blessing for someone with dyslexia. I don't have to worry. Except, now, of
course, I do.
I pointed out to Rick that he knows I
use the voice function. He has received multiple texts from me that show that.
For example, when I talked to him about New York City media personality John
Catsimatidis, the voice function wrote "Catch My Titties." Rick and I
laughed over such misspellings. And yet, though I'd griped to him repeatedly
about white drug addicts, he jumped, within minutes, to an accusation of
racism.
After we'd sorted all that out, Rick did
not apologize. Rather, he simply said, "Better proofread a little better
my dear Danusha; a comment about birds was misunderstood in the worst
way."
I said I never proofread texts to
friends. "I rely on the intelligence and goodwill and knowledge of me in
my recipients."
"Sounds risky," Rick replied.
Douglas Murray, who rails against Woke
in books like The
Madness of Crowds, sometimes describes himself as a
"Christian atheist." In a recent interview, he said, "What I try
to urge people to do is just in general, to try to hear other people's speech
in the way they would like their own speech to be heard. Which is not waiting
tensely to spring having found the erroneous word. But listening in a spirit of
generosity." That's what happens in community. People share joys and
double them; share sorrows and halve them. They are heard with the "spirit
of generosity" encouraged in Christian
scripture.
On Sunday, a tough enough day in a tense
enough time, I tried to share my joy with someone I trusted, and I was
reprimanded for a non-existent thought crime, one I did not commit, from which
I was not allowed to defend myself. This was a thought crime I would not commit.
I would never imply that "black culture" burned down that water
tower, and anyone who has known me for years, as Rick has, knows that. I don't
think that Rick mistook my character. I think that Rick saw a chance to elevate
himself, and denigrate another, using current forms of thought policing as his
weapon. My assessment of Rick on this matter is unflattering, but I don't know
any other way to interpret what transpired. My sense of community shrank.
"I want to run away." Where? I
would like to return to a time when I didn't feel this way. I ask myself, was I
naïve, sheltered, ignorant, when I thought that the people around me were
even-tempered, rational, not out to convict me of crimes I did not commit?
Maybe so. What changed? Social media. Suddenly I can see into others' private
thoughts. I see "friends" fomenting hatred against persons of my
faith. I see political leaders practicing "divide and conquer" more
aggressively than any foreign enemy. I see people trading community for
perpetual, low-level online warfare, whose only reward is whatever pleasure
comes from screaming abuse against those with whom one disagrees over matters
neither party exercises any control over.
I think back on that winter day when
Regina, Irene and I shared one sock, handing it off after feeling had returned
to our hands, so that another could be warm, as we dug snow forts and rode
sleds and dodged snowballs. We kids had so little, but we shared, not just
warmth, but something precious, something that was once very American, and that
is possibly irreplaceable.
Danusha Goska is the author of God through Binoculars: A Hitchhiker at a Monastery
Did any of you have any socks for your feet?
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