Something I've been wondering about/seething over for quite some time now: when politicians and the media talk about the "middle class," who exactly do they mean?
Because, frankly, I don't give a fuck about the middle class as I understand the term: households with a steady income that enables them to keep their heads above water, have at least one functioning car in the driveway, are able to shop for groceries with coupons and an eye on the sale flyer but without having to calculate a running total down to the pennies in their head, who can spend $30 or $40 or $80 on lunch or shoes or xmas decorations and not break a sweat, who pay someone $20 a week to mow their environmentally disastrous lawn.
Awww, no Steeler tickets this year -- so sad!
Basically, people who might have to give some thought to a major outlay of cash, but whose income still keeps up with their {cough cough} lifestyle. The definition of economic hardship for them, as I understand it based on the media and my experience of coworkers, supervisors, and neighbors, is visiting Olive Garden without a coupon.
Fuck them. They can afford to sweat a little. A lot. To death, really.
And fuck the politicians who keep invoking them as some kind of paragon of American values, and fuck the media for doing the same.
Can we please shift this national conversation to the working class? To the folks who may have health insurance but have to borrow the $10 copay for a doctor visit from a friend, and probably won't be able to pay it back. To the people who walk a mile in the mornings and evenings to keep their bus ride inside the zone and save .50 each way. To the women and men heralded in Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed?
Perhaps in decades past the line was drawn between "middle class" and "upper class." And then it was recalibrated to divide "midle class" from "upper middle class." I think there was a brief period when the term "lower middle class" was in vogue, but the members of that imagined group still had a second car and often a boat in the driveway, and shopped at Macy's rather than KMart for bath towels and toasters.
I don't begrudge those folks who are fortunate enough to have snagged a bigger paycheck any of their little luxuries or indulgences. Hey, if it reinforces your illusions of security or meaningfulness, go for it.
But is anyone other than Michael Moore and Ms. Ehrenreich talking about people who actually have to juggle the math to get all their utility bills paid? Who is addressing the needs of the family whose daycare expenses mean they can't insulate the attic, who have the family cat or dog put to sleep because they can't afford treatment for a treatable condition?
How can a news anchor or congressional representative making six figures possibly understand what $100 actually means to a household that's already buying generic dog food, not replacing a burnt out light bulb in the hallway, having to suddenly shell out cash for a broken tail light or a plumber?
The entire national debate could be shifted with the simple substitution of this one word.
It won't happen. We haven't yet been able to shift the lie of "pro-life" to the truthful "anti-choice."
When you hear these terms, middle-class, working-class, think about what they mean, about what the media wants you to think they mean. Think about who you know. And please, start demanding that your representatives and your local media accurately represent the people they are reporting about.
P.S. Has anyone noticed that the person in the group dining out who makes the least money is likely to be the biggest contributor to the tip? Think about it, please.
When Catherine Hardwicke’s “The Nativity Story” was initially released my interest was mildly piqued. Keisha Castle-Hughes was the unforgettable lead in one of my very favorite movies, “The Whale Rider,” and the incomparable Shohreh Aghdashloo (I always have to check to make sure I have enough H’s in there) was cast as Elizabeth.
I never got around to seeing it. But it was on TNT tonight, and since I was pinned in place by a large and contented cat, I decided to watch. My gamble paid off in unexpected ways. Seems I'm not as hopelessly jaded as I thought -- a realization which I find quite embarassing.
The production design is gorgeous. There is a very gritty, textured feel to it, fitting the film’s focus on the human, the quotidian. This Mary, while she may soon be the mother of god, still has to sow seed in the fields and draw water from the well. She has actual conversations with her mother, and her father has a place in the community. (Give yourself a cookie if you immediately remembered that their names were Anne and Joachim. You paid attention in religion class!) We see the structure of their houses, the shape of their pottery, the details of their clothing and their tools. It really is marvelous to look at.
It is this focus on the human and the historical, rather than the mystical or mythological, that makes “The Nativity Story” worth watching. It hews to the conventional tale of the Annunciation and the Nativity in form (gauzy angel, gentle cows, a manger), but those are background details. The real narrative interest in Hardwicke’s take is in the way Mary’s acceptance of her role is shown to be a decision made by a clear-headed young woman who understands the social consequences, and who respects her parents but also expects them to listen to her. And this Joseph is a far cry from the mushy cipher we’ve long been given; here, he is compassionate, aware, pragmatic, and committed to the unconventional parenting arrangement foisted upon him. Oscar Isaac memorably embodies this noble yet very human husband and father, giving him a solidity and individuality we haven't seen before.
The script places all of the familiar events squarely in the context of the political atmosphere of the era, reminding us that these characters live in a time of difficulty and uncertainty. Even the magi are drawn as individual personalities responding to unusual events, and -- upholding one of Roger Ebert's criteria for believable drama -- not acting as though they've already seen the end of the movie.
Unfortunately the score does not serve the film well, especially in the final act when it anachronistically and jarringly deteriorates into a fitting background for a Hallmark TV special. But that is a minimal complaint when stacked up against the film's success in turning a time-worn tale into a fine character study and engrossing historical drama.
Also, the donkey gives an excellent performance, and is adorable as heck.
When my parents took me home from the hospital a few days after I was born, it was into a household that was Catholic, union, and Democratic, not necessarily in that order.
On election days, when the curtain of the booth zoomed shut, my mom would, without hesitation, flip one lever -- the straight ticket lever -- then lift me up so I could push the red button. My dad did the same. Children of the Depression, of steel workers and coal miners, they knew who had made their lives better. Politics were never discussed in our house; there was simply a seamless harmony between the values of faith, fair play, and political positions that my parents held, and I absorbed at least the latter two with no qualms. When I reached voting age, having been taught the value of critical thinking, I gave my choice of party some consideration. About three seconds' worth. Just as I knew I belonged alongside my folks on the picket line, and with the Vincentian Sisters in prioritizing social justice, I knew I was a Democrat.
(I did vote Republican once, in 1982, for Senator John Heinz. His positions at that time would today make him a moderate-to-liberal Democrat.)
Barbara Jordan. Ted Kennedy. Pat Schroeder. Dick Gephardt. Ann Richards. Jerry Brown. Those were some of the people who, to me, embodied what that D following their names meant. I felt honored and humbled to be, however distantly, in their company.
I wept with relief and emotion when Bill Clinton made his first inaugural address. The sense of hope, of inclusion, was overwhelming. And devastatingly short-lived.
At first the chipping away was gradual, then increasingly brutal. NAFTA. DOMA. DADT. And of course the first "health care reform" debacle.
Somewhere in the party lurks the first invertebrate, jelly-like mass passing for human who first allowed the issue to be called "health care reform" and thus be willfully misunderstood, misrepresented, vilified, confused, and finally defeated, instead of properly designating it "health insurance reform." Oh, how I would love to get my hands around the neck of that asshole.
There's no need for me to recount here the list of failures, shortfalls, and outright crimes that have been committed -- or allowed to be committed through their negligence -- by "centrist," "moderate," and Blue Dog Dems.
My own Representative, Mike Doyle, ostensibly a Democrat, lives at the infamous C Street House and is involved with the Family cult -- the same Family who have orchestrated the pending legislation mandating the death penalty for homosexuals in Uganda.
I can no longer be a member of the Democratic party. They've smacked me around for the last time. I'm not sure where I'll go, but I have to leave.
Barbara Boxer, Al Franken, Sherrod Brown, Alan Grayson, Dennis Kucinich, John Conyers, Maxine Waters, Jay Rockefeller, Tammy Baldwin, Barbara Lee, Jared Polis, and more -- there are still many champions among the Democrats, and I'm grateful for them all. In my dream they would form a breakaway party, called something like the Progressive or American Labor or True Democratic party, that would be a magnet for all of us who are tired of playing nice and kissing ass and are ready to start making change happen. Won't happen, but I can dream.
This is a painful choice. I'm sure I will be tempted to temporarily change my registration back to D every 4 years for the presidential primaries, and if I do, I won't feel bad about working the system. I mean, even though I've left the Catholic church I'm still allowed to appreciate the Pieta or listen to Vivaldi.
So tonight I will sign the divorce papers and mail them in. Listen, Democratic party, if you ever manage to get some therapy, get your shit together, and start doing some good things for people who need them, we can get together for lunch and talk. Just don't ask me for money.
Any moment now, I'll wake up, right? Surely I'm dreaming this. Or feverish and hallucinating. Or I've fallen right through the looking glass with Alice.
Because, exhibiting either true Wonderland logic or the onset of dementia, Pope Joey the Rat has decreed that midnight will now occur at ten p.m.
The outright capriciousness of it beggars the imagination. Not to mention the arrogance. Criminy, couldn't the old man just have an extra postprandial espresso? Or take a bleedin' afternoon nap?
I know, I know -- that would get his nice dress all wrinkled.
Coming next season on V...
And what about all the poor animals? Now what time are they supposed to talk? And how will they know? No, nothing good can come of this, not at all.
In other news, it was announced that there will be no more distribution of ashes on what will hence be formerly known as Ash Wednesday, as the Vatican recently had a gas furnace installed.
Posts
