lessons & carols
Whatever it is, coronavirus has made the mighty kneel and brought the world to a halt like nothing else could. Our minds are still racing back and forth, longing for a return to ‘normality’, trying to stitch our future to our past and refusing to acknowledge the rupture. But the rupture exists. And in the midst of this terrible despair, it offers us a chance to rethink the doomsday machine we have built for ourselves. Nothing could be worse than a return to normality.
from Arundhati Roy, “The pandemic is a portal”Life is not an error, even when it is. That is to say, whatever faith you emerge with at the end of your life is going to be not simply affected by that life but intimately dependent on it, for faith in God is, in the deepest sense, faith in life — which means that even the staunchest life of faith is a life of great change. It follows that if you believe at fifty what you believed at fifteen, then you have not lived — or have denied the reality of your life.
from Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss: Meditations of a Modern BelieverA pair of wings, a different mode of breathing, which would enable us to traverse infinite space, would in no way help us, for, if we visited Mars or Venus keeping the same senses, they would clothe in the same aspect as the things of the earth everything that we should be capable of seeing. The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is…
from Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past…I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool [of daily life] is hidden a pattern; that we — I mean all human beings — are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
from Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being
What to make of 2022? What will we make of 2023?
It’s not the year that impacts us or spurs evolution or destruction. It’s us. See, I’m a constructivist, which means I’m that guy who chimes in unnecessarily to say, “Well, that’s a construct.” It’s not just intellectual posturing — I really believe that we construct our reality, that, to navigate life, we impose structures on what we encounter to understand them, to engage and benefit from them, to protect ourselves from them, and (most illusorily) to control them. We thrive when we find and maintain resonance with the world we encounter, and, because the mysteries of the universe endlessly unfold (or because we figure out how to peel back another layer of it), we constantly negotiate that resonance, we adapt. We regress when we assume that we’ve figured it out — the source of that hubris the ancient Greeks were warning us about through their narratives — but we risk our survival when we act on that assumption, when we impose that assumption on others and on the world around us. Language, cultural norms, laws, religion, economics, art…these are all systems that our ancestors created, that we maintain and adapt, and because of which future generations will look back at us with disgust and disappointment.
I enjoy using the darkest time of the year to look back at what we made of 2022 (what else is there to do in all this darkness?) and to envision (or gird our loins) for what we’ll do on our next lap around the sun. I think this is what “new year resolutions” aim to do, but when it boils down to short-term goal setting, the practice lacks imagination (and guarantees self-disappointment by March). In recent years, I’ve shifted to reflecting on the voices, the experiences, the insights, and the patterns that have emerged over the past year and considering how I might engage them to shape myself and the people and world around me. I’m not interested in goal-setting (the road to self-disappointment) but in setting a tack, weaning myself from worrying about potential destinations, and preparing to engage a wondrous journey. Looking back on what I’ve experienced in 2022 and forward to how we might shape the world in 2023, here are six takeaways that have emerged for me. Sharing them this way is both a practice of accountability for me and offering unsolicited advice to you.
Stick to the itinerary.
If I’ve learned anything from The White Lotus, it’s this. This has always been a no-brainer for me. As a Virgo, an INFJ, and a 1w9 who lives with mild OCD, clearly articulated itineraries that collate relevant information and non-negotiables into one place have served as tools for my own physical and emotional self-regulation and for making sure experiences with others go as smoothly as possible while traveling.
Folx who resist committing to them claim that clinging too tightly to an itinerary diminishes the chance for spontaneity and enlivening a trip, but I somewhat-firmly disagree. When I don’t have to constantly navigate hard boundaries like flights, safety considerations, and anxiety triggers, a thoughtful itinerary actually encourages spontaneity, makes room for it. It lets you enjoy that whimsical afternoon, that surprise late-night out that requires a heavy sleep-in the next day, or that impromptu need for a haircut or ice cream. It also keeps you from getting on that boat to Palermo.
Of course, the benefits that I get from itineraries aren’t limited to travel — really they’re just one outgrowth of boundaries, and greater attention to boundaries could be a game-changer in 2023. What would happen if people showed up to social, communal, or professional events, whether in-person or on-screen, on time? What if events ended by the time promised, and people actually stayed the whole time? What would happen if we recognized and took responsibility for the shared boundaries we inhabit — you know, neighborhoods, municipalities, states — instead of hiding within the walls of our constructed privacy and tribes? What would happen if we actually respected the boundaries that marginalized and minority groups establish for their own safety and ability to thrive? or stopped imposing boundaries like labels and stereotypes on others and used the names people call themselves?
Educators deserve better.
Maybe you’ve always known this because you grew up with teachers in your family or because you worked in schools yourself. Maybe, more recently, you got (justifiably) hooked on Abbott Elementary and are coming to the realization that, despite what they do, how well they do it, and how long they do it each day, teachers are paid and treated like shit. Have you noticed how educators have been treated the last few years?
When a global pandemic happened, a once-in-a-generation experience that would have a profound impact on us as people, as communities, as nations, and as a species, families blamed educators because students were “falling behind”…though the question remains, falling behind whom? Did they think returning them to school, without considering that their teachers and school staff were humans confronting the same pandemic, would buffer kids from the economic and emotional fallout of the pandemic? from the immense and overwhelming grief that hung over all of us? Did they think kids could actually learn in the same ways and to the same ends while the world was quite literally crumbling around them?
When the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery tore back the curtain on systemic racism and injustice, the not-so-latently-racist “right” steered a hammer back on the heads of educators, questioning everything from their competence to their patriotism in a quest to root out Critical Race Theory. Funny thing, though, as with most myths rooted in fascist longing, the foot soldiers in the war against “wokeness” aren’t equipped with an understanding of what they’re attacking. I’ve yet to hear an attacker of CRT actually articulate what that means beyond “making White kids feel bad about themselves” or how and where it appears in curricula. That’s too bad, because, if they had even a basic grasp of what they’re talking about, those attackers might actually recognize that the lens that CRT provides would actually benefit all people in the long run, including those little White snowflakes they’re so concerned about.
After nearly three years of constant barrage on educators, how is anyone surprised by the current shortage of teachers? Relative to their impact on the world, the expertise required by their work, and the hours they devote to it, teachers have never been paid equitably. Compared to contemporaries in other industries, their salaries have always suggested “glorified babysitter” rather than “highly skilled neurosculptor and holistic caregiver.” I’ve never met a teacher who confessed to making too much, but I’ve met hundreds who will readily complain about compensation if, and only if, their complaint is attached to an affirmation of their enthusiasm for the craft and their love for students.
Maybe that’s got to stop. While the rest of the populace considers how they can do better for the people who quite literally and directly shape the future, educators should stop justifying low wages and minimal benefits with classic, self-effacing, and humble retorts like “but I feel like I’m making a difference” or “at least I get my summers off.” It’s unfortunate and uncomfortable, but if educators are going to be treated as skilled professionals, they need to embrace their expertise, shed (or at least repress) the imposter syndrome that haunts too many, and clearly articulate to their family, friends, and neighbors that yes, they deserve better, and it’s about time that all those people in their orbit elect leaders and policy makers who might actually pave the way to a world in which teachers are prized, not pummeled.
Success is the best lotion.
From the all-winners season of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars (did we ever imagine a world where Jinkx’s runways would gag us? where Trinity could win a comedy challenge? where half the cast qualified as the “trade of the season”?) to the star bakers of The Great British Bake Off (I’m surprised I can peel my eyes away from Sandro’s Instagram to write this), success begets success. I’m used to seeing the glow-up for pop singers and actors who enter their moments in the spotlight, those bubbles of fame and opportunity propelled by teams of publicists, stylists, trainers, and tacticians whose sole ambition is to channel ever-increasing attractiveness into ever-increasing profits through award-winning performances and lucrative runs. This year, though, I’ve noticed that the principle applies to an ever-expanding range of industries, and at this point, the majority of social media content depicts people trying to find their moments and successful people channeling their success into beauty and back again into (even-greater) success.
The only real threat to this bubble is the pin-prick of “cancel culture,” which can and will deflate an individual’s success at any revelation of imperfections, no matter their actual impact, no matter their relevance to the industry at hand. Is this trend a bad thing? Does it augur the end of civilization? Perhaps…but, is it possibly a good thing? Is it some clever social-psychological evolutionary mechanism that has emerged to cull those members of the herd whose influence was protected by now-vulnerable facades (like Whiteness, maleness, affluence…)? Maybe it’s not just internet trolls and progressive activists at work to unplug Kanye’s mic and to keep JK in her lane.
For both success begotten by success and the quick deflation of cancel culture, the thing to pay attention to is the role of image. It’s not just about the impossible, unreachable physical and cosmetic ideals that drive the photoshopped imposition of skinny chic onto our natural diversity. It’s about the whole image, or rather the holistic image — the external image (celebrity sheen) is now linked to and assessed with its underlying structure and the tangle of experiences, identities, and values that prop it up. The art is inextricably intertwined with the artist, and once the curtain’s pulled back and we get a more comprehensive look at our most popular icons, suddenly we want to keep Dorian Grey and his portrait locked in the attic. I’m not much of a fan of this “cancel culture,” but the optimist in me thinks this might be the start of a renewed understanding of (or at least a prompt for nuanced conversations about) aesthetics, and maybe even a path that leads us away from the bond (or bondage) between art and capitalism.
“Best” is dead.
In 1882, Nietzsche proclaimed that God is dead. The philosopher’s insight is typically misunderstood and misappropriated — it wasn’t a declaration or even an affirmation of atheism but a holistic social critique. The “god” that European Christianity constructed was dead, destabilized and dismantled by the very institutions responsible for sustaining it (religion, imperialism, capitalism) and irrelevant in the face of the modern world. His solution was for each to drop the quest for divine union and aspire to ubermensch enlightenment instead. Well, we see how that’s worked out, from Adolf Hitler and Ayn Rand to a century of authoritarian dictatorships filling the vacuums left by receding colonialism and Donald Fucking Trump.
Well, here’s the 2022 update: Hulseman is telling you, “best” is dead. A long time ago, I was introduced to the idea of “the myth of monotheism,” a metanarrative mixed into the foundation of “Western” culture about the power, potential, and possibilities of radical unity, of one-ness. One god. One crown. One winner. That myth, though, ignores other instincts in our physical, emotional, and social DNA, instincts that bend toward collaboration and mutuality instead of competition and exclusivity. We’ve seen the cycles of rising and falling that come with the myth of monotheism: commitment to one — one god, one crown, one nation, one winner, one trophy, one whatever-the-outcome — drives people to horde, to deprive, even to kill.
Frankly, I’m bored by the quest for superlative status. Sure, Argentina won the World Cup, but I was more riveted by the journey of Morocco’s team, fascinated by the ways the Iranian team tried (and sort of failed but also sort of succeeded) to protest their government’s violent repression, and the broad attention to human rights abuses that came with the construction of the tournament’s stadiums. When the Olympics return, we’ll have the chance to stand in awe of the world’s greatest athletes…so who (beyond their sponsors, managers, publicists, and tacticians #capitalism) really cares about the negligible difference between gold, silver, and bronze medals? A moment from watching the 1988 Olympics comes to mind: when it was clear that Debi Thomas wasn’t getting the gold, the camera caught her muttering something like, “Well, back to medical school.” She earned a bronze medal, but not winning the gold was enough to end her skating career. Wasn’t she more than that to her competitors, to fans, to the sport? Did Katie Ledecky’s silver-winning performance in the 400m freestyle suggest that she wasn’t in peak form?
I don’t think I’m alone in my boredom, but it’s difficult to conceive of any other way to do it. If each of us makes small and concerted efforts, I’m confident that we can change the nature of human competition within two or three hundred years. How to do this, you ask? We can stop celebrating single winners and spread our admiration and respect out for all who demonstrate excellence. We can stop using superlatives to describe our and others’ abilities, aspirations, and impact. And we can stop beating ourselves and others up for failing to reach superhuman potential.
Fusion is the future.
Nuclear fusion made big headlines because…well, I’m not sure. I’m not a scientist. But it was something about being able to replicate what powers the sun or something like that, which opens all sorts of new possibilities for energy production. Cool. Here’s what I do understand about fusion: juxtaposing differences doesn’t have to lead to conflict and destruction. It can also lead to something new, something powerful, and something transformative. I submit as evidence the best song of the year, “Break My Soul (The Queens Remix).” (What did I just say about superlatives? Oh…ok, that starts next year.) Beyoncé released “Break My Soul” in June, right in the middle of LGBTQ Pride season. It was the first single that Queen Bey gifted to the world from Renaissance and the first affirmation that the album would be a monumental love letter to her LGBTQ fans. Beyoncé and her producers brilliantly wove her new anthem with Robin S’ “Show Me Love” and Big Freedia’s “Explode.” Throughout the album, she pays homage to the Harlem Balls and highlights multiple queer artists, but the seamless blend in “Break My Soul” opened a door to the future.
And then, just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, “The Queens Remix” emerged in August. At first, I thought I hit play on the wrong song. It opens with a distinctive opening, the strings sustaining a soft, high pitch, the beginning of Madonna’s “Vogue,” and then Bey’s voice enters with “Ooh la la…” My jaw dropped, and I stood still in the center of my living room, awed by the magic streaming from my phone. Beyoncé’s lyrics now floated over the bassline of “Vogue,” peppered by Big Freedia’s samples and Madonna’s original vocals. With the bridge, Beyoncé departs from her original track entirely and, as both homage to and critique of Madonna’s original celebration of Hollywood glamourpusses, she unspools a litany of Black female artists and the legendary Houses of the Ball scene.
If you’re a fan of Beyoncé, it’s a(nother) stroke of genius. If you’re a fan of Madonna (which, you might know, I am #understatementofthecentury), it is transformative. Though she used her platform to introduce the Harlem Balls and voguing to the world, Madonna never really paid for the sin of appropriating the artistry of Black and Brown queer people who created, innovated within, and continue to sustain and expand the impact of the Balls. Beyoncé sets aside the tired list of White celebrities that every bachelorette party has recited while poorly (and sometimes insultingly) trying to vogue and (re-)introduces the women who created and inspired the best of popular culture, from past luminaries like Rosetta Tharp, Bessie Smith, and Nina Simone to the current pantheon of Lizzo, Santigold, and Janet Jackson.
Does the track forgive or excuse the sins of appropriation? No. But it does breathe new life and relevance into Madonna’s earnest (if flawed) effort to shine a light on a multiply-marginalized community whose artistic innovations and language now dominate American culture. And it enhances the beauty and impact of Beyoncé’s innovations. For me, that’s the lesson: innovation isn’t ex nihilo. It’s the result of excavating and uplifting the best of our past — even those ideas, practices, and relationships that seem too deeply buried, too broadly forgotten — and juxtaposing it with new experiences, revelations, and insights.
The Girls reign supreme.
We may be living in a golden age for scripted television. RuPaul’s Drag Race might currently be dominating the culture (and my screen time). But the best thing ever on television was, is, and will always be The Golden Girls (all seven seasons of which I watched three times in 2022). And Murder, She Wrote (all twelve seasons of which I watched in 2022) is a close second. Prove me wrong.
