Writing is hard

God damn but it is hard.

The thing I've come to understand about my brain is that while it loves writing, it doesn't actually like it. At all. For me, writing is grinding, painful, hard, hard work, and my lazy brain will take literally any excuse to avoid doing it. 

A lot of those excuses are pretty good! I'm a busy person. I work 5-6 days a week at two jobs, have all sorts of chores to handle, as well as this burning and inconvenient need for a social life. There's a certain amount of give and take, but they're all important, and I can't just ignore them.

Sometimes, it's not quite like that. Sometimes, when I actual I sit down at a blank page, blink, shrug, and go "nah". Actually if my brain had its way that's how it would be all the time. In order to actually get to putting down words I more or less have to put my own brain in a headlock and wrestle it into a very talkative submission. Occasionally it drops into hyperfocus mode and I blaze through page after page, but more often it never stops being a struggle. It will take any opportunity to get distracted, think about something else, even just check out for awhile.

When I look at a blank page I see a trackless wasteland, obscured in fog. It's terrifying. I can look a certain distance ahead, but if I plan too much I end up being wrong and having to revise, and if I don't plan enough I look at that big white page and mumble "perhaps tomorrow".

But that's the thing about creation. It doesn't get done tomorrow; it gets done today. Tomorrow is this nebulous ideal time to write when the light is perfect and you're energetic and awake and the stars have all aligned in the house of Saturn or something. Tomorrow is a hypothetical. When the next day becomes today, you'll still be planning to write tomorrow, and then the day after that, and the day after that.

Don't do that.

Write today.

On Ferguson

How much more is there to say? And what can I, as a white Jew, add?

Very little. Very little.

I could mention that roughly 0.003% of grand juries fail to return an indictment...but that's been said.

I could decry Special Prosecutor McCulloch for scuttling a procedure slanted entirely in his favor due to personal interest in the case, for his tone-deaf, milquetoast statements blaming people who talk about things online. But that's also been said.

I could rail about the utter arrogance of white people in murdering blacks with impunity, then throwing them in jail for being angry about it. But that's been said too.

I just...I don't know. I don't.

Bottom line is, in a procedure so heavily slanted toward the prosecution, we cannot blame anyone but the prosecution for failing to charge Darren Wilson for his crimes.

But we can blame ourselves. Because we're all part of this fucked-up system. We're letting it happen. By sitting down, covering our ears, we're letting it happen.

A grand jury hearing is not a trial. A trial is meant  to find out whether or not the law was broken; a grand jury hearing is to see if we even want to find out. By failing to even charge Darren Wilson, we're shouting loud and clear that we don't want to know.

We're not saying that Darren Wilson didn't murder Mike Brown. We're saying we don't care if he did.

"I don't care" are the three most terrifying words I know.

Mini book reviews, and exciting news!

You might realize I haven't been updating this blog with my usual languid-but-steady pace. There are a number of reasons behind that, but it really amounts to a combination of real-life hassles, other writing projects which for various reasons cannot appear on this blog, and one bit of extremely exciting news that's taken up a good bit of my time.

You'll have to wait until the end for that one. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

One thing I have had time for is lots of reading! Public transit is like that. So here are the books I've read recently, in brief.

Words of Radiance (Brandon Sanderson): The second book of Sanderson's epic fantasy saga The Stormlight Archive. Imagine Game of Trones set to the soundtrack of Pacific Rim. Epic in every sense (including its weight), this series is a joy to read and a genuinely optimistic take on a genre that tends toward the cynical, especially recently. It's also refreshingly diverse: almost nobody is white. (Too bad nobody told the cover artist.)

Code Name Verity (Elizabeth Wein): The story of two young British girls, a pilot and a spy, best friends separated in World War II. It's beautifully written and brilliantly constructed, and the relationship between these two young girls - whether you interpret it as romantic or not - might be the most positive, wonderful, and human dynamic I've seen between two characters, ever.

American Born Chinese (Gene Luen Yang): First in my binge on socially-conscious graphic novels, this is the story of a young Chinese immigrant growing up in California in the '80s. Its depiction of cultural isolation, erasure, and racism resonate powerfully with anyone not cut from the White Straight Christian mold, and in simple but effective terms it reminds us that being who we are is not a bad thing. It's actually pretty neat.

The Rithmatist (Brandon Sanderson): Sanderson's YA novel, read because I needed a break from the heavy emotions of Code Name Verity and American Born Chinese. A murder mystery, The Rithmatist suffers from excessive simplicity (even by YA standards) and its failure to find much for the young protagonists to do. Sanderson's clever magic systems, likable characters, and subtle social consciousness make it an worthwhile read, but they're like strong horses pulling a squeaky carriage. Decent, but far from Sanderson's best.

Persepolis (Marjane Satrapi): A graphic novel memoir of the Iranian Revolution from a woman who grew up during it. It's teaches a lot about Iranian history culture, but aside from the delightful Marjane herself, few of the characters receive attention besides a nameplate and an explanation, which makes it hard to connect with any of them. Persepolis is entertaining and a very good history lesson; I'm not sure it works as a story.

Maus (Art Spiegelman): Another graphic novel memoir, this one detailing the author's father's survival of World War II as a Polish Jew. Interspersed with his father's narrative on the Holocaust are scenes in the United States depicting Spiegelman's tense relationship with his father. Maus is...intense. It doesn't editorialize; it simply presents the events as they occurred, and gives us room to empathize with the people experiencing them. Read it. That's all I can say without a lot more space, and time to parse it.

And now, the news! I'm very excited to say I've landed an internship at CBS's Watch! Magazine! Two days in, it's already amazing, and I'm meeting great people and learning a lot.

Cheers,
Simon

Swimming with the student loan sharks

Swimming with the student loan sharks

I'm from a very unhappy medium in the lower middle class. As an electrician my mom made just enough money to disqualify me for a Pell Grant, but nowhere near enough to fill the gap between scholarships and tuition at Brandeis University. The "solution" was $50,000 in loans.

The first monthly payment on my Perkins Loan hit just after I moved to New York, and was equal to roughly all my money. The kicker: I received the bill several days after it was due. I'd just moved, and their confusion as to my whereabouts was perfectly reasonable. It was still terrifying, but nothing seemed amiss. The obvious solution would be to get in touch with Campus Partners, the company in charge of the loan, to explain my situation and get everything squared away. That should be easy enough...if Campus Parners answered their phones.

Or, after taking half an hour to answer their phones, they didn't hang up.

Or if their phone operators weren't specifically instructed to obscure and omit relevant information, even when specifically and repeatedly asked.

Or if they made it possible to get in touch with someone with any authority.

Or if they had an email address, or any other way to get in touch with them online.

After several days of calling Campus Partners despite their determined resistance, I learned that I could submit a forbearance request. In paper. No electronic documents allowed, even though an electronic document would be far quicker and easier for everyone. Apparently Campus Partners was only willing to process urgent legal documents in the least efficient form possible, which seemed to match their “delay and ignore” M.O. just fine.

Putting together this forbearance application took time. It required documentation of income, which is hard to pull together when you've just moved twice in a single month and commute four hours a day day. It also required a printer, which I didn't have.

It took a few weeks to put this form together, but just as I was about to send it - while at the post office, just before I sealed the envelope - Brandeis financial services called me and told me I could submit it electronically, straight to them. When I mentioned Campus Partners' behavior to them, they were concerned, and said they'd look into it.

Brandeis also told me it might be a good idea to consolidate my loans, to which I replied, "Huh?" Campus Partners had left out the fact that I could mash my Perkins Loan together with my Stafford Loan (whose monthly payments were based on my income) so I wouldn't have to pay extra money each month. In short, I’d be home free, at least in the short term.

After sending out the forbearance application and the loan consolidation request, I felt a weight lift off my chest, followed immediately by suspicion. If Brandeis could accept the form electronically at a moment's notice, why did Campus Partners need a hardcopy and several weeks to process it?

                       

Ah well, it wasn’t my problem. My forms were in, and I was set, right? Right.

About three weeks later, I got another letter from Campus Partners. Looking at the envelope, I nodded. This would be the confirmation that they'd received and processed my documents. Still nodding, still smiling, I tore open the envelope to find a...

                                                 

final demand letter?

I blinked and read it again. No, it definitely said "FINAL DEMAND LETTER", and it was definitely threatening to send my loan to a collections agency if I didn't pay up now.

After freaking out for ten minutes, I contacted Campus Partners to check if they'd received the form I sent two weeks ago. They said they hadn't. I then called my mom, Brandeis's financial department, and my boss, looking for some sort of way out of this. I also contacted an old mentor of mine, who mentioned that student loan servicers have a shady reputation, and that this one seemed shadier than most.

That put me on edge. Since they'd started sending me letters in May, Campus Partners' correspondence had been continually late. Feeling a bit sick, I took a closer look at the letter, and more importantly, at its envelope.

 

Dated July 12th...

...and postmarked July 23rd.

As you can see, the letter is dated July 12^th, but postmarked July 23^rd. For some reason, Campus Partners delayed urgent correspondence by 11 days, and deliberately sending my loan into collections seems the only motive for doing so.

In the past three months, I've seen Campus Partners make themselves difficult to contact, obscure relevant information, deceive both me and Brandeis University, fail to acknowledge receipt of forms, and send forms late to prevent me from responding.

I was lucky. When I spoke to Brandeis again, I learned they'd already pushed through their forms, and I was in the clear. But what if I weren't? What if someone else, dealing with this company, hadn't kept hammering at their phones for weeks on end? What if their forms got stuck in the mail? What if Brandeis hadn't picked the exact right moment to call? I don’t want to think of that.

And frankly, I shouldn’t have to. If our education and our livelihoods depend on the good faith and credit of student loan servicers, it is Brandeis’s responsibility to ensure that we can rely on them. It is unconscionable that this university deals with a company that deceives and robs those students it should aid and protect. Brandeis needs to vet its student loan servicers carefully and actively monitor their behavior to prevent this sort of abuse.

         

Campus Partners is a loan shark in graduation robes. You shouldn't have to with them, and Brandeis University shouldn’t make you.

An abridged version of this story has been published on the Brandeis Hoot.

                                                                                        

On Yom Kippur

With the help of several wonderful friends, I think I've finally been able to understand and parse the meaning of Yom Kippur and Judaism this year. It’s been wonderful and painful and enlightening, and I feel I’ve become a better person, a better version of myself, for it.

Have I?

I've been striving to understand the holiday through action: reading through the prayers in full even if i don't understand or agree with them, finding small ways to do good, to do better. But I've failed. That doesn't mean it was pointless. But I have failed.

I have not apologized to those I've wronged. I've been callous to friends and family, taking their presence and their love for granted. I have not forced myself to confront my own behavior, to better it.

The last of those, the least, I can make right.

When I graduated college, I had to move back home. And I hated it. Despite my mom's efforts to compromise, to support me, to help me be comfortable, I felt stuck, imprisoned. Alone, uprooted from the community I built with my friends in college, lost.

I wasn't wrong for feeling that way. Isolation brought out the worst in me: my loneliness, my moodiness, my tendency to view others as resources. I could feel myself becoming a worse person, and my awareness just made me hate it that much more. If I wanted to be the person I wanted to be, I would have to get back to where I belonged.

With little else to do, I worked toward that obsessively. In the name of keeping myself moving forward, I blinded myself to everything but my goals. That I eventually succeeded does not justify my behavior at the time. I didn't think about my past, and I was careless for the consequences of my actions in the present.

I abandoned friendships and burnt bridges. I was callous and distant to those around me. I relied too much of the kindness and support of a few friends without a thought for their own needs. I may not have hurt them, but I did take advantage of their generosity.

When you start to see someone as a hero, it's easy to forget they're human. It's easy to forget they need care too.

I'm sorry.

I can't fix the way I acted last year, but this year, I will be better. Where I once ran from others, I will stand by them. Where I once burnt bridges, I will build them. Where I once took love, I will give it.

I will fail, of course. I understand this. But if I can read this post a year from now and say honestly that I am a better person than I was today...

...well, that's worth something.

Matt Stover's Test of Metal puts us at the labyrinth's heart

I've played Magic: the Gathering since I was pretty young, but I make a point of not reading the licensed tie-in novels. To put it bluntly, they're not very good; at best, a guilty pleasure. In fact, I probably wouldn't have opened Test of Metal at all if not for one small detail: Matt Stover's name on the cover. A long time ago in a town far, far away, I read his novelization of Star Wars Episode III, and found it far better than the actual movie. Okay, I thought. This could be worth my time.

And it was.

Under Matt Stover's hand, what could have easily been Another Stupid Contract Novel becomes a genuinely deep discussion of how power stifles understanding and how trial and insight can help us become the best versions of ourselves. It’s about changing and becoming the person you need to be, and then, when that person is no longer the right person, becoming again.

Particularly brilliant is its labyrinth motif. There's much discussion of their design and purpose, but the true stroke of genius is Stover's careful eye toward structure. Test of Metal isn't just about labyrinths; it is a labyrinth, circling around and around until we end at the middle: the center, the goal, the answer. And like our antihero Tezzeret, we you don’t learn the solution so much as we become the person at the center, the person who understands themselves and the nature of the puzzle.

In a labyrinth, power is weakness, because having power makes us impatient, simple, direct. Power entices us to cut straight to the goal…but a labyrinth has no goal. There is no prize, no treasure at the center; the treasure is who you become by following its path. The center isn't a destination, it's just a signpost marking the end of the journey. The journey is the trial, and the trial is its own reward.

Even if you don't play Magic, I'd pick up this book. Some unfortunate casual sexism aside, Stover has crafted in Test of Metal a work of keen insight into the nature of human growth and progression.

Read it once to reach the center, to understand the puzzle. Then read it again

Speak again the ancient oaths: Trauma, recovery, and the Stormlight Archive

"It is the nature of the magic. A broken soul has cracks into which something else can be fit. Surgebindings, the powers of creation themselves; they can brace a broken soul, but they can also widen its fissures." - from the back cover of Words of Radiance, second book of Brandon Sanderson's Stormlight Archive

Brandon Sanderson is known widely for works of epic fantasy with well-explored, almost scientific systems of magic. His Stormlight Archive, doesn't break the formula, but it does bend it with Surgebinding, a highly personal and human system that grants characters powers based on their personalities and ideals.

Using magic to literalize a character's other traits as a form of power is a common trope in fantasy, and I'm a big fan of it. It allows the writer to present the supernatural in an insightful and deeply human way, turning what might otherwise be a flashy action sequence into commentary on its characters without being any less thrilling. It's a good technique, and I've seen it done well in a lot of works.

Even by those standards, the magic of the Stormlight Archive is something special. Only characters who've undergone exceptional trauma and started on the path to recovery can become Surgebinders, and the exact form that their recovery takes determines what powers they gain.

In other words, Surgebinding literalizes recovery from trauma. That's more than good technique on Sanderson's part. That's wisdom.

As Surgebinders recover and grow, their powers increase; if they slide backward, or stop growing, or grow into something harmful to those around them, their powers fade or even vanish. Recovery isn't an event, it's a process, and it never takes the same form for two different people. One may cope and advance by finding strength in oaths and loyalty, another in exploring the nature of truth and lies.

Nobody is ever the same person they were before trauma; to survive it we must to change and adapt, and continue changing and adapting. Trauma hunts us down out of the past, tries to pull us back, break us again, and to fight it we develop, discover, and grow into something new. That we've been hurt is no excuse to stop growing. People change, or they die.

Life before death.

Growth is risky. Change is risky. Even if this new form is what we need, it may be toxic, something stifling, or even dangerous to those around us. Recovery is power. That we've gone through hell to gain that power is no excuse for abusing it. It's our responsibility to ensure that we develop in a way that protects and nurtures those around us, that the power we gain from recovery lifts up those around us instead of strangling them. And that takes a kind of power of its own.

Strength before weakness.

Recovery isn't an event; it's a process, and a struggle, and though we might be past our darkest moments, that struggle is hard. And it doesn't end. We keep changing, we keep growing, we keep advancing, though there's no goal in sight, no end to that work. That we can't see the end of our path, that we will never truly grow past our trauma, is no excuse to stop growing. All we can do is be the best we can, and keep moving.

Journey before destination.

As humans have the drive, the imperative, the responsibility to grow, to recover from our trauma and to ensure that our growth shapes us into a form that helps those around us. Sanderson is wise to recognize that, and genius to present it like this.

The price of standing up

Last Thursday, I attended my first protest.

You might have heard about it on the news, when several thousand people marched from Union Square to Times Square to protest the police brutality in Ferguson.

Organized by word of mouth and social media, the protest was described as a silent vigil in Union Square. At 7:00 it got of to a confused start: whatever it was, the event wasn't a silent vigil, and the moderately-sized crowd didn't quite seem to know what to do with itself. Most talked and milled around, some stood silently, and a few activists, mostly black, chanted: Hands up, don't shoot and No justice, no peace. I didn't join in; I'm white, and I wasn't sure it was my place. The feeling seemed pretty common among the white attendees; while we definitely wanted to support the activists, we weren't quite sure how to do it.

Then crowd shifted: someone had started moving, and the rest moved to follow. They spread out and sped up, and the activists led their chants like a conductor leads an orchestra, raising them, using their footsteps like a metronome.

For thirty blocks we marched like that, right through traffic down the middle of Broadway all the way to Times Square. We held our arms up until they were sore and shouted until our throats hurt. The white supporters gradually figured out what to do, and started to lead chants when the black activists grew tired.

And people joined.

A lot of people.

Just around dusk, right in the middle of Times Square, next to the bright blue NYPD station, the march ground to a halt.

Turns out the police had blocked us. After about ten few minutes they let us move again, funneling us up to the northern part of Times Square...

...where they blocked us again.

With the march stopped, the chants became quieter. The black activists tried to keep them alive; a few of the white supporters helped out. (I joined in as best I could, but my throat was raw.) But without the movement of marching, the energy wasn't there.





About twenty minutes later, the police let us go, under a few conditions. We had to walk in a narrow line on the sidewalk, head south out of Times Square, then go west. The activists warned that this was a tactic to split us apart; we had to stick together. And we followed them westward, toward Port Authority, the police at our side every step of the way. We walked right down the center of the street, hands up, screaming, then turned a corner...

...right into a wall of police vans.

Once we were bottled up against their blockade, they surrounded us...

...pushed us together, and backed us up against the sidewalk.

Ten minutes later, they hadn't made any indication they intended to let us move. In the crowd, people started passing out a phone number: the National Lawyers' Guild. "Write it on your arm," they said. "If the cops take us in, they'll take everything you have."



I felt exhilarated. I was doing something important! We were making noise, forcing people to pay attention to our outrage with the behavior of the our police. This meant something, and I was proud to be part of it.

Then I looked around.

The black men and women around me were definitely excited, but not exhilarated. They made jokes at the police, they chanted, but they were not exhilarated. You don't feel exhilarated with your life on the line. You feel terrified.

Unlike me, they had something to lose here.

That was the main difference between the white protesters (myself included) and the black ones. For the white protesters, tearing down this vicious and brutal system that supports these racist, overarmed, hyperaggressive police was an important cause, and we were proud to do our part. But what did we have to lose if things went bad? We were white. The police wouldn't really hurt us. We'd get a few bruises, a night in the precinct, a reprimand at most.

For the black protesters, this this was their lives. And to try and raise their head, to stand up and force America to acknowledge them as more than animals, they risked beatings, jail time, and death at the hands of the police. And they still stood up. And more than that, they led others to stand with them.

The police kept us penned in at the side of the street for about half an hour. Toward the end of it, they started making what seemed like random arrests. All were black men. At that point a white protester in the crowd suggested that we provoke the police into arresting us illegally so we could sue.

Nobody said anything to him. The scorn was enough.

It's easy to think of supporting the unprivileged as a game when you have nothing to lose from doing it. White people, straight people, cisgendered men - people like me - who want to do their part have to remember that. Privilege is about not having to worry about things have other people afraid for their lives. When we stand up for those less privileged, we always risk less than they do. Remember that.

Respect that. Respect their wishes. Stand with them when they need you, and support them when they want to stand alone.

The city ain't a single block: the problem of place in Legend of Korra S1

Look. I know the first season of Avatar: The Legend of Korra was kind of a train wreck. This is old news. A slew of pacing problems compounded with a perfectly misplaced love triangle, and the result was an incoherent mess that didn't address its own central theme of class-based oppression and retribution. That's old news, but it's still there, like a scab that never quite got clean.

So let's pick at it.

Avatar: The Last Airbender was, among other things, a show about travel. Every episode had us in a different part of the world, with new and magnificent sights to see and explore, and that wonder of exploration suffused the show right until the end. A new episode of Avatar promised to take us somewhere fresh and new, or later on, to return to an old, familiar place changed by war.

The first few episodes of Legend of Korra seemed to follow up on that promise. The first few episodes introduce us to Republic City, a booming industrial metropolis dripping with 1880s New York nostalgia. Though everything was much closer together than before, the feeling was the same. There were places to explore! People to meet! Adventures to be had!

And then it stopped.

There were still adventures going on, still new people to meet, but what had happened to that sense of wonder? Why did it suddenly feel like the city was just one big sandbox where one little building might as well be any other?

Because the show started treating it like that.

In real life, large cities are not monoliths. From neighborhood to neighborhood, block to block, architecture varies, income varies, culture varies. In its own way a city is as diverse as the wilderness of the original Avatar, just more compact. And, more to the point of Korra's central conflict, stratified by class.

By flattening out Republic City, making one neighborhood the same as the next, the first season of Korra fails to depict the unstable and stratified society on which its conflict rests. It's not the show's biggest fault, but with it comes the loss of that sense of exploration and wonder I miss so much from the original Avatar.

Just how bad is the Hobby Lobby decision? Let me count the ways...

In case you missed it, the Supreme Court of the United States of America just ruled that corporations have the right to dictate their employees' healthcare.

Under this ruling, corporations may claim that a medical procedure violates their religious beliefs and deny coverage for that sole reason. While I could go down the line and explain every reason why this ruling is cruel, abhorrent, idiotic, flings open the gates on a dozen slippery slopes, and invites an era of legislative chaos that would ripple through our legal, medical, and economic systems...

No. I'm going to explain them. You've probably seen every argument I present floating around the Internet in some form or another, many of them in a form more thorough, well-argued, and well-supported than I present here. I'm taking the other route. 

I'm going for quantity. 

There's nothing quite like that moment of horror as you see the sheer volume of reasons this ruling is terrible. Nothing quite like the sick feeling moments later as you realize the fractal nature of this case, that each reason encapsulates a hundred other problems that all stink just as badly as the whole.

So sit down and let me tell you how many ways this ruling is terrible.

To start, every single justice who ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby's "right" to not pay its female employees' healthcare costs is a man. This isn't quite as bad as the all-male Congressional panel on abortion of 2012, but it's representative of the same systemic problem. Americans have taken note of the Court's intransigence, and public confidence in it has sunk.

Hobby Lobby displays a history of raging hypocrisy on this case. While they refuse to cover any sort of reproductive care for women, they gladly pay for Viagra and vasectomies. Neither of these have any biological necessity, unlike women's reproductive care. The overall implication is that Hobby Lobby and the Supreme Court believe that men's pleasure trumps women's medical needs.

Also, Hobby Lobby is heavily invested in pharmaceutical companies which manufacture contraceptives, which undercuts the chain's claim to a sincere, principled belief that birth control is wrong. According to Hobby Lobby, contraception is wrong, unless it makes money for Hobby Lobby.

Also, it sources many of its goods from China, where forced abortions still happen.

As for the current Supreme Court? Well, the gentlemen who currently warm that bench have written a long and storied history of ignoring petty things like "science" or "evidence" if it would force them to ponder that things such as poverty or discrimination might exist. 

In the mind of this Court, we live in a world of Platonic ideals where worldly evidence need not tread. Arguments which appear plausible within the scope of the Court's white, male, wealthy, geriatric standard of scrutiny fly. Those which don't fall, evidence be damned. No amount of statistics and analysis and experts will ever stack up to the Court's casual observations of fields it doesn't understand, which is why it concluded that the Voting Rights Act is obsolete.

One of those fields, of course, is medicine, where the Court apparently believes employers should have control over its employees' treatments. While this ruling technically doesn't mean employers can dictate what their employees can and can't do with their bodies, due to the lethally high cost of healthcare in the United States, that is the precise result.

What happens if a female employee, denied coverage for contraceptives, can still afford them? Simple: she buys them out of pocket with money from her paycheck. In effect, the corporation is still paying for those contraceptives; it's just through a paycheck instead of an insurance plan. How can an employer dictate what employees can and can't do with one aspect of their compensation, but not another? Employment is not a sponsorship; once pay and benefits are disbursed, an employer has zero say over what the employee does with them. Except...now it does.

But fear not! Justice Alito, writing for the majority, reassures us that the government could just pick up the slack for employers who prefer not to pay for contraception. But then, what's to stop employers forcing taxpayers to subsidize benefits it doesn't care to provide? Would we have to subsidize religious employers who feel that women should be paid less than men? It's a distinct possibility.

Speaking of healthcare, let's talk about abortion. Let's talk about what it isn't. Hobby Lobby's case rested on the belief that contraceptives such as Plan B and IUDs cause abortion, which has this awkward detail of being completely false. Contraceptives are not abortion. Period. They only inhibit conception, just like the name says they do.

Not that the Supreme Court would bother itself with something as silly as verifiable medical fact. In its ruling, the Court concluded that it should privilege Hobby Lobby's false belief that contraceptives cause abortion over the FDA's fact-based definition when deciding the case. There's no real difference between claiming that contraceptives cause abortion and claiming that Tylenol does; both are false. But under this decision, "religious freedom" means you can define anything however you choose if you cover your ears and shout loudly enough.

By letting corporations use religious beliefs to claim exemptions from reality, we grant them a blank check to do whatever they want as long as they wrap it in a veneer of piety. This is quite the dilemma: either the Court can cede that it has given corporations implicit permission to do pretty much anything, or it can pick and choose which religious exemptions are valid and which aren't...which violates the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment.

If employers can dictate employees' healthcare under the banner of "freedom of religion", what is to stop them from using that same banner to dictate other behavior as well? As a Jew, could I ban my employees from eating pork? Could a Mormon boss say his employees can't drink? And these are mundane examples; Justice Ginsburg points out some far worse, and more plausible, scenarios. Under this ruling, a corporation could potentially could use its freedom of religion as a mandate to exclude its employees from any type of behavior, on or off the job.

And it's already begun.

The Court must have realized on some level the judicial chaos their ruling would cause, because it added  a few provisions to limit the decision's scope. The problem? Those limitations were little more than an afterthought, and their slapdash wording causes problems of its own.

First, the majority specified that its ruling only applies to closely held (not publicly traded) companies, but were really vague about their reasons for distinguishing the two. Weak reasoning like this leaves cracks in the ruling that a clever plaintiff could use to secure religious exemptions for publicly traded corporations as well.

Second, the Court claims that this ruling does not affect any medical treatments beyond contraception because...it doesn't. Alito doesn't actually provide a reason. He just wants you to take his word for it. And if your Christian Scientist boss refuses to cover your kidney transplant...well, good luck.

Those paltry limitations do little limit this ruling's scope. Beyond the judicial chaos the complexity of this ruling will cause, its sheer impact is vast. Closely-held corporations account for 90% of incorporated U.S. companies, and some of them are huge. What the Supreme Court describes as a narrow ruling is not in fact narrow at all.

EDIT: In fact, the Court has already backed off from those shaky claims of narrowness.

Alito's decision to limit the ruling to closely-held corporations is troubling not just for its content but its inconsistency: it implies that some, but not all, corporations are legally people, depending on certain criteria. This precedent could quite plausibly circle back on the definition of what a "person" is, and makes me dread the day when we decide that some, but not all, humans are legally people. Depending on certain criteria.

It's time to talk about one of the stickiest topics of this whole, sticky mess: the ascendant, toxic idea of corporate personhood. How can a corporation have religion? Does it attend church on Sundays? Does it pray? As an entity convened for the express purpose of profit, we have to assume that profit is always a corporation's Priority One. A corporation is a selfish beast by nature. I won't say that's right or wrong, but it's certainly not religious. For a corporation to claim favorable treatment for its "sincere religious belief" smacks of a really underhanded way to serve its Priority One.

The entire point of incorporation, a centerpiece of capitalism, is to separate person from power. This allows for a personal life separate from work, and also liberalizes capitalist societies in comparison with feudal ones. Under capitalism, the elites have power; under feudalism, the elites are power. If power and person are one, social mobility is unthinkable.

In the Hobby Lobby decision, the Supreme Court has granted that for-profit company, can be said to hold the religious beliefs of those who control it. They have in principle allowed that a corporation, a power structure, may merge with the individuals who control it.

They have in principle allowed a return to feudalism.

That scares me.

The Blind Artisan

A few weeks ago I read The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin, often listed as one of the genre's masterpieces its innovative treatment of several deep themes. It draws its title from its exploration of inner light and darkness, the known and the unknown, and proposes that we most accept both. That idea spoke to me.

As a writer, I am limited: I rarely comprehend my own writing, at least not in full. I can be the doer or I can be the thinker, but not both at once. I just don’t have the mental resources to view what I write as what it truly is: both the sum of the parts and the parts themselves, simultaneously. If I try, I get overwhelmed, blinded, and so to create I must limit my vision.

For me, writing is much like putting on a welder’s mask. The welder’s tool, the arc, could blind the welder in a second, so the welder wears a mask that blocks out all but the brightest light. The mask lets the welder see the details right next to the arc, but nothing farther away. In order to see the work in full, the welder must to flip the mask up, step back, and plan.

                                                   

So like the welder, I fumble. I poke and scrape in the dark. I focus on details, I feel them weave together under my hand without fully understanding them, and every once in awhile I pull back and examine what I’ve done. Often I shake my head and put the mask back on, sometimes I nod my head at a solid day’s work, and on occasion I impress myself.

It’s important that I plan ahead, but not too far ahead. Too much light can blind, after all: too great an understanding stifles the creative impulse, because when you already know everything, why bother creating more? That’s not to say planning isn’t important. A welder who works on and on without flipping up the mask, stepping back, and looking creates a very hot mess, figuratively and literally. It’s important to alternate: putting on the mask to work, taking off the mask to plan, weaving together the two roles in a way that works for you.

When you create, understand that you can never understand what you do. Not in full. And learn to accept it.

What a princess does

I recently accepted a job teaching young kids science at a summer camp. The camp focuses on getting the kids to want to learn, inspiring them to be excited about learning and to inquire about the world around them. On my first day, we took the kids to the park so they could examine different leaves and make observations, and they dove right into it. They were talking about wanting to be scientists when they grew up. They wanted to learn and discover, and the sheer wonder with which they plunged into it amazed me.

But one girl, though she enjoyed learning, wanted something else. "I want to be a princess," she said.

I didn't say anything. It was my first day there, and I was still feeling my way around. Like the kids, I was learning as I went. I looked to the senior teacher for a response.

"What does a princess do?" asked the senior teacher.

"Magic!" she said.

"What kind of magic?"

"Elsa!" With a bit of prodding, she clarified: she had just seen Frozen, thought Princess Elsa's ice magic was cool as heck, and wanted to find practical uses for it. Like building ice castles.

Though we were outside, my jaw hit the proverbial floor. American media teaches girls they should be princesses: elegant and beautiful and above all passive, static, a walking image, not a person. But here was a girl, only three years old, who saw it differently, who wanted to be a princess, not because of what a princess is, but because of what she does.

Though it wasn't perfect, I really loved Frozen, and I could spend hours talking about it. But I won't, not here, because in one word, that girl spoke more truth about it than I've seen in pages and pages of excited, academic, but adult discussion.

Frozen teaches girls that they can, and should, do things. That they can run, and build, and create, and change the world.

And that's cool as heck.

Dressing with purpose

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have," it’s said.

Overall, it's sound advice. If you don't know how to look, overdressing is always safer than underdressing. But that begs the question: why don’t you know how to look?

After all, this is the age of the Internet. Pretty much anything you might want to know can be found at the touch of the button. If you’re reading this, you’ve officially lost any excuse for not knowing how to dress at any event you might find yourself at.

“Business casual? That’s a bit vague.” Look it up. “Black tie? What’s that?” Look it up. Yes, yes, you could play it safe and overdress, but that carries the risk of coming across as arch and aristocratic, and putting off everyone around you. Instead, I recommend a conscious effort to understand the role your outfit plays.

I recommend dressing with purpose.

Consider this: clothing is a tool, just like a hammer or a cooking pot, and like any tool it serves a specific purpose…but only if you know what you’re doing. Some clothing is built with physical needs in mind: sportswear are designed for comfort and durability, cold weather clothing is designed to keep you warm, and so on. That’s important, but it’s not what I’m talking about.

Beyond the physical level, the purpose of clothing is to create a certain impression of yourself, a specific impact that affects not only how others think of you, but how you think of yourself. Uniforms, the clearest example of outfits with a specific purpose, proclaim that the wearer is acting in a specific role, and subtly nudge their behavior in that direction. Suits are a bit less specific in their meaning, but also convey a clear message about the type of image their wearer wants to project. Otherwise, individual pieces can be mixed and matched to create an outfit that sends exactly the message you want and makes you feel exactly how you want.

I’m not going to go into further detail about which pieces cultivate which impressions; entire books can, and have, been written on the subject. For anyone interested in traditional menswear, Alan Flusser’s Dressing the Man is a fairly comprehensive and accessible guide on the subject. (Unfortunately, I know of no such guide for women’s clothing. If you know of one, please tell me!)

One final note: it’s paramount that you feel comfortable in the outfit you wear. However snazzy it might look on a mannequin, if you don’t feel right wearing it, it won’t look good. Maybe that outfit needs one last thing to finish it, maybe you’ve overdone it, or maybe it’s just not your thing. Develop a feeling for it, and figure out what works best for you.

So, what is dressing with purpose? First: understanding what kind of impression you want to make. Second: finding clothing that creates that impression. Third: making sure it feels right!

"Memoir of an Independent Woman" takes a walk through history

I don't read memoirs. It's not that I think poorly of them; it's that I don't think of them at all. I'm very pleased to say that Tania Grossinger's Memoir of an Independent Woman convinced me otherwise. In many ways, it’s exactly what it says on the cover: a powerful and personal tale of the life of an extraordinary and fundamentally Jewish woman in during a time of great cultural change in America.

Structured as a series of letters to the daughter she never had, Ms. Grossinger builds this story of her life not as a timeline but as a set of thematic threads woven together partly by time and place, but more by conceptual association. This is a wise choice, creating a rambling, conversational tale covering themes ranging from family to career-building to romance to mental health. She delivers it through anecdotes about her early life at Grossinger’s, the resort hotel that attracted America’s elite, to the who’s-who of historical personalities she met working in PR, to her rocky relationships both familial and romantic, to her later work as a travel writer. These little bits of history often touch on difficult and personal subject matter, but Tania approaches all with commendable grace and insight, reflecting as much on her own perspective and actions as the events around her.

Before reading her book, I had the good fortune to speak with Tania, who generously took the time out of her book tour for a call. Speaking with her in advance brought her story to life in a way I'm lucky to have experienced. With her voice and her unique, rambling style of storytelling fresh in my mind, it was almost as if she were reading the book to me herself. Few writers can convey their style of speech as written word, but Ms. Grossinger does so with an understated grace that is truly remarkable.

Often funny, sometimes bitter, always fascinating and wise, Memoir of an Independent Woman binds the personal and the historical into one thoroughly charming whole. For anyone interested in what it means to be a Jew in America, a woman in America, or a person in America, I recommend it. For anyone interested in American culture or history, I recommend it doubly.

Memoir of an Independent Woman: An Unconventional Life Well Lived was published by Skyhorse Publishing in 2013. It can be found here.

When it comes to treating people well, don't trust your instincts

The other day I discovered a particularly brilliant series of tweets.

All of this is brilliant, but the bit about not trusting your instincts really stuck with me. Stereotypes, casual observations of The Other, heirarchies are a poison of the mind that linger like a shadow on the edge of every thought, a darkness just out of view that colors beliefs and perceptions, even when you believe consciously that they’re wrong. 

As the privileged class (men, straight people, white people, etc.), in order to not be awful people, we must wage a constant war of spies and shadows in our own minds, where every thought and feeling, however innocuous, could be an enemy in disguise. We owe it, both to the less privileged around us and to ourselves, to fight this war, to run a background check on every idea and feeling and thought, to treat our own minds as a warzone.

Never assume you’re free of those ideas, because the moment you do, they’ve won.

And listen.

King County voters gave a "no" to my employment

Last week, King County voters decided I should lose my job.

Allow me to explain. King County Metro, our local public transit authority, ran into a budget shortfall which it concluded could only be made up by additional revenue or service cuts. Because any and all new taxes here must go to a popular vote thanks to some initiative shenanigans in the late '90s, this required them to put it to a vote: Proposition 1, which would require people to pay an extra $60 for car tabs in order to fund transit and road maintenance.

This measure failed.

I work at a local Brooks Brothers store in Auburn, WA. I can't afford a car, so I rely on Route 181 to get to and from work...at least until September, when most of the 181 goes out of service thanks to the rejection of Prop. 1, and I'll no longer be able to keep my job.

But I shouldn't really complain. We live in a democracy, governed by the will of the people, and the people have made clear their belief that jobs should only go to those with vehicles. Or at least, that they're happy to fudge on their reported values if it means a an extra sixty bucks.

The Little Girl on the Bus

Just a short thing that happened while taking public transit.

                The little girl with the curly hair looks like a young Jasika Nicole, with a smile just as bright. With her is a woman with hair and features of iron, who stands and sits and never looks up. The girl talks and smiles and smiles and she shows some other girls the dolls she brought with her. “Watch this,” she says, popping a doll’s arm off. The other girls laugh, but then they leave, and she waves them goodbye out the bus’s window.  She presses her face against it, watching every bush and tree and stoplight with equal wonder. I grin and wave and smile with her, and when she drops her warm hat, I point it out.

                The bus stops, and the iron-faced woman stands. She tells the girl with the curly hair it’s their stop, they have to get off. She doesn’t look up. The girl peels her face from the window. She stands, turns to the woman. Doesn’t move. She turns to me, then skips over and wraps her arms around me, tight and unhesitating.

                “Thank you,” says the girl with the curly hair.

                “Yeah, uh. She’s like that sometimes,” the iron-faced woman scowls. She doesn’t look up.

                A moment passes, and I return the hug. “It was good to meet you,” I say.

                “You too,” she says, squeezing a bit tighter before she’s gone.      

On reading slowly

I hear a lot of talk from my friends and fellow readers about how they read so many books, or an entire shelf in a week, or maybe half the library. It's pretty impressive. I admire people who can burn through a thousand pages in a day and ask for more.

I'm not one of them.

I used to read just as voraciously, but I realized at some point that I wasn't enjoying the books I read. What's more, I was barely understanding them. I found that if I read a long book quickly, I could come back not a week later and find entire scenes I'd failed to understand. Sometimes, forgotten completely! From that point on, when I read, I make a point to slow down, to sip rather than to guzzle.

Slowing down has a lot of perks, but the biggest one is being able to see the layers. Regardless of genre, any story, long or short, can be read on a number of levels, and reading slowly makes that much easier. For me, writing is as much a mechanical exercise as a creative one, and I learn new techniques by dissecting what I read. That means paying attention to not only what's going on in the story, but to the craftsmanship behind it. I read and digest and reread sentences, paragraphs, sometimes entire scenes, taking them apart, examining the pieces, and figuring out how they work together. Once I understand the techniques a writer uses, I can imitate them, play with them, and incorporate them into my own writing.

Of course, examining the workings of a piece is just one way slow reading can help. You can also examine themes within the piece, gain a deeper understanding of the characters and their interactions, examine the piece within the context of real-world events, or think of it in any other way you can imagine. Perhaps you can read it on several levels at once, or perhaps you might have to read it several times to fully understand it. You might even write down your thoughts about it as you read, as I do from time to time. That's up to you.

How, then, do you slow down? If you've been reading for as long as I have, you might find you have a tendency to read faster and faster over time. This is natural: after reading a certain writer long enough, your brain will learn their style well enough that you start anticipating where their sentences will go and skimming over words and sentences. Resist this instinct. To stop my brain from speeding up and blowing through pages at a time, I try to read the story aloud, word by word, in my head, to hear the characters' voices and picture the scene. If skim though something by accident, I'll go back and reread it, then and there.

So next time you're reading something, be it for pleasure, work, or any other reason, force yourself to slow down. You might enjoy the results!

Lit Review: The Emperor's Soul

Brandon Sanderson plays with the conventions of epic fantasy in many of his works, but most of it is still epic fantasy in the classic sense. It’s what he’s comfortable with, and he’s very good at it, but the style does grow stale after reading five or six of his novels in a row.

That’s why The Emperor’s Soul surprised me, even before opening it. Here was a tiny book, barely a hundred fifty pages, with the name “Brandon Sanderson” right below the title. I judged it an aberration by the cover, and I was right. It’s short where Sanderson’s other works are lengthy. It’s fast-paced where the others are methodical, cozy and simple where the others are grand and complex, mystical and introspective where the others are precise and sweeping. The Emperor’s Soul is wildly different Sanderson’s other work, and it’s an absolute delight.

It revolves around Shai, an imprisoned con artist forced to use her magic, Forgery, to construct a new soul for the brain-damaged emperor. Forgery allows her to change objects by literally stamping a new past onto them. If the new past is plausible, the object changes. This also works for people, but doing so is vastly difficult. To Forge the emperor’s soul, she must be able to understand and explain every element of his character, which would be an immense challenge even if she weren’t confined to a cell, even if she could interact with him…and she only has a hundred days to do it.

Shai’s task is one of research, empathy, and hard, repetitive work. Forgery is both literary criticism and artistic process as a form of magic, and she spends much of the book collecting information, writing, and rewriting stories until she finds one that explains. Her effort and frustration, terror and exhaustion and elation, and her manic need to finish her project even as time runs short, even as she knows it would be safer and wiser to simply run away, capture the work of art like few other works I’ve seen.

Shai’s task blurs the lines between lie and truth, which comes out in the wonderful interactions with her imprisoner Gaotona. The two grow to understand and respect each other, learning about themselves in the process: she, teaching him the artistry in lies, he, teaching her the value of truth. This wonderfully-constructed relationship grounds the story in strong characterization, making its mystical themes solid and meaningful.

Most of Sanderson’s work moves slowly, but The Emperor’s Soul moves like lightning, its very structure as cramped and hurried as Shai herself. The book is physically small, with claustrophobic pages and short paragraphs. Pacing is quick, chapter titles bear simple timestamps instead of the artful epigraphs Sanderson often employs, and the clipped lexicon and short sentences make the words almost trip over each other in their haste. Every element of the book presses in the feeling of constriction, of time running out, making Shai’s artistic mania seem to crackle off the page.

Even to those who dislike fantasy, The Emperor’s Soul is a wonderful read. Its strong characterization and tight pacing draws you in, and its ingenious use of literary criticism and artistic process as a form of magic rings true to anybody with an interest in literature. For Sanderson’s fans, it’s even more of a treat: its utter uniqueness with respect to his other works and the references to the world of Elantris peppered within just add to it.