Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Settling Some Hash

So there are these missing girls in Nigeria.  A terrorist group whose name I will not deign to mention has kidnapped some 200 school girls and is holding them hostage, trying to get the Nigerian government to release some political prisoners.

This is of course despicable, and no sane person will gainsay that accusation.  Everyone, EVERYONE with a shred of decency agrees that this act was utterly evil, and completely devoid of any justice or morality.  It was the malicious act of irredeemably reprehensible men, and those perpetrators deserve the harshest justice that can be meted out to such villains.

But that is about all that anyone can agree on in the situation, and naturally I’m not going to waste time in condemning the malefactors, and expressing my sympathies with the victims, because of course I don’t need to; that should go entirely without saying.

But not everyone feels the same as I do (which I account the cause of most of the world’s suffering, but I might be somewhat biased on that subject.)  Indeed, some are so upset by this (starting with the understandably distraught parents of the missing girls,) they feel the need to express their outrage at such a malevolent act.

Many wish to draw attention to the plight of these girls, as they felt that the news media (both mainstream and whatever we are calling the ‘other side’ today,) did not make enough of a deal about it when it first happened (although to be fair, in America we did have football players kissing, so cut us some slack here, because priorities and all.)

But for others, they simply want to show that they too are horrified at the kidnapping, and about what they see as the Nigerian government’s unwillingness to act.  So they have joined an informal campaign to raise awareness of this crime, while simultaneously showing their support for those girls who have been taken from their families.

No one here is shocked that I am talking about what has come to be known as “hashtag activism.”  This is a hot topic right now, to the point that I think more people are focusing on the hashtag activism than on the atrocious deed itself.

Of course this phenomenon is not new; from Kony 2012 and beyond, people use social media like Facebook and that twit thing people are always referencing to show their support for important causes like kidnapped children.  But since these are the same platforms normally used to talk about the latest Justin Bieber outrage and last night’s episode of The Walking Dead, such attempts tend to look pathetic, pointless, and ineffective, while those celebrities and public figures who pass it on are viewed as attention whores jumping on the bandwagon.

Now usually when people see there hashtags, they will have one of two standard responses.  They will either respond with: “wow, I too believe in supporting this cause, I will hit the like/forward/retweet button and show that I am a part of this global community supporting/condemning this important issue,” or else they will say “whatever,” and move on with their lives.

But the situation was changed recently when First Lady Michelle Obama posted a picture of herself supporting the #Bringbackourgirls cause.  She just wrote it on a piece of paper and held it up in a photo looking appropriately sad (not a time for big smiles, people.)

Well that provoked the inevitable response.  Our country’s government (similar to the justice system in many ways,) is an adversarial system.  The various sides of an argument (okay yes, I realize there are really only two sides these days, but I mean in theory,) work to discredit and undermine the works of the other.  This is done with the clear and rational goal of promoting one’s own agenda at the expense of the opposition’s.

But today we do not just attack positions, we attack the people themselves, demonizing them as best we can in the hope of crushing their beliefs and driving them out of government and out of the public consciousness.  And if you should criticize this practice of constant smear attacks, you are certain to be targeted yourself (“ad hominem?  That sounds like some sort of faggotty foreign talk, buddy!”)

And the days of treating the president’s wife as a plain old civilian died long ago.  No matter what she says, no matter what she espouses ("the Nazis promoted healthy school lunches too!”) she is as much a target as her husband, and must be shouted down, no matter how little impact she actually has on the government (did it matter if Laura Bush had killed a guy in a traffic accident?  Did that have any bearing on her husband’s ability to lead?)

So of course the loudest voices on the opposition swooped in quickly to attack her hashtag activism, and began screeching about how pointless such sentimentality is.  And of course, this painted the whole concept of using social media to promote social causes as inherently Liberal (and therefore yet another heinous crime on par with kidnapping Nigerian girls.)

I’m really not here to argue about whether such campaigns are effective or worthwhile.  Personally, I’m one of those curmudgeonly types who rolls his eyes at such stuff and dismisses it all as yet another pointless aspect of modern society that eludes me, like texting, having pants sag down below the waist, or approaching science the same way as religion (picking and choosing the parts with which you agree.)

I do not twit, so I only know about these hashtags (which seems like a wasted name to me; I would have called them ‘waffle fries’ instead, but no one asked me,) when people on the news get upset about them.  So I’m not going to weigh in on whether they are A: a powerful means of getting important messages out to the world and bring social pressure on important figures like the military leaders and government officials of Nigeria, or B: a pointless waste of time for wooly-headed Liberals who think they can change the world by literally twiddling their thumbs instead of taking any real action.  Or C: a little from both.

Instead, I’m here to give you the D.

Because while I will agree that hashtag activism might or might not be a complete and utter waste of time, I can tell you with 100% certainty what is truly pointless, and that is the people who spend their time screeching about how ineffective it is.

I mean, think about it: you are taking the time to create and post a photo on the internet mocking people who are voicing (sort of) their support or condemnation of a cause in which they believe.  You never see a big outcry against tweeting that they are for Team Jacob (or Team Coco, or whatever frivolous crap people are talking about,) it’s only when people promote these hashtags about important stuff that the haters crawl out of the woodwork (or at least break out their photo editing software and the Impact fonts,) to decry such half-assed efforts.

And most of the ones I’ve seen are complaints that hashtag activists are simply jumping on the bandwagon (a valid argument,) and that they are trying to help by simply ‘raising awareness’ rather than actually doing something about it.

But the people who post these things are putting real work into showing how pointless these tweets are.  So their argument comes across as: “you people are all lazy!  I’ll show you how lazy you are by spending my time creating something and commenting about your hashtags while not doing anything about the situation either.”

Your whole ‘#you’renothelping’ attitude?  It’s not helping either.

Didn’t you get that lesson about “if you can’t improve on silence” when you were a kid?

But here’s the thing:  these pathetic attempts to raise awareness are really just cries of frustration.  There are serious problems in the world, and social media has brought these tragedies into our lives in a way never before seen in history.  And people feel empathy.  They see terrible shit that they can’t fix themselves.  So these silly little (probably pointless) tweets are really a way to vent that frustration.

So here’s something to consider:  If you’ve ever forwarded or retweeted some snarky comment about how stupid hashtag activism (hashtagtivism?) is, I want you to step outside for a moment.

No, I mean literally step outside.  Take a walk out to where your car is parked.  Now go around to the back of the car and look, and tell me what you see.  Any ribbon stickers back there?  Be honest, now.

If you’ve ever put a yellow ribbon sticker on your vehicle ‘to support the troops,’ answer this: did it help?  Did your yellow ribbon (or star-spangled version) do anything at all to actually support the troops?  Did it stop any bullets or uncover any IED’s?  Did it send body armor to a soldier on the line of duty, or deliver medical care or morale-boosting letters from home?  Did the money you paid to Wal Mart or wherever actually go towards the soldiers?

Or did you do it because you believed in supporting the brave men and women in harm’s way?  Did you do it to show your support, because that seemed like all you could personally do?

And bumper sticker empathy doesn’t just come in yellow: have the proliferation of stickers cured breast cancer, autism, or toe fungus?  Obviously not, and I doubt most of the people who slap those stickers on the back of their cars believe that they are striking a mighty blow in the struggle for these causes, but rather they want to show their support.  To show that they care, and even though they have no power whatsoever (not even the First Lady,) to fix this problem, they care about it, that they want to see a positive ending to the story.

And if such token gestures still piss you off, I want you to go out this Sunday and drive around.  And every time you pass a church or other house of worship, I want you to go inside.  And when they get to the part where they ask parishioners to pray for the sick, the needy, or soldiers in the line of fire, I want you to stand up, look them all in the face and tell the congregation, with that same air of smug superiority, that they are wasting their time, and that openly displaying their thought and feelings in the hope that someone will hear their hopes and help a bad situation is stupid and pointless.

Because we could spend all day arguing about whether or not a flood of tweets will ever have any real social impact, but you know what?  You know what I know with absolute certainty?


That wouldn’t actually help anything.

Friday, May 16, 2014

Life, the Universe, and Everything

Today is my birthday.

I turned 42 today, and as much as I am expected (nigh obliged to,) make a Douglas Adams joke, I shall forbear to instead deal with a more serious issue.

I turned 42 today.  Do you realize how close that is to fifty?  Do you realize how far away that is from thirty?  Do you realize I can't even remember twenty?  I mean 42?  Forty-fucking TWO?  Are you kidding me?

That's just so awesome.

I haven't been this elated since I turned 41.  And it's not because I'm stoked about my birthday because of any special celebration on this day; I've never been a big 'birthday blowout' kind of guy.  I don't even take the day off from work or anything; my lovely coworkers got me cards and some very nice office supplies and an excellent home-made "candy bar ice cream pie," all of which I really and truly appreciate, but other than that, it was a regular day.  I went to work, did my job, brought the kids to the library and came home to cook dinner for my family.  Just another day.

But what this day represents to me is far more important to me than any party could ever be.  I am a year older.  I have aged enough that the numerical metric of my lifespan is moved forward by one standard increment.  Ding, motherfucker, I just leveled up.

And I'm proud of this achievement.

But not everyone sees it this way.  Most of my coworkers (overwhelmingly females older than myself,) make jokes about denying their age, or remarking with only partially mocking horror at the realizations of how old they are.  Several of them engage in the time-honored tradition of remaining thirty-nine in perpetuity, a joke that was old when Wilde spun it.

But I have spent the day crowing about my new age, like a kid who just turned ten.  I do that pretty much every year.  I am just so psyched (in my own, low-key sort of way,) about racking up another year like I just painted another plane silhouette on the side of my fighter (I've surely made ace by now.)  Why would someone voluntarily deny their age?

I guess it's a healthy person thing.

I mean, if you've lived your whole life taking the idea of seeing forty for granted, I guess I can see how it could be seen as distressing, or at least how one could joke about it.  But for other folks, every year is like a damn medal pinned to your chest.

My mother was diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease when I was a mere lad of nineteen.  When she learned that she had PKD, my siblings and I were informed that any of us could have ticking time bombs inside us as well (spoiler alert: it was all three of us.)  Now don't get me wrong, if you absolutely HAD to choose a disease to have, you could sure do worse than good ol' PKD.

But the fact is, the threat of death by kidney failure is still real, hanging over your head like the scalpel of Damocles.  Because even if you do end up lucky enough to get a kidney transplant, (which my sister did on this very day a few years ago, yet another reason to celebrate,)  the condition is still likely to statistically shorten your life.

So I can thrust out my jaw defiantly and say that I never took statistics, but no amount of giant balls (which I no longer have, remember,) or pithy one-liners can guarantee you continued health.  Either death or dialysis (arguably better,) remain real possibilities.

So I'm not twenty-nine, I'm not thirty-nine, I'm not even thirty-nine and a half.  I am, (to quote Oscar Wilde again,) fully forty-two.

I am proud of that number.  I am proud of every grey hair crawling out of my beard, every centimeter backwards that my hairline inexorably creeps each year, and if I wasn't so fat that my skin is always stretched tight I'd be proud of every wrinkle.

Because I am alive.  I've made it; the reaper has been denied for another year.  PKD can kiss my ass.

Because I'm forty-fucking-two.

And that makes me one hoopy frood.