Thoughts From a Trayvon Martin Rally

It is difficult for words to express how disgusted I feel with the jury’s decision in the Trayvon Martin case. A vigilante with a history of paranoid behavior racially-profiled and stalked a black boy who did nothing wrong whatsoever, and when the boy confronted his stalker and tried to defend himself, the stalker pulled a gun and shot the boy to death. Those are the indisputable facts of the case. People who argue in George Zimmerman’s favor claim that Trayvon, a lanky teenager, must have been in an advantageous position over his one-hundred-pound-heavier assailant. Of course, we have heard the “who really had the advantageous position?” question before – from those who defended the police following the Rodney King beating.

I read the “acquittal” headline on Sunday morning. It took several minutes for the words to cohere, and when they did, a series of dreadful thoughts began running through my head. What if, instead of Trayvon, it was one of my friends of color who were stalked and killed because they “looked suspicious” and tried to defend themselves? What does this decision confer to these friends of mine about their value in “modern” American society? I made a simple sign – “Justice for Trayvon” – and headed for the Union Square protest.

It began with several hundred people holding a speak-in. Anyone who wanted to speak was encouraged to do so. Because we lacked a PA system, speakers were instructed to use short sentences, which were then repeated (and thus amplified) by the crowd, like affirmations to a prayer. This ”Mike Check” method had a unifying effect: upon echoing modest words such as “I have two black boys,” I can immediately empathize with each speaker and begin to understand the more nuanced implications of the jury’s decision on their lives. Local politicians, university professors, community activists and concerned citizens all took their turn to speak, as facilitated by a charismatic and expertly-competent organizer, bearing the scorching weather in a tie and vest.

We then marched around Union Square Park. Our numbers were not yet large enough to take to the streets, but I nevertheless felt grateful that those around me shared my anger and cared enough to voice it. I chanted at a conversational volume, preferring to internalize the imploring words: “our children matter, our children matter...”

A teach-in followed wherein crowd members offered a diversity of perspectives on the tragedy. None were particularly radical or vengeful, and all expressed a desire for solidarity. In fact, this desire to coalesce against the broad idea of injustice led more than one speaker to declare that Trayvon’s murder was “not a race issue”: a sentiment with which I completely disagree. A series of other speakers pointed the blame at problems in the black community, including drug use, late-night liquor stores, gang membership and gangsta rap. This also irked me, not only because these had nothing to do with the murder of Trayvon Martin, but also because it speaks to an inculcated sense of inferiority within African-American culture; it suggests that Trayvon was killed because black people don’t behave themselves. Such opinions are the painful result of centuries of white supremacy in our country. Fortunately, more than one speaker voiced an opinion with which I agreed; for instance, one woman argued that, although race is a social-construct with no biological basis, racism certainly exists and exerted its deadly-self on poor Trayvon Martin. I also agreed with those who spoke against the legal system. Laws such as “Stand Your Ground” and “Stop-and-Frisk” are designed and utilized to maintain racial hierarchies in America.

The afternoon progressed and our numbers swelled into the thousands. Feeling tired, I was just about to split – I had even handed-off my sign to a fellow demonstrator – when the protesters spilled into Broadway. I joined the march with renewed energy. This time, I chanted the chants at the same angry volume as those around me, shouting “Justice for Trayvon Martin” “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Stop-and-Frisk has got to go!” and a slew of others.

I looked around at my fellow protesters and noticed that a large proportion of them were white. Although thrilled by the number of white people showing camaraderie with the slain black child, certain fears occurred to me: do the majority of people of color feel so disenfranchised by their level of inequality that they think their voice does not matter? Does their voice, in fact, matter in America today? How at-risk do people of color feel at protests? Do they worry that a display of political dissidence could leave them suffering the same fate as Trayvon, perhaps at the hands of the NYPD – those paid to “protect” them? Let us be reminded that the name “Amadou Diallo” still holds a certain currency in New York City.

A fight almost broke out when some onlooker presumably said something calculated to incense a red-headed protester into a furious, threat-filled tirade. At first, the instigator walked away, but then, perhaps feeling the need to prove both himself and his own racialist views, he reversed towards the red-headed protester with all the foolish bravado of a rooster and the kind of smile Eichmann would smile if given a new red pen and a long list of names. Had it not been for a short, stocky black woman rushing towards the fast-escalating fight and risking her own well-being by standing between them, the instigator would have surely swallowed a few teeth. I wondered how the media would have reported the irony of two white men throwing punches, when they were so readily-expecting the “aggressive black male” stock character to explode into riot across urban America that night.

Incidentally, it was that same, culturally-ingrained stereotype that killed a teenage boy a year and a half ago.

A Sociopolitical Anthropology of Office Behavior

Ah, the office: a place more awkward than a class reunion at Introvert High School. Prior to actually wearing the white collar, all I knew about offices was borrowed from Kids in the Hall, which, I daresay, was a grand introduction:

Because politics is off-limits, I fill my conversation with mock-shocked statements about the weather ("can you believe it's raining again?") or reminding my coworkers of the day ("ugh, Monday!"). If I'm feeling particularly adventurous, I’ll allude to some weekend debauchery, but as far as my coworkers are concerned, my Saturday consists of laundry, laundry, laundry.

During my first week, my coworkers took a marked interest in me: the youngest, newest inhabitant sharing their corridors and copy machines. They would constantly ask:

"What's your background?"

Which translates into a question about whether or not you're qualified for your position. For other tyros to the office habitat, and for those likewise lacking in actual job experience, ranting about academic accomplishments seems to have a neutralizing effect, thank the high holy heavens.

Determining the intonations of everyday office language could be paradise to the paranoid. Is "you're so nice" office lingo for "you're such a naive little boy"? Does "get home safely" suggest an inability to take care of oneself?

In addition to language, there's the whole, dire matter of politics, both the interpersonal and macro-level kind. How can we be honest with one another if we are advised not to speak about politics when "the personal is political"?

Veganism is a case in-point. At first, whenever a staff member offered a pastry, a fruitcake or somethings' leg, I'd turn-down the food without explanation. Human Resources identified that I was refusing every food offer. I was told that this could be taken as offensive - not accepting the gifts of others - and so I confessed to my deviant lifestyle. Admittedly, the whole point of veganism is to make a political or philosophical statement, so my initial reluctance to declare my morality sounds less logical than a spray-tan salon in the middle of Oompa-Loompa-land.

Then again, given my apathy towards isinglass and my wardrobe of more than few wool garments, any attempt to share my “reduce harm” mindset seems superficial. I’m not a particularly good vegan; why, I’m worse at veganism than Hitler was at making Jewish friends.

A greater sense of shame resulted from my not challenging the political discourse of others in my office. One coworker (“A ‘liberal,’ but not a “blame-America-first liberal’”) recently claimed that imperialism was a “mixed bag." I'm genuinely embarrassed for not shutting him down; yet, considering my newbie status, I wouldn't want any argument to explode and leave me scraping coins from the subway again. Thus the binds of capitalism.

Finally, being a man in a mostly-female office leads to its share of awkwardness, especially around the damned water cooler, which, I've discovered, forces us to retreat into medieval gender roles. Once I was asked to replace the water tank by an unsmiling, bird-like woman who communicates using automobile sounds. “Beep Beep,” she says, meaning “hi” or “excuse me” or “I am censoring a series of two swear words.” Intending to parody her stereotype of male strength, I said something along the lines of “let me know if you need help with anything else He-Man related,” which I followed quickly with, “I’M SORRY THAT SOUNDED INCREDIBLY SEXIST.” I shouted it across the hall. She didn’t care either way; she simply beeped along like a fussy Fiat in a jubilee traffic jam.

Another female co-worker “needed a man” for the same job, and when I happened to overhear her, I stepped-up to the proverbial, masculinized plate. She thanked me a little too profusely for “acting like a man,” "being a real gentleman" and emphasizing my general manliness in general. Did I offend her? Or were my chest hairs a little too visible? I approached her later on and asked whether she was insulted by my help. She was not; as it turns out, she was emphasizing manliness to emasculate the other male coworker in the room who did not help.

Thank goodness for this one person with whom I work - the other fellow leftist in my office. Whenever we talk, she launches a shameless rant about the importance of feminism, her hatred for her daughter’s hipster boyfriend (whom she impersonates with a hilarious, lackadaisical Californian accent) or her love of Ian MacKaye. I knew we were cut from the same cloth when she looked at my Doc Martens and said that, in her days on the New York City punk circuit, they used to call them “shitkickers."

Eleven Ecstatically Happy Songs

To celebrate the return of my favorite childhood confectionery - hot cinnamon tic tacs - there follows a list of all-purpose, ebullient tunes. This should recompense for a previous entry suiting quite the opposite set of moods. Enjoy!
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"Sweet Jane," by The Velvet Underground

I'd call this classic, but then again, I call everything by The Velvet Underground classic.

"All Around You (Intro)," by The Brian Jonestown Massacre

The warm, friendly bit of psychedelic trippiness that kicks-off The Satanic Majesties' Second Request.

"Punk Rock Girl," by The Dead Milkmen

I can't listen to this one without grinning widely. Everything about this is hilarious. Three cheers for the Philadelphian accent!

"Certain People I Know," by Morrissey

Miserablist my arsenal: a song for those days when you can take just about anything with a grain of salt... or sand.

"The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)," by Simon and Garfunkel

I listened to this frequently when I first returned to dear old Glasgow. Continuing my education in the city I loved most meant the constant need to stifle spontaneous smiling. "What the fuck is he so happy about?"

"Can't Hardly Wait," by The Replacements

Nervous anticipation, when, after far too long, we finally know for certain that it's all going to turn out wonderfully.

"Change," by The Lightning Seeds

"Oh, you fool, you've got me started..."

"I Kissed a Girl," by Jill Sobule

A convincing little love song for the list.

"The Big Sky," by Kate Bush

"That cloud... that cloud... looks like Ireland!" I likewise tend to spot geopolitical entities in the sky.

"Waiting for the Great Leap Forward," by Billy Bragg

Takes you down before taking you way, way up. This is for all of you dispirited lefties out there: if no one out there understands, start your own revolution and cut out the middle-man!

"Tom Hark," by Elias and his Zig Zag Jive Flutes

Pennywhistle playfulness from South Africa, 1956. Stewart Lee must be a fan.

31 Cents

I was sitting on the M train immediately after a job interview, ruminating over my triumphs (including when I advocated reflexive social sciences research and the interviewers glanced at each other approvingly) and my epic fails (I misheard the name of one of my prospective employers and, throughout the entirety of the interview, of all possible names, I addressed her as “Toker.” Her name was Jan). Amid the usual post-interview uncertainty, I attempted to calculate the chances of my actually being hired, and although disappointment is about as novel to the underemployed as corn-clotted braces are to Justin Bieber concerts, on the whole, I felt sanguine.

Across from me, a stylish man – the kind whose boots match his bag – let a few coins drop from his pocket to the floor. He noticed these fallen coins, but chose to leave them there. Presumably, picking them up would clash with his super stylish image, as complimented – ironically of course – by the free copy of Am New York that so engrossed him. Indeed, a stylish man must never condescend to pick-up petty change from the filthy floor, even if it is his own. He probably prefers his coinage uncirculated. Perhaps he prefers his oxygen un-breathed as well. A mild, proletarian contempt rose within me before the prude alighted at the next Midtown stop.

I looked around. A young, tired-looking woman next to me had spotted the money, but turned her attention away. A few cents weren’t worth the price of contemplation. An older woman then boarded the train. She wore one of those shapeless, synthetic, black bubble coats that characterize winter fashion in deprived neighborhoods. She sat in front of the coins, noticed them, and with dignity and grace, left them alone.

I wanted the coins, but given this weird, new social convention, I wondered what the other passengers would think of me. This could reflect poorly on my Jewish heritage; everyone knows the joke about how Jews created the Grand Canyon after a penny was dropped into a rabbit hole, probably absentmindedly by a stylish man. Then I remembered that, physically, I more strongly resemble an Arab Muslim than I do any Ashkenazi Jewish person (judging by the amount of Muslim men who wish me "as-salam alaykum" as we pass each other by), leading me to wonder if a stereotype of the “cheap Arab” also persisted in the Western imagination. The “funny” thing about Islamophobia and Anti-Semitism is that they frequently cross paths and end up affecting the same people; let us remember that Palestinians, Syrians and others originating from the Arabian Peninsula are Semites too.

The coins were yet another example of waste, and I’ve always found waste offensive; it irks me, for instance, when people don’t eat their pizza crusts, or when they fail to finish their beers, and don’t even get me started on the dainty, lily-livered fusspots who cut their sandwich bread into exact, white squares, binning those savory end bits that, personally, I could survive upon.

Of course, those examples of waste pale in comparison to the amount of waste in our economic system at-large. It infuriates me that the unemployed must be kept unemployed to keep inflation low (if we approached full employment, job-seekers and low-wage employees could demand more money). Furthermore, on the production-side, unsold goods are trashed to keep supply low and thus revenue high, and who’s to say that the general structure of “productive” units actually produce efficiently? Autocratic management structures are in themselves wasteful: why not have workplaces in which producers, all with a stake in a company, delegate tasks democratically? As a global system, capitalism is heavily prone to mismanaging resources.

The train stopped at West 4^th Street, where I meant to transfer to the D. The coins were still lying there. Trying only to focus on the task ahead of me, not letting my facial expression give away any thought at all, I knelt down and picked up the coins one-by-one: first the quarter, second the nickel, third the penny.

After leaving the subway car, an obvious thought finally occurred to me. All this cognitive effort resulted in an entirely insignificant act: what the heck can I buy with 31 cents?

12 Classic Youth (Un)Employment Songs

I like to think of the following as coming-of-age music. They all highlight that pivotal point in our lives when we confront the impracticality of our greatest aspirations: an inevitable, albeit difficult part of growing-up. If you're in that proverbial boat, may these songs - angry yet empathetic - lend you some comfort.
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“Career Opportunities,” by The Clash

Emphasizing the whole youth thing, here's the version on Sandinista!, sung by Mickey Gallagher's (the keyboardist from Ian Dury and the Blockheads) two boys.

“Ghost Town,” by The Specials

Reckless driving through deserted streets... written after a visit to Glasgow.

“Living with Unemployment,” by The Oppressed

I was first introduced to the Newtown Neurotics version of this song, but The Oppressed, an anti-fascist skinhead band, wrote it first. Both versions are excellent.

“When You’re Young,” by The Jam

"Swallow your youthful pride!" belted The Jam to a bunch of teens, live on Something Else. And then the end credits start rolling.

“The Government Administrator,” by Eggs

Indie rock song about deciding whether or not to apply for a job you don't really want, while waiting among a sea of other nervous applicants, with that demon on your shoulder reminding you that time is running out.

“To Have and Have Not,” by Billy Bragg

Leave it to Billy Bragg to powerfully-link youth unemployment with the structural defects inherent in capitalism:
"At twenty one you're on top of the scrapheap
At sixteen you were top of the class
All they taught you at school
Was how to be a good worker
The system has failed you, don't fail yourself"

“What’s Happening Brother?” by Marvin Gaye

Coming home from the Vietnam War to a country in socio-economic mailaise.

“Young, Gifted and Skint,” by New Model Army

There's probably a Nina Simone/Lorraine Hansberry reference in that title... About being fresh out of university and heavily in debt: how relatable!

“Bastards of Young,” by The Replacements

A rallying cry for anyone experiencing the various quarter-life crises, (un)employment included.

“1 in 10,” by UB40

As in, one out of ten people unemployed in the United Kingdom during the time the song was written. A testimony to the apathy with which society regards the unemployed poor. The band itself is named after a claim form for "the dole."

“Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do?),” by Wham!

George Michael sings something vaguely political, but not politically-correct (I have full confidence that you’ll detect the lyric to which I am referring…)

“Hand in Pocket,” by Alanis Morissette

We'll end this entry on a note of cautious optimism: "I'm young and I'm underpaid, I'm tired but I'm workin', yeah!"

Indeed, as Alanis consoles:
"No one's really got it figured out just yet"