Arizona Authoritarianism

I don't typically write posts like this on this blog, but when issues like this arise there's no room for subtlety at all. I lived in Yuma, Arizona, between the ages of 10 and 18, from 1980 to 1988, and my experiences in that environment shaped my understanding of the state's politics and economics. Because my personal experiences in other parts of the U.S. have proven to be so much less disturbing in comparison I have most often downplayed just how horrific the political and economic powers in that state were (and apparently still are). I suppose I was just grateful to be able to move away to more humane environments populated by others who had much more compassion for those less financially fortunate.

But this story on Huffington Post about Arizona's new immigration law is just too Orwellian to ignore. Most sane individuals seem to conceive of Arizona's immigration politics as racist. Yes, they are. But they are far more insidious than that. This is more an issue of class than race as far as I can tell. Under this new immigration law, schools will lose state funding if they offer courses that "advocate ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals."

On the surface, it seems "merely" racist, but the implications of the use of "ethnic solidarity" in this new law seem to indicate that Arizona lawmakers are trying to thwart any threats to the state's long-standing practice of exploiting cheap ethnic labor. I say that because I witnessed first-hand how immigrant labor was exploited and abused by wealth while working in industrial farm fields harvesting watermelons and grapes with migrant laborers in the late 80s. It seems to me that the thinking of lawmakers is that if there is solidarity amongst ethnic immigrants and those culturally different then there is the possibility of those classes exercising their political rights to free assembly, to organize as a group, as a collective, as a political and economic power. Labor standing up to ownership in order to demand fair wages and basic human rights? Arizona's legal answer to that possibility is a resounding "Fuck no!" Businesses love Arizona because it's the next best thing to operating in "third-world" countries without substantive labor laws or environmental protections. As I said before, this is far more about class than it is race (not that the two can really be isolated in that state because historically the Mexican immigrants--legal and "illegal"--have been exploited as cheap labor).

The closest thing I've written on this blog about this issue is my entry titled "Illegal Mexican Immigrant Socrates." What I was exploring in that piece was the impotence of philosophy, reason, and logic in the face of abusive power. "might makes right" in Arizona politics and economics. The nuts and bolts of the state's laws and law enforcement practices reflect the influence of the state's wealth. The best way to understand the state's approach to politics or economics is as an authoritarianism designed to maintain the status quo in relation to industrial agriculture and defense contracting.

Now, that might seem counterintuitive given the rhetoric of "individualism" and "individual rights" that spews forth from politicians and business leaders in the state. The quote from above is a perfect example of that rhetoric. In one breath, they present a contradiction by imposing an authoritarian will against the individual, denying the possibility of an individual student's choice to learn about ethnicity, collectivism, and any alternative form of political philosophy or cultural identity by creating an educational climate that financially punishes schools that offer ethnic studies classes in their curricula. And this new law also rejects the "individualism" of persons who speak English with an accent (those who learned English as a second language) by denying them the right to teach English in Arizona schools.

This contradiction, the authoritarian cult of "individuality," is one of the pillars of the unspoken but very real religion of Arizona: maintaining historical power dynamics between wealthy ownership and impoverished labor. As I said, it's a rhetorical contradiction that in practice is quite coherent: "Individualism," as framed by Arizona lawmakers, in a state of economic and political inequality benefits the few who have amassed the greatest wealth and political power at the expense of the rights and well-being of the poor and culturally different. Such a philosophy ensures an eternal recurrence of the state's historical status quo: wealth's position of power is strengthened for its self-interested perpetual benefit while the position of weakness of the masses of financially, politically, and legally impotent laborers becomes ever more entrenched.

To add insult to injury, there is also the notion that those being exploited have only themselves to blame for their misery, as if the impositions of state law and policy do not create an institutional hierarchy of social and economic injustice. The unspoken implication is that the impoverished and culturally different could liberate themselves from their suffering by simply changing their attitudes and dutifully submitting to the abhorrent ethics of the state's wealth and power. A potential "escape" from this otherwise inevitable indentured servitude is presented rhetorically to the public by talk radio personalities and newspaper editorials for those who are willing to assist the exploitative practices of entrenched ownership and political power by practicing an antagonism toward the weakest and most vulnerable residents and laborers in the state. In other words, if you are willing to become "one of us" by abusing these "evil others" then perhaps you may eventually share in the spoils of dominance. Perhaps. No guarantees. Because of that, it's just a way to encourage the poor to police themselves by internalizing the dominant ideology of the state.

Arizona also suffers from a bizarre and disconcerting religious dynamic that supports the class/race division in the state. While it's far more complicated than what I am presenting here, I recall two extremes in the state: on one hand, there was the Mexican and Mexican-American mystical Catholicism that was centered on the practiced ideals of family and community and, on the other hand, there was a strange alliance between the white WASP-like pseudo-mystical Protestant evangelicalism and the white WASP-like pseudo-mystical Mormonism that was rhetorically centered on ideals of individuality, self-reliance, and merit-based accomplishment (while, in practice, the alliance acted in an insular fashion that had nothing at all to do with individualism, self-reliance, or merit-based accomplishment).

The enforcement of the state's draconian drug laws also seemed to ensure the continuation of the dominance/submission dynamic between wealth and the ethnic working poor. The laws were enforced in an uneven fashion through the almost exclusive focus of the state law enforcement's attention on the poor. The relative absence of property ownership and the grouping of ethnically and culturally different peoples in centralized and easy-to-isolate pockets of poverty made it easy for state law enforcement agencies and personnel to target, harass, and control those populations. Amongst the poor, the ethnic poor in particular, these tactics created an even greater sense of helplessness and hopelessness, a sense that the poor and the brown-skinned have few if any rights, no recourse to the law, and were, essentially, slaves to aggressively hostile agents of political and economic power. The criminal justice system, like all institutional powers in Arizona, functioned as an ally of wealth against the interests of the poor and culturally different.

In that sense, there is nothing new going on here at all. This is just another wave of terror against a class of individuals who have been historically abused and exploited by wealth and political power in Arizona.

Fuck Arizona. Pinche putos.

this is something ... thisisnothing ... this is something ... thisisnothing ... this is something?

I think Buddha's a motherfucker.

See, I've always been confused by the Buddhist concept of nothingness. Of the concept of nothingness in general, though, really. It's just that I first encountered the concept through Buddhism. But it's nothingness itself that confuses me. I can understand the idea that nothing could theoretically exist, but I can't reconcile that idea with the conflicting idea that everything I perceive as "something" is an illusion. I can understand it in the sense that the interpretation of everything we see is an illusion. That I'm humble enough to acknowledge.

What I'm wondering is how an illusion could arise from nothingness without nothingness becoming "something" and, therefore ... no longer nothingness. Something and nothing cannot co-exist. They can alternate in being (inexplicably), but that would mean something would have every right to claim that nothingness is the illusion. From my perspective, that seems to be the case. But that also means time has to be factored into the equation. I can understand the idea that time itself is an illusion. As I mentioned earlier, I have no problem with the notion that all of our perceptions are illusory distortions of reality. But distortions of nothingness? How can nothingness be distorted? By what? My "point" of perceptual awareness? Is perception itself, regardless of interpretation, the illusion? If so, how? How can perception exist at all--awareness!--if there is nothing? It's nonsense.

But what of these ideas, if that's the case? The idea that being is absurd, that it's just a paradoxical charade filled with sorrow and laughter even though nothing actually exists ... except in the consciousness of a being that I experience as me even though I and nothing else exists. Fucking ridiculous. I don't know what type of fungi the Buddha was ingesting, but it clearly fucked with his brain. Maybe nothingness was an aspiration of his. Or maybe he was onto something with the idea that existence is both a happy accident and a cruel absurdity. It feels that way. But the idea of a nothingness with consciousness and ability to create the illusion of there being something for beings that don't exist ... all concoctions of the mind, the ultimate illusion. Mastery in terms of absolutely the opposite of every bit of sense I possess. Which is why the Buddha may be right. There's just no way of knowing and, given that, nothingness seems no less absurd than "somethingness."

By the way, I think Phil Hartman encapsulated Buddhism perfectly in this sketch (I could only find the transcript):

Phil Hartman

how to fall in love

I met Gina at an unannounced street performance of West Side Story just west of the Jordaan. It was later in the evening, dusk, and I saw her dress swirling in the wind, illuminated by the lavender sky, and the silhouette of her body, strikingly long and lithe, backlit by the setting sun. The shock of her hair crackled into the sky like a roaring fire and sparkles of subatomic explosions generated a rainbow-colored neon halo that ebbed and flowed above and around her head and body. I wondered if her being spontaneously generated as a quantum eclipse coming between me and the sun, an unusual gift of accidental physics transforming my deepest subconscious longings into a physical being, a creation infinitely superior to "her" creator, as if I'd momentarily been given the opportunity to make the decision to defy natural laws to recreate the universe in a fashion less structurally indifferent to life. More specifically, a universe passionately engaged and aware of individuated beings acting with compassion, mercy, and affection.

I have to admit, it shocked me to witness the universe's change in attitude. I did not expect to have the ability, even if just for a moment, to spontaneously use my subconscious to create a real-world vision of perfect beauty and love. I've wondered since if I had seen Gina for the first time from any other location with a different perspective if I would have noticed the willingness of the universe to creatively collaborate with me. As an artist, I long to create with others so, I mean, the opportunity to work with the untapped power of the universe to create a being made strictly from particles of passion (Pa), joy (Jy), and love (Lv)? Some artists have aspirations of making it in, say, New York. To show work in an elite setting, a setting considered a pinnacle? Understandable, but there's something to be said for omnipotence.

Naturally, I was drawn toward my creation. As I neared, she became more and more radiant. Her face came into focus and she sent a smile that rearranged molecules throughout my body. I was subsequently recreated by my creation as something that exceeded anything I ever imagined I could be. I understood in a flash why a god might think so highly of its creations and why an artist might believe a particularly extraordinary work of art exceeds her own abilities and, through this recognition, uses her creation to develop a deeper appreciation of life. In the process, the artist learns how to live and, perhaps, the universe learns how to love. 

 Gina's eyes, powdered blue with streaks of lightning emanating from liquid black opals, showed me worlds within myself that defied every angle of my sense of "how things are" and even "how things could be." I saw it all, everything good that there was, is, or ever will be. And I saw that she saw more than that even, more than I could ever see, and tears flowed from my eyes as I kept walking toward her, pulled by the gravity of her love. I stopped within a foot of her and simply gazed into her eyes. She never blinked but her eyes seemed to glisten brighter and brighter as I looked. The passage of time became a ridiculous concept.

Thinking about it now, I wonder if that moment exists eternally? If all moments exist without end, not as they are, but as they are created anew and anew. Thinking back about falling in love, it seems as if it's the height of our being. The purpose of our being. And perhaps it is just to ensure that individuals continue procreating to renew the species again and again because that's the design of life, to recreate itself indefinitely, adapting to changing environments by creating new versions of itself more suited to meet those changes.

But why is the story told that way if it is felt in such a radically different way? What is the purpose of telling the story of love from an analytical or critical point of view? To control it? To manipulate it? To what end? Gina spoke, her voice like a harp and her breath fluttering into my chest like a hummingbird, "You are beaming." I shook my head yes and tried to keep my heart from exploding through my ribs. Gina laughed at me and shook her head. Her strawberry hair was still whipping in the wind like a cotton-candy inferno. The light was dimming and as it did her face took on a more earthy realness. Less like a fire angel or a phoenix and more like an adventurous, cocksure urban sprite. Somehow her body moved without moving, gracefully energetic, exuding both ease and desire. She seemed to look right through me, as if I wasn't there at times, as if there was something in the universe more interesting than I.

I realized she was watching the play on the street spill over into the park. Tony, filled with joy, ran into Maria on the playground. I turned back to Gina. She opened her mouth to say something but then stopped. It seemed like she either lost the words or lost the nerve. She's human after all! For some reason I was overjoyed by this realization. It was a little intimidating being in the presence of absolute perfection. Don't the cracks and fissures in the Pieta give the beauty of the sculpture a soulfulness it otherwise lacked? Plus, I wondered if she might disappear at any moment.

My heart, instead of trying to rip through my chest, relaxed in the warmth of appreciative breathing. The sensation of impending explosion along with the paradoxical obliteration of time ceased. Her mouth dangled open as she stared at me and then her the expression on her face shifted, becoming softer, much more gentle. Her hair settled down and the wind followed suit. Her dress came to rest against her body. She blinked her eyes several times. Her chest heaved as she took a deep breath. Her smile widened as she exhaled. 

 "That was exhilarating, but, damn, that took a little bit out of me."

"I'll bet it did. There were quarks popping in and out of existence all around you. I thought we might all be obliterated by an explosion of love--and I was kind of hoping for it--but you showed a little humanity there a second ago."

"I know, right? It was like, man, I am really going to set the world afire if I don't take a deep breath. I mean, I love you all so I'd prefer not to incinerate you ... even if it would be a perfect way to go."

"You know, since we're talking about death, can I just ask why?"

Gina sighed. "I can't really say. I'm still trying to figure it all out myself. I mean, I got pretty good working with certain techniques, but as time and space changes beyond my wildest imaginings and certainly as life began developing I've found myself at a loss. I just don't know where to go from here. I did not expect self-aware beings to develop in the way that you did. Humanity, I mean. It's so ... ugly!"

"Sadly, I agree with you. Humanity is incredibly ugly much of the time."

"Why don't you love more?"

"Not very many of us have learned how to love. Heck, I'm not sure very many even know what love means."

"It doesn't matter what you know. It's what you do."

"Unfortunately, you're wrong about that."

"No, I specifically engineered the universe to result in self-aware beings who willingly choose to love one another all the time. Every single moment. All of your internal struggles are the result of your spiritual misalignments. They're along your spine, by the way, so stop with the hocus-pocus beliefs and do some yoga for crissakes. Breathing is pretty important, you know? Drink plenty of liquids. Make sure you're eating healthy food. Actively engage your creativity."

"I did. I mean, I created you, after all."

"No, I created you."

"Yeah, but I created you first."

"Ha!" Gina almost fell on the ground laughing. "You created me first? Oh, you have got to be kidding. I rearranged your entire cellular composition, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what do you think you did to me when I came into being here? You just chose to rearrange the physics of your perception so that you could see me. You certainly didn't create me in the fashion you believe."

"Wow. That's heavy."

"Yeah. Now you're getting it."

God caressed my cheek with her left hand. For some reason, it tasted like sugar and then my legs turn to rubber. I swooned. Gina scooped her right arm around my body and caught me as I nearly fainted. I looked up at her face shrouded by a wild mane of blonde fuchsia against the backdrop of a purple dark sky. She raised me up and as I steadied myself on my feet she leaned in to kiss me.

You know that scene near the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey.? Yeah, it wasn't anything like that. I just felt the moist softness of her lips against mine, the pressure of them changing as she moved them, puckering, unpuckering, opening, a flicker of her tongue and then the fullness of her lips curled around mine, a rhythmic dance that develops into a language all its own. I felt Gina's fingers digging into my back and gradually working their way down, massaging even the last bit of tension from my body. I lost track of everything but the physical sensation of pure pleasure.

When I finally came out of the trance I found myself in the Flying Crow Pose. The God who created me who I recreated who recreated me was nowhere to be found. I was everywhere, though. Everyone on the street was a different version of me. I saw myself in everyone. And I loved me. I wanted to ask the different versions of me how I was doing, if I could use some help in any way. Sometimes I said yes to myself and sometimes I said no. It seemed to depend on how the particular me had developed. I felt tremendous joy when I ran into myself when I was happy and generous and sadness when I saw myself filled with sorrow or fear.

I still don't know how to describe the emotion I feel when I see cruelty and indifference, though. Something akin to mourning or grief, I suppose. I've been wondering if suffering is a necessary ingredient for love. Everyone I've ever met who is kind or generous has also told me that the world is a vicious, cruel place and that it might just be a miracle that anyone cares at all. But they always defy their own logic by acting with love toward others. It often seems to be the people who have the fewest reasons to love who demonstrate the most extraordinary abilities to love abundantly. Why is that?

how to relax (part I)

K. D. and Gloria walked into the cafe a little after three that afternoon. I'd just arrived and ordered an espresso. They plopped down across from me armed with shopping bags. They looked exhausted.

"What the hell are you guys doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're backpacking through Europe and you have like six shopping bags on you. It's your second day here!" I laughed. They shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

"I'm just giving you a hard time. I really have no idea what you're going to do with that stuff other than ship it back or maybe put it in a storage locker at the train station. I assume your return flight is out of Schiphol?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's probably the cheapest and most convenient alternative. So, what did you buy."

K. D. groaned. "Shoes. Lots of shoes."

"Shut up. What about the African mask and the globe that marks smoke-friendly cities with a pot leaf?"

"Those are legitimate souvenirs. They say to everyone, 'Hey, I was traveling through Europe and I found this weird shit that has no value whatsoever.' I can show it to my friends."

Gloria put her head in her hands. "Oh my God."

"I've been thinking that I need a room just for weird stuff. No furniture, nothing functional at all. Just strange objects and knickknacks scattered strategically around the room. Maybe some stuff hanging on walls, some dangling from the ceiling. A few things glued or nailed to the floor at odd angles that seem to defy gravity."

"And what room are you planning on using?"

"I was thinking the spare bedroom would work?"

"You're a child."

"It sounds pretty fun to me, K. D." Gloria glared at me. "Hey, I'm just being honest. I mean, shit, I don't live with him so it just sounds cool. I mean, if I come to visit I want to crash in the weird room."

"See?"

"You're both children. I'll just get a sandbox and you two can play in the backyard."

"That's a cool idea, too."

"Yeah, I'd be even more likely to come visit if you had a sandbox."

Laughter. When we all ran out of steam and stopped to breath I said, "Look, I figured you guys are probably pretty wiped out. You've been going pretty hard ever since you arrived so I made reservations for massages at a spa. A Dutch spa. Meaning, co-ed and clothing optional."

"Really?" asked Gloria. She seemed interested.

"Yeah. It'll be relaxing. You'll feel like you're in heaven."

"I don't know, Michael. It's just--"

"Money? Hey, it's on me if that's the case. I mean, I made the reservations without even asking you so it's only fair."

"No, no, no. That's not it. Thank you, but, no, there's no way you're paying for that. Hell you've already been too generous! It's just--"

"Why did you make the reservations, Michael?"

"Because it seemed like a good idea."

"But why?"

"Because massages feel good."

"Or maybe you just want to see me naked."

"I've seen you naked. Last night. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well ..." Gloria laughed. "Yeah, okay. Sorry. The American in me."

"Fair. Okay, so we need to be there in an hour so we should get going. It's probably about a half hour walk. We can take your bags back to my apartment first then go."

Gloria turned her head. "K. D.?"

"Sure. Why not? Michael hasn't steered us wrong yet. Thanks, man."

"No problem."

"But we'll pay our own way."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

I paid for my espresso and we walked down the block to my place. Gloria wanted to change. I told them to just grab a change of clothes. "There are showers there. You're going to be wandering around in the buff so there's no point."

Gloria whined, "But I want to try on my new clothes."

I smiled. "There's always tonight."

Gloria pretended to pout but relented. We left the bags and walked back down the street and took a right and then a left onto Keizersgracht. We followed the canal for awhile, casually joking around. K. D. and Gloria were wide-eyed, taking in the sights, the well-dressed bikers whistling and singing as they rode by, the men in suits talking into their bluetooth devices, the children running hard, screaming and laughing, chasing each other down the street, taunting pedestrians and cycllists both. We passed couples walking hand-in-hand, looking up moon-eyed at the sun-dappled emerald green leaves providing a soft-lit canopy next to the mansions, stately and grand, shouldering either side of the canal. As we snaked further into the center of the city we passed a gaggle of Japanese tourists clicking cameras like mice pounding a lever for cheese who were posing for pictures in front of every street lamp, Dutch-language sign, and canal bridge in sight.

Almost everyone we passed, all the Dutch at least, were tall, fit, well-dressed, and beautiful. Mostly young or middle-aged. Every now and then an elderly man or woman walked by, each one walking gracefully, face relaxed, eyes alive with a depth that said, "I've lived my life in the practice of appreciation." I could feel my lungs expanding as I breathed in the lightness of being all around me. I kept wondering if the Son of Flubber was tinkering with the physics, if everyone might start floating up into the air.

It's not like I've ever run into Mother Goose or The Invisible Man, but there are some strange characters in Amsterdam. Shamans, mystics, warlocks, Satanists, krishnas, global adventurers, artists, and on it goes. I met a guy at an afterparty one night who juggled chainsaws as a busker. He told me he got into the trade when he was fifteen years old. He had illegally crossed the Bulgarian border and traveled all the way to Amsterdam. He said he met a guy who put him up in exchange for sex. He got free drugs and booze, too. He started partying heavily, met some street performers, and eventually mentored under an old vet. Again, in exchange for sex.

Amsterdam's not all lollipops and Mary Poppins. Still, it's mostly what you make of it. If you want to juggle chainsaws to get by then you juggle chainsaws. If you want to dreamily stroll along canals and watch the smiling faces of beautiful people singing as they elegantly bicycle past you then go that route. Whatever you want, man. However you want to live your life.

"So, Michael, what made you decide to move to Amsterdam?"

I looked around me. "Isn't it obvious?"

Gloria and K. D. looked around. They smiled. "Still, what drew you to Amsterdam in the first place?"

"I flew here about a decade ago on my first trip through Europe. I was married, it was our honeymoon. The flight into Amsterdam was cheap and we were doing a month-long trip around Europe anyway so it didn't matter where we started. I doubt we would have traveled here at all if it hadn't been for the cheap flight. But as soon as I walked out of Centraal Station I was blown away. Actually, even Schiphol blew me away. Just wandering around a technologically advanced airport with all sorts of lit-up yellow signs with strange words like "vertrek" or "gesloten." I had never been outside the U.S. before that trip. Well, except Mexico. The poverty there was overwhelming. The Dutch, though? They seemed technologically advanced and wealthy. I'd always believed the mantra that the U.S. is 'the best' when it comes to, well, everything. Not because I was gullible. I just had no other country other than Mexico to compare to the U.S. Well, turns out, some countries are light years ahead of the U.S. in certain ways."

"Such as?"

"Happiness. Hey, this is it. Let's pick up this discussion later. We're heading into a spa. Time to leave the mind and enter the body."