On Orwell

I worry about Noam Chomsky dying, because when he’s gone, who will give us trenchant critiques of U.S. foreign policy?

Most days I find myself wishing David Foster Wallace was still alive, because I’m desperate to hear his take on our current world, desperate for him to help make sense of it like he did when he was alive.

I wish George Carlin and Bill Hicks were still alive, because they wrote jokes that kill, the only kind of jokes that matter, and made the absurdity of our times tolerable.

The deaths of Wallace, Carlin, and Hicks all occurred in my lifetime.  As will Noam Chomsky’s.

But I’ve got another hero who was dead before I was born:  George Orwell.  And I don’t find myself missing him—not because I never lost him, but because he's is still commenting on our day and age.

Let’s review: 

Orwell wrote 1984, my favorite novel of all time.  When I was 17, my younger brother gave it to me and said "read this" and changed my life.  It was the best, most absorbing, most riveting reading experience I've ever had.  It’s my favorite book to talk about.  It’s my favorite book to teach.  (Though that's increasingly hard to do because his predictions become more and more true.  I taught it during the Iraq war, and his prescience just about made my head explode.)

Orwell wrote Homage to Catalonia, one of my favorite nonfiction books, and maybe my favorite history book of all-time.

Orwell wrote the essay "Politics and the English Language", which is the best essay about writing I’ve ever read.  I always thought you could build an entire composition class around this essay alone, and it'd be a mighty good class indeed.

And of course there’s more:  everyone loves Animal Farm, Down and Out in Paris and London is fantastic, and his description of working in a coal mine made me claustrophobic (just like Melville’s description of standing atop a ship’s mast gave me vertigo).

I wrote mean things about his defense of English cooking, so I want to make it up to him by giving him more love.  When I first got to England, (otherwise known as The Land of Orwell My Favorite English Author), I bought a collection of his essays.  And though I thought it impossible to love him more, I fell for him again and harder than before.

Amongst the many fawning things I could say, I’ll mostly concentrate on the one I mentioned above:  it’s astonishing how relevant Orwell remains.  It's certainly true about this collection of essays; though he was writing in the 30s and 40s, he’ll come out with a killer sentence that could stand as a perfect critique of our times.

Let’s start with this:

“As far as the mass of the people go, the extraordinary swings of opinion which occur nowadays, the emotions which can be turned on and off like a tap, are the result of newspaper and radio hypnosis.”

Iraq war anyone?

Or in from the same essay:

“Whether the British ruling class are wicked or merely stupid is one of the most difficult questions of our time.” 

That’s the question we asked for the entire George W. presidency.

This one made my jaw drop.  Here’s Orwell reflecting on the standardized tests he had to take as a schoolboy:

“At St. Cyprian’s the whole process was frankly a preparation for a sort of confidence trick.  Your job was to learn exactly those things that would give an examiner the impression that you knew more than you did know, and as far as possible to avoid burdening your brain with anything else.  Subjects which lacked examination-value were almost completely neglected.” 

And,

“This business of making a gifted boy’s career depend on a competitive examination, taken when he is only twelve or thirteen, is an evil thing at best.”

Orwell was opposed to high-stakes standardized tests!  He knew that as a twelve year old in the 1920s!  If only we were as smart as the young Orwell . . . because nearly 100 years later, the stakes of high-stakes tests are only getting higher.

O.K. George, you’ve nailed our tyrannical political leaders and you’ve seen through the absurdity of standardized tests.  You were man before your time.  But these days many of us are deeply concerned about the environment.  Surely there must be some sort of eco-Orwell that was decades ahead of his time:

“If we kill all pleasure in the actual process of life, what sort of future are we preparing for ourselves? If a man cannot enjoy the return of spring, why should he be happy in a labour-saving Utopia? What will he do with the leisure that the machine will give him? I have always suspected that if our economic and political problems are ever really solved, life will become simpler instead of more complex, and that the sort of pleasure one gets from finding the first primrose will loom larger than the sort of pleasure one gets from eating an ice to the tune of a Wurlitzer. I think that by retaining one's childhood love of such things as trees, fishes, butterflies and — to return to my first instance — toads, one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more probable, and that by preaching the doctrine that nothing is to be admired except steel and concrete, one merely makes it a little surer that human beings will have no outlet for their surplus energy except in hatred and leader worship.” 

Orwell the environmental radical!  Dead on and so well written.  It presupposes The Last Child in the Woods and a whole host of other environmental books.  I just want to crawl inside that quote and rub it all over my body.

George, Big O (sometimes I call him Big O), you’re on a roll.  What can you say about the poor?  About wealth disparity?  We’ve got quite a problem with it here in modern-day America.  Inflation-adjusted wages for the working class are no better than the 1970s, people are chronically underemployed, the rich just keep getting richer.  And somehow the poor get demonized as unreasonable, lazy moochers of the system.  Please, illuminate it for us:

“All that the working man demands is what these others would consider the indispensable minimum without which human life cannot be lived at all. Enough to eat, freedom from the haunting terror of unemployment, the knowledge that your children will get a fair chance, a bath once a day, clean linen reasonably often, a roof that doesn't leak, and short enough working hours to leave you with a little energy when the day is done. . . . They knew that they were in the right, because they were fighting for something which the world owed them and was able to give them.”

You’re right.  You’re so right.  It’s so obvious.  That’s your gift, to point out a painfully obvious fact that we’ve somehow forgotten.

But I’ve been focusing on your content, George, and we can’t forget the brilliance of your craft.  Your writing seems straightforward and simple, but most people don’t realize how hard it is to write with such clarity, what an art it is.  Let’s think of a good example.  What was that line you had in one of your wartime essays?  When you had a chance to shoot a man who was pulling his pants up on the battlefield?

“I had come here to shoot at ‘Fascists’; but a man who is holding up his trousers isn’t a ‘Fascist’, he is visibly a fellow creature, similar to yourself, and you don’t feel like shooting him.”

An elegant take on the absurdity of war in one clear, plain-spoken, exquisite sentence.

And to close, let me reiterate how much you’ve meant to me personally.  After David Foster Wallace died, I felt like I’d lost a friend.  It made me realize that our favorite authors are much more than people we just read; they’re companions, fellow-travelers, people we hang out with, folks we know well and who know us back.  So surely you’ve got a quote that crystallizes something I’m struggling with right now.

Let’s see, what’s been on my mind?  I know:  money.  The wealth divide between my friends and me grows every year.  I’ve been a public school teacher too long, I volunteered for too many years, and now I'm seeing the consequences.  It might not have mattered right out of undergrad, but now my friends who are doctors, lawyers, in finance, in sales, etc., all seem to exist in a different financial stratosphere.  And it gets worse every year.

I don’t think I care too much about not having a house, a car, nice clothes, or nice things.  What bothers me is the general assumption that someone with a lot of money is somehow better.  Not better in any specific way, just better as a person.  I do it too.  In a money-driven, late-stage capitalist society such as ours, money tends to become the measure of everything, including human value.  You can’t help but think the rich man has something impressive about him that has turned into a lot of money, and the poor man has something lacking in him that has turned into a lack of money.

I know, I know, that’s not really true.  I know, I should be proud of choosing a career of public service.  I know there might be value in the classes I’ve taught and the students I may have affected.  I intellectually know it’s true.  But viscerally, after four decades of life in a money-obsessed culture, I can’t help the feeling that I’m a bit of a (I hate to say) loser when I still have to live with roommates to pay the rent.

Know what I mean George?  Ever had a similar thought?

“The goodness of money was as unmistakable as the goodness of health or beauty, and a glittering car, a title or a horde of servants was mixed up in the people’s minds with the idea of actual moral virtue.”

Thanks.  It makes me feel better to know that you know.

A Restaurant Quirk

They do a strange thing in U.K. restaurants.  You walk in and get seated, which is normal.  You get your drinks and order your food, which is normal.  Then they cook your food, which is normal.  But once the food is prepared they don't bring it to you immediately. 

They come to your table and ask you if you are ready for your meal.

What!?  You're asking me if I'm ready for my food?  Or course I'm ready for my food!  I was ready for my food when I walked in--that's why I came to your restaurant. 

Who wants to wait longer for their meal?  The food never comes quickly enough.  And when you finally see the waiter walk towards you with the order, it's always the best part of the day. 

Once I asked a U.K. waiter if anyone ever says "no, we're not ready for our food."  He said sometimes.  Must be British restraint.

Now when I'm asked I simply say "We're Americans--we're always ready for our food."

In Offense of English Cooking

Some of the British stereotypes are true after all.  They do have bad teeth.  It does rain all the time. 

And food is lousy.  Well, maybe lousy isn’t the right word--it’s more like food is an afterthought.  As the saying goes, “The best English cooking is, of course, simply French cooking.”  In England food is not a pleasure to be had, but rather fuel to put into a working body.  It’s just not of interest the way it is in, say, Italy.

Here’s a couple of ways you know the English don’t really care about food.  Pre-made packaged meals are HUGE.  Multiple aisles of any grocery store are devoted to pre-made sandwiches, pre-made soups, pre-made pasta dishes, pre-made pizzas, pre-made salads, pre-made desserts.  In the states, don’t we avoid such things at all costs?  Isn’t a pre-made sandwich, sitting in a vending machine, always sort of gross, old, tasteless, or just . . . limp?  But Brits don’t care.  They don’t want to do any cooking of any kind.   Grab that pre-made thing, put it in the microwave if necessary, and eat.

Another way you know food is of little interest:  most people spend Christmas day eating out.  Pretty much every bar, café, pub, and restaurant advertises (in October!) a full-day Christmas bonanza, where you can spend the entire afternoon eating a multiple course meal.  Which is just the next way to avoid making food a part of your life.  Think about Christmas in the states.  Much of the day is built around the big meal:  who’s cooking it, what you’re eating, how long will it take, what dishes are other people bringing, when we’ll sit down to eat, do we open up presents before or after the meal, who sits at the kids’ table and who sits at the adult table, etc.  On Christmas day we would gladly be up to our elbows in raw turkey prep because we enjoy our food.  The English don’t want to think about it at all, so they just outsource it to the local pubs.

And, I’m sorry to say, but Orwell is wrong.  George, I love you, and you’re undoubtedly one of my heroes, and you’ve written some of the best things ever put to paper, but your essay “In Defence of English Cooking” is grasping at straws.  You spend a whole paragraph on “the various ways of cooking potatoes that are peculiar to our country.” Potatoes.  Go on George, we're listening.  Tell us more about potatoes.  “It’s far better to cook new potatoes in the English way—that is boiled with mint and then served with a little melted butter or margarine.”  First, mint?  No thanks.  Second, that’s it?  A little melted butter or margarine is the big move?  You can get that at a Hardee’s.

And here he is on sauces:  “The there are the various sauces peculiar to England.  For instance, bread sauce, horse-radish sauce, mint sauce . . . and various kinds of sweet pickle, which we seem to have in greater profusion than most countries.”  Bread sauce?  Is that even possible?  Horse-radish?  More with the mint?  Did you try to write an enticing sentence about food and use the word "profusion"?

But it’s kind of sweet that Orwell tries to defend the food of mother England.  And not surprising, since he seems to love his country.  In his essay “My Country Right or Left,” he admits that if England ever went to war, he is “patriotic at heart, [and] would not sabotage or act against my own side, would support the war, would fight in it if possible.”  This is from a man who spent his writing life attacking nationalism and fascism and the manipulation of the masses.  But that’s one of the best things about Orwell--his incredible candor, especially about himself.

Thanks for the honesty George.  You would go to war for England.   We know it must have been hard for you to admit that.  We accept it. 

Just don’t go to bat for their food.

What England Is Talking About Today

If you know who Russell Brand is, you probably don't like him.  I've never heard a single person say "Russell Brand?  He's great."  It seems like everyone thinks he's annoying, overdone, pompous, and unfunny.

For those who don't know, he's an English comedian.  And I can't say I like him much either.  I don't hate him, but I'd never go out of my way to watch his stand up routine or a movie he's in.  He was a fitting character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and that's about it.

A couple nights ago he was interviewed by BBC broadcaster Jeremy Paxman, who seems to be a pretty big name in journalism around here.  I wouldn't know.  The topic was politics.

But I gotta say, I kind of liked this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLYcn3PuTTk

Dispatch from Sheffield, U.K.

I'm in Sheffield, the steel city of the U.K. It's kind of like Detroit and Pittsburgh mixed together, but with the steel industry now (mostly) gone. And that leaves Sheffield in a bit of an identity crisis. Is it a college town with two universities in the city center? Is it a place for art and artists? Can it attract tourists? Is it a working class town or an ex-working class town? Can its personality still be a steel city now that steel is gone?

Which makes it all pretty interesting. When you go to London, London does all the work for you--it grabs you by the shirt and says "There's the British museum! There's a double-decker bus! There's Regent's Park! There's Parliament! Look at all the people! Look at all the theaters! Look at the River Thames! Can you even believe you're here?"

You just sort of hop on and follow the flow.

But in Sheffield you're left to your own devices. You have to do some digging to uncover what's great about this old Yorkshire town. You have to fall back on yourself, figure out who you are (a bit) and what you're doing, and then reach out to meet Sheffield half way. And after a month or so, you've found the immigrant neighborhood and restaurants, the chatty professorial old man at the used book store, the soccer field in the low-income area, the waiter with the sly and ironic British sense of humor, and the guy who asks you about the Chicago Bears because he knows nothing of American football.

Inguinal Hernia in the U.K.

Not to be confused with Anarchy in the U.K., of course.

Well, I've got an inguinal hernia.  I don't know why that's slightly shameful to say.  Hernias sound a little silly, like only young kids are supposed to get them, or that you're too weak to successfully pick up a heavy load without sending yourself to the hospital.  Or that it's in the groin area.

But let's assert the manliness of a hernia:

25% of men get them.  My U.K. doctor said "this is an athlete's injury," and I was like "damn right it is."  He assured me that well over half of the Premier League soccer players have had hernia surgery, which makes it seem like the league is just a field full of protruding bowels kicking a ball back and forth.

I'm not really in pain, just some discomfort.  More than anything I feel that something's going on down there, like my intestines are unspooling in my body cavity.

But if I do need surgery, it seems like I'll be in good foreign hands.  The UK actually has two hernia specialty clinics in the London area (read this with a British accent):  The Oxford Hernia Clinic and The British Hernia Centre.

That's right, England is the land of great history, great poets, great novelists, great theater, great museums, and great hernia care.

I do have the option of doing nothing and waiting until I get back to the states, where my regular health care kicks in on February 1st.  The problem is, I planned to travel in December and January--exotic, strenuous trips like volunteering in India or an outdoor trek in Australia.  The risk of an inguinal hernia is that it could become strangulated (very low probability, but very serious if it happens), and what it hits in the slums of Calcutta or in the desert of Australia with poisonous crickets all around me?  Then again, some people live for years with untreated hernias.  You just don't know.

It's strangely unnerving to be in a foreign country needing serious health care.  I mean, I know it's the U.K. and the first world and they could be even better than U.S. doctors, but being sick or injured always infantilizes you some ways--you just want to be home with the care you're used to.

Finally, a quick note on universal health care:

Yes, the U.K. has universal health care.  Everyone I talk to CANNOT BELIEVE that we don't provide health care for everyone in the U.S.  That we would let something like health and medical treatments hinge on how much money you do or don't have.  It's all rather embarrassing.

Here's the good part of universal health care:  my hernia was diagnosed FOR FREE.  Even though I'm not a citizen.  It's just walk on in here mate, we'll take care of you.

The not-so-great part?  I now need to see a surgeon, and since my hernia isn't life-threatening, it would take 3 or 4 months (and I'm only here until November 30th).

But wait!  That's only if I want to see a National Health System doctor. I can pay for a private doctor and see one right away.

Which means the U.K. system is a lot like the U.S. system, only they take care of their poor.  People in the U.S. who are opposed to universal health care always complain about the long waits and inferior care.  But those are always rich people who, in a country like England, can just pay for their better care anyway.  Which means they've lost nothing.  The only difference is, in the U.K., there's a safety net for the low-income citizens.  Seeing a doctor for free or waiting a few months for an appointment is far better than having no health care at all.  Like the millions of Americans who haven't had any insurance for decades.

Chicago Triathlon

So last summer I completed the Chicago Triathlon, olympic distance.  Put in countless hours of training and preparation, entered (a bit) into the growing triathlon community, and loved everything about the race day.

I thought I'd blog about the whole experience, but then I came across this article in The Onion: 

http://www.theonion.com/articles/im-truly-sorry-for-this-but-youre-about-to-hear-al,28995/

That's how good The Onion is.  They'll call you on your pretentiousness before you can even get started.  And they're the one publication that can stop you cold before you write something.

Apparently I Only Post Links Now

But this article perfectly captures my experience of what it means to be an outsider living in Boston.

http://www.newyorker.com/talk/comment/2013/04/29/130429taco_talk_packer

Yes, Thank You

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

And thank you, thank you, thank you.

http://www.salon.com/2013/06/03/instead_of_a_war_on_teachers_how_about_one_on_poverty/

Gotta Say I Agree With All of This

Much appreciated if you read it:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/wp/2013/04/06/teachers-resignation-letter-my-profession-no-longer-exists/