Tag Archives: Politics

Open Letter From the Militant Pacifists of America

PeaceIn light of America’s 154 mass shootings since January of this year (in which four or more people were shot), we in the Militant Pacifists of America would like to openly express our adamant distaste for violence in all its forms. As pacifists, we want peace in every aspect of life, and seeing as that is less and less likely with each passing mass shooting, we are breaking from our flagship organization, the Flaccid Pacifists of America, and are starting a new party. It’s time to take pacifism seriously, and we mean dead seriously.

Jesus once said that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. But Jesus died by the cross, and it is our belief that dying by a sword is much better than crucifixion.

Obviously, other pacifists have made great strides in violently opposing violence. For example, we praise Bernie Sanders for being one of two senators to vote against new sanctions against Russia and Iran, and we are even more grateful for Sanders for, as implied in a recent New York Times article, providing the pacifist rhetoric for yet another gun-involved shooting implemented by an angry man. In truth, we think that Sanders does not go far enough with his militantly pacifist rhetoric. He refuses to do what all democratic socialists secretly want, which is to first make people aimlessly enraged about what the NRA calls the “gun-hating political elites” and “radical billionaires” and then arm said people with assault rifles to protect them from those elites and billionaires. By not living by the sword, Sanders is much easier to crucify.

We in the MPA advocate militant peacefulness. We want to move on from our history of chanting “Give Peace a Chance” while aligning our chakras and stuffing roses in mailboxes, and instead want to incite mob violence against people who advocate violence (excluding ourselves, of course). Early pacifism was about advancing alternatives to the military-industrial complex and critiquing state-sanctioned forms of violence like police militarization, removal of medical insurance for the victims of various shootings, and of course Sarah Palin, but now we’d like to take a page from the NRA: directionless rage.

Our official stance to advance peace, love, and solidarity among all peoples is to heavily arm those people and tell them that love is tough. We’re starting a war for peace. If people won’t give peace a chance, we’ll have to force them to. Had they lived a little longer, Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and Emile Arnaud would have seen that while there obviously is no just war, if we have to go to war to show how unjust it is, that’s okay too. We pacifists are tired of being crucified and stabbed by swords. We want in on the action and, of course, the millions of dollars the NRA spends during any given campaign season to keep everyone armed and angry.

Peace, love, and ammunition!

-jk

Invite List of the Men’s March

tax-the-tea

Protestors in Flagstaff, AZ, Winter of 2009, who just so totally accepted (without complaint or whiny over-dramatic public display) the election of Obama, courtesy of Lost Compass Photography.

To begin with, organizers would disagree about who to invite. Percolating through social media spontaneity, the Men’s March would draw folks who (apparently unable to cope with the emotions they felt at the sight of women moving forward in a linear direction expressing a desire to not be assaulted) would want to band together and reclaim their long-lost manhood.

Robert Bly would be there of course, but because Manly Men © have been defunding the humanities for so long, nobody would actually know who he was, and he would sit in a corner shirtless beating a drum, alone.

There would be a substantial debate about inviting women. Sarah Palin, Kellyanne Conway, Michelle Bachman, and other female meninist allies would show up, but would be accused by a few marchers of preventing men from enjoying their bro-friendly safe spaces.

Glenn Beck would show up and, within ten minutes, begin crying. Even though his tears would be patriotic and cowboy-like, a few hardliners would dismiss him. Attempting to recover their lost ideal manly hair-sweat manhood, organizers would publicly invite Nick Offerman, only to realize that he attended the Women’s March, thus disqualifying him. Organizers would desperately tag alt-righters with questions about which men they would invite to help recover America’s manly bearded manhood.

Ernest Hemingway? dead. Evel Knievel? dead. Charlton Heston? dead. John Wayne? dead. David Foster Wallace? dead. Elvis Presley? probably dead. George Washington? very dead. Freddie Mercury? queer and dead. Muhammad Ali? Muslim pacifist and dead. Johnny Cash? advocated for Native Americans too often and dead. Roger Goodell? too many penalties. Nick Offerman? feminist. Robert Bly? poet. Clint Eastwood? old Hollywood elite. JFK? dead cuck. John McCain? living cuck. Mike McCarthy? did you even see the Falcons game? All the oldschool manly male beer-stained men would be either dead or somehow disqualified. Organizers would realize this too late, but could easily tweet photos of the Women’s March and call it the Men’s March as a convenient alternative.

In the end, the number of men fitting the standard would be thirty-seven. Those in attendance would chant about being persecuted by society’s trends, like all the feminists not in congress, not passing laws requiring men to father children even if they don’t want to. They would complain about the woman who is not President and who was never recorded bragging about grabbing men by the purifier. Marchers would lament their dead sense of manhood in a prolonged circle-jerk of one another’s angst (but not in a fun way).

There would be many issues marchers would not discuss. Mike Pence would not mention mental illness among men or alcoholism or drug abuse. Franklin Graham would not mention institutional poverty or suicide rates among men, boys, and gay youths in particular. Piers Morgan would not bring up the consequences of concussions for football players or the fact that male rape victims tend not to be taken seriously. From the start organizers would be unconcerned with men as a totality. They would not care enough to lobby for men who are gay, foreign, disabled, or suffering a mental illness. Instead, they would see only themselves reflected in a wilderness of mirrors as they marched, self-consciously alone.

-jk

Acknowledging Wrongs of the Past

Maru

SS Komagata Maru, 1914. City of Vancouver Archives

Yesterday, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau announced that in May, he would make an official apology in the House of Commons for what is commonly known as the Komagata Maru Incident. In 1914, a ship (the Komagata Maru) of Indian passengers sailed from Japan to Vancouver, where the Canadian government refused to let almost all the passengers enter Canada. Most of the passengers were Sikhs, though there were a handful of Muslims and Hindus aboard, and Trudeau intends to address his apology to the Sikh community as a whole.

At first glance, this may seem like a strange transnational incident. 1914 saw the beginning of World War One, which in part contributed to Canada’s restrictions, but most of its limited immigration policies were grounded in xenophobia similar to that in the U.S. at the turn of the century, and Canada passed laws restricting immigration form Asia just as the U.S. did.

The passengers aboard the Komagata Maru argued that they had a right to enter Canada because they were British subjects. India was still a British colony, and both countries would supply troops to Great Britain in the First World War. Nevertheless, national fears of Asian immigrants persisted in 1914. The Komagata Maru sat in port in Vancouver for months before finally leaving.

Over a century later, a different Prime Minister of a different political party hopes to make amends. Formal apologies on behalf of governments to historically persecuted groups are not unheard of. In 2008, Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd made a similar formal apology to the indigenous population of Australia, but Trudeau’s comments come at a unique political moment.

Trudeau will apology for Canada’s suppression of immigrants, and he intends to do so after his party, the Liberals, ran partly on a platform of allowing Syrian refugees into Canada, while political parties in Europe and the U.S. discuss either similar or opposite measures. Many politicians have advocated restricting and even halting immigration, and have used xenophobic rhetoric almost identical to that used by the Canadian government in 1914.

Trudeau’s apology is, of course, a highly political statement. It is not simply a matter of saying sorry, but of acknowledging what is now considered a broken logic, and with that acknowledgment comes a subtle declaration that such logic no longer has a place in his government. It admits not just past wrongdoing, but decries the possibility of future wrongdoing. The apology is a policy statement, an act of historical legislation that does not wipe away but makes an example of one of Canada’s worst actions, and in doing so, Trudeau invites others to listen, to introspect, and to follow suit.

-jk

An Apolitical Post About Pie

Pie

Lately I’ve been active in national politics, attending rallies, volunteering at caucuses, even taking more drastic, desperate measures like voting. But I’ve tried to keep those politics away from this blog, especially because the Presidential campaign has been so ugly. As it gets uglier, I find it more and more difficult to write apolitical posts, so to celebrate Pi Day, I made a blackberry pie, and I promise I will do my absolute best to make this a strictly apolitical post.

Here’s a fun fact: the Latin word for pie, and baked goods generally, is crustum. Obviously, pie sounds a lot less disgusting, though crustum is not as disgusting as the Presidential debates have been. There are plenty of reasons to make and eat pie; today is Pi Day, for instance. Alternatively, pie is a symbol of peace, because if you throw pie at people instead of punching them like a total moron, that’s basically offering them free pie, because we need peace offerings and not unrequested face-punchings.

I went with blackberries for my pie, but you can use any berries, as well as a variety of fruits, Autumnal squashes, nuts, or the U.S. Constitution, because nobody else is using it these days. For the crust, you’ll need the following:

IMG_2343½ Cup Butter
3 Tablespoons Margarine
½ Teaspoon Salt
2 Cups All-Purpose Flour
5 Tablespoons Water

Mix the flour and salt. Cut the butter and margarine into the flour mixture until fine and crumbly like a group of protesters under police brutality. Mix in the water, roll out on a floured surface, and beat the dough to a flat level playing field, unlike the current economic system.

To make the filling, you’ll need the following:

3-4 Cups Blackberries
1 Cup Sugar
½ Cup Water
1/4 Cup Flour

IMG_2346.JPG

Pour the water into a saucepan on the stove on medium heat; add the sugar, then the berries, then the flour to thicken it up. You can add corn starch if you really, really want to, even though there are much more sustainable thickening methods if we’d just bother to limit our dependence on foreign crude corn, but I’m sure Big Corn is paying off all the pie contest judges anyway.

After the berries have been cooked into a mushy pulp like women’s rights under you-know-who’s hypothetical Presidency, pour the mixture into the pie shell. Cover it with the remaining  dough in any fashion you choose (a plain circle, crisscrossing strips of dough, the symbol for Pi, a plea for divine intervention, etc.). Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for fifteen to twenty minutes, which should be the amount of time it takes for us to realize how brainless these candidates are, but no, Marsha just eats up the idiocy like the delicious pie you’ll have in fifteen to twenty minutes or until golden brown.

Once your pie is done baking, I hope you’ll reflect, as I did, on how difficult it is not to think about politics. Some people can do it, and I admire them for it, but I am not one of those people. I don’t know how to be apolitical, and I apologize to my loyal readers who just wanted a simple pie recipe. Please make pie for your friends and enemies, though. Make peace offerings with pie, because all I can conclude from the news I neurotically (perhaps unhealthily) watch is that we need a good, heaping, dripping, hot dose of compassion and kindness right now. Share pie. Don’t punch people in the face.

Carpe Crustum, folks.

-jk

P.S. This particularly cool performance of “Celebrate” by Dark Dark Dark is good music to bake, consume, and digest pie to. It’s also a good example of people working together not punching each other in the face, but I digress.

To Vote From Afar

ForeverA while ago, I mailed forms to my home state of Arizona requesting an absentee ballet for the upcoming primary and Presidential elections. I sent a little letter into a sea of mail, and now I wait earnestly for my approved absentee ballet.

It’s Arizona, though, so there’s a statistical likelihood that my vote won’t make a difference. Each election I’ve voted in, my vote failed to put into office my preferred candidate (a ham sandwich named Marty who wears a hop hat and monocle running as a Neo-Whig Anarchist, obviously). Because the Whigs (and every other party I would realistically vote for) don’t stand much of a chance in Arizona (unless more people voted), I will once again have the honor of not making a difference in 2016.

It’s possible, however unlikely, that voting will make a political difference, but that’s not necessarily why I vote. I vote to be part of a community, to participate in an almost religious experience, to be part of something bigger than I am, a kind of highly-organized mob mentality centering around mostly rich, unconcerned smiling people in suits I couldn’t afford with my life’s savings. It’s enchanting to be part of a communion that has the potential to involve so many. I’m sad how often we collectively waste that potential.

In the 1952 election in India, 105,944,495 people voted. It was the first election after Independence, the first with universal suffrage, and although it constituted only 45% of the electorate, it was a colossal success considering that India’s literacy rate was only 18% in 1951, and is even more impressive given the vast number of languages spoken by India’s electorate: as of 2001, only 22 of India’s 844 languages and dialects were officially used for constitutional purposes. India’s first election involved all levels of society in a nation stratified by centuries of colonialism and damaged by Partition with East and West Pakistan, and nevertheless one hundred million people turned out to vote. Despite the militaristic turmoil around Partition, people turned out to explore an (admittedly western-designed and implemented) experiment in voting.

The upcoming U.S. Presidential election is quite different from India’s 1952 election, but I want to be a part of the masses. In a strange way, becoming a statistic feels transcendental to me, like I’ve moved into a part of history that exists outside all indicators of the self, outside personality, documentation, religion, class, race, and into a cloud of participatory revelry, into a quantifiable oneness. I wish I could vote in person, but from my temporary home in Nebraska, I will still move beyond myself. And maybe, just maybe, Marty the ham sandwich will finally usher in four years of Neo-Whig Anarchism.

-jk

Cited: Wendy Singer. Independent India. Edinburgh: Pearson Education, 2012. Print.

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60 Things to Do Instead of Shopping on Black Friday

Birds

 

  1. Sleep in and eat a breakfast of turkey sandwiches from last night’s Thanksgiving dinner.
  2. Go for a walk around the block.
  3. Ruminate upon the life the turkey you ate for breakfast must have lived and decide the turkey was named Phyllis.
  4. Feel disappointed that the air is not as cool as you remembered in childhood in a quaint New England village and wonder if the consumption of turkey is involved in the warmer temperature; decide that it is not and keep walking.
  5. Read your favorite novel.
  6. Write your favorite novel.
  7. Write your friends’ favorite novel.
  8. Rake the leaves in the yard.
  9. Take a nap.
  10. Try yoga.
  11. For those already practicing yoga, try being a couch potato.
  12. Play a board game with your family.
  13. Donate to a charity.
  14. Write to your governor (about anything, guns, refugees, mashed potatoes)
  15. Volunteer at a refugee center.
  16. Make a really excellent quesadilla.
  17. Make a really horrible quesadilla and vow to do better next time.
  18. Try peyote.
  19. Put off your novel for next November.
  20. Pet your dog.
  21. Pet your neighbor’s dog.
  22. Have a philosophical conversation with your neighbor’s dog after the peyote kicks in.
  23. Adopt a dog.
  24. Adopt a highway.
  25. Clean up trash on somebody else’s adopted highway because Troop 1620 just isn’t pulling their weight.
  26. Plant a tree.
  27. Hug a tree.
  28. Apologize to a tree because the peyote is still doing its thing.
  29. Have a face-to-face conversation with your neighbor.
  30. Learn how to have a face-to-face conversation after spending several minutes staring at your neighbor’s face looking for the “like” button.
  31. Eat another sandwich made from Phyllis’s leftovers.
  32. Clean the kitchen.
  33. If you cooked Thanksgiving dinner last night, tell your in-laws to clean the kitchen but micromanage from the side.
  34. Find a special on the History Channel about Thanksgiving.
  35. Tally up every historical inaccuracy in the History Channel’s Thanksgiving special. Trust me, this is fun.
  36. Research the actual history of Thanksgiving. Trust me, this is depressing.
  37. Go for a hike in the country’s last remaining wilderness, but not after researching the history of Thanksgiving. Knowing whose land you’re traversing is also depressing.
  38. Have a conversation with your family.
  39. If the conversation does not last more than thirty seconds, have a conversation with your family about politics or religion.
  40. Go through your closet and look at where your clothes were made.
  41. Wonder how many children were involved in making your clothes. Cry.
  42. Take a selfie and put it on the Internet with forty-seven hashtags; when nobody likes it, passive aggressively like everything posted by all your online friends. Cry.
  43. Wrap yourself in the fear that digital isolation will engulf you forever. Drink.
  44. Throw your phone against the wall and break it, but don’t look at sales for a new phone.
  45. Delete all your social media accounts in a frenzied attempt to purge your soul of online superficiality, then regret it ten minutes later. Drink or cry; either one works here.
  46. In picking up the carcass of your phone, realize that it too was made by sweatshop labor.
  47. In a panic-induced rage, tally up the countries all your products were made in, pin them on a globe, then despondently spin the globe.
  48. Eat more turkey.
  49. Realize that global capitalism is a machine that chews up human dignity by forcing the participation of all members of society through its universal institutionalization over the past five hundred years into every aspect of culture, religion, and language, and has imprisoned millions in an inescapable superstructure that will devour all that is beautiful from the world in the last few remaining decades of human existence, leading you to the epiphany that the very holiday of Thanksgiving was just the beginning of consumer culture in America, pitting puritanical fundamentalists against innocent indigenous populations in survivalist competition and setting off a continual narrative of colonialism, imperialism, and consumerism.
  50. Burn down your house. Cry and drink.
  51. Wish you still had some peyote left.
  52. Accept the firefighters’ invitation to join them for dinner.
  53. Give your last remaining dollar bills to a veteran in need.
  54. Observe the camaraderie of firefighters convivially eating leftovers.
  55. Find that the only remaining products inside your house are a guitar and the last slice of pumpkin pie.
  56. Pick up the guitar and strum a few chords as the sun sets and your neighbors walk their dogs, who give you strange looks as they pass you on the street.
  57. Realize that reactionary property destruction is an insufficient coping mechanism. Crying and alcohol and peyote are also insufficient, though understandable.
  58. Walk down your street strumming your guitar late into the night beneath the stars. Proceed to be overcome by the beauty of the moment for ten to twelve sweet minutes of peace.
  59.  Recognize that you are still connected by art to the human spirit across time and space (despite the mechanical oppression of corporate power struggles played out upon your very body through the food you eat and clothes you wear).
  60. Be thankful that American history is not just a pattern of consumerist oppression but also of communal unity, from Native American resistance movements to the Montgomery Bus Boycott to the unpublicized heroism of the decisions made by thousands of people on a daily basis to count their worth in friendship, creativity, and community, and not in cheap, unneeded products on sale for crazy-low prices. Crying is optional (but recommended) here.

-jk