A friend on Facebook said it first. I didn’t think anything of it, other than that it was a compliment, and I’m always grateful to receive compliments. But then I started seeing it pop up in the comments, too: brave; courageous; bold.
Aw shit, I thought. I must have done something stupid without realizing it.
These comments were in response to a column I wrote for Civil Beat suggesting that Department of Education cut pay at the top — the superintendents and so forth — to that of an average teacher before making additional cuts to themselves and everyone else. I was calling out my bosses for making too much money for not having any actual interaction with or influence on students.
I don’t think I was being brave, but I understand the sentiment. Calling out the people who write my checks publicly could lead to professional blowback, though I’m not personally concerned about that: I teach in a high-needs area with a lot of turnover, so I feel some job security in that. Plus, I still write for Civil Beat, so any consequence I face for what I write can and will be made public, which won’t reflect well on the DOE. But more than that, I think they have bigger issues to worry about than one teacher with a local column.
Bravery can be a lot of things: medical workers treating COVID patients before a vaccine was available; fire fighters rushing into burning buildings; foreign correspondents reporting human rights abuses of vengeful dictators. It’s not, I don’t think, a dude with a comfortable job getting paid to freely express his opinions.
But I do relish the opportunity to criticize authority, on a platform they can’t ignore, no less. It’s a responsibility I take seriously, because I know most people don’t have the option to shoulder it. Almost everyone has an opinion about their job and the decisions their superiors make, but almost all of those opinions are relegated to venting amongst peers. Mine aren’t. That’s an extraordinary privilege, and one I don’t take lightly.
If indeed I ever face professional consequences for something I write, so be it. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I believe one of the primary functions of this kind of writing — political, quasi-journalistic — is to call out those in power. I’d rather do that than write safe, fluffy bullshit that doesn’t ruffle anyone’s feathers. Art, it’s been said, should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. I’ll continue to aspire to do both.
February reading recommendations
We Are Living In The Shitposter Economy by Drew Magary, Defector
Let’s start with Bari Weiss. I had no idea who that piece of shit was until one of my friends made me aware of her existence. That friend owes me money. Chances are, the only reason YOU know of Weiss isn’t because she used to write for The New York Times, but because people like ME would highlight her pathetic work and go, “Hey man, can you believe the Times pays people like this?” And now I owe YOU money.
Disinformation Fuels A White Evangelical Movement. It Led 1 Virginia Pastor To Quit by Dalia Mortada, Rachel Martin and Bo Hamby, NPR
Mixing God and country in this way is a danger to the American way of life as we know it, researcher Whitehead explained.
"Christian nationalism is a threat to a pluralistic, democratic society because it sees particular ends, like keeping a certain person in the presidency, as that is what God has desired and what God wants. It's really difficult to ever come to the conclusion of 'We should share power or compromise or even abide by the democratic process' because if God does desire to, who are we to stand in the way of that?"
The Dark Secrets of the Earth's Deep Past by Peter Brannen, The Atlantic
All of recorded human history—at only a few thousand years, a mere eyeblink in geologic time—has played out in perhaps the most stable climate window of the past 650,000 years. We have been shielded from the climate’s violence by our short civilizational memory, and our remarkably good fortune. But humanity’s ongoing chemistry experiment on our planet could push the climate well beyond those slim historical parameters, into a state it hasn’t seen in tens of millions of years, a world for which Homo sapiens did not evolve.
Character Study: Luigi, the Other Mario Brother by Alex Siquig, The Ringer
Luigi has existed almost entirely within the confines of Mario’s pixelated shadow since 1983, but in the ensuing years he slowly began to carve out agency for himself, despite his original incarnation being a mere palette swap of Mario. That inauspicious genesis, of course, makes Luigi only more relatable! So many of us also began our adult lives as “palette swaps” of more interesting people before accidentally uncovering exactly who the hell we really are, who the hell we’ll really be. So it’s been with Luigi. Luigi’s identity has, from the start button onward, been about accumulating a personality based on what Mario is not. In the beginning it was the color green. A bit later, he had a small but noticeable growth spurt, and even acquired his own talent: jumping a bit higher than his short-legged brother. (“Jumping slightly higher” isn’t necessarily an ideal lodestar to jump-start the hunt for one’s soul, but somehow it was enough to get the ball rolling.) His dialogue and voice became distinct. Suddenly Luigi was fully formed: tentative, shyly playful, and, of course, still very, very Italian.
February book reviews
The System by Ryan Gattis
Set in Lynwood, Los Angeles in 1993 — not far removed from the 1992 Riots that set the city on fire — The System starts with a crime, then follows the two gang members accused of committing it through the entire criminal justice system: the streets, the police station, jail and the courtroom. Along the way we see through the first-person eyes of gang members, police officers, lawyers, and loved ones caught in between.
As is the case with all of Gattis’ novels, there is years’ worth of thorough research that goes into its rich details. And as is the case with all of his novels, the result is a fast-paced and emotionally gripping trip into places most people will never know — geographically and psychologically — that oozes with authenticity. The System is the best of both of his two most recent prior novels. It balances the narrative ambition of All Involved with the focused drive of Safe. It’s his best novel yet.
When I was Gattis’ student in college, I refused to read any of his books for fear that I might not like them, and thus might subconsciously stop listening to/learning from him. This is mostly a reflection of where my head and my heart were at during that time: pawing blindly at a hazy sense of artistry in my own writing, earnestly wanting more, and certain only that I was getting closer with his help.
In hindsight I’m not sure if that was necessary, but having since gone back and read almost all of his books, Gattis has become one of my favorite novelists. There’s a crispness and clarity to his use of language that can shake you by the shoulders and thump you in the feels simultaneously. As a writer it’s enviable, but as a reader it’s pretty damn satisfying.
ARREST BOOKING SLIP AND PROPERTY RECORD, it says on the booking form, then below it, LOS ANGELES COUNTY JAIL. [Officer] Louis fills it out for me. He asks me my full name.
I say, “Jacob Aaron Safulu.”
Weight. Height. Eye Color.
“One-eighty. Five-nine. Brown,” I say.
Arraignment date. He leaves that blank.
And the crazy part is Louis don’t even ask for alias or nickname. He just writes Dreamer in there. My skin turns cold. Like, how in the fuck did he even know that if I’m not on their paper yet?
That’s some bad shit right there.
Serious bad shit.
And that’s when I know I’m not coming back. That’s when I know it’s done for me. I mean, them knowing my name? Shit. Somebody had to have thrown me in on purpose. Used that name. How the fuck else would they know it? The only way is if somebody framed me on purpose too. Not just Wizard. And it’s like every time something goes down, I’m thinking, Okay, this is it. It can’t get worse from here. And then it fucking does.
Louis gets down to cash and property on the form. He writes in everything they took off me. Seventeen dollars. Brown belt. No glasses. No watch. No rings. He puts his name in the little boxes of Arrested by and Booked and Searched by. Then he turns the paper around at me. He puts a finger down on the part where I have to sign. Prisoner’s Complete Signature.
I sign it. I can’t really believe it.
I’m a prisoner, I’m thinking.
I signed my name that I am. Shit. That’s real.
It means I got to be a monster now. Got to kill my feelings. Cuz it ain’t about to be me getting took advantage of in County Jail. I got to do what Wizard says. Survive. No matter what…
World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Illustrations by Fumi Nakamura.
This was a perfect read-on-your-phone book. Short chapters about some wild thing — usually an animal, sometimes a plant or a weather event — mixed with episodes from the author’s life. At its best, the comparisons between the author’s life and the wilderness were purposeful and enhanced my appreciation for both sides of the storytelling. But it often missed that ambition, and I found myself caring a lot less about her attempts to shoehorn biography into the otherwise lovely nature writing.
But even when it failed in its ambition, you’re still left with a lot of nice imagery — both written and illustrated — and fun facts, so it’s worth reading in general, especially for animal lovers.
For a beetle, fireflies live long and full lives — around two years — though most of it is spent underground, gloriously eating and sleeping to their hearts’ content. When we see these beacons flashing their lights, they usually have only one or two weeks left to live. Learning this as a child — I could often be found walking slowly around untrimmed lawns, stalling and not quite ready to go inside for dinner — made me melancholy, even in the face of their brilliance. I couldn’t believe something so full of light would be gone so soon.
I know I will search for fireflies all the rest of my days, even though they dwindle a little bit more each year. I can’t help it. They blink on and off, a lime glow to the summer night air, as if to say: I am still here, you are still here, I am still here, you are still here, I am, you are, over and over again. Perhaps I can will it to be true. Perhaps I can keep those summer nights with my family inside an empty jam jar, with holes poked in the lid, a twig and a few strands of grass tucked inside. And for those unimaginable nights in the future, when I know I’ll miss my mother the most, I will let that jar’s sweet glow serve as a night-light to cool and cut the air for me.
Reading now
I picked up The Enchantments of Mammon by Eugene McCarraher again after putting it down for a few months last year in my ill-fated attempt to hit my reading goal. Mammon is a tome — 700 large pages with small print and very few chapter breaks — but it’s an exceptional work of historical and cultural analysis arguing that capitalism, rather than being the “disenchantment of the world” as some Marxists have proposed, is actually its own form of sacramental worship. A challenging read in more ways than one, but a rewarding one so far.
On my phone I’m reading Lessons of the Dead by Brett Ortler, a wonderful collection of poetry about, as the title suggests, what we can learn from death and the dead. It’s funny and imaginative and consistently surprising.
February writing
For Honolulu Civil Beat, I wrote a lament/love-letter for my high school alma mater that shut down for good in 2016 due to low enrollment, and I defended salary differentials for special education teachers, which are currently on the chopping block.
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