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While shopping, I come across items made in Sri Lanka, the Dominican Republic or China and wonder who made it, under what conditions, how they live everyday and, almost concurrently, how this purse will look against a pair of slacks in my closet back at home or that hard drive will satisfy my space requirements, and whether I can get the item for cheaper elsewhere. When the next disaster hits one of these countries, I will most probably send money.

To top it all off, I recognize that to entertain all of these thoughts in one sitting is horrifyingly privileged and, at the same time, all too normal. That we can live with these dichotomies, but that’s life. Then, why do I rage on hearing of the latest young American who moved to New Orleans to “do good” or “make a difference” in the world?

In the wake of Kony 2012 (consider moving out from under your rock if you haven’t heard of this documentary and its fallout yet; on second thought, stay there), writer Teju Cole tweeted up a storm of a response. It started with “From Sachs to Kristof to Invisible Children to TED, the fastest growth industry in the US is the White Savior Industrial Complex.” Six of these followed touching on the injustices levied against minorities, women and inhabitants of the developing world, all the way from the “microaggressions of American racism” to the stark contrast between American foreign policy on certain countries and our sentimentality towards what we consider charity cases in many of those same nations. Cole then hashed all of this out in a long-form Atlantic essay that is so civilized while not holding back. Please read it, take it all in and return.

Amen to these Cole observations: our not-really-post-racial society, the repulsiveness of “civilized” journalism about topics inherently messy and barbaric and it being way past time we reclaim the ability to talk openly and directly about issues that pertain to us, especially when people who are not us do so fearlessly. Think Trayvon Martin, Wendell Allen, Robert Bales and even Joseph Kony and Jason Russell. But, here, I want to address the White Savior Complex specifically (leaving out “Industrial” on purpose for now, I’ll get to that later).

I disagree with Cole. I completely agree with him. Again with that pesky co-existing duality.

Disagreement – American sentimentality is a tremendously useful thing. It’s what drives the haves to replenish food banks and medical supplies in disaster-ravaged areas and offer money to people who need it NOW, to make it to TONIGHT, much less tomorrow. Back in 2008, when a group of us in New Orleans loaded up supplies for the United Houma Nations Old Store after Hurricane Gustav laid waste to Lafourche and Terrebonne parishes in southern Louisiana, a volunteer asked, “What’s the point in taking all of these things down there if Hurricane Ike will come along next and wipe their homes off the map?” Another volunteer replied, “They’re still alive and need these things now, to make it to that next hurricane.” Even if there are grim and farther-reaching political reasons behind floods, wars and homelessness, up to and including the way we ourselves vote, those in need are in need right now. Food, drugs and money – stat.

I also noted at the time that the hurricane-flood victims themselves acknowledged the batshit-insane but economically-real logic with which they live in coastal Louisiana. In the interest of that cherished due diligence, let’s understand that those being helped are not utterly ignorant of their circumstances, too.

They spoke of the irony of working for [the offshore oil and gas] industry that destroys their land and ecosystem but offers them a steady paycheck. If they give up working as oilmen and start a petition for the removal of oil-producing infrastructure from their area, how else will they stay economically viable?  Everyone agreed that digging their own graves is what feeds them, but their hands are tied.

Agreement – But, when we went down from New Orleans to the southern parishes after days of the roads being closed off by FEMA and other authorities, when the midwest-based First Draft crew came down to New Orleans to gut houses that had been allowed to flood in the first place and then fester for months thanks to federal-state-local government turf wars, we did so only on being invited by homeowners and communities themselves, to address very specific material wants and knowing fully well that the loss these folks suffered was our loss, too. That, as First Draft’s Athenae has tattooed on her arm since: Our fate is your fate. Intent, “[connecting the dots and seeing] the patterns of power behind the isolated ‘disasters'” and having a clue before intervention.

It goes back to Nicholas Kristof’s response to Cole’s tweets in which he says, “It seems even more uncomfortable to think that we as white Americans should not intervene in a humanitarian disaster because the victims are of a different skin color.” Good grief, way to miss the point entirely. White is not just a skin color, Mr. Kristof, it’s also a state of mind and an economic paradigm. To put it in more blunt terms, even though my husband is white and understands the instant privilege that comes with the territory, I have more in common with boojie America than he does solely based on our respective families’/societies’ economic backgrounds and prevailing notions of success. To intervene with this mindset and little prior research into people’s cultures, what they consider home and their larger sociopolitical picture is nothing short of cultural proselytism.

With this in mind, too many times have I seen bright, young things armed with college degrees, blogs, social media cred and TED/Davos appearances come to New Orleans to “make a difference,” to “save New Orleanians because they can’t save themselves.” They show up, make Connections, tweet a lot about Warehouse District parties, second lines, parades and their new Friends in the Lower Ninth and Treme, raise some money for the latest charitable organization by getting a big corporation involved (which only gets the company more advertising and the community unsustainably dependent on a large outside source for financing and survival), find that they actually need money and real jobs to live in New Orleans, grow bored of keeping the charitable-organization-that-has-taken-on-a-life-of-its-own alive and weary of living amid the people they came to help and leave for New York or Los Angeles leaving a mess behind for someone else to clean up.

Because it is the only way they know how. And this is what I mean by intent: your only goal should be to want to help people restore or change themselves with self-respect based on their own cultural and economic dispositions and not remake them and their home in your image, much less feel good about yourself, pad your resume and make some money in the process.

Real help is not a sanitary or unique solution. Never ever help from a place of pity, misplaced self-confidence, an attempt to define your identity with externalities, self-justification or, worst of all, with no respect for the fact that the people you want to save are most probably doing their best to save themselves. Find out more about that and help that or get out of the way.

As for Industrial, this Charitable Behavior also reminds me a lot of emails from budding entrepreneurs asking if they can do you a favor by guest-writing on your blog about gardening equipment or child-rearing when that’s clearly not your territory or are  Just Plain Clueless. And then you build up a whole infrastructure around it with flashy conferences in exotic locales and, there you have it, your insta-money-making scheme: Sound passionate about a current hot philanthropic topic, put a logo on it, cash in. You know why I like Warren Buffett? Because he made and still makes money honestly and doesn’t look blatantly inauthentic doing it.

I keep going back to First Draft because they are a great model of how to be (relatively more) privileged and effect real change. Girl loves her sexy boots and specialty soaps but, every single day, the time, money, sweat and tears Athenae and the other bloggers pour into no-bullshit, informational and passionate posts about politics, society and foreign policy and fundraisers for vetted causes – it’s amazing and stuff gets done. You would never see her or some others post the Kony documentary’s promo video as it is and then say something trite about the power of story, because (journalists, take note) they know the story changes based on who’s telling it. It’s so easy to feel good.

Please send money to Mexico. Also read up on why this most recent earthquake was destructive but not deadly, research our political relationship with Mexico, write your politicians on the way we treat Mexicans (and perceived Mexicans)  in America and think about how foreign stories are reported in our mainstream media. The more we inform ourselves, the more we participate and help in a really effective way, and the less antiseptic we are in our interaction with those different from us.

At the very least, it helps us recognize that the world is full of people different from us and they are all worthy of the same respect we expect. That right there is a ton of help.

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Books prices plummet.
Literacy rates soar.
Education rates soar.
Old structures crumble, as did the Church.
Scientific Revolution.
Industrial Revolution.
Humanitarian Revolution.

Inventor of the electronic book and my dear friend Michael S. Hart would have been 65 today. Each time I say or think that – “he would have been 65 today” – the spirit of Michael frowns at me reproachfully, “Stop being so sentimental about the past. I am the past. Focus on the future!” This is the man who, if he were given the tough choice of saving his parents, wife or children from a sinking ship, would always pick his children. They are the future.

Reverence for the future, for what we cannot yet see but can begin to make, is the very core of the philosophy from which Michael created and ran Project Gutenberg. But, he was always looking at the land beyond the horizon. After eBooks, what next? While getting taxpayer-funded research back into public hands, making DRM more fair and continuously fighting draconian copyright laws all the way from Disney to SOPA and PIPA are extremely necessary and require our immediate energy, they are merely the taking-down of roadblocks to get us back to zero. What needs done in order for us to achieve true progress? What do we create next?

As I type this, I am suddenly wrecked and sobbing my eyes out. Not just because the world lost such a man and many don’t even realize what he signified, but because Michael was my friend and loved the people of now as much as he did those of tomorrow.

A friend who convinced me I could learn anything if I let go and think about it, taught me never to apologize for my personality and high standards, was proud of my achievements as he was of his own and I could call in the middle of the night with an Aha! moment or a broken heart.

A goofball who would chide me for spending too much on retail products but would buy at garage sales ten widgets that went into a machine he didn’t own or five tubes of toothpaste on super-sale because you never know when that make will be discontinued.

A teacher who broke down the quadratic formula for me visually so I understand what it physically means to complete the square.

A technophile who didn’t like that I work for the oil and gas industry because it isn’t forward-thinking enough but relished the technologies the industry fosters and drove his and friends’ cars into the ground (and in no way near a fuel-efficient manner).

A bat out of hell. But NEVER a cynic.

The world needs people like that to effect change while bringing others to realize that that change, the constant push towards better, is what keeps people and civilizations from brain and physical death.

Speaking of death, did I ever tell you Michael wanted to live forever? I am still upset we didn’t have his brain and some cells cryogenically frozen in a DQ Mr. Misty. Then again, it’s probably for the best, for who wants to deal with The Holocene Park Of Dr. Hart? *GROAN*awful*OW* Yeah, well, Michael would have appreciated that whole setup and delivery!

Happy 65th, my friend. Thinker, do-er and ever in my heart and actions. I love and miss you, but I draw the line at having a red Mr. Misty in your honor.

A request: If you read and love eBooks and understand the need to protect the public domain, please consider donating your time or money to Project Gutenberg.

Thank you, L.A. Eyewear, for donating the above image to the public domain.

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Joyeux Mardi Gras!

Friend of a friend was walking down a New Orleans street last week when a woman stopped him to say, “I’m looking for the Mardi Gras.” Friend wished he had answered, “Duh. St. Claude and Dumaine.” Badumbum.

Even after a decade of being a part of Carnival, I stand amazed and awed by it all. At the start of every Krewe du Vieux second line, I spontaneously thank the universe for this opportunity. Thank you for this. Thank you for placing me right here right now. Nonesuch. None. Such.

However much I chide the city for its shortcomings, its importance and relevance only grows in my mind, especially during Carnival. What would you give for a place in time where your friends love you for who you are and not what you do, new friends invite you into their homes without question only to feed and dress you, your imagination takes life year after year and joy is there for the taking and giving? This is possible and right here on earth.

It’s totally about the costumes, beads, food and drink. And it’s much more than that. Next year, get that ticket in your hand.

Oh, and just in case you don’t understand the punchline of the first paragraph:

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But That’s Just An Old Fantasy

Whitney Houston was the first cassette tape my uncle bought along with a brand new player back in 1985. And while listening to “Saving All My Love” at the age of 10 was when I first really understood unrequited love and loss.

This isn’t about a post about memorializing celebrities, burnouts and addicts. It isn’t even about fame and addiction. It notes the talent and beauty of one female 80s musician, and her songs and videos that were so much a part of some of us growing up. We had our Depeche Mode, Madonna, Thomas Dolby, Wham! and all the pop and New Wave you can(not) handle, but we had Whitney Houston and it made all the difference. I can assure you that Lady Gaga and M.I.A. will not make as lasting an impression on today’s teenagers as Whitney and Madonna made on us. Maybe Adele, maybe.

Yet, it’s sad how some of the same folks who don’t care for Whitney Houston’s downward spiral and untimely death because they “don’t mourn junkies” consider a trip to Graceland a must-do. Elvis sank and died in a very similar fashion, you know.

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Oh no, yet another culture is better than us at something!

The social media outlets are now blowing up with a WSJ article by Pamela Druckerman about how French parents are superior to their neurotic American counterparts.

… After a few more harrowing restaurant visits, I started noticing that the French families around us didn’t look like they were sharing our mealtime agony. Weirdly, they looked like they were on vacation. French toddlers were sitting contentedly in their high chairs, waiting for their food, or eating fish and even vegetables. There was no shrieking or whining. And there was no debris around their tables.

Shivers ran down my spine while reading this paragraph. See, none of this would have happened in the households in which D and I grew up because if you had by some stroke of ill luck lost the fear of God (our parents) and a sound thrashing, it would be reintroduced with a quickness. Act up at dinner? Too bad. You were turned away from the table and no, no plate saved for you in case you hungered later that night. In a house full of boys (D’s) or in which Indian and Arab food was prepared fresh everyday (mine), there were no leftovers. Should’ve pitched a fit after swallowing a few spoonfuls. Survival of the most strategic, baby. Act up at dinner outside the confines of home? Can you say “Dead Kid Walking?”

Be it due to low self-esteem, co-dependence issues or the need for unconditional love, Americans today, generally speaking, are way too indulgent of their children. Mine will not be raised that way. D says it’s all talk, I’m a big softie and will cater to their every whim. What he fails to realize is that authority is not my concern as much as being a good parent, and that is not being the kid’s friend or even the purveyor of morality but someone who makes him or her see that he or she is not the center of the universe. This is a very critical life lesson and lots more important than math, music, swimming, debate or religion. It breaks my heart to see my friends’ kids having kids or roped into being parents because their parents just could not and did not put their feet down to say and repeatedly, “Hey, I know life isn’t fair, but ruining yours and mine is not the way to deal with it” or “If you think suburbia is so boring, go downtown and volunteer or get a job.”

Back to French parents who

are raising happy, well-behaved children without all the anxiety.

Consistently-enforced parental discipline makes for well-behaved children but if you want your kids to be happy and have anxiety-free futures, you absolutely cannot beat the tar out of them, either. Occasional, warranted spanking is a-ok in my book, but whaling on your kid with the flyswatter, bottle of lotion or whatever is within reach is not. Such incoherence may stop the behavior but not the underlying cause and only builds resentment. (And all you white people who think spanking is corporal punishment or child abuse? You don’t know anything. Spanking! Ha! Haha!)

So, the trick is to stay cool but simultaneously firm. It’s a hard balancing act, especially with respect to this human being you created and provokes you like no other. It’s easy to indulge, relent or rage. And then I think of a certain sibling of mine and his family, in which the chill-but-rigorous approach to parenting has largely succeeded. It’s not impossible.

Another highly-effective child-rearing tool mentioned in the article is Alone Time. Except we didn’t have a term for it growing up because we were supposed to entertain ourselves for whole chunks of time while parents took care of, heaven forbid, themselves and their affairs. What ever happened to leaving or being thrown out of the house to go run around and get scraped up with the neighborhood kids? (And don’t tell me you can’t do it in the city or the America of today because I grew up among high-rise buildings in the sand-and-concrete desert of Kuwait.) Sitting in your room reading, doodling, thinking up stories and next adventures, rifling through your brother’s stuff or generally farting around the house? And, that’s just it, if you have to call it Alone Time and schedule it into your kids’ calendars along with similarly vacuous, antiseptic activities on the order of Play Dates, Tumbling Time, Mommy & Me or whatever the hell have you, you’ve discovered the root of the problem with modern American parenting. Leave the poor kid alone to build an imagination and independence. Give yourself a break, too, while you’re at it. Parenting is probably the most important responsibility one will ever have, but that doesn’t have to mean subsuming your whole identity in the Creature That Came From Uterus.

Or The Powerful Posse Of Playground Power Parents, for that matter. *shudder*

When I think of a general philosophy for any future kid, this is what comes to mind: I love you with all of my heart and will never harm your trust in me, but cross me and I will put you back whence you came. I joke and laugh with you and let a lot of things slide, but not the important things because I am not here to win a popularity contest. You will always be physically and mentally safe here, but there are things you need to hear and others you will have to figure out on your own. Everyone screws up, including parental unit over here, but please don’t do it in a bad way because your life is supposed to be better than mine, not a repetition or justification of my own mistakes. And I truly hope you become the best possible you, but even if you don’t, that’s ok. As long as you’re a good, self-reliant person and not moving into my basement in a few years. Because, sweet jesus, I want to retire in peace.

Didn’t mean to get all Kahlil Gibran on you, but if humans are not willing to think about at least some of these things ahead of time, we have no business reproducing. This is why I often think that the best parents are the ones that don’t have children.

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