Six or seven years ago I wrote my first essays about how America's
fundamentalist churches had gone batshit crazy, were casting demons out
of car engine blocks and making covert plans to exchange the
Constitution for the Book of Revelation. Those few readers I had at the
time, mostly in urban liberal strongholds, tended to think, "Well,
these hayseeds out there in the hinterlands are scary fuckers, but Joe
overstates the case a bit. The god-whacks can never put together the
kind of political power he's describing." The political landscape has
changed since then, and there are now more books and documentary films
sounding the alarm than you can shake a stick at. Which warms the gin
soaked cockles of my heart (whatever the hell heart cockles are.)
Like you've mentioned before, the central theme of American life seems
to revolve around security. The search for security, entertainment,
comfort and convenience seem to explain almost everything that can be
seen in the states these days.
I would have to say that many people, if they can, turn themselves into
entitlement whores in order to get security. They get the degree or the
training so they can get the sinecure, the guaranteed position. They
get the guaranteed position not because of their ability to perform,
but because of their "qualifications". Paper is trusted, but not people.
Skinned goats, phantom love and the providence of prostitutes
By Joe Bageant
A fellow expatriate told me recently when I left Belize, Central
America, which I now consider my home: "America is a sticky place, Joe,
hard to get out of again, even from a short visit. The everyday money
and business stuff alone will trap you like fucking flypaper." And that
keeps ringing in my head during this current return to sell my house
and fulfill my promotional obligations for the book I just published
here. Which could take months.
But it's sticky in other ways too, some of them rooted in the hearts of
its working class people. Last week I found myself in Philadelphia, a
working class town if ever there was one. In this sprawl-and-mall age,
it's surprising for non-metro people like me to run into whole
neighborhoods of folks who are not full of suburban self-important
horseshit and three-car garages, and when you do they always seem to be
immigrant or working class neighborhoods. But then, maybe I was just
around too many bland American "sluburbs" for too long before I skipped
the country.
Having read your article, I suspect that you don't mind the people and
surroundings in amongst which you live at all really. And you do have a
computer! I've retired long ago now, and was serving in the military
during the years in which you say you were a young boy. I've lived in
six countries and, despite having worked probably 56 to 60 hours a week
for most of that time, I never managed to buy myself into the middle
class. Oh, that I had!
Since you were talking about corn in your essay "A Feral Dog Howls in Harvard Yard", I thought I might tell you about a
situation developing here on the great plains. In his book In the
Center of the Nation, Dan O'Brian says, "When you get the feeling that
the whole world can see you but no one is watching, you have come to
the grasslands of North America." I sometimes feel that I am the only
one who is watching here anymore (probably the result of spending the
70's working for McGovern, and saving the world). I thought the shit
was over, but now it is beyond what any one of us could imagine. But
that's another story.
I have just read your essay on "The Covert Kingdom" and it was very
interesting to me when I think of my own long journey to having an open
mind, from the time I was a young girl to my retirement. I was born in
Durban, South Africa. I lived in Johannesburg, the murder capital of
the world. So much of what you recount in your own journey seems
similar to mine. From the book bought by my mother from the Seventh Day
Adventist who called at the door one day, to the next step of sitting
in to a so-called "Bible Study" with a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses,
and then being the daughter of a Freemason, and a mother who grew up as
an Anglican.
I've been reading your articles for almost a year now, and you've often
written things that were so dead-on that I almost emailed you, but this
last essay ("A Feral Dog Howls in Harvard Yard") was so eerily in line with my own situation that I had to
write back about it. I'm an undergraduate English major at Boston
University (which you've clearly visited, since you know about our
philosophy department's direct connection to the Almighty), and I came
across your essay while putting off work on one of my final papers, a
feminist analysis of James Joyce's The Dead. This time last semester, I
was a philosophy major, and I was probably working on my discussion of
Aristotle's conceptual debt to the Eleatics.
I don't know, Joe. Maybe I'm spoiled. I took the last year off and
worked for a nonprofit downtown, where I could see the differences I
was making, and could shake hands with the people I was helping. When I
went back to school, I was struck by two things:
While I concur with much of your lacerating of the business schools and
political science schools (there's an oxymoron) I would wonder if you
would have the same bitterness towards the "hard" sciences -- physics, chemistry, biology, engineering.
ECONOMICS IS NOT A SCIENCE! Anyhow...
The physicists have been beavering away for years, developing fusion
bombs, yes, but also X-rays for broken bones, explaining why solar
panels and how televisions work, winning World War II (largely by
radar) and exploring the universe.
Just finished reading your essay on academia vs. the working class ("A Feral Dog Howls in Harvard Yard").
It reminds me of a business professor I once knew who told me something
along the lines of "my job is to keep the little shits off the streets
for four years in hopes that they grow up enough so that by the time
they get out they won't shit on the carpets and chew on the drapes when
they get hired."
I tended to hang around the offices of professors when I was in
college. I was an older student without much in common with the "little
shits" in my classes, and the professors were generally older, lonely,
and happy to have someone to talk to for a few minutes who wasn't
utterly brain dead like most of their students. I can't say that they
educated me (I did that myself), but they certainly had some good
pointers on how to get a real education. And the Internet has made that
even easier.
Look at Amazon, they're pairing your book up in a deal with Ann Coulter.
I've read your essat, "A Feral Dog Howls in Harvard Yard". I've been working for a few
years here with a UAW local made up of Southern migrants to the auto
industry on what makes a union strong. The hatred and contempt I've
heard other "academics" express here at my university for the working
people here is the other side of your point. I worked blue collar jobs
before and during my time at the university (to finance my education),
was in the timberworkers union out west (learned how to use a chainsaw
at 10) and worked on longliners in the Bering Sea.
Joe died in March 2011, but his email is still being read. His wife and children send their deep appreciation to his friends and readers for all their kind words.