Bad Trouble

Tonight I find myself in Yakima. It is 90°F, and I can’t sleep. Fires burn across the valley, making the air brown and smell like a campfire. The only sounds are homeless youth setting up their tents as I walk down the Ave trying to think. No scholarly journal asked me to write about “morality” as they did Joan Didion who published her sublime essay that has haunted me for more than 30 years and speaks to me tonight along with works by Timothy Snyder, David Graeber, and James Baldwin. Maybe they inadvertently compelled me, or the times did. I hear many powerful people invoke “morality” in ways so vacuous of meaning from anything I recognize (no thanks to Nietzsche) that it seems to have disappeared from their minds entirely. I distrusted this word then, and I distrust it more and more every day. To deal with my feelings and cognitive complexity of “morality” in these times, my mind veers to the particular.

Here are some of my particulars. Settlers stole this land from the Yakama people, killing approximately 6,300 of them before 1,200 survivors signed a treaty leaving their descendants to suffer a slow torturous violence from poverty. Farmworkers here jeopardize their lives daily picking food for others who despise them. The local news talks about the fires burning all around us, which towns should evacuate, which community center has water and cots. They never say climate catastrophe. They don’t mention the latest kidnappings and disappearances. They continue ignoring news about the poisoned water wells that run brown from faucets and smell like the massive manure lagoons created by corporate-owned cattle farms. National news is negligible here, so not many people know about the latest pardoned January 6 insurrectionist, confident in his self-righteousness that our freedom was under siege, who said, “I will not stand by and let this go unanswered.”

All these instances do not help me trust “morality” more, but in a vague sense they help me grasp what it is not, because the insurrectionist meant something quite specific. According to his beliefs about god and flag, he meant that a person has a higher duty to shoot and leave on the ground to bleed out anyone who gets in the way of sustaining his tribalized views. Many of the insurrectionists expressed this twisted sense of “wagon-train morality,” not unlike the thousands of bureaucrats, politicians, and citizens who became Hitler’s willing executioners, so they could sleep without bad dreams.

We are now in a “moral” emergency, not a quandary or call to consider, but a state more grotesque than we’ve seen in my lifetime

I am trying, of course, to talk about social codes that shape our sense of “morality,” often formed by what we learn in childhood. Like many of us, my childhood was filled with Bible stories that warned us about the “wages of sin” for disobeying the 10 Commandments that Moses brought down from the mountain, intending to instill in us some sort of moral compass. For similar reasons, we were told to memorize the Lord’s Prayer and do unto others as you would have them do unto you. But these stories appear to be inadequate in preventing our tendency toward self-delusion, as the neuroscientists have explained our capacity for misperception, because far too many believed then and still believe, no matter the sin, we can obtain absolution from a priest, kneel, rub some beads, and all will be fine.

These stories were hardly sufficient then and seem less so now. After centuries of the church and social groups like the Freemasons that taught their catechism for centuries, those same men, most often men, many of them the very same teachers of virtue, killed and terrorized millions in their white hoods and from behind desks in government offices. When I was young the story about Flight 571 crashing into the Andes, and what the passengers had to do to survive, spread around the world. Many also watched Soylent Green, a popular dystopian 70s film. Both these stories were less about illuminating the complexities of our social code, but more to prevent us from crossing a line we should never cross by reminding us of a visceral feeling of revulsion if we did. Given our history with “morality” and our woefully deficient track record, perhaps it is time we try another way. If we tried to tell stories that engage our moral imagination, true stories of Tulsa, Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, the Osage, the California genocide, Zoot Suite riots, Japanese internment, Indian boarding schools, and many, many others, not as cautionary tales but with an intention of sharing more values and countering a “doctrine of inevitability,” we might see a flash of hope’s light before change’s thunder.

Many of us relied on a “morality” described as duty in the Declaration of Independence, and like stories from our childhood, this seems grievously insufficient now, if it ever was. Perhaps a “morality” from Ubuntu and In lak’ech are worthy candidates for exploration and experimentation, but we may also need to clear our heads from the imprint of white supremacy culture before we dismiss them outright or misunderstand what we see in ourselves and others. Stories of Kondiarok, a genius and chief of the Windout Nation in the 17th century graciously offered a better way when he spoke with the European “intellectuals” of the day, even though they closed their ears and insisted their white supremacist ideology was better than his and his people’s “savagery.” Stories of Levi and Catharine Coffin and others who orchestrated the Underground Railroad by spending their own money to save the lives of thousands of slaves running for their lives without expectation of veneration could support teaching other values. Likewise, stories of Harriet Tubman and many other Black women, who cleaned their guns and readied themselves to shoot if it could save the lives of other Black people beyond their own families will do as well. These days I often think about the possible utility of the story “Rule by Tricks,” by Liu Ji in the 14th century, in which monkeys took down all the stockades used to harm them, leaving the sadistic old man to perish from starvation.

I don’t believe I’ve ever imposed my conscience on others, and I do not intend to start now. Not that I could, even if I wanted to, because this is only possible when we give away sovereignty of our own minds. But, if we are as clearheaded as we like to believe we are, expect to hold on to a Good Samariten view of “self,” or retain our grip on the notion that we are more civilized and evolved than Paleolithic warring tribes as truth—with our reptilian brain held in check so we can interrogate reality instead of fall for our biased perceptions—then we should be able to agree that protecting children from sexual violence and exploitation demands a “morality,” at a minimum, to disarm the perpetrators from continuing their evil acts. Some will say that this is setting our moral bar too low, and they would be correct. What then are we to do with it when these days bombs leave no human remains to retrieve and bury, when the bombardier sits comfortably on the other side of the planet pushing buttons, or when drivers of bulldozers plow over untold numbers of dead Palestinians who were just trying to love their children?

I long for any remnant of “morality” that used to lead us, in its most naked simplicity, to retrieve a young man from a cavern or a driver killed in a desert highway accident from the ravages of coyotes. In simpler times, Didion warned us about “fashionable madmen” who invoke a perversion of truth, about the sinister delusion of evil deeds, and now we see, or cannot look away from the madmen who steal, sell, and rape our children. We were in a state of madness when her essay was first published, and now these monstrous madmen run our concentration camps and surveillance data centers. (Oh, Ms. Didion, if you could see us now!) Now they seem to relish our hysteria and stoke self-delusion among as many of us as possible through algorithms, bots, and any other tool money can buy.

Tonight fear and grief reign heavier than the smoke. It is the sound of sorrow and wailing. If we listen, we can all hear this rending of hearts across the land, a siren warning, especially across the valley tonight, sending many to seek safety and closing themselves off in their houses, afraid to cross a street to see their neighbor. Some call their family members to find out who recently disappeared in an ICE SUV, whose child, parent, and grandparent can’t get off the floor, paralyzed from loss. Others cook their dinner outside among ash heaps and lay their heads down under tents or on bare ground struggling to sleep, not knowing when and if anyone will ever send relief.

While many of us feel like a shattered ceramic bowl from this incessant madness, I still believe we can piece ourselves back together, in the tradition of Kintsugi, and become something better, perhaps even beautiful. You see I want to be quite obstinate about insisting we are now in a “moral” emergency, not a quandary or call to consider, but a state more grotesque than we’ve seen in my lifetime which begs us to find truth in our hearts, a truth that lets us see each other’s full humanity, and to truly care for each other, and set a higher bar for our social code. I am well aware of the irony in my wish that during the period when Didion’s essay was widely read we had brought immortality to its knees and snuffed it out. But we can never go back, no matter how much we pray, and this is the moment we are given, a new moment to bring an end to this sinister madness, in spite of the seemingly impossibility of defining “morality” because it may not exist outside some ideal guiding light of our aspirations. This time we cannot cave to perfectionism’s demonic voice that may stymie us from action, or continue deluding ourselves, but instead listen closely to the better angels in our hearts. This time we must change course, take action, as expediently as possible, because we are now at a point of bad trouble that we’ve been in for years but is spreading like a pandemic. Whether we need to tear it all down and start anew or not, this is an opportunity to do something. We’ve been in bad trouble for far, far too long to do nothing.