Let’s take George Floyd as a case study in what I explained in the previous post. We’ve seen people – large crowds of people – become enraged by George Floyd’s death. I know such people in person, and they are very sincere. They very honestly perceive what happened to Floyd as the height of injustice and an absolute horror.

But why? you’ll ask. He was overdosing before he met with those police officers. He was a violent criminal on heavy drugs. He was committing a crime. He resisted arrest. Yes, it’s sad that he died, as it’s sad when anybody dies, but this is a person who did everything to put himself in a very high-risk situation. Why is it so much more upsetting than the shooting of a 6-year-old boy in Chicago this past Sunday who was sitting peacefully at home with his family? Or the murder of two 15-year-olds also in Chicago over the Labor Day weekend?

George Floyd’s death is so much more upsetting precisely because you are making this argument. You are looking at Floyd and the shot 6-year-old and seeing different things. You are bringing your knowledge and experience into the situation instead of perceiving these two victims as completely identical and as blank slates you aren’t allowed to write on. If you see any difference between what happened to Floyd and an imaginary situation where police grab a baby out of a stroller and murder her on the spot, you have revealed your unforgivable tendency to infringe on the capacity of others fully to control their interactions with the world.

Since it’s impossible to make people perceive others as blank slates, the proponents of the structural oppression theory try to mess with what’s written on the slate. They write insane things on it to confuse you. If you dare to try writing on the slate, the slate will retaliate by writing on you. Thus, George Floyd becomes a role model, punctuality becomes racist, and a blond Argentinean turns into a person of color.

The idea of structural oppressions is not insane. It comes out of a very specific worldview, and within that worldview both the idea and its consequences make every sense.

Here’s how it works.

The worldview that gives birth to the concept of structural oppressions is that of a complete, unlimited autonomy of godlike individuals. Within this worldview, a human person is exactly like what Christians understand as God’s creation. Within that creation there exists a spirit that occasioned it and can remake it at any time according to its inscrutable purposes.

Of course, anything that comes in from the outside and limits God’s power over his creation makes him not God. People with this vision of the self absolutely do perceive as an existential threat any limitation on what they can put in or extract from their bodies. They absolutely feel destroyed at their core by the idea of not being able to do exactly as they choose at every time. And they absolutely cannot tolerate other gods arising and turning them into objects instead of sources of creation.

The problem is that people don’t control how others perceive them. The human brain works in such a way that it categorizes an object of perception on sight and assigns qualities to it immediately upon encountering in. If this sounds confusing, think about what happens when you see a house. The second you see it, you know what it is and what to expect from it. You know what purpose it serves, what it looks like inside, what it will or won’t do. It won’t, for instance, growl, make jokes or run away. You have created that house in your mind before it did anything to reveal itself to you.

But that’s a house, so who cares. Problems arise because we do that with people, too. We do not discover each human being anew every time we encounter that human being. We create him in our minds on the spot and thus destroy his capacity to be his own and only creator.

No factor that isn’t chosen freely at every single moment should have an impact on God and his creation. But since we aren’t actually gods, there’s a million things we neither choose nor control. The very structure of the human life is that of having no power over crucially important aspects of our lives. This is why people feel structurally oppressed. Things are set up in a way that messes with their godly status. Those things must be wrong and need to be destroyed.

There’s no way out of this problem because we will continue bringing our knowledge and experience to every interaction. I mean, locking everybody up and not letting people socialize could mitigate the pain somewhat. Isolation is the best form of existence for people possessed by the need to be God.

The Supreme Court of Mexico legalized abortion today because “it violates the rights of women and persons with the capacity to gestate”. I translated as closely to the text as possible.

This absolute rot that is exported around the world by… well, us has no excuse. The Supreme Court of Mexico now officially recognizes the legal category of non-female persons with the capacity to gestate. Think about it. This is very, very wrong. They are doing it out of subservience to us. We are bullying people into this humiliating spectacle of dog-like loyalty. Neither abortion nor gestating persons are Mexican ideals. But they have been blindly adopted to please us.

Shame on us.

Of course, it just so happens that I have to spend this whole week discussing and coordinating an event with a colleague by the name of Eric. He’s a great person but the constant “hi Eric, how about we meet at 11 am tomorrow to discuss this” is getting to me.

One really funny thing I found in the biography of Elizabeth von Arnim is that she wrote a scathing review of Virginia Woolf’s essay A Room of One’s Own. Von Arnim found ridiculous Woolf’s belief that a woman needed to have a room of her own to be able to write. A true writer can do easily without a separate room, von Arnim wrote from the 16-bedroom chalet with a separate writing retreat that she occupied by herself. Plus, the servants, of course.

Elizabeth von Arnim’s life doesn’t lend itself to an interesting book. She had a wonderful, easy life with no hardship. I’m happy for her but who can read a whole book about an existence of endless bliss? Happiness is great for those who feel it but insanely boring for the observers.

“Elizabeth” was born to a very wealthy family. Her parents loved each other and their children. Elizabeth’s siblings loved each other and had great relationships. The parents supported the talented girl’s musical career. Then they supported her marriage to the man of her choice. Then they cheered on her writing career. Elizabeth’s father lived to be 82, all the while being as engaged and supportive of her writing as it’s humanly possible to be. Her mother also lived to great old age, being loving and sweet to her kids the whole time.

Elizabeth married an extremely wealthy, aristocratic man. They were completely faithful to each other. Had 5 children, all of whom survived birth and infancy. The children were all wonderful, healthy, problem-free. Her first book was a mega bestseller. And so was the second. And the third. And so on. Famous writers and philosophers crowded around, eager to be her friends.

Joyce Morgan, the author of von Arnim’s biography, does all she can to make the book less soporific. She tries to find something that can qualify as adversity. Once Elizabeth and her husband had a disagreement about when to leave home from a vacation! They settled it immediately but still! One of the kids went through a stretch of bad sleeping! That’s a problem! Elizabeth and her husband experienced money problems and had to move out of their castle to a mansion with 7 bedrooms and their own tennis court. That’s serious hardship right there. I can’t imagine having to content myself with 7 bedrooms and a tennis court, which is just as well because I’m never going to have a mansion this size. Don’t worry, though, von Arnim didn’t suffer in these impossibly close quarters for long. She soon but herself a 16-bedroom chalet in the Swiss Alps.

Here’s a typical paragraph about von Arnim’s life. The author calls her by her actual name, Mary:

Mary plunged into a frenzy of engagements when she returned to London in February 1910. She heard social reformer Sidney Webb speak at the Fabian Society and George Bernard Shaw at the Eugenics Education Society. She attended talks on the prevention of destitution and on women’s suffrage. She spent nights at the theatre and at music concerts and made frequent visits to St Paul’s. She dined with Bernard Shaw and attended his new play Misalliance. She also dined with her children’s former tutors E.M. Forster and Hugh Walpole, with popular writer Mary Cholmondeley and other London friends. She took Evi to dancing lessons and made holiday arrangements for the other children.

Joyce Morgan, The Countess from Kirribilli

Oh well, cry me a river. Bitch.

OK, I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Kind of. Did you know she was effortlessly thin her whole life? Now tell me the woman isn’t extremely annoying.

Joyce Morgan does her absolute best to make von Arnim at least somewhat interesting and relatable. She’s been criticized for writing in very simple, basic sentences with limited vocabulary but I think it was the right decision. Morgan is a talented person and understands that the slightest hint of pomposity in writing about von Arnim’s charmed life will make the book insufferable.

When my sister was little, she always wanted me to make up stories for her. But we lived in a chaotic home environment, so the only stories she could tolerate was where everything was always perfect. I came up with this series of tales about a family of squirrels, and she had me go on for hours about how wonderful, blissful and invariably perfect everything would be in the squirrels’ lives. Whenever I tried to introduce anything like a conflict or an issue to break up the tedium, she’d scream her little head off. I’m sorry I didn’t come across the von Arnim biography then because I could have read it to her and she’d be happy. But other than an obsessed von Arnim fan or a severely traumatized person, I don’t know who can read this book with any enjoyment.

Here’s a text message exchange I had yesterday.

“I have realized I’m in a controlling relationship. [My husband] and I are fighting again. I feel like he’s slowly destroying my spirit. Can I come over with the kids today to talk?”

“[…], I’m so sorry you and […] are fighting. My heart breaks for you and [the kids]. Tomorrow is the 10th anniversary of our son’s death, so we aren’t much for company right now. It’s hitting me really hard to think Eric would be turning 10 this year.”

“OK, maybe we can arrange a playdate later this week.”

I’m posting this here because I’ve had such exchanges with a wide variety of people for the entirety of my life. This particular woman and I have been close for years. I’ve been as supportive of her as it’s possible to be. I’ve been listening to complaints about the husband for years. All these years I’ve tried to tell her about Eric. Every time this is the reaction I get. And no, she hasn’t lost a baby, making this a painful subject. She has three very healthy children whom I love deeply.

I wouldn’t be saying anything if it were just this one woman and this one subject. But it’s every subject and almost every person. I know it’s hard to feel sorry for me. I don’t even manage it myself a whole lot. But I’m not expecting feats of compassion here. I’m not even expecting people to put it on their calendar to – no, not to express sympathy, forget that – but to avoid asking me for support on this one day of the year. I’m so desperate I’d be content with complete avoidance. But if I’ve had to issue a reminder, it shouldn’t be that hard to do a simple pro forma “I’m so sorry! Thinking about you”.

Since it keeps happening – for decades, with very different people – I have to assume it’s me.

When the war started and things were very tenuous, I really broke down in church. Weeping for the entire duration of the service. One of the parishioners is a very close friend. I’ve supported her through several difficult moments. She asked me why I was crying and I managed to choke out “The war!” She shrugged, said, “Ah, that”, and moved away. She texted me an hour ago, obviously having forgotten the date. I’m bracing myself to respond because there will be another “Ah, that” and I don’t feel up to it right now.

A friend said many years ago that it’s hard to support me because I don’t show vulnerability. But it’s a vicious circle because that’s why I don’t show it. It’s easier to pretend everything is fine than to get another annoyed “ah, that”.

The funny thing is that these people I’m talking about always say I’m the most supportive, compassionate person in their lives. Except for September 5 and May 5 (my father’s death), I always show up, listen, drive to doctor’s appointments, pick up at the airport in the middle of the night. It’s not that I’m cold and unfeeling and people pay in kind.

Another funny thing is that I do get compassion from people I’m not close with. That day at church, many people came up, hugged me, I saw tears in some people’s eyes. But the only person who is an actual close friend couldn’t squeeze out a single “I’m sorry” either then or at any time since. And she’s very compassionate towards others. I’ve seen her being mega supportive of other people.

I have to conclude that I’m doing this to people. I somehow manage to bring out the unfeeling brat persona in them. And yes, I’ve tried to talk to people about this. There was a very very dear friend who was doing this and I tried, in the kindest, gentlest way it’s given to me to express, to tell her that I was going through a terrible time and I needed her. The response was, “Are you saying that I’m a total piece of shit? Well, if I’m such a shit, then why do you want to be around me at all?” After a round of bickering (“No, I’m not saying you are shit. You are a wonderful person and I love you. What I’m saying is that I really need your support right now.” “Well, it sounds to me like you are suggesting I’m a piece of shit”), I gave up and the friendship petered out.

I apologize for the rant but I need to let it all out because it’s preying on my mind. And I don’t have much mind available for preying at this time.

If people have advice, this is one time I actually welcome it.

I always thought that “single mother (or father” referred to people who were raising their children on their own. The word “mother” was operative for me. But it turns out that for most people, the word “single” in the sense of “not currently married” is the key one.

It’s kind of weird to hear a guy who walked out in his family and barely sees the kids every other weekend refer to himself as a single father. He’s single in the sense that he’s dating widely but not in the sense that he’s single-handedly raising the kids. He’s not raising them much at all, unfortunately.

There should be a different term for people who are really raising the kids on their own as opposed to those who are divorced but have a very present and engaged co-parent.

P.S. This isn’t a criticism of anybody but a purely linguistic observation. I feel very tired of my many emotions and hence peaceful towards everybody including the absentee dad who occasioned this post.

They laughed, and the children, swinging in a hammock, looked across at them. To hear their parents laughing together was a sound they loved very much. Hearing it, they thought they would be good for ever, so that it would never stop. The world then became a settled, a serene place to be in.

Elizabeth Taylor, “In a Different Light”

Tomorrow is ten years since we lost our son. Klara engaged me in a very complex, confusing and absurd game that went on for hours. It served its purpose of extracting me from grieving. Kids have an incredible capacity to keep one anchored in the process of living.

I also have been painting maniacally for two days but the landscape I chose is very grim, so I’m mostly covering the canvas with deep black. This might have not been the best idea but I already started and I can’t switch over to another project midway.