Not dumbing down: "Wendell Berry’s lifelong dissent."

2011, Louisville Loves Mountains.

On Sunday I launched these words into the social media abyss.

It dawns on me that what I detest most of all on a consistent lifelong basis is the process of “dumbing down,” whether it’s society, business, politics, beer, whatever. Note that I’m not speaking of ignorance; it’s willful stupidity, which is like kryptonite to me. Jeeebus, I hate it so. Rant over. I’m going to hide somewhere in the house, read a book and LEARN SOMETHING just for spite.

I'm already reading a novel (Stalingrad, by Vassily Grossman). Then I saw this book review, which is an extended essay about Wendell Berry.

A Shared Place, by Jedediah Britton-Purdy (The Nation)

Wendell Berry’s lifelong dissent.

ESSAYS, 1969–1990, by Wendell Berry; Jack Shoemaker, ed.
ESSAYS, 1993–2017, by Wendell Berry; Jack Shoemaker, ed.

At a time when political conflict runs deep and erects high walls, the Kentucky essayist, novelist, and poet Wendell Berry maintains an arresting mix of admirers. Barack Obama awarded him the National Humanities Medal in 2011. The following year, the socialist-feminist writer and editor Sarah Leonard published a friendly interview with him in Dissent. Yet he also gets respectful attention in the pages of The American Conservative and First Things, a right-leaning, traditionalist Christian journal.

More recently, The New Yorker ran an introduction to Berry’s thought distilled from a series of conversations, stretching over several years, with the critic Amanda Petrusich. In these conversations, Berry patiently explains why he doesn’t call himself a socialist or a conservative and recounts the mostly unchanged creed underlying his nearly six decades of writing and activism. Over the years, he has called himself an agrarian, a pacifist, and a Christian—albeit of an eccentric kind. He has written against all forms of violence and destruction—of land, communities, and human beings—and argued that the modern American way of life is a skein of violence. He is an anti-capitalist moralist and a writer of praise for what he admires: the quiet, mostly uncelebrated labor and affection that keep the world whole and might still redeem it. He is also an acerbic critic of what he dislikes, particularly modern individualism, and his emphasis on family and marriage and his ambivalence toward abortion mark him as an outsider to the left ...

Hello Wendy, Part Two: "Are dissidents born or made? A humanities major examines his life and locale."

Gibberish, isn't it?

Previously: Hello Wendy, Part One: In which we are properly warned not to heed the oligarchs' call to discount the value of liberal arts degrees.

As originally published on May 18, 2017, this column explains why I feel this need to say hello to Wendy Dant Chesser, the president and CEO of One Southern Indiana ... and why I have no plans to "let it go" anytime soon.

Note also that many of the same thoughts were repeated a few weeks later, prior to the council's annual rote approval of One Southern Indiana's tithing request.

(2 of 2) My comments at tonight's city council meeting, during public speaking time prior to A-17-02 (funding for One Southern Indiana).

---

ON THE AVENUES: Are dissidents born or made? A humanities major examines his life and locale. 

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

Since my mother died in mid-March, I’ve experienced periods of intense introspection.

Are these signs of depression?

Maybe, although I don’t think so. In all likelihood, periods of reflection are natural manifestations of the grieving process. The cosmos can be disorienting even in the best of times, and our reactions change with them.

I believe that it’s never too late to learn something, and accordingly, these past few weeks have struck me as an opportunity to relax and see where these evolving thoughts are leading.

One very big question has moved to the front of the cerebral queue. It’s something I’ve often asked myself through the years.

Why am I here?

Mind you, not here on Planet Earth. There’s no need for existential musing about the nature of origins, at least yet. I’m perfectly content to allow theologians, philosophers and even humanities majors to earn their meager pay, but looking through old photo albums is evidence enough for me.

My parents met, and one thing led to another. Suddenly there I was, all created, pouring pints of Guinness for a living and plotting a beer revolution.

Rather …

Why am I still here, continuing to live in New Albany when I might be residing in another part of the state, country or world?

(Reader’s note: The axiom known as Thrasher’s Razor fully applies to this rumination, because now more than ever, we’re all here because we’re not all there.)

As the missus reminds me on widely scattered occasions -- basically, every morning at breakfast -- I’ve never been much in sync with the sort of polite poseur’s society mores craved by the likes of Bob Caesar. They're far too banal an ordeal for me.

After 57 years of give and take, it’s evident that I have lots of buttons – and the reigning poltroons have even more fingers. I’ve never been able to swim a lick unless it’s against the metaphorical tide. Contrarianism fits me like a well-tailored suit, which of course I’d refuse to wear, because you can’t trust anyone who does.

They’re just hiding behind those fashionable costumes (seriously?), anyway.

I trust it isn’t time to face the final curtain, and yet the years dwindle down. Wouldn’t I be happier elsewhere, in a place with a cultural climate more in keeping with my personal value system, as opposed to one that prompts severe allergic (read: aesthetic) reactions?

Might I manage to find the zip code for peace and harmony, even at the advanced age of “I can remember the first moon landing”?

Haven’t “they” always told me to leave town if I didn’t like “their” toxic farrago of ignorance and anti-intellectualism?

To which I’ve always succinctly replied: “You first, my dear Gaston.”

---

The most recent resurgence of these locational culture reflections came during our April visit to Portland, Maine.

It was a Friday morning at the estimable Tony’s Donut Shop at the corner of Bolton and Congress, and we were equipped with cream horns, black coffee and the bakery’s gnarled regulars seated at an adjacent table, talking current events.

As noted previously, Tony's is somewhat reminiscent of New Albany’s venerable Honey Creme Donuts, albeit three or four times larger, with more production capacity as well as a half-dozen cozy tables for visitors to sit and converse.

It was impossible to avoid overhearing the amiable patter as locals came and went with their carry-outs, nor to ignore the booming voices of the senior citizens seated nearby. They were talking hockey when we sat down, then shifted to politics -- and I caught myself cringing involuntarily, as though expecting to be savagely beaten.

After all, back home again in Indiana, where I’ve insisted on remaining amid the raging right-wing proclivities, this conversational shift inevitably would have segued into the parroting of conservative talk radio bromides.

Or, just the thing inspiring me to respond loudly from the left side of the aisle, a scenario usually culminating in rancor, disharmony and “if you don’t love it, lump it” -- or worse.

And so there I sat at Tony’s Donuts like Pavlov’s drooling mutt, conditioned to imagine a fine day about to be ruined, all the while thinking that I can’t seem to escape the mentality of Redevelopment Commission meetings no matter how far I travel – except this time, it wasn’t that way at all.

Instead, these retirees in Portland fiercely criticized Donald Trump’s buffoonery. They mercilessly ridiculed the Republican Party, and scoffed openly at the very idea of a theocratic creature called “Mike Pence” reposing within spitting distance of power.

Me? I’m from Chicago. Never heard of Indiana.

Awestruck, yet aware it would have been impolite of me to kiss these strangers, I settled for stuffing another nut-encrusted Bismarck into my gratified pie hole. Still, it started me thinking.

I’ve lived in Floyd County my whole life, and in the city of New Albany during the latter half of it. Even when Barack Obama won the state of Indiana in 2008, John McCain beat Obama more than comfortably in both my county and city. So did Mitt Romney in 2012, and of course Trump easily carried them, too.

Yes, so-called Democrats have “controlled” municipal government for much of the same period, although it is painfully clear that the retirees at Tony’s would take one pained look at Caesar and accurately place him somewhere to the right of George Wallace.

Back to my original question. If I’ve never been into S & M, why have I punished myself these many decades?

As an old-school Red (Commie) marooned in a new-age Red (Conservative) sandbox, and generally outnumbered, I’ve been compelled for thirty-five or more years to inflict my liberalism on the prevailing Falangist orthodoxy by means of guerrilla warfare, destined almost always to lose, and just as often reluctant to compromise.

Why am I like this?

I don’t know. After I’m dead, the psychoanalysts can study my brain for causes of contrarianism. In my experience, it’s incurable.

All I know is for as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with the notion that opposing points of view deserve a hearing, especially as they pertain to politics, civil rights, religion and individual conscience.

The bland respectability of Babbitt-style conformity invariably tramples “other” competing sides of the story, and so when disposed to tilt, my windmill of choice flies a banner reading “we’ve always done it this way.”

On the other hand, if I’ve been of assistance just once to someone by helping them see that it’s okay to be different, and it’s possible to be responsible, productive and ethical without being duped and hornswoggled by delusions, fantasias and superstitions foisted by the usual suspects, then my career in contrarianism has been well worth it.

---

As a relevant postscript, I cannot attend Thursday evening’s city council meeting owing to a conflict with my Leadership Southern Indiana graduation ceremony. As you may recall, I’m a proud member of the Discover class of 2017.

Leadership Southern Indiana’s mission is to engage, develop and mobilize regional leaders who will serve and transform our community.

Ironically, the council’s Thursday evening agenda includes A-17-02, an ordinance documenting our legislative body’s annual tithe to One Southern Indiana – and coincidentally, 1Si’s President and CEO, Wendy Dant Chesser, spoke to my class last week during our concluding Community Leadership Day.

Ostensibly Dant Chesser was there to outline steps for effectively leading a non-profit organization, and this she managed to do with requisite efficiency.

However, the second half of her presentation quickly digressed into the customary advertisement for 1Si, although this time with a novel twist.

According to Dant Chesser, the large manufacturing conglomerates most eagerly courted by 1Si (as opposed to independent local businesses and grassroots entrepreneurs, who must settle for trickle-down) prefer employees holding one of the six “top earner” university degrees, including engineering, computers and electronics.

However, according to her PowerPoint slide, higher education insists on disgorging twice as many graduates who’ve been awarded the six least “useful” (and lowest paying) degree choices: English, philosophy, history and the like.

It would seem that both Dant Chesser and the fluffed and subsidized multinational beneficiaries of the neoliberal order, upon whom 1Si depends to make payroll for 14 staffers, are offended by this ratio.

She made no effort to conceal her disdain for those viewing education as anything other than glorified vocational training, and considering the fact that I wasn’t the only humanities major in the room, her summarizing anecdote of choice was tellingly errant.

Dant Chesser told us of her recent chat with an art history major who was having trouble in the job market. Well, what did he expect? Art history? What sort of guidance counselor would recommend studying subjects as perennially useless as art history?

Well …

Perhaps those guidance counselors grasping that the object of education isn’t always to match obedient hamsters to their proper wheel, but to produce humans capable of thinking. The fact that “fake” news is such a concern these days might enter into this paradigm, wouldn’t you … think?

Seemingly nowhere in Dant Chesser’s narrowly defined (read: confined) world exists the type of broad, individually tailored choices of human aspiration that depart from economic development of the “we’ve always done it this way” variety, which by breathtaking coincidence is the type best calculated to advance the specific capitalist format to which 1Si has attached itself like a leech – hence the blood money of its council funding request.

The real problem might be that humanities majors have been made aware of different trends in the history of thought, and as such, they’re the ones most likely to question Dant Chesser’s premises.

Which I did, aloud and joyfully.

Bizarrely, another of her slides testified to the critical importance of every Southern Indiana resident meekly accepting 1Si’s version of the Regional Cities Initiative, so as to provide unanimity in pursuit of a “collective” path forward – and yes, “collective” is precisely the word this crony capitalist enabler used.

Irony is dead, but Trumpolini didn’t kill it.

As a direct result of past concerns proffered by anti-establishment dissidents, at least the money 1Si is requesting of our council will be put to a specific, directed use: WorkHub, a workforce training initiative.

That’s all well and good, but is this workforce training available to art history majors, or must we collectively denounce the pursuit of non-vocational education before disbursing the dollars to applicants?

Until Dant Chesser answers this question (a contrite public apology would be more suitable, but I’m a cynical realist), I recommend to council that the money be withheld. It won’t, and I can hear the backslapping already.

This admittedly has been a long read, so thanks for persevering.

You know, if dastardly parasitic humanities majors like me didn’t combat the angst with alcohol and stick around places like Nawbany, confident that any reasonable definition of leadership includes transparency, the ability to hear opposing viewpoints, to weigh available options and to filter the incessant bilge before charging across open ground toward the machine gun nest – tell me, would anyone bother challenging Wendy Dant Chesser and Bob Caesar when they begin spinning those “our way or the highway” whoppers?

That’s okay. You needn't answer. It’s my conscience, and it’s not for sale. However, I’m not going anywhere, and you can buy me a beer any time you like.

ON THE AVENUES: Clamming up is hard to do, but I'm trying my best.

ON THE AVENUES: Clamming up is hard to do, but I'm trying my best.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.



Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.
-- Michael Corleone

I can’t remember being born, though surely it was a traumatic experience. Being reborn is proving to be just as disruptive. I’m trying my best, but habits of long standing die hard.

In a previous column, I wrote a few words about trying to wean myself from an axiom attributed to television journalist David Brinkley, one that has served as motivation for my entire career as a noxious scribe and chronic pain in the butt: “You’re entitled to MY opinion.”

So far, results are mixed.

It may seem to readers as if nothing’s changed at all. I’m prepared to argue that apart from yet another recent outbreak of callous indifference on the part of city officials, this time as their everlasting cowardice pertains to the street grid-abetted death of a bicyclist, you’d have experienced a noticeable softening.

Yes, I responded to THAT outrage, full-throated and unapologetic. As long as the self-inflated denizens of the mayor’s ruling monetization camp remain breathtakingly boneheaded about life, death and human safety in Speed Thru City, I’ll call out their miserable hunks of vapid wasted brain matter ... every single time.

Otherwise, I’m taking my abstinence pledge very seriously.

Having never smoked, groped with a Diet Coke problem or consumed beverage alcohol to excess, perhaps there’s no basis for comparison for the sensation of withdrawal when seeking to moderate my addiction to the gentle art of the polemic -- as well as rhetoric, invective, disputation and a handful of other ten-dollar terms combining to suggest a very strong personal point of view about a topic, and the willingness to pursue it by whatever means are necessary to get my case across and win the damn argument.

In other words, I’m just as “passionate” about the expository art of acidic commentary as the esteemed councilman David Barksdale when it comes to his fondness for using someone else’s money to dress up old buildings, all the while enabling money to continue flowing into a campaign account of a mayor from the opposite political party.

Oops -- I did it again.

Just a momentary lapse of reason, and now I’m back up there, high on that wagon.

---

Joking aside, there’s something suitably deep and serious about all of this. The past month has been a challenging one, and there’s a colossal inner struggle raging. There’s been something existential in my noggin demanding a resolution.

When does a hardened dissenter choose to “give in” to the system -- to the bastards, the powerful, the tyrannical and the despotic -- and conversely, when does he or she say no, the fight must continue, come what may?

When does a person assess the playing field and conclude that while the fight must go on, it cannot continue in its current form, and somehow must be reformatted – to the down low, or via the underground?

Hence the inner struggle. I already know the rational answer, because the tipping point arrives when one’s own actions begin to invite retaliation from the vandals against others. That’s when it gets serious.

The Czechoslovak ruling apparatus during Communist times was appropriately Kafkaesque in this manner. Dissidents might be subjected to direct, physical punishment, but they also were deprived socially and economically by being denied employment in their fields of expertise and training. Doctors became window washers and engineers worked as garbage collectors.

What’s more, their families often were made to endure the same indignities. Literal black marks were affixed to sons and daughters, who continued to pay for the “crimes” of their mothers and fathers. It didn’t end until the whole rotten edifice caved in on itself.

The American way may be slightly different, and dissidents here still retain a few protections even if the architects of excessive capital accumulation andtheir drooling lackeys connive diligently to strip them away, sliver by sliver.

But chicanery remains rampant, and the smaller the pond, the greater the peril. As one coping mechanism, I've been thinking a lot about my upbringing, particularly my father's worldview.

---

The two of us couldn't be any more different overall, but nowadays it seems that I managed to learn at least three important lessons from him.

For one, an affinity for the underdog, which points directly to the second: utter and everlasting contempt for those who amass power in whatever form and infer their own privileges accordingly, and concluding with the final point, which is a solemn obligation to seek whatever way possible to make it a fair fight.

Consequently, I detest the arrogant, self-serving cliques that form around power structures, and I find them just as objectionable whether large in scale or small. For this reason, my daily commentary toward local exemplars of this odiousness can be barbed, acidic, and occasionally downright nasty.

Verily, someone has to do it.

The chain newspaper refuses, so someone has to challenge the orthodoxy and offer the alternatives. If the rhetoric gets salty and steamed, then it’s just part of the game.

I detest unchecked authority, back-room plotting, fixes laid in, cash-stuffed envelopes, threats against people who haven’t the means to fight back, and the hypocrisy of the elites when it comes to excusing their own bad behavior as necessary under the circumstances.

Tellingly, these things I loathe usually emanate from groveling and unintelligent buffoons, and this offends me aesthetically on top of the other reasons to strike back.

Accordingly, I could not care less that any of this offends the people with whom I'm disagreeing in the first place.

The polemic is intended to be a war of words, and I'm personally well equipped to hold my own in such a struggle. Most of the small-timers who feel the sting of this blog’s lash also whine about my vocabulary, and this expression of inadequacy, while amusing, implies no responsibility on my part to be their tutor.

However, lately I've been trying to temper the excesses. 

As noted, it’s a big challenge. At least I'm trying. The reason I'm trying is the local election cycle quickly approaching in 2019. Should the political conflict between increasingly desperate Gahanism and the coalescing Resistance escalate, I've no way of containing the collateral damage and restricting it to me and my person, alone.

For this reason, a degree of circumspection is necessary, and I'm doing my best to accommodate the real world, as it exists right here and now, which is to say at the present time, I’m outgunned by the unscrupulous.

You'll no doubt have observed throughout human history that power of any sort, once amassed, is seldom if ever relinquished without the process turning ugly. I accept this as an ironclad fact, albeit quite sad, and speaking only for myself, I welcome their hatred (thanks, FDR).

Alone, I can cope just fine, and they can’t do much to hurt me. However, I cannot expect others near me to shoulder the same burden. 

I'll continue to explore ways to adapt, modulate and moderate -- to temper the satire, restrain my barbed tongue and keep the debate as factual as possible.

Just know that complete 100% silence isn't an achievable option, precisely because of the way my father raised me. He didn’t take kindly to shysters, mobsters and charlatans -- and neither do I.

Wish me luck -- or tell me to go to Hell. I'll get by, either way, because laughter never goes out of fashion.

---

Recent columns:

September 30: ON THE AVENUES SPECIAL EDITION: As David White's mayoral campaign begins, let's briefly survey the electoral landscape.

September 28: ON THE AVENUES: If this is adulting, I’d rather be leaving on a jet plane.

September 20: ON THE AVENUES: Fighting the power with ballots, not bullets.

September 11: ON THE AVENUES: After 49 years, two more reasons to be an Oakland A's fan.

Colin Kaepernick and the NFL, a league "more comfortable with concussions than someone having a conscience.”

From just about the only sportswriter in America who really matters ...

"Dave Zirin is sports editor of the Nation and author of eight books on the politics of sports. He is working with Seattle Seahawk Michael Bennett on Bennett’s autobiography."

 ... on the NFL's latest public relations nightmare.

When it comes to conscience, specifics and circumstances may vary, although non-conformists of many sorts in this purportedly "free" country can easily imagine themselves wearing Kaepernick's cleats.

As an atheist, permit me to inform you that it happens all the time. In my reckoning, any time it's the occasion for all of us to perform the same rote act (pray publicly, declare allegiance to the flag) all at once, then it's time to consider dissenting.

For a very long time, I've always stood for the national anthem and pledge of allegiance in honor of my father, a World War II veteran of the Marines. However, I've refused to recite the pledge of allegiance aloud, because the words "under God" simply have no place in it and should be removed.

Now Colin Kaepernick has me rethinking this position, primarily because he's right.

Maybe I need to dissent a little harder from this point forward.

Op-Ed The NFL wants you to think Colin Kaepernick isn't being sidelined by politics. The NFL is wrong — again, by Dave Zirin (Los Angeles Times)

 ... As Green Bay Packers star quarterback Aaron Rodgers said last week, it is “ignorant” to think that Kaepernick is unemployed because of his play.

“I think he should be on a roster right now,” Rodgers told ESPN’s Mina Kimes. “I think because of his protests, he’s not.” Rodgers is not alone.

The rash of anonymously sourced articles trashing Kaepernick’s play came just days after several thousand people rallied in front of Goodell’s NFL headquarters on Park Avenue in New York City: a demonstration that loudly called out a league dependent on the physical punishment of black bodies, a league that — in the words of the Rev. Jamal Bryant — is “more comfortable with concussions than someone having a conscience.”

The NFL seems to believe that shutting out Kaepernick will be like a crack of the whip across the backs of its players, stamping out dissent, keeping everyone in line. But the opposite has been the case. During the preseason, and in the wake of events in Charlottesville, Va., more and more players stepped forward to sit, take a knee or raise a fist during the anthem, and they are not shy about telling the world why. Unlike last season, white players also have involved themselves in these protests ...

(2 of 2) My comments at tonight's city council meeting, during public speaking time prior to A-17-02 (funding for One Southern Indiana).

What I'll be saying tonight during regular public speaking time for agenda items. It is a repurposed extract from a recent ON THE AVENUES column. Part 1 is here.

I’m a member of the Leadership Southern Indiana’s Discover class of 2017.

The presence of A-17-02 on tonight’s agenda is ironic, given that in May, One Southern Indiana’s President and CEO, Wendy Dant Chesser, spoke to our class during Community Leadership Day.

Ostensibly Dant Chesser was there to outline steps for effectively leading a non-profit organization. However, the second half of her presentation quickly digressed into the customary advertisement for 1Si, although this time with a twist.

According to Dant Chesser, the large manufacturing conglomerates most eagerly courted by 1Si (as opposed to independent local businesses and grassroots entrepreneurs, who must settle for trickle-down) prefer employees holding one of the six “top earner” university degrees, including subjects like engineering, computers and electronics.

However, according to her, higher education insists on disgorging twice as many graduates who’ve received the six “least useful” (and lowest paying) degree choices, like English, philosophy, geography, history and the like.

It would seem that both Dant Chesser and the often subsidized multinational beneficiaries of the local branch of the neoliberal order, upon whom 1Si depends to make payroll for 14 staffers, are very offended by this educational ratio.

She made no effort to conceal her disdain for people who might view education as something other than vocational training, or that differs from what employers want, and considering the fact that I wasn’t the only humanities major in the room, her summarizing anecdote of choice was tellingly misplaced.

She told us of a recent chat with an art history major who was having trouble in the job market. Well, she said, what did he expect? Art history? What sort of guidance counselor would recommend studying subjects as perennially useless as art history?

Perhaps those guidance counselors grasping that the object of education isn’t always to match obedient hamsters to their proper wheel, but to produce humans capable of thinking. The fact that “fake” news is such a concern these days might enter into this paradigm, wouldn’t you … think?

Seemingly nowhere in Dant Chesser’s narrowly defined world exists the type of broad, individually tailored choices of human aspiration that depart from economic development of the “we’ve always done it this way” variety, which by breathtaking coincidence is the type best calculated to advance the US Chamber of Commerce-approved, specific capitalist format to which 1Si attaches itself.

The real problem might just be that humanities majors have been made aware of trends in the history of thought that differ from hers and the oligarchs she serves, and as such, humanities majors are the ones most likely to question Dant Chesser’s premises.

Which I did, and am doing so again tonight. Because, how did I manage to stay in business 25 years without an engineering degree?

Dan Chesser also informed us that every Southern Indiana resident should unquestioningly accept – notice a pattern yet? – 1Si’s version of the Regional Cities Initiative, so as to provide unanimity in pursuit of a “collective” path forward – and yes, “collective” is precisely the word this crony capitalist enabler used, proving that while irony is dead, the Great Trumpolini didn’t kill it.

As a direct result of past concerns voiced by anti-establishment dissidents, at least the money 1Si is requesting tonight of our council will be put to a specific, directed use: WorkHub, a vocational training initiative.

But first we need to answer two questions: Is this vocational training available to art history majors, or must we collectively denounce the pursuit of non-vocational education before disbursing the dollars to applicants? Can art history majors be cured of their wayward choices, and restored to harmony with multinational corporations?

WorkHub probably is a good program, but absent a public apology by Dant Chesser to humanities majors, which I sadly know isn’t forthcoming, I’d recommend that council withhold the money until my questions are answered. You won’t, so instead I’ll urge you to think carefully about what 1Si is, and what it does. Not all your constituents view it as a panacea.

Thank you.

(1 of 2) My comments at tonight's city council meeting, during the public hearing for A-17-02 (funding for One Southern Indiana).

What I'll be reading this evening during the public hearing. Thanks to Jeff and Randy for their input. Part 2 is here.

Tonight, One Southern Indiana concludes its annual visit to city council, hat in hand, asking for $30,000 to fund vocational training and career placement via 1Si’s WorkHub program.

Granted, $30,000 probably is less than it cost Jeff Gahan to put his face on Kroger shopping carts. I’m told there must be demonstrable progress before any more city funds go to this program. That’s well and good, and I have no illusions that a single “no” vote will be cast tonight.

But still, we must remember that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

1Si is a private lobbying firm which petitions government on behalf of private, paying clients -- not in conjunction with public interests but, as often as not, in spite of them.

It is absurd for local government to pay 1Si for the privilege of being lobbied.

1Si’s support for the Ohio River Bridges Project and the subsequent tolling boondoggle, as well as its disastrous Regional Cities Initiative proposal, are merely the tip of the oligarch’s iceberg.

1Si famously endorses the agenda of the US Chamber of Commerce, which generally supports Republican political candidates. 1Si once began endorsing candidates itself, then backed down. I’d suggest that we need to keep a close eye on them lest partisan endorsements resume, and withhold all tithes if they do.

According to the organization called Chamber Watch, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce works against the public interest across a variety of sectors, including civil justice, climate and energy, health care, workplace safety and financial reform.

In addition, the American Independent Business Alliance (AMIBA) and green businesses represented by the American Sustainable Business Council have fought the U.S. Chamber’s goals.

It should tell us something that AMIBA feels this way. 1Si’s bait and switch with regard to small, locally owned independent business surely helps pay salaries for those it employs to fluff the major corporate entities, but it does nothing to assist the most vibrant grassroots sector of the local economy.

1Si extracts fees from gullible indies hoping for "networking" benefits from larger corporations, which are firmly entrenched in the international order, and have no interest whatever in localism. This is trickle-down at best, and usually not even that. In fact, these businesses support 1SI, and not the other way around. Why should taxpayers do the same?

One of my favorite 1Si subdivisions is the Economic Development Council.

“The Economic Development Council is one of our most prestigious committees. Members provide strategic direction to 1si’s economic development activities, including new business attraction, advocacy, business retention and expansion, transportation, quality of life and recruitment of talent. Places on this Committee are restricted to proven investors.”

In other words, you have to have a certain amount of money to be welcomed into the discussion about economic development. You must be sufficiently well-heeled to comment about “quality of life.”

This tripe is plainly exclusionary, and it insults small business persons and every citizen who lives paycheck to paycheck, and can’t afford the ante to discuss their contributions to economic development every single day in this community.

$30,000 for vocational education? That’s probably tolerable, but let’s not forget what 1Si really is, and really does.

Thank you.

ON THE AVENUES: Are dissidents born or made? A humanities major examines his life and locale.

ON THE AVENUES: Are dissidents born or made? A humanities major examines his life and locale. 

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

Since my mother died in mid-March, I’ve experienced periods of intense introspection.

Are these signs of depression?

Maybe, although I don’t think so. In all likelihood, periods of reflection are natural manifestations of the grieving process. The cosmos can be disorienting even in the best of times, and our reactions change with them.

I believe that it’s never too late to learn something, and accordingly, these past few weeks have struck me as an opportunity to relax and see where these evolving thoughts are leading.

One very big question has moved to the front of the cerebral queue. It’s something I’ve often asked myself through the years.

Why am I here?

Mind you, not here on Planet Earth. There’s no need for existential musing about the nature of origins, at least yet. I’m perfectly content to allow theologians, philosophers and even humanities majors to earn their meager pay, but looking through old photo albums is evidence enough for me.

My parents met, and one thing led to another. Suddenly there I was, all created, pouring pints of Guinness for a living and plotting a beer revolution.

Rather …

Why am I still here, continuing to live in New Albany when I might be residing in another part of the state, country or world?

(Reader’s note: The axiom known as Thrasher’s Razor fully applies to this rumination, because now more than ever, we’re all here because we’re not all there.)

As the missus reminds me on widely scattered occasions -- basically, every morning at breakfast -- I’ve never been much in sync with the sort of polite poseur’s society mores craved by the likes of Bob Caesar. They're far too banal an ordeal for me.

After 57 years of give and take, it’s evident that I have lots of buttons – and the reigning poltroons have even more fingers. I’ve never been able to swim a lick unless it’s against the metaphorical tide. Contrarianism fits me like a well-tailored suit, which of course I’d refuse to wear, because you can’t trust anyone who does.

They’re just hiding behind those fashionable costumes (seriously?), anyway.

I trust it isn’t time to face the final curtain, and yet the years dwindle down. Wouldn’t I be happier elsewhere, in a place with a cultural climate more in keeping with my personal value system, as opposed to one that prompts severe allergic (read: aesthetic) reactions?

Might I manage to find the zip code for peace and harmony, even at the advanced age of “I can remember the first moon landing”?

Haven’t “they” always told me to leave town if I didn’t like “their” toxic farrago of ignorance and anti-intellectualism?

To which I’ve always succinctly replied: “You first, my dear Gaston.”

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The most recent resurgence of these locational culture reflections came during our April visit to Portland, Maine.

It was a Friday morning at the estimable Tony’s Donut Shop at the corner of Bolton and Congress, and we were equipped with cream horns, black coffee and the bakery’s gnarled regulars seated at an adjacent table, talking current events.

As noted previously, Tony's is somewhat reminiscent of New Albany’s venerable Honey Creme Donuts, albeit three or four times larger, with more production capacity as well as a half-dozen cozy tables for visitors to sit and converse.

It was impossible to avoid overhearing the amiable patter as locals came and went with their carry-outs, nor to ignore the booming voices of the senior citizens seated nearby. They were talking hockey when we sat down, then shifted to politics -- and I caught myself cringing involuntarily, as though expecting to be savagely beaten.

After all, back home again in Indiana, where I’ve insisted on remaining amid the raging right-wing proclivities, this conversational shift inevitably would have segued into the parroting of conservative talk radio bromides.

Or, just the thing inspiring me to respond loudly from the left side of the aisle, a scenario usually culminating in rancor, disharmony and “if you don’t love it, lump it” -- or worse.

And so there I sat at Tony’s Donuts like Pavlov’s drooling mutt, conditioned to imagine a fine day about to be ruined, all the while thinking that I can’t seem to escape the mentality of Redevelopment Commission meetings no matter how far I travel – except this time, it wasn’t that way at all.

Instead, these retirees in Portland fiercely criticized Donald Trump’s buffoonery. They mercilessly ridiculed the Republican Party, and scoffed openly at the very idea of a theocratic creature called “Mike Pence” reposing within spitting distance of power.

Me? I’m from Chicago. Never heard of Indiana.

Awestruck, yet aware it would have been impolite of me to kiss these strangers, I settled for stuffing another nut-encrusted Bismarck into my gratified pie hole. Still, it started me thinking.

I’ve lived in Floyd County my whole life, and in the city of New Albany during the latter half of it. Even when Barack Obama won the state of Indiana in 2008, John McCain beat Obama more than comfortably in both my county and city. So did Mitt Romney in 2012, and of course Trump easily carried them, too.

Yes, so-called Democrats have “controlled” municipal government for much of the same period, although it is painfully clear that the retirees at Tony’s would take one pained look at Caesar and accurately place him somewhere to the right of George Wallace.

Back to my original question. If I’ve never been into S & M, why have I punished myself these many decades?

As an old-school Red (Commie) marooned in a new-age Red (Conservative) sandbox, and generally outnumbered, I’ve been compelled for thirty-five or more years to inflict my liberalism on the prevailing Falangist orthodoxy by means of guerrilla warfare, destined almost always to lose, and just as often reluctant to compromise.

Why am I like this?

I don’t know. After I’m dead, the psychoanalysts can study my brain for causes of contrarianism. In my experience, it’s incurable.

All I know is for as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with the notion that opposing points of view deserve a hearing, especially as they pertain to politics, civil rights, religion and individual conscience.

The bland respectability of Babbitt-style conformity invariably tramples “other” competing sides of the story, and so when disposed to tilt, my windmill of choice flies a banner reading “we’ve always done it this way.”

On the other hand, if I’ve been of assistance just once to someone by helping them see that it’s okay to be different, and it’s possible to be responsible, productive and ethical without being duped and hornswoggled by delusions, fantasias and superstitions foisted by the usual suspects, then my career in contrarianism has been well worth it.

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As a relevant postscript, I cannot attend Thursday evening’s city council meeting owing to a conflict with my Leadership Southern Indiana graduation ceremony. As you may recall, I’m a proud member of the Discover class of 2017.

Leadership Southern Indiana’s mission is to engage, develop and mobilize regional leaders who will serve and transform our community.

Ironically, the council’s Thursday evening agenda includes A-17-02, an ordinance documenting our legislative body’s annual tithe to One Southern Indiana – and coincidentally, 1Si’s President and CEO, Wendy Dant Chesser, spoke to my class last week during our concluding Community Leadership Day.

Ostensibly Dant Chesser was there to outline steps for effectively leading a non-profit organization, and this she managed to do with requisite efficiency.

However, the second half of her presentation quickly digressed into the customary advertisement for 1Si, although this time with a novel twist.

According to Dant Chesser, the large manufacturing conglomerates most eagerly courted by 1Si (as opposed to independent local businesses and grassroots entrepreneurs, who must settle for trickle-down) prefer employees holding one of the six “top earner” university degrees, including engineering, computers and electronics.

However, according to her PowerPoint slide, higher education insists on disgorging twice as many graduates who’ve been awarded the six least “useful” (and lowest paying) degree choices: English, philosophy, history and the like.

It would seem that both Dant Chesser and the fluffed and subsidized multinational beneficiaries of the neoliberal order, upon whom 1Si depends to make payroll for 14 staffers, are offended by this ratio.

She made no effort to conceal her disdain for those viewing education as anything other than glorified vocational training, and considering the fact that I wasn’t the only humanities major in the room, her summarizing anecdote of choice was tellingly errant.

Dant Chesser told us of her recent chat with an art history major who was having trouble in the job market. Well, what did he expect? Art history? What sort of guidance counselor would recommend studying subjects as perennially useless as art history?

Well …

Perhaps those guidance counselors grasping that the object of education isn’t always to match obedient hamsters to their proper wheel, but to produce humans capable of thinking. The fact that “fake” news is such a concern these days might enter into this paradigm, wouldn’t you … think?

Seemingly nowhere in Dant Chesser’s narrowly defined (read: confined) world exists the type of broad, individually tailored choices of human aspiration that depart from economic development of the “we’ve always done it this way” variety, which by breathtaking coincidence is the type best calculated to advance the specific capitalist format to which 1Si has attached itself like a leech – hence the blood money of its council funding request.

The real problem might be that humanities majors have been made aware of different trends in the history of thought, and as such, they’re the ones most likely to question Dant Chesser’s premises.

Which I did, aloud and joyfully.

Bizarrely, another of her slides testified to the critical importance of every Southern Indiana resident meekly accepting 1Si’s version of the Regional Cities Initiative, so as to provide unanimity in pursuit of a “collective” path forward – and yes, “collective” is precisely the word this crony capitalist enabler used.

Irony is dead, but Trumpolini didn’t kill it.

As a direct result of past concerns proffered by anti-establishment dissidents, at least the money 1Si is requesting of our council will be put to a specific, directed use: WorkHub, a workforce training initiative.

That’s all well and good, but is this workforce training available to art history majors, or must we collectively denounce the pursuit of non-vocational education before disbursing the dollars to applicants?

Until Dant Chesser answers this question (a contrite public apology would be more suitable, but I’m a cynical realist), I recommend to council that the money be withheld. It won’t, and I can hear the backslapping already.

This admittedly has been a long read, so thanks for persevering.

You know, if dastardly parasitic humanities majors like me didn’t combat the angst with alcohol and stick around places like Nawbany, confident that any reasonable definition of leadership includes transparency, the ability to hear opposing viewpoints, to weigh available options and to filter the incessant bilge before charging across open ground toward the machine gun nest – tell me, would anyone bother challenging Wendy Dant Chesser and Bob Caesar when they begin spinning those “our way or the highway” whoppers?

That’s okay. You needn't answer. It’s my conscience, and it’s not for sale. However, I’m not going anywhere, and you can buy me a beer any time you like.

---

Recent columns:

May 11: ON THE AVENUES: Would a Canon candidacy compromise Deaf Gahan's and Mr. Dizznee's shizz show? A boy can dream.

May 4: ON THE AVENUES: Under the volcano in Catania, Sicily (Part One).

April 27: ON THE AVENUES: Dear Mr. Dizznee: Can you hear me now?

April 20: ON THE AVENUES: The Weekly Wad? It was a modest start.

No conscience for football players? As Colin Kaepernick is savaged, let's not forget August Landmesser.

"If you can't stand for the national anthem, get your sorry ass out of this country."
-- Courageous Facebook Lodger

Conscience is a tough concept, isn't it? We're for it, until we aren't. It's absolutely vital to safeguard OUR right to the exercise of conscience, but yours?

Of course -- so long as we agree with each other.

I've seen the photo above many times, and back in 2014, I finally decided to see if there's a story.

There is. The significance to me is that while the circumstances in this instance are ones about which we've long since reached general agreement (Nazism, Hitler, the Holocaust), it is not banal to suggest that non-conformists of many sorts in our own purportedly "free" country can imagine themselves in Landmesser's shoes.

As an atheist, permit me to inform you that it happens all the time. In my reckoning, any time it's the occasion for all of us to perform the same rote act (pray publicly, declare allegiance to the flag) at once, it's time to consider dissenting.

Speaking for myself, I'll always stand for the national anthem and pledge of allegiance in honor of my father, a World War II veteran of the Marines. But I will not recite the pledge of allegiance aloud, because "under God" has no place in it.

August Landmesser, The Man Behind The Crossed Arms (All That Is Interesting)

 ... There is no telling how many men in that crowd were acting out of fear, fully aware that failing to salute the Fuhrer was akin to signing his own death certificate. Knowing that it was, in fact, Hitler standing before the crowd makes the disobedience all the more admirable, but what may seem like an act of justified transgression was at its core a gesture of love. August Landmesser, the man with his arms crossed, was married to a Jewish woman.

The man behind the crossed arms.

I've seen this photo for a very long time, and finally decided to see if there's a story. There is. The significance to me is that while the circumstances in this instance are ones about which we've long since reached agreement (Nazism, Hitler, the Holocaust), it is not banal to suggest that non-conformists of many sorts in our own purportedly "free" country can imagine themselves in Landmesser's shoes. Any time it's the occasion for all of us to perform the same act (pray publicly, declare allegiance to the flag) at once, it's time to consider dissenting.

August Landmesser, The Man Behind The Crossed Arms, (All That Is Interesting)

The photo above has floated around the internet for a few years now, popular for one of its subjects’ subtle yet profound acts of nonconformity. There is no telling how many men in that crowd were acting out of fear, fully aware that failing to salute the Fuhrer was akin to signing his own death certificate. Knowing that it was, in fact, Hitler standing before the crowd makes the disobedience all the more admirable, but what may seem like an act of justified transgression was at its core a gesture of love. August Landmesser, the man with his arms crossed, was married to a Jewish woman.

More from Tyler Allen on the C-J's, ahem, editorial practice

More please, Tyler Allen, in the hopes that political courage is contagious.

A bridges discussion reminder.

I rarely do this, but ... if you didn't see it yesterday, please go back and check the comments for the Tyler Allen post:

Tyler Allen: "We cannot set our city back just because very powerful people do not want an East End Bridge."

The discussion is too good to miss.

If any one knows

...how to post a great big mirror on the World Wide Web, please leave detailed instructions below.