Skin Deep

I’m always impressed with the ingenuity scientists display when coming up with names for natural phenomena.  When introduced to the public, abstract mathematical concepts are presented with extremely evocative, almost emotional names that manage to cut to the heart of the math: black hole, big bang, the special theory of relativity.

Okay, so not always.  But enough of the time that it’s impressive — a way to directly connect science to intuition.  One of my favorite examples is a phenomena in electromagnetism called the skin effect, which describes how alternating current is carried in wires.  The skin effect is particularly interesting to me because it’s also a pretty direct analogy for a lot of the interactions I have with casual acquaintances.  I don’t think it’s often that the fields of social science and, well, science science intersect so perfectly — not only on a nomenclature and imagery level, but in the behaviors they describe.  I’ll start, as always, with physics.

The skin effect occurs all around us.  (It is notably distinct from the article in this month’s Cosmo with the same title.)  When electric wires carry alternating current — i.e. the stuff that comes out of the wall and/or one half of a legendary Australian rock band — most of the current never actually penetrates all the way through to the center of the wire, instead skirting along on the surface, creating a kind of electric sheath or skin along the wire.  This is a big break from the orthodoxy of how electromagnetism is usually taught in school, where it’s a common analogy to think of electricity racing along wires like water flowing though pipes.  While true for direct current (DC), this breaks down with AC — you’ll never see a water pipe with a hollow center and water rushing along the edges.

The difference mostly comes from the key distinction between AC and DC current, and is what makes AC so devilish to work with without an assload of math behind it.  Alternating current is called “alternating” because it switches back and forth, constantly, from positive voltages to negative voltages.  It rolls in and out of your wall like the tides at the beach, pushing electrons in and then dragging them back out to sea.  This inexorable changing of the electronic tides creates magnetic fields that similarly expand and collapse as the voltage changes, but these magnetic fields are always strongest in the center of the wire.  If you want to go back to the water analogy, magnetism here acts like a rock in the stream, pushing the flow of electrons around it and forcing the electricity to hug the banks of the stream, so that the vast majority of the current is carried along the outer skin of the wire.

I’ve always thought that the beauty of electricity and magnetism are their complexity: changing currents cause changing magnetic fields, changing magnetic fields cause changing currents, and the process constantly ebbs and flows in harmony, a symphony of the invisible as fields burst into life then dissipate into void, over and over and over again.

But that has nothing to do with friendship — and, in fact, I think if you start spouting that stuff at parties you may find yourself with a lot fewer friends by the end of the night.  So back to the main point here: the AC current carried in a wire — whether a transmission cable along the side of the road or the extension cord in your garage — only penetrates a fraction of the way into the wire.  This is called skin depth, designated δ.  Formally, skin depth is the depth into a conductor where the current carried falls to 1/e, or about 37%, of its value at the surface.  For AC frequencies in the realm of everyday experience — think the 60Hz that goes into your iPhone charger — skin depth is a function only of the material the wire is made from and the frequency of the current:

skin depth

Here ρ is the resistivity of the wire, f is the frequency of the current flowing through it, and the μs are something called magnetic permeability, which is a measure of how susceptible a material is to magnetic fields.  Something like iron, which can be made into a magnet, has a very high permeability; the permeability for wood or glass is very low.

For a current coming out of the wall and into copper wire, the skin depth is:

Screen Shot 2016-03-13 at 3.01.15 PM

For your phone charger, this means nothing — the wire is way smaller than 17mm in diameter.  But imagine the transmission lines used to send electricity from the power plant to your house: those cables that hang from wooden poles along the side of the road are much bigger, and that means when it comes to electricity they’re essentially hollow.  All of the power is running along the skin, never reaching the heart of the cable.

As the frequency of the current, f, gets bigger and bigger, the skin depth shrinks — as the electricity switches back and forth from positive to negative voltages faster and faster, the current penetrates into the wire less and less.  AC current switching at 150,000Hz penetrates into copper wire just 170 microns, or about the diameter of a human hair.  It will never see the copper’s core.

This is where my social circle enters the equation.  I have — and I assume you have, too — a lot of what I call skin effect friends.  (Though admittedly, I’m probably the only one of us who calls them that.)  These are the people that I’ve met casually and who circle the nucleus of my close friends in fast but erratic orbits.  They show up across the room at parties; I see them walking down the street in San Francisco.  Maybe I remember their names, maybe I don’t.  I usually don’t have their phone numbers or know their email addresses.  But every time we see each other, these skin effect friends and me, we say hello, because the world is a big and scary and sometimes lonely place, and finding a familiar face in an unexpected setting is a beautiful thing.

Yet when I talk to these people, I never actually have a conversation with them.  We only ever hit the topics that are skin-deep: how are you, where’re you living, how’s work these days.  And it seems that the more frequently I see them, the shallower the topics become, just like current skirting around the outside of a wire.  We never get to the heart of anything.

This isn’t a critique or a complaint — I can’t be best friends with everyone, and I’m misanthropic enough to not want to try.  I enjoy having a wide circle of acquaintances, and I enjoy these skin-deep conversations because they show me the surface of worlds I don’t inhabit.  I wish I could dive into those worlds, wish I could be deeply connected to everyone I’ve ever met, but just like a wire, there’s only so much current I can carry before I catch on fire / have a total psychotic breakdown.  So if you’re reading this and thinking to yourself wait a minute that bastard is talking about me, it’s not a bad thing.  Next time we run into each other, let’s grab a beer.  We’ll talk about sports.

And even though I like all these skin effect friends, they also make me acknowledge that those friends I have where our conversations do penetrate — those friends where, even if we don’t see each other very frequently, we can pick up right where we left off, or those friends who I feel like I really connect with — are something remarkable, almost physics-defying.  It’s DC friendship.

There’s a lot of discussion about a possible unified field theory in physics, but I’m happy stopping at a unified theory of physics and friendship.  Einstein, eat your heart out.

The Astrophysics of Donald Trump

[Side note: for the first time, I also posted this piece on Medium, which I may do for longer think pieces in the future.  The creative stuff will always live here.]

If any other political outsider was gaining delegates in a primary at the rate Donald J. Trump is racking them up, we’d be calling him or her a rising star of the Republican party — but that has never been the narrative around Trump. Trump is too much of an outsider to be a rising star; he’s a meteor, hurtling out of the dark depths of space with zero warning. And now, if we don’t send Bruce Willis to nuke him soon, he’s liable to crash straight into Washington, D.C. and leave nothing of our political process behind but a scorched crater and a pile of cheap red hats.

Maybe you think that’s a good thing, and maybe you think that’s a bad thing. But whatever you think, we can agree that something is different this year. Because out of all of Trump’s boasts, brags, exaggerations, and aggrandizements, there is one that is certainly true: he is not a career politician. He is not a Republican insider. And if it’s Trump that is the conservative movement’s rising star, then the Republican party is a dying star. I call this the red giant theory of red-state politics — strap yourselves in.


A red giant is a star on the brink of death. A star like our sun will spend billions and billions of years crushing hydrogen atoms in its core together to form helium, releasing tremendous amounts of energy in the process. But eventually — and we’re talking five or six billion years down the road here for our sun, so no worries — the hydrogen fuel is exhausted. Fusing hydrogen into helium is the only thing that keeps the forces of gravity at bay, and when the core’s hydrogen dries up the star will begin to collapse under its own weight, its mass falling in on itself like a deflating basketball. As more and more mass is drawn into the heart of the star, the hydrogen that had been floating around the outer layers is brought to a place where it, too, can fuse, and the engine is kickstarted again. The stellar core gets hotter and hotter as more burning hydrogen is pulled closer and closer together, and the hotter the star gets the faster the fusion of this previously-inaccessible hydrogen occurs. The energy of this astral furnace pushes the outer layers of the star back out, and the star swells, expanding to massive size and swallowing the planets that orbit around it like tic tacs. This process continues — the core getting denser and denser, hotter and hotter, as the star inflates — until it is so unbelievably hot that not only is hydrogen fusing together to form helium, but the helium itself is being transformed, destroyed and reknit into carbon atoms.

This is not a gentle process.

The gradual emergence of a red giant from a normal star is a festering growth, like a tumor that emerges over millions and millions of years to slowly engulf its host. But a helium flash, as this final stage is called, is violent in the extreme. Once the red giant reaches its critical temperature, the entirety of the helium fusion reaction in the star happens almost at once, and for a few seconds the star outputs one hundred billion times as much energy as it would normally. The outer layers of the star are ejected into space, drifting away in wisps of smoke and cloud that we call nebulae.

At the end, after the thunder and fire is spent and silence has taken their place, all that is left of the giant red star is a smoking core: a white dwarf.


Is the GOP on the brink of stellar death? Maybe. Like everything in politics, it’s probably a matter of considerable opinion. But consider the situation Republican faithfuls find themselves in: the party began its life as a champion of justice and equality — the party of Lincoln, as so many current candidates are fond of reminding us. But I’m not sure Lincoln would recognize the GOP in its current state. It has become bloated and swollen with ranks of people who, like any two hydrogen atoms, may not necessarily agree with each other on very much. The force of the Party pushes them together, crushes them into a cohesive whole that doesn’t really make much sense at an ideological level.

I feel — and this is my personal opinion here, so feel free to disagree — that politics in America is largely a back-and-forth conflict between the concepts of freedom and equality. Both of these are important, critical ideals for a democracy. The United States was founded on principles of both. Yet I can’t help but feel that at their extremes, the two ideas are fundamentally set in opposition to each other. If everyone is given identical, equal healthcare, they lose their freedom to choose a healthcare plan. If everyone is given the freedom to choose a healthcare plan, those that can afford to pay more for more services will, and those that can’t will suffer from the inequality this creates. This is a gross oversimplification, but hopefully it gets my point across: America is about striking the balance between freedom and equality for all.

I firmly believe that the modern Democratic party (and here, I feel like I need to admit, myself) is rooted in the principle of equality. I put more value into ensuring that all citizens of the United States — regardless of race, gender, age, income, sexual orientation, boxer-or-brief preference — are given fair and equal treatment than into ensuring that those citizens can be free from government interference. In some cases, I want the government to interfere, to strike out against intolerance and injustice when it’s found. I want to pay taxes to build roads and dams. I want to see the government dole out healthcare to the entire country.

But I realize this is not what everyone holds most valuable — and that’s okay. That’s the cool thing about democracy in the first place. I feel that my friends who are conservative — and they should feel free to challenge or correct me — care more about individual liberty and freedom than about using the power of the government to enforce equality. And it’s not that they don’t want equality between, say, men and women or white Americans and black Americans. We just disagree on the best way to ensure that equality.

Here’s the thing: I do feel that, for the most part, liberals have a unified, ideologically consistent champion in the Democratic party. Go down the party platform, and you can check off the boxes relating to equality: Universal healthcare? Check. Higher minimum wage? Check. Legalized same-sex marriage? Check.

I do not think the same thing is true about the modern Republican party. It’s a hodgepodge of backgrounds and ideas, some drawn from the well of freedom and others from… well, I’m not sure. Slash taxes? Freedom. Gun rights? Freedom. Mandatory sentencing for marijuana possession? Um, not exactly freedom. Restricted access to abortion? Definitely not freedom.

So this is why I see the GOP as a crucible. These differing viewpoints — conservatives, neocons, evangelicals, libertarians — are all fused together into a party that doesn’t seem to match the beliefs of any one of them that well. Nothing has illustrated that more than this year’s fractious and fragmented Republican primaries. Over the last eight years, we’ve seen the core of the GOP go dry, the fuel that propelled it since the days of the Civil War all but exhausted. It spiraled in on itself in 2008 — Sarah Palin for vice president is a pretty desperate gambit — and anger in the party grew hotter and hotter until it found new material to burn: the Tea Party movement. The Tea Party grew and grew until it boiled over like so much bubbling chamomile, spilling onto the national stage and engulfing the 2010 election. The Republican party expanded and expanded, racking up wins in midterm elections and taking control of the House and Senate, but the core of the GOP was being devoured, all that new hydrogen pushing and jostling in the ever-denser heart of the party.

Now, suddenly, the GOP finds that it has awoken one day and — almost instantaneously — its core is being transformed. This helium flash has a name: Donald J. Trump.

Trump has seized the malcontent of the party and run with it, run farther and faster than anyone thought the reality TV star with the weird hair could have ever possibly gone. To me, an outside observer peering through my telescope, it seems like the end of the red giant. The unity of the party is fractured; Trump is carving out the white dwarf core and leaving the remainder scattered to the stellar wind in a faint, drifting nebula that has yet to coalesce around anyone or anything.

There’s nowhere in this morass for anyone who’s not ultra-conservative to go. If you hold liberal — or even just non-draconian — views on immigration, Trump’s not your guy. Cruz is a constitutional fundamentalist who doesn’t even oppose same-sex marriage, he opposes civil unions. Rubio has won just a single state. Kasich hasn’t won any. Carson may as well be in outer space.

That drifting nebula has a lot of unhappy people in it (see #NeverTrump), and eventually it may solidify into a new star. But until then, the white dwarf of Donald Trump is shoving its way through the dust.


Ironically enough, if Trump was running for the Democratic nomination, this would be way less of an existential crisis. This is because of two features the Democrats have that Republicans don’t — and they’re some of the least egalitarian aspects of American politics, in my opinion.

The first is kind of technical, so excuse me while I get into the nitty-gritty of some electoral procedure. In Democratic caucuses, voters at a polling place divide themselves into groups based on which candidate they support. But after this initial division, any group that doesn’t have a critical mass of supporters is forced to either abstain or divide themselves among the more popular candidates. Republicans — reflecting the totally correct idea that anyone should be able to vote for anyone they damn well want to — don’t have this at all. Their caucus divides itself up into groups, and that’s that. This means in Iowa, if the Republican caucus had followed the Democrat’s rules, all of those candidates pulling single-digit support numbers (Fiorina, Santorum, Huckabee, Paul… it’s a long list), would have been forced to divvy up their support. I can’t find data to back up this assertion, but I’m hard-pressed to believe that Trump was anyone’s second choice. He’s a polarizing figure, and you love him or hate him — no one second-choice-likes him. If all those caucus-voters had been forced to vote for their second choice, Trump’s margin of loss could have possibly been a lot bigger, halting much of his momentum. Who knows.

The second item that Democrats have that is missing from the Republican nomination process is superdelegates. What’s a superdelegate, you ask? Well, a superdelegate is the difference between the graph on the left and the graph on the right:

The left graph is a comparison of Hillary and Bernie’s current delegate counts when superdelegates are included (2383 delegates are needed to win). The right graph is the same tally if only delegates awarded from actual votes — not superdelegates — are included. It’s a much closer race. Still looks pretty good for Hils, but definitely closer.

Formally, superdelegates are members of the Democratic party that the party’s national committee chooses and sends to the nominating convention. They are given a vote in the nomination procedure that they can cast for any candidate they choose (the vast majority of them — 457 to 22, with 235 still up for grabs — have pledged to vote for Clinton rather than Sanders). Superdelegates are not bound to the will of the voters, they are not obligated to vote for the leading candidate, and they are definitely not representative democracy. They were started in 1984 explicitly as a way to give the party some additional control over the nomination procedure.

I don’t like the way the Democratic party handles this… but I have to admit that it’s a pretty good firewall against someone like Trump. If the Republicans were able to just throw 20% more delegates at, say, Rubio, it suddenly becomes much, much easier for him to hit 50% of the votes for the party’s nomination.

So here’s the crux of the my problem: for the first time in my life, I’m torn about pure power-of-the-people democracy, in the sense that I’m thinking superdelegates may actually be a good thing.


The two things that make me most upset about social media during election years are pretty opposite: in one corner, we have apathy; in the other, antipathy.

I see, from people across the political spectrum, refusal to vote because “it doesn’t matter.” This absolutely infuriates me. Your vote is the only thing that matters. There’s the Kantian categorical imperative argument here (I’m paraphrasing, but: only act in a way such that, if everyone acted that way, the world would be a better place), though that’s a tad too… metaphysical. I prefer the simple fact that if you’re living in the U.S., someone in your family, somewhere up in the branches of your family tree, made the choice to leave their home and come here. Probably against all odds, in the face of danger or death or destitution, they took everything they had ever known and set course for democracy. You owe it to them to vote. You also owe it to yourself, because you live in this place and deserve to have a say in how it’s run.

Then I also see, again from people on both ends of the spectrum, casual jokes about disenfranchisement. In 2012, it was my conservative friends posting jokes like “special polls for Obama voters are open on Friday lulz”; now, the pendulum has swung the other way and it’s my liberal friends imploring Trump supporters to miss their primary dates. They both stem from a deep dislike of the other party’s candidate, one that implies mass deprivation of the right to vote would be better than the wrong candidate winning.

I will never find these jokes funny.

And I will never find them funny for pretty much the reasons enumerated above: that I really do think this one-person-one-vote thing is pretty sacrosanct, and that it’s the defining feature of democracy, the one that we need to hold onto above all others.

This is why I find superdelegates so vexing, and now feel so conflicted when I find myself wishing for them on the GOP side of things. Ultimately, though, I think disenfranchisement cannot be the answer. The answer, as always, has to be conversation and education.

So here goes nothing.


To return to the stellar metaphor from earlier, Donald Trump is a reality show star. To put that more bluntly, he’s an entertainer. A showman. A demagogue.

If you’re a Trump supporter and somehow you’ve found this, somehow you’ve read this far, waded through my admittedly biased and unapologetically liberal argument to this point, then please read a couple more paragraphs, because this is where I’m going to try to convince you to change your mind. If you’re not a Trump supporter, which — let’s be honest about my audience— is more likely, then this is the part that I give you full permission to copy-paste at will and as needed.

Let me start by saying this: you have a right to vote for whoever you choose. And you have a right to be angry with the current political process. I’m not asking you to vote for Hillary. I am asking you to please not let your anger cloud your judgment about the key principle that America was founded on:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal

At his core, I don’t think we know what Donald J. Trump believes. But he knows what we, the American people, want to hear, and he’s off to the races with it. People are scared of terrorism abroad and domestically, and that’s legitimate. People are resentful of perceived government overstepping, and that’s legitimate. People are tired of watching jobs leave the country faster than Bernie’s supporters after a Trump inauguration, and that’s legitimate, too. But to address these problems, the Republican party needs — deserves — a candidate who can present real policy ideas, real solutions. These problems are real, but they are not solved by personal attacks. They are not solved by forsaking the ideals of our nation’s founding fathers. They are solved by sticking to the principles of the Constitution — and yes, I know it’s hard to believe that coming from a lefty-pinko-tax-loving-Democrat, but I mean it.

So far all that I’ve heard from Trump is bluster and blame: bluster that builds up his personal brand, and blame targeted at minorities that don’t merit his spite. He’s grandstanding in every sense of the word when he talks about how great his businesses are, how vast his wealth his. He’s advocating religious persecution when he says we should ban Muslims from immigrating to the U.S. (I will point out here that it was religious persecution like this that forced the Pilgrims out of England and started their immigration to the New World… but I digress). He’s advocating racism when he drops stereotypes into his speeches. He’s advocating WAR GODDAMN CRIMES when he calls for attacking the families of terrorists, or something “worse than waterboarding.”

But maybe the most insidious things, and therefore the most dangerous, are the aspects of Trump’s personality that he’d bring to the presidency. Trump is divisive, not inclusive. He is thin-skinned, not tough. He is petulant and childish, not strong-willed and bold. None of his qualities are anything I want in a future leader of the free world.

Three examples that didn’t seem to get tons of media attention:

  • When Trump finally got around to denouncing David Duke, the Ku Klux Klan leader who endorsed him, he blamed the fact that he didn’t immediately condemn the guy because he couldn’t hear the question due to a faulty earpiece. I can’t possibly believe that’s true, but Trump refuses to admit he was wrong — that he didn’t know who Duke was, or that he made a mistake not writing him off immediately. Instead, he’s hiding behind the dog-ate-my-homework of CNN interview excuses.
  • The whole small hands thing is really weird. But weirdest to me is that Trump won’t let it go. He even went so far as to say people always tell him how beautiful his hands are — which I just simply can’t believe is true. Not because Trump’s hands are ugly, but because who the hell goes around telling people that? There’s just no way Trump or any other human being on Earth consistently gets complimented for the loveliness of their hands. (One notable exception.) It’s a harmless lie from Trump, but belies a person who cannot admit anything about him is imperfect and is entirely intolerant of anyone pointing out his flaws or mistakes. Is that who you want running the military? Someone who won’t listen when he’s wrong and won’t take advice from the Joint Chiefs of Staff?
  • During the last Republican debate, Trump was repeatedly asked to release his tax returns, but said he wouldn’t because he was being audited, as he has been for every year for the last decade. Fine, that’s his choice and I don’t have an issue with it. But after the debate a reporter asked him why he thought he was audited so frequently, and Trumpclaimed religious persecution. This is totally outrageous for two reasons: one, I cannot believe Donald “Two Corinthians” Trump is a truly devout Christian. I’ve been to about a hundred bar mitzvahs and I know that’s not how you pronounce that one. And secondly, who really thinks the United States’ IRS is going after Christians? The answer is simple: conspiracy theorists. Trump was, after all, a leader of the birther movement that demanded President Obama’s birth certificate — something, by the way, that I don’t think he’s even asked for from Ted Cruz, who was ACTUALLY BORN IN CANADA. A president of the United States must make decisions based on facts and evidence, not hearsay and chain emails.

When it comes down to it, I want a president who, yes, is aligned with me on my political views. But I also want a president who is presidential: who is diplomatic, not derisive; reasoned, not rash; strong, not strident. Even — mystery Trump supporter who’s somehow stuck with me this far — even if you agree with Trump’s politics, can you honestly believe the world will be a safer place with his finger on the nuclear trigger, ready to turn a city into a burnt slab of glass when someone calls his fingers stubby?


When our own sun starts to die, many ages from now, it will grow, like any other new red giant. It will grow and grow, moving inexorably towards our home. The dying sun may swallow up the earth; it may just grow so large and so hot that all the water on Earth boils off into space, leaving it a barren, lifeless rock — there are all sorts of joyful possibilities for the end of our sun’s life. But no matter what, after it burns off all of its astral fuel, the sun will be split asunder. Half the mass of the sun will be spun off into a sparkling, iridescent nebula, a beautiful shroud of color and memory that celebrates the life of the sun, paints the history of the solar system in vibrant color against the black backdrop of the galaxy.

The other half of the sun’s mass will remain behind, sulking, a sputtering white dwarf that will sag against the fabric of space until finally it, too, grows cold and dead and fades to black.

The choice of which half to follow is yours.

That Storied Pomp

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

– Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus”

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

– Thomas Jefferson, U.S. Declaration of Independence

*  *  *

So tell me, America.  Did we ever really believe this stuff?

*  *  *

The United States of America is an audacious idea, an amazing idea — that a nation could throw off the yoke of prejudice, the burdens of social caste, the chains of history and emerge as a truly free and equal haven.  A place where all men (and women) are equal and accepted.  A sacred experiment in justice, equality, and liberty.

But America is also a contradiction.  We founded this beautiful little political science project with an economy driven by human servitude.  We didn’t grant women the right to vote until 1920.  We manifest-destinied our way across countless cultures between the Appalachians and the Pacific.

If I’m being honest, I don’t understand the contradiction.  How can one nation be so selectively in love with its own image?  We’re Narcissus sleeping at the pool, gazing lovingly not at our reflection but into our own dreams and memories.  All we see is the torch of liberty, and not the pile of smoking embers underneath it.

Maybe I seem to be veering off into some sort of America-the-Ugly diatribe, so let me correct course right now.  I love this country.  I love our idealism, our democracy, our bricolage of ideas and cultures.  I love the fact that I can get a cheeseburger for a buck without ever leaving my car.  And it’s because I love this country — love what this country symbolizes, was founded for — that I have to point back to those words we hold so hallowed, and ask when will these be more than mere words?

*  *  *

Exhibit no. 1: huddled masses.  The movement in this country to stop Syrian refugees from entering at all costs astounds me.  It’s a despicable transgression of our nation’s most iconic attribute — that we are the land of dreams, where anyone from anywhere can come, be welcome, and thrive.  We’ve accepted wave after wave of immigrants and refugees, built entire beloved neighborhoods out of them: San Francisco’s Chinatown, New York’s Little Italy, Miami’s Little Havana.  We’ve accepted everyone from Hmong fleeing the invasion of Laos to Jews fleeing the invasion of literally everywhere else.

What’s even more astounding is that this reluctance to live up to our collective promise as a nation is nothing new.

And then, even as I’m hurling ideas on the page for this piece like some political Pollock and I think the national conversation about immigration and diversity can’t get any worse, Donald J. Trump puts out this unbelievable piece of sludge.

(You know what, I removed the hyperlink in that last sentence because I don’t want to give that bigot any more web traffic, which seems to go straight to his overly-large head.  I mean that literally — his head looks like someone gave a sandbag a spray-tan.  You can google “Trump + 2015 immigration statement” if you want to read it.)

Trump wanting to ban people from immigrating to the US on the basis of religion is astounding in its audacity, its boldfaced, unapologetic, and increasingly unsurprising demagoguery.  It also goes against pretty much every single moral value I hold as an American.

Then, he compares himself to FDR interning Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor, which makes just about zero sense for a couple of reasons — 1) when has a leading Republican candidate ever wanted to compare themselves favorably to Franklin “Let’s Just Spend Our Way Outta This One” Roosevelt, and 2) I like FDR for a lot of reasons, but his forcible relocation of over 100,000 Americans to prison camps WAS ALSO NOT A GOOD THING.  I’ve lost track of whether Trump is brash, tone-deaf, or just willfully ignorant, and it’d be one thing if he was like everyone else on the internet shouting their bigotry and fearmongering into the comments section of YouTube.  But this is a man who has a frighteningly large following, and he’s tapped into a well of something primal and disgusting buried deep in the American psyche.  It’s like Trump has a divining rod for latent American racism, and what worries me most is that he’s finding water.  I’m honestly scared that Trump is just riding the start of an ugly tide, and we risk it spilling over into the mainstream of American politics.

I do the Republican party’s presidential contenders a disservice to lump someone like Trump in with them, so I apologize, but even if the rest of the field is not as “unhinged” (to quote Jeb!), they all constantly wax poetic on America’s storied past.  Every candidate on the right has a story about how the good ole days were grand and our Founding Fathers were brilliant demigods of democracy who descended from Mt. Sinai into Virginia with the Constitution in one hand and the Christian Bible in the other.  This sense of moral righteousness is often completely at odds with the immigration policies they propose.  Even if you ignore the case of Trump v. the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment (Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, for those of you following along at home), people like Cruz and Trump are professing a profound love for the Constitution while ignoring the parts of it that make America the greatest experiment in history: our founders’ desire to harbor the unfortunate from other nations, to grant them the opportunity they never knew elsewhere, and to safeguard the freedoms of life, liberty, and happiness for all people of this country.

We are a new nation, conceived in liberty.  We are a welcoming nation, strengthened by our differences.  And we are a bold nation, clad in democracy.  Someday we’ll all realize it.

 

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A small addendum here to mention that I had another half to this post about gun control, but it was entirely too angry to post without deciding if I really want to unleash that kind of internet ire.  Suffice it to say that I think it’s absolutely criminal that we’ve let the murder of our neighbors and coworkers and children become as routine as the local news station’s weather report.  Cloudy tomorrow, with a slight chance of mass homicide in the early afternoon.  Pack an umbrella with your thoughts and prayers.

Little Trouble in Big China

In the last six months, I’ve spent about twenty days in China — twenty-five if you count Hong Kong and Macau.  I would not consider myself an expert in any regard (at 26, I’m hard pressed to think it’s possible for me to be an expert about anything, really), but I find the place fascinating, and I’ve tried to unravel what goes on behind the scenes there many, many times in my head.  I don’t think I’ve been successful, but it at least means I have some stories.

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A R R I V A L

Light.

There’s light everywhere in China.  Not just the blinding fluorescent light that douses any airport in any country — there to help you forget what godforsaken hour it is in this part of the world — but lights of every color, every shape, a colorful panoply of illumination that pulls your eyes in every direction at once.  Giant Chinese characters burning with lambent neon fire, colossal LCD billboards shining like squat searchlights in the night, scrolling LED signs playing message after message written by some calligraphic pointillist.  If territorial holdings were what ensured the sun never set on the British empire, it’s technological holdings that make certain the sun will never truly set on the Chinese empire.

(more…)

Back to the Future

It’s been one hell of a week in American politics.

This country, which is normally so glacially slow to change its mind about, well, anything, executed two U-turns of portentous moment and neck-breaking alacrity: it suddenly seems the Confederate flag is no longer welcome in many parts of the South, and it suddenly seems that same-sex marriage is here to stay.  If I haven’t made it overwhelmingly evident elsewhere in this blog, let me just say here that I applaud both these decisions.  They are progressive steps in the right direction for our country, for our people, and for our national morals.  I could sit here and extol them, laud and congratulate, and I am happy to do that in person — but here, now, I want to get out what still worries me, before those worries fade into the fog.

This is not to take away from the week’s victories, and I don’t want to insult their power by whining that we have more left to do.  It should go unsaid that there is always more to do.  But — moral objections aside — I’ve seen some frightening arguments against the two decisions, and I feel the need to reinforce the point that moving forward requires taking an inventory of our past.

* * *

The Southern Cross flag (“Confederate flag” is really a misnomer, since the flag you’re thinking of was used only as a battle flag, though like most people I use the terms interchangeably) is a symbol of at best insurrection and at worst vicious hate.  That it’s used proudly, as a symbol of ancestry and regional pride, has always left me incredulous — and I think belies a dangerous misrepresentation of history.  The Civil War was not that long ago, and if its roots and lessons are already being distorted, I worry for how it will be presented ten, fifty, a hundred years from now.  Yes, it’s fine to be proud of where you come from.  I have nothing against nationalism (state-ism?), but the Southern Cross has a legacy that is drenched in hatred and racism, not in pride and independence.  The only defenses of using the Confederate flag that I’ve heard go something like this: the flag’s not about slavery, it’s about standing up for your ideals and small government and mom-and-pop shops and freedom! Or, the flag’s not about the Confederacy, it’s about the Army of Northern Virginia standing up for their ideals and small government and mom-and-pop shops and freedom!

Okay, I’m not going to dance around this — those arguments are bullshit and I’m going to demolish them.  I’ve been reading a lot about the Civil War the last couple of weeks, which I credit to watching “Lincoln” on a long trans-Pacific flight and listening to some great podcasts on a drive from the Bay Area to LA.  This by no means makes me an expert, but I feel at least as qualified to make assertions about 19th century American history as I did at the end of my AP US History class in high school.  I think that you could make an argument that the North did not enter the Civil War to end slavery, did not enter for liberty in any sense, but fought for the abstract idea of “Union.”  Fine.

But you absolutely cannot say that the South seceded and went to war for anything other than to preserve slavery.  The Vice President of the Confederacy, Alexander Stephens, gave a speech in March of 1861, just a few weeks before the South really kicked off the Civil War by shelling Fort Sumter.  In the speech, Stephens lays out all the ways the progressive constitution of the CSA is far superior to that of the backwards-thinking nation to the north.  I’m going to quote a sizable swath of it, because it’s so repulsive I think everyone should be required to read it.  The emphasis is mine:

The new constitution has put at rest, forever, all the agitating questions relating to our peculiar institution, African slavery as it exists amongst us, the proper status of the negro in our form of civilization.  This was the immediate cause of the late rupture and present revolution.  Jefferson in his forecast, had anticipated this, as the “rock upon which the old Union would split.”  He was right.  What was conjecture with him, is now a realized fact. … The prevailing ideas entertained by him and most of the leading statesmen at the time of the formation of the old constitution, were that the enslavement of the African was in violation of the laws of nature; that it was wrong in principle, socially, morally, and politically.  It was an evil they knew not well how to deal with, but the general opinion of the men of that day was that, somehow or other in the order of Providence, the institution would be evanescent and pass away. … Those ideas, however, were fundamentally wrong.  They rested upon the assumption of the equality of races.  This was an error.  It was a sandy foundation, and the government built upon it fell when the storm came and the wind blew.

Our new government is founded upon exactly the opposite idea; its foundations are laid, its cornerstone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery, subordination to the superior race, is his natural and normal condition.  This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth.  This truth has been slow in the process of its development, like all other truths in the various departments of science. … The errors of the past generation still clung to many as late as twenty years ago.  Those at the North, who still cling to these errors, with a zeal above knowledge, we justly denominate fanatics.  All fanaticism springs from an aberration of the mind from a defect in reasoning.  It is a species of insanity.  One of the most striking characteristics of insanity, in many instances, is forming correct conclusions from fancied or erroneous premises; so with the anti-slavery fanatics.  Their conclusions are right if their premises were.  They assume that the negro is equal, and hence conclude that he is entitled to equal privileges and rights with the white man.  If their premises were correct, their conclusions would be logical and just but their premise being wrong, their whole argument fails.

In summary: what the actual fuck.

So, once and for all: yes, the Confederate States of America was built on slavery.  Yes, the armies that flew the battle flags were fighting for slavery.  And so yes, the Southern Cross, that battle flag of the Confederate army, is — by its leaders’ own admission — not merely a pro-slavery banner, but in fact a total proclamation of white supremacy.

To say otherwise is to whitewash (sorry) history.  This is something that I think is incredibly dangerous — a nation should be made to face its sins and remember its misdeeds, and the United States has plenty of both.  Willfully or ignorantly ignoring one of our most blatant sins by arguing the Confederate flag only shows some sort of home team pride makes me worry not only for our citizens’ knowledge of their country’s past, but for their willingness to lead that country in the right direction in the future.

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If misrepresenting our past is dangerous, it is possibly no more so than clinging to it doggedly.  This is what I saw in the dissenting opinions from the Supreme Court’s decision for legalizing same-sex marriage.  I’m going to ignore Clarence “Slaves Did Not Lose Their Dignity” Thomas, but between Scalia and Roberts, there was plenty of confusing logic to go around.

Here’s Roberts:

The majority purports to identify four “principles and traditions” in this Court’s due process precedents that support a fundamental right for same-sex couples to marry.  Ante, at 12.  In reality, however, the majority’s approach has no basis in principle or tradition, except for the unprincipled tradition of judicial policymaking that characterized discredited decisions such as Lochner v. New York, 198 U. S. 45.  Stripped of its shiny rhetorical gloss, the majority’s argument is that the Due Process Clause gives same-sex couples a fundamental right to marry because it will be good for them and for society.  If I were a legislator, I would certainly consider that view as a matter of social policy.  But as a judge, I find the majority’s position indefensible as a matter of constitutional law.

Scalia is more, um, Scalia-esque:

This is a naked judicial claim to legislative — indeed, super-legislative — power; a claim fundamentally at odds with our system of government.  Except as limited by a constitutional prohibition agreed to by the People, the States are free to adopt whatever laws they like, even those that offend the esteemed Justices’ “reasoned judgment.”  A system of government that makes the People subordinate to a committee of nine unelected lawyers does not deserve to be called a democracy.

Here’s the thing: normally I’d probably agree with these statements.  Roberts and Scalia are right; it is not the Supreme Court’s place to legislate from the bench, and doing so unbalances all those checks America’s founders fought so hard to set up.  But the fact remains that something like marriage is a fundamental human right that was being ignored, or in the worst cases banned, by local governments.  This is absolutely a case where the court can and should step in to prevent injustice and inequality.

I know citing a previous case may be dangerous, because you can always throw the Dred Scott decision or Plessy v. Ferguson back in my face, but I don’t understand how you can look at Obergefell v. Hodges, which restores a fundamental right to a group of people state governments had been discriminating against, and not see Brown v. Board of Education 2: Electric Boogaloo.  Yes, normally the court should not interfere in the legislative process.  But I think in extraordinary cases, the court has an obligation — both moral and legal — to wield its power to right iniquity.  The justices cannot sit by as states trample their citizens’ rights.

Kennedy realizes this in his majority decision, and makes a fantastic point about how we cannot foresee the morality of the future:

The nature of injustice is that we may not always see it in our own times.  The generations that wrote and ratified the Bill of Rights and the Fourteenth Amendment did not presume to know the extent of freedom in all of its dimensions, and so they entrusted to future generations a charter protecting the right of all persons to enjoy liberty as we learn its meaning.  When new insight reveals discord between the Constitution’s central protections and a received legal stricture, a claim to liberty must be addressed.

I deeply respect Kennedy’s willingness to say the Founding Fathers may have not been omniscient.  While I believe these titans of American history — Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, et al — were visionary, I worry that our current commentators and leaders elevate them to almost infallible status, when they are merely men, and so almost by definition fallible.  Our veneration of the Founders, capital F, borders on blind hero worship.  These men were brilliant, yes, and their invention (American democracy!) equally so, but we have to remember not to apotheosize them — because they were, occasionally, wrong.

My point here is that just because the Founding Fathers said or believed something doesn’t necessarily mean the country has to go on saying or believing that more than two centuries later.  It is important to cleave to the ideals of our country’s Founders not out of some dogmatic loyalty to them, but because they are, on the whole, right.  Every generation must think critically about this statement — like Justice Kennedy.

We cannot rely on past ideals just because we idealize the past.

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I guess I don’t know how meaningful this is to say after writing a thousand words or so of what is more or less diatribe, but I really am happy with this week’s results.  Removing the Confederate flag and legalizing same-sex marriage are major coups for love, equality, humanity.  I’m proud to live in a country where these events came to pass, and I just don’t want the past to cloud that.  I want us to always recall and acknowledge, as a nation, the mistakes of our history — so that we can move forward together: respectful of our history but unburdened by its beliefs, aware of our failings but unshackled from their causes, nostalgic about our past but unbounded in our future.

Mightier

A man stands clad in chrome and gold
And goes to war with ink and verse,
Lest history remain untold

With blackened eyes and heart accursed,
His foe is censored doom and spite
And goes to war with ink and verse—

The verse perverse, redacted blight
Entombs in sable pools his home
His foe is censored doom and spite

Two swift swords flash, red-splattered chrome
A child turns around to flee
Entombed in sable pools his home

A broken mouth coughs out the plea:
Take up your sword, your past recall
A child turns around to flee.

The sun will rise, the sun will fall
A son stands clad in chrome and gold.
Take up your sword, your past recall
Lest history remain untold.