WOKE

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*Turns on TV*

If we’re going to discuss something, we need to agree on its definition.  I’m using Merriam-Webster. 

Woke: aware of and actively attentive to important societal facts and issues (especially issues of racial and social justice)

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/woke

Woke is also the past tense of the verb “wake.”  It means to stop sleeping.  At its core, it seems to me to mean one has become alert to some of the bad things that are happening.  There are plenty of those.  Being shot is now the number one cause of death for our children, surpassing even car crashes.  Black people are twice as likely as White people to be shot by police officers.  Violence against transgender people continues to rise.  Those of us who are Woke would like to stop this. 

Bigotry is now celebrated, and people are getting crabby about being called bigots just because they believe there are only two genders, or homosexuality is a sin, or Drag Queens are probably pedophiles, or that those who are not straight, white, male Christians are probably bad in one way or another.  Those of us who are Woke would like people to be treated as individuals.  Part of being Woke is understanding that There is no Them; we are all Us.  We don’t think people should be treated differently because someone believes their identities are sinful.

Terry Pratchett had better ideas about sin.

“Sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.” 

― Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum

And that’s the heart of Capitalism.  People are commodities to be traded for profit.  We are numbers – statistics to be used in a study, but not individuals to be treated with love and respect. 

One of the arguments I frequently hear against a woman’s right to choose what to do with her body is that rape makes up very few abortions.  They’re right, at least according to my Google Search.  It’s less than half a percent.  So… ignore those.  They’re outliers.  Let’s just ban abortion for everyone.

Except… Rape victims are also human beings.  Most of them are women who had a favorite blanket or stuffed animal when they were little.  They probably went to their senior proms and worried about whether their makeup was right, and their dress fit properly, and was it even the right color, and what will other people think when they walk in?  Some of them hugged their son when they dropped him off for kindergarten.  And then someone took away their sense of safety, their sense of identity, and their grasp on their own dignity.  And more than 3 million women in America were raped and became pregnant.  They’re not just statistics.  They matter.  The statistics, if they are what matter to you, are below:

https://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/sexualviolence/understanding-RRP-inUS.html

Outliers are all people, regardless of how many there are.  Every single one of them matters.  We cannot lose sight of this fact.

When we mistreat someone, anyone, or deny them the rights some of the rest of us have, that’s bigotry. 

The Oxford Dictionary defines it:

obstinate or unreasonable attachment to a belief, opinion, or faction, in particular prejudice against a person or people on the basis of their membership of a particular group.

You’re opposed to immigration?  Yeah.  That’s bigotry.  No one chose where to be born.  But you’re denying someone something because they’re members of the group of people who weren’t born in The United States.  One can be a good person or bad person, or anything in between, regardless of where they were born.  We decide whether someone is good or bad based on their behaviors, not their birthplace.  Are they welcome to come so long as they do it legally?  That’s legalism.  Let’s check with Merriam-Webster again. 

strict, literal, or excessive conformity to the law or to a religious or moral code

the institutionalized legalism that restricts free choice

Legalism is a shield behind which to hide the bigotry we prefer not to admit, even to ourselves.

You don’t like people whose religious beliefs are different from yours?  That’s bigotry.  One can have any set of beliefs and be either a good person or bad person, or anything in between, regardless of their religion.  We decide whether someone is good or bad based on their behaviors not their religion. 

I don’t like people who fly planes into buildings.  That doesn’t mean all Muslims are bad people.  The percentage of Muslims who do that is almost incalculably small.  I don’t like people who burn Joan of Arc at the stake.  That doesn’t mean all Christians are bad people.  The percentage of Christians who do that is almost incalculably small.  We make judgments about individuals not groups.

Those of us who are Woke prefer that everyone be treated with respect, dignity, kindness, and empathy.  We prefer that everyone gets to live their life without interference so long as they’re not hurting anyone else. 

We would like to increase understanding that some people are different from you, and that it’s okay for them to be different.  That doesn’t mean you have to be like those who are different.  You need only to understand that there is more than one way for a person to exist, to experience life, to see the world.  This isn’t a threat to your identity.  You get to be different, too.  It’s perfectly fine for everyone to be unique.  In fact, it’s unavoidable. 

Of course, this is when we’re going to hear about The Paradox of Tolerance.  What’s that?  We’ll use Wikipedia this time.

The paradox of tolerance states that if a society is tolerant without limit, its ability to be tolerant is eventually seized or destroyed by the intolerant. Karl Popper described it as the seemingly self-contradictory idea that in order to maintain a tolerant society, the society must retain the right to be intolerant of intolerance.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradox_of_tolerance

I need to tolerate those who disagree with me.  And, obviously, I do.  Many of my friends and more than a few of my listeners are probably annoyed that I find their intolerance of those who are different to be bigotry.  That doesn’t mean I don’t love them.  It means that I would like to help to make them rethink some of their ideas.

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*Switches channel*

***

Swanson McDeere here.

I was doing what I was told to do.  I made billions of dollars for them.  I was the top money maker for seven years.  Seven fucking years!  And goddamn Wolf News gives in to the Woke Cancel Culture. 

Did I lie?  Yes, of course I did.  I really – no kidding – I see no problem with that.  Some of the Left’s greatest heroes lied.  Steinbeck?  Absolutely a liar.  There’s no evidence Tom Joad ever existed.  Lenny and George?  Pure bullshit.  But they give him a goddamn Nobel fucking Prize for his lying.  So long as you tell the right lies, everyone loves you.  Tell lies that make people think?  Lies that make people uncomfortable?  You get cancelled!

***

*Switches channel*

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This is a quotation I’ve seen on Facebook recently, and I think it handles it well:

The Paradox of Tolerance disappears if you look at tolerance, not as a moral standard, but as a social contract. If someone does not abide by the contract, then they are not covered by it. In other words: The intolerant are not abiding by the terms of the social contract of mutual tolerance.

I’m not looking to lock anyone up for being a bigot.  I’m not hoping to shun them or “cancel” them, but I would like them to see themselves honestly so there is an opportunity for them to change.

*Switches channel*

Photo by Mathias Reding on Pexels.com

***

I get fired, and The Left cheers.  How tolerant of them!  Isn’t that their thing?  We’re supposed to tolerate people who are different, right?  Where’s the tolerance for those who believe in hard work?  Where’s the tolerance for people who believe in traditional American values?  Where’s the tolerance for people who know that God made two genders… who don’t want men in the women’s restroom, who don’t want men pretending to be women and competing against women who are biologically weaker than they are?  Where’s the tolerance for those who believe life is sacred and no child should be murdered before it’s born?

If I had to lie to convince people of the Truth, so be it!  I was paid to do it.  I was proud to do it.  And some whiny thin-skinned company throws a goddamn fit because they think my little lies hurt their business.  If your business isn’t good enough to survive a few lies, you don’t deserve to be in business. 

What happened to the Freedom of Speech the Woke Left worships?   Free Speech is great so long as you don’t say anything that pisses anyone off.  But if you hurt their little feelings, they fine you three quarters of a billion dollars! 

***

*Switches channel*

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Being different doesn’t necessarily represent a threat to anyone.  Granted, if being “different” means you’re a child molester or a serial killer, that won’t work.  Someone needs to stop you.  If being different means only that someone’s identity is not the same as yours, they’re not hurting you.  I would like them to discover their own identity, their own purpose, their own place in the world.  Why is that a problem?

It’s in that wild-open-range-diversity that we expand the possibilities of human existence.  It’s where we find new meanings, new ideas, and new hope.  What is the advantage of limiting it? 

I hear plenty of complaints about The Woke Police.  These are people who object to others being marginalized, disrespected, or denied rights because they don’t fit into the norm.  The people who complain about them, it seems to me, don’t like facing the fact that they would like to make others less than, and The Woke would prefer that everyone is allowed to live their lives without being hurt.

Writer, broadcaster, former barrister and Guardian columnist Afua Hirsch says: “The truth is, there are no woke police.”

Hirsch explains: “In reality, the only thing that unites the woke is an intellectual curiosity about identity and how complex, how nuanced, how rooted in disparate histories it can be. The real groupthink, the genuinely cohesive crowd, it’s increasingly clear, is that of the anti-woke, the most weaponised identity of all.”

Hirsch points out the irony of “the rightwing culture warriors [who] claim to support free speech” but “they seem to want minorities to shut up and stop complaining”.

https://www.nationalworld.com/whats-on/arts-and-entertainment/what-does-woke-mean-definition-woke-culture-2023-3215758

*Switches channel*

***

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They can say all kinds of bullshit, and it’s fine.  They say there’s more than two genders: lie!  They say lazy whiny welfare queens deserve our support: lie!  They say it’s our responsibility to feed their little monsters: massive lie!  They make the unsupportable claim that everyone should be allowed to vote, and the morons cheer.  So long as it fits their bleeding-heart agenda, it’s all fine. 

So, I’ll tell you the truth one last time, and then you won’t have Swanson McDeere to kick around anymore.

 There are two genders.  They’re assigned at birth.  God made the world that way. 

People who don’t pull their weight are a drain on our society.  They belong in a homeless shelter. 

If people can’t support their kids, they need to keep their legs together.  If someone is raped, the female body makes sure she doesn’t get pregnant.  Those are the facts, whether those Woke Left pussies like them or not.

Thank you for all your support over the last seven years.  I weep for America.

***

*Switches channel*

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If we want to have a better world, one that includes all of us, the first step is to believe in it.  If Fred’s Front Porch Podcast does nothing else, I hope it helps you to believe in what many call impossible.  If we buy into the idea that the world can’t be changed, then the cynics are right.  We will be here forever.  If we can convince ourselves, however, that change is possible, we’re already on the way to making that change.    

Pick the channel you want to watch.  Pick the ideas you want to consider.  Thanks for considering mine.

I’m Woke.  And whether we agree about anything at all… I love you.

*Turns off TV*

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We Are Not Alone

I had a crisis of confidence last week because I was one of several people who were deceived by a con man.  I had been told the “The Teddy Bear Coder” was going to be published, and I was off the charts with excitement.  And I shared my joy with my friends. 

It turned out that he is a criminal.  He is being investigated by the FBI.  He took a good friend of mine for, all told, nearly $30,000.  There’s little chance she’ll ever see any of that money again.

That prompted me to post the following:

Okay… I don’t like to talk badly about others.  I particularly don’t like to talk badly about people I thought were my friends.  I’ll be removing him from my Friends List, however, in a moment.

I’m posting this to explain why I am feeling embarrassed.  I barely know the man in question, but someone I know and love and trust implicitly does know him, and she was a part of the company that was supposed to publish “The Teddy Bear Coder.” She was very excited to publish my book.  Now she wants nothing to do with Prince of Cats any longer.

I’ve been feeling proud the last few weeks.  I never had any delusions that I would make any money on the book.  It wasn’t about that.  It was the idea that I might be able to put a toe into a world of which I’ve always secretly wanted to be a part.  I wanted to be a real writer.  No…  I have no interest in self-publishing.  It’s not about that.

I’ve been feeling proud that I’ve been spending half an hour a week talking on the phone to one of my greatest heroes.  I felt as though he was beginning to take me seriously as a writer.  Part of this was because the story he coached me through writing was getting published.

I’m not naïve, I don’t think.  I had no delusions that he was talking to me because I’m a significant writer.  I pay him for the coaching.  I like to think, though, that he wouldn’t have accepted me as a student if he thought I was beyond help.  And when a publisher came to me, sought me out, to publish what I had written… I glowed.  I was Shining like a star in a not-too-distant galaxy.

I felt like I had made it.  I had accomplished what I have dreamt of for more than 50 years.

Now it turns out my book is not going to be published because the man who was going to publish it appears to be a criminal.  I have more than this article for evidence of that assertion, but I am keeping those communications private.  I emailed him to tell him the offer to allow him to publish it is now gone.

I don’t feel stupid.  I behaved based upon the most reliable information I could get.  I feel embarrassed.  If I didn’t want to hide away from the world before, I want to dig a hole in my house now and let no one but Speedy Shine near me. I don’t feel like I can show my face when I spent so much time being so proud, and all that happened was that I was deceived.

I should have been quiet.  I shouldn’t have shared my joy until it all happened.

It would be easy to understand why you might lose respect for me now, but I hope you can find a way to grant me a little grace for my errors in judgment.

I’m going to be quiet for a while now.  I’m fine.  I’m just sad and ashamed.

I’m sorry to have made more of myself than I was due.

This prompted several of my friends to say kind things that helped me to feel better.  For example:

Name Redacted:

Fred Eder I don’t comment on your posts often…if ever…but this one got me.  Certainly, honor your feelings of shame and disappointment, but please know that the person who deceived you is responsible for what happened. You are not to blame.

The world is cruel sometimes to gentle souls like yours and it is unfair.

What I admire most about you, tho is that you walk through these times with humility and grace.  It may not feel like it on the inside but that’s what it looks like on the outside.

So much gets thrown at you from a world that just doesn’t know how to handle a gentle soul like yours and yet, rather than making you bitter, you take the lumps, learn from the experience and continue on. This is strength.  This is integrity.

This is uniquely you.

I thank you for living through all of the ups and downs and showing the rest of us how it’s done.

As much as you may feel embarrassed, the rest of us are out here filled with admiration for you.

That made me feel better.  It’s not hard to imagine why.

Another comment came from the man I believe is her husband, although he may only be her boyfriend.  I can’t even keep my own relationships straight, so keeping up on the status of other relationships isn’t going to happen.

Second Name Redacted:

You’ve got lots of people showing you support and take some solace in that.

The criminal you thought was a publisher won’t publish you.  This is a good thing, though a setback.

as many, many, many, many of my favorite authors have explained….  It took them numerous submissions before they got published.

I interviewed for 2 web design positions in Feb…. I seriously thought I’d get one…

they decided otherwise.

It left me in a funk, depressed, and like the stilts I’d be walking on were kicked out from under me.

You’re a fantastic writer.  There’s a publisher out there for you.

The criminal wasn’t it.

make it through today, and tomorrow, and maybe your mood will shift again.

all that you felt when you thought you were going to be published IS STILL TRUE.

the glow was always you, not them.

The pride was legitimate.

Your hard work is legitimate.

Try to focus on the feelings you had before to get you through the now.

That helped me to refocus a bit.  My embarrassment was waning a little. 

Then one of The People On The Porch added:

Third Name Redacted

Joy in abundance makes us exuberant.  We have the drive to share.  So you did. Who wouldn’t?  You were not remiss in any way, Fred. No need to feel humiliation or self-blame. Don’t give up hope for The Teddy Bear Coder.  Its time is still now.  Press on and Godspeed!

And… I recovered a bit from my depression.  That prompted me to post the following:

None of us exist alone.  None of us CAN exist alone.  It’s simply not possible.  We are a community that works only when we continue to support each other in all the ways we can so that the species thrives.

I spoke with a good friend for an hour… It was HER birthday, but she spent an hour of it taking care of me.  I spoke with my coach, who reminded me that we all need each other if this is ever going to work.

I have you.  You have me.  We can’t do everything for each other, but we can all do a little, and we can all make a difference.  And that little difference is much bigger than we believe.

I can’t thank you enough for all you did for me while I was ready to hang up my career as a writer.  I was going to just exist until I didn’t anymore… But you picked me up off the mat, and I’m going to write all night now.

The Teddy Bear Coder is going to become a complete novel.  It may, in fact, become an entire series.  We’ll see how it goes.  I’m going to write because you let me do that.  You matter.

This has been an extraordinarily long way around to deciding I need to pay attention to some other writers who have said things better than I can.  I’m going to give you their words, with their permission, tonight.  I’m not alone.  Here’s someone who is not even on my Friends List, whose words caught me on Facebook.  He kindly allowed me to use them.

Woke, a child of the black community, birthed by mothers and fathers who, after being deceived for long lengths of time, couldn’t afford to “sleep” on the system.

She was young and tender, akin to the blindfolded statue depicting justice, but more radiant and pure. She walked, whispering among us, keeping us alert.  Teaching us, by word of mouth and shared experience, to be savvy, smart and attentive. At times she even showed us how to be daring and courageous.  She taught us to see the grift, avoid the three-card molly and other trickster moments perpetrated by this wayward state.

Then one day they took her.

Our delight, our little light, our secret love, our whisperer of well words, they took her, as they did with all things we created.  Things they coveted.

They stood among the abused mothers and fathers and took their child, their justice, their Messenger to us She who was born to help us stay alive and well within a system designed to kill us and grind our bones into powder.

They took her and threw her in a cell with Blues, Jazz, Rap and R&B.  They made her take a seat next to Soul Food, Mathematics and Science.

They abused her, and redressed her in heavy sackcloth, black and oily with the weight of their own transgressions.

We cried when we couldn’t find her.

We damn near rioted when we saw what they did to her.

I don’t know what will happen if they don’t release her.

Woke is our child, our whisperer of well words, telling us how to live in the light between the shadows the depraved cast.

All else is sackcloth.

— Donley Ferguson

I was going to add my own commentary to it, but another of my friends wrote something better than I can write, so I’m using the words of the philosopher, Jesse Rogers, who was once a Person On The Porch.  I miss him. 

“I speak these words not because it is something I personally claim to have felt or experienced.  I speak them because I acknowledge that I have countrymen like the author, Donley Ferguson, who have and do feel this way. I want to amplify the message because when people express pain or suffering with such vulnerability and openness, I think empathy is a better response towards my fellow Americans than mockery or derision.”

In the spirit of remembering we’re not alone, I’m leaving you this evening with one of the greatest bits of flash fiction I’ve ever read, once again from Shoshana Edwards, who is one of the greatest writers I’ve ever met.  She’s going to remind us that hope can be found in the strangest places.

The Phone

Here I sit, alone in the cell, uncomfortable in my new clothes.  I want the orange jump suit back.  It fits.  It is familiar.  It is soft.  I hate all these pre-death rituals: prayers with the chaplain, the talk with the warden, the last awkward meeting with my attorney.  I hate my last dinner, so awful.  The milkshake is too sweet; the steak is too fatty.  The potatoes are salty.  As soon as I finish, I dive for the lone toilet in the corner of the room, vomiting.

Awareness of the approaching deadline has stripped all animation from my face.  I do not recognize the man in the warped metal mirror over the sink.  The warden, the jailors, and my fellow inmates have found me to be pleasant company and a source of comfort in difficult times.  Now there is no one.  They have abandoned me to my helpless isolation and dread.

“I didn’t do it, Jenny.  I swear I didn’t do it,” I whisper.

Oh, how I long to hold her again, to feel the sweet softness of her breasts, the warm moist pleasure as I enter her slowly, the urgency of our thrusting, the blissful release, the comfort afterwards as we cuddle in each other’s arms, falling asleep together.  But there is no conjugal visit on death row.  We share a brief time together under the supervision of the warden and the priest.  We are allowed to kiss, to hug, and to talk.  And then she leaves. I tell her not to come, not to watch.  I tell her to go home to her mother, who would make her soup and sing to her, and let her cry.  But I know she will come.  It is who she is.  She will watch my final moments in stony silence, holding back her tears and screams until Momma takes her home.

My lawyer has long ago given up.  I am Black, have a gap between my front teeth, and am tall and muscular.  My mind plays the arrest over and over:  I am wearing my sweats on my way to my car outside the gym.  Me being Black and in the wrong place is enough for the cops, a close enough description from the eye witness, to let them pull their guns. They scream at me to get down, zip tie my hands so tightly behind my back that one shoulder dislocates and ignore my screams of pain.  They search my car, screaming “where is it?  Where is the gun?  Tell us now?  Did you throw it away somewhere?” I cannot stop the damn movie, even after all these years.

It is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking, even though my hospital scrubs are on the back seat of my car, along with my ID which shows that I am an intern at Riverpark Hospital.  My gym membership badge is attached to my sweats, but no one bothers to check with the gym, to learn that when the convenience store owner was shot, I was working out in the free weight room with a spotter.  They know they have their man.  In court, my attorney produces the evidence: the time I checked out of the hospital, the time I checked into the gym, and he calls my spotter to the stand as a witness.  But even for the jury, it is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking.

The movie keeps playing, and I sit here trying not to watch it; trying not to cry.

I am on death row, where I have lived for five years.  We file appeal after appeal, each one failing.  I have long since given up believing in truth and justice.  Those are not for Black men who look dangerous, Black men with tattoos, wearing sweats, walking to their car in a White folks’ neighborhood.

They walk me down the hallway, without chains, my hands free.  There are five guards, including the warden.  This is it.  They lay me on the table, strap down my arms and legs, and the doctor inserts the needle.  The curtain is pulled away from the window.  Jenny is there, stony faced and immobile, her mother sitting next to her looking anywhere but into the death chamber.  The warden reads the charges, while his assistant makes certain the phone on the wall is working, and the doctor confirms that the line is clear and the needle properly inserted. And then they leave, all but the man standing beside the phone, a useless gesture.

I feel a slight coldness as the first chemical is introduced, designed to relax me.  It works on my body, but not my mind.  The terror is still there.  What if I am wrong, and there is a heaven and a hell?  The second drug starts, and I feel myself starting to fall asleep.  Just as Morpheus begins to draw his final curtain I hear a sound, so brilliant I struggle to rise up out of the darkness. As blackness overtakes me, I identify the noise: the phone is ringing.

We are surrounded by voices not our own.  And each of them has the potential to help us.  Our voices have the potential to help others.  Sometimes, just a phone call can make all the difference.