maybe they could give out social worker bobblehead dolls

So, as a bit of a caveat, I should say that as I write this I'm looking at and listening to old video of Jean Luc Ponty and the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Jazz/rock played on a violin. Pretty trippy. I think this makes me what atrios calls a "dirty fucking hippie." So be it.

What I want to write about tonight is a bit sensitive. I feel like I should duck while I'm writing it. Since it has to do with "supporting the troops," I open myself up to obvious ad hominem style attacks. But it's not just the fairly obvious idea that authorities tend to use the message of "supporting the troops," as cover to make people feel guilty for not supporting policies that send troops to their death, such as the Iraq mess. My awareness of this fact made me feel a bit sheepish when I was home for Christmas driving around in my dad's truck with his "Support the Troops" bumper sticker on it.

Really, honestly, genuinely, of course I support the troops. I have general issues about how armed forces like the army or the police can be used to enforce the will of powerful minorities over the wishes of unarmed majorities. But at the same time, I recognize that in many, many situations the police would be the first people I'd turn to for help if I were in trouble. I have the luxury of running away from an assailant and allowing the police to protect me. Police officers have agreed to risk their lives for schmucks like me. In a different way, so have soldiers. That's awesome. Thanks. Seriously. I'm glad there are people willing to do this.

But one thing I long admired about Canada was that it traditionally hasn't fetishized the military in the same way as the U.S. We haven't really needed military jets flying over the Grey Cup to make us feel like big men. But I fear that I sense that changing. One way I've noticed it is by watching the NHL this year. Every Canadian city with an NHL team, it seems, is taking one night this year to honour the troops. I was reminded of this tonight while waiting for the subway, and seeing Toronto is doing it before this weekend's game against Vancouver.

Now, by itself, these kinds of "honour the troops" nights are fine. Soldiers have what seems to me a shit job. Especially ones in battle zones like Afghanistan. I guess what I find weird is that soldiering as a profession seems to have been singled out for this kind of an honour. Again, I am grateful for what soldiers do, but I'm grateful that there are people willing to engage in a whole bunch of professions.

Where would we be without social workers, for example? They often clean up society's crap, are underpaid, and work in dangerous and hostile environments. But, of course, social workers are mostly women, and they deal with problems not by "fighting" them but by nurturing. Isn't it odd that we are supposed to so regularly pay hommage to and be grateful for those who fight while those who nurture go unrecognized. Thanks Dad. Now go make me a chicken pot pie, Mom. Y'know?

So, I know what soldiers do is tough. But lots of people help in different kinds of ways and also have it tough. And it seems like it's only soldiers who are deemed worthy of being lauded in these kinds of most visible ways. Ways that ultimately reinforce values that support aggressive responses to the world's problems. It reminds me of reports of the recently announced Iraqi plan to escalate attacks against insurgents, that was described as a "war on violence." I mean, once you declare war hasn't violence already won?

I won't hold my breath for a social workers night at the ACC. But it's important to remember, I think, that institutions that use care and nurturing as a response to the world's problems deserve at least as much respect as those that use violence.

the moral ambiguity of the mundane world

I live about 5 or 6 blocks from a retirement home. While walking to the subway today, I saw two men about a block ahead of me. One of them was white-haired, and was on his knees beside a walker. The other was dark-haired, and was helping him back to his feet. It seemed to be a bit of a struggle as it took a while. By the time I got up to them, the white-haired man was back on his feet, and was turning around as if heading back to the retirement home. I had thought maybe the dark-haired man was a carer, but when I got close he looked old enough that he might have been another resident of the retirement home. I'm not sure, but in any case, he was not a spring chicken. They were now about 2 blocks from the retirement home.

When I saw the man on his knees I figured I would ask if they needed help if he still hadn't been able to get to his feet by the time I reached them. But when I got to them, and he was off the ground, I had a strong approach-avoid conflict around helping. On the one hand, it seemed like he could have used the help. The white-haired man was stable on his walker and moving slowly, but the dark-haired man was providing support under one arm. It probably would have been useful for me to support him under the other arm.

But I was hesitant to offer the help. As a social psychologist, I know that people often fail to help in situations where they should, so I feel a particular burden in these kinds of situations. At the same time, I am aware of the potential for shame in these kinds of situations. As a younger, independent man, I could make the white-haired man's frailty more obvious. I was in some ways a symbol of what he had lost. I think younger people encounter these situations and dissociate themselves from their elders, as if that could never happen to them. But I am acutely aware that I will not always have my present vitality and, if I am fortunate enough to live that long, I will have to resign myself to the fact that a walk of two blocks is too much for me.

More to the point, I thought he might feel ashamed by my offer of help, taking it as a sign of pity. When I lived in North Carolina, I had a neighbour who drank heavily and walked with a cane. I came out of my apartment once and found him on the ground, struggling to get up some stairs. I helped him up and he went into his apartment without acknowledging me. I felt that he resented my intervention. I suppose he resented his own condition more than me, but again, I was a symbol of what he had lost. I wasn't sure if I had done the right thing. I think this experience informed my choice today - I walked past without saying anything.

What would you have done?

that which cannot be seen

I didn’t think things like this really happened. But this blunt hollowness has drifted with me long enough to break down my formidable powers of repression and rationalization. I mean, the explanation is so simple on its face; the sort of intuitive, sub-linear explanation that makes scientists suspicious. I can’t imagine it being endorsed by an empiricist of any serious standing. Such psychodynamics must be both feared and attacked by steady men with grim faces. But I know better. You do not dwell with a Freudian Frankenstein monster without understanding that truth is safer than science. Is monster the right word? That seems too noisy a term to describe what I have come to know. Monster is figure whereas this is the silent ground, its dull gravity slowly winning through patience and omnipresence. If it were something it could be dealt with. Were it even the unknown a solution could be found. But how do you solve the absence of the unknown? I think it goes without saying that I simply don’t know. It’s not that I am terrified, but I am starkly curious in an urgent and disquieting sort of way. When certainties appear one day as dust, spreading in all directions on shifting winds, that is enough to get the attention even of stoics. As it stands, I cannot accept the outcome. All I can do, then, is make peace with the process. When you value mystery your only choice is to accept the occasional unpleasant surprise. It’s just that, in the end, it doesn’t seem to me like too much to ask for some sort of resolution to this discord between love and affection.