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Compassion
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I’ve started taking a year-long course on compassion. I find there’s a shortage of compassion in the world and, you know, be the change you want to see.
It’s got me reflecting on the nature of judgment, and what happens with unmet needs. They don’t stop being needs just because they’re unmet. I think they just take on additional dimensions, like trauma and dissociation and resentment and shame.
It seems obvious to me that compassion is a healthier response to human needs – our own and others’ – than scorn, dismissal, indifference, etc. But, the course points out, judgment is itself a response to a need, and understanding what that need is can lead to connection and growth.
I will admit that I reach the limits of my compassion when the question is, for example, billionaires and employers and politicians who exploit desperate people and destroy the environment because they personally expect to be fine. I would find it difficult not to throw scare quotes around the word “needs” when it comes to the motivations of capitalists and narcissists and fascists.
I also have trouble maintaining a compassionate patience with people who are causing obvious harm and seem unwilling to adapt to an approach that causes less. I draw a pretty strong line at pretending everything is fine when it isn’t. My need for truth is too strong.
Perhaps this is where the compassion course will meet up with boundaries, which is a topic I’ve done intensive self-study on after decades of being told my needs were irrelevant and burdensome and wrong. They’re not. They’re human and they’re me.
I, a human, deserve to have my needs met, with compassion. You, a human, do too.
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Disability Pride Month
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It is, the internet tells me, Disability Pride Month.
Disability is a topic I’ve read and thought about a lot lately, and ableism too.
Consciously or not, we often treat “disabilities” as a flaw in a person, like they didn’t try hard enough and should be ashamed. There is societal judgment and resentment, like they’re a burden. Like they are lesser humans. Like they should be grateful for “support” that fails to meet their basic needs. Like it wouldn’t be such a big deal if they just died.
One useful term I’ve learned from disability advocates is “pre-disabled,” which refers to people who are currently “able-bodied” but it’s only a matter of time. Disabilities increase with age, and long covid will disable many more.
Phrased differently, the term “pre-disabled” emphasizes that being able to function without accommodation in the world as it is set up is a temporary state. Instead, we treat it like a virtue.
Which brings me to the difference between the “medical” and “social” models of disability.
The “medical” model tends to be the conceptual default: the “disability” is situated in (is a “flaw” in) an individual’s body. Medical professionals are positioned as the gatekeepers of accommodation under this model. Often the disabled person has to meet ableist standards to get even a shred of help. Many report experiencing scorn and judgment from medical gatekeepers, rather than support and understanding.
In contrast, the “social model of disability” recognizes that the problem lies in the disconnect between an individual’s needs and how society is structured:
For many people with disabilities, the main disadvantage they experience does not stem directly from their bodies, but rather from their unwelcome reception in the world, in terms of how physical structures, institutional norms, and social attitudes exclude and/or denigrate them.
“Rethinking disability: the social model of disability and chronic disease,” Sara Goering, 2015.
Society could choose to design things inclusively, for a variety of bodies and experiences, rather than accommodating only a narrow subset of humanity and demeaning and abandoning those who don’t fit. But that would take thoughtfulness and – heaven forbid! – sometimes even budget.
Society is not becoming more compassionate towards people who don’t fit. The pre-disabled would do well to think about how they themselves want to be treated when they’re no longer able to meet standards of productivity. Perhaps Disability Pride Month is a good time to start that work.
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Review of Meghan Trainor’s Timeless
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Ten years ago, Meghan Trainor bestowed “All About That Bass” upon the world. I thought it was an absolute banger both musically and lyrically, with a truly joyful video: an empowerment anthem about self-love at any size (“Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top”). But then I guess I was largely asleep on her for a decade. “Wake up!” she yells cheerfully, on and with her new album, Timeless.
Timeless is a collection of catchy songs, grounded in self-worth and compassion, in a variety of genres (which I leave to someone whose music vocabulary is less rusty to catalogue), with clever and creative lyrics, vocals that sound effortless, and playful musicality and production.
Since I control my own word count, I’ll run through some of my favourite tracks.
“To The Moon,” the first song, is my favourite to sing, a persuasive love letter from a strong artist to the partner she wants on her journey. It starts off sultry and then turns into an aerobic workout. “I got a spaceship, come get in it / for the ride of your life,” she croons confidently. This is, thematically, a very horny album. (Good lord, the booklet photos.)
“Been Like This” is next, an upbeat duet with T-Pain that is a giant “I’m not bothered” to haters. There’s a video that appears to be them hearing the finished song for the first time, where she laughs and vibrates and exclaims at how good it sounds. It does indeed sound very good.
“Crowded Room” is a veritable poodle-skirt love song, appealing directly to Cupid about the one who “was worth the wait.” The lyrics are simple and honest. I am in awe of her and her team’s ability to replicate and update this decades-old genre.
“Whoops” is hilarious, an excellent addition to the popular “boy, you fucked up” category of song:
Whoops, you messed up
Now you cryin’ about what you lost
You did me dirty, hope she was worthy
You say you’re sorry, but I think what you really mean isWhoops
In case the boy who fucked up doesn’t get the point from the audio, the video spends a lot of time reminding him of the ass he will never again touch. Vicious.
“I Get It” is an insightful psychological treatise disguised as a pop song, this one about the fear of trusting love.
‘Cause baby, this love is overwhelming, I get it
You wanted forever once you felt it, I get it
When your heart does that thing
You don’t have to explain
‘Cause I feel the same, I get it, I get it
Don’t be afraid of getting deeper, dive in it
You knew right away I was a keeper, admit it
When your heart does that thing
You don’t have to explain
‘Cause I feel the same, I get it(Horny bonus lyric: “I see your heart beating out your chest / Lose your cool when I’m in this dress / Look at you when you’re powerless.” (Her husband, from what I’ve seen on social media, is quite appreciative of his wife.))
“Hate It Here” is an introvert’s anthem that could actually be played in dance clubs.
Goodbye (Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye)
‘Cause I’m about to lose my mind (My mind, my mind, my mind)
And I know it ain’t just me tonight (Tonight, tonight, tonight)
Get loud if you wanna disappear
Say “yes, I hate it here”When this appeal fails to have immediate effect, she tries another tactic:
Won’t you rather be at home with me?
Get naked under the sheets
Baby, that’s where I’m tryna be
(Wanna leave, wanna leave, wanna leave, wanna leave)It might be impossible not to hear this one in my head when I go out.
There are a total of 16 songs on the album (the lengthiest clocking in at 3:21), and the last one is the titular Timeless, a beautiful waltz that should be very popular at weddings.
You and I, baby, we’re timeless
Here tonight and after my final breath
‘Cause there’s just too many memories made
You can’t tell me all of this love goes away
Though we won’t ever make no sense
Baby, we’re timelessThe album opens with promising the moon and closes, no matter “how long we’ve got / here on this rock,” with the enduring nature of love.
Very good art.
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(writer); denial
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I introduced myself as a writer yesterday. It felt exaggerated, but the smart/kind/thoughtful person I was speaking with accepted it: “If you write, then you’re a writer.”
I write. I also do necessary writing-adjacent stuff like reading, and like moving around thinking about human psychology during societal collapse.
I think about the role of denial a lot. Part of what I want to do with my writing is refuse to participate in collective denial. It’s a bad long-term strategy, even if it’s easier in the short term.
One excellent piece I (writer) read recently is “We’ve Hit Peak Denial. Here’s Why We Can’t Turn Away From Reality,” by Marianne Cooper and Maxim Voronov (writers), in Scientific American. It’s an uncomfortable read but an important one.
We need to work harder to catch ourselves in the act of staying silent or avoiding uncomfortable information and do more real-time course correcting.
I agree.
I think documenting things real-time helps. I think questioning the “normal” we passively accept helps. I think talking compassionately about these experiences with others helps.
We must stand up for the silenced and stand with the silence-breakers.
I (writer) agree.
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Bullshit jobs
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I was reading an article in The Economist from 2018, an interview with David Graeber entitled “Bullshit jobs and the yoke of managerial feudalism,” and thinking about my own professional experience.
Broadly, I did non-partisan research for parliamentarians. The concept, presumably, was that it would help make for better law to have independent materials produced by highly qualified researchers. The impression I formed during my tenure is that many politicians in a partisan environment are uninterested in non-partisan research.
I couldn’t say how much of my work went unread by the target audience. And it wasn’t just researcher work: there were reviewers and translators and formatters too. All of us getting paid — some of us getting well paid — to produce high quality information that had no appreciable impact on governance.
There was a game that spoke to the futility of the work. If a parliamentarian actually asked one of the questions you’d prepared, you got a point! Points were also futile but were prized in their rarity. My recollection is the vast majority of my points came from parliamentarians whose political affiliation meant they would likely never govern.
The parties who take turns governing seemed to prefer partisan research and presumably had their own budgets dedicated to that purpose. So instead of asking questions designed to identify problems with the law that should be addressed in order to make citizens’ lives better, there’d be “questions” ranting about what the other team did or would do in power. Sometimes parliamentarians would monologue for so long in the guise of a question that the experts flown in to share their expertise for the betterment of Canada would have no time to answer. Thanks for stopping by.
Other questions for other witnesses basically boiled down to: “Could you run out your time elaborating on how great my team is?”
It was, per David Graeber, bullshit, and I burned out. Not only did my work feel pointless, I started to feel complicit. I felt like my participation as a professional gave credibility to a system that does not deserve it.
So now I’m trying to figure out a better way to use my skills and expertise than preparing research that goes largely unread.
So far my solution is a website that goes largely unread. But I’m working on that.
I’m also working on connecting with others like me, who have trouble contributing to a very bad status quo. I want to talk more openly about the bullshit, and the “awful sadomasochistic workplace dynamics” of institutions that in practice exist just to perpetuate themselves.
I especially want to hear about work that isn’t bullshit.
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About the author
CKirkby
- earned degrees in language / literature and law (but is not currently a lawyer or a journalist);
- worked for over a decade on Parliament Hill;
- misses writing; and
- appreciates thoughtful comments, en anglais ou en français. (Email addresses are not published.)
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