Before things get complicated up in here, I reckon it proper to thank all y’all who shot me DMs about last week’s edition of The Sabbateur. I got messages from people who had heard of Wayne Shorter but never dove into his discography. It’s satisfying to have hipped some fine folks to Mr. Gone.
I also got messages from readers who’ve long been hip to Shorter. My old pal Eric, a jazzhead through and through, sent me this short video of Fagen and Becker discussing Shorter’s guest solo on Steely Dan’s Aja. Despite being a Steelyhead, I had no idea that was Shorter’s horn. Thanks Eric!
Cassandra, with whom I had not corresponded this century, reached out to reminisce about the time I gave her a lift home from college, during which we listened to Weather Report from door to door. Blarin’ fusion down the highway, cruise control set at five-over because I couldn’t afford to get rolled, smokin’ Camel Lights with all the windows down, seat leaning back too far, thumbs slappin’ on the steering wheel, wondering if she feels it. She felt it! Sup Cass?*
It was comforting to connect with readers over the life and music of Wayne Shorter. And while I hardly plan on turning this newsletter into an obit page, The Sabbateur could be a space to celebrate and connect through the lives of the recently departed.
And connecting with readers has been cause to celebrate. And I’ve need that. Because otherwise, this week has had me in something of a tizzy. My daughter might say I’ve had “big feelings” this week.
And while there is nothing wrong with having big feelings, there’s nothing particularly enjoyable about being in a tizzy.
I have been grappling this week with why I feel so ill-at-ease. As these things go, it’s a polyvariable equation. But there’s one variable in particular on which I’ve been focused…
First, let me establish that I love what I do for a living. Even when it’s hard to feel that love, I’m usually proud of being a history teacher.**
But in trying to ascertain why I feel so unmoored lately, I can’t escape the conclusion that wearing the weight of history—bearing that burden for and with my students—can be emotionally exhausting.
To wit, this week my five different courses are exploring these questions:
Considering case studies in Hungary, Hong Kong, India, Venezuela, and The Philippines, how and why are democracies dying around the world?
How is narco-terrorism undermining two decades of democratic consolidation in Mexico?
How and why did the stock market crash in 1929 and how do we best explain President Hoover’s lackluster responses?
To what extent was Cold War and domestic anti-communism rational and measured responses on the part of the U.S. government and members of American society to tangible external and internal threats from a paranoid and expansionist Soviet Union abroad, and from subversive communist elements at home?
What were the core debates among leaders of the African-American Civil Rights movements and to what degree were their respective goals achieved?
All interesting and important questions. But add it all up and imagine how it might feel to take on issues like these week after week. Can you see how it might feel like a heavy lift?
Yes. I signed up for it. And yes, I get paid.
I’m a public servant; I take some solace in servitude.
But sometimes it just kinda hurts. Okay?
So this week I’ve been troubleshooting how to navigate the potential long-term health issues one might face from having the dark hand of the past gripping his neck day after day.
I tend to agree with and find succor in Steven Pinker’s optimistic case for the present.
“The Enlightenment project has succeeded wildly, and we don’t fully appreciate that fact.
Human welfare has improved dramatically, and it’s improved by almost any measure you like — longevity, health, prosperity, education, literacy, leisure time, and on and on.
All of these have increased, and yet you’re likely to draw the opposite impression from reading headlines or watching cable news. But the objective record shows that progress has taken place, and it’s really an enormous success story.”
I also tend to agree with Dr. King that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” As a history teacher, it would behoove me to use my institutionalized platform to exalt that arc.
Obama did. In fact, he often appropriated King’s reading of that historical trend. In his Farewell Address, which he gave in my fair city of Chicago, Obama urged:
“Let me tell you, this generation coming up — unselfish, altruistic, creative, patriotic — I’ve seen you in every corner of the country. You believe in a fair and just and inclusive America; you know that constant change has been America’s hallmark, that it’s not something to fear but something to embrace; you are willing to carry this hard work of democracy forward. You’ll soon outnumber any of us, and I believe as a result the future is in good hands.”
Gen Z kicks ass. But I’ve been thinking seriously this week about how all too often my classes with Gen Z focus too acutely on the injustices, overshadowing the Arc Towards Justice narrative.
I think I should recalibrate my thinking and teaching to open more space for hope for my students. And for me.
Of course, I am fanatically committed to teaching hope in a way that does not obfuscate injustices, past or present. But I’ve been thinking about how to make my workspace more emotionally sustainable.
I have found myself returning to the first chapter of Howard Zinn’s People’s History of the United States.
“It is not that the historian can avoid emphasis of some facts and not of others. This is as natural to him as to the mapmaker, who, in order to produce a usable drawing for practical purposes, must first flatten and distort the shape of the earth, then choose out of the bewildering mass of geographic information those things needed for the purpose of this or that particular map.
My argument cannot be against selection, simplification, emphasis, which are inevitable for both cartographers and historians. But the map-maker's distortion is a technical necessity for a common purpose shared by all people who need maps. The historian's distortion is more than technical, it is ideological; it is released into a world of contending interests, where any chosen emphasis supports (whether the historian means to or not) some kind of interest, whether economic or political or racial or national or sexual.”
This week, I am wondering if I have distorted my academic map in a way that highlights injustice, but doesn’t open ample space for hope.
How can I shift the narrative to condemn injustice and reflect hope? Here I recalibrate some of my class questions this week:
Considering case studies in Hungary, Hong Kong, India, Venezuela, and The Philippines, how and why are democracies dying around the world…and what work are citizens doing to protect democracy in these countries?
How was democracy achieved after the 71 dictatorship of the PRI? How is narco-terrorism undermining two decades of democratic consolidation in Mexico…and what can be done to sustain democracy in Mexico, despite the Narcowars?
How and why did the stock market crash in 1929 and how do we best explain President Hoover’s lackluster responses…and what are the most empathic views of Hoover’s shortcomings as President during this tragic time?
Now I’m thinking about next week’s classes. Perhaps in addition to discussing the perils of American life during the Depression, we should also explore how we might best explain how American experiences during the Great Depression tended not towards Stalinism or Fascism (as in much of Europe) but towards camaraderie and community.
In this same complicated decade, F. Scott Fitzgerald in famously argued:
“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless yet be determined to make them otherwise.” (from a 1936 Esquire interview)
While I’m no first-rate intellect, I’m sure that Woody Guthrie knew what Fitzgerald was barking at. Guthrie has long been my North Star. So we’ll wrap this edition of the newsletter with him.
“All of this talking about what’s up in the sky, or down in hell, for that matter, isn’t half as important as what’s right here, right now, right in front of your eyes. Things are tough. Folks broke. Kids hungry. Sick. Everything. And people has got to have more faith in one another, believe in each other. There’s a spirit of some kind we’ve all got. That’s got to draw us all together.”
― Woody Guthrie, Bound for Glory, 1943
I’ll bark at y’all next week…
*Still not sure she felt it. But she remembers it. What can I say? I had funky ways to express my crushes. And while a newsletter published an ocean and 25 years away is a curious cop to a crush…Whatevs. Who didn’t have a crush on Cass?
**The pride thing is not without its complications, I assure you.
A note on The Sabbateur: I have convinced myself that rituals matter. Practices that mark time ground us. So this year, I will carve out one hour on Friday, the Sabbath of my ancestors, to sit quietly in the corner of the high school library and ritually reflect on what I have been obsessing over that week. I would write more and maybe more poetically, but I gotta get to my next class.
If you are looking for more S Pinker type good news read rutger bregman’s humankind. It’s a comprehensive look at the decency of our species and a reminder that if you’re only looking for bad news that’s all you find.