Alex Jones’ unCivil War

Union soldier

Union soldier, Fourth of July parade. Photo by Callen Harty.

While I have been enjoying the hundreds of memes belittling Alex Jones for positing that the Democrats would start a second Civil War on Independence Day, there is an underlying creepiness about him that makes everything he says and does just a little less funny.

It is easy enough to dismiss conspiracy theorists like Jones as wacked out right-wing nut jobs, but the thing is he is not crazy. He knows exactly what he is doing. He is a manipulator of the gray area between truth and lies, and oftentimes just a liar, plain and simple. He is a cold, calculating purveyor of lies that advance a political agenda. He likely doesn’t believe a word that comes out of his own mouth, but his followers do, and that is the reason he is so dangerous. By putting forth untruth as truth, such as stories about Hillary Clinton as a child sex trafficker, Democrats planning mass civil war, the Sandy Hook massacre as a staged event, the moon landing as fake, and countless theories about the federal government masterminding things like the Oklahoma City bombing, he helps create a world in which a Civil War is possible. Maybe not today, but as an expected eventuality.

Those on the right, including Donald Trump, who talk about killing journalists, fake news, protecting the Second Amendment so that citizens can take up arms against an evil government out to get them, and more, have created a society in which its own people are ready to take up arms against each other over imagined slights and unrealistic horrors. Decrying journalists and news as fake undermines freedom of the press and the very real job of journalists to uncover and report the truth, even when it is uncomfortable. When repeated enough, people start believing that “fake news” is truth and real news is nothing but lies made up to destroy the politicians that they love. Stating that immigrants are evil monsters makes them less than human and sets it up so that putting them in cages, separated from their children, seems like the right thing to do for those who believe their leaders. Milo Yiannopoulos making a statement that he “can’t wait for the vigilante squads to start gunning journalists” is an invitation to gun down journalists. Saying later that it was a joke and that he was just trolling does not take away the fact that seven journalists were shot and five of them died within days of his statement.

The known blowhards on the right, who spout such grotesqueries that those on the left simply dismiss them as nut jobs, are truly dangerous villains. From Rush Limbaugh to the countless corporate shills on Fox “News”, to Donald Trump and his apologists, to Alex Jones, they are all laying the groundwork for the bloody Civil War that Jones predicted the Democrats would start. They have normalized ideas that even a couple decades ago would have been laughable to all but a few.

If there is found a legitimate reason to impeach Trump, those blowhards have already predicted that the Democrats would try to impeach him and have already suggested that his supporters may need to take up arms to defend him and this great country. It may not matter whether there is legitimate cause for impeachment, or whether it comes from mainstream Republicans or Democrats–as they are both the enemy to the far-right–the followers have already been led to believe that it is already planned and they need to be prepared to defend their President. If it happens, Alex Jones and the others were right. If it doesn’t, it will soon enough be easily forgotten while the next outrageous conspiracy theory starts to gain traction.

Alex Jones is smart enough to know that the Democrats aren’t organized enough to win elections they should win, let alone even think about an armed insurrection such as what happened in 1776. But he also knows that repeatedly putting the idea of Civil War out there–as he has done repeatedly over the years–makes it something that seems inevitable to his followers and those on the right who distrust every aspect of government. It also tells those on the left they need to be prepared for it and makes the scenario a very real possibility. When something is that inevitable, one simply has to decide for which side they are going to fight. Some have already made that choice.

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Paths to Healing Keynote Speech

At this year’s Paths to Healing conference on male survivors of child sex assault I was the keynote speaker. This is the text of the speech I delivered today.

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Delivering the keynote address at the 2018 Paths to Healing conference at the American Family Insurance Center in Madison, Wisconsin. Photo by Peter Fiala.

Good morning. I’d like to start by thanking Chris Taylor, who is among the most incredible politicians and people in the state, for her introduction to the day. I’d also like to thank the Paths to Healing committee for the hard work put into organizing this important event and for considering me as a keynote speaker this year. I am honored to be able to speak with you today.

Paths to Healing is celebrating its fifth anniversary this year and is truly a grass roots conference that is sponsored by several organizations, all working together toward one common goal. It is not all that common to see groups cooperating on an event like this and that has been one of the joys of it since the beginning. The co-sponsors over the years include Wisconsin Coalition Against Sexual Assault, OutReach, Proud Theater, Canopy Center, UNIDOS Against Domestic Violence, Dane County Rape Crisis Center, Friends of the State Street Family, Family Sexual Abuse Treatment, and Solidarity with Child Abuse Victims/Survivors. All of these organizations are doing incredible work in the community and deserve your appreciation and support. I would also like to thank the Ho-Chunk Nation for making it possible for us to have Waylon Pahona here and American Family Insurance for hosting us this year. We hope to make this a lasting relationship. And finally, thank you for being here and being a part of this day.

This year’s conference is about survivors in underserved communities. Male survivors are already underserved because it can be so difficult for men to face sexual abuse and what it means. It can be difficult to trust others with that story. It can be difficult to know where to turn if a man does decide he needs to get help. There are added layers when minority statuses come into play. If I were a young black man and was raped, would my first thought be, “I should call the police; they’re always there to protect me?” I think not. As a gay man I might have the same issue. Though we have come a long way in the last few decades, I don’t know that even though I’m white I would expect the police to be fully understanding about the sexual assault of a gay man. Trans identified victims have similar issues. There are many complexities that come with being a male survivor of sexual assault. There are added layers of complexity when you are a person of color or a member of some other minority.

Obviously, a one-day conference cannot fully focus on every possible minority community, but we have secured speakers representing some of the more prevalent communities in our state. Today, you will reflect on what it means to be a male survivor who is also LGBT, African-American, Latino, Hmong, Native American, and/or disabled. I ask that you open your heart to learning not only about male survivors but survivors who may be different from you and whose experiences are different because of that. I think you will also discover some similarities, as I believe there are some things that all survivors feel, regardless of who they are or what they look or act like. If you are a survivor I hope that the stories you hear today will resonate with you and you will know more than ever that you are not alone.

Part of my reason for being here is to share my story as a gay man and an adult survivor of child sex abuse. I’d like to take a moment to tell you a little about me and my background. I was raised in a small mining town in southwestern Wisconsin, one of the oldest cities in the state and a place where my great-great grandfather settled the year it was founded, in 1827. I came from an Irish Catholic family with a strict, but loving, mother and a father who had died of a heart attack when he was just 41 and I was just two years old. As a result of his death, I was the only child in my class from a single-parent household the entire time I was growing up. It should be noted that there were only 62 classmates when I graduated—as I mentioned it was a small town—and that my childhood was back in the 1960s when most people held onto loveless and horrible marriages rather than divorcing. Many things were much different then compared to today. I was gay, but that was also back in the time when people didn’t admit it or sometimes, like me, couldn’t even acknowledge it to themselves. It took me until I was almost twenty-one to come out, but when I did I kicked the closet door down and vowed never to go back in. Along those lines, I would like to note an important lesson I’ve learned along the way. I am not gay because I was abused. And, I was not abused because I am gay. Abuse isn’t about sexuality, gender, or sex. It is about power, control, and violence.

This can be a very confusing thing for male survivors, whether gay or straight. Gay kids will question whether they were abused because the perpetrator somehow knew their secret and knew they were gay. Straight kids will question their sexuality. Figuring out one’s orientation and gender identity can be difficult enough for a young person without the added complexity of sexual abuse. When I was dealing with coming out I did question whether the abuse may have made me gay, but then recognized that I had crushes on boys that were before the abuse ever started and recognized that I had always been gay. It’s not that easy for everyone, and it’s not always easy for people to accept their own identity.

Other parts of my identity were easier. I knew by second grade that I wanted to be like my great aunt, Leona, and become a writer. Much of my childhood was spent in my bedroom quietly contemplating the world and writing bad poetry and short stories. When it came time to go away to college I decided I wanted to be a journalism major and chose UW-Eau Claire as the place to study that, partly because out of the four state colleges that I applied to and was accepted at, it was the farthest one from my home town. It took less than a semester to drop the journalism idea—once the professor in one class noted that to be a newspaperman one had to write down to a fifth-grade level (it’s probably a third-grade level or less by now). That was not the kind of writing I wanted to do.

I did become a writer. I have three books to my name and I’ve also written two dozen plays and about fifty monologues that have been produced. In addition, I’ve had numerous articles and essays published both in print and online. I’ve written more than 275 posts on my blog, A Single Bluebird. To my mind, among the most important of my works are a play detailing my own survivor story and a memoir, Empty Playground, that shares that story in more detail, as well as blog entries and articles on the topic. Sharing my story has become a major part of my life work. That is why I am here today, to share my story with you, to share some of that writing with you, and to share some hope with you.

When I came out as a child sex abuse survivor I also kicked that door down. As a result, I have done a lot of writing and speaking on the topic. My life, whether as a gay man, a recovering alcoholic, or a survivor has always been an open book. I have always believed that sharing my experiences may help others with their own issues. In particular, as a male survivor, I felt it was important for me to speak because so many men can’t, or won’t, due to our cultural brainwashing on masculinity. Historically, there have been few men willing to talk, though that has been changing, so I was willing to take up that mantle. With that said, I should note that I do not speak for any other men, gay men, recovering alcoholics, men of Irish heritage, or survivors. Everyone has their own story. What I can share is my story and my experience and hope that it resonates and helps in some way.

We are living in an interesting time at this moment in our history, with the #MeToo movement and with survivors every new day claiming their stories and their truth while men who have perpetrated unthinkable acts without consequences are starting to understand that they can no longer get away with what they have done and kept hidden for years. Because of all the celebrities who have opened up about their experiences of abuse and harassment, regular folks all over the country have felt emboldened to finally share their stories and I believe that this is a positive and beautiful thing. Not everyone can safely share what happened to them, but for every one who can that helps pave the way for others to face their stories even if they can’t share them so publicly. I can’t even imagine how many people have talked to their families, ministers, therapists, or others, but who would have stayed silent if not for the #MeToo movement.

As a gay man I understood early on the importance of coming out. I fully bought into Harvey Milk’s idea that we should all come out and that when all of us did the rest of the world would realize that there was not one of them who did not know at least one queer person in their family or circle of friends and acquaintances. He believed that once that happened the rights that we were demanding by ourselves would start to be granted because our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and others would join the fight with us. Not everyone who is gay is comfortable coming out or maybe cannot do so for their own safety or for very personal reasons. But like Harvey Milk, I believed that if most of us, or even many of us, could do so that would pave the way for a better understanding of who we were and lead to an acceptance that could not have been imagined before. It has taken decades, but it is working. Harvey Milk was right.

For me, that lesson translated to my survivor experience. It occurred to me that if people who could speak out were able to do so then more and more people would realize what an epidemic sexual assault is and perhaps new laws could be passed in an effort to protect everyone’s children, friends, and neighbors. Awareness would be raised and survivors would gain allies in the struggle to heal and to prevent these things from happening to others. Again, not every victim or survivor is able to speak publicly, or even open up to those closest to them, but the more of us who can, the more of us who claim #MeToo, the more society at large will understand the scope of the problem and realize that something must be done about it.

I have two primary goals in speaking and writing about sexual abuse. One is to help empower all victims to become survivors. The second is to help us move into a future where there is no need for the first goal because there are no longer any victims. These are lofty goals, but that is as it should be. As Henry David Thoreau said, “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” I see my work as helping lay that foundation for the future.

One of the things I want to talk about today is hope. Being a victim of sexual abuse can lead to so much destruction and it can be painful and difficult to move through it toward a place of peace. But I believe in hope. I believe in recovery. I believe in taking the power back and moving forward in a positive way. As we all know one can’t have a rainbow without the rain. Sometimes hope rises like a phoenix out of the ashes of despair. The point is that to be a survivor of sexual assault one has to have been a victim of sexual assault first. Those experiences are never easy to relive or to share or to hear. The story of what happened to me as a young boy is not an easy one. The way I moved through the pain of that is not easy. But the fact that I am standing here before you today is evidence of the movement from victimhood to survivorship, from depression to joy, from horror to hope.

My standing here is concrete evidence of hope. It is evidence of the power of the human spirit to survive. When I was two years old I almost died after contracting meningitis, the mumps, and scarlet fever within a two-week span. My earliest memory is of the doctor carrying me to the bathroom during that time. I am a survivor. I have survived car wrecks, alcoholism, suicidal ideation and attempts, threats to my life, a major heart attack, and childhood sexual abuse. I’m like a cat, but a lot less finicky about food and with even more than nine lives.

What I intend to do is share my story of abuse and survival. Though I will not share all the horrid details of the abuse I will share some, so this is a trigger warning about that. If you find that you are triggered by anything I say I apologize in advance, but I believe that when sharing such a story it has to be honest and real or it loses truth and meaning. It is why when I speak on the topic I typically show a picture of myself as a boy, because it is too easy to look at a man of my age and not connect it with the innocence of childhood. It is too easy to separate the adult man from the wounded child. In doing so an opportunity for empathy and understanding is lost. If you are triggered or anything I talk about is uncomfortable for you, please take care of yourself. Check in with someone, step out of the room, do what you need to do to take care of yourself first and foremost. There is a Community Support Room here and you can go there to step away for a moment. There are people involved in the conference who may be able to sit with you or to provide resources. My intention is not to add pain onto an already difficult situation, but to talk about how a person can move through that darkness and come out on the other side into the light.

Also, while my story is about surviving childhood sex abuse and is unique to my lived experience, I believe that there are universal truths that all survivors experience, whether you are a survivor of child sex abuse, sexual assault as an adult, or violent domestic abuse. We may not be able to identify with the particulars of one another’s experience, but there are things that we all understand and can relate to about those experiences. After sharing my story I’m going to share some writing with you from my books, playwriting, and blog around these topics. With all of that said, this is my survivor story.

When I was nine or ten years old I was touched inappropriately for the first time. It was a very quick, brief touch, through my pants, but it felt very uncomfortable. So I did what every little child is taught to do when things like this happen. I told my mother about it. She looked at me and said, “Oh, you shouldn’t let him do that to you.” Let that sink in for a moment. “You shouldn’t let him do that to you.” Because of that response I went away both blaming myself in some way and feeling like it wouldn’t do any good to tell my mother about anything like it in the future. She passed away just over a year ago and I do not blame her for not knowing how to deal with it. It was a different time. Still, what she said impacted me in a negative way, regardless of her intent.

When I was ten years old the abuse started in full force. The first time it happened I was asked if I wanted to play a game and being ten I excitedly said yes. I was then told that I would need to be tied up to play the game and being ten that didn’t seem unusual to me. After all, we played cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians back then. So my feet were tied to a piece of furniture and my hands to another. When he went to open my pants I struggled mightily, but despite my efforts my pants were pulled down and I was molested. He sat on my chest and I couldn’t see him or what he was doing. All I could see was his back and a crucifix on the wall above him with Jesus looking down upon it all and doing nothing. I’ve often said I lost both my innocence and my faith that day.

For the next seven years or so I was abused many times, in many places, and in many ways.

As I grew up, the abuse impacted me in ways that I was not even aware of at the time. My grades, which had always been good, fell off. Shy to begin with, I withdrew further into myself. I had a lot of anger and an Irish temper that showed itself more. Oftentimes victims of sexual abuse suffer from any number of the following (and more): Alcoholism, anger issues, drug abuse, life-long fears, post-traumatic stress disorder, promiscuity, prostitution, self-abuse, self-hatred, and suicidal ideation or attempts. I pretty much fit the bill on every one of those. The alcoholism was the worst for me. Friends and partners would suggest I might be an alcoholic and I would tell them it was none of their business. I would easily down a dozen and a half or so brandy-Cokes in a night. Regularly. Or beer, whiskey, tequila, whatever was available and on special on any given night. There was no such thing as social drinking. Drinking was for the sole purpose of getting drunk. It would dull the senses, loosen up the naturally shy personality, but also deepen the darkening depression. Of course, alcohol is a depressant, so drinking all the time when already depressed led to more self-hatred and thoughts of suicide. I am lucky to be alive.

Through a lot of work, a positive attitude, and some loving people in my life I survived despite the horrors of my youth and the self-abuse of my adulthood. I haven’t had a drink since April 18, 1989 (and quit doing drugs before that), have not had casual sex in ages as I’ve been in a long-term committed relationship, and have not had suicidal thoughts in many, many years. This doesn’t mean I am fully healed. There are still occasional issues that flare up. I think you are never fully over the effects of abuse; it is a matter of controlling the effects most of the time, and learning self-care to handle the triggers when they arise.

There are many roads to recovery. This is important. There is no one way to heal. Everyone has their pet ideas about the best way to get there, but we all have to follow our own paths to healing. Some get there through therapy, others through spirituality, others through internal exploration, or sharing with friends or family. For me, recovery came primarily through loved ones and a lot of internal work, mostly through reading and research and through my own writing, as that is the way I have always learned and grown. It’s the same way I went about coming out. I could not have survived without the ability to process creatively. The arts can be incredibly healing and a great way to explore oneself and the meaning of life, suffering, and more.

I have to admit a heart attack later in life also had a lot to do with it. It happened during the opening night of a play in which I was acting. If you’re going to have a heart attack you might as well make a story out of it, right? This one made all the papers in Madison—“Actor Survives Heart Attack on Stage”. In the middle of my first of two scenes an incredible pain shot through my chest and down my arm. I thought I had pulled a muscle, which I guess I had as the heart is the largest muscle in the body. I finished the scene, got changed, somehow blocked out the pain, and went on and did my last scene. You know, the show must go on. When it was over, as the other actors were taking a curtain call, people backstage were calling for an ambulance. Somehow I even ended up getting a good review for my one night in that production. That was despite 100 percent blockage of my left coronary. I am living on 60 percent of my heart’s capacity now.

Being faced with the threat of death causes one to relook at everything in life, what you’re doing with it, and what still needs to be done. It was after my life-threatening heart attack that I decided I had to share my story in a play, which is why I wrote Invisible Boy, an autobiographical play about surviving my abuse and coming to a place of forgiveness. The other thing that my heart attack changed was that I now listen to my heart, both figuratively and literally, in ways that I never used to be able to do. If my heart tells me to write a play to share my story, I do it. If it tells me to work on a conference on child sex abuse survival, I do it. If it tells me to speak out, I do it. I trust myself and my instincts a lot more now and I believe I have done a lot of good work in the last several years because of it.

I want to share just a bit of advice for allies of those who have suffered abuse. Here are a few important words: Listen, don’t judge, believe. Allow the survivor to talk. Accept their story and their truth. Be available and let that be known. Most survivors have to come to therapy or their friends or whatever path they take at their own pace. When they are ready to talk they need to know you’ll be there and what you can do for them.

Let the person know they are not alone. Unfortunately, statistics say one in three or four girls and one in five or six boys is abused and the numbers are probably way higher because of the under-reporting and silence around it. I don’t believe in silence. The more survivors who come out and share their stories the more others may recognize that they are not alone and that their experiences are not entirely unique, though the particular circumstances might be. More and more famous survivors are coming out publicly with their stories and that can only help.

Childhood sex abuse can be a life sentence if the victim does not ever acknowledge the abuse and deal with the effects, but any man or woman who becomes a survivor instead of a victim does so because they deal honestly with their history, their emotions, and the effects of the abuse. One can live a powerful, full life and take control back by dealing openly and honestly with the abuse. I have many people to thank for helping me get to where I am today, especially some dear friends and family members whose large hearts were able to hold me when I needed it. A large part of my recovery and movement toward healing from abuse was also because of my writing. It is the way I process. It has always been the way I process. It’s the way I create order out of chaos and make sense out of a sometimes senseless world. It’s the way I look honestly at me and my world in an attempt to understand it better and maintain hope. It is my escape and also my mirror.

Much of my writing has focused on my abuse and recovery and generally on the topic of sex abuse. I would like to share some of that with you now. This first piece is a poem. A while back I was in a group setting and one of the young people there shared something that told me that he had either been sexually abused or was still suffering it. He didn’t come out and say it, but I knew it from the way he said what he said. That night I went home and wrote the following poem, hoping that he would see it when I posted it on my Facebook page so that he might know he was not alone.

I know what happened to you

even though you cannot say it,

because I hear it in the words you do not say,

and I see it in your eyes,

in the way your body hides its secrets.

I see me in your eyes

and the way your body hides it secrets.

And I know.

I know the truth that your eyes

want to hide from the world.

And I want you to know

that the man who touched you,

who hurt you, abused you,

doesn’t want you to know

that it was not your fault.

It was not your fault.

It is his burden, not yours.

But he wants you to believe

that no one will believe

you

if you say a word.

I believe you, even in your silence.

He wants you to believe that it was you

who invited his hands, his mouth, his . . .

other parts of his body

to join with yours.

Know that it was not you.

It was not your invitation.

It was not your fault.

It was not what you wanted.

He wants you to believe that because your body

reacted naturally

that you shared equally in the act.

Know that it was your body reacting naturally–

not your heart, your mind, your soul.

Not you.

I know it was not something you wanted.

You know it was not something you wanted.

Believe yourself.

I know also that you feel shame,

that you are afraid to speak,

that you are afraid,

and I understand the fear.

But know that I have heard you speak

despite your silence–because of your silence–

and I will hold it all with you.

When you are ready

I will be ready with you.

I will hold it all with you in brotherhood,

and when that time comes

his lies, your fear, the shame, guilt, horror,

all of it,

will start to slip through your fingers

and you will be able to touch

the truth that is now hidden behind your eyes.

Know that I will be there with you,

that I will hold it with you,

and that it will be the beginning of healing.

Your eyes will open, tears will fall,

and you will know then with certainty

it was not what you wanted.

This next piece is a short monologue from my play, Invisible Boy, which I think accurately describes what abuse and recovery can feel like, especially early in the process of healing. This is the main character speaking.

“Sometimes this process is like taking a broken piece of glass—a window maybe, shattered—and trying to piece it back together. There are so many fragments scattered in my mind, so many broken moments strewn about that I find it difficult to pick them all up, to find them, let alone figuring out where they fit. And maybe I have to be okay with that, maybe I have to accept that I may never find everything that was lost. But if I find enough, if I remember enough and connect enough pieces together I can at least peer into the window of my own soul and see me hiding in a corner there. I need to find that frightened, cowering child. I need to connect with him and let him know that it’s all right, that no harm can befall him now. I need to put these pieces together to be whole again.”

The next piece I’d like to share is also from Invisible Boy. It is at a moment when the main character has been contemplating suicide, and it’s a good example of the importance of being there for others. The character had seen a light under a housemate’s door and was reminded of it while holding a knife to his wrist, so he went down the hall, knocked on the door, and told her he didn’t think he could be alone. She invited him in and just sat with him while he cried. As mentioned, this was an autobiographical play and this is a pretty accurate retelling of an evening in my life.

“I was dying. In many ways. Sometimes, taking a breath hurts because you know that every breath you take is that much longer in the world. I wanted to stop breathing. Jon did it. Why couldn’t I? He was abused as a child, too, turned to prostitution, alcohol, sex addiction. But he got to a point where his pain was unbearable, so he gave it away. To me, to some others. I still hold that pain for him. That’s the unfairness of suicide. I wanted to give mine away, too, but always there were angels in my world. Always there were people who took care of me at just the right moment. Lauren never did ask what had happened that night. She never intruded. She just let me be with my emotions. If there hadn’t been a light there, if she hadn’t answered, if she hadn’t been so understanding . . . well, I think that knife may have cut deeply. But that was a turning point. The other times I tried to kill myself I simply failed. This time I made a choice. Something inside me, some little part of me, perhaps that wounded child who survived everything back then, something made me stop. Some voice made me put that knife down and try to make a human connection. In the middle of a period when I trusted no one, when I was at the lowest and darkest moments of my self-abuse, when there seemed to be nothing left but despair, something made me stop. There was a little voice of hope that carried me down the hall where I saw a light beckoning and that little sliver of light saved my life. But a little light can build; it can grow to illuminate things unseen. Oh, it has taken me years, but there is so much light in my life now that I can see and feel in ways that I have not known in a long, long time. I have love now, I have a partner who cares deeply and who sits in silence when I need it, who holds me when I need holding, who doesn’t touch me when I am remembering unwanted touches, who loves all of me. I am healing. I have work to do yet, but I am putting the pieces back together. I am becoming a whole person. Now I am working on loving myself and loving that child inside me who needs protection. I promised him, way back after the last time I was molested, I promised him never again and I have the strength now to assure that promise. I think maybe I have reached the last step that I need to reach, and one of the most difficult things in my life. And so I welcome him back for a moment, just to let him go again. [To the perpetrator] You have no power over me any more. I forgive you. I forgive you because it is not my place to judge you, condemn you, explain you, or anything else. It’s not about you now, for the first time ever. It’s about me—because as long as I live without offering you that forgiveness you still have power over me. So, I forgive you. I let you go. I stopped hating you years ago and now pity you at best. You’re the one who has to live with what you did, not me. I am letting you go.”

It’s important to note that forgiveness was important for me. It didn’t mean that what he did was okay, just that I was letting it go. Maybe it’s the Catholic altar boy in me, but I needed to forgive in order to move on. That doesn’t work for everyone. Some people cannot forgive, and that is okay if that’s the way they want and need to move through it. Forgiveness can be one of the most challenging things a person can do in life. For me, it was essential because I felt that holding onto hatred only hurt me. Hating someone who cared so little for you that they hurt you so badly cannot hurt them because they clearly don’t care enough to be hurt by it. So who does it hurt? I found that hatred eats you from the inside, consuming and destroying the love that is there, and for me that love was essential for survival. I had to forgive and to let go of those negative feelings. When I was dwelling in hatred I was still a victim. It was only when I let it go, that I could move to being a survivor.

I want to talk a little more about being a survivor and about hope. As a survivor I’ve spoken to a lot of groups around Wisconsin and elsewhere. I’ve been invited to speak at the State Capitol a couple times for Wisconsin Coalition Against Sexual Assault’s Denim Day during Sexual Assault Awareness Month. The following is what I said to the crowd the first time I was invited.

“I stand here before you today as an adult survivor of childhood sex abuse. From the time I was ten until I was midway through my seventeenth year I was repeatedly abused. But I am not here to recount the horrors of that abuse. I am here because I have survived that abuse. As a little boy I suffered but as an adult I have reconnected with my inner child and I am protecting and loving him now. He is beautiful. I am beautiful. You are beautiful and nobody deserves to be hurt or abused. Ever. My childhood was taken from me but I tell you today that I own my personhood now. My innocence was stolen but in my recovery as a survivor I have recovered my soul. I am here as a survivor and I stand proud as a survivor.

“I speak because silence steals our power. I speak because silence shrouds us in shame. I speak because silence protects no one but those who would do us harm. It is in giving words to my past that I can live in the present and look forward to the future.

“Today, in the here and now, I have come to be with you because I recognize that we are all in this together—men, women, adults, children, survivors of every race and class, allies of every creed and color—we are all in this together. We need each other. Many hands have lifted me up over the years and now it is my turn to offer my hand to others. Many words have touched my heart and now I offer my voice to others. All who have suffered abuse in its many unfortunate forms are siblings in recovery and survival. Those of us who can offer hands or voices or ears need to reach out to those who can’t yet do so.”

Of course, not everything I write is about my survivor story. Especially on my blog I write about a lot of subjects. This is a post that shows that for me life really is about surviving in many ways and about staying positive. It describes several near-death experiences, including my sickness as a two-year old and my heart attack, and then continues.

“And yet, I still breathe. I breathe deeply. I breathe fully. I revel in the breaths I have and the life I live because it is filled with wonder. Right now there is a duck nesting in our front yard, with chicks about to hatch. There are people standing up for their rights in a way that I have not seen for many, many years. There is Brian, a beautiful, gentle soul, who loves me fully for who I am. There are family members who mean everything to me. There are the youth of Proud Theater—incredible brave and giving souls, each of them, who teach me every day. There is sunshine (yes, even behind the clouds!). There is rain, refresher of life and all that lives. There is light and dark and each has its place in the circles of the universe.

“With this second (or more) chance at life I have dedicated myself to living and giving as fully as I can. There is so much joy for me in this world—I have been blessed with good friends, good health, much love. And there is so much sorrow in this world—others have not been as blessed. From my joy I can offer comfort. I can be there for others, because I believe the sorrow of one is the burden of all.

“I don’t know how much time I have left. I could have another heart attack tomorrow. I could live to be over 100 as my great-great grandmother did. I’m not going to worry about it. It doesn’t matter. The moment we are born we begin to die, and none of us can know how long the journey will last. All I know is that I must make the most out of each second I have because it is a truly precious gift. When you face the end of it and come back to this life, even with its sadness, even with grey skies, it has a sublime beauty and value. I revel in it all, and when I finally go nobody will be able to say that I did not live.”

I would like to close with a couple pieces that emphasize the kind of hope that conferences like this perpetuate. Organizations like the ones that sponsor this event and the people who work at them are striving to make this a better world for all of us. Their work is about hope. My life is about hope, and so it seems fitting to close with some words of hope. The first piece is a short speech I gave to close out the Voices of Courage luncheon several years ago, and I think it is fitting for today’s event also.

“Today we celebrate survival.

“Today is about the indomitable human spirit that soars.

“It is not about abuse or victimhood or pain. That was yesterday.

“Today is about moving past hurt to a place of peace or even profound joy. Sometimes finding that place comes after a long journey over a treacherous road; travel filled with travails. It comes from releasing pain, sometimes from forgiveness (for ourselves or others or both), sometimes from letting go, from sharing our stories, from therapy, from our own inner strength and beauty, but we know we can get there when we focus on honestly confronting our past, our hurt, and the things that happened to us that were beyond our control. It happens when we accept that we were not responsible for the sickness of others. It happens best when we are surrounded by love. This is a place of love. Today is a time of love.

“Today we gather to celebrate each other, to revel in the incredible beauty and uniqueness and gifts of all of those gathered, to thank those who have lit a candle in the darkness, who have held us up when we were falling, who have guided us along the path to recovery. We celebrate the courage and the compassion of all of those who are lifting themselves up or are helping to lift up others. It is in this courage and compassion that we become more human.

“Today we celebrate our humanity. We celebrate survivors and supportive allies. It is in survival that we thrive, so we celebrate thriving and living. I celebrate myself. I celebrate my survival. I celebrate you and your survival.

“Today we celebrate survival.

“Tomorrow, we will wake up and rise up; we will spread our wings and soar even higher.”

My last piece today is another blog post and I hope it rings as true for you as it still does for me. It is called Changing the World. I invite all of you to be a part of that effort—it is needed now more than ever—and I thank you again for being here today.

“This is something I have always known, but which just struck me in a new and profound way. And it is not really about me, but about the collective spirit of all. I realized that I have changed the world for the better. And I understand that as a profound utterance. I realized again that everyone who enters this world has an impact on it and changes it in some way and that the vast majority of the people who enter life on this planet are good and decent people whose very lives change the world for the better. And all those beings, living good lives and impacting those around them, are moving this world ever more toward a world of justice for all.

“This is not to say that I am perfect, or that everyone’s lives are solely good, or that there is no evil in the world trying to move it in the opposite direction. It is to say that if each of us creates a ripple in the pool of life and that the majority of us are good people trying to make ourselves and the world better, then we are creating waves of love and positive energy that cannot fail to propel the world toward healing and toward a better becoming.

“This is a realization of hope. Because sometimes it feels like the forces of evil, the messages of despair, the hopelessness of hope is what is winning. But when you think about it, when you consider all the people you have met in your life and all the goodness that has come from them, and how very little real evil or bad energy you have witnessed compared to that, then you have to believe that the positive, beautiful beings in this world are moving it toward Paradise.

“I have seen bad things. I have opened my door to a man who had been stabbed in the gut. I have met a man who killed someone else. I have listened to people spew hateful rhetoric. I have looked my own childhood abuser in the eye while he lied about it and put it back on me. I have lived through assassinations and 9/11. But when I look at the totality of my life, when I really look at it, I see that the good that I have witnessed so outweighs the bad that the math is astronomical. I have seen neighbors band together after disasters. I have seen people give of their belongings when they really had nothing to give. I have seen people stick up for others over and over again. I cannot even really think about listing all of the good I have witnessed. I have seen so much love that my heart cannot hold the memory of it.

“All of these things change the world by their very existence. I am reminded that the world is changing for the better. I am reminded again that I have changed the world for the better, that you have changed the world for the better, and that the long march toward equality and justice and some crazy Utopia only dreamed of in centuries past is getting closer and closer. It may not happen today; it may not happen this decade; it may not happen in my lifetime, but we are moving toward it. It is simply up to me, up to you, up to all the good people in this world, to stay positive and to keep moving toward that place.

“Peace.”

And thanks again. Much love and peace to all of you.

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On Suicide

 

Invisible Boy scene

Jason (Gavin Logan) as a boy and Jason (Nick Kaprelian) as a young man contemplating his life in the play Invisible Boy. Photo by Callen Harty.

Trigger warning for suicide/suicidal ideation.

When I was living in my dorm in college one of the men at the other end of the long hall on our floor killed himself. In retrospect it was not a sudden thing. At some point before it happened he had built some kind of wooden beam from his bookshelf to his roommate’s bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, and then he waited, and one day he hung himself and nobody understood why. Kurt was a good-looking guy and well-liked, he was a good student, he was on the swim team. He seemed to have everything going for him.

So it seemed. The thing is, none of us can know what pain and what thoughts might be swirling in the head and heart of someone else.

Since that day, several people I have known have been lost to suicide, including a couple young people who had so much to offer the world, and my best friend, whose loss hurts me still.

At the time of Kurt’s death I was incredibly naïve. Everything was sunshine and roses in my world, or at least I pretended it was. In reality I was probably as depressed as he must have been. At the time I didn’t think I could ever understand anyone taking their own life. How could there be that much pain held inside? And yet, I was holding incredible pain inside me that I was not dealing with in any way, and eventually it led me to the same place. I had somehow deluded myself into pretending that pain was not there.

When I was in my twenties I tried to dull all my pain with drugs and alcohol, which of course exacerbated the depression, the pain, and the feeling that I was a worthless human being. Two times in that decade I tried to kill myself and failed, and a third and final time I came to the brink of it, but backed down. Nobody knew it. Nobody knew how much I hated myself. Nobody knew what I wanted or had tried to do. I didn’t think anyone cared for me. I didn’t trust anyone enough to talk about what I was feeling.

Several years ago I wrote a play called Invisible Boy in which the main character talked about suicide and about stepping back from that brink. I think it accurately describes how I felt at that time.

“I was dying. In many ways. Sometimes, taking a breath hurts because you know that every breath you take is that much longer in the world. I wanted to stop breathing. Jon did it. Why couldn’t I? He was abused as a child, too, turned to prostitution, alcohol, sex addiction. But he got to a point where his pain was unbearable, so he gave it away. To me, to some others. I still hold that pain for him. That’s the unfairness of suicide. I wanted to give mine away, too, but always there were angels in my world. Always there were people who took care of me at just the right moment. Lauren never did ask what had happened that night. She never intruded. She just let me be with my emotions. If there hadn’t been a light there, if she hadn’t answered, if she hadn’t been so understanding . . . well, I think that knife may have cut deeply. But that was a turning point. The other times I tried to kill myself I simply failed. This time I made a choice. Something inside me, some little part of me, perhaps that wounded child who survived everything back then, something made me stop. Some voice made me put that knife down and try to make a human connection. In the middle of a period when I trusted no one, when I was at the lowest and darkest moments of my self-abuse, when there seemed to be nothing left but despair, something made me stop. There was a little voice of hope that carried me down the hall where I saw a light beckoning and that little sliver of light saved my life. But a little light can build; it can grow to illuminate things unseen. Oh, it has taken me years, but there is so much light in my life now that I can see and feel in ways that I have not known in a long, long time. I have love now, I have a partner who cares deeply and who sits in silence when I need it, who holds me when I need holding, who doesn’t touch me when I am remembering unwanted touches, who loves all of me. I am healing. I have work to do yet, but I am putting the pieces back together. I am becoming a whole person. Now I am working on loving myself and loving that child inside me who needs protection. I promised him, way back after the last time I was molested, I promised him never again and I have the strength now to assure that promise.”

Even on that night when I last contemplated suicide, when I was so close to not only putting that knife to my wrist, but putting it through my wrist, I did not talk about what I was feeling. I went to the door of a housemate and she let me in when all I could say was “I can’t be alone right now.” Without touching me, she held me. Without either of us talking, she heard me. It was an incredible gift.

What I learned, and what I hope that anyone who is feeling the same way might also know, is that there is always someone who can listen or hold you or just be there with you as you cry without explanation, as you unleash hidden emotions, as you just sit silently–whatever it is you may need in that moment. It may not feel like there is anyone who cares, but there are many. It may not be your best friend. It may not be the first person you turn to, or the second, or even the third, but there is always someone who can be there for you. It could be a teacher, a crisis line volunteer, a friend, acquaintance, family member, minister, anyone, but there is someone who can be there and be present for you.

Decades later I am so thankful that Lauren was there for me in that moment. I wish that Kurt and the others I have known who went down that path had searched for and found a similar sliver of light. I hope that anyone who may be in the same place now searches until that light is found.

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Musical Notes

 

Perfect Harmony

Perfect Harmony Men’s Chorus. First United Methodist Church. Madison, Wisconsin. June, 2018. Photo by Callen Harty.

Singing brings joy to the human heart.

Perhaps there are those few who hear the joy of song and react negatively because they have hardened themselves to their own happiness. And perhaps there are those few whose souls withhold the songs in their hearts. But for most of us, our hearts, like the hearts of birds, long to sing out. Singing is a natural calling out in every culture. It is a way to express our joys and sorrows, our hopes and our dashed dreams. It is a way to connect with our elemental selves, and it is a way to communicate across the barriers of other languages.

There are events in life that can change our perceptions of ourselves and of our worlds. When I was in second grade music class a nun, Sister Mary Carlo, stood up in front of the class and said something along the lines of, “I’ve moved the good singers to the back of the room so that their voices might come up and help those of you who cannot sing.” I was in the middle of the front row and in that moment I became convinced that my voice was not worthy, that neither God nor my fellow man, wanted to hear me sing. I became shamed about my voice and the song in my heart. Sometimes the simplest of words can alter the path of a life.

I loved singing. I would sing at home. I would sing on my walks to school. I would sing in the bathtub. I would sing where nobody could hear me. But I would not sing in front of others because I remembered sitting in the middle of the front row.

In fifth grade I joined the band, choosing the clarinet as my instrument. Once a person learned an instrument like that the notes could be hit with certainty simply by pressing the right keys and holding one’s fingers over the right holes. I became fairly good and ended up as the first chair in the band, but it didn’t bring the same satisfaction as singing. It was too mechanical. It lacked the pure joy of singing.

In seventh grade we were required to perform for a music class. Somehow I ended up matched with three of my friends as a quartet and we sang a few songs in front of the class. One was Tiptoe Through the Tulips, I believe the second was Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home, and now I can’t remember the other. What I do remember was the heat on my face as I blushed in embarrassment and shame as we went through our numbers. I knew that everyone in that audience was laughing at me or silently judging me for the attempt.

Somewhere along the line I taught myself the right hand of the piano (never did learn the left) and when no one else was home and the doors were closed and the windows tightly shut I would play my sister’s sheet music and sing all of the songs for which she had music–If, Til There Was You, Somewhere My Love, Born Free, and on and on.

Somehow in high school, probably because I had tried out for and gotten into a couple plays, the music teacher asked me to be in the high school musical and I agreed. I don’t know if I didn’t realize I would have a singing part or why I agreed, but at some point after realizing I would have to sing, I dropped out of the play out of fear, and that caused me further embarrassment and shame.

Interestingly, I found myself in my twenties doing theater, but it was not musical theater. It was mostly original works, experimental plays, and productions for which no singing was required, and I proved to be a natural and instinctive actor. The writer/director of a play that I ended up in back in 1984 decided to open the play with an original song and all of the actors were required to be part of the chorus. While I could read music to play the clarinet I had no clue how to read music to sing. I learned my part by listening and repeating it. One day I started singing my part and my fellow actor, Jay Indik, asked me to sing the first note again and then ran over to the piano and played a note. He seemed astounded. “You have perfect pitch,” he said, and I had no idea what he meant. If I looked at that note on the sheet music I wouldn’t have known what to sing, but I knew how to find it without having it given to me and he seemed to think that was pretty amazing. He came back several days in a row and asked me to hit my note and ran to the piano to verify that it was correct, and it was every time.

That was my first inkling that Sister Mary Carlo’s thoughtless remark may have undermined my belief in myself in ways that I couldn’t even imagine, but I was still scared about singing along with the others during the opening song of that play.

Jay then asked me to perform in a one-act play he was directing at the university. In it the main character had to sing a song, by himself, and it terrified me. To do it, I convinced myself that it was the character singing, not me, and that if it was terrible the audience would accept it as a flaw in the character. Jay said I sounded fine, but I didn’t really trust that he wasn’t just being nice to me.

When I met my partner, Brian, it changed everything. When you are comfortable around a person you can do things that you may not do around others. So I would quietly sing in the car as the radio played favorite songs and he would say, “You have a beautiful voice.” I told him the story of Sister Mary Carlo and he became angry at what her words had done to my confidence in my own voice. He built me up, little by little, until one day he convinced me to be in the cast of his musical, in which my character had a duet with another actor. Despite my fear, I did it, and it went okay.

Because of him, I took the chance of singing karaoke, singing a favorite Irish song a capella at an open mic fundraiser for our theater group, joining with him and three others to sing at a few weddings and funerals, and more.

When the Capitol protests broke out in Madison back in 2011 I asked a couple friends to join me in signing a few verses of We Shall Overcome in the Capitol rotunda one day. After doing it that day and feeling the power of that song in that situation I ended up going to the rotunda virtually every day for two and half years where I sang the first four verses of the song by myself as a protest of what was happening in my state. It became so well-known that I was asked to sing it at one of the rallies during those days, so I sang it in front of a couple thousand people one day on the Capitol steps. Years ago, I couldn’t imagine that ever happening. Often at that time, I also joined the Solidarity Sing Along, a loose-knit group of protesters, to sing protest songs at the Capitol. They met there every day at noon and are still singing truth to power seven years later.

Recently our youth theater group, Proud Theater, was asked to perform a song with Perfect Harmony Men’s Chorus. Because it was the end of the year and our own show had just closed the weekend before, I was only able to recruit a handful of youth to agree to perform. It turned out the song they wanted us to sing with them was We Shall Overcome. Brian encouraged me to sing with the youth. I thought it should just be them, so I resisted until a couple dropped out and I discovered that another one of the mentors was planning to sing. At the first rehearsal I started singing with them and told the director that I would join them in the piece.

As usual, I was nervous and a bit scared, but the performances were this past weekend and they went pretty well. I was not perfect in my singing and, of course, am focusing on the things that I didn’t do well instead of what did go well. But I had never sung in a chorus before and it was empowering and invigorating. In doing the performance it was yet another step in overcoming a long history of fear and shame. And I did it in the middle of the front row, with my heart and soul singing out in pride and joy.

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The Gift

Vodka bottle

Stocking cap and vodka bottle. Photo by Callen Harty.

April 18, 1989. A gay bar in Denver, the Triangle. A can of beer in hand, cigarette in the other. I was there alone, so I wasn’t there to be with friends, I wasn’t there looking for someone for the night. My friends were already gone home for the night. My partner was home in bed. I was there to drink, and nothing else. It was late in the night and there was a revelation, an epiphany, and in that moment I knew that I had a problem, that I wasn’t just consuming alcohol–it was consuming me. As a man stood next to me trying to connect I knew that I had to quit drinking, that it was destroying me in many ways. I went up to the bar and set my half-full can of beer on the counter and headed out into the Denver night.

As I walked home I may have sobered up some, but was definitely still as drunk as usual. I could easily put down a dozen and half mixed drinks or more in a night, or a combination of beer, mixed drinks, and shots. Sometimes it was less. It was whatever it took that night (or day and night) to get drunk. There was no such thing as social drinking. The sole purpose was to get drunk, be in a haze, hide multiple kinds of pain and trauma, and not deal with the realities of my life.

I hiked the long trip home up Colfax Avenue, made a couple turns and walked into the apartment, undressed, and got into bed, stirring my partner at the time. He turned and I said to him, “I’m quitting drinking.”

He looked at me and said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

It was understandable that he didn’t believe it. We had been together several years at that point and I had been in an alcoholic stupor for much of that and for more than a decade overall. He had often told me I had a problem and I had often denied it. Others had tried to tell me the same thing. But that night I knew that I was an alcoholic, that I didn’t control the drink–it controlled me–and I knew also that I had more faith in myself than he did. I had been living the stereotype of the drunken Irishman, but I also had the stereotype of the Irish stubbornness in my blood, and I knew that once I had made that decision that I would never drink again.

No more blackouts. No more good times that were defined by being forgotten. No more waking up in booths of bars in small towns in Wisconsin or under streetlights in the middle of the night. No more rousing good times spurred on by the drink–I was mostly a fun drunk while around others, but insecure and depressed once I was alone again. No more numbness. No more thoughts of killing myself when the alcohol opened the darkest parts of my interior and talked to me about what a worthless person I was. No more waking up behind the wheel of a car along the shoulders of the highway. No more hangovers and hair of the dog.

It was time to reclaim my life after wasting more than a decade of it. And I succeeded in doing that. Whatever successes I have had, whether in the theater, writing, at jobs, public speaking, in working for human rights and just laws, in helping others, are a result of that night and the decision to stop my downward spiral before I reached rock bottom or before I had fallen so far down I could not get back up. Whatever failures I’ve had too, are mine, and I claim them with pride. I don’t get to blame them on drugs or alcohol any more, so I get to own them and learn and grow from them. I know now they’re because I’m human and prone to both good will and human mistakes.

Being fully human and alive and able to feel joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, all the emotions that come in and out of one’s life–especially love–is such an incredible gift, and I would not have known any of it without coming to my epiphany and my place of understanding. It’s not that everything became easy or perfect the moment I quit drinking–but it laid the groundwork for bettering my life, imperfect as it or I may be. It allowed me to feel, after years of numbing myself. I can feel and I can deal with all the feelings I have. I can fully feel the highs and lows of life in all its fullness. This is the gift of sobriety. It is the gift of life, and today I hold that gift in my hands, with tears in my eyes, remembering the pain of childhood and the joys of childhood, the pains and joys of my life since. Like a child I can feel it all, and I am eternally grateful for that gift.

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Picture Perfect

Water Skiers

Water skiers. Photo by Callen Harty.

Over the course of several days I recently had the following e-mail exchange with a woman representing a fairly new company here in Wisconsin in reference to the photo above. I’ve removed some of the identifying details.

Her: “We’d love to use this photo on [X company’s] social media, with credit to you! If you’re interested, could you send this to me? [her e-mail address]”

Me: “You left a message on my water ski photo [. . . ], asking to use it on social media. I would be interested in working with you on this, especially given that yours is a Wisconsin company. I also feel the photo represents the kind of energy you want to portray for your product, but I have a few questions first.

“How are you planning on using the photo? As an ad? On Twitter? Facebook? Instagram? Elsewhere? Would it be a one-time use or would you be looking to buy the image outright? Any information you can provide on when/how you will use the photo will help me out.”

Her: “Thanks for the quick response!

“[X product] is brand new within the last 6 months or so, and it’s the first and only Wisconsin-made [X product]. As you probably gathered, we really try to appeal both to locals (WI and Midwest) and to action sports athletes, so combining the two in our social media marketing is our goal! Your water skiing photo is unique and hits both of our targets, so we think it’d be a great fit with our marketing plan. We’d just be interested in posting it once on Facebook and Instagram, and we always give credit to photographers we use (with either full name, Instagram handle, website, etc).

“Let me know if you’re interested in sharing your photo! And if you have any others that you think would fit, you’re welcome to send those as well!

“I hope this helps answer your questions; feel free to reach out with any further questions! Thanks!”

Me: “Thanks for answering my questions. I am not a professional photographer, but have had a couple one-man shows and a good number of sales of my work, so I do charge for companies to use one of my photographs. Normally for an Instagram or similar post I would charge [X dollars] per post. Given that you are a new company and Wisconsin-based like me I would allow you to post on both Instagram and Facebook for the [X dollar] price instead of [X dollars] for each. Let me know if that works for you.”

Her: “Unfortunately we are not yet in a position to pay for the use of photos. Thanks, though, for your consideration!”

From the beginning it felt like she was trying to get me to give permission to use the photograph for no charge. I do have to give her credit for asking permission to use the photograph, as there are those out there who will do so without getting permission or offering payment in advance. The amount that I quoted was incredibly reasonable and I was offering a 2 for 1 deal. I have often donated my photos to non-profits, good causes, and educational organizations, but I have also occasionally sold them to corporations and newspapers. Most recently I sold one to an international company out of Switzerland for use in their company newsletter and was paid a fair price for it.

I expect companies with advertising and marketing budgets to pay for my work. If you are in the business of making money you shouldn’t expect others to help you in that effort without compensation. But businesses, particularly American ones, do not value art (or much of anything else) unless it in some way increases the bottom line. Things like photography, poetry, and other art forms are devalued in this country. When school budgets are tight the arts programs are among the first to suffer. I believe if the woman who wrote me could be shown that paying me X dollars to use the photograph would increase their sales by Y amount she probably would have found the money for it in her budget.

Would you bring someone into your office to do data entry and not pay them? Would you expect a newspaper to run an ad without paying for it? Would you contact the local copier company and ask if they would mind you using a copier for a while without a contract or payment? Then why would you expect to use the work of a photographer, amateur or professional, without fair compensation?

What made this situation a bit worse to me is that after the last e-mail about not being in position to pay for photographs I did a little more digging and found out that the woman isn’t an employee of the company that wanted to use the photo, but rather an employee of an advertising agency. Perhaps the company that hired her agency didn’t have it in the budget to pay for photos for social media, but being from an ad agency she should know and understand the value of a photographer’s work.

I spend a lot of my time shooting photographs, downloading and uploading, cropping and editing when necessary, posting, and more, not to mention what I spend on gas for travel to some of the places I shoot, camera equipment, Internet costs, etc. She made it clear that my photograph would enhance the marketing of the product. There is value in that and there is value in my time and effort. A credit acknowledging that I took the photograph is not fair compensation and every time someone gives away a photograph like that it makes it that much harder for professionals who have invested a great deal of money and effort into their business to make a living. I value professional photographers and my work too much for that.

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The Missing Narrative on the Pennsylvania Special Election

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American Flag. Photo by Callen Harty.

 

While watching the televised returns of the Pennsylvania special election pitting Democrat Conor Lamb, Republican Rick Saccone, and Libertarian Drew Miller against each other all the pundits from both sides before, during, and after it made the election about Donald Trump.

The Democrats argued that the election was a referendum on Trump and that he lost, that even though Republicans poured in millions of dollars and Trump and his associates showed up to plead and beg the electorate, the Republican still lost. Republican pundits pointed out that polls showed Saccone five or six points down until Trump came in and made it a close race. They talked about how Trump stumping for Saccone closed the gap and that it showed how strong he is and how much support he has. An objective person could see both sides of those arguments, but while Trump played into this election he probably did so by encouraging some voters to get out and vote Republican and some to get out and vote for the Democrat. And, of course, the national media is pretending the Libertarian candidate who got more votes than the difference between the two leading candidates wasn’t even in the race.

Another theme that the Republican pundits (and Don Lemon of CNN) kept pushing was that Lamb was less of a Democrat than all the lefties that scare them in Washington, without understanding that to those on the real left the number of really liberal politicians in the Democratic party is no more than a small handful. While not as liberal as some might like, Lamb came across as a true Democrat. He harkened back to Franklin Roosevelt in his speech. He appealed to union members who have drifted to the Republican party because the Democrats long ago abandoned the working class. He is personally pro-life due to his Catholic faith, but politically pro-choice. He also refused corporate money and still won the campaign. He raised a paltry amount through small donations and still beat the twelve million dollars the Republican party and others poured into the Saccone campaign. He is no more Republican-light than the corporate backed Clintons or others.

This election was about so much more than Donald Trump. It was about union power, money in politics, and the one thing that nobody talked about last night: The election was a referendum on the Republican party and its power grabs. While the pundits brought up the idea that soon the district may change its shape due to the court ruling on gerrymandering in Pennsylvania, none of the pundits delved into the fact that Lamb won the election in a district that had been heavily gerrymandered specifically to maintain Republican control. Despite the district boundaries that were drawn to make sure the Republicans stayed in power the Democrat won. That is astounding, and it causes one to question why.

One of the things the Republicans have done since taking power in states and the country is to gerrymander districts, change laws to limit voting, damage or destroy the unions to take away support for Democrats, and in other ways do a better job than the Russians of undermining our democracy. What the pundits missed is that regular Americans have seen this and are reacting against it. Americans don’t like it when politicians bend or break the rules simply to stay in power and to push an agenda with which most of us disagree. Voters will react by getting energized and voting, protesting, and in other ways doing what they can to stop that from happening.

Voters across the country are mobilized, but many, many of them are not mobilized against Trump specifically, but the Republicans in general. Many, many of them are not mobilized because they are excited by the milquetoast corporate Republican-light Democrats. It is a grass roots mobilization against power grabs, policies, and laws that work against the working class, poor, and Americans in general. This wave of upset elections will continue not because the electorate sees the Democrats as saviors but because voters themselves are mobilized to save the country. The pundits may miss it, but the people are empowered and energized and will vote for whichever candidate or party is more likely to fight for their interests and the interests of democracy.

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