40: Hyperculture 11

 

An interruption from the future past

I took a last minute flight to Guadalajara. The Bay Area is miserable. The much needed rains made living in the shack stifling and claustrophobic, especially without a car. I applied for jobs and commissions, requested meetings and conversations. The Diversity and Inclusion Statement that has become de rigueur proved to be some of the most straightforward autobiographical writing I’ve ever done. The cost of living continues to rise towards the impossible. The streets are filled with rough sleepers and mental illness. The only houses available to me are undesirable and cost thousands of dollars a month to rent. The desirable houses sell for hundreds of thousands and even millions over the asking price. Desperation saturates and everyone is gouging to survive or to be a capitalist. I met a young man, full of promise and pedigree who bought a half school bus to live in while he worked doing permaculture landscape design for wealthy clients with many houses. He found a place to park it on a nice block next to a family living in their trailer and not far from his girlfriend’s home. It was broken into and vandalized and he was trying to piece back together his will to continue. He still passed for whatever class one might have once called middle. The tent encampments are swelling and the streets ring with shouts of anguish. 

I took an uber to the airport. The driver shared he was Kurdish and had a daughter who a little bit younger than Agnes. He spoke about how hard it's been for the Kurdish people. He said a daughter is the greatest gift in the universe. I asked him how long he had been driving today. It had been eleven hours so far. He said no matter how much he worked he didn't have enough money to survive here. I cried quietly into my COVID mask. He called me brother and wished me well.

At the Oakland airport, a family, all children, were busking Beethoven’s 7th string quartet. They were all school age, the youngest maybe 9 or 10. They were so talented it made me cry again. That they were there at the airport playing for money instead of what children would rather be doing late on a Tuesday evening. I couldn’t locate their parents but imagined they were watching nearby. The man driving the car all day spoke four languages and worked all the time so he could care for his family. This precluded being with his family. These children play Beethoven so beautifully, to help their family survive. Ignorant, slovenly, monolingual whites, brandishing their bigotry and indifference, pass in the foreground, in this violent, ugly, hateful country. 

I sent a video of the family playing to Agnes and the message 

‘At the Oakland airport. This family was playing for tips. The Uber driver told me he has to work 11 hours a day and still doesn’t have enough money to get by in the Bay Area. He speaks 4 languages and is Kurdish. Which is a people who have had a very hard time. It makes me sad that life is so difficult. That these brilliant kids have to be in an airport on a Tuesday night playing for money and this man can’t be with his children because he has to drive an Uber all day to pay the bills. It would be really great if you learned more about some of these histories and what life is like for so many people in the world. Because I know you are very powerful and can make a difference. I love you.’

Between London and Mexico, I came back and took Agnes to all the museums. We spoke about a coffin in the shape of a cacao pod and what that might say about plantations in Ghana. We visited the cycladic figurines and listened to the organ concerts at the legion. We went to the Sutro ruins and marveled at the ocean. We looked at paintings and wondered out loud together. Paused in front of a decadent European scene she observed that everything was in motion, including the frame. We went to markets early in the morning at sunrise. We rested beside an Inuit boat guided by animal spirits moving through the northern lights. We spoke with the volunteers in the charity bookshops and with the generous archivist who offered us artifacts and stories from her collection of life. We gathered vegetables and shared meals. There are no words for the pain I feel for every family torn apart by someone else’s greed. And my own confused fumbling towards a life with dignity, and beauty. 

In Guadalajara I go to the plaza. I go to the museums and galleries. I walk slowly, looking and listening to the birds. I eat comforting food. I buy old photographs, beautiful and artful objects, prop them up on the desk, and resume writing. 

It's hard to find a vegetarian meal in the mercado san juan de dios. I read Han on Zen Buddhism and when the busker stops singing I feel a deep pain moving through me. I wander the Museo Cabañas and watch a film on Orozco. His humiliating trips to San Francisco. How they burned his pictures at the border. How he fell in love with Goya at the Met. How he took a job painting Kewpie dolls for money. For his first big commission he painted a mural of La Malinche. 

I connected with an old friend. The last time I saw her she was walking through the Bolinian fog on dia de los muertos. She was on stilts and towered over Sophie and I. Without stilts she was already more than two meters. She was living partially in Guadalajara and invited me for a meal at a simple restaurant with a daily plate. She was building homes in the jungle for her and friends and started a small community school. I got a sense that plants had taken some degree of control over her, or perhaps they were living symbiotically. 

She introduced me to a neurodiverse acrobat with two white hairless rats that had a studio in a building overlooking the expiatorio temple. There was a small room for rent, which I accepted. The next day I went to the tianguis and collected a few items. From one man, who had a humble collection laid out on a blanket, I bought a piece of wood, a coral, a shell and small ceramic bird. I paid more than he asked and he was grateful. I felt good at first and later as though I hadn’t done enough. I loved his selection of items because they were so simple and beautiful. Collected with care, and attention to the quotidian natural and abundant beauty. Their value was completely self-evident. I bought a small brass horn and a painting that I fell in love with immediately. It pictured a couple in love, floating, being wished well and carried along by spirits. A man that I bought a few old photographs from described it as naive, and it reminded me a bit of Chagall. The colors were perfect, dusty granata, silvery greens. I arranged the objects in my small room, a humble shrine beside the towering gothic cathedral outside my leafy window. 

The plaza has its rhythms, its breaths, its explosions of laughter and flowers, its graduations, tender kisses, joyful puppies, cauliflower ceviche, sublime cloud formations, birdsong, church bells, costumes, conviviality, peaceful watching, friendliness. Sundays a woman who calls herself Tia makes a vegetarian posole and I pile on cabbage and bright lime over the brothy mushrooms and sprouting red corn.

My first night there I got an emergency family call that kept up most of the night and in the morning I left for Arizona. My brother is having an episode. The journey has a surreal quality. I learned my license expired at the rental car desk. I took a shuttle to a roadside diner where he never arrived. The drive there was occupied with a rapturous sky that turned into a blizzard and then a conversation with the driver and a young airplane pilot. They talked about airplanes and I talked about Saint-Exupéry and Miyazaki. We all took great precautions to avoid the North American conversational landmines. I waited a long time at the diner for my brother and then left crestfallen in an uber to the Airbnb. I took an airbnb because I wanted a kitchen to cook for him. I learned from Hito Steyerl in a talk that I live streamed and placed in my shopping cart while collecting ingredients in a big box grocery store, that my approach was an example of grandmother technologies that have been practiced for millenia. I also learned that every minute, a million hours of media are streamed, and because of the dependence on fossil fuels for their production and circulation, we could think of digital images as a new kind of oil painting. 

The woman driving for Uber was Apache and wished she could live more intergenerationally. She told me she worked all day doing bookkeeping and then drove for uber when she was done. In her large red Cadillac she told me about her son who hunted with a bow. She had a sinus infection that wouldn't go away and the antibiotics made her break out into a rash. I suggested she stop eating sugar for a while and see if that helped. 

The next morning I took another Uber to my brother's job to see if I could find any information. The driver was a poor elderly white, covered in sores and put on a radio show that horrified me with its hatred and fear-mongering. It was obviously designed to produce division and hostility. The driver went right along with it, scoffing derisively at the familiar bigotry. I arrived at a large thrift store where my brother had been working. I felt the haunting of objects, their emotional half-lives and histories. I wandered around sending pictures with funny captions to see if I could get a response from him. I eventually inquired with one of his coworkers and they said they weren’t able to give me much information but that they were very concerned. A few minutes later another one returned to say she would take my number and pass it along to his roommate. 

I got a call a few minutes later and met the roommate who immediately began to cry. He had contacted the police and arranged to have my brother served and removed from the house. I offered to try to meet him first and see if he could resolve things without the police. When I finally found him, the meth had made him almost unrecognizable. He was skinny and manic, gaunt like a skeleton, erratic and violent. He shouted at me and drove away in a broken car. As soon as the car went out of sight I wept as hard as I can remember ever weeping. I went to a crisis center and learned from the kind counselor that there was very little you could do unless he was ready for help or something terrible happened and he was arrested. She suggested filing a title 36 that would instigate a 24 hour period where they would try to locate him for psychological evaluation, that could be done if he was a ‘danger to himself or others.’ I took two forms and said I would use them for Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk.

The driver of my uber out of the desert made fractal art with a deconstructed microwave sending enormous volts of energy into wood. I told him one of my favorite writers made a book about this effect. He was half Mexican and was driving a car he borrowed from an older white lady he described as a Fox News watcher who he also felt was interested in him. We got on the subject after I shared how horrified I was by the radio show in the last car I was in. He and I figured out together that the apps took half his fare (autocorrect: fate).

 I have no poetic prose or clever theoretical language for the experience of looking into the meth addled terror and confused anger of my brother. He demanded that I leave him alone and disappeared into the desert. I cried violently. I went to ask for help and then returned to California hopeless and abyssal. Upon arriving I learned my wife had a stroke and was airlifted to a hospital where they did a brain surgery. Her mother and two of her children flew in to see her. She still has not met any of her grandchildren. 

When I arrived to visit, her mouth was neon blue from the gatorade they had given her and around her wrist was a bracelet that said Vicodin. She hadn’t eaten anything for days. She spoke like she was dreaming and at one point said, this [medical treatment] is for old people that they don’t want to save, because of the money. The hospital staff looked numb and depressed. No one should have to work 40 hours a week in these conditions, and certainly not for a wage that keeps people in such a precarious position. Exhausted and precarious can describe nearly everyone under these horrific economic and social systems that are collapsing under their own sociopathic greed. A tube from her head came undone and spinal fluid dripped into her eyes and face. Her hands were restrained and I wiped the pooling liquid from her eyes. 

The indigenous people in this part of the world are told they cannot cross arbitrary land borders. That they must stay where they are exploited and if they do not listen, if they move anyway, they will be exploited greatly in the other places where they try to survive. They will be told they are illegal, they have no rights, and will do the most difficult labor for the least amount of money. In some cases, they will live as prisoners, sending home money to a family that they can’t be with. All of this changes with money. If you have money, you can move freely, like money, and go and do whatever you want. This is the system that's been created. And its lines are policed heavily. 

Every time you step outside, you see the vagaries and injustices of this system, of this country. Of its violence and inequality. Of its social and ecological ruination. I went out to do some laundry. It was early and most of the people look mentally ill, intoxicated, and many appear to be houseless. The streets stink with the smell of human waste, which sits in piles on the sidewalk with soiled paper. The people walking are mostly unwell, elderly, and of the lower classes. Teslas and other expensive cars drive around quietly with tinted windows. Screens and robots are replacing people, who should be relieved to not be coerced into trading the majority of their lives for a pittance, but are rendered even more precarious as a result. The streets feel empty, apocalyptic. You can hardly escape the engine noise of older automobiles. There is very little sociality left. Everyone seems broken and sad, distrustful or indifferent. Violent outbursts of shouting are routine. People glare from menacing cars. Three mass shootings in three days. A man in the laundry has a sweatshirt that says in large letters, thank you for staying away. I pass him uncomfortably to use a nearby machine. He has menacing tattoos on his pale skin. I eat a small breakfast next door at a diner and it is nearly impossible to find something without sugar. The bill for two appetizers is $30. The food is industrial, poorly cooked and I feel sick when I leave the restaurant. 

I went to the bookstore and found a text called Learning from Las Vegas. It was written by some young arrogant students at Yale in the early seventies and seemed to have entirely missed the point of what could be learned from Las Vegas. I got another text published some years later, also by MIT, that tried to deal with the historical reception and criticism of the original text. It soon became clear that it too, had missed the larger lessons to be learned from Las Vegas. Las Vegas, in my view, should be the capital of North America, perhaps even the entire Western world. Las Vegas represents an architecture of distraction that seeks to cover up a set of social and economic relations that are completely and structurally unequal in every way. It uses the latest technologies alongside the oldest and most addictive ones to lure people into a false promise of happiness and a fantasy of success. It uses the most sophisticated means, developed by cunning behavioral psychologists, to entrap, mislead, confuse, and deceive people so that they can extract their money and time. This is the naked reality of late stage financial capitalistism, built on settler colonial slavery and the ruins of industrial capitalism. And it points towards a further abstracted and virtualized form of these compounding relations.

 

Dear Sebastian,

 

Statement on Contributions to Advancing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion

To whom it may concern, 

The questions arising from discrimination on account of race, gender, class, and other factors should be at the front of everyone's mind, especially for those benefitting from a position of privilege within their particular context. It is both a pleasure and stimulating challenge to be applying to work at an institution with a long and significant past and present of foregrounding these questions and concerns. My academic focus on art and ecology are two related disciplines where interesting developments of thought and stimulating discussions are taking place. These questions concerning diversity and inclusion, in my understanding, are happening at many simultaneous and overlapping scales, and as such, requires an open and intersectional approach for apprehending and addressing them meaningfully. 

The context of North America, with its recent and ongoing violent history of colonization, genocide, slavery, and imperialism, sets the historical stage for these open questions around inclusion and diversity in institutional structures of power. Within a globalized world, with its many interdependencies, beyond the arbitrary notion of borders and Westphalian sovereignty, I believe there is a responsibility towards those, often who we don’t readily see, that we depend on for material needs—or more saliently, lifestyles. This is added to all the injustices and exclusions we do readily see at this late stage of settler colonial racial capitalism, and as such, requires of us a constant consideration and reevaluation of who is being mistreated, to what extent, and perhaps moreover, the structural conditions that predictably produce inequality and harm.

In my measure, an intersectional approach to apprehending and addressing interpellated and assumed subject positions, should produce a modesty in disposition commensurate with the complexity of mutable variables in relation in addition to a deeply committed vigilance to overcoming structural and cognitive biases according to historical and socially-constructed categories. I believe it’s also important to understand that situated instances of oppressive and discriminatory relations don’t always map neatly onto other contexts and times. Or put differently, epistemologies for evaluating an intersectional matrix of interpellated socioeconomic relations, requires different variables over time and space, and let's do our best to be calm, kind and open to others’ views and considerations as we stumble resolutely through the process.

Ecology as a discipline asks us to consider what gets included in our often neoliberal accounting of life, against the backdrop of cascading anthropogenic mass extinction. This diversity of more-than-human concerns and our increasing ability to sense them, in the larger, co-determined picture of life on earth, has demonstrated an interdependency at the ontological level. This diverse and inclusive picture of mass extinction is driven asymmetrically at many levels, including by the transnational or even extranational and becoming-extraplanetary configurations of power. This complicates our understanding, while certainly not diminishing our immediate personal, social and situated obligations to address these concerns in the ways we are able. Taking diversity and inclusion seriously, through an ecological lens, asks us to continually look outside our received ideas and ethical frameworks, as our technologies—broadly speaking—make apparent the extent of our entanglements and responsibilities. 

As far as my own positionality within this, it could be understood as a particularly diverse and complex set of social relations. I’m cautious about reinscribing historical categories, while remaining aware of their ongoing implications. My sense of identity is provisional and I’ll endeavor to offer a partial understanding here, to both address the invitation to describe how I might contribute to Berkeley’s commitment to inclusion and diversity and also to offer a complex and intersectional approach towards expanding how identity might be constructed, deconstructed, reimagined and recontextualized.

My father could be interpellated as a dark-skinned Arab Jew, who was born in a recently colonized Palestine, after the horrors of antisemitism, war, and attempted-genocide caused waves of migration around the world. His father was born in Afghanistan en route from Uzbekistan to Palestine. His mother was born in Yemen and fled to Palestine with her family, leaving behind entirely the life they had built on the Arabian peninsula. These poorly understood histories exist outside of the Sephardic/Ashkenazi dominant narrative that obscures a variegated understanding of diasporic Jewishness. Learning about my family history has proven difficult as there is a lot of trauma, suppressed memory and mental illness present in the surviving generations. One of my interests in being in the academy, is continuing to study the histories of my family, particularly along the Silk Road, and in relation to the so-called revitalization of China’s Belt and Road Initiative, that is reorganizing world trade and culture, alongside the hypercultural reconfigurations of the internet age. 

My father emigrated to New York City, without any educational degrees, after finishing his obligatory military service as a medic. He still lives in New York where he could be partially understood as an anti-Zionist, atheist, secular Jew who prides himself on a liberal conception of diversity and inclusion, with many different relations across the socioeconomic and political spectrum. I imagine if he read this though, he would feel limited, flattened and off put by these crude characterizations, for what I understand as a distrust of the essentialized taxonomy of human subjects, situated in a western colonial cosmology. 

My mother, who passed away when I was a teenager, came from a working class family of Irish Catholics, who emigrated a couple generations earlier to New York City, after conditions in a colonized Ireland became untenable. They lived their life in challenging economic and social conditions and my grandfather joined the military to escape—paradoxically, what has been described as a fear of violence in Hell's Kitchen. My mother, after being raised itinerantly in the military, got herself through law school, overcoming many barriers in the process, and bought a small apartment in a walk-up brownstone in Manhattan where I grew up, and attended the International Preschool, the United Nations school and number of public high schools including Bronx Science and the Institute for Collaborative Education. Each of which were explicitly concerned with diversity, alternative pedagogy and intercultural exchange.  

My parents moved tenuously into the middle class, overcoming racial, cultural, and economic barriers in the process, and if my adult life so far has been any indication, I’m poised to mark a generational regression in class position, with career aspirations that focus primarily on the overcoming of capital relations and ecocide, coupled with student debt and the cost of living in the Bay Area. 

In a less economically vulgar reading, anisotropically, of the available historical data, one could suggest that my mother’s cultural aspirations exceeded her financial ones and that while I’ve accumulated more debt than capital, some qualitative aspects of life are improving generationally—though I don’t really subscribe to this kind of teleology. Another reading might offer that my mother suffered through the unrelenting misogyny of a toxic work environment, laboring full-time for a corporation who produced almost nothing of value to her or posterity and that afforded me the ability to educate myself up to the point of understanding the planetary urgencies we’re faced with—particularly my teenage daughter—and be in a position to access student loans and precarious academic pay, so as to better determine my time, interests and company, while drifting ever further away from the middle class comforts my mother fought to secure for us (a fantasy built on largely under-examined forces of dispossession and exploitation). Perhaps living in Berkeley, teaching and having time to go to the farmers market and museum with my daughter could be understood as a class shift in quality of life, while in classical economic theory it marks a class demotion. This tentative reading suggests a mutability of valuation and valances for the coordinates we include in a class-based analysis of subjectivity, and cautions against the unthinking valorization of the hegemonic ideals of neoliberal capitalism. My wife, who lived much of her life as an undocumented migrant unable to visit her children and grandchildren in Mexico, has a different set of criteria with which to evaluate these questions of inclusivity, access, class and mobility. 

I don’t necessarily claim to be an Uzbek, Yemenite, secular Arab Jew and Irish Catholic New Yorker, with parents that came from working class backgrounds and tenuously joined the middle class, even if I can understand these designations historically. It’s really a lot, and at the same time, not nearly enough, and I don’t feel any authority on the matter. I’d like to learn more, and think Berkeley would be a good place to do so. I believe teaching is largely about mutual learning, and in the context of the liberal western university, I aspire to create safe open spaces of consideration, dialogue and sharing, to better understand the complexities of our world and responsibilities to it. 

Kind regards, 

Perry