The Humanity of Donald Trump (Redux)

Eight years ago, when Donald Trump won election to the presidency of the United States, I wrote on here about the humanity of Donald Trump. As he appears poised to return to the presidency, I return to that post.

It's difficult. Trump and some of his supporters have ratcheted up their rhetoric on the very kinds of issues that I and other folks voiced concern about eight years ago. For as much as I strive to see their humanity, I don't see reciprocation of that effort on their part, and that is what frustrates me the most about the movement Trump leads and the kind of future for the country and the world that movement might produce. I think I understand the concerns into which Trump has tapped, and I am willing to work through those concerns. I worry, though, about the paths for advancing those concerns that Trump's movement has been advocating.

I am quite willing to accept disagreements on policy and perspective. Take, for instance, Ohio governor Mike DeWine. I have not voted for him (though I likely would have had I lived in Ohio for his U.S. Senate race in 2000, and I left the ballot blank for his race against Sherrod Brown in 2006 because I had concerns about some of DeWine's positions, but I also still respected him). I don't agree with DeWine on a number of things, but since I saw him on C-SPAN in his early days in the U.S. Senate in the 1990s, I have held the impression that he examines things meticulously and scrupulously, and that he pursues policy objectives with an eye toward working across viewpoints and political sides. As Ohio's governor, I have seen him continue in that vein. I think DeWine cares for his fellow human beings, and I think that is evident in what he says and does, even if I think some of his conclusions warrant reconsideration.

Many things I hear from Trump and from some of his supporters don't reflect that same care, and it worries me. At the same time, I will not stop caring about them. I may get frustrated sometimes, but even amid moments of frustration, I love my fellow people, I care deeply for the society in which I live, and I promise that I will continuously seek to work with my fellow people. To Trump and his supporters, congratulations on your election victory. May we find effective ways of working together going forward, and may we do so in a way that is mindful of our differences and compassionate not only to each other, but to everyone.

In the Wake of Juneteenth

 Yesterday was Juneteenth. I hope that everyone had a safe and reflective holiday. I think holidays are, in general, moments that compel reflection, and this holiday really calls for that as we consider African-American history, including the contributions Black folks have made to the U.S. and the world as well as the obstacles Black folks have faced and continue to face.

Holidays carry a lot of symbolic weight, and as someone who studies culture and rhetoric, I’m continually going to assert that that symbolic weight matters. At the same, I recognize that it’s important that celebrating symbolic significance not drown out efforts to produce practical social, political, and economic change. Additionally, it’s important that we not act as if one form of symbolic significance absolves us from having to address other forms of it.

With that in mind, I’m struck by the juxtaposition I have been experiencing this week as I have seen commemorations of Juneteenth while also feeling bombarded by media stories about “wokeness” in what are egregious misappropriations of the term. Being “woke” is a practice that originates in Black folks becoming aware of the depths of racism and inequity. Historically, it’s not the kinds of associations with anything deemed politically liberal or progressive that now permeate popular discourse. It’s not just about whom Hollywood casts in what parts or what kinds of comments will solicit critique or whatever people mean when they refer to that nebulous thing they label “cancel culture.” Certainly, the politics of representation and discussion of the merits of particular comment people make matter, but contemporary uses of the term “woke” pay a disservice to the word’s important origins. Current popular iterations of the word, which I have seen deployed by folks who define themselves on the political left as well as the political right, erase the deep interest in racial awareness from which the term emanated. In this process, this misappropriation limits discourse in ways that prevent reflection on the systematic and structural conditions that perpetuate racism and inequity. As such, our society would do well to look back on the term’s origins and refrain from using it in ways that diverge so widely from what it was intended to mean.

With that in mind, I hope that as part of the reflectiveness of Juneteenth as we move forward in our calendar, we all might reflect on how we and other folks use the term “woke” and we might take two specific actions: (1) ceasing to use the word in ways that erase its history of calling attention to racism and inequity and (2) calling out other folks and institutions when they use the word in ways that create such erasure.

Wide Right

The phrase "wide right" is affiliated with the Buffalo Bills, not the Kansas City Chiefs, though during the most recent NFL playoffs, "Wide Right Part 2" happened while the Bills were playing Kansas City. Still, the phrase might be considered an approporiate characterization of the commencement speech Chiefs' kicker Harrison Butker gave to the Spring 2024 graduating class at Benedictine College. That speech espoused opinions about, among other things, women, LGBTQ folks, diversity and inclusion initiatives, and President Biden that fall significantly on the right of the current U.S. political spectrum.

Butker claimed his speech to be a reflection of his Catholic values, and he doubled down on that with more recent remarks in Nashville. As Butker stated in Nashville, "If it wasn’t clear that the timeless Catholic values are hated by many, it is now," referring to the criticisms his commencement speech has garnered since he gave it. His phrasing in that statement reflects the broader theme he invoked, suggesting that he has been subjected to, as he put it, "a shocking level of hate." Comparing himself to Daniel from the Christian Bible, he has depicted himself as a courageous martyr who, along with similarly minded folks, is propelled by "our love for Jesus and thus our desire to speak out."

I was raised Catholic, and I went to Catholic school from Kindergarten through twelfth grade. I am no longer a practicing Catholic, as my theological views, which I have discussed to some degree on this blog, do not correspond with what Christianity professes. However, I have read the Catholic Bible from cover to cover twice, and I have read most sections of the Gospels in the New Testament more than that. I still have what in many ways is a Catholic-informed view of the world, and I find value in many of the ideas I attribute to Jesus based on my readings of the Bible. From that perspective, I find Butker's views inconsistent with his proclaimed "love for Jesus." Jesus, as I understand him, encouraged the greater participation of women in public life, embraced diversity, and promoted inclusion (and he may even have been gay). 

I used to get pretty angry when I would come into contact with folks such as Butker and the problematic ideas they espouse. That anger was rooted in my own experiences at the hands of similarly thinking Catholic folks in small-town Ohio, many of whom I sense would agree with a lot of what Butker has recently said. I still feel a little anger, though its more focused on how views like Butker's have been given prominent support and incubation in contemporary U.S. (and global, for that matter) society. More fully, though, I have replaced that anger with sadness. I feel sad for Harrison Butker and folks who identify with what he has said. For as much as they say they love Jesus, I sense that they haven't reflected effectively on what Jesus said and did, and that really is a disservice to their church and to the world.

The Tao of Le Guin

When I was in college in the early 1990s, I took a fantasy fiction course with Dr. Carl Holmberg. For one of the course's writing assignments, we had to choose an author, find three different books the author wrote, and write a paper on a theme that applied across all three books.

To find possibilities for the assignment, I browsed through my dad's fantasy and science fiction collection and considered my options. Tolkien was an option, but that seemed too easy and overused. I already had a bunch of Frank Herbert stuff, and I considered that, but Dune was my favorite book, and I wanted to branch out a little. My dad had a number of Piers Anthony books, and I considered them. In the end, though, I chose Ursula K. Le Guin, and I did the paper on A Wizard of Earthsea, The Left Hand of Darkness, and The Lathe of Heaven. In addition to reading the books, I found some articles on Le Guin, and I picked up on the theme of Taoism. I don't remember the details of my analysis, but I ended up focusing on some aspect of Taoism that spanned the three books.

Writing that paper began my appreciation of Le Guin. I hadn't known much at all about her before that, but afterward, I knew I enjoyed her work. It was so imaginative, so full of beautiful writing, and so full of love. While I didn't read a lot more of her works, I always cherished the time I spent on my paper. To this day The Lathe of Heaven is among my all-time favorite books, and I owe some of the growth in understanding sexuality I experienced in my twenties to The Left Hand of Darkness.

Le Guin passed away earlier this week at the age of 88. I'm not Taoist; I'm much more Buddhist than anything. The rudimentary understanding I have of Taoism would tell me that death is part of life, and so the passing of Le Guin, who was fortunate enough to live a long life, ought to be recognized for its inevitability. Still, I feel another inevitability -- the sadness of knowing Le Guin is no longer with us.

Here I Go Again for 30 Years

I found my deep interest in popular music in the summer of 1987. Sure, I had listened to pop music before, knew words to whole songs, etc., but the summer of 1987 is when I started really following and learning about popular music. It began with watching Dial MTV counting down the Top 10 vote-getting videos of the day, and it would continue into listening to Rick Dees’ Weekly Top 40, followed by listening to American Top 40 with Casey Kasem and within a couple years subscribing to Billboard magazine and religiously following the Hot 100 chart.

I feel fairly certain the interest in popular music I cultivated that summer led me to love popular culture, which led to me to study popular culture, which led me to my career today. So, really, the summer of 1987 was pretty influential for my life.

As I said, it started with watching Dial MTV and the songs that consistently made the daily chart. I remember developing a crush on Whitney Houston, who I thought was so beautiful in “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me).” I remember Ann Wilson belting out Heart’s “Alone,” which seemed to be the most heavily played song of the summer. I remember wanting to watch Beverly Hills Cop 2 because of Bob Seger’s “Shakedown.” I remember thinking about the word “monogamy” for probably the first time in my life after seeing George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” video. And I remember my reaction the first time I saw Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video.

My first reaction to “Here I Go Again” was to think this was just another long-haired 80s rock band having a popular song. I didn’t really even listen to the song. I sort of dismissed it as something I would find run of the mill. But sometime soon thereafter I actually did listen to the song, and not only did I realize my first reaction was wrong; I was blown away. This song spoke to me like no song ever had before. Every line seemed to sum up my life and my identity, and the sound of the song itself seemed to emphasize those lines so perfectly. This was my song if ever there was one.

Of course, once I had become attached to the song, I maintained a firm interest in its chart performance. It rose to the Top 10 and then the Top 5, and it seemed like it might stall out at number 2. But, then, “Here I Go Again” forged upward to the number one spot on Billboard’s Hot 100 chart. I hoped it would stay for more than one week, but alas, the song was already well into its run, and Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam had other plans for the next week. So, disappointedly, I listened as Whitesnake fell from the top spot after just one week on top. Still, though, the song that spoke to me had made it, achieving the pinnacle of pop song success by topping the chart.

Incredibly, today marks exactly 30 years since “Here I Go Again” rose to number one. Every now and then, I think that maybe a song has replaced “Here I Go Again” as my favorite. I’ve loved many songs in the past three decades. Yet, all it takes is one listen to the song, and all of those doubts subside. "Here I Go Again" still speaks to me like no other song ever has. Its sound still resonates through my bones, and its words still seem to represent not just my life, but my career interests – the very interests upon which it played such a profound influence.

It's Time for Football to Go Away

Five years ago, I made a decision to give up watching and following college football. While I didn’t as explicitly quit following and watching the NFL, I found that over the course of that first season without college football, my interest in professional football waned, and over time, I have given up the NFL and football at other levels as well.

All of this hasn’t been easy. Football is so heavily built into U.S. life and had become so much a part of my fall routine that at times I have found myself watching a few minutes of a game and, more often, checking scores and standings for various leagues at various levels. Working at a Division I university makes it even more difficult because so many university activities, especially in the fall, revolve around football. Yet, despite the occasional slipups, I remain committed to avoiding football and to get to a point where I never check standings or scores and never choose to watch any part of any game.

You can read my blogpost from five years ago for explanation of my reasons for giving up college football. Those reasons had much more to do with the inappropriate position of football within university power structures than with the physical toll of the sport on its participants. That said, in the five years since, that physical toll has become much greater of an influence on my decision to avoid football. Stories from the past week about deaths playing college football and the results of the study of former professional footballplayer Aaron Hernandez’s brain strengthen my resolve. It really is time to end this sport. Those who run it don’t appear willing to end it or even address the problem in a meaningful fashion. Many of them have sought to downplay and discredit the connections to brain injuries. They are making too much money off it. And so, I’m led to the same conclusion I came to five years ago: within our current economic system, power exists in consumption choices. More of us must refuse to consume football, and we ought to do it sooner rather than later.

When a Member of Your Sandlot Passes Away

Folks who take classes I teach in which we talk about it know that I critique the film The Sandlot for its representations of gender. The film makes the exclusion of women rather explicit, and the implications of that exclusion are all the more significant when we recognize that the film is typically characterized as a “family film.” In fact, my own DVD copy of the film says “Family Feature” on the front cover.

Still, as a baseball fan, the film has appeal because it captures the joy of playing sandlot baseball with a group of other kids. That joy is important to me because I spent a significant amount of my time as a kid doing exactly that. My brothers and I, along with a collection of other friends, would go to the local park in my hometown that had a number of baseball diamonds, and we would play baseball for hours.

Among that collection of other friends, the most consistent participant was Jason, a classmate of my youngest brother, Nate, who shared with Nate and me a passion for baseball – a passion borne out in our shared interest in collecting baseball cards and, of course, in playing baseball together. Indeed, “consistent” is not strong enough of a word to convey Jason’s participation in our baseball games. “Constant” works much better. I think only Nate and I participated more.

Jason passed away Friday at the age of 39. I don’t know the cause. I do know he had experienced some health issues recently, but I don’t know if they contributed to his death or not.

I can’t say I know Jason well any longer. We were connected on Facebook, and there was a little interaction there, but I really hadn’t seen him in a couple decades. I remember that he won my NCAA men’s basketball pool in 1993, and I have specific memory of giving him the money when he won. I remember him working at my grandfather’s drugstore for a while in the 1990s. I remember trading baseball cards with him in the late 1980s and early 1990s. But most of all, I remember him as an integral part of my sandlot experience.

The Sandlot is about remembering childhood. As we get older, that which makes up our childhood slowly recedes. Our favorite television shows go off the air. Buildings we knew make way for newer structures. Our friends and family pass on, and so eventually do we. When these people and things are gone, it makes the process of remembering the joys of childhood more difficult … or at least it makes that process take less concrete form. Sometimes the process happens before it should, and that’s the case with Jason. Still, even though less concrete, that which has passed on remains with us. Jason will always be an important part of my youth, and he will always figure prominently in my memory of that youth.