Fanaticism Obliterates Feelings

Disjointed thoughts Re: this article in Good magazine (<3!)

I think what happened is that these young people, who originally had no direction (as pointed out in the article) and no real identity to call their own, treated Obama like Jesus, and the entire campaign like a religious cult. They sought to find a kind of identity in their fervor for Obama and they did, for a while — but being an Obama freak doesn’t pay the bills or move them forward into adulthood. And totally unlike Christianity that spans literally centuries and therefore easily many lifetimes down the generations, this campaign was freaking short. And once they got their happy ending and Obama was elected, it’s over — and it’s not like they’re waiting anything else, either. It’s like actually having an armageddon and every Christian being saved and all the nonbelievers annhilated. When it actually happens, it would be amazing and all the good Christians would celebrate and enjoy the festivities!

But then what?

People have certainly been saying something like this all throughout that campaign. Anyway I still think it’s ridiculous that some people take this and go a step further, comparing Obama and his young fans to Hitler who bred Nazi Youths, etc. because he is an impeachable politician and not a fascist butcher. And I don’t think Obama intentionally create myths about his abilities as the president. Just as Christianity (and all its shocking misdeeds) wasn’t Jesus’s fault, the fault here lies mainly on the youths themselves. Their incredible dedication to Obama campaign was a copout and an escapist’s pretension of courage. They wanted to feel like they had dreams and ideals and a sense that they are in charge of their own future — but of course that’s all a joke, when they aren’t really willing to work to take charge of anything.

They just said Obama will make it all good again and bet all their money on him. The whole point of Obama was that he wanted America to work again, do the stuff people don’t like to do because stuff like that has to be done. But instead of doing that, studying hard and rolling up their sleeves, his young followers (who are clearly obssessed with easy fame and success — the number of YouTube videos of guitar-playing people and “amateurs” who apply to be the next top model, next American idol, next this, next that is devastatingly large and getting larger) just decided to put all their energy towards getting this guy elected — and it’s fun, because the whole process feels a lot like a popularity contest at their high schools or a cool party full of people similar to them or a club that is larger than life. In their fanaticism and euphoria, they wholeheartedly believed that Obama in the White House would solve everything, and that he will make sure of their future happiness (kinda like God will make sure of their future happiness, if you just believe in him, make your love for him your life’s work, and doing nothing else to really help yourself).

But of course that doesn’t happen, because Obama isn’t God. And he doesn’t claim to be! At all. He repeatedly says: we all have to work. I’m not a saviour. It’s not just me who can bring this country out of the deep shit it is in now.

But no one wants to hear that. They don’t even take it seriously. They think he says that because he is humble and generally a nice cool guy who says nice cool things like that. They just think it’s one of those inconsequential and meaningless pep talks motivational speakers give: work hard, guys!

The consequences of interrupting their lives for the campaign is that when they are done, they have to get back to their everyday lives, which is made very difficult. They suddenly have to do work — real work — and they have to do more work than their peers who did not spend a year on the trail. They fell behind and they have to work harder than others, which isn’t as fun as handing out buttons and chanting and rallying (which is practically a cheering party). As a result, they feel hopeless and sad and hallower than they already were once they face the harshness of real, adult life. It’s their own fault though. They set themselves up for it.

Obama, on the other hand, was trying to get elected President of the United States as a black man with little aside from his intellect. He needed the hype be elected. He exploited the hype — which I guess could be ethically questionable, but then what route to winning isn’t? — and let the fanatics exploit themselves for him, because otherwise he wouldn’t have won. I think him winning was more important (not only to him, but also for everyone else) than making sure that none of his volunteers were crazy kids in an identity crisis, because losers get nothing. Losers really lose and there was just too much at stake.

At Seven, I wanted to be Napoleon.

I wanted my life to be already over, so that I could write my autobiography. But I was thirteen years old and barely five-feet tall, and consequently death was beyond my reach. I promised myself however that when I am diagnosed with a terminal illness or turn sixty-five (whichever happens first) I would set out to write the perfect biography of me for the world to read and rave over. My dear readers would laugh with me, cry with me, and kiss me in their sleep. I would tell them all my clever insights and reveal quirky details about my life. They would fight over different interpretations of the text and discuss overarching themes of my life. They would be mesmerized by my extraordinary life and devote their nights recounting my charmingly human flaws. When asked to name some of their favourite books, they would say “I love reading and I have many favourites, but there is none I love more than C.S.’s autobiography”!

As I imagined all of this, I became impatient. What glory! The recollection of my life would have all the ingredients of greatness, and I would be immortalized as its wispy protagonist. I would live forever.

I realized eventually that my life would have to be extraordinary for my autobiography to be published, let alone become a bestseller. No one would ever want to read about a dreamless youth leading a small, ant-like life. So I decided to do wild and crazy things like cocaine and heroin and methadone and movie legends and Bob Dylan. People would then read my autobiography to live out their messed-up fantasies vicarious through me.

I knew then that I would need to be well-educated in order to become extraordinary. If I did not learn how to be extraordinary, my extraordinary experiences would not be extraordinary, but just plain stupid. There is a difference between an ordinary person overindulging in acid or S&M rituals and Michel Foucault. An ordinary person who masturbates in public is a pervert, but Diogenes is extraordinary.

Pissing off my parents then ceased to be an option, because they were capable of dressing me, buying me books, feeding me, and sending me to school until I was ready to be extraordinary. They would never tolerate dabbling in illicit drugs, so I had to hold off on them. They would never tolerate sexual explorations, so I had to hold off on that too. They would be disappointed if I do poorly in school, so I had to work hard. My extraordinary life had to wait…

Qualified Quays

I think our attempts to build our personal futures could be compared to arms race.

Although we would all love to become doctors, bankers, artists, actors, CEO’s, writers – we need people to work at Taco Bells, own convenience stores, calculate our taxes, sweep the streets, deliver pizzas, make toothpicks, guard the banks. We need the large majority of people to lead small and highly unappreciated lives in order to function as a society – but many of us (including myself) arrogantly refuse to be a part of this majority. Sure, those jobs need to be done, but we aren’t going to do it.

If we do not find a “real” and glamorous career, we are considered to have failed in our quest of happiness. In this light, the garbage truck driver who comes by every week to take away the waste is treated like a part of the meaningless backdrop in a play, an extra of life in which talented musicians and brilliant lawyers are the main characters. They are viewed as miserable orbiters of life, merely assisting those at the centre of it. Because we feel detached from this class of people – no one ever really empathizes with the shopkeepers from whom the hero buys a diet Pepsi – we often forget the fact that they too have aspirations, loves, dreams, and a need for happiness.

The scarcity of and the high demand for glamorous jobs further emphasizes the need to become better equipped in the fierce competition for them. In order to achieve this goal, we build a resume in the way we build weapons. Better, more impressive, and superior to the ones our competitors have. At first, those who finished high school could get a job they want as long as they are good at it, unless they want to become specialized doctors or lawyers – which is an extra step reserved for a few. Having a Bachelor’s degree indeed proves to be an advantage, so everyone with the money to do so attends universities. But soon even an undergraduate degree stops being enough, for more and more people has it and less and less meaningful it becomes as an adequate qualification. Because now everyone has a BA or BSc or whatever, but still less jobs than there are people, we have to do better than that to grab one of those few positions open or we will flip burgers for the rest of our lives – which is a really scary thought for some of us.

To be even better qualified for a good job, we now go for Master’s or professional degree after undergrad – and soon it will be PhD. Aside from degrees, we also strive to better our resumes by volunteering, applying to internships, working part time, partaking in global projects, and becoming officials at student unions. We work obsessively to attain higher and higher GPAs and standardized test scores. We acquaint our professors to get recommendation letters and seek important connections. We take up sports or instruments and travel around the world to show how well-rounded and worldly we are as individuals. We develop successful personality traits and people skills – we become team players. We plan. We look ahead. We strategize.

Although in fine arts (musicians, artists, actors) it is a bit different – as talent, not CV, takes all – the idea of an arms race is more or less present in the shape of past body of works and recognitions. Of course, all of this may not be the case in many places around the world and even some places in North America – but it at least is the experience I am having as a comparatively privileged girl with highly-educated parents, living in North America.

I actually have no idea what I am trying to say here. Maybe I am complaining, rather immaturely, that I am sometimes frustrated with how small my weapon is and how everything I do is aimed towards improving it. Even if I just feel like doing something, I find myself as the chief military advisor, interrogating me, demanding a reason to do it. “How does it fatten your resume?” I ask me, indulgently but with firmness, like a good authoritarian parent. “Does it make you more impressive than your competitors’? Will it lead to your happiness? Does it contribute to your future? Does it have a place in the battleplan?”