We need to call out politicians who use mental illness as a scapegoat

Addressing the nation in the wake of Wednesday’s Florida school shooting, President Trump told the victims they “are never alone.” He offered to do “whatever we can do to ease your pain,” while committing “to working with local leaders to tackle the difficult issue of mental health.” In a tweet, he had this to say:

So many signs that the Florida shooter was mentally disturbed, even expelled from school for bad and erratic behavior. Neighbors and classmates knew he was a big problem. Must always report such instances to authorities, again and again!

Other “true friends and champion[s]” were quick to add their two cents: Rick Scott called the shooting “pure evil.” Marco Rubio tweeted that the attack “was designed & executed to maximize loss of life,” but said it was too early to discuss gun control. The BBC reports that Rubio told Fox News "You should know the facts of that incident before you run out and prescribe some law that you claim could have prevented it.”

I’m not entirely sure what facts Rubio is waiting on here. We know that the FBI was notified twice that this individual might be planning such an attack, and we know the school was aware of the individual. We also know the shooter attained his AR15 (every gun nut’s favourite toy) legally.

When Mr. Trump asks people to report the “mentally disturbed,” I really don’t understand the logic. All the arguments for gun control are already out there, so it’s not hard to understand why this tweet is complete bullshit. Mr. Trump’s clear misunderstanding of mental health is the most obvious place to begin. Though the “mentally disturbed” argument is the common fallback of Trump, the GOP, and the NRA, few have ever really given an adequate definition for what they mean when referring to a “mentally disturbed” individual.

This is dangerous. Mr. Trump never defines exactly what he means by the terms “mentally disturbed” and “big problem,” and he never defines what he means what he means when he asks (who, exactly?) to “report such instances to authorities.” I guess President Trump is unaware that the FBI was already notified about this particular individual. Twice.

The president’s lack of clarity in this tweet leaves far too much room for individual interpretation. Given the continued prevalence of toxic stereotypes which are can be easily debunked with five minutes on the internet, it is not unreasonable to ask the President of the United States to qualify his statements.

Because right now it seems to me as though the President of the United States is aligning mental illness with white supremacy and mass murder for the express political purpose of backing the private interest group that paid over $17 million to GOP candidates in the 2015-2016 election cycle.

As someone who’s dealt with a lifelong struggle with depression and severe anxiety, I take personal offense to this. As someone who’s struggled with a health care system that can’t seem to provide answers for myself and others close to me, I’m angry that this kind of rhetoric is not being more widely questioned.

For a relative summation of my position here, I’d recommend watching John Oliver’s excellent segment on the subject. Mental illness – a health issue that effects an increasingly vast segment of the western society in a variety of ways – is the favoured scapegoat scape goat of gun lobbyists and the politicians who gladly accept their money. It happened after Las Vegas, and it happened after Orlando: these politicians and lobbyists are contributing a dangerous rhetoric to mental health discussions in order to avoid dealing with the political reality that the right has lost the gun control debate on all rational and intellectual grounds.

In practice, this means that politicians like Trump and Rubio consistently focus on the fact that the attacker can be broadly labelled “mentally ill.” Meanwhile, the systematic factors that contributed to the shooting –the killer’s background in foster care, his ties to white supremacists, the AR15 he was legally allowed to own despite multiple tip-offs to the authorities that he was potentially homicidal – are ignored.

The standard Republican response also allows sweeps politically inconvenient talking points under the rug – like the deleted Instagram account in which the shooter showed off his Make America Great Again swag.

After all, he was disturbed. Why dig deeper?

When mental illness is only just beginning to lose its stigma in the west, it is the responsibility of moral individuals to question the narrative Trump is setting. By consistently aligning the experience of legitimately “sick individual[s]” with the fraction of mentally ill people who turn violent (almost always due to other factors such as, I stress again, white supremacy), Trump and others like him are hijacking a growing awareness over an important issue for political purposes.

To my knowledge, Mr. Trump has not once publically mentioned mental illness outside the context of gun control.

Since this rhetoric has an impact that echoes far beyond the borders of the United States, the responsibility to criticize the precedent set at that country’s highest level also falls outside those borders. That’s why I’m writing this piece. That’s why I’d like to see Prime Minister Trudeau do more than give his “deepest condolences” in between his Team Canada tweets.

In the future, I’d like to see the Prime Minister and other Parliamentarians directly question the toxic narrative that is consistently being spread in our southern neighbours. At the very least, this would be a good time to bring up the issue of Canada’s chronically underfunded mental health system.

One final note. About a year ago, I wrote a post in which I pointed out the value of history in interpreting the new Trump presidency. I asked readers to be vigilant, using an example from the historical moment most clearly comparable to today’s America, 1930s Germany. I attempted emphasize how Hitler utilized public apathy as a key weapon in Germany’s slow move from democracy to dictatorship.

The mentally ill were one of this dictatorship’s first distinct targets, along with Jewish and Romany communities.  

In addition to Nazi Germany, Soviet and post-Soviet Russia, Imperial Japan, and Communist Cuba all explicitly utilized the mentally ill for political purposes, often to delegitimize political opponents. The list goes on. In the west, a time when mental illness was a primary fallback for those who opposed female suffrage remains in living memory. Though as a culture we seem to have forgotten this.

I’m angry. Gun lobbyists and their political allies are using the lived experience of millions – my lived experience – to justify their blatant corruption and inaction. We should all be angry.

Star Wars in the Twenty-First Century

Last week, I finally got around to seeing The Last Jedi.

I’ll admit, I had some trepidation. I’d seen the Rotten Tomatoes debacle, heard about fan reactions. Low expectations were a part of why I took so long to see the film. The spoiler-free reviews I read seemed pretty promising, but that was almost even more discouraging. Was The Last Jedi just going to be another example of why critical opinions need to be taken with a grain of salt?

As it turned out, The Last Jedi reminded me why I tend to take fan reactions with a grain of salt.

To avoid spoilers, it’s only the last week I’m letting myself read commentary and the fan reactions. But after watching the movie and reading the articles that have slowly accumulated in a folder on my desktop, it seems the main justification for the vitriol is that the movie “absolutely ruins 30 years of cinema lore.”

While there is a kernel of truth in this statement, I have to admit, I find this thinking somewhat reductive.

In responding to that particular Tweet and the countless fans who agree with its sentiment, I’ll start by acknowledging that, yes, The Last Jedi disappointed me. It was a disappointment for the little boy who’s still somewhere in there, that continues to drive my fandom. In many ways, The Last Jedi spit in the face of the little boy who watched the originals as long ago as he can remember before getting his own generation of Star Wars.

This newest movie disappointed the part of me that drives my belief that Return of the Jedi is the best of the series. In many ways, The Last Jedi is the sequel to Episode VI we never saw with The Force Awakens.  Like all good sequels, The Last Jedi addresses the legacy of its predecessor. Luke’s bleak monologues cut to the romantic heart of Return of the Jedi’s neat fantasy ending: the comradery, the optimism, the mythologizing. The kid inside who continues to idolize Luke’s hero’s journey felt pretty hurt and even offended by the writers’ cynical manipulation of the mythology.

I get why people dislike this movie.

But I’m no longer just that kid. I’m also an adult who attempts to engage at least somewhat critically with the cultural artifacts I am exposed to.

My adult reaction to any offense taken after seeing The Last Jedi is basically this… the existence of a third Star Wars trilogy in a universe where George Lucas sold his baby to Disney is fucking offensive.

Most of the problems with both The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi can be directly tied to the fact that the series should not even exist. Any manipulation of fan-favoured franchise lore isn’t the fault of a single writer or his film. His directing is not the reason Luke seems like an entirely different character in this movie. It would have been inevitable. Luke’s story ended with Return of the Jedi.

Any problems arising with his character can be traced back to the increasing commodification of franchises like Star Wars by entertainment giants (remember, Disney also owns Marvel Entertainment). Rian Johnson seems to understand this, and I wonder if this knowledge played a part in his choice to characterize Luke this way. Is it, perhaps, a statement? At the very least, he’s given an alternative to the predictably Yoda imitator we might have ended up with under a different director.

Whatever people say about the prequel trilogy fit, it directly into the creative vision Lucas created. The first follow up trilogy enhanced the franchises core themes and deepened the universe (providing space to revive a dying expanded universe) while mostly acknowledging the original trilogy as its foundation piece. This new trilogy was unplanned, clearly a product of corporate machinations. Our Twitter friend succinctly summarizes what many of us have been thinking since 2012: “cash cow only and goodbye to all that made #StarWars great.”

I’m almost tempted to say the world did end in 2012, because the world where Star Wars fandom is untainted by the postmodern malaise is no more. Hence, I return to my reaction The Last Jedi: I loved it. It’s up there with the best of the canon, precisely because it understands the place Star Wars is at in the 21^st century.

One of Star Wars’ many values is its reflection of the culture that produces it. The original trilogy reflected Reagan-era anti-communist rhetoric, centered on a hero’s journey to join the collective fight against the evil Empire. Concerned with diversifying the series mythology, the prequel trilogy is perennially well suited for the post-9/11 world, dissecting empires, republics, and religions. In the prequel trilogy, we witness an outdated order being torn down in a manner that seems both reflective and eerily prophetic. The prequel trilogy remains relevant when we look back from sixteen plus years into the War in Afghanistan.

Rian Johnson asks hard questions that have always existed in the Star Wars franchise but have never been tackled in the film’s main line. He exposes some of the problematic thinking promoted by the original Star Wars series, and the way that dogged faith in organizations and religions can exacerbate these problems. Despite Return of the Jedi’s optimistic ending, I’ve always wondered if the Jedi need to return. It was, after all, (as Luke notes at one point in the new film) the overconfident and bureaucratic Jedi order that allowed Darth Sidious to organize the Empire and order the Jedi’s destruction.

Perhaps, The Last Jedi asks, it is time to stop looking for the past for answers. This, of course, brings the film into conversation with contemporary political debates.

The Republic and the Empire both function as analogies for the American state. Though fans debate over how those analogies map onto the real world, look around the world today. Does any other political entity represent the First Order better than the United Sates and the late capitalist west more generally? Specifically, who better represents the First Order’s incompetent and extremist leadership than those politicians currently sitting in the White House?  

It’s no longer enough to joke about “the only other woman in the galaxy” as some form of empty lip service. It’s time to actively dismantle and deconstruct the institutions that reproduce social ills. On the fandom level, that means criticizing franchises like Star Wars and others when they fail to promote socially diverse narratives. It means questioning elements of fandom that are unwilling to compromise their views about the social ramifications that fiction has.

In terms of the franchise’s creative direction, it means little humanization for the villains and even less romanticism in dealing with them. The Last Jedi excellently deconstructs the naiveté of believing in the good inside. In real life, the good guy doesn’t turn, the eleventh hour plan fails, and a petulant man child is in charge of the most dangerous and powerful military in the galaxy. In real life, a villain’s backstory is second to the threat he poses threat. In the real world, actions define a person.

The Last Jedi is the first truly adult Star Wars film not just because it strays heavily into PG territory but because it is aware of itself and the franchise as a set of cultural artifacts with social ramifications. While the child in me will always love the original trilogy the best, The Last Jedi seems to point towards a future where nine films form a unified progressive update to the six-episode saga my heart still considers the core of Star Wars.

Mishandled, though, J.J. Abrams and Episode IX’s creative team risk dismissing some of the thematic depths reached in The Last Jedi. Though The Last Jedi is certainly one of Star Wars’ best moments, this seems largely due to Rian Johnson’s update to George Lucas’s creative vision. Two years on from The Force Awakens, I’m still unsure how I feel about this new trilogy.

Black Mirror’s “USS Callister:” Understand but Do Not Defend Toxic Nerd Culture

SPOILER ALERT. Don’t read on if you haven’t yet watched “USS Callister” from season four of Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror.

Since the series released at the end of December, there has been a lot of talk about “USS Callister,” an exceptionally well promoted episode that was far from the Star Trek parody we all expected. Highly in tune with the show’s best moments, Black Mirror’s most cinematic episode to date is a chilling critique of systemic issues in science fiction fandom and nerd culture at large.

To quickly recap, the plot goes like this: after her first day working for the developers of the online virtual reality videogame Infinity Nannette Cole wakes up in outer space aboard the USS Callister, a ship reminiscent the original USS Enterprise. The crew of the Callister, her coworkers at the Callister Inc. tech company, inform her that she is a digital copy of Nannette created by her boss Robert Daly, and that both the Callister and its crew are trapped in an offline development version of Infinity where Captain Daly rules as a god in a make-believe world.

The episode’s themes are hinted at from the beginning as Nannette explains how she left her previous workplace after being the victim of bullying. Her new workplace is apparently little different, filled with disrespectful interns and gossiping coworkers. Though Daly’s psychopathy is quickly revealed, he is introduced as a shy loner who is clearly mistreated by these people. It is implied that Daly, like Nannette, has long been the victim of bullying. For ten minutes, he is one of Black Mirror’s most relatable characters. The audience understands that, at one point, Daly was perhaps little different from the countless young men who find a much needed (and harmless) escape offered by fandom.

It’s here that some concerns about the episode have arisen. A lot of viewers take issue with the episode arguing that science fiction fans shook the Daly stereotype years ago. This is true. In the age of Elon Musk, The Big Bang Theory, and a third Star Wars trilogy, it’s acceptable and sometimes even cool to be a nerd. But I after watching this episode, I can’t help thinking of the acquaintances who regularly attend Calgary’s Comic Expo every year yet view themselves as somehow different from the cosplayers. Passionate nerds continue to be othered.

Straight out of a little boy's imagination

This increase in mainstream superficial interest in nerd culture has, I think, played a huge role in why the fandoms I love are becoming increasingly taken over by an internet-filtered toxic ethos. For decades, nerd culture has centered on a degree of enforced but proud difference from a superficial mainstream society. The fact that this difference is currently being commodified on every level (Disney’s Marvel Cinematic Universe is a great example of this) is a strong force in the maintenance of toxic nerd culture.

Viewers who insist that Trekkies long ago shook the Daly stereotype misunderstand Brooker’s characterization of Daly as a literally different person inside the game. The sadistic and cruel Captain Daly has escaped so far removed from our reality that he has forgotten the philosophical motivations of the Space Fleet he loves. Meanwhile, programmer Robert Daly is a soft spoken individual who displays a clear sensitivity to the world around him. He seems to maintain the earnest passion we nerds identify with, and he is clearly a person who has long suffered as a social pariah. It is implied that, in the real world, Nannette’s desperate pleas for kindness might have been heard by Robert Daly, if her voice had not been filtered through the ears of Captain Daly.

At the episode’s beginning, Robert Daly was the character with whom I have identified most in four seasons of Black Mirror; he then he became the singular most disgusting villain in the show’s history. This is no accident. In a show where each episode’s core theme can be summed up in a sentence, the juxtaposition of the two aspects of Daly’s character is where this episode’s central concern lies.

Robert Daly

One wonders what sort of a person Robert Daley might have become if he had a strong social group to ground him in reality. Watching this episode, I found myself wondering who Robert Daly might be if he spent his time around a Dungeons and Dragons table rather than an online community populated by the likes of Gamer691. I assume that the reason Aaron Paul’s character picked this tag is that Gamer69 was taken. How might this world have changed a more innocent version of Daly?

The point Brooker is trying to make is that while many are born with the potential for evil actions, few are destined for them. Without a secure anchor to reality, these behaviours can and will escalate. This is especially true in an online space where the loudest voices are generally bullies living out their own fantasies of power.

In the end, Captain Daly has become so isolated from his redeemable characteristics that it is simply unrealistic to suggest he represents any kind of fandom stereotype. The sympathetic and understandable character we were introduced to at the episode’s outset has been replaced entirely by a sociopathic sex predator. Here, Brooker’s message is pretty clear: a monster is a monster is a monster, regardless of circumstance.

At the end of the day, “USS Callister” is an attempt to understand toxic behaviour without in any way condoning it. The episode sends nerd culture a prescient message: while escapism is important, it cannot to happen in isolation from its real world consequences.

But a criticism of toxic nerd culture is too simple a takeaway for Black Mirror. As always, Brooker wants us to look at ourselves and understand that, while horrific actions cannot be excused, a little kindness and human connection goes a long way to preventing them from happening.

Ten Years Later

Today is September 1st, 2017. It's nineteen years later, and Albus Potter boarded the Hogwarts express this morning, ten years after we all turned the final page.

It's silly, really, to care so much about an arbitrary date in an imaginary universe. It is only a story, of course.

But maybe not. After all: fiction is hardly the same as not real.

Harry's story meant a lot to me as I grew up. In many ways, it defined large parts of who I am today. The books, after all, matured alongside me. As so many have noted, Harry and his friends grew up in tandem with their audience. Harry's trials were my trials. Not the werewolves and the Dementors, but the crushes and the insecurities. The loneliness, the fear of a confusing world. These I could relate to. Harry's story was my Hogwarts, a place I could always retreat to and feel welcome.

Harry's adventures were my escape and my inspiration, an example of what the fantasy genre does at its best. Not only did the books inspire a lifelong love of reading stories, they helped me define how I came to understand my world. By holding a mirror up to our world, the story showed me the insidious malaises of celebrity worship, mob mentality, and economic, racial, and gender inequality.

Harry helped make me empathetic for the world. In the Luna Lovegood I saw my quirky school peers, and wondered who might need a hand in friendship; in Sirius Black, I saw the father figures in my life, and wondered if perhaps the bad guys aren't always the bad guys. After reading Chamber of Secrets, I remember wondering who the "mudbloods" of my world were, and how I could avoid being complicit in such awfully hateful attitudes. These are just a few examples, though I could easily fill a book with ways the books inspired me to an awareness of and a genuine desire to fight cruelty and injustice.

These desires did not evolve solely out of Harry Potter of course. The series was merely one of numerous forces that shaped the person I've become (a mother who predisposed me to empathy, the crippling loneliness and insecurity of the introverted, to name a few more), but I always felt a special kinship with Harry that filled a hole in my soul where nothing else could. This, perhaps, is why the books transcend the medium of mere literature in my mind. Harry Potter represents the first time I found a book and my connection to its world truly magical. Since then, I've found hundreds of worlds such as this, hundreds of characters that feel truly real to me. But Harry was the first. And the first is always special.

Of course, Harry was never my favourite character in the series. Oh no, far from it. Harry was always flawed, frustrating, and often foolish. But he always had good intentions. And don't we all succumb to our flaws sometime? You see, I am not, and never have been, the favourite character in my own story. Yet Harry gave me hope that perhaps I could still bring some good into the world. Perhaps one day I might even become the favourite character in someone else's story.

Harry's story is not for everyone, and many of those who came late to the series have not connected with the stories as I have. In this way, the series' popularity has perhaps been to its detriment. I would no longer consider myself a "potterhead" (a term I have always resisted, much as continue to resist the asinine "Whovian" label). I no longer reread with the same avid obsession. Yet I still pick up my worn hardcovers every now and then, and revisit a part of myself that will never leave me.

For those who understand I need say no more.

All is well.

September 1st, 2017

A Short Review of Spider-Man: Homecoming

A while back, I wrote a piece addressing my thoughts on Spider-Man joining the Marvel Cinematic Universe. A few months later, when Captain America: Civil War came out, I wrote a review with my updated thoughts on Tom Holland’s web slinger.

Now, after his first solo outing, I am truly convinced: Tom Holland is Peter Parker.

As I’ve said before, the choice to make this incarnation of the character so distinctly innocent, so obviously a kid, serves to give him a degree of relatability that previous incarnations have lacked. 

This Peter Parker, true to the comics, is a fifteen year old social outcast who’s stumbled into a world that’s bigger than he is. And, unlike the Greek Gods and billionaire playboys of this universe, Peter has to deal with the very real struggles of teenaged angst, high school, and dating.

Spider-Man’s ability to navigate the fantasy of superpowers as well as the monotony of daily life is the true strength of his character. This is why he holds such a special place in my heart, as I know he holds a special place in so many others.

With Spider-Man: Homecoming, I am happy to see that the role has been placed in good hands. The tone of the movie is light, paying homage to the world he came from with references to The Avengers and Civil War, with Tony Stark playing a main role. This crossover allows for a certain passing of the franchise torch, and shows a degree of forethought on the part of the writers. With the knowledge that Robert Downey Jr and Chris Evans can’t anchor the franchise forever, Spider-Man: Homecoming marks what I expect to see in the post Infinity War era MCU, with a new generation of superheroes coming to the forefront.

A lot of thought seems to have been put into how Holland’s Parker learns to use his powers. The villain he faces in Homecoming, the Vulture, is arguably relatively weak on the scale of MCU villain hood. The film’s dialogue notes that Vulture would be finished if Iron Man or the Avengers were to notice him. In fighting the Vulture, we see an immature, eager, and clumsy Spider-Man learning his limits and learning to use his powers wisely. This dynamic between Parker and the movie’s villains makes for some entertaining scenes, including one hilarious interrogation scene. On a technical level, this learning curve also allows for a certain break in the monotony of super-hero action scenes. Rather than yet another film where Iron Man fights an army of robots, we have a refreshing mixing and matching of super-powers.

Spider-Man: Homecoming is one of the best films to have been released in Marvel’s shared universe, possibly the best behind only Civil War. More down to earth and relatable than many of its counterparts, Homecoming is a perfect Spider-Man film, staying true to the character and the tone of the world. Unlike many character introductions, this film dispenses with the well-trodden origin story, instead infusing backstory references to the dialogue.

Ultimately, Spider-Man: Homecoming is well worth the time and money to see in theatres, a truly loyal and heartfelt portrayal of my favourite superhero.

9/10

Reading List: Some Recommendations

Life is busy. Between full time work, summer classes, serious creative projects, and maintaining some semblance of a social life (and also sleeping, occasionally) it’s been hard to find time to read recently. I’ve been told this is part of being an adult, though I reject that notion. I know plenty of adults who continue to devour a half dozen books every month.

Still, making time for reading takes some concerted effort. Even harder, often, is deciding what books to use that precious time on. Nothing is more upsetting than wasting a solid ten hours reading a bad book. As such, here are a few books I’ve recently read and enjoyed.

Travels with Charley: In Search of America by John Steinbeck

Perhaps one of Steinbeck’s lesser known and most underrated works, Travels with Charley is an entertaining and insightful portrait of the United States. Thoughtful yet accessible in distinctly Steinbeck fashion, the book is a semi-fictional account of a road trip the author make to “rediscover his country” towards the end of his life. Spending several months touring America in a camper van with no company but his dog Charley, the author’s tone is reflective. This book was clearly written towards the end of his life and career, as one sees his growing disillusionment the longer his journey goes on. Such disappointment in the new generation is profound coming from a man who consistently provided a voice for America’s unheard populations.

For anyone who enjoys American literature or memoir, this book is an excellent choice. It blurs some of the lines between novel and biography, fusing elements of both to create profound yet enjoyable book. I also highly recommend the audiobook narrated by Gary Sinise.

On Not Losing My Father’s Ashes in the Flood by Richard Harrison

Calgary based writer Richard Harrison’s latest collection of poetry is a deeply compassionate exploration of grief, marriage, and family relationships. While each poem stands strong in its own right, this collection provides a memoir-like tale of a man attempting to process the loss of his father while realizing his own flawed mortality. Harrison uses the medium of narrative poetry to tell a deeply relatable story. This collection’s combination of insightful observation and profound imagery serves to create a cohesive and accessible whole. I recommend that even those who are not fans of poetry give this one a read.

Favourite pieces: “Found Poem” and “A Poem is a Story that Sometimes Happens to Someone”

Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglas by Fredrick Douglas

As much an important historical document as it is a memoir, Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglas is one of those books everyone should have to read at some point. Describing the author’s childhood (such as he remembers it) and early adulthood as a slave in Maryland, Narrative is one of several autobiographies written by Douglas during his career as an abolitionist in the mid-1800s. Heartbreaking and often sickeningly visceral, this book is not a pleasant read, yet it is a crucial one for understanding the origins modern racism. We cannot forget what happened, and we cannot allow ourselves to forget just how sickening the institution of slavery was. It is important to remember that for every Fredrick Douglas who escaped to tell their story, there were a million men, women, and children left beaten, raped, and starved for the entirety of their short lives.

OK by Kool AD

One of the more absurd books I’ve ever read, Victor “Kool AD” Vazquez’s postmodern novel OK (yes, I read a postmodern novel written by a rapper) is an intriguing series of experiments in form. Any attempt to sum up this novel is largely doomed to fail. The book is bizarre in a unique way that one has to experience for oneself. For many readers, the frustrating liberties OK takes with linguistic and narrative conventions will be a turnoff. But those who can make it through the confusion and disorientation will almost certainly be rewarded. At the very least, the book should provide an entertaining if bemusing experience.

Reading like a bizarre memoir written during an acid trip (which it might well be), OK features rap battles, gigantic eagles constructed from precious metals, literary and musical references galore, existential angst, moral ambiguity, and a lot of drugs. Any plot and character development is vague enough that the reader can draw their own conclusions. Throughout the novel, Vazquez consistently provides us with a series of vignettes arranged to encourage us to ask questions of everything.

Book Review: Between the World and Me

I recently reread this book as part of a travel study done through the University. The theme of the course was "Slavery, Freedom, and Civil Rights," with the goal of understanding the ongoing legacies of racial conflicts. I attempted to synthesize some of my thoughts on Coates' work in an academic review of the book:

Book Review: Coates, Ta-Nehisi. Between the World and Me. New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2015.

In his timely work Between the World and Me, national correspondent for The Atlantic Ta-Nehisi Coates examines a black man’s place in a modern world plagued by a legacy of racial oppression. In light of recent high profile events and modern racial tensions, Coates perfectly captures the struggles faced by African Americans in today’s America. Framing the work as a letter to his son, Coates’ prose has a poetic imperfection that lends to the creation of an aching poignancy. The father’s love for his son lives on the page. The fear he feels for his child’s life, the pain he feels at the loss of so many other children, gives the work an intensely personal appeal. Between the World and Me is a deeply insightful examination of how the legacies of slavery and Jim Crow have resulted in a continued economic, social, and intellectual segregation in modern America. In the book, Coates illustrates with painful clarity the insidious dangers faced by black men and women in the Untied States now more than ever.

One part autobiography and one part a defiant reckoning, Between the World and Me is Coates’ attempt to convey to his son a haunting legacy of violence intrinsically tied to their very identity. Taking inspiration from the works of Richard Wright, James Baldwin, and other African American writers, Coates seeks to succinctly synthesize four hundred years of oppression while capturing a specific modern political moment. His outlook is bleak. His prose is not cluttered by sentimentality, and, unlike many of those who write on similar issues, he does not suggest the inevitability of justice. Between the World and Me is painfully aware that significant progress is neither inevitable nor likely.

Coates attempts to convey this harsh reality to his son, in order that his son might safely navigate a world that resents his existence. Though at many points Coates tends towards poetic abstraction, he centers his letter on a physical theme of the body. The brutal reality that Coates confronts can be seen in this motif. As Coates puts it, amongst all the economic, social, and historical issues, it is the physical, worldly vessel that suffers. Here, we see the titular implication, that the black body and the world around it are entirely separate. In a sense, there is something solidly between Coates and his son, and the world around them; thus, because they are not truly a part of the world, they are inherently endangered by it.

Coates’ bleak but realistic outlook is seen in this theme of physical danger, and illustrated poignantly in his discussions of the issues of domestic discipline and police brutality. For African Americans, both matters are inherently physical problems informed a multitude of factors. These physical problems are illustrated by the high profile killings of black men such as Treyvon Martin and Tamir Rice, to name a few. These deaths, Coates says, are emblematic of the systematic devaluation of the black body, both economically, socially, and, ultimately, physically. Simply put, it is less costly for a police officer to accidentally kill a black man than a white man because the world values one body over the other. This suggestion is the lynchpin of what Coates tragically conveys to his son. He wishes his son to understand this reality, so that he may best protect himself in the wider world. Indeed, Coates suggests that this is all that African American parents can do in a hostile world: prepare their children for how best to deal with that hostility. As Ta-Nehisi Coates painfully illustrates, the black mother beats her child so the child knows how not to be beaten by the police. Such brutal illustrations abound in the book.

Framing the work as a letter to his son is, perhaps, the most effective literary choice made by Coates. This gives the reader a sense of Coates’ personal investment that might otherwise have been missed. The theme of childrearing and parental love is a widely accessible one, and provides the author a method of reaching those outside of his frame of experience. This stylistic choice is one way Coates attempts to reach an audience outside of the African American community. Indeed, it is one way in which he attempts to bridge the gap to which the work’s title refers, between himself and the world.

However, the intensity of Coates’ investment should give the reader pause. It is important to acknowledge that, as poignant and effective as the work is, it is ultimately a conveyance of Coates’ own opinions. These opinions are, of course, coloured by the biographical details that Coates mentions. As such, the book cannot necessarily be read as an introduction to the study of race relations. Coates is not a neutral voice, and his own biases seep into how he addresses these issues. Once this fact is understood, however, Coates’ biases ultimately work towards the book’s purpose. Between the World and Me is an attempt to capture a unique perspective. To understand that perspective, one must understand the historical and social connotations it entails. In order to appreciate the work fully, the reader must be at least somewhat familiar with the subject of race relations. If the reader is well informed, Coates’ biases matter little, as he does not try to hide them. Ultimately, Between the World and Me is an attempt to illustrate the experience of a specific segment of the American population and convey that experience to an audience largely incapable of understanding it.