Who Am I, and How Did I Get Here?

Rare Reflection on Origins and Motivation

William Sundwick

What is my earliest childhood memory? It’s hard to say. Experiences from early childhood can sometimes be counterfeit. But one that I identified years ago, when my parents were still alive to confirm its authenticity, is standing in our driveway on a warm summer day, looking at the sun glinting off a sparkling two-tone green 1950 Chevrolet.

Both Dad and Mom agreed, as the memory flashed unexpectedly into my consciousness, it must have been when we had just gotten a new car – right about the time of my third birthday. My mind’s eye saw not only the car, but the red brick house on one side, the side door to the kitchen, the green grass of the front yard. It was real to me. No photograph was found, and the family photo album was intact at that point. Why did it appear to me just then?

Had the memory been somehow implanted earlier by my parents? Or, was it truly experienced, suddenly disgorged from my subconscious? Does it matter?

Here to Please

Pleasing my mother and father was one of my most important goals in early self-awareness. I remember the emotional distress of that struggle (especially pleasing my father). I remember my mother being forced to “run interference” between my father and me from a very early age. I had no siblings.  A fils unique has a special burden since his parents’ entire legacy is embodied in him! Yet, he also has the advantage of a simple family structure to master. He is there to please his parents, full stop.

I don’t remember any pain in childhood. Anxiety, for sure. But, actual physical pain, no. If asked today, I’d say my childhood was a privileged and comfortable one. Yet, another early memory (vague compared to the car in the driveway) is my mother telling ME, age 4 or 5, that it was wrong of my father to spank me -- although I don’t remember the spanking.

As I grew older, loneliness became palpable. Another bit of collateral damage from singleton status? Again, it was emotional rather than physical pain. There was always a wall between me and my neighborhood and school friends, even between my cousins and me (three of them my age). The cousins had different parents -- and siblings. I retained no connections in adulthood with any childhood friends, and little with the cousins for that matter (except for polite Christmas cards).

As I progressed through school, the drive to please was seamlessly transferred from parents to teachers. I did well. My learning style seemed to favor logical discourse, more than analytical experiment. Sciences were okay, especially physics and astronomy, but math needed to stop before it got too abstract – no calculus for me. People did interest me, however, and studying their behavior was fun. I loved to draw, then write. Mostly, I drew cars but wrote about people.

There were conflicts. I believe I was bullied – but, do not remember details or assailants. Again, don’t remember pain, only anxiety. I relied on authority figures to protect me from bullies. It usually worked.

The Sundwicks and the Chambers

Extended family filled the void left from limited immediate family. The Sundwick clan, especially, was a powerful force. They came from Swedish-speaking Finland in the late nineteenth century, settling in Michigan’s Keeweenaw Peninsula – Houghton and Hancock, the UP “copper country.” My paternal grandfather was a piano tuner by trade, and violin maker by art. He sold his violins in the area, and several have been recovered by the family.  He had eight children -- my five aunts, my dad, Uncle Bob, and a third boy, David (who died in my childhood, never knew him well).

The Chambers family of Wisconsin, by contrast, was largely a mystery to me. My mother told me of her eleven siblings (yes!) and itinerate Methodist minister father (circuit riding?). But, she left her family when she married my dad. I’ve had no contact with any of the Chambers family, not in childhood, not in adulthood. One sister-in-law showed up only at Mom’s funeral in 2007. It was a very sad story. Why?

My mom and dad met during World War II in Detroit – the war industry (nee automobile) employing both. My father had an occupational deferment as an engineer. Mom felt she was “adopted” by the overbearing Sundwicks; did her own family even miss her? What dark stories lay under the surface?

The Sundwick family dynamics placed the two oldest sisters and my father as titular (but squabbling) family heads.  The younger siblings were always the “children” – this seems to have taken a toll on Uncle Bob, in particular.

Family hierarchies tend to last a lifetime. Four of the eight children died early, by my reckoning. One survives (she’s 95). My father’s two youngest sisters, especially, tended to portray Dad as a demi-god. He was revered, and fawned over, by both. Uncle Bob, on the other hand, was generally ignored – his contributions minimized. He died early of heart disease. His brother David had died even earlier, after crippling war injuries sustained in the Pacific. I knew him only as wheelchair-bound. But, it was cancer that killed him.

Flint

In 1953, when I was not yet six, we moved from Dearborn to Flint. We lived only a few blocks from Uncle Bob and his family of three kids. Flint seemed to me like “Sundwick City.” My mother wasn’t happy about it.

Yet, all my schooling from age six through high school graduation was in the public schools of that fine industrial city.  It was mostly my mother who kept the standards high – and she was class-conscious. She embarked upon a college education for herself, would become a high school English teacher upon completion of her degree in an early graduating class of U of M-Flint, 1960. She was an adult, part-time, student. We had hired help around the house (Thelma, our African-American housekeeper and Boyce Buckner, our African-American yard man). Mom was going to get that college degree! She loved English literature more than anything, but I remember a sociology discussion with Mom about the distinction between middle-middle and upper-middle class. She steadfastly maintained we were middle-middle class. I heard her, but as I look back, it really seems more like upper-middle – at least in that Flint environment. My father’s position in plant-level management, with an engineering degree, solidified our standing -- especially when Mom became a high school teacher. Our country club membership was a marker, too.

I needed to move on. The Flint public schools did nothing to encourage me to stay and contribute to the community. My high school guidance counselor, my teachers, my parents, those aunts, all understood – Flint was no place for anybody like me, the anointed one in the Sundwick family.

My dad always talked of job security, his chief concern – you won’t find it in industry, work for the government, he said. My mother felt that a mind was a terrible thing to waste. And, my friends all received those same messages. We all left. Apparently, that trend only accelerated over the ensuing decades. Flint is now the poorest city of its size in the U.S. Not surprising that it would be forgotten five years ago when planning water supply redirection.

Getting Out

The social milieu of Flint, Michigan in the 1960s was perhaps an extreme case of the opposite of what I sought. Any “Big City” was the draw. It would only be there, I imagined, that I would ever fit – among intellectuals, people who made a difference with their minds and words. Not so much their hands, feet, or backs.

My strategy would be to get established somewhere in the public sector (or academia), then build a life. Unfortunately, the prospect of an end to student deferment after my college graduation forced a decision during those peak Vietnam War years. I postponed graduate school.

I wasn’t drafted, however (high lottery number). By that time, I found myself working in a public library system in Tampa, Florida. It was close to my parents, who had left Flint when I went off to college. The story continues with my pursuit of graduate work in the library field, at the University of Maryland, called “Library and Information Science” in those days, now simply “Information Studies.” From there, I embarked on my father’s dream career, the federal government – at the Library of Congress.

As the anointed one in the family, I was obligated to become a parent.  I had two sons with my wife, and my new role as solid rock, playful pal, and guarantor of their safety, was activated in the experience of parenting.

Now that I’ve “gone the distance’ – the boys are men, self-sufficient (mostly) –retirement has become feasible. Some personal issues remain: how long do I have? What happens when wife retires? When to downsize? But, these are still beyond the horizon. As I ask myself, “does it matter?”, motivation does sag a bit, as I’ve accepted that the world is bigger than me and my family. My contribution to it may be relatively small. But, it keeps growing.

Grandparenthood has given me a slight burst of enthusiasm -- grandchildren do matter, after all. As I replay the rock, the playmate, the safety guarantor, roles yet again, I reflect on those origins. The family line continues.

My legacy could be teamwork. One son sees himself as the natural leader of a team, the other as a contributor to the team. What defines the team? Common bonds and purpose, I think. It’s not as hierarchical as the large family of three generations ago – much flatter organization chart!

I can enjoy that structure.

If violent misogyny was behind Toronto killings, Angela Nagle's book "Kill All Normies" may offer some insight to strange online groups like "incels" -- also see my blog post; "Misogyny: It's a Matter of Degree"

"Moral Struggles: Humility vs. Narcissism" -- Sept. 28, 2017 post -- revisited

  How I Hate My Gym

Let Me Count the Ways

William Sundwick

I’ve been a member at my gym for ten years. I faithfully follow a 4-day, 160-minute per week cardio workout routine. And, I added back-strengthening equipment two or three times each week (anticipating carrying around a grandchild).

It’s so damned boring!

How did I fall into this habit, anyway? Who convinced me? How do I measure success? Do I get anything from it?

First, I blame my doctor. He told me, in unvarnished language, that my family history put me in a high-risk category for heart disease. I couldn’t argue. I was 60. My job entailed a lot of walking around the Capitol Hill campus of the Library of Congress, but otherwise no exercise. Even with my cholesterol and blood pressure chemically controlled, he was not confident of my viability. Somehow, I convinced him that my diet was not overloaded with animal fats. So, physical activity was the only preventative therapy left. It would likely bring weight loss, too. That appealed to me. He has continued to encourage me ever since – to my chagrin.

Then, there was my wife. As we celebrated our Silver wedding anniversary in 2008 with a vacation in the Blue Ridge Mountains, it dawned on me that I wanted to keep this going much longer. The prospects might well depend on what I did to take care of myself. She agreed – and, promised to support me with her own exercise regime. Together we searched for an amenable, convenient fitness center – there weren’t quite as many in our neighborhood back then. When a new one opened, within walking distance of our house, we thought it worth a try (although we didn’t ever walk there). We’ve been there ever since. It falls into the “budget” category – few bells and whistles, no classes, no pool, or other things like that. Low risk. When I retired, and she continued working, our workout schedules diverged. Otherwise, it has remained a joint activity. We compare notes.

Retirement. That was a life change. I felt renewed. It’s possible that my decision was influenced in part by the greater confidence I now had because of my gym. I had dropped twenty-five pounds within a year-and-a-half of joining – and, kept it off, without changing in my diet. Admittedly, I had been eagerly anticipating sleeping in; but, still, the retirement that looked good before I left continued to feel good afterwards. I was 67, but felt like 57, and I’d put in my Civil Service Retirement System maximum of 41 years, 11 months. I could retire with 80 per cent of my “high three” salary average. I felt I had an edge over those who waited until poor health slowed them down. I would go while still able-bodied.

Fitness remained part of my plan. I would make up for lost steps at work by taking regular neighborhood walks, mapping alternate routes that all led to my Fitbit-required 10,000 steps per day. I settled on a health club routine of 160 minutes of moderate cardio exercise each week – elliptical, bike, treadmill. (the treadmill eventually disappeared, for the same reason I can’t run – my feet). That has been the routine ever since. Without a requirement to be in an office for eight-and-a-half hours five days a week (working from home was never permitted in my job), allocating the time for workouts was easy.

Two problems did arise with my gym routine, however. The first, doing the same thing day-in and day- out got very tedious. And, second, after my initial eye-popping weight loss, how could I measure further improvements in my health and fitness? I learned to deal with the first problem, with the help of my beloved iTunes playlists and my affinity for the banal – a legacy from my working days, I suspect.

It was the second issue that caused the greatest concern. For those ambitious souls who have fitness goals, there are apps which track their progress (my Fitbit app could do some of this, too) – but, my only goal was to stay healthy, feel good, and live to 100! The only way to measure its impact would be to stop, then see what happens. That seemed too drastic an experiment – especially as I became more invested in my workout routine.

Eventually, I accepted that my current mental state was fine and there wasn’t really anything else I would rather do with the blocks of time I spent at the gym. How sad is that? Sometimes, it even seems like stopping would signal “defeat” – this is who I am now! I’ve convinced myself that I owe my loved ones as much active lifespan as I can possibly deliver. Is this some peculiar facet of narcissism?

One other potentially awkward side effect of an old man (now 70) feeling healthy and vigorous, even youthful, is his libido. Yes, I’ve noticed attractive young women at the gym. That increase in confidence from new-found fitness has occasionally caused humility to give way to friskiness!  The awkwardness here is more laughable than humiliating, or demeaning, I hope. I am still a gentleman – even when embarrassed.

Some gyms make efforts to encourage socialization. Perhaps not those in the “budget” category, though. Bare-bones memberships do not include many social contact opportunities. My gym most likely would not be a draw for the young single crowd -- unless they were serious about their workouts, of course. I’m basically a social animal, however. What do I make of the eerie solitude of my routine? Ear buds, listening to my favorite music, prevent me from hearing any conversations, yet I see the same faces every day. But, there is no incentive or mechanism to interact with them. It’s beginning to bother me. Who are these people? Shouldn’t there be some way I can “break the ice” – without appearing to be “coming on” to anybody?

I may make social contact at the gym a project.

Everybody seems bored, though. That includes the staff at the desk. It must be even worse for them than for us members – they put in long hours doing very little except answering the phone, cleaning up, and occasionally showing new prospective members around. Little wonder I can’t get any inspiring conversation started with them. Disclaimer: some interviews for this piece have been fruitful. Perhaps they’ll give me feedback post-publication?

Despite the reasonable goal of wanting to socialize more, from the few times I have managed to overhear conversations on the floor, or in the men’s locker room, I must say, I’m not sure what I can do for these people. Is there anything they want from me? I wonder.

So, you get what you pay for in health club membership. Perhaps the low end of the market shouldn’t be expected to provide everything. Still, it’s always interesting to see what you can get out of any social situation. Push it, just like you push your body with your workout! The casualness and minimum hassle of my gym must be worth something.

Apparently, many people pay for health club memberships, more than what I pay, and don’t use them. That seems even stranger than my situation – I use mine! Both my wife and I continue our budget membership, continue to complain, but continue to faithfully attend. It must fit our lifestyles. We persist, she on her early evening schedule, me during the day. And “the beat goes on.”

  Politics of Outrage

Debating Policy and Ideology Is Only Fun for a Few

William Sundwick

The first principle of politics: it’s about gaining and wielding power. Practitioners of politics are interested mostly in dominance. They’re motivated by biology and genes.

The second principle of politics: we all engage in political behavior. We spend our lifetime learning how to most effectively influence others, how to get what we don’t have, and how to protect it once we get it. It is the human condition.

In the United States, like most countries in the modern world, politics has become institutionalized as the profession of manipulating the feelings and thoughts of the population toward that singular goal of achieving and holding power. Professional politicians are experts in the use of the tools that make this possible.

Nothing gained by appeal to intellect

Manipulating emotion has been shown to be a far more effective motivator than appealing to intellectual faculties. Discussing policy planks does not equate to more votes. Emotional appeals tend to seek the lowest common denominator – gut instincts. Few voters can censor those gut feelings sufficiently to allow their intellect to govern their behavior at the polls. If they did, they might be likely to stay away from the voting booth altogether! (Granted, sometimes an effective strategy.) So, “Lock Her Up!” and #LockHimUp become popular rallying cries and social media memes.

And it’s not just voters who are susceptible to the appeals to outrage and baser emotions. Once elected, a public official will discourage independent thinking among staff, instead emphasize personal loyalty. Supporters are kept in the fold not only by producing a more entertaining show than the prospective opponents, but also through incentives and intimidation.

Successful politicians avoid revealing unpleasant aspects of the business of power – like throwing former allies under the bus, or any hint of corruption in their dealings. Unless, of course, the opponent shows even more unpleasantness!

Competition for attention

The 21^st century media environment is far different from the one politicians of a previous generation learned to master. Advertising must be targeted to more platforms than before, and narrowcast to many audiences, rather than broadcast to one audience. It has become a science. And, in the end, it is emotion, especially outrage, that will grab audiences best. Emotional stimuli are what generate clicks. Clicks are what you pay for. Data analytics are also what a savvy politician pays for. The winner in an election will most likely be the one who best understands the demographics and emotional signaling of certain narrowcast messages.

Who pays for all this? No changes here, only three types of financial resources. There is personal wealth, there is corporate cash (PACs as well as individual contributions), and there is grassroots fund raising. The distribution formula for these methods of fund raising may vary – many in public office have mastered one or two methods, but not all three. Any of the three may succeed individually, but only if well guided by  data analytics from consultants.

Identity politics and intersectionality

Recently, a new term has emerged to explain the “politics of outrage.” It is “identity politics.” In addition to the well-accepted propensity for voters to respond best to emotional rather than rational appeals, it now appears that there is, in the U.S. as well as many other developed democracies, an accelerating drift toward tribalization in politics. The tribes are not necessarily defined by geography, but may be defined by common backgrounds and interests, level of education, urbanization, etc. In the best post-Marxist sense, they are based on class divisions! Race plays a role, for sure, and language, too (both in the U.S. and Europe), as do gender and religion. But, among “whites” voting patterns mostly depend on those more traditional class conflicts, the same ones we’ve known throughout the last century in America. Party loyalties between Democrats and Republicans have flipped for working class white Americans and professional class white Americans. True, non-white voting patterns have not changed much – and Dems always point out that there are more of them now, if you can just get them to the polls!

Identity politics would lead only to fragmented coalitions, and destructive rivalries in a two-party system, if it weren’t for another trend, most visibly promoted by feminists. That trend is something called “intersectionality.” It resembles the classic Marxian analysis of power dynamics in society – namely, oppressed groups (the “marginalized”) have more in common with each other than with the oppressors (the “privileged”). Hence, alliances between marginalized groups are natural. One group should fight for the improvement of the other groups. It seems to offer a solution to racism, sexism, homophobia, and even economic inequality! But, alas, there are many who think that commonality of aspirations between the marginalized (“temporarily embarrassed millionaires”) and the privileged within a certain community, are stronger than the bonds between marginalized in different communities. Thus, tribalism overcomes class struggle. Perhaps, if intersectionality had as high a profile in the popular imagination as identity politics has recently achieved, we would see the balance of power shift.

Is it only the campaigns?

What must be done to win an election might not matter so much, if the actual business of governing were a well-oiled professional machine. Unfortunately, it is not. Once in office, politicians cannot escape the forces that put them there. They attempt to mollify constituents with boiler plate letters and town halls. Their decision making in preparation for a vote doesn’t usually require input from their voters. Only after the fact do politicians have to explain the vote. But, the outrage factor for the tribes makes any attempt at cross-aisle conversation risky. No elected office holder wants to be seen by constituents as a “collaborator.” And, the outrage merchants in the media are omnipresent.

When it comes time to stand for re-election (nearly continuous for two-year terms), a politician must think of those donors – what to say to them? How to conceal those conversations from voters? Time, once again, for those data analytics.

Can we voters resist the politics of outrage? Social media clearly need some critical review – not just for “fake news,” but for click-bait as well.  Can Facebook and Twitter be held accountable? Is regulation necessary, or can they self-police? For new voters, should schools be more actively training kids to censor those emotional gut feelings?

Understanding the economics of politics surely helps, but “follow the money” often leads only to further outrage. Knowing your allies and your enemies is the correct path to follow here.

As always, the inequality trap hampers effective political action by many marginalized groups – by definition they are poor, with limited resources. The powerful will be able to muster far more resources, unless strength in numbers can overcome their advantage. It points to the vital importance of intersectionality for any decisive change in politics.

A sober look at the immediate future suggests things will get worse before they get better. But, if we survive, they will get better …

Fantastic video, just discovered -- George Thorogood with John Lee Hooker, Elvin Bishop, Willie Dixon, John Hammond -- live at Capitol Theatre, Passaic, NJ in 1984 -- play it, then read my post from February, "Boogie Til You Drop"

Courage, Determination, Strength

Face-to-Face with Disability Awareness

William Sundwick

We knew about her disability. We had hosted her in our home once before, three years ago, for a different event in Washington. But this time was different. Activism was her primary motive. The earlier event had been about religious advocacy in a more general sense. This time we shared her outrage and planned on participating in the “March for Our Lives,” anyway.

My primary mood preceding her arrival from Ottawa was that although we had an obligation to her (i.e., sympathy for her plight), I dreaded having to deal with her multiple disabilities for a whole week! She uses a walker due to balance issues, is hard of hearing with aids that are only partially effective, and near-sighted without a proper prescription for eyeglasses – apparently, even the Canadian health care system can’t help the poor and disabled enough. Also, swallowing and denture issues prevent her from eating many of the foods that are a staple in our household (not to mention restaurants).

Is it her poverty that’s the key to her difficulty? Perhaps -- even in Canada.

Most of the resources on Turner Syndrome emphasize that early identification (even prenatal) is best for what may be prolonged ERT (Estrogen Replacement Therapy). That’s the first thing that jumps out when you read the descriptions of the genetic abnormality. But our Canadian friend was not diagnosed until her teen years, when she failed to menstruate. Her symptoms nevertheless were manageable, once she accepted her likely infertility. She became a nanny and married an American.

Only as she approached middle age did things start to unravel. The 10 per cent hearing loss climbed over a few years to a 50 per cent loss. Brittle bones and balance issues caused increasing danger for falls – she’s used a walker since her mid-forties. When she flies, she requests wheelchair accommodation. She looks for ramps and cuts in the curb when walking on the street. Our house has none of that. Closed captions on TV help her immensely, and she can’t use voice communication on her phone. She also needs a Blackberry with actual keys, can’t use the touchscreens of typical smart phones and tablets. At the Dulles ticket counter, she had trouble reading even the large signs over the airline desks.

Her American husband died from a massive stroke in 2005. He had suffered cardiovascular problems since he was tortured as a Vietnam prisoner of war. Lobbying Congress was on her agenda while in Washington. She cares about torture (her Facebook page: “Torture Is Always Wrong”). She hand-delivered a one-page letter to each Senator’s office (all 100, both parties) condemning the nomination of Gina Haspel as Director of Central Intelligence. Despite them being in recess, she was pleased by the reaction she received in the three Senate Office Buildings. She also gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up to her visit with the Dept. of Veterans Affairs. She’s confident that, after applying in person, she will be seeing survivor benefits soon. 

Her hand-painted sign for the March read “Canadians Stand with U.S. Children.” It was painted on a pillowcase by a friend. She claims that even in childhood she was outspoken – “listen to me!” “I’m special!” – she thanks her parents for much of her activism. The Turner diagnosis simply gave her more of a focus. Her husband’s struggle added to it. Now, she is convinced that she does matter – she can do much, she can instruct, she can share her strength and her resolve. She can create her own platform by shouting at demonstrations and writing angry emails. Her message, delivered wherever she can get a platform, consists mostly of: “there are many of us,” and “let me be your voice” – our rights are no fewer than others’ – and, we are eager to form alliances with other marginalized groups. We need to be “in your face” more, not less!

It is a powerful message. Those of us with privilege are forced to contemplate what it’s like to not be taken seriously. The implications for intersectionality cannot be missed. It really is about the blindness of privilege. We should all be called. There is no ambiguity in this message. We all need to seek affiliation with organizations that promote the marginalized -- whether churches, political party, charitable organizations, or street protests.

The marginalized include children who are potential victims of gun violence.

The marginalized include veterans who have been victims, beyond their understanding, of the horrors of war.

The marginalized include people who suffer the effects of rare genetic abnormalities that come to rule their lives.

When the privileged start noticing the marginalized, that’s a beginning. Next comes analysis. What accommodations are needed for the marginalized group? Who are the decision makers? What can be done to affect the power relations between the marginalized group and the decision makers? The Disabled need to tell the Able-bodied what they need. Others need to tell the powerful and privileged what they require, as well.

While it may feel good for the privileged to claim they sympathize (even empathize) with the marginalized, little is accomplished without action. Power analysis and direct confrontation – whether in the streets or at the polls, or both – is what will bring action. At the March, hundreds of thousands shouted in unison, “vote them out!” 

In the meantime, those of us who must force ourselves to pay attention, because it is so unpleasant to be aware of the marginalized, can listen. We can reflect on our own precarious privilege. I sometimes wonder how long I have before my mental acuity starts to slip – already, I am rattled when my daily routines are interrupted for a week by the visit of a disabled house guest -- I lost the nighttime use of my office, since it is in the only first floor room with a sofa bed (Quelle horreur!).

Yes, I am listening … yes, the struggle continues. It’s not easy to listen.