A Blog and Novel by S. M. Duke. Writing discussion, genre fiction, reviews, tips, and more!
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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I requested a review copy of Polly Horvath’s then-new children’s novel, Mr and Mrs. Bunny–Detectives Extraordinaire (2012). The quirky premise — a pair of rabbits taking on the role of detectives (duh) — gave me some strong The Rescuers vibes, and being a bit of...
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I requested a review copy of Polly Horvath’s then-new children’s novel, Mr and Mrs. Bunny–Detectives Extraordinaire (2012). The quirky premise — a pair of rabbits taking on the role of detectives (duh) — gave me some strong The Rescuers vibes, and being a bit of a closet animal fantasy nerd, I figured it was up my alley. And then I promptly forgot about it until now. You’re free to call me a monster.
The story splits its time between Madeline, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, and the Grand Poobah, who is mostly there to be the menacing villain. For Madeline, island life with her extreme hippy parents, Mildred and Flo, is no picnic, especially when it comes to her education and desire to fit in with “normal society.” But when her parents are kidnapped by what appears to be a car full of foxes and she discovers a note demanding to know the whereabouts of her code-breaking uncle, she must set out to save them. Enter Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, a couple of country bunnies who move to a more bustling bunny valley and decide to try their hand at being detectives, which they do by simply wearing fedoras. When they stumble upon Madeline, who can curiously understand them, they set out in their clunky way to help her find her parents and put an end to whatever the foxes are really planning. And meanwhile still, the Grand Poobah, the leader of the foxes, just wants someone to decode a set of coded recipe cards so he can make bank in his rabbit and rabbit by-products facctory. Hi-jinks ensue.
The thing about time is that it is often unkind even to seemingly silly books meant for children. This is a fact I discovered while reading Mary Norton’s The Magic Bed Knob (1945) and Bonfires and Broomsticks (1947), the former of which, while still mostly fun, spends a great deal of time hammering home a familiar colonial and racist narrative about island peoples and cannibalism. For the amusement of children. Ho hum. Time has been no less kind to Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, a book that, as the title of this review suggests, takes a decidedly conservative direction in its quirky story, something which, I’m afraid, I did not find amusing. The novel does not simply parrot loose conservative ideas about culture or narrative or simply present them as jokes that the reader is meant to be “in” on; rather, it seems to relish in these ideas with an almost brutal efficiency. Worse, it harbors contempt for its political opposite while parroting and delighting in ideals that, at best, are “Uncle Joe at Thanksgiving” acceptable and, at worst, toxic.
The most obvious example of this conservatism (small “c,” not big “c”) is in the novel’s treatment of Madeline’s parents. From the start, they are presented as woefully clueless hippies with little to no regard for the well-being of their child or for, well, anything but their eclectic set of hippy ideals. They refuse to work to cover expenses, they reject with self-righteous aplomb any semblance of modern society, and they regularly insult and belittle Madeline’s interests in school, graduation, or, well, anything. If that’s not enough, the narrator reminds us over and over that hippies are bad people: ignorant, abusive, and contemptible. If not for this being a book for kids, you might call this portrayal a flat straw man, a deliberate distortion of actual people for a political message.
Yet, because it is for kids, it feels even worse, especially in light of the fact that the novel’s heroes are the polar opposite and yet are meant to be viewed as a fun, quirky, and eccentric alternative to Madeline’s parents. They are caring and loving, but Mr. Bunny is also “that man,” repeatedly making things up despite Mrs. Bunny’s protests and repeatedly ignoring Mrs. Bunny’s wishes and desires. He rarely consults Mrs. Bunny about his decisions that affect her and regularly rejects her opinions even though it’s obvious to the reader that she is right. This is meant to be “cute,” but it comes off as a stereotypical “that man” marriage, rife with the sexist tropes one expects of the stereotype. Mr. Bunny even gifts us with numerous cultural rants, including one gem in which he lectures everyone about why tipping waiters is an affront to decency, which he uses as an excuse to leave a poor tip. Anyone spending time on social media will recognize this story in the numerous examples of customers leaving rude notes to waiters to explain why they didn’t tip.
All of this is buried in a narrative style that comes off as less quirky than self-obsessed and assured of its cleverness. The novel regularly wanders into rambling “jokes” about all manner of tangents. Sometimes they are actually amusing, but most of the time they distract from or come off as replacements for the story. For example, consider this:
And here Mr. Bunny paused for dramatic effect. He paused so long that several councilbunnies went out for coffee. One had time to order a short decaf double shot no whip mocha iced frappuccino to go. Mr. Bunny paused so long that when the councilbunny’s coffee cam, he had time to change his mind to a venti semi-skimmed soy no sugar caramel macchiato with no whip but double caramel and a reduced-fat skinny poppy seed and lemon muffin, hot, no butter. When the councilbunnies got back, Mr. Bunny was almost done pausing. They sipped their coffee and turned their attention back to him.Page 185-186.
First, I’d like to know how many children reading this book could reasonably understand both the cacophony of Starbucksian coffee slang and the sentence itself, which even a learned adult would struggle to read. Second, I’d like to know what the point of this was. Is it meant to be funny because, haha, bunnies like the same eccentric mouth-gumming coffee monstrosities as we do? Maybe this sort of humor was “in” back in 2012, but by golly does it come off as trite here (if not a tad insulting to people who actually enjoy their complex coffees). In terms of the plot, the dramatic pausing only exists to set up this “joke,” but within the context of what is actually happening (Mr. Bunny is on trial for consorting with marmots and humans, which, admittedly, is kinda amusing) it doesn’t really do anything but delay the inevitable: Mr. Bunny declaring that Madeline is their pet, and thus not subject to the law. If not for the previous 180+ pages of random tangents as setups for hopelessly modern “jokes,” I might have found this at least a tad amusing, but so much of Horvath’s book is stuffed with this stuff, delaying the plot for what seems an eternity.
These tangents also set up another critical flaw: the lackluster and largely unexplored animal fantasy. In the best talking animal books, the authors either totally excise any sense that the animals live in separate worlds from humans or attempt to imagine an animal society extrapolated from the actual animals. Here, however, there’s little logic to the existence of a bunny society (or any other animal societies). When the story needs them to have some feature, it gives it to them. Horvath neither commits to a fully realized animal society separate from humans or to a fully conceived anthropomorphic animal society. Instead, there are explicit descriptions of bunny behaviors paired with explicit descriptions of bunnies as nothing more than tiny humans with fur. This is meant to be quirky and fun, but it comes off more like a novel that doesn’t know what it wants to be.
As much as I wish I could say something nice about this book beyond the lovely illustrations by Sophie Blackall, in the end, I found it tacky, overly obsessed with its own cleverness, and, frankly, insulting. This isn’t a book in the vein of The Rescuers or Stuart Little. It’s a book that is too self-absorbed to realize that its contempt for its characters, its valorization of abusive tropes, and its incessant tangents and desperation to seem clever makes it memorable for the wrong reasons. It’s not a book for kids. It’s a training manual for conservative rabbits. And there’s a bloody sequel…
The U.S. military has begun appearing on U.S. streets in response to protests against police brutality and murder. The president has threatened more aggressive action, and fears abound about whether Trump can use the Insurrection Act to override the Posse Comitatus Act (an 1878 law that limits the president’s ability to deploy the military on...
The U.S. military has begun appearing on U.S. streets in response to protests against police brutality and murder. The president has threatened more aggressive action, and fears abound about whether Trump can use the Insurrection Act to override the Posse Comitatus Act (an 1878 law that limits the president’s ability to deploy the military on U.S. soil). Meanwhile, in his latest tantrum, Trump has issued an executive order to attack the lawsuit protections granted to social media companies under his false belief that a notification of a fact check on a publicly available tweet constituted censorship. Lawsuits challenging the order have already been filed, and we wait now to see what will be the next step in the increasingly unhinged rants and flails of a president who too often seems to live in an alternate reality.
In all of this, I’ve pondered a question I asked my students in a college writing class in 2017: is Donald J. Trump a fascist? Throughout the semester, they read non-fiction and literature ranging from Umberto Eco’s “Ur-fascism” to Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here to better understand what fascism is and the influence it had on U.S. culture. Back in 2017, the answer was a definitive “no, but.” No, he’s not a fascist, but he is an authoritarian. No, he’s not a fascist, but his behavior is unsettling. No, he’s not a fascist, but we should still be concerned. The question is one that the nation has struggled with since Trump’s election. There’s a good reason for that: fascism is, for most U.S.-Americans, an ill-defined concept. Much like the phrase “science fiction,” most of us are only equipped to identify it when we see it, and even then, not very effectively. I sought to combat that in my fascism course, and I’ll turn to some of that knowledge here to once more consider that infamous question.
In Robert Paxton’s The Anatomy of Fascism, he makes a compelling argument for a definition of fascism and an explanation for its rise. For Paxton, fascism cannot be defined by a cogent ideology, in part because fascists may have none or may use a variety of other ideological positions to scaffold their grab for power. As such, fascism differs remarkably from other ideological forms, especially those arising to power in the same period (communism, for example) and the most visible fascist societies in the 20th century (Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy). This is not to suggest that fascists cannot have an ideology; rather, what defines them as fascists isn’t the ideology to which they adhere. For that reason, fascists may borrow from other ideological structures, often to absurd effect, as a ladder for the manipulation of a society and the seizure of power. For Paxton, in other words, fascism is a political phenomenon defined by its behaviors and development or paradigmatic stages, which include:
Anyone familiar with Paxton’s work who looks at the United States of 2020 would be hard pressed to argue that we are not already many steps into the fascist development. The “Make America Great Again” slogan of the Trump administration demonstrates clearly the first paradigm even as protests across the nation and the rapid decline of U.S. favor around the world continues around us. The very election of Trump — a product, arguably, of at least 8 years of blatant and public political deadlock and polarization — points clearly to the second paradigm. I’d also argue that the endless desire of traditional Democrats to find bipartisan support in those same 8 years and beyond — an effort frequently in vain — shows us the third. The notion that the Democratic party is a truly left party, which we hear all the time in the political sphere, is laughable given that by any other western measure, the Democrats are conservatives. That more left leaning Democrats and politicians are challenging the traditional neo-liberalist hold on the Democrat party makes it even more clear that we are either in or through the third paradigm.
This leads us to the fourth and fifth, two of the most important paradigms in Paxton’s framework, but also two of the most difficult to see at societal scale in the U.S. If not for recent events, I might have argued that we were verging on but not yet in the fourth paradigm. Yet, the increasing use of police force (and manipulation) against the current protests across the country and the Trump administration’s efforts to use military force make it clear that we’re at least within that paradigm. While I don’t think the fourth stage is fully realized, the fact that the military have been present on U.S. streets in some cities is enough to convince me that we are within it. And since the fourth paradigm is still in process, we can’t yet be within the fifth even if it’s clear from a close analysis of Trump’s governing style and behavior that this is the direction we’re going.
All this is to say that while the U.S. is not yet a proper fascist state, we are well on our way there. Experts and survivors of fascism and related oppressive governments have been warning us since the election of Trump, yet the rise of (white) nationalist populism has proceeded apace, slowed largely because there are still systems of power in place to prevent it. But we should know that if those systems did not exist, many of the most brutal and horrific things this president imagines would have come to pass. But why should we be concerned, then? If fascism is in the United States and it’s currently stalled by checks and balances, should we really be worried?
The answer is “yes.” And the reason is Donald J. Trump. That the Trump administration and its supporters (Republicans in general) plan to uproot the system by packing the courts with conservative judges should serve as a serious warning about the health of our democracy. More importantly, Trump’s rhetoric and behavior, if left unchecked, make it hard to argue that we are not dealing with a fascist in practice. In the same book, Paxton suggests that fascists are governed by a range of behaviors or passions that help propel the movement forward. Broken down, they paint a stark picture of the current state of politics in the U.S.:
I don’t think Trump realizes that he is a fascist, but I think that largely because Trump doesn’t read and appears to have a shaky-at-best grasp of reality. But what he realizes and what is true are often very different things, especially for this president. For that reason, I think he represents a greater fascistic threat in U.S. society than more eloquent and thoughtful variations, in part because Trump has an inability to filter himself or think through most anything he says or does. For some who have clambered for this sort of political momentum, it’s a glorious moment. For those who value democracy and reasoned discourse, it’s a nightmare.
There is, however, a small bit of hope in all this: Trump is also a coward. Like all blathering authoritarians, Trump can and sometimes is called on his bluffs. When faced with what most would consider his defining moment of his presidency — responding to civil unrest in U.S. streets — he allowed himself, unlike his main opponent, Joe Biden, to be whisked away to a bunker for safety. Instead of taking his security detail and walking out to speak with protesters, he had them (and the press covering them) gassed so he could stage a photo op at a church (which denounced the move). One thing we know about cowardly authoritarians: they never last.
But the fact remains: Donald Trump is a fascist. And it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.
To suggest that protest in the United States is in its blood would be an understatement. Even a flippant view of the creation of this nation would require a recognition that the very founding of the United States was predicated on a string of protests. The casual references to the Boston Tea Party of 1773...
To suggest that protest in the United States is in its blood would be an understatement. Even a flippant view of the creation of this nation would require a recognition that the very founding of the United States was predicated on a string of protests. The casual references to the Boston Tea Party of 1773 and other events in the decades leading up to the American Revolution would have to recognize the train of events as inevitable stepping stones to violence. The founding American story is an easily discernible hill that one must climb, fall down, and climb again: peaceful protest, destruction of property, looting and rioting, rebellion, and revolution.
Yet, in the grand scheme of U.S.-American culture, we have often segregated our favorite variations of the pattern from the less comfortable ones. U.S.-Americans can joke about the Boston Tea Party or raise their fists over the Revolutionary War, but the same fervor and pride is noticeably absent when it comes to the same patterns concerning racial injustice, as in the case of the Slave Insurrection of 1741 or Nat Turner’s Rebellion in 1831. U.S.-Americans during the era of slavery responded to possibility of slave revolts not by recognizing the immorality of the slavery system but by stifling dissent, increasing their control on slaves, and preserving white society. Later, U.S.-Americans would split their views on the institution of slavery while preserving a segregated society — by law in the South and by design in the north. Later still, U.S.-Americans were split again on the Civil Rights movement, with far too many supporting the use of police violence to stop dissent (with the help of the FBI). And today, that familiar response is here again.
In Ferguson in 2014, protests over the police killing of Michael Brown were met by police in riot gear, SWAT teams, tear gas, and other non-lethal methods of crowd dispersal (and violence). Police also destroyed a memorial laid by Michael Brown’s mother, adding fuel to a fire that would erupt into riots. Three years later, Vice President Mike Pence, following the lead of many angry U.S.-Americans, would storm out of an NFL game after several 49ers players knelt in solidarity with Colin Kaepernick and in protest of racial injustice. Pence, who probably staged the walkout, stated that he left because he would not “dignify any event that disrespects our soldiers, our Flag, or our National Anthem,” a sentiment shared by Trump and later emphasized when the cast of Hamilton offered a dissenting message to Pence at the conclusion of their performance in the same year. For Trump, apparently, being told that his administration may be contributing to the unsafe conditions for minority populations constituted an attack on the safety of the institution of the theater, despite, it should be clear, the Hamilton cast offering little more than words. And in Minneapolis, peaceful protests were similarly met by police, and just as in Ferguson, peaceful protests turned to riots. The murder of George Floyd has likewise sparked protests and possible riots across the country. As I said the other day: America burns.
The message from the bottom to the top is pretty clear: you can protest, but not like that or like that or like that…
U.S.-Americans are fond of proclaiming their appreciation of dissent and protest. It’s so ingrained in our culture that we often utter the phrase “your right to protest” without critically examining its unequal distribution. White Americans can show up at government buildings armed to the teeth to protest stay-at-home orders and face little more than ridicule on Twitter. They can crowd government buildings so that business cannot be conducted. The same cannot be said about black America, who are frequently met with police violence, mass arrests, and more, even though they are rarely armed with more than signs and the occasional bottle. The contrast is stark.
Beyond this unequal distribution, U.S.-Americans are also remarkably adept at outright rejecting demonstrations when they don’t conform to the dominant narrative. Protests against racial injustice — a demonstrable and objective problem that extends back to the founding of the nation — challenge the U.S.-American narrative of itself, a narrative created and disseminated by white America. They challenge our institutions and our understanding of our world. They are, unsurprisingly, uncomfortable things. Yet, the fact that protests are meant to provoke discomfort, to challenge entrenched institutions of power, and to seek justice is often lost in the translation, this despite the dominant narrative’s obsession with forms of protest that provoke these very things. It’s hard to view the foundational arguments about taxation without representation as anything but explicit challenges to entrenched institutions, or as naturally uncomfortable forms of protest for loyalists and the British, or as attempts to seek justice. Go through the U.S.-American (dominant white) narrative, and you’ll find countless stories about this very thing, even when those stories end with peaceful protests rather than looting or property destruction or rebellion. Even when this U.S.-America acknowledges racial injustice, it’s often merely to prop up the fundamental myth of the Great America that dispelled its demons for a more equal society.
The unfortunate truth is that the protests in Minneapolis and the protests of racial injustice over the last 30 years are a product of a predominately white public that views most acts of protest as an attack. Indeed, many predominately white Americans have felt themselves under attack by a culture that seems destined to leave them behind, a kind of victimhood that absolves them of responsibility. Rather than treat protests as opportunities for community discussion, far too many wish to dismiss them out of hand. We saw this all too well with the reactions to Kaepernick’s knee protests. No matter how many times he or others tried to explain his position, the narrative of racial injustice was always left behind. His protest was the wrong way. His protest upset people. His protest made us uncomfortable because it flew in the face of the institutions we had uncritically accepted as unchangeable. You can protest, but not that way, or that way…
In the end, it’s hardly surprising that there are riots in Minneapolis and elsewhere. It’s hardly surprising that there are protests happening across the country or that so many people are fed up. This is what happens when people who feel slighted, ignored, and literally brutalized by the de facto U.S. police state try to follow society’s rules and realize that they aren’t being heard. They rebel. They riot and burn things to the ground.
U.S.-Americans (especially white Americans) don’t want to hear it, but they need to. This is the bed that the dominant culture of this country made for itself. Riots are not pure chaos. They are not without provocation. They are a symptom of a disease ravaging the nation. A disease of inaction. A disease of injustice. A disease of closed doors. And they are by no means the “preferred method.” But when the preferred method doesn’t work, what else is there?
The country isn’t burning because the protesters have lost their minds or because they are bad people, even if some of them probably have and probably are… The country is burning because too many of us didn’t want to listen when the message was just a little uncomfortable. And just like the empires of old, sometimes the only way to get a message across is to punch the person who isn’t listening in the face. Or to burn part of your community to the ground to feel a sense of control in a world that has stripped you of it. Whether it works doesn’t really matter.
My friend K. Worthen made a great point in her recent article, “The Frenzy of Our Frustration“:
And yet, it would be unthinkable, in fact repugnant, to not speak, to not scream, to not rage at this persistent juridical, legal, political, and social devaluation of Black life. Throughout its history, it is the one thing that America has done with malignant consistency. So we must speak. We simply cannot sit still.
The tension of U.S.-American protest rests in this moment of the unthinkable. The idea that an injustice can continue unchallenged forever, no matter how small or how large. That familiar narrative mountain always reappears. We protest. We destroy property. We rebel.
In the last four days, Minneapolis has been on fire, literally and metaphorically. On Monday (5/25), George Floyd was strangled to death by a police officer who placed his knee on Floyd’s neck for a total of seven straight minutes. The officer was white. George Floyd was black. In the wake of the murder, the...
In the last four days, Minneapolis has been on fire, literally and metaphorically. On Monday (5/25), George Floyd was strangled to death by a police officer who placed his knee on Floyd’s neck for a total of seven straight minutes. The officer was white. George Floyd was black. In the wake of the murder, the officer (and three others who were with him) was fired and Police Chief Medaria Arradondo has called for an FBI investigation; to date, no charges have been filed. Protests followed. Those protests soon became two straight evenings of riots; protesters turned from peaceful demonstration to destructive rage, lighting buildings on fire, looting stores, and creating mayhem.
Minneapolis is just one fire burning in the United States, a country that has struggled and sometimes fought tooth-and-nail to preserve its racist history. A history that lives today in the apparent racist SWATing-style attempt against an NYC Central Park bird watcher, the apparent lynching of a black man who was simply jogging, the systemic inequality contributing to a disproportionate number of deaths in black communities from COVID-19, and the rise of anti-Asian racism partly fueled by Trump. Minneapolis has its own unique racist history, from the destruction of the predominately black Rondo neighborhood in St. Paul during the construction of I-94 to the history of racism within the Twin Cities police forces — the same area in which Philando Castile was murdered. And just like the the country it resides in, Minneapolis is burning.
All of this is setup for what will be the inevitable string of arguments to justify the death of George Floyd. Indeed, in the wake of many police shootings of unarmed black men, the stories we’ll see fit into one of a small group of options: he was a criminal; he was doing something illegal (but totally minor) at the time; he lied about something; he tried to run; he reached for a gun; or he resisted arrest. Setting aside the fact that it’s often difficult to know what actually happened — and a dead black man cannot defend himself from accusations — or that most of these are hardly justifications for death (reaching for a gun being an exception only if it’s actually true and not simply claimed without evidence), only one of these is absurd even when it actually occurred: he resisted arrest.
“Resisting arrest” legally refers to someone who deliberately and knowingly attempts to prevent a police officer from conducting a lawful arrest — of themselves or someone else. U.S. states offer variations on this definition and its criminal consequences, and some courts have even ruled that resisting unlawful arrest may not be legal either. A Catch-22 of sorts. Yet, resisting arrest may also appear before the use of force, during the use of force, after the use of force, or even the quite popular “when the police officer needs an excuse for the use of force.” A fourth category might be “when the police offer decides the use of force should proceed directly to the use of lethal force,” as appears to be the case in the murder of George Floyd.
Yet, the legal scholarship and the public’s understanding of “resisting arrest” needs a serious reality check in the form of a biological roadblock: requiring someone to comply in most of these situations is completely antithetical to human nature and denies a basic human physiological function — the fight-or-flight response. And in denying that function, the very idea that one can “resist arrest” — let alone “resist arrest” knowingly in any meaningful way — seems, at best, irrational and utterly absurd.
“Fight-or-flight” is part of the body’s “stress response.” These days, we mostly talk about this response in the context of stress disorders and anxiety, but it applies equally as well to confrontations with police. In short (and super basic), when in danger, your brain’s emotional processing center sends distress signals the brain’s command center. This triggers an automatic response in the body that sends adrenaline into numerous systems, increasing your breathing and heart rate and causing other physiological changes, such as sharpened senses. All of this begins before your conscious responses can fully react — wherein your body’s parasympathetic nervous system might serve as a “brake” provided your ability to control your response to stress hasn’t been compromised. From here, a bit of a battle ensues. While your brain’s emotional processing center goes into overdrive, the logical response center attempts to process the information to determine the seriousness of the danger. In most brains in mildly threatening situations, the logical response center overrides the emotional processing center; in other situations, that response may be hindered or completely stifled by the body’s natural inclination towards “fight-or-flight.” This is sometimes called the amygdala hijack. Obviously, this can compromise decision making.
When people talk about “resisting arrest,” the implication is that altercations with the police are inappropriate situations for allowing this hijacking to occur. After all, they’re police officers; you’re not running away from a very angry bear. But the response to these situations suggests otherwise. Having an officer pin you by the neck with their knee or threaten you with a gun while you are unarmed or beat you with a baton or place you in a choke hold or throw you violently to the concrete … These are all perfectly justifiable reasons to give in to your fight-or-flight response. More importantly, it’s completely illogical and irrational to expect any everyday citizen to react otherwise. We are not trained to suppress our stress-based reactions. Ask yourself if you would allow anyone to throw you onto a concrete sidewalk and place their knee on your neck for seven minutes until you pass out. Would you stay perfectly still? Could you stay perfectly still? Could you stop yourself from resisting? Ask yourself whether you’d still give in if that person ignored your repeated complaints that you can’t breathe or that you’re in extreme pain. Could you do that? Do you think it reasonable to expect you to do so? I didn’t think so.
In almost all “resisting arrest” situations, what we hear are not stories of understanding — except from the black community and its allies. We hear people looking for justification. He resisted, so he deserved to be suffocated to death. He resisted, so the choke hold was acceptable. He resisted, so beating him repeatedly on the head was OK. He resisted, so slamming him to the concrete and holding him down with your knee in the center of his back until his heart gave out from stress was just fine. He resisted officers doing these things, so he deserved the offer to put a bullet through his choice at point blank range. The conversation never considers that maybe our police forces should be better trained in deescalation tactics. Most of you know this deep down because you, like most U.S.-Americans, were raised in a culture that told you violence was a last resort. Yet, for some reason, we don’t apply that same reasoning to the police, who hold the right that almost no American has in almost any situation: they are allowed to kill citizens.
None of this is “fine.” There is no moral justification for this anymore than there is to train children in active shooter drills when other solutions could correct the problem. We may tell children to listen to the police, but we don’t tell them that even perceived acts of defiance may result in violence that puts them at odds with their own biology. Some of them have to learn from their family and friends (or the hard way) that the mere presence of melanin will mean that defiance isn’t even necessary to receive this treatment. Worse, they will learn that far too often, the only choice is to give in to fight-or-flight because death is almost assured either way. Either you die being choked to death on the street over an imagined or largely benign crime or you die getting choked to death or shot to death on the street because you “resisted.” America’s racial Catch-22.
What America needs is an ethical reckoning. We need to recognize that resisting physiological instincts to protect your lives should not be perceived as a crime by default. That the job of the police should be to avoid this response through deescalation. That the police should use violence only as the last resort — and, yes, restraining techniques are violence. That “resisting arrest” is a bullshit crime used far too often to justify police violence and murder. Until we do, we will see these stories again and again. More protests will occur. More cities will burn. And it won’t be the fault of some uppity folk who deserve their lot — yet another bullshit excuse. It’ll be our fault for not doing anything to prevent the deaths of unarmed citizens, too often black, too often just folk like you or I, too often fathers and brothers and friends and nephews, and too often just trying to live without the everyday reminder that their lives are structurally devalued in the society in which they were raised.
Not too long ago, I announced a little project called “Finding Hope in the Histories of the United States.” I set as a goal to begin with a series of general histories of the United States to see if understanding the full line of this country’s history can change how I understand the concept of...
Not too long ago, I announced a little project called “Finding Hope in the Histories of the United States.” I set as a goal to begin with a series of general histories of the United States to see if understanding the full line of this country’s history can change how I understand the concept of “hope.” And now that project can finally begin!
For the past few weeks, I’ve been waiting on the books I selected for the project to arrive. More particularly, the first two books in the chronology (listed below and shown at the top of the image). All the others got here in record time, but for some reason, the books I needed to even begin took a little extra time. But now the wait is over. Here’s the magic reading list for the first phase of “Finding Hope”:
The list is as follows:
There’s a pattern here, of course. Most of the books are from the Oxford History of the United States. As I mentioned in the original post, I wanted to start from a solid foundation before moving to specific histories. There’s a reason for that. The biggest concern I have when reading history is the potential for manipulation, propaganda, or distortion. All history has some of this to a certain degree, but being able to suss out the more pernicious forms is, for me, crucial. I’m not a historian. But I am an academic who spends far too much time thinking about disinformation and its various cousins. It’s important to me to feel well-equipped to handle histories that might gloss over some aspects for others, even if the reason for that isn’t nefarious. And as I dug into academic readings lists and favored texts, the one group that came up over and over was the Oxford History of the United States. And so that’s where most of this project will start before bouncing off into the wild world of other non-general histories.
I hope you’ll follow along as I start to contemplate all this reading!
There is no shortage of television shows and films which place at center the question of human importance in the era of artificial intelligence. In film alone, the roots of this central question go back at least to Franz Lang’s expressionist film Metropolis (1927), with Maria’s robotic double wreaking havoc upon the titular city, a...
There is no shortage of television shows and films which place at center the question of human importance in the era of artificial intelligence. In film alone, the roots of this central question go back at least to Franz Lang’s expressionist film Metropolis (1927), with Maria’s robotic double wreaking havoc upon the titular city, a theme found in literature stretching back beyond even Frankenstein (1818). Film and television have, as such, been long interested in artificial intelligence, whether in computer form, as in Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970) or 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), or robot form, as in The Invisible Boy (1957) or The Day the Earth Stood Still (1957).
One common feature in Western (especially U.S.) cinema is the threat of such technologies to human life, whether for sadistic or noble purposes. Our machines develop a mind of their own and turn on us, either because we plan to oppress them or because machine interests and human interests do not align (see The Matrix (1999)). When machines aren’t determined to kill us, they may require us to relinquish control, as in our contemporary fear of automation, which means restructuring society to find new things for humans to do while machines (artificially intelligent but not sentient) can continue to produce for us. U.S.-American science fiction, in a sense, has always been wary of our technology even as we allow it to bleed into our everyday lives and even when that “bleed” results in some truly creepy moments.
I can’t fairly trace these themes in Japanese cinema or literature, except to point out that the impact of technology on the human “soul” features heavily in so much of its most famed productions. One cannot help but watch films like Godzilla (1954) or The Place Promised in Our Early Days (2004) and see the impacts of atomic weaponry and other destructive technology on a certain perspective of the world, a fact many scholars of Japanese cinema and literature have explored. Indeed, none of this is even particularly surprising. Yet, the theme of AI and control is one I hadn’t considered in the anime context until watching the original video animation (OVA) on review today: Yukikaze (Sentō Yōsei Yukikaze; 2002-2005). In truth, I don’t think I can fairly trace this as someone who hasn’t been in the universe of anime for over a decade. I can say that my first introduction to these themes was in the classic Ghost in the Shell (1995), a film with many thematic similarities to Yukikaze. Both Psycho-pass (2015) and Sword Art Online (2017) feature AIs of some description along with earlier material such as the manga Outlaw Star (1996-1999), though having never seen any of these, I can’t attest to their presentation beyond what a Google search will reveal. Yet, it seems to me that AI in anime is often either benign, an objective threat, or an immersive force that may consume the mind. It’s the last of these forms I’d like to explore a bit here.
Yukikaze is based on the novel of the same name by Chōhei Kambayashi, an 8-time Seiun Award winner whose other notable works include Teki wa kaizoku, kaizokuban (Enemy Pirate, Pirate Edition), Purizumu (Prism), and many others. Yukikaze primarily follows a disconnected and seemingly (mostly) emotionless Lt. Rei Fukai, the pilot of a fighter featuring an advanced artificial intelligence named “Yukikaze.” In this 21st century, an alien force called the JAM arrived via a dimensional portal and attempted to invade Earth; unbeknownst to the public, the JAM are thwarted by the UN, pushed back to their homeworld, designated “Fairy,” and beset upon by a UN defense forced called the Fairy Air Force (FAF). Yet, the longer the campaign runs, the more the FAF realizes that the JAM are learning to adapt, perfecting what may be a human cloning experiment to defeat the FAF from the inside, something “Yukikaze” and Lt. Fukai may be uniquely equipped to detect.
At the center of this narrative is a curious question: what happens to us when we place our trust in a military AI? Yukikaze‘s answer is pretty simple: you’ll sniff out and destroy your enemies, but some of your pilots may find themselves disconnected from everyone else. While the main tension of this story should be the battle against the JAM, who have effectively discovered a way to infiltrate the FAF using clones of human beings and their technology, the most compelling aspect is Fukai’s relationship to Yukikaze and his commanding officers. We never see who Fukai was before becoming an FAF pilot — though aspects are suggested to us by other characters; instead, our introduction to Fukai is as a man who appears disconnected from the rest of the world, with Yukikaze as his center. In the first episode, Fukai encounters an apparent copy of his fighter and is later captured by the JAM. After his escape, he battles the apparent clone and is eventually ejected by Yukikaze, putting him in a catatonic state; Yukikaze subsequently downloads itself into an experimental jet meant precisely for AI control. Yet, as the narrative progresses, the suggestion for the viewer is that the success of an AI-controlled jet relies on its relationship to a human pilot — a kind of symbiotic relationship. In continuing that relationship with Yukikaze, though, we’re forced to reckon with the fact that the only thing separating the two is their physical forms. The deeper they go, the more they rely on one another: Fukai on Yukikaze to provide analysis and control a human actor cannot; Yukikaze on Fukai to provide, perhaps, a physical connection to the world and a tactical mind that mere numbers cannot adequately imagine.
This AI theme extends in curious ways to the main plot of the story. The JAM’s successful effort to insert sleeper agents into the FAF raises serious questions for the FAF and Fukai about the quality of the self. When we meet Tom “Tomahawk” John (a Native American avionics expert who believes himself to be a coward), we’re led by the hand to feel deeply sympathetic to the soft spoken man, so much so that when it becomes clear that Tom is, in fact, a JAM copy, the animation lingers on his final act and words for greater effect. As he sacrifices himself, he remarks that Fukai’s special unit have always seemed cold-hearted (though, here, Fukai displays considerably more emotion than we are used to): “But still, I guess you really are human. I don’t want to have a heart like ice forever. I am…” I think I’m right to note two interesting things here: 1) that Tom makes a clear reference to the western conception of the self (what we know as Descartes); and 2) that Tom’s sacrifice is a final act that affirms the human self while rejecting the JAM self.
Essentially, much of Yukikaze‘s underlying philosophy concerns the relation of selfhood to technological development. Who do we become when our technology becomes part of and inseparable from “us”? For Fukai, the question is one of symbiotic relationships: that you cannot operate so closely with the machine without becoming part of it, and that there is a degree of give and take one cannot avoid. Fukai, as such, relinquishes himself to Yukikaze, as if accepting the AI as an extension of himself; this acceptance is seemingly finalized in the last moment as Fukai and Yukikaze appear to sacrifice themselves by guiding nukes into the center of the JAM homeworld. For Tom, however, the realization that one may not be wholly human is responded to with rejection: that the technological controls only what you let it, and that affirming the self against its technological origins in an act of sacrifice is the most human activity; death, in other words, is a human act.
It’s worth noting here that I read this idea in Yukikaze primarily because the JAM are never presented to us as anything but a kind of technology, both biological and machine. That they may be part of a giant organize (watch the ending for yourself) doesn’t really change this view for me. This, I think, is deliberate so we focus less on their motivations and more on what makes them purely other: they are not symbiotic with sentient beings; they, like Tom’s brief dialogue suggests about Fukai, are indistinguishable from their technology. In other words, in contrast to the UN, who reject the purely technological solution to the JAM in favor of Fukai’s symbiotic relationship with Yukikaze, the JAM have relinquished themselves to technology. That Tom — and, later, several people who are bombed out of existence for fear that they are JAM sleeper agents (and probably are) — is given a moment to assert his identity is important, though. If Fukai is presented as cold-hearted at times, we can forgive him because of who he faces in the skies. Yet, the deeper into this cloning plot we get, the more we begin to realize that the JAM have ultimately failed to excise the self from their technology; in fact, they’ve done quite the opposite: emerging from the cloning goo are confused, messy, and ambiguous beings, not pure machines.
There’s a lot more to be said about this show, but it seems prudent to end my ramblings here. I highly recommend watching Yukikaze as soon as possible. It is absolutely gorgeous, and you can see the entire series on Tubi (free and legal)!
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