Tag: all

  • It’s All Academic: Bad Ideas Bloom

    A few years ago, I had occasion to walk regularly past the university in Galway. My journeys took me across the Salmon Weir Bridge, which had narrow footpaths and has since been relieved by a new footbridge, and up past the cathedral and the university. Often, I found myself walking against the current of students coming from the university. The various encounters along the way were sometimes surprisingly hostile. Many of the students seemed fired up with startling aggressive intent. Their demeanour reminded me of us as kids pouring out of the cinemas having watched a Bruce Lee movie, flexing fledgling muscles, feeling ready to take on the world.

    Naturally, I wondered: is it just me or is this a thing? On one occasion, when a young black woman glared at me on sight, for no apparent reason, a paraphrase of Ali G’s line popped into my mind, “Is it cuz I’s white?” That made me smile, for a while anyway, until I realized there was likely more than a grain of truth in it.

    I had attended that university as a mature student, took an arts degree, majored in English and sociology/politics (soc ‘n’ pol) and I do recall feeling similarly fired up at the time about the injustices of capitalism and so on, leaving me inclined to glower at men in suits. Was I now the man in the suit?

    I read up on what was being disseminated in the universities that was causing students in England and across the West to tear down statues and demand reparations for slavery, among other outraged activities. Back in the 70s and 80s, this same type of young person would be forming bands or theatre troupes, annoying no one, but neighbours and critics. What has changed?

    Pilgrims Going to Church by George Henry Boughton (1867).

    The New Puritans

    I came across a very helpful book by Andrew Doyle called The New Puritans: How the Religion of Social Justice Captured the Western World, which pretty much laid out the entire state of play: woke ideology filling the place that religion used to occupy and becoming a pseudo-religion itself.  It seemed that I, as a “white hetero male with colonialist tendencies,” as a student might put it, was actually the new framed culprit for everything wrong with the world. A kind of latter-day elder of Zion, guilty of everything, with an innate desire to colonise as a result of an innate desire for violent expression and appropriation. In a word, I’m “bad”, and not in a good way, as in rapper “cool”. And not even salvageable. To put it religiously, I’m beyond redemption.

    This idea of the “white hetero male”, as being “violent” likely stemmed from a confusion of terms, where male competitiveness was equated with “aggression”, which then brought the word “violent” into the word family, to be used for effect in argumentative debate, because everyone responds to scare stories and everyone loves a villain to make themselves look “good” in comparison. And what is a lecture after all but a kind of performance, the students filling the lecture theatres of the western world being the audiences. From this perspective the idea of the violent white male is a kind of pulp fiction, designed to thrill, while giving the freshers something to shoot at.

    But as philosopher and neuroscientist Sam Harris puts it, there usually aren’t that many bad people around at any one time. Maybe only 1% or so of people are psychopaths and sadists in any one historical moment. More often there are bad ideas that good people act upon with good intentions and usually disastrous consequences.

    And it seems from what I’ve learned from Doyle’s book and other sources, that Western universities have been disseminating some very bad ideas for a long while now, among them the idea that all white men are innately violent and all their works corrupt and deserving of destruction. But they don’t call it “destruction”. They call it “dismantling”. Meaning, I suppose, polite destruction.

    “No, Marie Antoinette, we’re not chopping off your head, silly girl, we’re simply dismantling you.”

    Then as if things weren’t complicated enough, meaning itself is regarded as a “construction” to facilitate patriarchal power, and that definitions of anything you care to name are totally subjective. Meaning, everything has many meanings. As many meanings as there are people. Which means that nothing has any real meaning, only subjective interpretation. Which means that everything is meaningless and ultimately the best yarn wins.

    All these bad ideas then became cornerstones of black studies, leading to the conclusion of the increasingly discredited doctrine of Critical Race Theory, which itself is racist, and often proudly so – “Now it’s our turn!” – that “violent” white people owe people of colour big time, with, apparently, justified hell to pay. A belief system which is perhaps even inspiring the killing of white farmers in South Africa.

    Incidentally, the “Now it’s our turn” idea also comes from feminism, and was used by some feminists to justify abuses of power when they gained authority over others, conveniently failing to recognize that far from creating equality Heaven on Earth, many of them seemed instead quite determined to create the same old same old, with themselves in the seats of power. Proving, at least, that power and ambition still have very definite meanings.

    Compulsory

    When I started in university in the early 1990s, one of the things that struck me as odd at the time was that gender studies was compulsory. The last time I’d been in “school”, Irish language was compulsory and eventually people saw that this was a bad idea because it created a system of inequality, favouring some and side-lining others. Now here I was, back in “school”, and the university, which I understood as being a place of free-thinking, had a compulsory subject. It all seemed a bit “off” to me.

    I asked some people I knew who worked in education about the oddity of having a compulsory subject in the free-thinking university, and both just looked back at me and said absolutely nothing, immovably shtum, although both exuded the vibe that this was some kind of unmentionable thing and that I would be best off saying no more about it, which I duly did, obediently attending the various compulsory gender studies lectures and seminars, to no great advantage.

    “To put it clearly, girls: white men are bad, but white women are good. We’re their first victims. And there’s hell to pay”

    Ironically, feminists also appear to have placed themselves in the role of white saviour to the Third World. Now heading up NGOs and helpfully inviting millions to “deserved better lives” in the likes of Newtownmountkennedy, they continue the task of identifying “bad” people, most of whom, oddly enough, come wrapped in white skin with male genitalia, making them easy to spot.

    “Look! A violent colonialist misogynist! Get him!”

    On top of all that, those radicalised students emerging from Western universities appear to believe that anyone who disagrees with them, on even the most trivial point, is actually evil, if not in direct league with Satan, and possibly psychically and spiritually contagious, justifying physical reprimand, as was demonstrated recently in Limerick when student Jamie O’Mahoney waved an Israeli flag during a pro-Palestine meeting. It’s little wonder then that these unfortunate students, at the receiving end of an education seemingly designed to make enemies of their fellow countrymen, now appear to have so much in common with radical Islam.

    Friedrich Nietzsche

    Theory to Practise

    Well-intentioned theory, as was so strikingly demonstrated by the Nazi misreading of Nietzsche, doesn’t always bloom beautifully into reality. For instance, one of the current real-world consequences of the teachings of comfortable academics serenely creating theoretical paper models in ivy-decked tenure, is mass immigration. The thinking and moral lesson being that male white Europe owes reparations to the Third World for colonialist crimes committed in previous centuries. This idea is partly driven by another text called The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon, which was a big ideas source in my university time.

    The ensuing academic-influenced invitation to the actual wretched of the Earth has resulted in, among other perplexities, the village of Dundrum in County Tipperary, with a population of 200 or so, being joined by almost 300 male strays – sans WAGs – from the Third World who no one quite knows, least of all our government, with locals being labelled criminally racist by the apostles of the global equality agenda for even questioning this more than extraordinary imposition. If there was any real social justice, those migrants would be housed in the universities. Chickens coming home to roost and all that.

    “Now girls, listen up! I want you to give a big feminist ‘Hey there’ to your new exotic boyfriends.”

    John Rawls

    The Pot is Black

    If the Humanities become selectively humane, as appears to be happening, it’s no longer the Humanities. It’s something else entirely. And the particular slant of “humanities” that is becoming evident in universities across the West seems more than a little racist and sexist, the very things it claims to be attempting to eradicate, itself apparently unwittingly succumbing to malignant Freudian projection on a grand scale.

    Referencing political philosopher John Rawls’ book A Theory of Justice, Thomas Sowell, economist and historian writes in his 2010 book “Intellectuals and Society”:

    Justice is the first virtue of institutions, as truth is of systems of thought. A theory, however elegant and economical, must be rejected or revised if it is untrue; likewise, laws and institutions, no matter how efficient and well-arranged, must be reformed or abolished if they are unjust.

    The way things are going, we may one day see a social movement demanding reparations from the universities.

  • Poem: ‘Calling All Angels’

    Calling All Angels

    Leaves fall like secret prayers—
    calling all angels

    September’s having her best
    orgasm in a century. Everything lingers
    in climax, the character of the light, earthy
    fragrances, a whole heaving calendar week
    with an arched spine.

    Here’s how I know the world
    is ill and absurd: a dead fawn stares up
    from the roadside, spots unsullied, perfect
    and gone. Most days I choose to forget, but

    entire families explode in Palestine. Cascades
    of leaves now. Calling all angels yes god yes

     

    Image: Vico Rock, Dalkey, County Dublin, Ireland.
  • Poem: ‘All is Number’

    All is Number

    If the late afternoon light is beautiful
    but God’s not behind it
    then my mind is just classifying;

    if the late afternoon light is beautiful
    and God designed it,
    it’s a blessing and a deep unknowable well:

    light seems a word beyond metaphor —
    a wave and a particle
    neither wave nor particle,

    energy cast out of the sun,
    passed through a vacuum —
    so vast in its power

    the plump earth greens luminous
    and humans agree terms to barter for
    what’s there which lies shimmering
    and only calculable.

  • All Black Inception

    The 2010 film ‘Inception’ has scorched the innermost parts of my brain. This big screen feast had concepts that lit all the senses. Visually it was seeing things like the city of Paris fold in and on itself. Aurally, Edith Piaf’s Je Ne Regrette Rien twisted and reborn as a time bending plot device and a highly memorable if unrecognisable score.

    Christopher Nolan’s cerebral blockbuster may seem a world apart from a rugby contest in store in the Land of the Long White cloud. But the central tenet of the movie, the thing that has stuck with me the most, is that once brought into the world it’s almost impossible to kill an idea.

    It’s that thought that resonates with the mouth-watering sporting clash that awaits us this weekend.

    I’m not sure what the New Zealand team that first toured the British Isle in 1905 would have made of the central idea of Inception. But I suspect they had some inkling that they were creating something special: an idea that would exceed them.

    It is unclear how the touring New Zealand side earned their moniker the ‘All Blacks’ whether through a typographical error – they All played like Backs? – or simply because of the colour of the jersey, which seems most likely. Whatever its origins, this national side made up of native Māori and colonials have been referred to as the All Blacks ever since.

    Coupled with the pre-match ritual of the haka, and their top drawer rugby skills the team’s reputation travelled far and wide. They are easily the most successful national team in the history of the sport.

    The All Blacks at the climax of their haka before a test against France in Paris, January 1925.

    An idea had been born. These New Zealanders were no ordinary rugby team. They were All Blacks and they were unique. Their fans knew it too.

    The Welsh choirs singing Bread of Heaven in the Cardiff drizzle may indeed be a religious occasion, but the relentless chant of ‘All Blacks. All Blacks. All Blacks’ simply demands success.

    It didn’t matter who they faced. What team or colour. Resistance was futile. But one team suffered more than any other. Year after year the team in green were beaten all black, and blue. From that very first tour in 1905 Ireland endured 111 years of shoe pie.

    At best there were crushing last minutes loses. At worst, and usually in response to these ‘near wins’ the humiliation of record score obliterations. In my lifetime it was teams that included the likes of Vinny Cunningham, Keith Wood and Conor Murray from 1992, 2002 and 2012 that typify this. Each poked the All Black bear and suffered brutal and pitiless responses. 56-9. 40-8. 60-0.

    For Ireland, the All Blacks were a giant albatross on our backs, and it took a Kiwi to help bend, and finally break that mystique.

    In just his third game in charge, Joe Schmidt’s Ireland had New Zealand beaten. Until they weren’t. It may have taken the last play of the game and a conversion twice taken, but the All Blacks had beaten Ireland. Like they always did.

    Three years later in Chicago we finally beat New Zealand. This was an end of season game, however, almost an exhibition match, a test played in a neutral, non-rugby venue, against an All Black team lacking recognized second rows.

    The following week they came to Dublin and ‘shoe pie’ resumed. With a violent intensity and no little skill, they beat us into submission once again.

    The victory in 2018 was a more genuine breakthrough. But normal trouncing service was resumed at the subsequent World Cup when it really mattered. Joe out. Busted Flush.

    But something had changed. The aura of invincibility around the All Blacks had disappeared forever. Mythological characters – the McCaws and Carters – were reduced to mortal men – Canes and Barretts.

    When they came here last autumn Ireland obliterated them in the most one-sided, close-margin-victory I’ve ever witnessed. We played them off the park, with the score board somehow saying 29-20 at the end of the match. But make no mistake, the All Blacks had been beasted by Ireland.

    Now, incredibly, Ireland could be the first side in the professional era to win a series in New Zealand. Having largely gifted the first test to the home team, Ireland won comfortably enough last week; although, slightly worryingly, throwing away at least two gilt edge tries to give a final score line that flattered the hosts.

    This is new territory for an Irish rugby fan. But can we actually do it in the third and deciding test? For sure it’s not the best team New Zealand has ever put out, albeit with Sam Whitelock back in the second row they present a more challenging proposition, and they surely won’t be so undisciplined next time out. Ireland are essentially unchanged, but Ringrose’s dashing forays will be missed.

    The rational mind says New Zealand are 7-10 point favourites. They just don’t lose home series. The PTSD of previous bloodbaths suggests there could yet be another dose of shoe-pie.

    And yet, with their aura of invincibility gone forever, another idea is crystallizing, which is that, whisper it, Ireland are becoming New Zealand’s ‘bogey’ team.

    It’s too early for this nascent idea to have much hold. Or power. But win tomorrow and it may start to play tricks on the All Black mind, just like the French have had a habit of doing.

    In all likelihood, come 10am on Saturday morning my foolhardy hopes will be confronted by crushing reality as normal All Black service is resumed. But this is sport, where hope is everything.

    I believe Ireland can make history. And even if i have egg on my face after the final result comes through, non, je ne regrette rien.

    Feature Image: All Blacks rugby union team that toured the United Kingdom in 1905-6.

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  • All About Amy

    “There are more tears shed over answered prayers than unanswered prayers.”
    Saint Teresa of Avila

    Can’t blame U.S. Supreme Court Associate Justice Barrett for being born Amy Coney. Nor would I fault my fellow New Orleans native for having Irish Catholic parents who, like mine, sent her to St. Mary’s Dominican High School. Back then it was cool. We were both in the same boat. And far as I know, we still are, that is if you’re in the habit of comparing educated middle class white females wielding our kinda funny Louisiana convent French accent. Women’s tuition is typically tubular. What I mean is, it’s wampum well spent.

    Sod it, hatched on the same patch of swamp, Amy n’ me should be two peas in a pod. However, I’m not ashamed to say gun control and reproductive rights are where we part ways. These were fundamental freedoms guaranteed in the Seventies and Eighties, for girls, rich or poor, growing up in The Big Easy. Matters of… deep breath… life and death.

    But in order to begin a coherent conversation on either issue, one must comprehend this. Paired like a couple of chromosomes, the right to bear arms or avail of an abortion are inexorably intertwined.

    The Honorable Amy once penned a unanimous opinion affirming the summary judgement against a claimant in the case Smith vs. The Illinois Department of Transportation, finding while egregious, it was not racial discrimination when a supervisor dismissed an employee for what was later stipulated “poor performance” as, and I quote, being a “stupid ass nigger.” Because they were both black. Thus, perhaps she’ll pardon my French when, with Malthusian enthusiasm, I need point out that, unlike me, Barrett is a breeder.

    The greedy GOP plucked this pro-lifer directly out of her indoctrination by a secretive charismatic Christian cult called People of Praise and would have you, me and Barrett herself believe the proceedings around Roe vs. Wade were about her unqualified opinion. One based on a bizarre Czar-like wish to not squish the least little fish. A sweeping generalization to keep inconsequential caviar in its crevice, no matter how marred things get. So, you see, as women we are now all set. In a bind. Because profoundly blinded by nothing more than good faith, the Sturgeon General’s brand of justice finds it sound.

    This is not my first rodeo. I’ve a habit of being in the right place at the wrong time. Managing marketing and advising on regulations in several sovereign nations for a British boss at a bank based in Hong Kong during a currency crisis and the Handover of our S.A.R. to the P. R. C.. Watching an IPO window slam shut on a tech boom not sparing the white knuckles of a thousand plus entrepreneurs, including Connecticut fat cats, four Finns in Malaysia and more than a couple of Kiwis that like a Trojan camel we tried to pass through the eye of a needle. Not tired, I got hired to launch Tokyo ops for one of the U.S. firms which then perished in their entirety when the Twin Towers fell. Sometimes you might as well call it a day.

    Only to sit spitting nails, like an old spy in from the cold, wearing a crusty trusty power suit at a hedge fund desk high up in the Empire State Building. Swearing my federal tax dollars were squandered by an incompetent Army Corps of Engineers, while Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath sinks New Orleans’ natural defenses into the drink. Five years on, an unfettered BP blast on the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig heaved 200 million gallons of oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Left every last bivalve bereft.

    Thing is, for all the money in a world I can’t unsee as my oyster, I wouldn’t trade this front row seat watching Ireland’s Celtic Tiger tumble, jigging in The George the very night same sex marriage legalized. Seeing medical cannabis and safe abortion made less murky than a transubstantiation of the Magdalene Laundries into this tip top corporate tax haven. And learning how to ask for the Ban Jax.

    Where me and homegirl differ, is before we had graduation under our Prince of Wales plaid chastity belts, God didn’t see fit to show Amy how it felt to be raped at gunpoint and escape.

    Hence, the power of Christ has yet to compel the now anointed Coney concerning exceptionally unsexy circumstances. Those surrounding the sort of nonconsensual contortions likely to lead to a swelling belly aborted.

    Maybe I don’t have a womb with a wide-angle view at high tide, but my bet is Barrett’s not tangled in a “long game” as Margaret Talbot’s New Yorker article subtly suggests. At best she’s a half-baked Trump tumor deposited on the Supreme Court, but what if she’s been groomed Brothers Grimm style? The Manchurian Candidate meets Invasion of the Body Snatchers? She’s one of seven who, come hell or Haitian high water is spawning seven more into a scenario not of her own making. Ingenue actress? Goodbye RBG and Hello All About Eve? Or anchor baby for the alt-right?

    What I ask political strategists who bask in what few filthy cards they’ve slipped up their starched sleeve is a burning question. At what point did conservative Christians earn what they’d always yearned for? Carte blanche to pull up to the Republican bumper, and dive in like Flynn to the D.C. dumpster. When did The Religious Right become your Rumpelstiltskin?

    Knowing the ropes on the lesser navigated, one could almost say, fallopian-like, canals of Venice, I’ll venture vetting Casanova’s confessions is yet an even better trip. I for one am not impervious to stumbling on stuff our nuns neglected having Amy, blessed vessel that she is, translate directly from the French. Simply for shits n’ giggles mightn’t they have wiggled something cunning like Sade in to Sophomore English Lit? Not the sublime Nigerian-born British chanteuse…but the felonious philosopher of freedom. An equally smooth operator. I’ll explain.

    Couple hundred years before we were in high school, if memory serves, the year 1787 saw yes, a libertine, one of Fibonacci proportions, imprisoned in the Bastille. During his two-week incarceration, minus a lick of obscenity, the Marquis de Sade managed to nail a novella he named Justine or the Misfortunes of Virtue. Seems his fictitious femme fatale was willing to bend over. Take one for the team. Don’t know about Amy. Wouldn’t blame her for being game, but, as for me, I’m not. Not anymore. Are you?

    There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.
    Secretary of State Madeleine Albright

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