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[...] Is it a sign of Boomers’ internal sociopathic confusion that they trumpeted the sacrifice of tens of thousands of soldiers while avoiding participating in the war effort at all costs, even if that meant passing the buck on to poorer, less educated, disproportionately black and brown draftees? Or does it simply highlight the significance of the internal political and social divisions that make it difficult to talk about Boomers in monolithic terms?
The capitalist accessories of our quest for generational belonging—from the products we consume and integrate into our personalities to the narrowing set of viable ways to make a living in today’s economy—have provided us all with infinite, shiny reasons to further segregate ourselves, to feel solidarity mainly with those in our age bracket. As a result, these tried and true staples of our inherited intergenerational discourse have been pulling double duty as effective tools in an endless class war that enables a powerful few to hold dominion over the fractured, powerless many. Coming generations can ill afford such arbitrary divisions when the bulk of their waking lives will be collectively eaten up in the unavoidable, thankless chore of cleaning up the mess we’ve left them. At the same time, though, this very tainted legacy is why generational identity and intergenerational solidarity will likely mean something more substantive from now on—something that has, buried in it, the blood of proletarianization.
Among the prizes at stake in the endless war of politics is history itself. The battle for power is always a battle to determine who gets remembered, how they will be recalled, where and in what forms their memories will be preserved. In this battle, there is no room for neutral parties: every history and counter-history must fight and scrap and claw and spread and lodge itself in the world, lest it be forgotten or forcibly erased. All history, in this sense, is the history of empire—a bid for control of that greatest expanse of territory, the past.
such a good opening para
One could argue that the greatest support for Fukuyama’s argument is the fact that, even if the globalized marriage of market capitalism and liberal democracy does not constitute an ideal social order in regard to humanity’s collective fulfillment, prosperity, peace, or happiness, it still seems to mark the decisive end to our development by way of outright domination. This is the subtext to the innocuous-sounding, jargony point that the particular “state of consciousness that permits the growth of liberalism seems to stabilize in the way one would expect at the end of history.” Translation: the neoliberal order will “stabilize” its own dominance by continually incentivizing, rewarding, and securing the dominance of those who believe that it truly is the culmination of human development. Their faith in the “end of history” is validated by the enduring fact of neoliberalism—the world itself stands as a monument to their historical vision.
And yet, every day, all around us, the very meaning of history is eroding and dissipating. On the barren shores at the end of history, even the victors wander like historical amnesiacs. From within the worldwide windowless enclosure of the neoliberal order, the circuits of historical memory are frying, history itself has begun to break apart, and the end of the end may be in sight.
pretty
The first job I was assigned to was hell on earth. I don’t think I’ll ever be “ready” to talk about it. Partly because I can’t communicate in words how haunting the smell was. Partly because I just kind of shut down and the memory of the experience is… crackly, like a bad VHS. In self-defense, my olfactory nerve committed suicide to deaden the blow of the stench. The rest of my body and brain followed suit, leaving just enough juice to keep the engine running. Every day, just enough. The other guys on the line and I got through each shift, went home, and forgot about it. That was it. We couldn’t bear to ask if our work “meant” anything to us. We didn’t want it to. We were just there, just doing a job that needed doing, laboring quietly in the rancid gut of modernity.
Here’s all I’ll say about it: our job was to stand amidst the steam and froth in full Hazmat gear, like humdrum astronauts, sorting and cleaning the soiled laundry of L.A. and Orange County hospitals. The conveyor belt in front of us never stopped, not once. It rumbled monotonously, shepherding endless piles of sheets and towels and smocks and blankets, all stained, dripping with the insides of our fellow human beings. Blood, shit… tears, dying words… piss, bile… the effluence of broken bodies, the residual pudding new life leaves behind—it all ended up here. I once found a syringe in one of the piles.
Besides the smell, there’s only one thing that stands out. One image, I can still make out through the thick steam that’s taken over that part of my memory. A Black man, fifty-something. He’d worked there for years. I never actually saw his face, just his eyes—we all wore masks. The smell, he said, didn’t bother him none. There was a superhuman tenderness and care in the labor he did to sift through an entire civilization’s worth of human-stained laundry, without being bothered by any of it. To make it all clean again. He was Atlas, holding the world up.
<3
I thought for a split second about martyring myself, telling her to take me instead, something like that. But it wouldn’t have done any good. She would have fired one of the new temps anyway. She just wanted to “teach” me something while she was at it. Worst of all, I was painfully aware of how much I needed the job… and so was she. Like the VP from Boston, she knew I wouldn’t be here if I had better options.
I can’t remember the temp’s name—she was one of the youngest. She was short and had a red shirt on. Some desperate thought convinced me she might suffer the least. The other temps looked like they might have had kids.But honestly, she could have had them too. I try not to think about it now.
“The one in red,” I said after a long pause.
The manager didn’t say another word. She walked over to the group and called everyone, over forty workers, together in a circle. My guts immediately started to rot. I assumed she would just pull the woman aside. But she didn’t. The group looked on. Alternating between Spanish and English, the manager told them all that we were behind because people had been making too many mistakes. That this was a business and we had deadlines. That we had to meet them. That we couldn’t afford mistakes. Then, abruptly, she pointed to the woman in red, calling her to the middle of the circle: “¡Ven!” She told her, in front of everyone, to go home.
I watched the woman’s head sink with shame. It sank in a way that, even now, to this day, is painful to think about. I’m a snotty kid, hurting, a coward, hoping some adult will come and save me and tell me this wasn’t my fault. The woman trudged out of the warehouse. She didn’t deserve this. What did her parents say when she came home? Did she have a kid to look at when she came through the door? I think about her often. Did she turn out okay? Does anyone?
I’ve never told anyone about this until now.
“So,” the other lady chimed in, “your manager tells us you’re leaving.”
“Oh?”
“Well, we were telling him how great of a waiter you are…” She waited for me to acknowledge the compliment. “And he agreed, of course. But he also said he was sad to see you go.”
“Ah, yup. I am moving on, sadly.” Why sadly? I shouldn’t be sad. This job was hellish.
“Where are you moving on to?”
“To Michigan, actually. I’m going to grad school.”
“Oooh,” they clucked in unison. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you.”
“How exciting,” the grey one said.
“It is.”
“And you’re going for what?”
“To get my Ph.D.”
“Oooh—a Ph.D. in what?”
“Comparative literature.”
“Ah!” she giggled. “So, we can expect to see you working here again when you’re all finished?”
aahhhh