The world turns and the world burns. As we enter this chaotic election year, I’d like to propose a tonic for news fatigue and existential angst.
Whenever I feel despair and lack inspiration, I return to language. I return to perspective. I return to the art of playful design shifts. Here’s a semantics exercise: we can try phrasing every political argument in terms of what we are for, rather than against; what we want to approach, rather than what we hope to avoid.
In this moment, entire political platforms are formed around the mentality of against… a practice which seems to stall party members in terms of imagination. For instance, a-former-president-who-shall-not-be-named has harnessed a sizable base of disaffected constituents, based on his laundry list of againsts. Forgive the blatant generalization, but I notice that few of these die-hard political supporters seem truly content and enlivened. How creatively nourished can one be when arguing against a set of principles? How creatively nourished might one be when arguing for another set of principles?
This dynamic is a bit like bonding with a friend by gossiping about a mutual acquaintance— sure, we might find have found a common enemy, but we rarely, if ever, leave such interactions feeling inspired. I wonder what might happen if this politician and his followers were tasked with articulating what they hope to embrace, not exclude. Instead of being against immigrants, are they for American jobs? It’s illuminating to perform this re-orientation for two reasons: not only are those two stances not accurate equivalents, but one provides a creative path forward for building something constructive.
In order to remain hopeful in this topsy-turvy world, I find it helpful to insist upon the kernel of positivity, proactivity, and productivity that lives within us all. We are makers. We are artists. We feed our highest and brightest inclinations when we bring our for to the fore.
Of course, it is necessary to denounce harmful practices and ideologies: to voice one’s intolerance for racism, sexism, anti-semitism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia. Yet I find that my arguments seem more vigorous— and appear to land more effectively with others— when I ground these arguments in a desire for equality, freedom, safety, inclusion, diversity.
It is easier (read: lazier) task to tear proposals down than it is to propose new solutions. For example, let’s get meta with it— re-read the sentence I just wrote above. I framed it by focusing on the negative: foregrounding the easier / lazier idea. But I can rephrase that sentence by prioritizing what I hope to create over what I might critique:
Option 1: It is easier (read: lazier) task to tear proposals down than it is to propose new solutions.
Option 2: Proposing new solutions requires more ingenuity and stamina than tearing down proposals.
When I read that second option, I feel my focus directed toward the abundant possibility of new solutions, rather than the stagnant pull of the tear-down.
I want to meet the creator in all of us— the Creator in all of us— that divine, human, humane urge to make and move and mobilize. I want to tilt my face in the direction of beauty, harmony, and innovation. I believe that our species is at its most fulfilled when we are reaching for what we love, not shrinking from what we scorn.
In the name of such inventiveness, I’d like to conclude by sharing Brendan Constantine’s brilliant poem “The Opposites Game,” which invites readers to move away from violence and destruction in the name of creation. And if you’re game, comment below: what is your answer to his question?
This day my students and I play the Opposites Game
with a line from Emily Dickinson. My life has stood—
a loaded gun, it goes and I write it on the board,
pausing so they can call out the antonyms—
My Your
Life Death
Had stood? Will sit
A Many
Loaded Empty
Gun?
Gun.
For a moment, very much like the one between
lightning and its sound, the children just stare at me,
and then it comes, a flurry, a hail storm of answers –
Flower, says one. No, Book, says another. That’s stupid,
cries a third, the opposite of a gun is a pillow. Or maybe
a hug, but not a book, no way is it a book. With this,
the others gather their thoughts
and suddenly it’s a shouting match. No one can agree,
for every student there’s a final answer. It’s a song,
a prayer, I mean a promise, like a wedding ring, and
later a baby. Or what’s that person who delivers babies?
A midwife? Yes, a midwife. No, that’s wrong. You’re so
wrong you’ll never be right again. It’s a whisper, a star,
it’s saying I love you into your hand and then touching
someone’s ear. Are you crazy? Are you the president
of Stupid-land? You should be, When’s the election?
It’s a teddy bear, a sword, a perfect, perfect peach.
Go back to the first one, it’s a flower, a white rose.
When the bell rings, I reach for an eraser but a girl
snatches it from my hand. Nothing’s decided, she says,
We’re not done here. I leave all the answers
on the board. The next day some of them have
stopped talking to each other, they’ve taken sides.
There’s a Flower club. And a Kitten club. And two boys
calling themselves The Snowballs. The rest have stuck
with the original game, which was to try to write
something like poetry.
It’s a diamond, it’s a dance,
the opposite of a gun is a museum in France.
It’s the moon, it’s a mirror,
it’s the sound of a bell and the hearer.
The arguing starts again, more shouting, and finally
a new club. For the first time I dare to push them.
Maybe all of you are right, I say.
Well, maybe. Maybe it’s everything we said. Maybe it’s
everything we didn’t say. It’s words and the spaces for words.
They’re looking at each other now. It’s everything in this room
and outside this room and down the street and in the sky.
It’s everyone on campus and at the mall, and all the people
waiting at the hospital. And at the post office. And, yeah,
it’s a flower, too. All the flowers. The whole garden.
The opposite of a gun is wherever you point it.
Don’t write that on the board, they say. Just say poem.
Your death will sit through many empty poems.
Bless you, Brendan Constantine! And if you enjoy my writing, go wild and click the ❤️ or 🔄 button on this post so more people can discover it on Substack.