Like many Americans, I’ve rejected corporate progressivism for one of the same reasons I rejected mainstream Christianity: both have largely lost their willingness to embrace the truly unloved, the scorned and the outcast, preferring mediocre dogmatic conformity to the universal punk of untrammeled and untrained voices. (Losers who don’t have clear institutional reasons for being losers are worthless to the movement: “identity” is key, but never the identity of the simply lost and hopelessly dysfunctional.)
Without this radical and anarchic acceptance, this mystical element of transforming grace, both these strains of human endeavor have become utterly toxic, hateful, condescending and ingratiating to the point of madness. That doesn’t mean I’m any better at practicing that kind of acceptance myself — I struggle with it constantly — but I still believe that radically broken people have value, not just as empty vessels for mind-numbing propaganda, but as living and vital creatures worthy of having their idiosyncratic say.
Creative misfits have no place in a hyper-ideological landscape, and it shows.
283 Pearl St.