In a world of mad men

“And who are you supposed to be?” a neighbor asks Don and Betty Draper after he hands their children Halloween candy. The question is seemingly innocent, but damning as well, because this one question finally voices Don Draper’s struggle over the past three seasons.

One is left to admire once again the genius of Mad Men’s team, because after the question is asked, almost accusingly, the camera shifts to not just Don Draper, but to a very uncomfortable Betty Draper as well.

I, like most avid Mad Men watchers, have been expecting the inevitable: when Betty finally discovers Don’s secret and accuses him, and we see the king dethroned (I must admit, my heart went out to the broken Don when his usually suave fingers betray him as he pulls out a cigarette). But I didn’t expect to feel sorry for Betty during this entire incident – feel sorry for her not because she is a trapped housewife, but because she, like Don, is looking at her life from the outside in.

Let’s face it: both male and female viewers get drawn into the machismo of the world of misogynist money-loving alcoholics. It is difficult not to love the moments when Don boldly brushes off anyone who talks to him. And I’m not entirely sure if it’s because of his troubled past, or because of the fact that his affairs occur as often as he pulls out a cigarette, but I always forgive Don’s extra-marital affairs. Thus I am ashamed to admit that when Betty clumsily slept with a stranger in the back room of a bar during the Drapers’ brief separation, I was disgusted with her and her disregard for her husband and children who spent the night in a hotel room awaiting the impending doom of nuclear war.

So I was surprised by my own realization while I watched this last episode of Mad Men: Betty makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know her anymore. I want her to be either a submissive and naïve housewife, or a carefree girl breaking lines of acceptability of the 1960s. But she’s teetering.

Although I knew Betty Draper was as “damaged” as the rest of them from the first season when her psychiatrist visits foreshadowed some instability, she remained boring: her suffocated life predictably led her to frequently yell at her kids, and frankly, she had nothing interesting to say to keep Don’s sole attention. After all, wasn’t it she who once explained her flawless housekeeping with, “My mother always said, ‘You’re painting a masterpiece, make sure to hide brush strokes”?

Betty Draper has always been in the margin of the world of Mad Men, and predictably so. But the beauty of this show is that her transformation from a perfect Stepford wife to a frustrated and lost woman has occurred in the margins as well, slowly and surprisingly. Anyone who closely watches this show realizes from her fledgling affair and her unexplainable episode after the Drapers come back home from Rome, that Don’s now unveiled secret affects Betty as much as it affects him, maybe even more so.

And she realizes it, too. I had to admire her sass when Don defends himself by pointing out that many people change their names:

Don: “You changed your name too.”
Betty: “Yes. I took your name.”

What Betty is afraid of is her identity being based on a man who doesn’t even know who he is, who claims to be someone else all together. And in that simple retort, she accuses Don: changing her name was never her choice, and now she doesn’t know who her name even belongs to.

Betty Draper is no longer going to be the perfect housewife blind to her husband’s vices, nor is she going to break all boundaries and define the new woman of the era. Instead, she teeters on that point of non-clarity and doubt that is not unlike those experienced by women now. While Joan and Peggy represent the struggle of choosing between career and family, and advancing in the workplace as a female, it is Betty that begins to scratch at the fundamental question that is no longer reserved for just men: who am I?

While the neighbor smiles expectantly at the Drapers as he holds his bowl of candy, we come to realize that both Don and Betty struggle to answer this question. We trust that Don will be able to arrive at some answer, because he has the confidence to be a good liar. But Betty, well, I don’t know her. But I’m expecting this woman on the margins to continue surprising me.

What class?

Six months of the health care debate have left Americans tired of the constant bickering. The debate has been difficult to follow, as both Republicans and Democrats spew out facts and figures that are hardly trustworthy. From accusations of government-funded death panels to exaggerations of how much a public option will save in the next ten years, the health care debate has proved to be frustrating enough to find an end to the verbal war between the two parties, regardless of the outcome. Sadly enough, most Americans recognize that some reform in the health care system is necessary.

So where is the outraged public that is quick to call out its congressmen? Perhaps more importantly, where is this public that has often pointed out injustices in the country? Ultimately, the health care debate boils down to class lines, an obvious fact that has been layered on with other issues such as efficiency, access to care, Medicare fraud, insurance companies and holding hospitals accountable. But class is an issue that transcends partisan lines, and class is also a topic that Americans find difficult to broach within their own society. Perhaps at times not effectively, but American society has dealt with, and at least spoken about, race, immigration, and gay rights in this country. Yet, speaking about class differences is uncomfortable, and often coated with discussions of race. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, for example, the recognition of blatant class differences in the south fused with conversations about racism alive in the country.

Part of the reason for this lack of dialogue is precisely due to the fact that race and poverty are often companions, and racism is one of the most complex topics of the day. Yet, without separating the glaring issues in our society (that is, separating racism from class differences), neither dialogue will be effective. Class is a taboo topic - in public schools kids often try to hide these differences through clothes and accessories. In my college, the dialogue was effectively missing from the school's otherwise politically-aware chatter. Essentially, what results are students and practitioners invested in social, political and economic justice in developing countries, who are just not interested in the social injustice that plagues this country.

Perhaps if class differences became a discussion worth having, at least an issue that is recognized as a leading problem in this country, the health care debate wouldn't be much of a debate at all.

Bedknobs and broomsticks: when the world is upside down

When it hits close to home, ignore it. It's so much easier to fight oppression if you are not called out on similar injustices. As practical as the Iran regime has been in the past, its strong and supported leadership is wavering. It is resolving to hypocricies that led to a hatred of the Shah three decades before, which ultimately happens when a government realizes its in trouble.

In keeping with the spirit of the Islamic Republic's resolve to protect Muslims against injustice, Iran is holding a pro-Palestinian rally. But there's a small caveat: opposition supporters are not allowed to use the rally to protest against the government:

"Mr. Khamenei also pointed to the upcoming annual Pro-Palestinian rally on the last Friday of the Islamic month of Ramadan and warned the opposition not to use the opportunity to protest. Protestors had said they would take part in the rally, wearing green, the trademark color of Mr. Moussavi’s supporters, to show that the opposition movement was still alive. Mr. Karroubi vowed that he would participate as well." (NYT, 11 September 2009)

As far as fighting injustice goes, it works according to what seems like 2nd grade rules: I can tattle on you but you can't tattle on me. The current Iranian government has already closed down the offices of opposition leaders Karroubi and Moussavi, suggesting that the opposition is still strong and the government is quite afraid. Amidst the arrests, tortures and censorship, I hope someone at the Palestine rally will ask "what makes you any different?"

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Speaking of hypocricies, a little more laughable is Glenn Beck's recently received honor of being a key-holder of Mount Vernon, Washington as granted by the mayor. According to Beck, his childhood days in Mount Vernon represented the true spirit of America. The whole town filled sandbags when the nearby river threatened to flood.

“We were small enough to care about each other,” Mr. Beck said. “We were all in it together. It wasn’t about whose responsibility it was, whose fault it was, who you’d end up owing a favor to. You did it because it was the right thing. In Mount Vernon, you grew up knowing that you always had to do the right thing.” (NYT, 10 September 2009).

Hm, this sounds oddly similar to what President Obama said in reference to the need for a health care reform:

"It, too, is part of the American character -- our ability to stand in other people's shoes; a recognition that we are all in this together, and when fortune turns against one of us, others are there to lend a helping hand; a belief that in this country, hard work and responsibility should be rewarded by some measure of security and fair play; and an acknowledgment that sometimes government has to step in to help deliver on that promise." (Obama's health care speech, 09 September, 2009).

Apparently when a Republican says it, the helping hand is considered part of the American spirit. But when a Democrat says it, it's considered another tactic to spread socialism in the country. Or is it just because Obama is saying it?

Krugman Op-Ed on Health Care Reform

Thanks to Paul Krugman for a reasonable argument for health care reform:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/31/opinion/31krugman.html?emc=eta1

...And good news from PK

Pakistan's Supreme Court orders transvestites get equal benefits as other citizens in the country:

‘They are citizens of Pakistan and enjoy the same protection guaranteed under Article four (rights of individuals to be dealt with in accordance of law) and Article nine (security of person) of the Constitution,’ ruled a three-member bench comprising Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry, Justice Muhammad Sair Ali and Justice Jawwad S Khawaja on Tuesday.

http://www.dawn.com/wps/wcm/connect/dawn-content-library/dawn/news/pakistan/metropolitan/14-sc-orders-equal-benefits-for-transvestites-zj-02

The truth about martyrdom

Dispatches, a documentary show in Britain, released clips of Ajmal Kasab's initial confession in the hospital immediately after he was captured after the Mumbai bombings. On the hospital bed, Kasab explains that his father forced him to join Lashkar-e-Toiba in order to provide money for his family (how many times has this been the explanation of alot of terrorist attackers? أين الدولة؟?)...and of course there is the argument for martyrdom that the shooters talk about amongst themselves in the video. It's haunting, but do see it.

And of course I repeat Faulkner here, but he seems to sum it up quite well:

"'Suffer little child to come unto Me': and what did He mean by that? how, if He meant that little children should need to be suffered to approach Him, what sort of earth had He created; that if they had to suffer in order to approach Him, what sort of Heaven did He have?"

What you will

The Corner of 81st and Central Park West – Draft 1

Scene I

The time is late – or early – as you would have it: it’s approaching 4am. The location is outside the west side of Central Park, at the corner of 81st street and Central Park West, where the granite wall closing off the park opens up to a path leading to The Delacorte Theatre. Directly outside that opening, pasted to the wall down Central Park West, is a line of bundles of faded floral blankets, sleeping bags of all colors, cardboard boxes, and lawn chairs. They are people. At first glance they look like hobos, hiding beneath the layers of blankets they have acquired somewhere against the gentle breeze that is – even for a July summer night – too cold. At second glance, one realizes they are people with homes to sleep in, jobs to go to everyday, families to return to at night.

Two girls stand uncertainly at the corner of 81st and Central Park West. They walk down CPW uncertainly, passing 82nd, then 83rd, then 84th,, nervously and amazedly searching for the end of the line. They reach the end. It’s almost half way between 85th and 86th street, that much farther from the beloved entrance.

Girl 1 sits tentatively on the bench, next to a bundle of blankets that belongs to the teenage daughter and mother who are huddled at the other end of the bench.

GIRL 1: At least we’re not sitting on the ground.

She’s eyeing the queue already forming behind them. There are three men behind them, two of whom resign themselves to the cracked ground underneath.

A teenage girl cheerfully greets them as her mother smiles with an amused expression.

GIRL 2: I can’t sleep. I’m not tired enough. Why aren’t we in the park?

The old man next to her looks at her with laughing eyes. He speaks, it’s to no one in particular.

MAN: I wonder if we have a chance, all the way back here.

[The curly haired younger man on the other side of him answers as he pulls out a deck of unopened cards and proceeds to cut through the wrapping.]

MAN 2: I’ve been here before, and it looks like we have a good chance. It’s bad if we’re behind 500 people. We’re about five blocks from the entrance; I gather there are about 40 people per block…

The two girls, the old man and the younger man silently calculate, but none come to a definitive answer. It is, after all, 4am. But they all know it’s not near 500 people.

GIRL2: We’re fine!

The mother looks over to Girl 1 now as she tightens the blanket around her daughter and herself.

MOTHER: This is our third time trying. I think we’re going to make it this time. I definitely think we are.

GIRL 1: What time did you get here?

MOTHER: 3.50.

[She gets up suddenly.]

MOTHER: I’m going to check what time the first people in line got here. Keep an eye on my daughter for me, will you?

The daughter still huddles underneath her blanket. The two girls open their box of strawberries, only to find them spoiled. The old man is silent and pensive. The younger man is busily marking off suits on his new deck of cards with a permanent marker. They laugh with pity as they spot a man clad in a business suit running down the street with a lawn-chair in hand, desperately searching for the end of the line.

The mother returns minutes later as the rest watch the flickering lights in one of the rooms in the building across the street.

MOTHER: 9.30…pm…

There is a collective noise of surprise and groan as the group marvels at the dedication and madness of those first ones, and at the potential futility of this entire endeavor.


Scene II:

A mass exodus is in full swing. The line that had been previously huddled on Central Park West is now making its way into the park as it has just opened, with as much order as can be forced on one’s self while fighting the desire to break and make a run for the theater. They move swiftly, quickly, dragging their lawn chairs behind their backs, clutching onto their blankets. Far away across the bend, where the line still continues forward, a man holding a full size air mattress over his head can be seen.

The people move with agile walks, spring in their steps, and a ferocious knowledge of their destination. They are surrounded by luscious green hills and towering green trees, as birds chirp and the first of the dogs start barking. It is an entirely different world in the park – no mind that it’s coincidental timing that dawn broke out moments before the people entered the park. Nonetheless, the truth stands: the world outside was dark and cold; the world inside is bright and promising.

Scene III:

The two girls are lying on a bright orange blanket that is laid out carefully on the mulch. They are at the edge of the path, beginning the end of the long line where it has broken off from the beginning. The teenage daughter and mother are at the end of the first line that is only a few feet away across a cement path that cuts through the park. They have befriended a young woman next to them who could very well be a model.

Girl 1 zips up her red sleeping bag over herself; it is too small for her. It’s a child’s sleeping bag, one she borrowed from her roommate whose friend left it at their apartment. Not many in the city own sleeping bags. It’s noticeable since many have lined the ground with yoga mats. She looks around her over the people lined up at the edge of the path.

GIRL 1: This is the urban use for a sleeping bag.

The man who has managed to successfully keep order since the early hours of the morning approaches and stands resolutely in front of their section of the line. He is from the Theater, clad in khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt clearly labeled (so there would be no mistake): STAFF. He is not old and muscular, nor does he have the build of a bouncer that you would expect for someone at this job. He has a boyish face and golden hair that peeks out from underneath his baseball cap. His voice has enough volume to garner authority and enough humor to win people’s likeness. He has to keep this precarious balance for six more hours, until the clock strikes 1pm.

STAFF: You guys will be fine. Don’t worry, there is still hope.

A light cheer erupts from those who are awake. He moves on down the line, towards the section at the end that is hidden behind the trees around the bend. The girls faintly hear him. It’s bad news. There is a ripple of groans and some get up, dragging their bedding with slumped heads. They are not everyone in the section though. Others stubbornly stay put.

STAFF [as he walks away from the section back towards the front of the line]: I promise you have better things to do with your time!

The mother is napping in a sleeping bag on the pavement. The daughter, sitting on the bench beside her, plays with her iPhone. She has had her breakfast – delivery from Andy’s Deli. It’s become famous, and somewhat of a savior, for those in the line who need food and can’t leave. She looks up now as an African-American man rides his bike around, shouting. Locked to the back of his bike are folded lawn chairs. In the front are big Starbucks cups.

BICYCLIST: Rent lawn chairs! Buy Starbucks coffee! Rent Internet time!

Girl 2 is lying down, one elbow propping up her shoulder. She eyes the group of four young girls ten feet away who she suspects of being high school girls. Their voices echo across the expanse of the park, or so it seems, blocking out any possibility of sleep for Girl 2. She just looks around now and slumps back down on the ground, pulling an old airplane blanket over her.

Staff returns, his faded shouting warning his eventual presence.

STAFF: There are two rules you must follow to stay in this line. One, you can’t leave the line. You can leave only to go to the bathroom, but you can’t have someone hold your place for you if you leave to go somewhere else. Two, no one can join you in this line. Believe me, people around you will know.


Scene IV:

It’s near 10am now. Perhaps. It’s hard to tell the time. A few feet away three friends read the morning’s edition of New York Times as they sip on Snapple. The mother and daughter talk to the model as if they have been good friends for quite some time.

Girl 2 has been reading, resigning herself to the fact that there will be no sleep this morning. The mulch she is sitting on is cruelly located near the dog park of Central Park. The path has been strewn all morning with curious onlookers, smirking joggers, dog walkers who have resolutely decided to keep their dogs unleashed but insist on walking them along the path on which the masses sit and wait, and the dogs, big and small, ugly and cute, lazy and spunky, sniff the food, the blankets and the people.

An elderly woman pulling a curly hair child passes by, looks curiously at the girls, smiles and walks on. She re-appears later, hesitantly stopping near them.

WOMAN: How long have you been here?

GIRL 2 [in a bored voice]: Since 4am.

The girls have lost track of how many people have come to ask them this same question, and have gotten the same surprised look that this woman gives them now.

GIRL 2: But the first people arrived at 9.30 pm!

Is it defense? It sounds almost defensive, as if trying to explain that if she were crazy, at least she were a little less crazier than those firsts.

The mulch has been good, despite the proximity of the sniffing dogs and the cameras clicking at them. The ground is soft, and it is shaded by the high trees that now allows some sun to warm them.

Staff returns once again, an empty plastic cup in hand. He looks disheveled and tired, but his voice does not appear so. He walks towards the end of the line, out of sight, but where the girls can still hear him.

STAFF: There is no hope. Go home.

He doesn’t wait to see the people’s angry faces. He returns to the section near the girls.

STAFF: You’re still ok!

Another cheer. This time a bit more energetic.

STAFF: Ya, be happy. I’ve already crushed 1200 people’s dreams today.

A pretty woman in a white dress and designer sunglasses walks along the cement path next to a curly-haired man. They both pause to take in the sight. The woman looks down on the girls and speaks in a British accent.

WOMAN: What are you all doing here?

GIRL 2: We’re waiting for tickets to “Twelfth Night.” It’s Shakespeare in the Park.

WOMAN: How long have you been here?

GIRL 2: Since 4am.

WOMAN [in astonishment]: Why?

The girls look at each other and smile sheepishly.

GIRL 1: I don’t know…

WOMAN: Well, are you a big fan of this play?

GIRL 2: Not particularly…

WOMAN: [dubiously] Well, good luck then…

[She leaves].

Girl 1 returns her head to the pillow speckled in leaves from the tree above and closes her eyes with a smile, quite comfortable in the abode they have made themselves. It’s only a temporary mask – sleeping and living in the park – but liberating all the same. Tomorrow the man in the suit will return to his job; the model across the path will struggle to find gigs; the man in line behind the girls will come home to a tense marriage. But for now, in the 10 hours of sitting in the park’s grounds, they are quite content. They must look like fools. But they are happy fools.