Apparently I like to blog in the beginning of the spring.

With insomnia, nothing is real.
Everything is far away.
Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.

I haven’t been able to sleep with any regularity for the past month. The days I do get to sleep are either when I don’t have to work and I’m up until 4 AM anyhow, or when I try to get to sleep early and I’m interrupted by a sudden rush of thoughts, causing me to snap awake after only two hours. That’s what happened tonight.

I made a little bowl of cooked shrimp and rice angel hair pasta, because, well, as long as you’re awake you assume that eating is going to put you back to sleep. But it never does. There’s always something about the sodium content or the carbohydrates that puts you more on edge.

I think I’m starting to come down with a cold. I’m snotty and it’s not very cool. I drank some orange juice and that’s seemed to have aggravated my heartburn. Wonderful.

This might be something with my diet, but it’s probably something more… nefarious, for lack of a more exact word. I’m thinking it’s the overall lack of structure and direction that’s in place in my life right now. I babysit some days, other days I’m not. I have to prep Kaplan stuff at some times, other times not. Gotta keep structured in a really weird and precarious way. I’ve considered adopting a time management scheme like GTD, but, ironically enough, I don’t feel like putting in the time to learn one.

What I really want to happen right now is for the Peace Corps to give me my country and project assignment. I think it’s quite unreasonable for them to keep applicants in the dark for so long about this information. But, the placement office gave me a (tentative) date for getting my assignment: by the end of this month. So they have three days. Get to it, Peace Corps.

St. Vincent falls in the latter category. This Berkelee-educated, multi-instrumental virtuoso jumps on stage with the kind of raw energy that finds itself in accidental genius, although the audience soon finds out that it’s all intentional, precisely planned and definite.This show in the back stage of the Wexner Center of Ohio State was no different. Before the show, St. Vincent (stage name for Annie Clark) placed multicolored fake quad-podded trees around the stage in strategic places, later in the show proclaiming that they were turning the stage into a psychedelic forest, which the band inhabited as giants. And I could see where she was coming from, since everything they played fit into the kind of fabric of nature that is standard musical roots, the kind of “flow of the Tao”, except on mescaline.

The show was absolutely delightful, St. Vincent exuding an immense amount of energy. There were parts of the show I wanted to scream, but couldn’t because — in some wide-eyed enamored trance — I was voiceless.

I hope I caught some the energy of the show in the way she practically convulsed around the stage, and the sheer range of her facial expressions.

Check out the rest of this photo set.

Two years ago this week my apartment burned down, depriving me of property and leaving me homeless for three weeks. One year ago this week I started a hunger strike which found me sleeping in a campus building and drinking nothing but juice for two weeks. This year, the week has been oddly karmically redeeming. This week has been one of the best weeks of the semester for me. There hasn’t been a part of my life that hasn’t been smiled upon by positivity.

I started the week by going to my 8:30 to see if we had a test. I gladly found that we didn’t, and the professor actually went over things that were going to be on the Friday test. Sweet. I went back home and slept in some more, only to miss my 12:30 and walk in to my 1:30 just in time for a quiz. That night Sameerah and I talked over webcam to her Amanda, who’s in Beijing right now, while I drank a free double mocha at Vienna. Later I visited Katie to give her back jingly Christmas coat and have a little chit-chat. Then I talked on the phone with my Amanda. We had a really encouraging and fulfilling conversation. I stayed up to finish a presentation I had to give the next day.

Tuesday came and I had a dentist and physical exam for my Peace Corps application, so I took the liberty of skipping my first two classes. My dentist said my teeth were excellent and said, even if I stopped brushing my teeth, he couldn’t see any problems developing within the next two to three years. Score! I made my way up to PUSH (Purdue University Student Health Center) to meet with a physician. Now, usually PUSH is filled with a bunch of quacks, but this doctor was excellent, throughout, and concerned. He was a shorter spectacled man, genuine and friendly, who, to my surprise and delight, was amazed with the Middle East, had spent time in Lebanon and Jordan, and could speak fluent Arabic. He spent a good amount of time helping me, triple checking my Peace Corps forms to make sure I had everything right. Again, I was in perfect health, got a polio booster, and went on my way (albeit $100 poorer). Afterwards, I gave my presentation to my health class, which went off gracefully and effectively, and was much more interesting than some of the other presentations in class. I biked home with a fervor and jumped into my car to make a spontaneous trip to Chicago to spend the night with Anna. We went out to dinner at the great noodle place, killing a bottle of wine and shooting the shit. We ran into a street musician and gave him $10 for some demos, perused a cigarette/coffeeshop called Marshall McGearty’s (which will be my second home if I ever move to Chicago), then settled in for a smooth vanilla rose hookah a few blocks over. I missed that hookah, its grace and slight buzz it gives you. And you can only do this in the calm, with good company. I had both. The night was certainly one of the best of the semester.

I woke tiredly on Wednesday, Anna waking me on her way to work. I trudged through Chicago traffic back to Lafayette. I listened to 848 on Chicago Public Radio and fell even more in love with the city at sunrise: bikers bundled to the hilt, busses, the peach orange sky behind tall buildings. I lost the radio station around Renesslear, Indiana, where I got $5 worth of gas and a small coffee. A group of elderly people were also out for their morning brew, one man carrying several drinks back to a white El Dorado packed four deep. I found myself wanting to be one of them when I get older: the posse still out getting caffeine at 87 years, even if it’s at a Family Express gas station in the middle of some fields. I missed my 12:30 again, caught my 1:30, went to work and came home to pass out for three hours. I awoke slowly, making my way to the library to make copies of my Peace Corps medical forms and then wishing them well as I slipped the heavy packet into the mailbox. I tried to study for my test on Friday (unsuccessfully), and decided instead to catch up on some backed up emails. I went home and read a little before sleeping once more.

I woke up at 10:50 Thursday morning, to a text message sent by Casey, with whom I was having dinner that night. Again, I missed my first class. Before my second class, I was getting food from the event Raytheon (big defense contractor) was having in the CS building. A company rep walked up to me as I snagged hors d’oeuvres and a drink:
Her: How’s the semester going?
Me: Almost done.
Her: Yeah? That must be exciting.
Me: Yep.
Her: So I know you’re not interested in us from what you did at the Industrial Roundtable.
Me: Oh yeah…
Background: The Industrial Roundtable is a large outdoor job fair that Purdue’s Engineering Student Council holds every year. This year, it took place on 9-11, and consequently during our 9-11 General Strike. Among other things, we let the companies know how welcome they were…


Yes, big posters draped over the “Welcome to Purdue University” sign.
In regards to Raytheon, we were passing out literature, concentrating on flooding defense companies with them. She had recognized me by my annoying flood of flyers at their booth. Back to Thursday, she spent a little time convincing me that they didn’t only do weapons systems. I smiled and politely left. In class, I got the first stage of a project I’ve been doing with Professor Neville working successfully. After class, to my delight I ran into Gretchen, who was down at Purdue running some errands. We sat and chatted about her move to library science and doing things in the community. She’s super awesome; I’m glad she found something she’ll be excited to do. Right after my 4:30 class, I lost my Jamaica sock hat, so I ran to Amused to get a warmer one for $4. It’s a little tight, but it’s damn warm. I met up with Casey for dinner at an Indian restaurant, which was an amazing meal, complete with some Chardonnay from India, and Casey’s good company. Kevin and his wife showed up to the restaurant, and I gave them my regards. I went home and read a little for the test I had on Friday, but really was just killing time until the Goek’s train arrive. He was coming in for his week-long break and visitation from up North (Minnesota, eh). We met up, went to Chumley’s, left because it was too crowded, went to LovShack for a calzone, went back to Chumley’s, which now had a LINE it was so crowded. Fed up and wanting to drink, we went to Brother’s. Gretchen was also there, and so that was a good time, then we went back to Chumley’s and finally got a seat and kicked back a few beers with some guys from our old job. We went home late and passed out.

I woke up reluctantly on Friday, but I had to take this damn test. It was a little more difficult that I thought it would be, but I got it done. School isn’t my highest priority when I’m graduating in two weeks. I got back home, then Goeken and I went out to lunch. I finally went to my 12:30 class, then my 1:30, then work. I got a call at work; it was someone from the Columbus Urban League responding to my application for being a Computer Literacy Instructor. This is basically a dream job for me: an instructional position that I’m well-qualified for, and is just short of actually teaching at a community college. I have an interview the day after graduation. Work ended, and I took the bus home, escaping the cold November air.

And that’s what Common means up at the top of this piece, “Take the bus home, just to touch home.” I walked and bussed everywhere today, catching little bits of all the different parts of my life, reflecting on how all of them can come together in a wild but amazing harmony. That’s what I want to feel at the end of my college career, and it’s what I felt this week. Somehow all those trials by fire (literally) of previous years came together, made this what it is today.

I’m riding on the winds of experience, the auras of people around me. I am happy.

A few days ago, Bill brought the Midwest Republican Leadership Conference occurring in Indianapolis to the attention of us radical youths. A few of us pile into the car (with the necessary supplies, of course: banners, spray paint, and a respectable-looking suit) and make a b-line to the Indiana Convention Center. Upon arrival, we survey the Center, as well as the adjoining Westin Hotel where the Republicans are staying. The Westin is filled with booths promoting things from Reagan memorabilia to a campaign to “Draft Condi” for 2008. Lovely. As for the Convention Center, we scope out the areas where the festivities are taking place. Conference attendees wear a very visible pass that touts their Republicanism with pride (and allows them to actually attend conference events). We needed a plan to make ourselves visible and to disrupt the festivities.

It shaped up as follows:

1) I put on my suit and try to get into the convention either by
i) finding a pass lying around
ii) haggling with the door people and making up some excuse about why I don’t have a pass
iii) bribes (they’re politicians, right? should work.)

2) Upon entrance, plan a way for the rest of the group can get to the dinner in which Fred Thompson is speaking.
3) Cause a ruckus that gets live C-SPAN coverage

I suit up back at the car, and we split ways, me heading towards the Westin, the anarchists heading to the conference vicinity to await further direction for getting in. I enter the Westin, head up to the upper level, and look at all the booths. I stop at the booth with Reagan memorabilia and make my first Republican remark of the night, “Yeah. Our country needs a president like Reagan again. What a commanding figure!” A little of me died right there. The guy manning the booth agrees, and I say my dad would really like some campy framed picture of Reagan donning a cowboy hat. I started to write down a bogus address and phone number, but decide against it. More exploring and no dice for a pass. So I begin to head over to the conference via a skyway, chatting with a Party photographer, feeling out the entry situation. In my conversation, my stereotype of Republicans is confirmed. Cronyism goes unabated here: I ask how he got to be a photographer with the Republicans, and he remarks with a straight-face, “Well, it’s a lot more of who you know rather than what you know.” I hope the State Rep’s son can take pictures.

Now I’m at the entrance. There’s a table lined with Fred Thompson stickers and buttons. I pocket a few and later put one my lapel. The registration table is crawling with Repub’s, so I just try to walk past them. But I’m stopped. It’s like a SCUMM where I need to say the right things. Good for me I played nothing but Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade for years.

R: “Is this the first time at the conference, sir?”
A: “Um, yes.”
R: “What’s your name?”
A: “Oh, it’s… Joe Hill.”
R: (riffling through some spreadsheet printouts) “Tye Hill?”
A (TH): (surprised) “Yeah, that’s me. Joe’s my middle name.”
R: “Okay, here you are.”

You received a Republican Conference pass! Wear it with oligarchical pride!

I had also worked out a back story with this name. I was Tye “Joe” Hill, a mild-mannered yet charismatic and hardworking staffer for Congressman Steve Buyer’s Lafayette office (I found out later that Buyer doesn’t even have a Lafayette office. But no one called me on it). My job down at the convention was to hang around and hear Fred Thompson speak, as well as make a few connections. So I was keeping a low profile while being very attentive to whoever spoke with me. I would also be very busy, since the Congressman is going back to Washington after next week, and the office always has things to work out. I should note that watching C-SPAN for at least 12 hours a week and dating a Senate staffer prepared me superbly for this role. Tye Hill didn’t really have many different traits from Alex Hanna; he was just more acute and charming (by necessity), but filled with good ol’ Reagan-esque conservative values.

It’s around 5 o’clock now, and the dinner doesn’t start until 6. There’s a smaller reception room which I wander into and start to pile a few veggies onto a plate. A rather handsome man in his 40s walks up to me and introduces himself.

S: “Hi, I’m (somebody), sheriff of (some county).”
T: “Hi, Tye Hill, from Steve Buyer’s office.”
S: “Really? I know another Tye Hill at this conference.”

And here is the point where my heart absolutely drops. They’ve figured me out already and sent the sheriff after me. How can I respond? Only in disbelief.

T: “Really now?”
S: “Yeah, isn’t that a coincidence? She’s actually a woman from (some county)”
T: (WHAT? He thinks it’s just a coincidence! Very much now relieved) “Yeah! How crazy is that!”

That was the only point at the conference I thought I had been figured out.

I make my way out of the reception room, shaken up and sweating. I sit down and text Bradney, coordinating more of the plan. At this point I’m extremely frightened. Look at all these Republicans! And I’m able to walk in their midst with no problem! The guy next to me on the bench starts to mutter about how Ron Paul supporters are hoodlums. I solemnly agree (Tye Hill agrees; if Alex was going to support any Republican it’d probably be him) and go find a seat in the dinner room.

Love ‘merica Ballroom

At my seat, I start to chat with a server who is extremely nice (or it’s probably just that I’m a lot more comfortable talking to a working class black woman than rich white dudes), and I drink some coffee to calm my nerves. I get up to use the restroom and upon my return, four people have joined my table. One is a man running for state representative in 2008, another is a county commissioner for a county which will go unnamed, his wife, and his rather attractive daughter (I noticed very early on that the daughter was giving me “the eyes” for the entire night, but that is neither here or there). We talk, I make up random lies about what I do and come off very congenial. They nod in agreement with my views, laugh at my jokes, the works. This is what you learn from four years of job fairs. At one point the candidate for state rep. and I get into a mild debate about immigration. I did divulge that I am the son of immigrants, from Egypt no less. Apparently, Mike Pence, Congressman from the 6th District of Indiana (and a complete jackass, I might add) was working on a proposal for immigration and presented it to the conference. His proposal has a provision that immigrants need to pass an English proficiency test. I did raise the point that this would bias immigration towards Western and Eastern Europeans, as well as people who have opportunity for education in their home countries (i.e. higher class people). And they agreed! Amazing. The rest of the debate is mired in the usual Republican tripe about illegal immigrants breaking the law and whatnot.

In the middle of conversation, the good Sheriff comes by and walks me over to meet a special someone. That’s right, the real Tye Hill. The real Tye Hill is an excitable, happy Iranian woman (why why why why is there an Iranian woman in the Republican party), and she is ecstatic to meet another Tye Hill. And, you know, who am I to be a letdown? We take a picture together, which I’m sure is going to show up in some small town Republican party newsletter.

Before dinner, the Lieutenant Governor Becky Stillman gives the opening prayer (during which I put my hands together and conclude with an “allah akbar” while everyone else says “amen”), then the Pledge of Allegiance to that huge goddamn flag in the middle of the room, followed by a very Caucasian rendition of the National Anthem. I have to bear all these while biting my tongue. Tye Hill is a Reagan-era conservative Muslim who loves America, not an atheist Marxist humanist.

Soon after dinner starts, a reporter for the Chicago Tribune comes over and starts to ask us questions about Fred Thompson. I say that he is a charismatic Reagan-esque leader that’s going to be able to keep his cool and be a stable leader in dire times. Then I describe the hierarchy of franticness in the US Government, the House being the most disorderly, the Senate being a little better, and the President needing to be “the rock”. God bless the President. Expect a series of profiles on presidential candidates in January, and look for a few quotes by your pal Tye.

On a point of political commentary, another thing I noticed during the conference and which aggravated me to no end was the seemingly complacent role the women filled at the event. After the Tribune reporter interviewed us, she asked us what we did. The men mentioned their political offices, but the daughter of the county commissioner said, “I’m just a girl.” Ack! She also remarked on her hobby in baking for her husband, and how at first he was excited about it, but how he had now not come to appreciate it. It pissed me off that this woman was stuck in her situation and expected to stay there by “good Republican values”. She was obviously in an unhappy marriage, but it would be “right” by the conservative standards. Welcome to the goddamn 1950′s.

To my surprise, Steve Buyer gives the introduction for Fred Thompson. He tells this ridiculous story about the impeachment trial of Bill Clinton, through which I have to hold a fake mild smirk of admiration for my “boss”. Soon after Thompson starts, I step out of the room. I call the anarchists, who, to our dismay, have been told to stay away from the convention center by state police since they looked “suspicious” (well, I mean, they’re anarchists, of course they looked suspicious). We surmise that they’re not going to be able to get into the conference and don’t want to risk arrest. I walk back into the dinner hall as soon as Thompson is giving his final remarks.

Now the plan is to find out where a majority of these people are going and to cause a ruckus there. I hang around, talk to my sheriff friend, ask my county commissioner family what their plans are, but to no avail. Republicans can’t party, it seems.

I eventually drift over to the lounge in the Westin and find my county commissioner family there having cocktails. I order a 12-year old scotch on the rocks (as only a classy bastard like myself can) and chat more with the family. At one point, the commissioner asks me if we ever have protesters at the office. I laugh and remark that “of course we do”. Most notably, there’s the anti-war group called the Lafayette Area Peace Coalition. They have a rally every so often. Such an annoyance. The daughter says she saw one protester out in front of the Westin (which was probably one or more of our people). “You’re making a big difference, buddy,” she chuckles. This is probably the time when staying in character was proving most difficult. Dismissing politicians and Democrats is easy, but trying to deride one of my main social identities — that of being an activist — is no small task.

It’s getting late, so I say a few good-byes and leave them with my contact information. And by contact information, I slyly leave them with my riseup.net email address. I rendezvous with the anarchists, we stand in front of the Westin with signs, then we go home.

On the way home, we encounter a Popeye’s and stop there immediately. And let me tell you, a $6.50 3-piece fried chicken dinner at Popeye’s trumps a $250 Republican dinner any day.

Fred Thompson + Tye Hill = BFF

I would write an exhaustive review of this album if I had some time to, but I just wanted to say that although “The Game” is promoted as one of the singles on this album, it sounds nothing like the rest of the tracks on Finding Forever. The album itself is light-hearted and whimsical, although taking on more serious and pressing subjects. Kanye West does some amazing things with production, using some amazing samples in “The People”, “Break My Heart”, and “Misunderstood” (revisiting Nina Simone). There’s also a track by will.i.am from the Black Eyed Peas, and one track from Jay Dee’s The Shining with vocals added by D’Angelo.

Common and Kanye do not fail to impress, and, like his previous disc,Be, it’s better taken as a whole than a collection of individual songs (except, of course, “The Game”, which needed to be on a mixtape and not this album).

Concerning my last post, my Commune paper, Dialectics paper, and novel remain either unwritten or unfinished. All will get due attention once classes end. I have written a few more articles for The Seminal, although not as many as I promised to or wanted to. I worked half-time at “The Span” and got some stuff done. I actually skipped work today in lieu of napping and going to the gym. It was very much worth it.

I need to get on the novel thing more. It makes me feel somewhat achieved and better than MFAs that I won the Literary Award for it. But I’m not being pompous. No. I am not. I will finish it though. Anyone have any good ideas for a name? I guess you may have needed to read the manuscript first. Hrm.

I need to get on this writing tip more often too. I’ll try, Internet, I’ll try.

Right now, besides reading, I’m dedicating myself to a few non-work related tasks:

Have fun(?). This is all fun!

That is, of course, on top of summer classes and working at The SPAN. Working there is nice, though, because I can get away with watching fun House sessions all day and watch the representatives of “the American people” bicker and banter. If you ever want see the ugly side of C-SPAN, watch The Washington Journal from 7 to 10 AM, most notably the call-in sessions. People will call in and get their fucking piece in, from conspiracy theorists, to right-wing dingbats. This woman called in the other day and said something akin to, “These Democrats, these losers that want to leave Iraq before the job is done.” By now the moderator has this lovely smirk on his face, and he asks, “Caller, what do you think about the influence the war will have on the election?” to which she replies, “Well, Colorado used to be a red state, but now it’s turning blue, and it just breaks my heart and I cry about it.” To think somebody stays up at night and cries that another political party is in charge is kind of funny. Maybe it’s because I live in Indiana, and there’s no fucking surprise that there are Republicans here. I guess conservatives just cry at change. Not that the Democrats necessarily advocate change, but just that they aren’t Republicans.

Anyhow, this was good. A few words that will get my writing going for today. I’ll try to keep this blog updated in a timely fashion during the summer. Hell, I may blog at work (hope my boss isn’t reading this). Kidding, Dr. Browning. Kidding, sir.

]]> http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/05/19/summer-plans/feed/ 1 Alex http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/04/21/dante-lasalle-and-deckmaster-d/ http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/04/21/dante-lasalle-and-deckmaster-d/#comments Sat, 21 Apr 2007 17:09:35 +0000 Alex http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~ahanna/ghp/?p=42 ]]> This is an old article I wrote for Musiquitous (musiquitous.org). Hopefully that site will eventually get off the ground, but until it does, here’s the article.

I went to a show at a local venue in support of my favorite local nerdcore artists, expecting to spend some quality time singing along to classic tunes such as “Blunt Code” and “MySpace Pimpin’”. After two local acts of dubious quality performed, the third artist was an unexpected treat. The DJ walked in with a full backpack, two hard metal record cases, and a pair of shooting range ear muffs on. When he started to set up, it looked like he had to use Lord Illingworth’s (Plus+’s DJ) turntables. I could see the obvious apprehension on Ill’s face as they were setting up. He stepped away and we all watched curiously as this table-less DJ started working test scratches with the mixer and vinyl.

This duo hailing from Detroit introduced themselves as Danté LaSalle and DJ Deckmaster D. I didn’t get the name the first time, but after they started it was impossible to forget it. Deck began with some test scratches, showing that he was more than proficient at the art. Danté similarly started off with some energetic test rhymes, spitting off a few high power lyrics and flow, then cutting off the beats early so that the audience could awe at his rhythmic mastery. After flashing us hints of their musical prowess, the two began with some tracks that got the crowd into it. Starting off with the first track off his LP, “Tucker Stomp”, Danté let the lyrics move with the soul of a Negro slave song and the flow of the early Eminem. The track itself juxtaposes a sonorous drum combo that has an almost tribal feel in the verse against a 20′s Southern brass band that instructs listeners to “Stomp”, “Clap” in a similar manner to Lupe Fiasco’s “Kick, Push”. This mix of heavy beats and unconventional samples was a great way to kick off the show, and it didn’t stop there. Danté continued the musical dialogue with a harmonica solo set against a funky blues beat. The rest of the set was in the same style of the first track, using fresh samples mixed with heavy Southern drum beats, each song encouraging those in the audience to sing along with high energy hooks. Deck’s turntablism did not cease to impress as he scratched at the same pace as a Van Halen guitar solo (why he does not have a set of tables is some kind of weird mystery, like how a Buddhist monk does not travel with food or money, but rather trades instruction in the ways of the Dharma for alms).

Danté LaSalle and DJ Deckmaster D are most definitely a welcome sound to hip-hop. Danté brings a moving, skillful kind of lyricism that hasn’t been around since the heyday of Wu-Tang, while Deck revives and charges the tables in the same vein as the late J Dilla and those that are influenced by his legacy. Check out tracks from the LP, Roaming Empire, at http://switchhiphop.com.

]]> http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/04/21/dante-lasalle-and-deckmaster-d/feed/ 0 Alex Danté LaSalle http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/04/17/the-sociology-of-school-shootings/ http://twgo.wordpress.com/2007/04/17/the-sociology-of-school-shootings/#comments Wed, 18 Apr 2007 02:36:37 +0000 Alex http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~ahanna/ghp/?p=41 ]]> Before I start this, I would just like preface it with the fact that what happened on Monday is a horrible tragedy, and we should grieve with everyone personally connected to the victims.

That said, I think I should introduce what I want to say by citing some media sources around the world and how they are presenting this story. First, my home page, the BBC: Virginia massacre gunman is named is the front page story today. The first few paragraphs talk about Cho Seung-hui, the shooter, and his background. Then we go to the New York Times, headlined with Virginia Gunman Identified as a Student. The story below that is Gunman Described as Angry and ‘Always by Himself’, which goes on to give a comprehensive description of the gunman and his psychological profile. We also throw in France’s Le Monde which headlines Malgré une lettre, le geste du tueur reste un mystère (translates roughly as “Despite letter, the motive of killer still a mystery”). All of these sites have the mugshot of Cho with the headline. So you’re probably asking, okay, Alex, what’s your point? Well, most of these papers (especially the Times) are focusing on this event like it was one kid with psychological issues. Noted that there is an insert here and there with a chronology of US school shootings, but I can only assume this is because of the sheer magnitude and bloodshed of this shooting surpasses what this country has seen before in recent years.

My point is that now, right after this has occurred, we’re asking all the wrong questions. We are asking “What was wrong with this kid?” when I think we should really be asking “What is wrong with us?” What do I mean? Well, example:

The great thing about the internet is that before or after a major event (before elections, after an attack), you can damn be sure that someone’s put together some useful tools for getting background information. I found this page someone put together with the Google Maps API: Map of World School Shootings. This outlines every place in the world in the past ten years where there has been a school shooting. Out of 47 shootings, only 9 have not been in the US. 38 school shootings in the United States in only ten years. 38 in a country of 300 million people; that’s compared to 9 in the rest of the world that has a population of over five and a half billion.

So what I’m saying is that there is something wrong with this country when we have that many school shootings, and what we really need to investigate is what our social problems are before we try to file this away in the slew of individual problems we think plague our society. The problem with our thinking is that it is grounded in the notion of Western individualism, the idea that we are shaped almost completely by our own actions and whatever problems that occur in society are psychological. But let’s face it, even Émile Durkheim — quite possibly one of the most conservative figures in social theory — disavowed this notion. His study of suicide published 110 years ago implicated different societies (differentiated by nations) as a major cause in suicide rates of its members. I’m saying we really need to find out what’s behind these actions rather than scapegoating the psychology of the individual as “oh, well, he was a ‘loner’” or “That kid was kind of weird.” In Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine he points out the Lockheed Martin weapons facility in Littleton, Colorado and links it to a culture of violence and war that we have in the States. Though Michael Moore is generally quite the reductionist, it still raises a good point.

Anyhow, this culminates to how we should deal with an event like this. I heard on the Diane Rehm show this morning a few security experts wondering how to prevent this from happening again: ideas including locking down the university and metal detectors. This, of course, is stopping a shooting from happening on an individual level, controlling those people who are “weird”. What we really need is a re-evaluation of the kind of culture we have and what parts of that culture socialize that kind of behavior. The news media would be an excellent start. Lewis Black says in his post-9/11 album, “What we needed the day after 9/11 was a history lesson in Islam, the countries we were dealing with, and the people we were dealing with. But we didn’t get that. Instead there was this goddamn ticket scrolling across the bottom of screen saying things like ‘TERROR IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD’ What the fuck?” And that’s the kind of sensationalism and fear mongering we’re getting now at a time when we should be looking into the overall culture that has been created and the social relations that end in tragedies like Monday’s.

Feel free to leave comments and continue this dialogue in your communities.

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