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While I walked the dog this morning, tiny brown leaves fell from the trees across the two of us, like cherry blossoms in anime. The sun was that perfect shade of bright that would've been painful if the air had been any warmer, and the grass along the railroad track fence had been mowed recently enough that Adverb could go bouncing along that strip without disappearing. He's an adorable dog in the sunlight. It's a good thing he's adorable, I keep telling people, because he's not so good at anything else. But he does make me happy.
An awful lot of things I own don't have any purpose except to make me happy.
It's a pretty quiet neighborhood, despite the proximity to train tracks, freeway, heavy traffic. It's a pretty neighborhood. I get offline to walk the dog and it's faintly surreal. Here I am in the lovely autumn weather having a leisurely stroll with my dog. Not that far away, people are being shot. (I suppose people are always being shot. It's America.) I can't help but think of Omelas.
(You've all read Those Who Walk Away From Omelas, haven't you? It's hard to avoid the message by osmosis, in fannish circles, even if you haven't read it yourself. Like picking up on the gist of Weber and Heinlein and Asimov.)
I saw that story brought up on a forum, once, as an example, and a few people there read it for the first time. This is ridiculous, some of them said. If I lived in Omelas, I wouldn't walk away. I would get that kid out of the closet, and damn the consequences. That's the right thing to do.
I almost wish people hadn't responded. That's such a nice moment, when you still think you can solve things in a simple way. Even in fiction. The point of the story isn't that everyone is avoiding the obvious solution, and taking a morally suspect answer. The point of the story (as I read it) is that we're all in Omelas. My happy lifestyle and quiet neighborhood are utterly dependent on the exploitation of workers I've never met in countries I've never visited, and in some cases probably couldn't name or find on a map. If only it were as simple as one child in a closet.
Some people pointed out quite smugly that the shirts reading "This is what a feminist looks like" are made by exploited women in sweatshops. They are, I suppose. So are most of the shirts with Doctor Who jokes and political support for any major political party and family reunion slogans and quite pretty hand-printed designs done by local artists who need my support.
How does that saying go? There is no ethical consumerism in late-stage capitalism. Something like that.
Salidan Ahmed said, on Twitter: "I'll bet cops will start wearing body cams if we just retweet the demand enough times." And then, "Sorry, being unhelpfully sarcastic. Just frustrating seeing how many people still think the police state gives a shit about your "opinion."" I responded poorly, and eventually apologized.
I want to believe there's a simple answer. (Of course there's not.) I want to believe I would lead that child out of the closet. (Of course I wouldn't.) I want to not be living in Omelas. (Of course I am. Of course I would stay. Of course I would be kind and generous to those around me, and not want to destroy all that happiness for the sake of one child, who might be just as unhappy once we destroyed our metaphorical utopia.)
Of course there's not a simple answer. Of course I'm living in a police state. Of course I benefit from structural inequality. Of course I don't want to tear it down, when I'm afraid the next iteration would just be another version of the same thing, and no better, and maybe this time it would be my child in the closet instead of someone else's.
I have some sympathy for those who walk away from Omelas, even if I'm not about to leave with them. Maybe it's the safest thing to do. It's certainly a lot simpler than pulling the city down block by block, and trying to build something better out of the pieces.
An awful lot of things I own don't have any purpose except to make me happy.
It's a pretty quiet neighborhood, despite the proximity to train tracks, freeway, heavy traffic. It's a pretty neighborhood. I get offline to walk the dog and it's faintly surreal. Here I am in the lovely autumn weather having a leisurely stroll with my dog. Not that far away, people are being shot. (I suppose people are always being shot. It's America.) I can't help but think of Omelas.
(You've all read Those Who Walk Away From Omelas, haven't you? It's hard to avoid the message by osmosis, in fannish circles, even if you haven't read it yourself. Like picking up on the gist of Weber and Heinlein and Asimov.)
I saw that story brought up on a forum, once, as an example, and a few people there read it for the first time. This is ridiculous, some of them said. If I lived in Omelas, I wouldn't walk away. I would get that kid out of the closet, and damn the consequences. That's the right thing to do.
I almost wish people hadn't responded. That's such a nice moment, when you still think you can solve things in a simple way. Even in fiction. The point of the story isn't that everyone is avoiding the obvious solution, and taking a morally suspect answer. The point of the story (as I read it) is that we're all in Omelas. My happy lifestyle and quiet neighborhood are utterly dependent on the exploitation of workers I've never met in countries I've never visited, and in some cases probably couldn't name or find on a map. If only it were as simple as one child in a closet.
Some people pointed out quite smugly that the shirts reading "This is what a feminist looks like" are made by exploited women in sweatshops. They are, I suppose. So are most of the shirts with Doctor Who jokes and political support for any major political party and family reunion slogans and quite pretty hand-printed designs done by local artists who need my support.
How does that saying go? There is no ethical consumerism in late-stage capitalism. Something like that.
Salidan Ahmed said, on Twitter: "I'll bet cops will start wearing body cams if we just retweet the demand enough times." And then, "Sorry, being unhelpfully sarcastic. Just frustrating seeing how many people still think the police state gives a shit about your "opinion."" I responded poorly, and eventually apologized.
I want to believe there's a simple answer. (Of course there's not.) I want to believe I would lead that child out of the closet. (Of course I wouldn't.) I want to not be living in Omelas. (Of course I am. Of course I would stay. Of course I would be kind and generous to those around me, and not want to destroy all that happiness for the sake of one child, who might be just as unhappy once we destroyed our metaphorical utopia.)
Of course there's not a simple answer. Of course I'm living in a police state. Of course I benefit from structural inequality. Of course I don't want to tear it down, when I'm afraid the next iteration would just be another version of the same thing, and no better, and maybe this time it would be my child in the closet instead of someone else's.
I have some sympathy for those who walk away from Omelas, even if I'm not about to leave with them. Maybe it's the safest thing to do. It's certainly a lot simpler than pulling the city down block by block, and trying to build something better out of the pieces.