#if you decide shipping a certain ship is Wrong that's your prerogative

[tonyglowheart]

Since you asked for clarification, I was asking under what circumstances, if any, you think it is morally unacceptable to ship fictional characters. But thank you for your previous response, I laughed.

oooh okay. well this gets thorny and tricky, as is the wont of anything to do with like morality and ethics and nonesuch.

I think it’s hard for me to say definitively there are circumstances where something is NEVER okay, ever, for every single person? I mean probably if we get down to it, I can start nuancing some limits…

hmmm okay I… may be straying outside my lane here, but I feel like an analogy can be made with kink-related stuff? Are you shipping for yourself or shipping to participate in a community? And is your community spilling over and disrupting others who maybe do not consent to be participating in some of the conventions of your community? which kind of gets to the “are you being an anti and harassing other people” kind of dealio. I mean, I’m not necessarily morally decrying, say, ship wars. I’m just saying that’s where I start thinking it gets shitty.

In terms of like… “what is your comfort level shipping one character and another”? …without any concrete examples, I’m inclined to say if they’re fictional, then they’re your playground. If you personally aren’t comfy with a ship, then don’t feel forced to participate in it, I think? But be aware if you ship something that other ppl may take offense to it, and their objections may be valid for themselves. If THEY start harassing YOU for something you ship, then they’re in the wrong. Like people want to make the argument that “fiction affects” reality, which I think is valid, but also I think arguments that that’s a fallacy are valid too on the basis that shipping communities form a relatively smaller facet of society and hardly affect overarching societal structures the way, say, compulsory heterosexuality and homophobia do.

RPS is also not my personal cup of tea generally, but I can see the appeal, and this starts getting a bit more sticky but like, again my view on this is like the kink thing, if you’re keeping it contained either to yourself or your community and aren’t harassing ppl about it, it’s… less bad? I mean RPS does get stickier because we’re dealing with real actual people who could be uncomfortable about what the RPS is in relation to them, without their consent.. But I’m hardly going to decry it completely as unilaterally immoral. (edit: OKAY I WAS SPEED-READING and only just saw the specification of “fictional characters” yeeaaahh whoops)

I’m glad you liked my other response tho lol, I was like… yeah asked cold, I had no clue how to respond. I mean, even now, I’m not really sure what brought this on and why me of all people (if you are genuinely asking because you trust my judgment then oh my god I am so sorry anon lmao).

I mean also, for context, I sit on like… a handful of Problematique™ ships lmao so I’m hardly going to start throwing stones (glass houses, etc etc ya know). And like. I can see why people would be uncomfortable with some of the ships I like(d)! And that’s fine, they’re allowed to do that! But also like. I like what I like lmao and I sure don’t have any, like, Catholic guilt about it. It’s more like.. being discrete because the prevailing atmosphere is just Rough and I want to avoid getting on like.. the purity wank crowd’s radar, just in case :’)

(okay I’m editing to add some more thoughts or ramblings or stream of consciousness I guess)

okay so. here’s the thing. I think there’s some things that SEEM like they’re a no-brainer. “no incest. no pedophilia. no abuse ships.” that spiel. But like. the thing is those things aren’t neeeecessarily as clear-cut as they may seem on the surface. Fiction is created; two characters that ended up siblings might have started off as childhood friends and then the author decided they worked better as siblings. Characters that were siblings up until the final draft might have ended up as neighbors. And god I don’t know if I’ve ranted or not about “abuse ships” but where do we even start with THAT. How do we even define what that is. Are we also, then, discounting some canon ships that perhaps have abusive overtones in some of the interactions? Like... a lot of the way straight dudes write straight relationships... to me can be read as kind of abusive.

My other gripe with “pedophilia” is the overuse of it as a moral signalling buzzword. Like, I get why! It’s visceral! it’s the kind of strawman that’s like “oh what, are you defending pedophilia?” but I also have seen it unironically used to describe a hypothetical relationship between a fictional 16 year old (the character wasn’t even 16 in the series) and someone else over 20. My dudes I’m p sure the 16-year-old is post-pubescent. Or at least I sure hope so.

Like ultimately, I think the thing with fictional character is like... they’re fiction. no individual persons were harmed in the imaginings of what’s happening with this fictional character. And with shipping and fanfic, I think it’s a character-driven genre (I think someone wrote a post about this some time?). I can see where characters can be simplified down to sets of tropes or character dynamics that can be compelling to people and make them want to imagine those dynamics in other settings. And it’s possible for some of the other things to become set-dressing.

Speaking to when I think it’s WRONG to ship something.... I guess most of my answers are “when it translates harmfully somehow into meatspace”? Like if someone is using shipping as performative activism, or shipping as relationship advice (which isn’t to say ALL shipping is bad as relationship advice). But like. The purpose of shipping is not relationship advice, so any relationship advice that comes out of shipping is incidental and like.. a pleasant byproduct. But I don’t think it should be an explicit goal or aspiration, to only ship what seems to be idealized. Also that just flat-out sounds boring to me lol. How can you have that sweet sweet H/C if you don’t have any H, ya know?

[stupidsexyfandom]

Atonement

@helsa-summer-event

Rated M: Mature themes, SFW // Angst

CONTENT WARNING: Major Character Death, Suicide

Twenty-five years later, a body washes up in Arendelle. 

Written for Prompt #4 of Helsa Summer: Gorgeously tan. 

The morning after the storm dawned cool and gray. Queen Elsa rose even earlier than usual after a night plagued by insomnia. She stood on her balcony, watching as the city began to stir. The sea lay still as glass, slate blue and impenetrable. She wished she could stand staring at it forever. Her mind had been greatly troubled, and today, she did not feel like speaking to anyone.

Unfortunately, she reminded herself, being queen left no room for fits of pique. She would have to go downstairs to tend to her duties eventually, as she had every day for the past twenty-five years. Casting a last longing look at the gray sea, she steeled herself to face the world.

Breakfast with Anna, Kristoff, and the children could always lift her spirits, even on such a dour day as this. Elsa supposed she should no longer think of them as children en masse. The oldest, Isolde, would be twenty-one in the spring. Watching her niece, Elsa could hardly believe she had become queen at that age. She seemed so young. Surely she herself had not been such a child when she had taken the throne? But perhaps she had been so young once. In any case, it was her prerogative as a doting aunt to remember all her nieces and nephews as babes in arms no matter how old they got.

After breakfast, she reviewed her itinerary for the day. The bulk of her time was occupied by a foray into the city to assess storm damage. The high winds and heavy rains of the previous night had wrought havoc on structures private and public alike. Beyond the usual cleanup, Elsa had to decide where to allocate funds for repairs and assistance.

She was accompanied on her inspection tour by the castle’s steward, Kai. He had worked in the castle since her father had been crowned. Although his hair was now white, he seemed to grow shrewder with each passing year. Elsa valued his opinion more than those of most of the diplomats and aristocrats on her advisory council.

Together they walked through the streets of the city. Elsa was pleasantly surprised. All told, Arendelle had weathered the storm much better than she had feared. She knew her people were strong, but the wind and rain had been particularly fierce. When the pair reached a damaged building, Kai would make note of it in his little book, and Elsa would do her best to help. Where shingles had blown off the baker’s roof, she created a patch of ice to keep the rain out. Where the upper story of a tenement sagged, she created an icy scaffolding to support it until repairs could be made. All throughout the city, she did what she could. It was times like these when she was thankful for her powers, and she could tell that her people were, too. Every snowflake was an atonement for what had happened so many years ago.

There was a small crowd gathering at the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea. They appeared to be looking at something caught on the rocks below. Elsa thought the wind must have blown something over something over the edge in the night, perhaps a signboard or even a cart. Perhaps she would be able to get it back for them with her powers. She and Kai joined the townsfolk in peering over the edge. At first, Elsa could see nothing. Then she caught sight of a flash of red and felt suddenly sick. There, where the waves were lapping at the rocks, lay a body.

She immediately conjured a staircase to the foot of the cliff, careful to give the treads an anti-slip texture. Kai was the first down it, moving nimbly despite his advanced age. Elsa followed. When they reached the bottom, they had to pick their steps carefully along the slippery rock. The body lay face down. Its hair had been the red that caught her eye from the clifftop. Kai knelt to check its pulse, although they both knew it was a vain gesture. Sighing, Elsa created a broad platform of ice beneath the three of them. She raised it into a pillar until they were even with the head of the cliff. Two fishermen rushed forward to carry the body onto solid ground.

They lay the dead man face up on a patch of grass. For the first time, Elsa could see his face. A chill of recognition ran through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself instinctively. When she looked down, she was shocked to see spirals of frost covering her cloak. She had not lost control of her powers like that in decades.

“Is something wrong?” She could feel Kai’s keen eyes upon her. With anyone else, she might have been able to pass it off as the shock of seeing a dead body so close. But Kai had known her for too long. He had seen the recognition in her eyes.

“I know this man,” she said haltingly.

“Oh?” Elsa had to think fast. She couldn’t let anyone know what she knew, not even Kai.

“I saw him yesterday. He told me the last time he was in Arendelle was for my coronation, and he wanted to pay his respects after twenty-five years.” This was not exactly a lie, although it was far from the whole truth.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“I believe he said it was Anderson. Hans Anderson.”

-

She had seen him in the town square. All around, the city of Arendelle was bustling with preparations for the oncoming storm. He was standing at a produce stall, examining the varieties of fruit. She might not have recognized him if not for his eyes. He wore the garb of a simple sailor, and his face was tanned and weather-beaten. But she would know those eyes anywhere.

She paused for a moment, uncertain of whether to approach him. Part of her wanted to ask why he had come here, or how he dared to show his face here at all. The other part of her wanted to turn away and forget she had even seen him. She had learned long ago the value of letting sleeping dogs lie. But soon enough the choice was made for her. He had seen her.

“You haven’t changed,” he said by way of greeting, and Elsa hated that he was right. Age had taken its toll on her, but its price had been lighter for her than for most. Her hair had always been white, and her time indoors had kept her skin smooth. He could not see the achy joints and stiff muscles that lay beneath the surface. Nor could he see how she had grown, no longer fearful and isolated. She had learned to be strong for her people, to make difficult decisions and navigate stormy seas.

“You have,” she told him, although she was not sure that it was true. He dressed coarsely and had clearly spent the last twenty years working under the sun, his red hair streaked with gray. He still carried with him a certain air of refinement, but his face held an open simplicity she had not seen before. Still, she was wary. He was an expert pretender, and it was likely the same frozen heart lay beneath this roughhewn exterior.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Then speak.” Her tone was chilly.

“Not here. Somewhere private.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“You only have to listen.” Elsa wanted to dismiss him out of hand, to tell him that she didn’t have to do anything. But there was something in his eyes that was both dangerous and desperate. She found herself assenting. He tried to give her his name and current ship, but she brushed them away. They would meet on her terms.

Sitting at her dressing table that evening, Elsa mulled over her choice. She was not going to allow herself to regret it. So much of her life had been stolen away by fear and regret. As she had grown older, she had learned not to let them dominate her thoughts and actions. But that evening, those emotions threw her back to the day she became queen. What’s done is done, she thought. And although she could not eliminate her regret, she could keep moving forward.

Lost in thought, she removed the pins from her updo and began brushing her hair. As she braided it for sleep, she realized the actions were pointless. She would be going out again anyway. But seeing the braid over her left shoulder gave her an idea. Standing, she replicated the first ice dress she had ever made. She had not worn one like it in many years, finding it too daring to be taken seriously at court. Now, she remembered the power she had felt when she first created it. Perfect, she thought. It was the same dress she had worn that day on the fjord. She wanted him to remember what he had done.

-

The wind whistled as she stole down to the side entrance. Elsa could see the backs of the leaves, but no rain yet fell. When she opened the garden door, she was surprised to find him already waiting.

“Did the guards see you?” The last thing Elsa needed was for anyone to know about their secret assignation.

“I climbed over the wall,” he said, gesturing behind him. Elsa could barely make out a patch of ivy growing over the stonework, and she made a mental note to have it cut back later. But tonight, it had been her ally.

She led him to the chapel. None of the lamps were lit, so the only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. She set the lantern she carried on the dais. The flame cast weird shadows across the flagstones.

She whirled to face him and said, “Why did you come here?”

“You don’t know? I came to beg for your forgiveness.” A cold wind blew through the chapel, extinguishing the lantern. Elsa swore under her breath, any cutting response forgotten. She knelt to fumble with the wick, realizing she didn’t have any matches. That was the biggest problem with this ice dress: no pockets.

He was beside her in an instant, proffering a matchbook from his waistcoat pocket. As she reached out to take it, their hands brushed, and Elsa realized neither of them wore gloves. She wondered if it had been as long for him as it had for her. She struggled to light a match, finding the striking pad slick with ice. When a flame erupted at last, it fizzled just as quickly in her cold hands.

“Here, let me,” he said, gently taking back the book of matches. She watched silently as his tanned, agile hands lit the wick. They sat side by side on the edge of the dais, staring into the shadowy corners of the chapel.

Suddenly he said, “I hear the princess is married.”

“Yes,” said Elsa, “Happily married for more than twenty years now.”

“To the iceman?”

“Yes, to the iceman, Kristoff. They have several lovely children.” Elsa was stalling, not eager to return to the subject that had brought them there.

“Children? Will you tell me about them?” It occurred to Elsa that Anna probably would not want her to. Anna probably would be upset that she was speaking to him at all. She was ready to ask him what business the children were of his when he held up a hand.

“Please. Let me hear about the children that could have, in another life, been mine.” His words stung Elsa, especially because she often thought the same thing. She loved her nieces and nephews as though they were her sons and daughters. But sometimes, she imagined an alternate path, where she had loved and married and had children of her own. So she told him. She started with Isolde, who would be queen one day, and worked her way down. He listened with rapt attention, but his eyes held a sadness she knew too well.

When she had finished (with Wilhelm, age nine, avid collector of frogs and turtles), he asked, “And you? You have never married?”

“No. I discovered long ago that it was better to keep power for myself than to trust too easily and share it with anyone whose motives were uncertain. You taught me that. I suppose I never found anyone whom I could trust.” He barked a dry laugh and leaned back on his arms. Elsa studied his face among the harsh lamplight shadows, and she could see his expression soften.

“It is a shame, your Majesty, all that we have missed in life.” She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she had missed nothing. But instead she just sighed. They sat in silence for a while.

“You’ve never married either?” asked Elsa. She felt suddenly ridiculous. Here she was, making polite conversation with the man who had once tried to kill her. She wasn’t even sure what to call him. ‘Prince Hans’ seemed out of the question, for she was fairly sure he had been stripped of his title. Just ‘Hans’ seemed too familiar, implying a closer relationship. What else was left? The false name he had given her? But ‘Mr. Anderson’ seemed stiffly formal, like she was addressing a stranger. And whatever their relationship was, they were certainly not strangers. His voice interrupted her reverie.

“No. I’ve been at sea for many years, you know. No time for a wife.” Something in his tone told Elsa there was more to it.

“Many sailors marry.”

“Perhaps I was always too obsessed with what happened in Arendelle. I dreamed of it every night. Even in my waking hours, I could never be free of it. Each wave crashing against the hull seemed to call me to repent. Eventually, I could bear it no longer. I thought it might drive me mad. Perhaps there was a kind of madness in my coming here. But I knew that I could not rest until I saw you again. I could not go on without asking for your forgiveness.”

Elsa stood slowly, feeling stiff from sitting so low to the ground. She almost pitied him. Despite what she knew of him, he seemed genuinely repentant. Perhaps he had learned something in the past twenty-five years. That was what made this so hard.

“Do not ask for my forgiveness.”

“What?” He froze midway through standing up.

“Any wrongs you have committed against me pale in comparison to what you did to my sister. It is her forgiveness you must seek, not mine.”

“Then let me speak to her tomorrow. I won’t expect anything to come of it, so long as I have the opportunity.” His expression was tinged with eagerness verging on desperation. Elsa steeled herself. She had to protect her sister. She had been unable to do so twenty-five years ago when they had first met Prince Hans, and Anna had suffered for it. Now, Elsa finally had the chance to atone for that failure. She would not fail again.

“Princess Anna is happy now. She has a life and family of her own. The last thing she need is for you to dredge up the past.”

“But—”

“I sympathize. Do you think I don’t understand self-recrimination? She has finally managed to heal from what we’ve done to her. I won’t let you disrupt her life.”

Her words proved to be too much for him. He knelt before her, pleading desperately. She thought there was a touch of madness in his eyes.

“Please, I beg of you! If you will not let me see your sister, at least consider my plea for yourself. I don’t know how I can go on otherwise. I cannot live this haunted life.”

“I cannot help you. You must seek absolution elsewhere.” Elsa wished that things could be different. But she of all people did not have the right to grant forgiveness for what had happened at the coronation. Not when she herself had played such a large part in her sister’s suffering.

He threw himself at her feet like a child. She felt his hand on her leg, grasping at it like a lifeline. He buried his face in her skirts, and Elsa felt overwhelmed by his emotion. She noticed snowflakes drifting slowly downward and waved them away with her hand. Perhaps she was being selfish, letting her final act of atonement block his only chance at the same. But Anna’s happiness had to come first.

“Get up,” she said softly, pushing at his graying hair, “Hans. Get up.” He looked up at her, eyes moist but unwavering. Slowly he disentangled himself from her skirts.

“I can’t give you what was never mine to give. The most I can do is let you leave here in peace. I will not alert the Southern Isles, nor will I alert Arendelle’s guard. I have left you with your life. You must be content with that.” Her tone was kind, but she spoke with a sense of finality.

“A cursed life such as mine hardly qualifies. You have left me with nothing at all.” His eyes looked hollow, as if there were nothing behind them.

-

“Give us your best account of what happened last night, Captain,” said Kai. The body was laid out in the castle’s chapel. Because the dead man had no local family, Elsa had volunteered to take charge of the remains. Now a small group had formed there to try to figure out the cause of death. Elsa and Kai, her eternal shadow, stood on one side. The doctor and the bishop stood on the other. The captain of the St. Winifred, who had been found based on Elsa’s information, was the final member of their party. Elsa had worried that they might realize Hans’ true identity, but her secret seemed safe for the moment.

“The night watchman says Anderson returned around midnight, just about when the rain started. He didn’t go below decks right away, saying he wanted some fresh air. By the time of the one o’clock patrol, he was gone. The watchman say he thought Anderson went below deck, but the storm was getting intense by that point, so he wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Do you think he could have fallen overboard? Or could a wave have washed him away?” asked Kai. The captain considered for a moment.

“I would say either of those were possible, if not likely. Anderson was a competent sailor and very cautious. I doubt he slipped and fell. But in a storm like that one, anything may have happened.”

“Was he well liked among the crew?” Elsa could tell Kai was trying to be diplomatic.

“Yes, he got along with everybody. He was quiet and kept himself to himself. But he was always willing to pick up the slack, and that made him popular. I had offered him a promotion several times, but he always turned me down. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him.”

Elsa was finding it difficult to keep her mind on the proceedings. She found herself staring at the corpse several times, fixated on how it compared to the Hans of her memory. Beneath its suntanned skin lay the pallor of death. Its eyes were closed, but she knew they must hold the same hollow look she had seen the night before. She longed to reach out and touch it. Would it be cold as ice? Would she even be able to tell? The bishop was speaking for the first time, and Elsa tried to give him her attention.

“What we must know is this: could he have done this to himself? We cannot move forward with the burial until we know whether he is worthy of consecrated ground.” The other three men looked distinctly uncomfortable. Elsa got the feeling this was a possibility they would all have gladly ignored.

The doctor spoke first: “All I can tell you is that he drowned. There were some abrasions from the rocks, but they were clearly postmortem. His body can give us no evidence aside from that.”

“I wouldn’t believe it for a moment,” said the captain with a bit of added bluster, “He just wasn’t the sort. Sure, he had his troubles, but so do we all. Doesn’t mean he’d do something so drastic.”

“Queen Elsa,” said Kai, “you spoke to him the most recently out of all of us. Can you shed any light on his state of mind?” Elsa had only a split second to decide what to say. She knew her evidence would be damning if she answered truthfully.

“It was only for a few minutes. He just told me how little I had changed since my coronation. He seemed in good spirits, but of course I didn’t know him.” She hoped her lie would be convincing. It was the least she could do for him.

-

The investigation was over. They had reached a consensus that it had been an accidental death. Elsa was glad to be finished with it. At least she had spared Hans the final indignity of an unconsecrated grave. Despite the bishop’s protestations, she had insisted that he be buried in the royal plot. She was not sure what lay beyond the grave, but she hoped his spirit would be able to find some peace.

Now, she walked along the beach, looking out over the slate-colored sea. She turned, hearing footsteps behind her. It was Kai.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” They walked together in silence for a while.

“You went to a lot of trouble to arrange a burial for that man,” said Kai. He was dangling the bait in front of her. She wondered how much he knew.

“A queen’s duty is to take care of her people. Besides, I feel partially responsible for his death. He only came to Arendelle because of me.”

“Queen Elsa, listen to me,” Kai stopped walking and turned to face her, “this was not your fault. If it was not an accident, he made his own choice. I suspect he made his choice many years ago. You don’t need to hold yourself responsible.”

Elsa appreciated Kai’s kind words and common sense. She hoped that this time she would be able to follow his advice. After so many years, perhaps she did not need another reason to atone.

***

Author’s Note: This fic is brought to you by the letter C. C for Cadfael, an endless source of inspiration for me. C for Culturally Catholic, which bleeds through into my writing sometimes. C for Content warning, which is not something I usually need for my fics. Oh yeah, and C for Completely missing the spirit of the prompt, sorry guys. 

I had to rewrite the entire middle portion because I thought Hans was coming across as too mentally well-compensated. Tomorrow I begin my apology tour. Thanks so much for reading! <3

[rowan-buzzard-whitethorn]

Your thoughts on negativity in fandom?

Hello nonnie 😊Soooo… You probably sent this message thinking you’d get a nice quick “it’s bad” answer, but what you didnt know is that I have a tendency to rant, and I have a lot of thoughts about this….. So buckle your seatbelts kiddos here comes a tangent! (Also this on mobile lol what is formatting)1. The thing with fandom that is both awesome and hard is that everyone has different opinions on stuff. If a portion of the fandom reads a certain book in a series and hates it, then that is fine! And I think they should be able to be vocal about that for the purpose being able to talk to other people about it. But. I prefer people tag things, and maybe put it under the cut, or maybe say something like “hey I hated the book/ this part, if you didn’t then maybe unfollow me” because you don’t want to be that person that shits on someone’s birthday cake you know? 2. With all that being said… Negativity is a poison. Lord knows I can be salty, and I am of the opinion that you can criticize and poke at things you love and still love them. But negativity begets negativity. So when thats all you focus on and all you spread around… That’s just not my vibe man. 3. I have realized that I read acowar differently than… Any other book I’ve read? I read all of tog before joining the fandom and so therefore missed all the drama. Then I read Acotar, again without fandom interpretation beside “Tamlin=bad”. But with acowar… I let the fact that we had so many headcanons (which is NOT a bad thing) and the fact that the prereleased copies sent up a fandom shit storm (a super annoying thing) taint my entire reading. I was subconsciously looking for things to be wrong/bad the entire time. And the fact that I let fandom very obviously hurt my reading experience… Sucks? But it’s hard because how much of that is fandom and how much of that is up to me to just ignore the negative vibes? I don’t know. 4. I think there comes a point when you need to decide to either wash you hands… Or just tone it down maybe. You either read the books for the fun distraction of Hot Fae Drama™ or you are looking for Dickinson level literary genius… In which case you may be disappointed, that’s life man. And it’s totally your prerogative, just be mindful that fandom means… You know… You’re a fan. 5. I will say this, there have been waves of negativity for sure… But I’ve been in fandoms before that… You guys… Just- bad. Real bad. So I learned how to scroll past, how to officially decide to unfollow a bunch of people, etc. So I will say that I am proud of this fandom for taking up the cause (somewhat, relatively) quickly to take a step back and reevaluate. Obviously we aren’t quite there yet but, you know. 6. Lastly (lol you made it this far, congrats) the most harmful is obviously anon hate. Which… there isn’t any way to slice it. If you are the type of immature 9 year old that spends their day being a cunt to real life people on the internet over fictional characters…. Especially a ship??? No. You and I are not friends. Frankly I think you have a laughable lack of social intelligence and I dont feel bad saying so. come at me. That is the biggest source of negativity I have seen and I’m actually fully in favor of the toddler rule. When a toddler throws a tantrum, don’t indulge them. They just want attention. Don’t feed the trolls. Or you know… Some other metaphor

[battybat-boss]

Humanity's Failed Experiments

There is a planet-wide experiment that seems to be failing. You could think of it as humanity's experiment with industrial civilization.

There was a period in my later life when I used to say that, from the age of 20 to my late 60s, I was always 40 years old; I was, that is, an old young man and a young old one. Tell that to my legs now.  Of course, there's nothing faintly strange in such a development.��It's the most ordinary experience in life: to face your own failing self, those muscles that no longer work the way they used to, those brain cells jumping ship with abandon and taking with them so many memories, so much knowledge you'd rather keep aboard. If you're of a certain age - I just turned 74 - you know exactly what I mean.

And that, as they say, is life. In a sense, each of us might, sooner or later, be thought of as a kind of failed experiment that ends in the ultimate failure: death.

And in some ways, the same thing might be said of states and empires. Sooner or later, there comes a moment in the history of the experiment when those muscles start to falter, those brain cells begin jumping ship and in some fashion - spectacular or not - it all comes tumbling down. And that, as they say (or should say), is history. Human history, at least.

In a sense, it may hardly be more out of the ordinary to face a failing experiment in what, earlier in this century, top officials in Washington called “nation building” than in our individual lives. In this case, the nation I'm thinking about, the one that seems in the process of being unbuilt, is my own. You know, the one that its leaders - until Donald Trump hit the Oval Office - were in the habit of eternally praising as the most exceptional, the most indispensable country on the planet, the global policeman, the last or sole superpower. Essentially, it. Who could forget that extravagant drumbeat of seemingly obligatory self-praise for what, admittedly, is still a country with wealth and financial clout beyond compare and more firepower than the next significant set of competitors combined?

Still, tell me you can't feel it? Tell me you couldn't sense it when those election results started coming in that November night in 2016? Tell me you can't sense it in the venomous version of gridlock that now grips Washington? Tell me it's not there in the feeling in this country that we are somehow besieged (no matter our specific politics), demobilized and no longer have any real say in a political system of, by and for the billionaires, in a Washington in which the fourth branch of government, the national security state, gets all the dough, all the tender loving care (except, at this moment, from our president), all the attention for keeping us “safe” from not much (and certainly not itself)? In the meantime, most Americans get ever less and have ever less say about what they're not getting. No wonder in the last election the country's despairing heartland gave a hearty orange finger to the Washington elite.

States of Failure

“Populist” is the term of the moment for the growing crew of Donald Trumps around the planet. It may mean “popular,” but it doesn't mean “population”; it doesn't mean “We, the People.” No matter what that band of Trumps might say, it's increasingly not “we” but “them,” or in the case of Donald J. Trump in particular, “him.”

No, the United States is not yet a failed or failing state, not by a long shot, not in the sense of countries like Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Syria and Yemen that have been driven to near-collapse by America's 21st-century wars and accompanying events. And yet, doesn't it seem ever easier to think of this country as, in some sense at least, a failing (and flailing) experiment?

And don't just blame it on Donald Trump. That's the easy path to an explanation.  Something had to go terribly wrong to produce such a president and his tweet-stormed version of America. That should seem self-evident enough, even to - though they would mean it in a different way - The Donald's much-discussed base. After all, if they hadn't felt that, for them, the American experiment was failing, why would they have voted for an obvious all-American con man? Why would they have sent into the White House someone whose Apprentice-like urge is to fire us all?

It's hard to look back on the last decades and not think that democracy has been sinking under the imperial waves. I first noticed the term the “imperial presidency” in the long-gone age of Richard Nixon, when his White House began to fill with uniformed flunkies and started to look like something out of an American fantasy of royalty. The actual power of that presidency, no matter who was in office, has been growing ever since. Whatever the Constitution might say, war, for instance, is now a presidential, not a congressional, prerogative (as is, to take a recent example, the imposition of tariffs on the products of allies on “national security” grounds).

As Chalmers Johnson used to point out, in the Cold War years the president gained his own private army. Johnson meant the Central Intelligence Agency, but in this century you would have to add America's ever vaster, still expanding Special Operations forces (SOF), now regularly sent on missions of every sort around the globe. He's also gained his own private air force: the CIA's Hellfire-missile armed drones that he can dispatch across much of the planet to kill those he's personally deemed his country's enemies. In that way, in this century - despite a ban on presidential assassinations, now long ignored - the president has become an actual judge, jury, and executioner. The term I've used in the past has been assassin-in-chief.

All of this preceded President Trump. In fact, if presidential wars hadn't become the order of the day, I doubt his presidency would have been conceivable. Without the rise of the national security state to such a position of prominence; without much of government operations descending into a penumbra of secrecy on the grounds that “We, the People” needed to be “safe,” not knowledgeable; without the pouring of taxpayer dollars into America's intelligence agencies and the US military; without the creation of a war-time Washington engaged in conflicts without end; without the destabilization of significant parts of the planet; without the war on terror - it should really be called the war for terror - spreading terrorism; and without the displacement of vast populations (including something close to half of Syria's by now) and the rise of the populist right on both sides of the Atlantic on the basis of the resulting anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim sentiments, it's hard to imagine him. In other words, before he ever descended that Trump Tower escalator into the presidential race in 2015, empire had, politically speaking, trumped democracy and a flawed but noble experiment that began in 1776 was failing.

Had that imperial power not been exercised in such a wholesale way in this century, Donald Trump would have been unimaginable. Had President George W. Bush and his cronies not decided to invade Iraq, The Donald probably would have been inconceivable as anything but the proprietor of a series of failed casinos in Atlantic City, the owner of what he loves to call “property” (adorned with those giant golden letters), and a reality-TV host. And the American people would not today be his apprentices.

When that “very stable genius” (as he reminded us again recently) inherited such powers long in the making, he also inherited the power to use them in ways that would have been unavailable to the president of a country that had genuine “checks and balances,” one in which the people knew what was going on and in some sense directed it. Consider it a sign of the times that he's the second president to lose the popular vote in this 18-year-old century - the first, of course, being George W. “Hanging Chad” Bush.

So perhaps it's only proper that President Trump has now nominated to the Supreme Court a judge who was once a Republican operative for the very legal team focused on stopping the recount of those contested Florida ballots in 2000 - a recount the Supreme Court did indeed halt, throwing the election to Bush. Note that Brett Kavanaugh is also the perfect justice for America's new imperial age of decline, one who genuinely believes that the law should read: The president, while in office, is above it. Think of him as Caligula's future enabler.

In other words, in the 21st century, Donald Trump is proof indeed that the American experiment in democracy may be coming to an unseemly end in a president with all the urges of an autocrat (and so many other urges as well). Or think of it this way: The contest - from early on an essential part of American life - between democracy and empire seems to be ending with empire the victor.

However - and here may be Donald Trump's particular significance - empire, too, looks to be heading toward some kind of ultimate failure. He himself is visibly a force for imperial demolition. He seems intent - as in the recent abusive NATO meeting and the chaotic get-together with Russian President Vladimir Putin - on dismantling the very world that imperial America built for itself in the wake of World War II. You know, the one in which it was to be the ultimate and eternal victor in a rivalry between imperial powers that had begun in perhaps the 15th century, reached its peak when only two “super” rivals were left to face each other in the Cold War, and ended with a single power seemingly triumphant and alone on planet Earth.

How quickly those historically unique dreams of global dominion fell apart in the “infinite wars” of this century. Think of Donald Trump as the overly ripe fruit of that failure, that endless imperial moment that never quite was. Think of him as the daemon in the (malfunctioning) global machinery of a world that is itself - as in Brexiting “Europe” - evidently beginning to come apart at the seams amid war, a flood of global refugees, and one factor never experienced before (on which more below). Think of America as being caught up in some only half-recognized United Stexit moment, though what exactly we are withdrawing from may be less than clear.

Still, bad as any moment might be, you can always hope for, dream about and work for so much better, as so many have over the centuries. After all, everything I've described remains the norm of history. What empire hasn't had its Caligulas, its Trumps? What empire hasn't, in the end, gone down? What democratic experiment hasn't sooner or later faltered? Even the best of experiments come up short as autocrats take power and hand their rule on to their sons, only to be overthrown by some revolt, some new attempt to make better sense of this world, which itself falters sooner or later. And so it goes.

Again, that, as they say, is history, a series of failed experiments, but ones that always end, in their own fashion, with hope still alive for a better, fairer, more just world. Yes, a particular failure might be terrible for you, your community, even several generations of yous, but it, too, will pass and you can expect our better angels to reappear someday, even if not in your lifetime - or at least until recently you could do so.

Climate Change: The Ultimate Experiment

There is, however, another experiment, a planet-wide one that seems to be failing as well. You could think of it as humanity's experiment with industrial civilization, which is disastrously altering the environment of this previously welcoming world of ours. I'm referring, of course, to what the greenhouse gases from the fossil fuels we've been burning in such profusion since the eighteenth century are doing to our planet.

Whether you call it climate change or global warming, the one thing it isn't - despite the fact that we've done it - is history. Not human history anyway. After all, its effects will exist on a time scale that dwarfs our own. If allowed to play out to its fullest, it could destroy civilization. And ironically enough, unlike so many of our experiments, this was one we didn't even know we were conducting for something like a century and a half. So consider it an irony that it's the one likely to endanger every other imaginable experiment. If not somehow halted in a reasonably decisive fashion, it could not only inundate coastal cities, turn verdant lands into parched landscapes and create weather extremes presently hard to imagine, but produce heat that will be devastating.

And yet don't give us any kind of a free pass on this one. Despite those endless years of not knowing what we were doing, ignorance can't be pled. Increasing numbers of us (including the giant oil companies who did everything humanly possible to keep the news from the rest of us) have known about this since at least the 1960s. In 1965, President Lyndon Johnson's science advisory committee sent him a report that highlighted a human-caused warming of the planet from the carbon dioxide burned off by fossil fuels. It included remarkably accurate projections of the increased heat to come in the 21st century and of other effects of climate change, including sea level rise and the warming of sea waters. So don't say that no one was warned. As time went on, we've been warned again and again.

And for this, too, Donald Trump can't be blamed, but his presence in the White House is now a powerful symbol of a human failure to grasp the dangers involved. Talk about a symbolic act of self-destruction: The American people put a fierce climate denier in the White House. He, in turn, has brought his passionate 1950s-style fantasies of an even more oil-fueled global future with him. He has, among other things, appointed a remarkable set of Republican climate-change doubters and deniers to crucial positions throughout his administration. He's moved to withdraw this country from the Paris climate accord, while powering up fossil-fuel and greenhouse-gas-producing projects of every sort and weakening the drive to develop alternative energy sources; he has, that is, done everything in his power to stoke global warming.

Along with the actions of the CEOs of the giant oil companies, this will surely prove to be the greatest criminal enterprise in history, since it takes the all-time largest greenhouse gas emitter out of the running (except at the state and local level) when it comes to impeding global warming. In other words, whatever else he may be, President Donald Trump seems singularly intent on being a one-man wrecking crew when it comes to human history.

Since Lucy walked upright by that African lake 3 million years ago, this has been a remarkably welcoming planet for the human experiment. If, in the coming century, climate change hits full force, it won't just be a matter of refugees in the hundreds of millions or individual deaths in countless numbers, or some failing democracy that became an empire. It could mean the failure of the whole human experiment in ways that are still hard to grasp.  It could mean no more chance for failure, The End.

That's something worth working against. That's a failure no one in any possible future can afford.

In the meantime, here I am, another year closer to my own moment of “failure,” living in a potentially failing country on a potentially failing planet. Happy birthday to me.

*[This article was originally published by TomDispatch.]

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer's editorial policy. 

Photo Credit: Nicole S. Glass / Shutterstock.com

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