Here’s a sad article by a New Yorker named Lester Berg who’s just beginning to discover that any sort of disagreement on political matters can turn certain old friends against him.
It wasn’t that way back when Obama was president, because he and old friend “Jamie” agreed on the wondrousness of Obama:
Jamie and I would speak on the phone, discussing how refreshing it was to finally have a man of eloquence and grace in the White House. We railed against obstructionist Republicans who undermined Obama—like Joe Wilson, who shouted “you lie!” during the 2009 State of the Union address. We were living in momentous times.
Jamie is black—or rather, bi-racial like Obama—but this was no impediment until the “Age of Trump”, the non-eloquent and graceless Trump. But Jamie is by no means the only person Berg starts having problems with—as he discovers when he starts an MFA program in writing in Manhattan:
Like our old Brooklyn neighbourhood (by now, gentrified out of existence), the students varied stupendously by race and culture. I was excited at first, but soon began to sense a disconnect. Too often, their reasons for being there seemed to have little to do with a love of books. Some only read within a single genre. Others actually bragged about not reading at all. And the social climate could be tense—something I learned for the first time when a gay black classmate warned me to “be careful” before commenting on his story, which was centered on a gay black character. I thought of the verve and confidence that Jamie had always shown when discussing his identity as an author and, as politely as I could, explained that I didn’t have to be careful, because I could say whatever I wanted. Then I went on, as I’d initially intended, to praise the story for its vivid language.
A few weeks later, while scouring the racks at the school’s annual library book sale, I bumped into my professor. I held up a used hard-cover of E. L. Doctorow’s 2005 novel The March, which I’d scored for just a dollar. He looked at the book and asked, “Who’s he?” Doctorow was arguably the greatest living historical novelist in America. The professor, who taught a class on the role of history in narrative fiction, would later become the director of the school’s MFA program.
Berg drops out of the program, and things worsen with old friend Jamie, who had always sounded very full of himself but who now becomes a devotee of politically correct jargon:
“That comment,” Jamie replied. “And other things you’ve said to me…have me asking you to think more about whiteness, privilege, and how it affects every moment of our lives.” In that moment, I realized that the frank and evocative language that once had brought Jamie and me together as children had been replaced by brittle ideological boilerplate, copied and pasted from social-justice Twitter accounts.
Berg has not had any dramatic political change—yet. But what he describes are the stirrings of some sort of political change, and I believe that it’s based at least partly on the fact that the earliest of his formative years were spent in the Soviet Union. He writes:
My small acts of revolt against the political orthodoxy that now filled Jamie’s social-media world represented my first steps outside the New Faith to which the two of us had jointly pledged allegiance during the Obama years. With his stunning division of America into oppressed and oppressor, Coates seemed to be tapping into a moral world that lay beyond traditional Western ideals—a moral world that, in some respects, began to remind me of the one my Russian family had fled in the 1980s.
Berg goes on to say that while he didn’t support Trump in 2016, he had reservations about voting for Hillary, and later on:
After Trump was elected, I continued to seek the company of bookish kin, without fully realizing that they were in the process of excommunicating me. Something shifted in late 2016—and not just with Jamie. An author I’ll call Daniel, who’d solicited my critical feedback in the past, sold his novel to a top publisher, earning a huge advance. I was happy for him, and he was kind enough to thank me in the book’s acknowledgements. But the novel didn’t sell well. And Daniel found a way to blame the bad numbers on Trump’s presidency.
“I hate every Republican, good or bad, with every fibre of my being,” he declared to the world. Trump’s supporters, he said, were all “soulless troglodytes.”…
As a New York writer, I’m supposed to be reflexively hostile to Trump voters—a political breed that often is caricatured as a bunch of racist Appalachian hillbillies. But because of what I do for a living, and who my friends are, I’ve learned that Trump’s enemies can be every bit as Manichean and hysterical as Trump’s supporters. As with a massive gas giant orbiting a smaller body, the gravitational field of Trump’s symbolic presence has come to draw in the petty grievances, career anxieties and existential dread of a whole generation of intellectuals. I hate my boss: Fuck Trump! My spouse hates me: Fuck Trump! No one will buy my book: Fuck Trump! Please, I want somebody to love me: Fuck Trump! Here, at last, was somebody we could freely hate more than we hate each other or ourselves…
…I am no longer in touch with either of the two men [Jamie and another friend]. I also have parted ways with my long-time girlfriend, who got swept up in these same currents, and who once literally wept in my presence because I had made a flattering reference to Camille Paglia…
And then Berg adds something very wise and very true:
The price one pays for acceptance by the congregation is, and always will be, one’s intellectual freedom.
Berg’s article reminds me of the beginning days of my political change, when I voiced a few fairly moderate—but still outside the circle of the liberal party line—opinions to certain dear friends and relatives, and in some cases was excoriated for those thoughts. The road can be quite lonely, and I take the problem very seriously because I’ve been there. I applaud Berg, and I understand why he adds this sad statement at the end of his essay:
…I write pseudonymously, afraid to lose what little ground I have gained while taking flight from the apostles who once called themselves my friends.
[NOtE: Although I was anonymous when I began this blog, I never kept my politics a secret from friends and family. What’s more, I started using my name many years ago when I wrote articles, so I’ve not been anonymous for about a decade. But I very much understand why Berg still is anonymous.]