Skin in the game?

I want to live in a country where every resident, not just citizen, but resident, feels they have skin in the game. That's a phrase we first remember encountering in regard to real estate developers who much preferred to succeed using other people's money (OPM). Former Senator Paul Wellstone said it better and more simply when  he explained "We all do better when we all do better."

how to build community, and democracy

Photo by J. Harrington

There are at least a couple of thought-provoking articles that helped us realize how important it is that all of US believe, accurately, that we have skin in the game. One is After Trump, before Biden: What’s next for the American left? Here's a key observation:

Deadlock works differently for the Republicans. There hasn’t been a whole wing of the Republican party that hasn’t been getting what it wants under Trump. We have such a skewed economic landscape – such a huge challenge on climate change – and the danger is that the left of the Democratic Party may get nothing of substance over the next four years, if the Democratic leadership finds it easier to make deals with the Republicans. We might see deals where for every $1 of income protection, there’s $10 of corporate welfare, if we don’t have the left exerting real pressure on Biden.

That doesn't read like all of US  doing better, does it? Being faced with four years of centrist corporatism, could leave US with more of what we just rejected, according to Thomas Frank in Ding-dong, the jerk is gone. But read this before you sing the Hallelujah Chorus

When Democrats abandoned their majoritarian tradition, in other words, Republicans hastened to stake their own claim to it. For the last 30 years it has been the right, not the left, that rails against “elites” and that champions our down-home values in the face of the celebrities who mock them. During the 2008 financial crisis conservatives actually launched a hard-times protest movement from the floor of the Chicago board of trade; in the 2016 campaign they described their foul-mouthed champion, Trump, as a “blue-collar billionaire”, kin to and protector of the lowly – the lowly and the white, that is.

We strongly suggest you follow the links above and read each of the linked pieces, even though they're moderate to long reads. Have you ever heard the explanation about how long it takes to turn an aircraft carrier or a super tanker? They don't gracefully make u-turns as a sports car might. Well, we're looking at the need to turn an entire country, US, it's economy and its culture to proceed in a more healthy direction. Come to think of it, that's a pretty good sign we do all have skin in this game, unless we want to demonstrate we don't give a damn about our descendants or our own futures. We may not survive, let alone thrive, if faced with another Trump or another COVID-19.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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