depression

Elect Billy the Kid

/ John Boyko / Leave a comment

The Civil War tore the United States asunder. Over 700,000 were killed by metal or pathogens that ripped bodies apart as spectacularly as the country and concepts they were defending. The Reconstruction era that followed added distress and deprivation as shameless political maneuvering re-established elitist power throughout the country and southern white supremacists used unbridled violence to renew slavery in all but name.

The heroes who arose in that land without pity were not those who obeyed discredited laws, no, they were the outlaws. They were not the good guys and did not pretend to be. They were in it for themselves and themselves alone. While challenging and rejecting rules and laws proven unworthy of respect, they were embraced by those who wished they had the courage to raise a middle finger to those monetizing misery.

So in the 1870s, to the veterans and widows and those with land stolen or denied, a host of non-heroic heroes unwittingly offered themselves. Newspapers and dime novels extolled the adventures of Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and Wild Bill Hickock. They stole from banks. Good on them, readers thought. They broke the law and then dodged the lawmen. Good on ‘em all.

In 1929, everything fell again. This time it was caused not by state’s rights but states’ wrongs. Western governments, including Canada’s, were intentionally and stubbornly blind to the cost of rampant avarice that upset the delicate financial teeter-totter of fear and greed. They were as dumbfounded as Dobermans, unaware that they had the keys to their chains. They stared in disbelief as overproduction, insane speculation, and skyrocketing debt and tariffs fed the obdurate belief that what goes up could never come down. And then Mother Nature piled on. Soon, farmers who had fed the world were starving, mines that had enriched the world were bankrupt, and factories that had moved the world were stopped dead.

And the outlaws returned. People with empty bellies and nothing left to lose cheered the exploits of Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger, and Pretty Boy Floyd. Why not applaud the daring of those who took from the bank that had taken your farm? Dillinger was once asked why he robbed banks. He replied, “That’s where the money is.” Once again, good on ‘em all.

And now, here we are again. The 2008 economic collapse stole the homes and dreams of millions while the privileged few who had caused the whole thing were bailed out and let off. It was a clear demonstration of socialism for the rich and capitalism for the rest. Then the pandemic locked us in our homes and, once again, those without white-collar privilege and invested wealth carried on while the rest, the vast majority, those with the least, suffered the most.

The one-two punches of the Great Recession and Pandemic echoed the Civil War and Reconstruction and the deep and long Depression. Once again, everything that seemed right and certain simply vanished. Laws and assumed rules no longer seemed to matter. And we are emerging from the darkness weakened, staggering under a collectively felt Post Traumatic Stress Disorder manifested in spiking divorce and addiction rates, domestic violence, and school violence.

So who are our outlaws? Who is our Butch Cassidy or Baby Face Nelson? Maybe our villainous heroes this time are the politicians who tell us we are right; who tell us that nothing and no one can be trusted. Don’t trust the media because they lie, they’re fake news. Don’t trust the law because the cops are crooked and courts rigged. Don’t trust elections because they’re fixed. Don’t trust science because it pushes poison on behalf of greedy drug companies. And while we’re at it, don’t trust teachers or priests or doctors or anyone with some fancy diploma. But, of course, trust them. Trust them as the only ones who understand our fears and feel our pain. After all, they are as angry as us and hate the same people we hate.

It makes sense. It fits the pattern. Disruptive times lead to the celebration of outlaws; those who flaunt rules, insult convention, focus rage, and inspire shameful joy. It makes sense, but then, maybe this time it’s a little more dangerous. After all, Billy the Kid never ran for office.

Happy is a Decision

/ John Boyko / 2 Comments

Happy is not a goal. It’s not a destination. Happy is not a dream or some Hallmark card hokum. Happy is a decision. I once enjoyed a lecture by a Tibetan monk. He said a great deal that rang of declarative knowledge, that is, he dragged things I already knew into the light where, for the first time, I could see them clearly. Of all that he said that day, the one thing that resonated most was, “If you want to be happy, go ahead.”

It sounds easy, but it’s not. Many people struggle with depression or other ailments that make happiness frustratingly illusive. Thankfully, I am not among them. But, for a long time, I might as well have been. I simply refused to see that if happiness is indeed a decision, then it implies responsibility. I had work to do. I had to differentiate between those things that make me happy from those that do not. Like changing one’s diet rather than going on a diet, the challenge suggested a long-term life-style change. The idea that happiness is a decision forced me to redefine happy.

I have, for instance, taught myself to avoid what Germans call schadenfreude; taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. Shameful joy is too easy. It’s what makes slapstick comedy fun, from Charlie Chaplin to Jim Carrey. But in real life, it’s a sad and shabby pleasure. Shameful joy’s price is shame and its reward is not joy. Like the emptiness of envy or materialist consumption, it is an abdication of responsibility; it is the outsourcing of one’s happiness.

Like an alcoholic summoning the strength to avoid a sip of that rich double malt, I sometimes still struggle to avoid drinking from the sour nectar of shameful joy. But I force myself to keep that old habit locked in the cage with other happiness-draining habits such as succumbing to the media’s fear du jour, or the tug of an advertiser’s appeal, or the succulence of the latest celebrity, neighbourhood, or office gossip. I guard the cage’s frail and fragile bars. I heed the monk.

trail

Last week I was running along the trail near my home. It is a beautiful place. There are fields and woods along one side and a river along the other. On this particular afternoon, the sun was striking the river so that it shone as diamonds. The sky was a deep and vivid blue. I had just passed the 6K-mark where the endorphins kick in and my mind begins to float and even my Clydesdale-like gait feels graceful. I said, out loud and to no one, “This is a good moment.” And it was.

My practice of quietly announcing good moments has helped me to see life as a bonsai tree. I snip off the parts that ruin its symmetry; the situations, people, and places that bring me no happiness. After all, consider how many people lie on their death bed and whisper, “I wish I had spent more time at the office, or in lineups, or in traffic, or buying stuff, or with people whose insecurities or inner demons poisoned rooms.” How many, on the other hand, say with their last breaths, “I wish I had filled my life with more moments that filled my heart?”

Try it. Wait for a moment that offers true tranquility, pure enjoyment, heart-skipping joy, or tear-inducing warmth. Then say it: “This is a good moment.” It won’t count unless you mean it and it won’t count unless you say it out loud. Say it although others may hear it. Say it because others may hear it. Say it because you have decided to be happy.

If you enjoyed this column, please share it with others, consider leaving a comment, following my weekly blog, or checking out one of my five books at Chapters, Amazon or even a book store if you can still find one.