Posts Tagged ‘just’
Politics is universal, and a sham. So much of what we see is theatre put on for our benefit, as demonstrated by a British series from the 1980s called Yes, Minister.
Yes, Minister — and, eventually, Yes, Prime Minister — is a show about the internal workings of the British Department of Administrative Affairs, analogous to our Department of the Interior. As a satiric sitcom, this television show has to be a thousand times more realistic than the bunk you see on The West Wing.
Although Great Britain’s constitutional monarchy is an odd beast, and although its parliament is just different enough to warrant brushing up on comparative government before watching an episode or two, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of deja vu as I breeze through the 38 or so episodes. I’ve seen all this intrigue somewhere before.
One of the great tropes of the series is when one of the characters gets into a monologue about how government really works, patiently explaining that the job of the civil service is to prevent the elected officials from messing up the government. The best official, the civil service frequently says, is a puppet. Later that episode, when main character and career puppet Jim Hacker is coerced into making an ultimately successful mid-term campaign for Prime Minister, his advisers tell him exactly what he has to do.
If asked if he wants to be Prime Minister, the generally acceptable answer for a politician is that while he does not seek the office, he has pledged himself to the service of his country, and that should his colleagues persuade him that that is the best way he can serve, he might reluctantly have to accept the responsibility, whatever his personal wishes might be.
Hacker does this.
Hacker: The next Prime Minister would have to be someone you could trust. An old friend.
Duncan: Do you mean you?
Hacker: I have absolutely no ambition in that direction.
Duncan: You do mean you.
Twice.
Eric: So Duncan would get No. 10. My God.
Hacker: Not if I can help it. [takes a drink] Cheers.
Eric: You don’t mean you?
Hacker: Me? My children are at the age where my wife and I would like to spend much more time with each other.
Eric: You do mean you.
I don’t know about you, but I saw more than a little bit of Fred Thompson, whose campaign peaked just before he announced his candidacy. Before that, he had no ambition. He wanted to spend time with his family.
He wanted to be the head of government, no doubt about it.
The eeriest scene involved what turns out to be Jim Hacker’s campaign speech. It’s full of melodrama, patriotism, triviality and overdone pomp. In other words, though him crying out against repressed British sausage will sound foreign to our ears, his rhetoric will remain very, very familiar.
Why is it that British shows always seem so American?
I rushed through college. With all those classes flying by, there wasn’t much time to breathe — and yet there were a few things I learned.
My very first collegiate pet peeve: “It’s because I’m so passionate.”
I heard this all the time, often for the silliest of reasons. Dislike a political rival? Tell everyone who will listen that you’re better, because you’re passionate. Blow up in unrighteous anger? Defend yourself by proclaiming your passion. Desperate for attention? Scream out to the world how passionate you really are.
Professed passion smokescreens deep faults, and helps keep you in denial. In this sense, passion is a lie.
Passion itself isn’t a lie, because deep, unfailing devotion has its place, as does zealotry. When the cause is just, and when the tangible benefits are few, passion fits in. Passion, however, is no excuse for a lack of self-control.
Maybe that’s because I really don’t know passion as much as everyone else says they do; I don’t feel that strongly about anything, especially what profession I want, even now. I’m 21 years old — I don’t know what I want to do with my life, and I certainly won’t pretend to have some deep, unending passion for anything I don’t love or hate absolutely.
When I graduated college, I thought my years of hearing passion in the form of an excuse were over. Then I started the credential program, and got a peek at the profession of teaching.
On the very first day, in an context I was familiar with.
“It’s because I’m so passionate.”
I remain skeptical. In college, I learned this passion is a lie.
I’m a student teacher, and I still work at the school newspaper to get some extra money. We’re an O.K. student newspaper, and we still see our share of pap.
I thought the edublogosphere would be interested in a particularly offensive piece of pap. On the basis of a single trip to the local Juvenile Hall, he has saved us all with his three solutions to juvenile delinquency. The emphasis is mine.
First, decks of cards should be replaced with literature of ethical and moral philosophy. Instead of learning how to gamble, the youths can attempt to understand the role that they play in society and how their actions affect others.
Second, the juveniles’ detention experience should be funded entirely by the family. If the immediate parents can not afford the bill, then it should be dispersed amongst the next nearest relatives. …
Lastly, the parents should be forced to serve a portion of the sentence with their child. This time together could prove to enhance their relationship, be an educational experience, and maintain parental accountability all in tandem.
How would these solutions not exacerbate poverty in the region?
How do you expect to shove philosophy down the throats of high school dropouts when the bulk of graduating high school seniors in our area couldn’t choke it down?
How could even an extended family afford paying for the cost of juvenile hall, especially if they’re forced to serve a portion of their child’s sentence instead of working and making money?
Am I being too acerbic for my own good, or are these ideas really as bad as my gut tells me they are?
