A bigot by any other name

Say you knew someone who didn't like blacks or Hispanics just because they were black or Hispanic. You'd probably believe that person was a bigot, not cool.

We're supposed to be enlightened folks these days who wouldn't admit to bigotry, believing it to be unacceptable, except in certain parts of Redneckville, where the unenlightened congregate in small groups to convince themselves of their superiority.

But a couple of incidents this past week show that bigotry can still be socially acceptable, if it's wrapped in the right package.

A letter to the editor appeared in the Star-T that at first blush extolled the virtues of Bill White when compared with the governor of our fair state, Rick "It's amazing what they can do with makeup to hide wrinkles" Perry.

The writer said he was tired of the guv and his tenure in Austin, and he was attracted to White's stance on education.

But, he said, White had three insurmountable problems: the prez, the speaker of the House, and the Senate majority leader. If White were elected, the writer proclaimed, he would probably immediately become an Obama-Pelosi-Reid pawn and lead our fair state into the jaws of ruin.

No evidence was given for this stance. No suggestion was made that White might actually be a person in his own right, capable of making decisions based on his convictions.

Nope. White has a "D" behind his name, so he must be lumped in with a stereotyped belief about Democratic leadership and be denied the governorship. Perry may not be worth anything, but he's better than a Democrat.

Next one of my Facebook "friends" posted a message to the people of a congressional district, of which the FbF (Facebook friend) is not a resident, urging them to vote against the incumbent, a Democrat, because the FbF had read that the incumbent had voted with Pelosi 97 percent of the time.

I challenged that, asking whether FbF knew the congressman, had ever talked to the man about his positions, or even knew what issues the congressman had voted against the party line about. (Hint: They were votes the FbF would have approved of because they support the FbF's values.)

Nope. Didn't know any of that. The Elephants political platform supported all the things the FbF holds dear, and even though not all Republicans fully held to the party line, the FbF was sure that Republican leadership would force any wayward members to conform and vote the "right" way.

Leaving aside that stunningly illogical reasoning, the essence of the argument comes down to one person being on the wrong side -- you know, the one that starts with "D".

Now, unless I'm missing something, believing that one side is superior based on a select set of criteria, lumping all members of another group together and demonizing them based on another select set of criteria, and refusing to judge an individual on the basis of character is pretty much the essence of bigotry.

So apparently being a racial bigot is wrong, but being a political bigot is OK. Yep. I believe I'm missing something.

Government 101

It's popular these days to blame the government for all our woes.

Government is too big, too obtrusive, the critics say. The only solution is to rid ourselves of the rats in office and pare back the bureaucracy.

But how did government get this way? Has it really ceased being of the people and for the people? Maybe not.

Take this tale as an example.

A bunch of cotton farmers grew tired of old boll weevil eating up their profits, so they banded together and decided on a plan to eradicate the bug.

In order to do this effectively, a whole bunch of factors had to come together. And pretty much the only way to make the whole thing work was to involve the government. Only the government could pass the laws that would ensure that everyone participated in the program because the program only works if every cotton farmer participates. And only the government could enforce penalties for failing to participate.

Funding for the program intially came mostly from the farmers, but government funds, state and federal, would be needed to fully fund operations. In case you didn't immediately think it, government funds mean taxpayer dollars.

Eventually, to convince all the state's farmers to participate, more and more government funds were needed. Yep, that means more taxpayer funds.

In addition, government agencies would need to provide oversight. This didn't necessarily mean that new employees would be hired, but the time they spent on this program would be footed by taxpayers as well.

To accomplish all this, the cotton farmers had to convince legislators to pass the necessary laws and work to obtain the necessary funding. They would be sweet-talked and pressured, whatever was needed to bring about the enabling legislation.

That's an abbreviated version of the process, but think about this: Groups of people in every state work on their elected representatives from every level -- from city councils to the U.S. Congress -- to convince them that in the case of whatever they want, "there oughta be a law."

And when the law is passed, often money has to be spent, and that money comes from us.

So, I ask you, gentle reader, where does the problem lie?

Now add to that the services we think we have to have. Public schools, libraries, infrastructure, police and fire protection -- the list goes on and on.

Residents of a town say, "Hey, we need a new water tower." (Or something else; pick your own example.)

They go to the city and say, "Buy us a new water tower," and city officials say, "We can't. We don't have the money. We can raise your taxes."

The residents say, "No way, but you better get us a water tower, or we'll find a new council."

So the council calls its state officials who may find funds to help out. If not, council members go to the feds.

I ask again, where does the problem lie?

Is it possible, to badly paraphrase Shakespeare, that the problem, dear friends, lies not in the politicians, but ourselves?

The margins of error seem pretty large

Listened to a fascinating podcast today with author and journalist Kathryn Schulz, who has a book out -- "Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margins of Error."

Schulz discussed one of the processes whereby people come to the conclusion that others who disagree with them aren't just wrong but evil.

Suppose two people are having a disagreement; doesn't matter about what, so let's pick on politics.

Around here, the dominant group I deal with is Republicans, and not just Republicans, but the brand of Republican that is convinced that the president isn't just wrong about anything you want to bring up, but out to destroy society as we know it.

Now, the process would go something like this. They say that Obama is a socialist. I respond by saying he isn't and laying out whatever evidence I believe backs up my point.

The first reaction is that I must be ignorant. If I only knew what they know, then surely I would abandon my wrong-headed ideas and agree with them. But as the conversation continues, they discover that I do have all the information they have.

The second reaction would be that since I'm not ignorant, I must be stupid. That has to be the only explanation for my not being able to come to the same conclusion they've come to. But those who know me know that although I'm not the male equivalent of Marilyn Vos Savant, I can think my way relatively intelligently around a problem.

That can then lead to the last part of the process: that I am either evil or under the influence of evil. How else could I be a smart guy and look at their evidence and still be so very wrong?

Of course, I could be participating in the same process.

Now, if we all wind up coming to the conclusion that those we disagree with are evil or under the influence, you can see how quickly actual communication breaks down.

Shulz suggests that one way to keep the conversation going, at least in a group situation, is for someone to suggest the possibility of being wrong. The dynamic there is that someone else will respond by saying, "Well, now, you might have a point."

But I'm not sure that works with individuals, and what I'm seeing all to frequently these days is that often and admission of possible error brings about the response, "Well, of course you are. 'Bout time you started to come around."

We can't live our lives without some certainty; we'd be paralyzed otherwise. But these days we seem to have a surfeit of certainty about too many things.

Still, Schultz has a point. Maybe in the interest of fostering communication we should be the ones who take a chance and admit we might not know so much about whatever topic we believe so fervently that we can't possibly be in error. Maybe that would preserve enough relationship to eventually bring about a serious conversation.

Of course, I could be wrong.