Good morning. Where to start.
For those
of us living in the Twin Cities, it's been a trying and nerve-wracking few
days. Virtually everyone on the planet who watches or reads the news is aware
that a Black man, George Floyd, was apparently murdered by a Minneapolis police
officer. (I say "apparently" because I'm not the county attorney and
I'm not in a position to make a legal judgment. The officer has been charged
with 3rd degree murder and 2nd degree manslaughter; if
he's convicted, he could face a long prison sentence. There were three other
officers who apparently stood around and did nothing even though Floyd pleaded
that he could not breathe. They also will face charges, according to the Hennepin
County Attorney, although as of this writing the charges have not yet been
filed.) There has been a devastating
video circulated widely on the web and in the news of the officer kneeling on
the man's neck; he lost consciousness and died. I heard from friends in
Australia, New Zealand, and Scotland about it.
As Elliott
wrote to me a couple of days ago, of all the ways I wanted COVID-19 knocked off
all my news feeds, this wasn't it. The city has received international bad
publicity.
The event
led to widespread demonstrations as well as looting and destruction of
businesses at various points in the city. (Some of the news media make it sound
like the entire city was burning, which it was not; probably 95% of the city
was unaffected in any physical sense.) Some of those businesses are ones we
have frequented; the initial major conflagrations (both literally and figuratively)
were in an area only a couple of miles from our house. Yesterday a local gas
station went up in flames about a mile away. We were also advised by city
authorities yesterday to put our garbage and recycles inside our garage so they
can't be set on fire and to keep all our exterior lights on (which we did). The
local pizza joint we use is damaged. I don't know where we're going to get gas
for the car because all the stations anywhere near us are boarded up or already
smoldering. Our mail will be delayed for some period because our local post
office has been burned out. We should have stayed in New Zealand.
The Mayor
and the Governor have been criticized for failing to react strongly enough to
the first couple of nights of demonstrations and looting. Law enforcement was
overwhelmed by the number of people involved; even one of the precinct police
stations was burned. (Also damaged were the local Target, the Cub grocery
store, and dozens of other small businesses, many owned by minorities.) Friday
and Saturday nights saw the imposition of an 8:00 curfew; it didn't do much on
Friday night but last night, given a massive show of force by the National Guard,
the city seems to have calmed down. (My brother and sister-in-law came over for
cocktails on Friday night on the deck, physically distanced. They had to take a
circuitous route to get here because the logical route would have taken them
right through one of the major areas of destruction and demonstrations. They
also had to depart by 7:30 in order to avoid being caught violating the
curfew.)
We were
sitting on our deck for the cocktail hour last night (Saturday night). We saw
and heard the response of the State: there were continuous flights of what
appeared to military aircraft and helicopters over our house. Even though our
neighborhood was calm and peaceful, and we were surrounded by all of the green
and the pots of flowers in our yard, feeding the chipmunks as usual, we
nonetheless felt like we were living in a war zone.
Most
sensible people distinguish between legitimate demonstrations in response to
Floyd's death and the looting and burning that has occurred. According to news
reports, Floyd's family is horrified by what's happened. The demonstrations are
understandable, especially—unfortunately—in this city. The Washington Post
had an article in the last day or so about how racial disparities in home
ownership and household income in Minneapolis are among the largest in the
nation. I certainly don't know why that is the case in Minneapolis rather than
other cities across the country. It's also true that the Minneapolis Policy Department
has an unenviable record when it comes to treatment of minorities—although it
isn't clear to me that the local department is much worse than a lot of other
police departments around the country. (That is not a statement backed up by
any evidence, merely impressionistic based on news accounts over many years
about incidents elsewhere in the country. But maybe the MPD is worse than
others in that regard; I don't know. In any event, the record is not good.)
There is disagreement among
authorities about whether there were people who came from outside Minnesota to
foment violence and destruction; most of the people arrested thus far are from
Minnesota but there are some from elsewhere. There's also disagreement about
whether, if there were people from outside the state, they were left-wing
anarchists or right-wing white supremacists. If there were any or many,
and if I were forced to bet, I'd bet on those on the right wing because in
general they seem to have a greater propensity for violence than those on the
left. In any case, most of us here paying attention concluded quickly that what
was going on—the burning and looting—had nothing to do with Floyd's death.
All I know is that somebody has to do
something about the societal disparities that exist—and whatever
"something" is has to include public policy decisions at all levels
of government. It certainly won't happen nationally under the current Senate
and administration.
* * *
In sticking
with the rather gloomy nature of this epistle, here's a diary entry from my
COVID-19 diary ten days ago—before the Floyd death by several days. I shared
this with a couple of friends who understood the sentiments. One was in
essentially the same boat, mentally; the other was decidedly not—but didn't
take issue with what I'm thinking.
I find it
interesting that I have been a lousy diarist all my life. I think I'm going to
keep one, and before computers and MS Word, all the entries were by pen in a
notebook. My diary would last a few days or a week and then I'd set it aside.
For reasons I don't understand, I'm having no trouble keeping a COVID-19 diary;
I make daily entries, even if only a couple or three sentences. Some is utterly
trivial, the quotidian elements of life, others I try to think about what I'm hearing
and reading.
Many years ago my wise
late ex-father-in-law (with whom I remained on warm terms even after his
daughter and I were no longer married) was talking with some of his grandchildren.
At that time he was in his mid-70s. I don't remember the context, but he told
them something to the effect that his productive years were over, he wasn't
contributing anything to the world, he was just kind of existing, and that the
future belonged with them. (He certainly wasn't suicidal or even particularly depressed,
just making a matter-of-fact observation.)
I remembered those
comments as I spent the better part of two days last week putting plants in
pots. (I don't have music on or listen to podcasts when I'm doing something
like potting plants; I just think about whatever crosses my mind, which is mostly
trivial stuff but once in awhile something more substantial). I came to think
the same thing about myself. I'm not contributing anything to the world now. No
one is dependent on me in order to survive. So what's the point?
I'm enjoying
myself (well, I was enjoying life a lot more before the coronavirus happened
upon us). I am no more depressed about the world and this isolation than
average, I'm sure, and perhaps even less so than the majority. I do not easily
get depressed. I like to believe that at least Kathy and Elliott would miss me,
although they'd both get on with life—we have to after a death. There's really
no significant purpose to my continued existence.
Those who play any
role in the lives of their grandchildren surely have a different perspective, as
do parents of my age cohort who continue to play a role in the lives of their
mostly adult children. I'm not a grandparent (at least not yet, and who knows
if ever). Elliott hardly needs me in order to get on with his life, although I
like to believe he enjoys his interactions with me and whatever support I can
give him (intellectual or modest financial; his emotional support now comes
from Martha rather than his mother or me, which is as it should be).
I'm stoic about
getting COVID-19. As I thought to myself when zip-lining in New Zealand, if the
cable snaps and my time has come, so be it. I feel the same about the coronavirus.
We are taking the precautions that the public health experts advise, so I'm not
expecting to get infected. I also note the mortality rate for COVID-19 and
figure that if I do get it, I'll be one of the ~99% who survive it. Not that I
want to get it, with the effects it seems to have on the body in a multitude of
negative ways. So I'm being careful, as is Kathy, but I'm not concerned.
Maybe this is just
coronavirus-induced existential angst.
One of my
friends made an observation that I had had subconsciously but hadn't
articulated to myself. We (of our age cohort) have only a fixed number of
"functional" years left. None of us, of course, knows how many, and
it varies for each of us. But for none of us is it 50 years and probably not
20. By "functional" I mean in possession of our faculties and able to
travel, get together with friends for a meal, garden, go to sporting or cultural
events, and so on. This is sort of whining, my friend commented—and I agree
with him, it is—but it's irritating that some of our time left is being spent
quarantined and physically distancing ourselves from others. This is not the
way we had in mind spending our time as we head toward our 70s.
Another
friend who read my diary excerpt responded with a marvelous piece.
In his great poem, “Ulysses,”
Tennyson depicts an imaginary Ulysses (Odysseus) after his return to Ithaca,
where he grows old with his beloved Penelope.
But at a certain point, he becomes restless with age, and wants to seek
something new—perhaps to voyage again.
In the words of the elder Ulysses:
How dull it is to pause, to make
an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to
shine in use!
His restlessness prompts him to
reassemble his crew members and embark again, this time toward the West, in
this way becoming an icon for all those who try to reimagine later life as a
time of new adventures. In the final
lines of the poem:
“Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a
newer world…
Though much is taken, much
abides; and though
We are not now that strength
which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that
which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic
hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but
strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and
not to yield.”
(Alfred Tennyson,
“Ulysses”)
It's
difficult "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield" when you're
cooped up in your house. But the poem excerpt does make me think maybe I
shouldn't be so pessimistic.
* * *
On a
related note, it seems that a large number of Americans are depressed. What a
surprise. The Atlantic:
As a rough average, during
pre-pandemic life, 5 to 7 percent of people met the criteria for a diagnosis of
depression. Now, depending how you define the condition, orders of magnitude
more people do. Robert Klitzman, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia
University, extrapolates from a recent Lancet study in China to estimate
that about 50 percent of the U.S. population is experiencing depressive
symptoms. “We are witnessing the mental-health implications of massive disease
and death,” he says. This has the effect of altering the social norm by which depression
and other conditions are defined. Essentially, this throws off the whole
definitional rubric.
Feelings of numbness,
powerlessness, and hopelessness are now so common as to verge on being
considered normal. But what we are seeing is far less likely an actual increase
in a disease of the brain than a series of circumstances that is drawing out a
similar neurochemical mix. This poses a diagnostic conundrum. Millions of
people exhibiting signs of depression now have to discern ennui from temporary
grieving from a medical condition.
My guess—without
any supporting evidence—is that most people will recover from this situational
depression without significant aftereffects and without clinical intervention
once we have a vaccine—if we ever do—that permits resumption of life. That is,
assuming they can get a job (if they've lost one), see friends and loved ones
in a normal fashion, and engage in whatever other activities that have been
normal and enjoyable in their lives. Some may not recover well, especially if
their circumstances do not improve.
* * *
Continuing
in my cheery vein, I sent a Washington Post article to Elliott just to
make him feel better. Not.
The unluckiest generation in U.S.
history
Millennials have faced the worst
economic odds, and many will never recover
After accounting
for the present crisis, the average millennial has experienced slower economic
growth since entering the workforce than any other generation in U.S. history.
Millennials will
bear these economic scars the rest of their lives, in the form of lower
earnings, lower wealth and delayed milestones, such as homeownership.
. . .
Millennials are
getting married later and having children later, and, at an age when boomers
and Gen X were building equity, millennials have no housing net worth,
Kimbrough’s analysis of Federal Reserve data show.
Yet millennials
spend within their means more so than Gen X or boomers did at the same age,
Kent’s analysis of separate Federal Reserve data show. That is, they’re more
likely to spend less than they earn, and 52 percent of millennials were saving
for retirement at age 34. At that age, just 42 percent of boomers had
retirement savings.
“This narrative
of, ‘Oh you should just work harder, sink or swim by your own effort?’ It’s
very American, but it ignores the fact that the tide is much stronger now, and
many millennials are swimming upstream,” Kent said.
Millennials are
the most educated, most diverse generation in history — at least until zoomers
pass them. Those distinctions come with burdens.
William Gale, a
senior fellow at the Brookings Institution, said millennials’ rising debt
burden outstrips gains they have made in education. “Their parents and public
authorities funded less of their college education than previous generations,”
he added.
That’s compounded
by the large African American and Hispanic millennial populations, as these
groups continue to suffer the effects of generations of systemic
discrimination. The wealth gap between black and white households continues to
grow, even after controlling for differences in age, education, marital states
and even income, Gale and several collaborators found in a working paper
circulated by the National Bureau of Economic Research. [Perhaps part of the
explanation for the reaction to the Floyd death, both in the Twin Cities and
elsewhere around the nation.]
It’s part of trend
of more marginalized groups falling behind. Millennials with a college degree
aren’t far behind previous generations in terms of wealth, Kent found, but
their less-educated peers have a bit more than half of the wealth they’d expect
at this stage, based on previous generations.
It is a
long and data-laden article that uses sophisticated data sets that looks at how
well each "generation" has done since the American Revolution. The
one that did by far the best was the one born 1901-1924; their economic success
was far greater than any generation before or after it. The rest of them, the
other nine generations, are clumped more closely together. At the bottom,
however, are the Millennials, those born 1981-1996.
Elliott, of
course, was not surprised. "Not shocking to anyone in our generation.
Question is whether or not gen Xers will be more fiscally responsible with the
country's policies after all your generation are out of power. Or if we're just
screwed forever." I couldn't be entirely consoling but told him I wouldn't
be too pessimistic about his generation. I said that I can only hope that they'll
get things fixed after the current crop of old farts finally dies off.
The losses are particularly acute on
the jobs front. One brutal month of the coronavirus set the labor
market back to the turn of the millennium. The last time there were about 131
million jobs was January 2000.
For millennials who came of age then,
it’s as if all the plodding expansions and jobless recoveries of their namesake
epoch evaporated in weeks.
The milestones will get even more dire
in the next jobs report, but for now the economic regression back to Y2K is a
fitting symbol for a generation that — more than any other — has been shaped by
recession.
The losses aren’t merely symbolic. This
recession steamrolled younger workers just as millennials were entering their
prime working years — the oldest millennials are nearing 40 while the youngest
are in their mid-20s. Millennial employment plunged by 16 percent in March and
April this year, our calculations show. That’s faster than either Gen X (12
percent) or the baby boomers (13 percent).
Gray Kimbrough, an economist with
American University who we’ve previously and accurately branded a serial
millennial myth debunker, points out the oldest millennials, such as himself,
lived through the 9/11 terrorist attacks and entered the labor market in the
recession that hit around the same time. They spent their early years
struggling to find work during a jobless recovery, only to be hit by the Great
Recession and another jobless recovery. And, of course, yet another recession.
So many of our kids aren't in the
same starting position we were.
On that note, I wish you a pleasant
Sunday and coming week.
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