“Good novels are written by people who are not frightened.”- George Orwell (Author’s italics.)
I first read 1984 in the year 1984, when I was 11, and of course, at that age, my take-away was different. I remember being vaguely disappointed in the novel, only because in 1984, there was all this Deep Meaning being clumsily foisted onto the book by parents, and educators, chirping, “How amazing! You can read this masterpiece of terror in the year when the terror is supposed to have come, and lucky you to be living in a democracy, you should be so grateful!” My take-away was probably some percolating mixture of rage and frustration, set to the soundtrack of Tainted Love on the radio.
Today, 1984 is one of my very favorite books; I re-read it at least once a year. Today, what haunts me about Orwell’s vision is the State’s ability to destroy love. The State’s ability to negate humanity. After an empty, cringing life, Winston Smith finally has the courage to make a true connection. Soon enough, his blooming love is absolutely annihilated, along with every aspect of his frail personality. The famous final sentence of the book reads like a knife in the heart: “He loved Big Brother.”
Like all classics, this magnificent book only gets better with each reading...and right about now, during our Morning in America, I’m sure I’m not the only person taking the novel down from their bookshelf, because ultimately, it’s a book about the destructive power of fear.
“You think there’s no other way of saving yourself and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.”-1984, Orwell
How does any of this tie back into working in a politically divided office? Good question! As an entrepreneur, my office is wherever I lay my hat...or sure, smartphone, whatever. Yesterday, I was brainstorming with a colleague of mine, regarding his upcoming business launch, and in the midst of our conversation, he told me he voted for Trump, as some kind of off-shoot of his entrepreneurial ethics. Um. Okay, not what I was expecting, but at least he didn’t attempt to shove his beliefs down my throat, or berate me for not having voted for the same candidate. We had an intelligent conversation, and then returned to the small business at hand.
I know that there’s people reading this, who have already dismissed me, and are going to send me hate-filled emails, about how pathetic/disgusting I am for not having, I guess, slammed down the phone, and ended all contact with that entrepreneur. Carlota, how dare you?!
But where does that kind of rage and renunciation get us? If my friend had insulted me for our differing political views, sure, I would have ended the conversation, and been done with him. Instead, true, we didn’t change each other’s mind about politics, but we did share business ideas, and helped each other.
Years ago, living in the Former Soviet Union in the mid-1990s, I dated a Russian boy. The boy was annoying as hell...but his grandparents were a dream. I especially adored his grandfather, who was in his 70s and a Stalinist. As my Russian improved (and/or, as I got better at drinking homemade Russian moonshine #samedifference), that boy’s grandfather told me about his life. Serving on the front lines of World War Two, being captured by the Nazis, doing time in a POW camp, returning to Soviet Russia, being arrested for having essentially survived Nazi capture...and yes, how his love and belief in Stalinism had given him the courage to endure, and fight.
Now, when I think of Stalin, I think of the millions of innocents he slaughtered, including the brave poet Osip Mandelstam, who died for a poem he wrote. That old man and I did not change each other’s minds—I’ll be damned before I say a positive thing about Koba—but our conversations, and his friendship, taught me more than any documentary, or history book. That old man was a Stalinist, a World War Two vet, a chain-smoker, and a fan of Bollywood movies. He told hilariously inappropriate jokes. He was complicated. He was human, and I miss him to this day.
I should admit that the only reason I met that old man, was because when I was originally studying in Moscow, a friend of mine was murdered. We found his remains. I was offered the chance to return to my college, but I knew that if I left Russia, I’d never return, and I’d forever view the country through a certain prism. Something absolutely atrocious had occurred, but I refused to believe that all Russians were responsible. And so I remained in Russia, and met men and women who opened my eyes to the world. And yes, I still mourn that young man who was murdered.
All of this to say, if you’re working in a office, news flash, you’re there to work. Work requires civility, discipline and patience. You don’t have to impose your will on others, or allow them to do so to you. First and foremost, you should all be there to work. On the other hand, yes if some a$$hole is berating you, or making you feel physically/emotionally unsafe, okay, straight up, f**k that noise. That is unacceptable. You’re an employee, not some serf. No one gets to make you feel unsafe, or ashamed. Don’t take responsibility for some moron’s sadism; HR is a very real thing.
Some people, working in divided offices, might take this as an opportunity to change employers. Others won’t have that luxury. But all of these offices, and boardrooms are just part of our country, and we’re already dangerously divided. If we decide that there’s no place for even civil discussions...what do we have left? Fear. And when fear wins, we all lose. Fear wants to divide us in order to conquer, and make us less human to each other. Fear is ravenous. Fear is greedy.
Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion, 1812. John Martin (1789-1854)
The poet Osip Mandelstam died in Stalin’s bloody Gulag Archipelago. Upon his arrival, other prisoners, the intelligenstia, who knew of his talent and work, greeted Mandelstam by reciting his banned, beautiful poems. In the midst of despair and utter inhumanity, there was poetry. In one of Mandelstam’s final poems, written before he was for the last time arrested, tortured and deported, the poet predicted that one day schoolboys would recite his forbidden verses.
Verses that are today no longer forbidden, but instead celebrated around the world.
Fuck fear.