Nobody Left
A political manifesto by Mr. Fish
“Regardless of which political wing we seek shelter beneath, our virtue is almost always conceptual and seldom experiential, making our moral convictions largely expressions of fandom meant to signal to other people which team we root for from the sidelines and nothing else.”
What does it mean to be left, anyway? For somebody who’s been both anointed and shamed by the label for the last 20 years by fans and detractors because of the cartoons that I draw, you’d think I’d have some idea of what the word signifies. I don’t. To me, it is a verbal pasta noodle; a vehicle for anything you want to flavor it with, good or bad, spicy or bland, red or white sauce.
That said, it is my guess that the overwhelming majority of those who self-identify for reasons of conceit as left-leaning will also classify themselves as being peaceniks after putting on a t-shirt with a peace sign on it. These are the same people who are environmentalists because they scissor up their plastic six pack rings before sending them out into the ocean, or they use reusable shopping bags when they drive factory farmed food home in their SUVs. They are the same people who, from the right, would be pro-Americans because they are uncomfortable around Hispanic people and patriots because they are vigorously uncritical of any war crime perpetrated by any soldier, sailor or politician claiming blind allegiance to a thin, wind-blown banner comprised of slick red and white racing stripes and a rectangle that looks like outer space. Regardless of which political wing we seek shelter beneath, our virtue is almost always conceptual and seldom experiential, making our moral convictions largely expressions of fandom meant to signal to other people which team we root for from the sidelines and nothing else. Rather than a true demonstration of personal integrity, we are content to brand ourselves with all the claptrap of principled beliefs without testing their mettle in the real world.
To boot, how many hardcore pacifists who claim the moral position of finding violence unjustifiable under any circumstances have actually been in a war zone or a collapsed society overrun with predatory psychopaths? Likewise, how many 2nd Amendment advocates have considered the armaments available to Washington D.C. while simultaneously insisting that their small arsenal of Glocks and AK-47s are a viable protection against a federal government turned tyrannical? My guess would be approximately as many white supremacists have fraternized with actual black, brown, red, yellow and off-white people and as many raging male homophobes have tasted cock and as many climate change deniers who work for big business have gotten into a pool, pissed in the middle of it, made lemonade with the water and then poured a glass for their son or daughter.
In fact, most of our identities, whether we’re right or left, come from the cultivated visual cues we devise for others to react to as a sort of shorthand designed to parody capability and accomplishment without forcing us to suffer the exhausting chore of actually accruing real experiences or deliberating on complicated notions of truth and beauty.
It is a way of saying, without actually saying, “Look — I have a sex drive like a wet chainsaw because I have a mustache and wear sunglasses!” or, “Look — my white privilege in no way contributes to systemic racism because I can claim with absolute certainty that Samuel L. Jackson is my 4th favorite Jedi Master.” Remember that nobody wears a Rolex watch simply to keep the time, just as nobody hangs a gold crucifix around his or her neck to give voice to the meek who are rumored to be inheriting the earth any day now. Most people pick their favorite players and stay off the field and let their fan jersey perpetuate the delusion that they are symbiotic with the athleticism unfolding before them. Of course, how we see ourselves is determined by how we see others seeing us, which is why we tend to concoct our identities using the most superficial and slapdash materials available to us, facades requiring no solid foundation nor adherence to any of the strict building codes expected of substantive architecture. Why nail yourself to a cross when you can piggyback your own concept of virtuousness onto somebody else who shed real blood for a real cause? It isn’t even a purely intellectual decision, this boycotting of true sacrifice for the sake of ease and luxury, since the reflex to avoid pain and discomfort is hardwired into our physiologies with stronger bolts than those attaching any philosophy of life to a rewarding methodology for living.
We are more likely to delight in the grotesque irony that the Nobel Peace Prize was named for a wealthy weapons manufacturer who invented dynamite and built his fortune on war than be profoundly repelled by it. Additionally, most people will stand for the Star-Spangled Banner with tears in their eyes without giving a shit that Francis Scott Key was a strict anti-abolitionist and a racist lawyer who frequently argued against free speech and the protections guaranteed by the First Amendment. What’s more, the overwhelming majority of those inspired by the Statue of Liberty might consider it bad taste to remind the world how the original design for the monument celebrated the end of slavery by including broken chains and shackles, all of which had to be removed (minus those hidden at Liberty’s feet) because the wealthy white Americans financing the project were offended by the concept that Emancipation might be broadly recognized as a positive development and that black people freed from over 200 years of forced labor, soul-crushing servitude, rape, murder and torture was, well, meh.
To stand still in such a stream is to interrupt the dozing passivity of those around you who are content to float through their days with the wind in their faces and their eyes closed, their forward momentum forever being mistaken as progress with your disruption seen as an attack on propriety, civic harmony and normalcy.
And lest anybody think I’m judging such willful indifference as cowardice, I’m not. It’s obvious that any effort made to question the validity of any conventional truth is really just a call to stop and think, which is to momentarily resist the crushing and unforgiving flow of the impossibly expansive and mighty mainstream. Nobody wants to do that. Not only is it hard work, but it’s rude. To stand still in such a stream is to interrupt the dozing passivity of those around you who are content to float through their days with the wind in their faces and their eyes closed, their forward momentum forever being mistaken as progress with your disruption seen as an attack on propriety, civic harmony and normalcy. Understand, too, that anybody trapped in a current that may or may not be polluted will always be unaware of the particulates surrounding them, whether they are bits of garbage or fallen leaves. Only when a person is asked to resist the momentum of the rushing water, to anchor his feet in the ground and to take a stand, will he be bombarded by whatever he’s been riding along with; rusty shopping carts, eviscerated diapers, dead bodies, stillborn condoms, pulverized oysters of shredded newspaper pulp, somersaulting bullet casings, brassieres, Band-Aids, wigs, wands, whatever.
Now extend that already strained metaphor to include, not just literal debris, but also figurative debris. Imagine that you are surrounded by a myriad of assumed truths that you’ve adopted without vetting because you have had your eyes closed and the wind has been in your face and they support whatever narrative you’ve either chosen for yourself or have been tagged with by others. You are a leftist, a rightest, a sexist, a savior, a sinner, a cynic, a king, a queen, a patsy or a fiend.
Now stand.
And if you’re a cartoonist, draw. And if you’re a poet, write. And if you’re a singer, sing. And if you’re a human being, be humane.
Mr. Fish, also known as Dwayne Booth, is a Philadelphia-based cartoonist who primarily creates for Truthdig.com and his own site, Clowncrack.com. Mr. Fish’s work has also appeared nationally in The Nation, Harper’s Magazine, The Los Angeles Times, The Village Voice, Vanity Fair, Mother Jones Magazine and the Advocate. He is the subject of the 2018 Slamdance Grand Jury Award-winning documentary Mr. Fish: Cartooning from the Deep End and is the official festival artist for the 2019 Slamdance Film Festival.
