CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section told stories from my childhood that illustrated conservative origins while living in liberal northern-Virginia. This environment fostered in me a tolerance for all perspectives. This setting explores my “Frawley” family origins. The section ended with a raucous call from my conservative family members arguing that we just need "real frickin' people" in politics, but the family then wondering — what normal person would be willing to enter that 'shit show?'
***
"Frawley, you're a crazy guy, but this?" Yuval, the wicked brilliant Facebook engineer, says, reacting to the prospect that I might work in politics, "You come in here, new guy on the block, sleeping in the living room, working 15 hours a day. I knew you'd always make it here in the Valley, but this man, whoa, this is way out of left field!"
In the days after my call with Yang (where I totally committed), I began to feel anxiety bubbling up about the prospect of me, the most politically apathetic person I know, suddenly going whole hog on the biggest political competition in the world. I asked Yuval whether or not he thought I should do it.
"Listen, man, it's simple," he says, pausing, "of course you shouldn't!" Yuval laughs maniacally and walks out of the room.
I call up another friend.
"Should I do it?"
"Absolutely not, dude. I could scrape the emails of 100 doctors off the internet in an hour and email them all. That'll move the needle more than any campaign."
"But this is kind of a dream job?" I say, "Yang is a smart entrepreneur, I'd be working with world-class people, and I'd learn a ton about society and business. We could literally change the world, and I'd be a founder on that team. Ground zero. This is everything I've dreamt up except in politics."
"No way, man. Huge mistake. You're out here in San Francisco. You can be a pioneer here. This is where real change happens. In D.C., you're a faceless cog, at best."
I call another friend.
"Bro, you can't get sucked up into politics. Elon would be disappointed in you. You'll waste your whole life there trying to get one thing done."
And another.
"Yang is right that we will need Universal Basic Income, but he's way too early. Don't throw your life away on politics."
And one more, since I'm such a little masochist.
"Dude, I just Googled Andrew Yang, and his Wikipedia is like a paragraph long. And he has 4,000 Twitter followers! He's a total nobody! You're going nowhere with this! Are you serious right now?"
After my calls, I find myself pretty discouraged, but I haven't yet talked to Nimesh, who I know will understand every part of what's weighing on me with this decision.
When I tell Nimesh, the first words out of his mouth are, "What," pause, and then, "Whoa..."
After another long pause, he speaks. "This is a substantial life decision, Frawley." I laugh and nod, agreeing with him.
"Well," he says, "what are you scared of?"
I listen to Nimesh's question and stop to think. A whole load of things, but the biggest fear is a concoction of all of them into a worst-case scenario.
"Let's see ... the campaign is over, we failed terribly, we were a complete joke, no one heard of us, it's 2020, I'm 27-years old now, completely poor, I'm now more of a failed politico than anything, and my prime 20's are gone."
Nimesh ponders hard, then laughs aloud, a bellowing laugh that can probably still be heard in the hacker house walls.
"Yeah, man, that is probably your most likely outcome," he admits sparking more laughter. I laugh too.
"Also," I say, "I don't know shit about UBI. It seems insane. I can't imagine what my family would say. And secondly, I can't even tell if politics actually changes anything. We could win and not pass anything. What a hoax!"
"UBI is pretty far out, for sure. There's also zero chance you win, so don't worry about that," Nimesh says, doubling over on the couch in more laughter.
"But how does this match up against your other plans?" Nimesh asks in follow-up once we gather ourselves again.
It may come as a surprise given how much of a sad cat I have been while in San Francisco, but at this point, I had finally started assembling some concrete plans for my life again. So no, Mr. Yang, I wasn't waiting around for you all these years to come to sweep me off my feet!
Before I had hit it off with Yang, career-wise, I was really focused on brains. You'd think it would have been some big societal thing to help improve mental health, but it wasn't. I hadn't a clue how to effectively enhance that.
I had recently learned brains were unjustly not being included as an organ when you become an organ donor (to be clear, the brain is an organ). To donate your brain, it's a separate, highly bureaucratic process (like taxes, except the lobbyists keeping it a fucked up bureaucratic mess are often religious groups rather than accountants). This is a problem because the field of neuroscience and neurotechnology now lacks brains. This makes it hard to test things — so a big deal if we ever want to hack our way out of this hell! Up until this moment, I'd been thinking, hey, maybe I'll make the TurboTax for brain donation.
"Well," I say, responding to Nimesh, "I'm not quite sure about the brain organization. I still have outstanding questions about regulation and the industry. But I'm passionate about it … I'm really conflicted."
"Frankly, man, given all of the information we have, if I were you, I wouldn't do the campaign. It's too far out. Yang sounds like a real patriot, but he's completely unknown. Your chances of success are abysmal." I can't believe the words I hear out of his mouth. Even Nimesh is down on it? Maybe this isn't simply a crazy idea, but rather a crazy bad idea.
After my conversation with Nimesh, I waffle in indifference for weeks and continue to seek counsel from whoever dares to make eye contact with me. "Excuse me, sir!" I yell to strangers from the window of an UBER. While I do occasionally hear some semblances of encouragement, everyone basically says, "you're a big moron if you do this."
Then, one day, it hits me. A decision? No. I'm too much of an overthinker for that. I decide to travel around the nation, speaking to industry professionals and university professors to aggregate wisdom on my tough decision.
And that was that. I quit my job at SherpaDesk, and I set my lease at the not-so-pristine San Francisco Hacker House to end on July 31st, 2017. I put all of my belongings into a storage unit, sold my car, and booked a flight home to Washington D.C. My plan was to attend my brother's wedding and then go tour the nation's universities with three profound questions as the obsessive focus of my mind:
Is Universal Basic Income "legit"?
Does political "change" even matter?
Do we really need more brains?
***
CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section told stories from my childhood that illustrated origins of self-doubt in my intelligence. The stories included an exploration through having ADD, special study groups, and the word “special.”
***
I jovially hop off the plane at Ronald Reagan National Airport, and, just like that, I'm back in Washington D.C. (or technically, given the Potomac River, I'm across from it). Julie picks me up, and we have a dramatized and empathic Airport greeting in the only way Harold and Ludwig can. On our way home, we pass a smattering of flooded swamps, and I realize that while I may be back in the land of figurative swamps, I'm far less critical of it. It's not that I'm suddenly impartial to the nothin'ness going on here. Instead, I like to think I've learned a bit of acceptance, understanding, coolness, and empathy in regards to my viewing of the world and myself. One could say I brought back from San Francisco one of its most valuable assets, as some would call it, "fuckin' feelings."
When I get home, I see my most cherished wiener dog, Charlie (or Charles, or Chuckles, or Chaz, or Snausage, or most affectionately, Mr. Buns) for the first time in a whole year, and we vigorously embrace. We adopted Charlie (yes, Charlie, you're adopted) when I was in sixth grade, and we've never been apart this long.
In the first few days I am home, Julie simply "cannot get over this magical new aura" I have. As evidence, she cites Charlie's behavior, "look at how he's loving up on you!" She isn't wrong; Charlie is treating me differently. Growing up, I used to hold Charlie against his will as I sucked the love out of him. Like in any overly-needy dynamic, Charlie grew avoidant of me. Over my teenage years, I couldn't name a single time when Charlie would rest in my lap if I wasn't tightly holding him prisoner. But how does he interact with San Francisco Andrew? He runs, jumps in my lap, rolls on his back, and kicks those little sausage stumplet legs of his. Charlie is happy to be receiving all of the love I am giving. In many ways, I feel that I am paying back the love he lent me as a child when I was so needing it.
***
CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section illustrated the culmination of my insecurities around my own intelligence which impacted my self-esteem and self-image. In the story, I am overweight, late to school, shy, and insecure. At school, I am made fun of, anxious, failing classes, getting shamed by teachers for not being good enough. The chapter ends with my parents divorcing, and that being a sad time for me as a teen.
Here is an excerpt:
At school, I’m wearing a carbon copy of my outfit from the previous day – gym shorts and a really baggy gray shirt. I weigh 300 pounds now. I wouldn’t know because I avoid scales, but my doctor didn’t hesitate to tell me. He used to say, “it’ll even out as you get older,” but now he just says, “you’re morbidly obese.” My hair is a mess, and I think it’s entirely possible I haven’t combed it in years. I like that it makes it look like I don’t try. Trying would be too embarrassing. Only losers try.
My day starts with science class. I sit next to some really social people in science, but I spend most of the class staring at the clock and scratching my hair. I like to make the loose hair and dandruff fall out then collect it into piles on my desk. One of the social kids asks me something, but I don’t hear what he says. I’m nervous and don’t know what to say, so I whisper random noises, so it sounds like I have an answer for him. He gives me a puzzled look then asks very loudly, “dog, why are you so fucking weird?” I don’t answer and go back to collecting hair on my desk.
After science, I live the day mostly as a blur. I float through the hallways like one of those Macy’s Day Parade balloons squishing its unchanged face up against the glass buildings of New York City.
Unfortunately, though, my last class of the day is band with that big jerk Mr. Stenson. My brother was a star Saxophone player in his class, and Mr. Stenson loves to remind me. “Why don’t you take some tips from your brother?” he always asks. Mr. Stenson hates that I never practice, but frankly, I hate that he assigns all of this practicing — who gave you the right with those big caterpillar eyebrows? I don’t play my instrument in class anymore; I fake it by not blowing any air, but I mash those saxophone keys and wave my instrument around all class long as if I were John Coltrane in a New York City jazz bar. It’s my way of sticking it to Mr. Stenson. And the man. Mr. Stenson actually gave me the idea to fake play during our last concert. I messed up during warm-ups, so he told me not to ruin the concert for everyone else. The rest of the band had never seen him so mad.
End excerpt.
***
"And here is to the newly christened, Mr. and Mrs. Frawley!" toasts the emcee at my brother's wedding, completing a series of heartfelt speeches, memories, and stories. Hundreds of glasses are raised, clinked, and finished. The live band hits a roaring first note as chatter returns and dancing arrives.
I've only had a few moments to eat when I'm approached by one of my most groovy aunts. "Your momma has been telling me you know how to dance now?" she asks, miffed she hadn't heard about the news.
I laugh and shake my head, "Geez! Julie can't keep a secret!" I couldn't always dance. I'm tall. There's a reason you don't see tall people getting jiggy with it often. We have big giant limbs that are calibrated to a five-foot somethin' world. But amid my San Francisco crisis, I took up Swing Dance classes and clung to the craft like a life raft in the sea of my existential abyss.
"Well, let's boogie!" Aunt Plath shouts, grabbing my hand. On the dance floor, we hop n' bop and spin n' twist. I'm sweating and out of breath, trying to make an escape to my seat, when another aunt grabs me and demands a turn. Then another. Then a cousin. Please, people, I need some air! But then mom wants her own dance! Oh, and one more cousin! Now you and your brother should jump up and down and fist pump in the air!
Hours later, I finally break away from the dance floor of death. I join my father, where he is seated with a handful of extended Frawley family members.
"You know," my dad says in the direction of my uncles, "Andy over here is thinking about workin' for a DEMOCRAT … for PRESIDENT!"
"Oh good lord, let's not do this," I say helplessly, knowing the cat is now far, far, out of the bag. To be fair to my father, I think he's bragging. Or at least excited. Weeks before, I had been worried about bringing up to him this whole "work for a guy advocating fat cash handouts" thing, but it seems to have gone over well. My dad's sentiment has been, "If you found somethin' you believe in and makes ya' happy, that's all that really matters." I should never have questioned his support, he's always been understanding (what a rare gift), but sometimes we get so up in our head about things that —
"Why in the hell are you doin' that?" Uncle Bob asks me in his reliable Louisianan and Whiskian accent as the family looks on. Seeking the most agreeable thing I can say, "Oh, we're not trying to win ... we only want to raise the issue of technological change."
Everyone seems to agree. Mission Accomplished. I had said the same thing to my father to lessen the blow. But was it untrue? I talk with my family amicably about technology until I hear something from one of my cousins, a die-hard Trumper, that stops me like a stone.
"Yeah, I'm honestly for a Universal Basic Income; it's the best way to provide for the people." I nearly spit up my Moscow Mule. Uncle Bob cocks his head; that boy said what?
"Wow," I say, shocked. "You're in favor of UBI?"
"Totally, man. We're going to need it. Trump might as well pass it now." As he finishes his thought, I look around for cameras, Ashton is that you? Morpheus? Whoever is responsible for this prank has gone too far because in the world I grew up in, handouts, or, somethin' for nothin', as it is often called, is not what a Republican would stand for.
The next thing I know, a few other family members agree with my cousin. They are the first Trump voters I've been able to sit down with since Trump's election, and it has me feeling optimistic that maybe this Andrew Yang guy is really onto something …