CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section illustrated me at the apex of my teen implosion. I am angry and lonely. I am gaming in my basement, killing crickets with toothpicks, and trolling people on the internet. As a meme producer, I explore the history of memes and their origins. I discuss how my most formative years were spent participating in the developing worlds of online memes and online virality. The section serves as a visual of how suburban children who are outcasts find camaraderie in online counter-culture.
Here is an excerpt:
A lot of definitions go around about “internet troll,”, especially in the 2020s. But the type of troll I was, and how I view the term, is “someone who performs online as a well-meaning moron to playfully irritate other users.” Trolling online in the 2000s was peak counter-culture, especially because it wasn’t even cool to be a troll. For those who did it, it was a calling.
The two forums I spent the most time on were Reddit and Yahoo Answers. 2007 Reddit was treated like an underground cult where a secret code was used to distinguish members in public, should any of us have ended up there. It was “Does the narwhal bacon at midnight.” It was a nonsense slogan, but like with any secret community, it was an identifier and a badge of belonging we could hold.
The comment sections on Yahoo Answers were my bread and butter. While I would sometimes log on trying to give earnest 12-year-old advice on life, most times, I was just out for a ruse. When I look back, that’s sort of the bedrock of an internet troll. They’re just craving social interaction, but they use the walls of humor or irritation to shield, even to themselves, the vulnerable admittance that they only want a response from the void.
End excerpt.
***
"Those who don't build must burn. It's as old as history and juvenile delinquents," Faber says. I stop reading to think about "the professor's" line in Fahrenheit 451. I'm on a Greyhound bus cruisin' to Richmond, Virginia. I'm feeling good as I ride that I'm goin' somewhere high. When I arrive in Richmond, it will officially kick off my university tour, answering those three big questions about brains, basic income, and big change. I'm starting with my alma mater Virginia Commonwealth University because duh. After that, I'll make my way up the east coast until I reach New York City, where the loveliest Andrew Yang will be awaiting my answer to the grave question — does the slipper fit? Or in other words, are you going to move to New York City, work for pennies, and help a no-name guy run for president on one of the 21st century's most radical policies to prevent society's collapse under technological innovation despite your political reservations — all in the name of supporting your common man?
That is the question.
To keep me company on this coastal tour, I've lugged about 15 books with me because I'm a masochist and like 40-pound duffle bags and bloodied blue-ink margins. Ever since I "discovered" books in college, I've been manic about reading. Since I'm obsessive-compulsive and have ADD, I plan out the following five books I'll read, but because I'm a slow reader, my interests have almost always changed by the time I finish. As a result, I bring the whole gang with me everywhere I go because I never know which book is next. Might I want to dabble on some more political criticism? I've got all the classics I was assigned in high school but never read, such as Fahrenheit 451, 1984, Animal Farm, The Handmaid's Tale, and Brave New World. If I relish a taste of existentialism, I've got The Stranger or Meditations. If I seek wisdom on marketing and movements, I've got On Movements, Tribe, and Trust Me I'm Lying.
15 minutes into the bus ride, I'm head over heels into Fahrenheit 451 when a voice reaches out to me from across the aisle, "What are you trainin' for there, son?" The words are smooth and smoky with a kick like they'd risen up from 50 years in a fine whiskey barrel. I look to find an African American man with a long skinny face eyeing my books. He's wearing a loose-fitting gray suit jacket atop a nice white button-down, bottomed with some loosely fitting brown slacks, and a flat cap to top with kooky gray hair splaying out.
"Oh …" I say, hesitating, worried that if I say too much, I'll spawn up a riotous response in the man.
"Well, I'm thinking about what a new system for society may be and then if politics is a good way of getting there or not." Nailed it.
The old man laughs a long laugh, then clears his throat.
"I hate ta' tell ya, son, but the politicians ain't lookin' out for us. They just ain't." His sentiment sounds all too familiar. One I've heard at Thanksgiving, at the dentist, at the bank, in the taxis, and on the YouTube.
"Oh, yeah, I mean, I couldn't agree more. They —" I begin until I'm cut off.
"Every time we make a lil' progress, they take it back," the man says sharply as he eyes me sternly. "You wanna know how this system really works, son?"
"Yeah, su—" I'm cut off again.
"Okay, let me tell you," he says, eager to tell me. I nod.
"Us black men and women," he says, patting his chest softly with two hands, "we've been through it. We fought like hell and finally got some rights in the 60s."
He pauses and looks upwards, thinking deeply, then quickly back at me.
"And then, what do ya know, it's time to draft all the black men to Vietnam. We fight like hell and come home, and no one is payin' us shit. We live on nothin' for a decade, and then, what do ya know, it's time to lock up all the black men for havin' drugs."
I look at him sincerely as he shares his words, nodding my head along as the bus bumps around.
"Meanwhile, this Clinton guy is rubbin' elbows with all the rich folks. And then, what do ya know, the economy fails, and us black folk don't see a dime. Then, we finally get one of our own in the White House, and, what do ya know," he pauses.
"Trump?" I guess.
"You got it!" He says, clasping his hands together. "And that mah' boy, is America."
I nod my head slowly with my lips pursed as if I were Nimesh. In many ways, his sentiment feels representative of our whole nation. Everyone seems to feel like they're getting screwed (some more than others, of course), and no one seems to fully trust the system.
"I will say, I'm not much of an expert on this stuff, but what you say makes sense. I learned the basics about our government in school, but I was shocked by what I learned outside of school. A lot of the things you mentioned, or other things like Nixon's Watergate scandal, or modern stuff like what I've seen with voter suppression is ludicrous, are really bad."
"Ohh, my," he says, pulling back with his eyes wide and his head nodding. "Those are bad things. And these leaders wonder why we don't trust 'em." I begin nodding in agreement. The man and I stare, nodding at each other for an uncomfortable length.
"Well, I'll let ya' at it," he finally concludes.
"Good talking to you."
After our chat, I want to go back to reading but there's an anxious millennial scratching around my mind. I open Instagram, then a few messaging apps, then Robinhood as if I have money, then the weather app for some reason, and finally my email. And what's this I see? An email from dearest Yang?
"Here are the first four chapters of my book, The War on Normal People. I imagine you will connect strongly with the message."
Early chapters of the book! I set down Fahrenheit 451 and dig into the document Yang has sent me. Yang's words immediately blow a gasket in the machinery of my brain, but it's not until I reach the third chapter that the gears of my mind come flying entirely off, and I'm reduced purely to double-speak grunts, wails, and howls.
Titled "Who is Normal in America," I expected to find a nice data-driven detailing of my life. Two pages in, however, I read over the sentence that challenges everything I imagined to be true, "The median personal income in the U.S. was $31,099 in 2016."
Whoa, whoa, whoa. $31,099? Is the median? I rub my eyes. I look again. I remain in disbelief. As I continue reading, my world is spinning in circles like a confused Mr. Krabs. I begin to see a true profile of what is normal. The average American has one credit of college, makes less than $31,099, works hourly at 35 hours a week, and does not have $500 in savings. And 70% of the nation makes less than $50,000.
I am so rattled by these statistics that I begin texting all sorts of friends from D.C., Richmond, and San Francisco. Did you know? I ask. Then my mind starts doing the math and running through scenarios. Oh, well surely, I think, the rent isn't that high in most of America. I hop on Google to verify. The median rent is $1,100. What! I race back to complete my Einstein math equating where I surmise a powerful realization.
$1,100 in rent is $13,200 a year. Subtracting that from $31,000 is … only $17,800 a year?! Before taxes!? Before healthcare? Before car payments? Before food? Holy shit. What about the suburban checklist? What about the predictable 9-5 conveyor belt of the suburbs? What about college? What about the corporate nightmare? What about the Norman Rockwell, picture-perfect family? There's no fucking suburban dream on $18,000 a year! Are you telling me that it's all a hoax? Does this mean I'm not normal? I'm not even normal?? And I lived my life rejecting an identity that isn't even true?? For the remainder of the bus ride, I sit fact-checking Yang's data and then ensuingly reprocess every moment of my life.
Then it all comes together. Yang's ideas merge with the words of the old man. I begin to see the broad strokes of the American puzzle. Decades of failed policies paired with childish bickerings of platitudes all on top of worsening quality of life — this is it, this is how we got to Trump and anger, and divisions. No wonder we all hate politics! No wonder I could hate "the system" at age 11 without even knowing what "the system" is! No wonder the only invisible hand working in this country is the one of political disaffection! No wonder my father, all of us Frawley's, and seemingly so many Americans are desperate for a real frickin' person!
***
CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section was the final stage of my basement dwelling years that are spent on World of Warcraft. The section was a story that aimed to highlight how because of my 'IRL' suffering, I replaced my personal identity with the one in the video game. Despite this, I had the self-belief I was happy, and life couldn't be better.
Here is an excerpt:
In the great city of Dalaran, I’m riding one of the rarest of mounts — the Ironbound Proto drake. I’m a little gnome atop this dragon with its molten, ethereal, and broad unmatched wingspan, but as other gamers walk by, laying eyes upon my most prestigious beast, I feel fit to be a king.
“Blessed be of Azeroth, it’s so pretty!”
“I can’t believe you’ve reached such heights!”
I’ve just finished what I might call a glorious victory for the Alliance in a “Player vs. Player” arena battle to the death with two of my internet friends. We were set up and matched against a terrifying foe, Gulak, and his wicked team of Undead monsters, one of the top teams on the server. But we, the good humans, gnomes, and elves, have returned the victors. Of the greatest importance, our three-person team is now qualified to receive one of the most prestigious World of Warcraft honors, that of the “Gladiator,” gifted to approximately only the top 0.5% of WoW players.
Amongst this moment, my 300-pound, school-failing, angry, and friendless-self feels a flashing but intimate knowledge: Life will never be better than this. With the intensity of one thousand truths, I cannot imagine a fate much better than this.
This be not my only badge of prestige in these lands. Dare I tell the children about how I acquired the sacred reigns to the Ironbound Protodrake? Or how I attained such happiness, enlightenment, and peak self-actualization? Be they mature enough to hear of such righteous quests? Of the years laboring amongst my guildmates at pre-scheduled hours four nights a week without rest in the darkest of dungeons?
I devilishly snicker. Or dare I tell the world of my sneaking into this guild, feigning my age as 16 when I am really 13? Do I share of the long nights straining my throat as I battle to deepen my squeaking voice on my guild’s Ventrilo calls? Do I share of the myriad of stories I’ve made up to sound like I have a life? And friends? And parties to attend? And women who look at me? Do I dare tell of the secret characters I play on so my guildmates and friends don’t know I play 14-hours a day straight? Do I dare tell the world that in the last three calendar years of my life, I’ve passed over 450 solid days logged into this blessed utopia? Do I dare tell them that in the darkest hour of the night when I look myself in the mirror, I see not what they see — that of the wretched imposter, fraudulent, self “Andrew” — but the true, honorable, authentic self: Slyvert, gnome mage.
End excerpt.
***
Magic is coursing through me as I wander about the storied and mystical red rock buildings of the University of Pennsylvania. Shelby is giving me a mini-campus tour. I feel tiny and out of place amongst this sprawling history of American prestige. The university's wicked Sith-like architecture makes me feel very happy to have moved on from my rather uneventful week of classes and conversations in Richmond.
“What’s your schedule looking like for today?” Shelby asks me as if I’m a real student here.
“Oh, man,” I say excitedly, “Well, I’ve got Introduction to American Politics in 20 minutes, and then Advanced Cognitive Neuroscience. Then I’m going to stop by the Psychology building to find Angela Duckworth. Then Biochemistry, … and then … Ugh, then I have Neurobiology of Learning and Memory at 7:00 p.m.”
She looks at me as if I’ve just said something crazy, then we laugh out loud. I only met Shelby a few months ago, coincidentally just hours after that electrifying meeting with Andrew Yang. Shelby is the product of a working-class family with costs so tight she nearly had to skip out on Penn. She is 20-years old and somehow already sporting an interdisciplinary career taking her from think tanks and startups to Hillary’s Pennsylvania frontline and now the President of the Penn Democrats. But when you meet Shelby, you’ll forget all about the pedigree as you’re left wondering how at such an age, she manages to have the gratitude and generosity of a late-stage yogi. So, while I hadn’t planned on skipping straight from Richmond to Philadelphia, when Shelby offered to be my Philly Sherpa, I couldn’t get here fast enough. Plus, Penn (as they call it, and don’t you dare say UPenn, outsider!) is one of the United States' great brain meccas.
Shelby and I part ways, and I make my way over to American Politics. I’m a little nervous as Shelby had warned me of security doors, so I need to shuffle in with students everywhere I go. American Politics turns out to be a hundred-person lecture class, so I slide in easily. The class is non-revolutionary, and I learn nothing new. After class, I ask the professor whether he thinks politics is a good vehicle for change. He looks at me much how a few VCU professors did; how did you even get into this university? Jokes on him, I never even applied!
When I arrive at the building for Advanced Cognitive Science, there’s no one around, so I can’t get into the building. I wander around looking into windows and shaking door handles until I surmise I’ll get arrested if I keep it up. Finally, someone comes out, and I go in. When I get to the classroom, I freeze in place. The class is 10 people. I pace around anxiously in the hallway feeling like I’m going to throw up, but, I decide, I can’t turn back now. I head into class and take a seat at the conference table.
The moment class begins, as you’d expect, the teacher asks me politely, annnnd who in the fuck are you?
“Oh,” I say, realizing I should have prepared an alibi, “I’m just really into neuroscience, so figured I’d drop in to get a feel for it.”
“This is a Ph.D. course,” she says, frowning. My first thought is, good gravy, Andrew, you’ve really got yourself in a pickle now. The class is staring at me as if I’m some big asshole. I’m just staring blankly at the professor as my mind turns into that monkey with tambourines from the Simpsons. All the while, the professor is surely deciphering my whole life just from the panic on my face. The room stirs in silence like a midwestern standoff.
“… Wait, are you even a student at Penn?” she finally asks.
“Uh … no,” I say shamefully.
“Oh my god,” she says, throwing her hands in the air and shaking her head. I stare off into the abyss like a stranded sea captain awaiting his fate.
“Okay, goodness gracious, I’ve never seen anything like this. You can stay, but you can’t come back.”
Tail between my legs, I agree. Through the class, I strive my absolute hardest to learn the content just to not seem like an asshole. To my credit, it worked, and I still know how a neural sodium-potassium pump works.
After the class and the historic clash of titans, the professor and I share a good laugh. This kid ain’t such a blowhard after all! Most importantly, she confirms for me a few things.
Yes, we totally need brains!
Yes, UBI would be transformative for our wellness!
After class, I wander the hallways of the neuroscience building and speak to random adults who look like they know what the brain is up to. Everyone is screaming my praise for daring to take on the mission of improving the donation of brains. Brainman! Bring us brains! I’m so excited and full of myself that I over-commit to one professor that I’m totally applying for a neuroscience Ph.D.
As if I’d not been enough of a menace to the people of Penn at this point, I head over to the psychology building (which is uncharacteristically grungy and gross for the astute Penn) and repeat my behavior. Except this time, rather than asking about brain logistics, I’m asking which is a better career choice for someone trying to improve society’s mind. Brains or basic income?
It’s a pretty split audience. Most of the professors don’t even know what universal basic income is, so I have to explain it. I end up answering questions about basic income and automation for hours. Then it hits me. Am I a traveling disciple of basic income already? Have I unconsciously already begun living my decision? No way, my brain affirms, indecision is your greatest strength!
I never find Angela Duckworth.
***
CHILDHOOD COMING OF AGE FLASHBACK REDACTED
This section told the story of when I joined the football team as a Sophomore (10th grader) in High School. At the time, I was still the lonely 300-pound WoW gamer kid from the last flashback. I had been peer pressured into joining the team, but a part of me wanted to see what I could become. Unfortunately, my fear of working hard and being amongst the team's alpha-males caused me to vomit and quit on the first day.
***
"I'm sick to my stomach over all of this," I say to Shelby. It's my last day in Philadelphia, and after terrorizing Penn (plus a few neighboring universities), Shelby and I are having a lovely farewell breakfast.
"I feel like I know which one you're leaning towards," she says, smirking.
"No, don't say it!" I say, cowering behind my hands.
"Do it," she says.
"But I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Three things. It's very simple," I say, propping up three fingers.
"One — I feel like an imposter. I know nothing about politics. Despite all of the endless marketing work I've done, and my mighty high ego about my marketing knowledge, I've only had a real marketing job for 8 months — and I hated the job. So it's like, when you boil it all down ..."
"Okay, well, that's ridiculous. We never think we are ready when the truth is that we're totally ready. Yang already believes in you. He clearly saw something. Plus, you've got to try. You'll grow, and you'll be collaborating as a team, and you'll get help if you need it. This isn't a real problem."
"Okay … maybe," I say hesitantly. "Two is ridiculous … but honestly, I'm scared that Yang, and me, will be labeled as communists. I mean … he's a totally unknown Asian man, and if we don't make a strong case, we'll just be branded as the looney tunes campaign from communist China."
"Oh, for goodness sake," she says, exasperated. "Listen, I get that fear. It could happen; sure, who knows what will happen? A million things could go wrong, but a million things could go right. But if you think you're going to do anything substantial in life without having risk, you're in the wrong line of work."
I look at her, moved but unconvinced.
"Okay, number three is that it all feels too soon. No one knows about UBI. It feels like we're skipping straight from first base to home plate."
"That's possible, but it's mostly inconsequential. Good ideas thrive while bad ideas die. A good idea will benefit from exposure. To skip out on this campaign for that would be silly.
I nod in agreement, "That's probably right."
"Listen," she says. "All three of those fears are your brain rationalizing to defend insecurities from being exposed. Often in life, it comes down to taking crazy leaps of faith, and that's what you need to do. Not because you're certain that it'll work out, but because you know wherever you land, you'll be okay. You're smart, and you'll adapt. You have a wicked cool offer in front of you, and finding an opportunity like this is ultra-rare. You might not win, but you might go on a journey beyond your imagination."
I listen closely, nodding with pursed lips — my permanent deep thinking face now thanks to Nimesh.
"And one other thing. You've been asking this question your whole trip. Is UBI right? Does politics change anything, and does their change matter? The reality is that most of the big problems in society today, we know how to solve. You might not know how, but the politicians know, the think tanks know. Our country is so brilliant. We have the answers. UBI is one of those answers. The problem with political change isn't finding the right solutions. The real problem we have in America is finding the political will to pass the solutions. It's a marketing problem, and the answer is a big movement of people applying pressure to force action."
Shelby leaves me shell-shocked. Did I mention she's 20-years old? Unfortunately, I remain unconvinced. However, I am fully inspired politically, an apt attitude to pick while visiting a wise friend at Benjamin Franklin’s University.
When Shirly and I finish breakfast, we wave our goodbyes, and I head over to the Greyhound bus station. Next stop: New York City.