The ties that bind
Or: why I quit my job
Look who’s baaaaaaack! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Last you heard of me, I was wondering who the asshole was… right before I went into a silent retreat that revealed that the asshole was me. (Just kidding.) (I mean, sort of.)
I cannot understate how transformative that experience was. One of the priests warned us, at the beginning: “If you don’t leave here feeling like you need to change your whole life, you’ve wasted your time.” And I was like “sure bro.” And then I left feeling like I needed to change my whole life.
We’ll get to the bigger changes later, but let’s start small: for this year’s Lent (sorry that I didn’t write one of my usual Lenten Reflections… What’s that? Nobody cares? Oh, okay), I successfully quit smoking—which I’m choosing to define as “no longer buying cigarettes and instead bumming them off of people when I’m drinking.” How did I do it? Certainly not through my power of will, but with the aid of a medication called Chantix, which replaces compulsive thoughts about smoking with compulsive thoughts about killing yourself by provoking a nausea so strong that it feels like only the sweet release of death will quell it—I heard once that people who smoke have a secret death wish, to which Chantix says “your wish is our command!”
After surviving the whole course of Chantix, though, I did find my need to smoke had much subsided, and I have not bought a pack since (it’s been around 4 months). Did I decide to quit smoking because of the retreat? Sort of—I decided to quit smoking because it’s a real money drain (a pack of cigarettes will run you upwards of $20 in New York), and I needed to save as much as possible to quit another thing (my job) that did have to do with the retreat. But I’m bringing it up first because, when I was thinking of the title for this edition, I kept coming back to this phrase: “the ties that bind.”
I have no idea where I’ve heard it before. Google says it’s a song by Bruce Springsteen, but that’s inconsequential to my life; Wikipedia says it’s the title of a Battlestar Galactica episode, which feels more likely because when I was a youngster, I used to illegally download religiously watch episodes of this show (I wrote my undergrad thesis about it). Wikipedia also says that the episode takes its title from this hymn by “theologian, pastor and hymn writer” John Fawcett:
Blest be the tie that binds
our hearts in Christian love;
the fellowship of kindred minds
is like to that above.Before our Father’s throne
we pour our ardent prayers;
our fears, our hopes, our aims are one,
our comforts and our cares.We share our mutual woes,
our mutual burdens bear,
and often for each other flows
the sympathizing tear.When we are called to part,
it gives us inward pain;
but we shall still be joined in heart,
and hope to meet again.This glorious hope revives
our courage by the way;
while each in expectation lives
and waits to see the day.From sorrow, toil, and pain,
and sin, we shall be free;
and perfect love and friendship reign
through all eternity.
Putting the whack rhymes aside (“throne” and “one”???), the hymn does shed some light on why I chose this title. The tie that binds us to each other, according to Fawcett, is the love of God, who commands us to love our neighbor. There is, of course, a non-religious (and more self-interested) version of this concept: the social contract (which you will remember if you studied Thomas Hobbes in school), which stipulates that what binds us as societies is our agreement to surrender some of our baser and eviler desires (some of our freedom, so to speak) in exchange for safety and order. Basically, “I am not going to do all I want to because that means everyone can do what they want to, which means someone stronger than me could do whatever they want to me. So instead, let’s all agree not to do the really bad stuff and be at least decent to each other, and we will get by.”
Some version of this idea permeates our society to this day—though, sporadically, the strong ones go off the rails and do some really bad stuff, after which we course correct and swear it will not happen again. In those moments, the ties that bind become less about the common good and more about allegiance to the strongmen (I would say “strong people,” to be inclusive, but who are we kidding: it’s always men). In those moments, the ties that bind are as strong as the swords that keep the enemy away, as Hobbes himself put it, in his intro to De Cive:
…To speak impartially, both sayings are very true; That Man to Man is a kind of God; and that Man to Man is an arrant Wolfe. The first is true, if we compare Citizens amongst themselves; and the second, if we compare Cities. In the one, there’s some analogie of similitude with the Deity, to wit, Justice and Charity, the twin-sisters of peace: But in the other, Good men must defend themselves by taking to them for a Sanctuary the two daughters of War, Deceipt and Violence: that is in plaine termes a meer brutall Rapacity: which although men object to one another as a reproach, by an inbred custome which they have of beholding their own actions in the persons of other men, wherein, as in a Mirroir, all things on the left side appeare to be on the right, & all things on the right side to be as plainly on the left; yet the naturall right of preservation which we all receive from the uncontroulable Dictates of Necessity, will not admit it to be a Vice, though it confesse it to be an Unhappinesse.
(I am obsessed with the spelling here; I will absolutely add “unhapppinesse” to my “vocabulaire” from now on).
So we have three ties that could bind us: love of God and neighbor, fear of each other, and tribalism. None of these, though, feels very at home in the traditional idea of democracy, the kind that Aaron Sorkin sold us on The West Wing (I, like so many, fell into the habit of watching it to escape reality earlier this year). Democracy tells us that we don’t have to love God (any god), be afraid of each other, or even necessarily agree on most things: we just need to have a shared vision for society, even if we disagree on the specifics, and work together to achieve it. The shared vision, in the case of the U.S. of A., is handily written down in the Constitution and its Amendments; the specifics can be figured out at each election (or, less democratically, at each SCOTUS decision).
This is, of course, a problem, because it has become clear to me (and to a bunch of people, I should say, but for the purposes of this newsletter let’s prioritize me) that the American empire is collapsing, precisely because its citizens can no longer agree on the vision of the country—the specifics have become the main points (or, as the kids would say, “the subtext is now text”). The tie of democracy united these states for a good two hundred-plus years, but now it’s feeling about as strong as the waistband of those “house pants” where the stains are meeting each other to the point that it’s unclear what is stain and what is pants.
So what ties bind this country now? Well… smoking. “What? No. We are not bound together by smoking,” you, an American reader, protest—willing to admit that yes, maybe Lady Gaga did wear sunglasses made out of cigarettes in the Telephone video, but that cannot be taken as a symbol of the tie that binds America together. BUT. Think about it. Why was it so hard for me to quit smoking, to the point that I needed the suicidal powers of Chatinx? Is it because I really like inhaling the smoke of burning tobacco… or is it because modern cigarettes have nicotine levels that far surpass those organically found on tobacco, making them highly addictive?
See, for a country that’s all about freedom, as represented in the democracy that President Bartlett (another faux smoking quitter who famously bummed cigarettes left and right) sought to bring to every corner of the world, America subsists in a form of capitalism that’s all about binding people subrrepticiously. In theory, capitalism thrives in free environments by operating in a marketplace where healthy competition creates the best product—but in practice, cigarettes are full of nicotine, lest consumers exercise their freedom not to smoke anymore. In theory, people are free to buy whatever food they want at the supermarket—but in practice, processed food contains much higher levels of sugar, sodium, and salt than those we’d encounter in organic meat and vegetables, which makes that food (you guessed it) highly addictive. And not only does it give a full massage (with happy ending) to our pleasure centers, it also costs less—I’m still scarred by this 2017 New York Times exposé on how the penetration of food companies like Nestlé into Brazilian favelas has led to skyrocketing obesity levels in a country that had hitherto practiced a very healthy diet accross all social classes.
To bring us to perhaps the most egregious example: IN THEORY, social media platforms are town squares where people are exposed to different opinions, building healthy discourse and strengthening social ties—but in practice… I’m not gonna bother with this one, you know all too well (Taylor’s version) how it goes. What I will say is that the current, algorithmic-driven shape the internet has taken was designed by people who understood the brain’s feedback systems and purposely sought to hijack it. There was absolutely no trust in the product; there was only a desire for it to be used even if/when the consumer decided they no longer benefited from it.
Take any of these companies to court (as so many have) and they will say some version of the same thing: “We don’t force anyone to buy what we sell”—like, literally the Sacklers, OF OXYCONTIN, blamed addicts instead of themselves. But didn’t they create products that “hook” us, that are immune to competition by relying on dependence? The tie that binds is not religious, ideological, or even a “don’t kill me and I won’t kill you” agreement—it’s just a series of dopamine hits that seems impossible to quit, to the point that we can become fierce defenders, like any addicts, of the very thing that is killing us (look no further than the national mourning when TikTok was banned for less than 24 hours).
And I guess that’s what came up for me in the retreat: that as much as I want my life to be oriented around the things I care about—God, my family and friends, my art, my advocacy—it is instead structured around the ties that bind me. That was not news to me; I’ve known for a while (a long while) that the things I spend my time on and the things I care about are not exactly aligned—my therapist, in fact, already had me do the exercise of drafting lists for both and seeing where they intersected (they didn’t). I even wrote a whole short story about this phenomenon! So it’s not like I needed to learn it—but at the retreat, without being able to access my phone or even utter a word, the anxiety of just how much my day-to-day life was disconnected from my beliefs and aspirations got too intense to ignore.
To alleviate it, the priests had us put together a plan with daily, weekly, monthly, and even yearly practices we could commit to. It helped for a second, and then immediately got anxious about not being able to follow through, to which I told myself “CHILL THE FUCK OUT MAN just treat it like guidelines.” And when I calmed down, I realized beneath the fear, there was something else: excitement. The call of adventure, if you will. I was ready for change. And part of that change felt, inevitably, tied to letting go of my job.
Now, to be VERY clear: my job is in no way equivalent to cigarettes. I don’t think it was harmful, quite the opposite—that job was a Godsend back when I was a wee child graduating from the MFA program that brought me to this country. It took me in on a student visa and a thin resumé (at least in U.S.-based experience, which sadly is all that counts here), for a part-time position that eventually became full-time… and what was supposed to be a short stint before I “made it as a writer” became eight years in which the company and I went on a whole-ass journey. I met so many people who are now trusted collaborators, mentors, and even close friends. I did so much work that I’m proud of. And eventually I was asked to be a director, and gladly accepted, because I believe in the company’s mission of supporting early-career playwrights, and I wanted to support it. I was honored to be invited to put my hand on the wheel… and then I found myself taking a nap on the floor of the rehearsal room at one of my own play workshops (where was the Equity cot??). A year in, it was clear that I was not capable of doing the job without sacrificing other things I loved. The math just didn’t math. Big projects were on the horizon—projects that would bring money, exciting challenges, and, if executed well, respect—and I was sleeping on rehearsal room floors, too tired to tackle them. The company deserved someone who would give these projects their all. So I had to choose: the job… or everything else.
And it’s not like it was the worst idea in the world to choose the job—as previously established, it was a very good job. BUT it existed in a capitalistic American framework (the 40-hour work week, salaries determined not by contribution to society but by industry standards, healthcare coverage that’s attached to income/productivity—I could keep going) that, much like cigarettes/processed food/social media, no one forced me to opt into… but I still didn’t quite feel free to accept or reject. I did it to survive. It is the unofficial slogan of capitalism: “Survive today, change tomorrow.” And I don’t think life should be about—or just about—surviving.
The way I see it, we are all born with a role to play in this world, and we need to dedicate our lives to playing it to the best of our abilities. The word “talent,” in fact, means “money,” but it took on the meaning of “aptitude” from the following parable—here pulled (and slightly abridged) from the Gospel of Matthew:
A man going on a journey called his servants and entrusted to them his property. To one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away. He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them, and he made five talents more. So also he who had the two talents made two talents more. But he who had received the one talent went and dug in the ground and hid his master's money. Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them. And he who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five talents more, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me five talents; here, I have made five talents more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’ And he also who had the two talents came forward, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me two talents; here, I have made two talents more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’ He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’ But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The tale really degrades towards the end, I know—people in the Bible were not known for taking deep breaths and managing emotions. But the lesson remains: I do not want to hide my talent in the ground for fear of losing it. It would be one thing if I accepted the 40-hour workweek and all its accoutrements because they sustained some other part of my life that truly expressed my talents; for example, in one of the many arguments I had with my dad about quitting my job, I pointed out that he submitted to the system—he has worked for the same company his whole life—to raise me and my sisters. When God calls him to account, he will present us as the result of his efforts (how much God will judge us to be worth, on the other hand, is an open question…maybe my dad will have to do some extra purgatory time for his lousy offspring.) What will I present when it’s my turn? My cat? This skinny rascal with IBS who sleeps all day? I don’t think so. I am in no position to accept being bound by capitalism’s ties; to, as the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous says, “blot out the consciousness of my existence” with social media and fast food in the little spare time I get between 6pm and 10am. I am fortunate enough to have received multiple talents from God, aptitudes that I can meaningfully put to His service and that of other people. I need to make sure I am doing that to the best of my abilities.
How will I do that? I have some ideas, but I’m not super clear. And I think that’s okay? When I tell people I quit, they ask me, “What are you gonna do next?” But, if you think about it, that’s like asking someone who told you they broke up, “Who are you gonna date next?” I get it, people don’t mean anything by it—but they are expressing in their question the deep tie that binds us to the ideas of a full-time job, of money, of survival. I’m trying to cut those ties. So: what I’m gonna do next is try to realign the things I spend time on with the things I care about, and see what happens.
Of course, maybe what happens is that I am evicted and need to sell my body (and Chester’s—actually, he’ll go first) for food, in which case I’ll safely assume quitting my job was not a divine inspiration and I need to get a new one. OR maybe what happens is the beginning of a journey in which I explore what a life with fewer ties looks like. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that compromises will have to be made. I can’t reject the ties without also rejecting the nice things they bring, like TSA Pre-Check and access to the entire run of ER. But maybe losing those things is part of the journey? I feel excited about that too: seeing what else I can live without.
While my parents were here, my dad and I (besides fighting over my quitting) talked a lot about an episode of Ross Douthat’s podcast Interesting Times in which A.I. researcher Daniel Kokotajlo outlines two possible outcomes of the current A.I. revolution: a welfare state in which the machines rule us while taking care of our basic needs… or the complete anihilation of the human race. As I see it, the two are not mutually exclusive; I highly doubt the machines will agree to provide for us without some amount of compromise on our end—a new and updated social contract in which some essential aspects of our humanity (like freedom of thought) are sacrificed in favor of the social order. I kept joking that I would live in “the tents” with other A.I. objectors (“the tents” being some shanty town outside the manicured, A.I.-ruled habitats), to which my dad would retort: “Oh yeah? And what will you eat in the tents?” “We’ll raid your habitats for food,” I’d respond—since my dad is a big A.I. collaborator who will no doubt place very highly in the court of ChatGPT. “Well, it sounds awful,” he’d inevitably conclude.
It does. But it also sounds… free.