Duped: Double Lives, False Identities, and the Con Man I Almost Married (A Review)

Abby Ellin’s Duped: Double Lives, False Identities, and the Con Man I Almost Married is not the book I expected to pick up next, as I knew it would undoubtedly promote paranoia and suspicion in relationships (it did). At the time, however, I was dealing with some romantic suspicion and distrust of my own, and hoped the book would help me with my internal dilemma.

As it turns out, the guy in question wasn’t deceptive—apparently, there’s a difference between an identity thief/regular thief and someone you’re just not that into. Who knew?

So while this story didn't confirm my worst suspicions, I'm still glad I read it. It at least reinforced the idea that I should trust my instincts and not be on robbery-watch with the person I'm supposed to love and trust with all my heart.

In this text, Ellin shares the story of meeting “The Commander,” allegedly a Navy SEAL officer. She is swept up by his stories of going on super secret missions in Afghanistan, of having meetings with Obama, and of saving soldiers’ lives. After a speedy engagement with the Commander, Ellis finds out that her fiancé has been lying the entire time—while he was a doctor and did work for the FBI, he was never a Navy SEAL and used his past marriages and relationships to get illegal prescriptions for Vicodin, an addiction that he kept secret among everyone he knew. Interspersed with Ellin’s narrative is research about deceit, motivations behind compulsive liars, and anecdotes that illustrate both the variety and commonality of lying.

Truthfully, I found the story of the Commander kind of boring. He was charming, and the story provided a stable foundation for Ellin’s research, but it was difficult to be invested in their relationship. Perhaps I am a broken reader and care little for the main stories in a book, but there seemed to be little care in fleshing out the Commander’s character, or Ellin’s reasons for being interested in him. Yes, I can relate to Ellin’s justification that she was lonely, she didn’t want to disrupt stability. Ellin’s internal reflections perfectly mirror those of us who have so badly wanted to settle into relationships that we always knew were off: “I was most alone in the wrong relationship….I wanted this relationship to work” (13), and “I was so lonely. Wasn’t the whole point of having a partner to help fill the void?....I tried to be happy. But I wasn’t. And I hated myself for it. I don’t know if my loneliness stirred up my doubts or if my doubts ignited my loneliness, but my sense that the Commander was ‘truth challenged’ increased. I worried that my commitment issues were getting the best of me, and I needed to work through them. But I couldn’t” (20). This agony can invite empathy from the reader, but from a literary standpoint, this dissatisfaction and distrust in Ellin’s relationship also dulled the shock value when she found out that her “meh” fiancé was a con artist. It seemed as though she wanted to get rid of him in the first place, as she explicitly noted just how dull the Commander was.

Despite the lazy portrayal of Ellin’s relationship with the Commander, we see far more nuance in other stories of deception and truth-exaggeration. With these stories, Ellin paints a more sympathetic and well-rounded picture of those who bend the rules. My personal favorite story was that of Peter Young, a man on the run who freed thousands of mink and foxes from fur farms. He changed his identity several times, never had a stable job, and was eventually caught by the police. Ellin acknowledges that part of Young wanted to be on the run due to the drama, the thrilling adrenaline. But he also deceived in order to help free animals from harm. Ellin notes:


"On the one hand, Young was an entitled rich kid who didn’t want to work especially hard and happily took from others. He vandalized. He ruined the livelihoods of many, many people. He lied and misrepresented himself. But the rebellious side of me was entirely behind him….Young fervidly believed in what he was doing. I was also jealous. Oh, to have such loyalty to a cause greater than myself! I’ve longed to believe in something—anything—unconditionally, to be so passionate about a person or cause that I’d be willing to risk jail for it. I envied his conviction, the same way I envy people who believe in Jesus or Allah or amethysts" (57).

Here’s where we get into the most interesting part: we might separate ourselves from con artists, but in reality, we are all deceiving and living double lives, at least to a certain extent. Reflecting on this reality may be uncomfortable, but Ellin makes this point in a non-judgmental yet informative way. We live in an age where we perceive others as “having it all,” and feel pressure to do the same by presenting multiple selves. We aren’t lying per se...more like embellishing. But just like Ellin, we lie when we want to present a marketable self, an extroverted self, or a self who just can’t get enough NASCAR dates. We compartmentalize these selves, and our actions as we transition between them.


A more surprising claim about manipulating reality was that it helps some combat depression. While I initially saw this as a bit of a stretch, it becomes more logical as you consider the reasons why: “impostership ‘represents a defense against depression….As long as [you can] maintain it and work at it then [you don’t] have to think of [yourself] as a depressed and lonely person. A double life is just the way to cover up the turmoil’” (73). Here we see the compassionate depiction of those who lie in a way that fell short with the Commander’s story. We may not forgive those who manipulate and con their way through life, but we can start to build an understanding that these acts can come from pain, rather than malice. They may, as is in Young’s case, be well-intentioned.

Less enticing was Ellin’s implied message that dating simply isn’t worth the fear of being duped. A fair conclusion after being lied to twice, but it also reinforces paranoia that may not be healthy for those of us who are perhaps...more suspicious than the average person. Treading carefully in a new relationship is wise, but avoiding dating altogether may be a bit extreme (for some. This is a separate discussion from those who are simply uninterested in dating). It’s true that betrayal from love can make it feel like your insides have been ripped out, and research shows that PTSD caused by loved ones is far worse than PTSD from natural disasters; in short, love is agonizing. Many of us lie more than we’d care to admit to our partners. But I almost wish that Ellin would pair the couples who broke due to deception with those who worked through it to illustrate the line between pure, con-man level deception and manipulation of reality that we all fall subject to.

This text also had some contradiction that seemed a fault of Ellin’s editor: most prominent was Ellin’s claim that “people show you who they are in the first two minutes you meet them: two seconds, if you believe Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink” (31). A few pages later, she states, “when you meet somebody for the first time, you’re not meeting them. You’re meeting their representative” (44). It could be that Ellin is comparing research, or other authors’ claims, but she does not make that clear, as she fails to further explore the competing arguments and land on a unique conclusion.

Despite the minor flaws of this text—namely that I am terrified to ever download Bumble again—it was an engaging read. Ellin’s voice is informal, each chapter is gripping, and there are some new ideas I didn’t know about (like rape by deception: if you have consensual sex with someone who is lying about their identity, that becomes rape). This book could have been better organized, as I felt like we were flipping between the Commander story and other anecdotes for no particular reason. However, it’s clear that Ellin is passionate about this topic, and she has conducted some fascinating research about deception. If you’re okay with some paranoia and won’t conclude that your friend is feigning cancer just to move in with and control you, I would recommend that you read this book. You might just learn something—not just about those around you, but the less comfortable parts of yourself.

Religion for Atheists: A Review

I had mixed feelings when picking up Alain de Botton’s Religion for Atheists. While I certainly am among the target demographic, I suspected that this might be something along the lines of “Religion for Dummies.” While I have integrated some concepts from Eastern religions into my life, I still hold some skepticism (and, frankly, ignorance) about the Christian faith. Reading this book was largely an attempt to challenge my preconceived notions about Christianity, especially after my tainted perception upon watching notoriously outrageous YouTube channels like Girl Defined and Paul and Morgan.

Religion for Atheists is divided into ten chapters, each of which introduces a new concept that can help guide everyone through life. Botton primarily focuses on Christianity and Judaism, as he (rightly so) argues that covering more religions would make for a very lengthy and confusing book. From the start, Botton states a clear thesis that “secularism is [not] wrong, but...we have too often secularized badly—inasmuch as, in the course of ridding ourselves of unfeasible ideas, we have unnecessarily surrendered some of the most useful and attractive parts of the faiths” (17). This seems like an interesting concept, though Botton goes on to argue all the facets in which secularism is, in fact, wrong. But more on that later.

Understanding the author’s background and perspective is always important (take that, new criticism!), and it’s even more vital to research the author in the context of this book. In my preliminary research, I discovered that Botton is a philosopher, went to Cambridge, began a PhD in French philosophy at Harvard, but later dropped out to become a full-time author. When trying to find out Botton’s religious affiliations, I came up short. Botton makes no mention of his religious identity in this book, which I feel is a massive overlook on his part.

The beginning of the text is innocent enough. Botton makes some overarching arguments that others corroborate: we often lack a sense of community, as we are absorbed in long work hours and social media. We rarely speak to our neighbors, and we attend dinners in public, it’s never to meet new people (unless, of course, it’s to professionally network). Beyond making the point that it’s good advice to “love thy neighbor,” Botton goes further in-depth to claim that “the book of Agape would direct diners to speak to one another for prescribed lengths of time on predefined topics” (46). While the enforced lengths and topics sound a bit like speed dating for friends, the overall idea is a positive one: religion encourages us to get out of our social shells, to be curious about others’ experiences, and to build new communities.

Among established communities, religious practices invite us maintain a sense of vulnerability and reflection about our social follies. The Jewish faith’s Day of Atonement is a time in which everyone must reflect on those they have hurt and subsequently apologize and ask for forgiveness. The word “sin” does appear in this holy day (a term that makes me deeply uncomfortable), but what makes the Day of Atonement so interesting is that the focus is on one specific sin, and offers a solution that is practical (it does not simply absolve someone for confessing) and does not punish the sinner.

For the most part, I wasn’t enthralled by Botton’s writing about this topic, and he only loosely ties this religious practice to atheists by saying we should all apologize for our past mistakes each quarter of a year. This would be an interesting practice for those who block out the past or rarely reflect on wrong-doings. Because this concept was new to me, I was delighted with this chapter. But Botton fails to connect with less introspective atheists, and leaves more questions than answers about how this secular atonement day would work. Unless he’s just saying atheists should, instead of being assholes, admit when they’ve done something wrong.

As the book progressed, Botton’s arguments seemed more of a stretch: what seems specific to religion in Botton’s mind is also present in therapy, mindfulness, and support networks. In some cases, the religious qualities that Botton advocates for might be better achieved through secular practices. Botton makes the point that looking at a saintly figurine can help us figure out what to do when we’re feeling stuck. The answer is inside us, Botton argues, but looking to a maternal figure helps us access that answer. The same thing happens with trained professionals who ask guiding questions to help us find the answers we’ve known all along. Yes, there is cost involved, but the sheer avoidance of these alternative methods of self-inquiry ultimately weakens Botton’s argument.

Then we have the chapter on education—oh boy, is this a treat. This chapter is essentially a 30 page confession that Botton has not stepped inside a classroom since the dark ages, and that his professors never once challenged him to think critically. He seems to have a personal vendetta against the humanities, and thinks that the only education worth having is one of self-reflection. His language is aggressive, his arguments are entirely unfounded, and he alienates a large demographic within the secular community: academics.

Universities, to Botton, simply churn out robots who spout meaningless knowledge and have no ethical or moral compass. Perhaps you might think that my religious and academic bias are tainting my view of Botton’s argument— “he can’t possibly be that shallow and ignorant,” you might say. But you would be wrong. He literally says things like “whatever rhetoric may be rehearsed in its prospectuses, the modern university appears to have precious little interest in teaching its students any emotional or ethical life skills, much less how to love their neighbors and leave the world happier that they found it” (105), “it would be a shocking affront to university etiquette to ask what Tess of the d’Urbervilles might usefully teach us about love, or to suggest that the novels of Henry James might be read with an eye to discovering parables about staying honest in a slippery mercantile world” (117), and “secular education will never succeed in reaching its potential until humanities lecturers are sent to be trained by African-American Pentecostal preachers” (131). These passages almost tread the line of satire, as they are so completely wrong. Botton’s perception that college courses consist of passive, lifeless students, an hour-long lecture with zero discussion or critical application, and tests that require rote memorization is so laughably off, that he damages his ethos beyond repair for the remainder of the book. This chapter is clear proof that Botton has little ground to argue that religion introduces practices that are impossible to find elsewhere. It’s alarming that despite his background in philosophy, Botton fails to bridge the connection between academic concepts and the human condition. He also seems to make these arguments based on the assumption that without a formal class or text that gave step-by-step instructions on how to be a good person, we’d all be flailing, murdering, thieving sacks of flesh.

The idea behind this book has a lot of potential, and, if executed properly, could have opened up the eyes of stubborn atheists who refuse to see the good in religious practices. Instead, this book is an attack on atheists that relies on old, unfounded arguments with gaping holes all over the place. Save yourself the drudgery of slogging through this book, and instead recognize that kindness, community, and morality are qualities we should all strive for, regardless of religion.

Small Fry: A Review

When I picked up Lisa Brennan-Jobs’s Small Fry, I expected a tell-all narrative about Steve Jobs. Hearing little more than “he was a jerk,” I was hungry for the details about his life, about his relationships with colleagues and families alike. I wanted to know the intricacies of a brilliant mind who was reputed to be so cruel, and to understand the underlying motives and ambiguities that fleshed out his character.

It turns out he was just kind of a jerk; surprisingly, Jobs is ultimately the least interesting person in the book. This is a text that quietly asks its readership to shift expectations from “confessions of an abused daughter” to musings about the complexities and pains of familial relationships. If and when the reader is open to such a change, the book becomes a profound and thought-provoking read.

We are first introduced to Jobs at the tail end of his life, as he tells his daughter from his deathbed that she smells like a toilet. This reverse chronological order is nothing new, although it does allow the reader to see that even in the most vulnerable of moments, Jobs continues to spout hateful comments. Most of the text continues this thread: Jobs is portrayed as a hateful, controlling monster, no matter the context. We might get the details of Jobs’s exact form of hate that we have been craving, but with that comes no nuance or suggestion of vulnerability in his character. Up until the very end of the book, Jobs is an archetype of the cruel, uninvolved father.

Much of the beginning lacks a cohesive thread. Jobs is largely absent from the beginning chapters, and instead we are inundated with seemingly unimportant backstory about Lisa’s parents. Lisa drives home the point that she and her mother were poor. Jobs is an ancillary character who has a lot of money, yet refuses to lend it to his ex and daughter. In fact, after nearly fifty pages of introduction, Lisa admits, “Steve. I knew so little about him” (48). Again, we see Jobs as cruel, as evidenced by his shameless ego: “‘Do you know who I am?....I’m your father. I’m one of the most important people you will ever know’” (13). There are references to Jobs’s work, but Lisa never dives into what it entails. Barring a couple of scenes, we don’t see Jobs at the office. Here begins the suggestion that this text isn’t really about Jobs; rather, his absence is a lens through which to see Lisa’s life.

Discovering the depth of characters is painfully slow in the beginning. The mother, too, is archetypal. She seems a stereotype of the unreliable artist flitting about with wild dreams and an empty bank account. She has an influx of boyfriends, wants to desperately to be a good mother, and in doing so, spends money she doesn’t have. Much of this section is factual, as though Lisa is so used to her mother’s flighty nature, she no longer reacts to it. Only later do we see a fuller version of Lisa’s mother.

Getting the initial sense that this book was largely an emotionless autobiography, I almost abandoned it. But I pressed on, mostly because I wanted to have another entry on Goodreads. As Lisa offers her own self-reflections, her writing comes alive, and the readers’ emotional investment in Lisa expands dramatically. These reflections are strong and poignant:

"I began to feel there was something gross and shameful about me, and also to know that it was too late to change it, that nothing could be done. I was different from other girls my age, and anyone good and pure could immediately sense this and would be repulsed. One indication was the photograph. Another was that I could not read. The last was that I was meticulous and self-conscious in a way I could tell the other girls were not. My desires were too strong and furious….I felt this quality in myself, and I was sure it must show when people saw me" (28).

Here we see a little girl in tremendous pain—not because of Jobs (Lisa knows no different from the absent father), and not solely about her poverty. Her pain comes from a feeling of being on the outside, of wanting so desperately to fit in, and of noticing a devastating alienation from her classmates. This is a nearly universal story, which begins to situate Lisa on the same level as her audience. Jobs has not yet told Lisa that she will never fit in—this isolation isn’t the outcome of a narcissistic billionaire. Instead, it’s the outcome of self-hatred that is all too common in young girls.


While Jobs’s actions are largely uninteresting, it is Lisa’s perceptions of her father that we cling onto. This dichotomy between reality and interpretation is a reminder that despite our best attempts to use facts, perceptions of our parents will always be skewed. Lisa sees Jobs’s use of commonplace phrases such as “let’s call it a day” as sophisticated and other-worldly. Lisa further explores a sense of the fantastical, surreal nature of Jobs’s life as she describes spending time in his home: “We existed outside regular time. The mornings with him, too, would have a timeless quality, more empty space and white light and silence—unlike the mornings with my mother, when we raced to dress in front of the heaters and ate toast in the car….Here there was no rush, no breathlessness” (101). These observations introduce the dichotomy between the competing worlds in Lisa’s life.

Lisa largely seems to be a reflection of her parents, but we do get a glimmer of her self-development and exploration, as she discusses an affinity with writing. She is proud of her teacher’s praise of her work, and notes the ease in finding the words to create a smooth, polished essay. In keeping with my appreciation for Lisa’s inner musings, I would have liked to see more of this exploration, as it deepens our understanding of the main character of the text.

Towards the middle of the book, we still see vivid descriptions of Jobs’s cruelty: he blatantly and unapologetically insults Lisa’s cousin as she loudly orders food at a restaurant and eats in a sloppy manner. Lisa recognizes her father’s emotional abuse, which makes it all the more frustrating—but not surprising—when she is still desperate for Jobs’s approval. Yet as Lisa sprinkles stories of her father’s selfishness and violence, she invites us into the far more complex, ambiguous, and (in my opinion) interesting world of her relationship with her mother. Again, she uses Jobs as a mirror in which to gaze at and critique the world where she is fully accepted. Everything with Jobs is tidy and cold; his interactions with Lisa’s mother showcase the disparate nature between the two worlds, alongside Lisa’s determination to take sides:

"Next to him, [my mother] looked ragged and disheveled. When she spoke, sobbing, she was hardly intelligible. Looking back, I’m ashamed to see that I just wanted her to act neat and quiet….I didn’t want my father to think I was anything like her….She seemed too dramatic. Crazy, even. I wanted her to feel less, express less" (212).

Lisa’s expression of shame felt towards her mother seems familiar to the dislike that Jobs expresses about Lisa. And while Lisa acknowledges her awareness about Jobs’s problematic behavior, she reflects that same casual cruelty towards her mother. As Lisa moves between houses, her desperate desire to be seen by her father deepens. Paradoxically, as Lisa so desperately wants warmth and affection in the Jobs household, she rejects it from the parent who has been around all along:

"The first two days as my mother’s felt excessively warm, almost cloying, as she followed me around, tending to me, cooking with what I’d recently understood to be an excess of oil, and profligate butter. I felt superior. I knew things she didn’t. I hated how needy she was, how vulnerable, wanting to be with me even when I said I was fine alone; I hated the fact that I was related to her, that because of her I was unable to belong in the other house….I wanted to be someone else, to be prettier, blonde, tall, worthy—but she seemed to love me, to like me, as I was. I doubted her taste" (289).

This, to me, is where the book becomes most alive and poignant. I may hold a certain degree of personal bias, as I find this passage eerily similar to my own life. This story is unique to Lisa, yet it also points to the universality of the strained mother-daughter relationship. We see an intricate, believable, and painful depiction of the violent swing between closeness and hatred. As daughters, we might see ourselves, yet as daughters, we open our eyes (perhaps for the first time) to the scarring impact this dynamic has on mothers who are loving, flawed, and trying very hard.

This passage also demonstrates the elegant maturity of Lisa: she could easily play the victim card and portray her mother as a bumbling idiot, but she recognizes her deficiencies, and doesn’t shy away from discussing her own cruelty—a cruelty that is uncomfortably similar to her father’s. Yet unlike the depictions of Jobs, this passage does not force the reader to detach from or feel disdain for Lisa; if anything, it further humanizes her, and encourages her readers to explore their own opposing desires and messy familial interactions.

Returning to the theme of alienation and isolation, Lisa uses the figure of her stepmother—Laurene—to explore her desire to approximate normalcy. While Lisa makes clear that both of her parents are far from normal, Laurene is the hero who understands how to be a person in the world. This part of the text gives the reader a clearer understanding of why Lisa wants to spend time in a house that has almost no furniture, a broken dishwasher, and a freezing bedroom. We sympathize with Lisa as she almost worships’ Laurene’s influence: “Laurene seemed to understand the division between strange and relatable in a way we did not….What a relief it was to have [her] with her knowledge of etiquette and protocol. Who knew people who did not frame birth certificates and put them on walls” (248). With this appreciation for etiquette and normalcy comes an implicit depiction of a cold, unwelcome house that holds no room for the free expression of people like Lisa.

Lisa uses her relation to Jobs to sell the book, but from early on, we recognize that this text is not about Jobs (a solid move, as writing solely about Jobs would make for a very boring, very predictable book). Lisa ultimately acknowledges the ubiquity of her story:

"Like me, most of the women I knew did not have fathers when they were growing up. Not having a father wasn’t unique, or even significant. My father’s significance was elsewhere. Instead or raising me, he was inventing world-changing machines; he was famous, mingling, accruing, driving stoned in the South of France" (275).

Rather than focus on the superficial relationship that Lisa had with her father (barring a few special moments they had skating and appreciating the beauty of nature), Lisa uses her positionality as the daughter of a celebrity to explore the complexity of relationships, the difficulty of differentiating yourself from your parents. She beautifully expresses the paradox of simultaneously appreciating and despising those who are closest. She challenges us to investigate the venomous, tangled mother-daughter relationship, and of painful, frustrating, and altogether human nature of those around us.

On Ethical Overwhelm

In attempts to be a person in the world, I have started to stop obsessing about myself  look less inward and follow the news. It's been easy enough to follow the 2020 elections, as I have an unhealthy obsession with debates and analysis of the ten million people who are running for president. As far as other issues have gone, I've taken to watching comedy shows like the Daily Show, Last Week Tonight, and the Late Show—both for a laugh, and to be somewhat connected to life outside of knitting and Stranger Things.

In keeping with my propensity for going to extremes, my reaction to John Oliver's video on warehouses was not moderate in any way.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9m7d07k22A

"This is horrifying!," I thought to myself, "I will never shop on Amazon ever again!"

I will, of course, shop on Amazon again, as evidenced by my ever-expanding Amazon wishlist: 

 

I was never ignorant enough to believe that Amazon's warehouse workers had luxury break rooms, 401ks, and comprehensive benefits—on some level, way in the back of my mind, I was aware that working conditions for these employees were less than ideal—although I was not aware just how un-ideal they truly were. But in the same way that you can look at a chicken breast and disassociate from the chicken that was pumped with steroids and antibiotics, it's easy to turn a blind eye when the problem isn't staring you in the face. It's no coincidence that I started getting far more interested in Medicare for All as I got closer and closer to my 26th birthday. 

Or, perhaps, you are brutally aware of the issue, but you've heard about 20 social causes in the past week, are working 3 jobs, and can't possibly imagine what you can do to stop the issue. The systemic change is too overwhelming to even begin to consider where you would start. Worse, you have such little time and so little money, you have to rely on Amazon for its convenient delivery and cheap cost while you work to feed 3 hungry children. 

I don't have 3 jobs or any children, but I will be working on a graduate stipend and limited time. It's easy to mindlessly "window shop" online, go, "ooh, cute!" and experience the euphoria of getting packages delivered to your door, or the excitement of tearing open the box (it's like never-ending Christmas!). Rather than spend half an hour driving to and back from Target, plus 20 extra minutes of chasing down several employees to help me find a fake plant that I don't really need, I've just found the perfect item in two minutes, and purchased it in two seconds. I never have to even consider the exploitation and abuse of the working class—instead, I can do classwork. 

So yes, there is a case for taking advantage of the convenience of online shopping. It's also true that we cannot dismantle a capitalist society by choosing to buy that plant at Goodwill. There will always be rich white dudes who are flying their dick-spaceships while their employees work 80 hours a week just to put rice and beans on the table. 

We can also make the argument that in the digital age, we are aware of so many wrongdoings and social injustices, that we can feel overwhelmed by social justice. With so many opportunities to make a difference, we may feel torn and tortured by the fact that we can't do it all, and thus do nothing. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJVqs_mhOA4

Migrant Children's Detention Facility 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_vqIGTKuQE

Undercover at Smithfield Foods

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hf-bLR668g

The Central Park Five: A Cautionary Tale of Injustice

One of the first things we can do is show up to vote for politicians whose platforms serve and advocate for underprivileged and minority groups, thus taking into account multiple social issues. Beyond that, though, how do we know which equally important causes to take on without feeling overwhelmed, or without shirking our own personal desires or needs? 

What I've started to realize is that everyday, personal desires aren't necessarily antithetical to political justice. When making personal goals, it's important to consider which social issues reflect those goals. For instance, I both want to spend less money and better get to know people and places of Fort Collins. An easy way to do this is to seek out yard sales and thrift stores. While this comes at the cost of time, it's one symbolic gesture rejecting exploitative companies and embracing locally-owned businesses. Also, it's more fun to say "this desk was used by a 90 year old woman who spent the last five years of her life composing an epic tome about her life during war, loss, and illness," rather than, "this was on sale for $65 and I spent ten hours trying to figure out how to put the damn thing together."

I would also like to get more involved in the beauty community. This might seem like a consumerist practice (mostly because it is), but this is also a perfect way to gather knowledge about ethical and humane companies. Finding brands that do not test on animals isn't something I would have done had I not taken a greater interest in makeup. And when I align my personal goal with a social cause, I can then disseminate that information to other makeup-lovers and take the conversation to a deeper level.

This one's a little bit trickier, as cost can be a huge factor, but I would like to eat healthier. Eating lots of red meat and dairy tends to make me feel lethargic and heavy, and I've tried the vegetarian thing on and off for about two years. I can never fully commit to being vegetarian, and it's even harder when I'm trying to do it on a budget. I've also found that without some amount of meat, I lose weight and energy fast. After teaching a food-themed composition course for two years, I am highly aware of the ethical implications of mass production of meat. So, in attempts to align the issue of slaughterhouses and my own personal mission, I will strive to eat less meat, and despite the slightly higher cost, will purchase ethically-sourced meat.

When we try to consume information about every single social injustice every, we get burnt out, overwhelmed, and exhausted. We may not feel personally invested in every single issue. We may feel so scattered and inundated with information, we can't properly commit to any cause. And then, in response, we might say, "I don't care about anything. What does that say about me?" When we flip the conversation to "I'm personally interested in_________. How might that inform the issues I could get involved in?" 

And for those working for corporate-owned businesses, feel free to post multiple copies of the Communist Manifesto on the break room walls. 

Namaste.