Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything - Man Without a Country (1 of 3)

Episode Date: August 8, 2014

What happens when you curse your own country? In this version of the classic Americana tale your host is sentenced to live out the rest of his days in a hot air balloon.  In part one we hear the story of what happened when he fought the “three strikes you are out forever” law and lost. Plus Howard Zinn on the myth of American Exceptionalism.

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Episodes every other week at neverpo.st and wherever you find pods. You are listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Man Without a Country, part one. I'll make a table. I'm heading northeast on Highway 101. The sun has already gone down. I passed over the town of Ware, New Hampshire in total darkness. Tomorrow morning when the sun comes up, I'll be over Maine. Earlier this evening, a carload of drunken yokels kept pace below me. They honked and screamed for almost 40 miles. They hung out the windows of their vehicle and gave me the finger.

One of them kept gesturing to the American flag on his T-shirt. Obviously, they knew who I was, and I found this touching. Hardly anyone remembers who I am anymore. If I had known how quickly I would be forgotten, I'm not so sure I would have been so stubborn. When I was on trial with all the cameras and the reporters, I thought that I'd become somebody important. I thought that I'd become a political celebrity.

There were so many TV crews at the launch. It went to my head. I fell prey to delusions. I assumed that the whole world was not only watching, but that it was paying attention as well. I assumed that my plight was the topic of every conversation, every newspaper editorial. I assumed that I would be the impetus for a mass insurrection, a national revolution. I was certain that I would be brought back down with an even greater fanfare. I imagine ticker tape parades, military salutes, and a fireworks display like nothing the world has ever seen. But I know now that I'm never coming down, for you all have forgotten me. I realize now that I was just another news item, just another front page picture. And now, 11 years later, I float above you all, unheralded and unrecognized. At best, I'm a civics lesson taught to the children of patriotic rednecks.

So allow me to reintroduce myself. I'm the balloon guy that doesn't mean anything to you does it it was the 4th of July and I didn't have any firecrackers of course I knew that firecrackers were illegal but I still wanted some you can't really celebrate the 4th of July without firecrackers were illegal, but I still wanted some. You can't really celebrate the 4th of July without firecrackers. You can't celebrate the birth of freedom and independence

without setting off a few explosions. When I was a young boy, my father would take my sister and I to Chinatown, and we'd purchase Roman candles, box tops, and sparklers. And as the sun would set, we'd'd purchase Roman candles, box tops, and sparklers. And as the sun would set, we'd fire our Roman candles at each other like gunfighters at high noon, while our mother shouted the Declaration of Independence through a cardboard megaphone. But that was a different age. That was before they took over and made everything illegal. For a while, there used to be this guy on 37th

who was selling firecrackers out of his basement. He was my connection for years, until the police shut him down. One day, he was tear-gassed out of his apartment, and they took him away in chains. So, it was the 4th of July July and I didn't have a connection and I didn't have any firecrackers. It was extremely quiet. I was sitting on my back porch drinking a beer and there was this loud, ominous quiet.

I could hear the fabric of my jeans. I could hear my wicker chair. I could even hear my irregular heartbeat. It was a deafening quiet. I sat on the back porch like this for about an hour. The quiet made me think about how wrong things had become in this country, and it made me think about

how bleak the future was going to be. I got really depressed, and so I decided to go out and get some more beer. As I cut through the alley to Western Ave, a guy in a hooded sweatshirt called out to me. Hey, buddy, you want to buy some firecrackers? You have to understand, I was extremely agitated. I was engrossed in all these dark ruminations. So when I said sure, when I followed this guy over to the dumpster, I wasn't really all there. Even when I took out my

$40 and tried to purchase some Roman candles, it wasn't really me. I wasn't really present in the moment. But then, the man whipped out a badge, and suddenly I was surrounded by 20 police officers. Someone picked me up and threw me into the side of the dumpster. Then it was a blur of black leather and blue steel. I was kicked and beaten to unconsciousness. But during all this, during all of this, I assure you I was most certainly present in the moment. I come to in a small concrete cell.

A man with no teeth is stroking my face. There are tears running down his cheeks. I can't understand a word that he's saying, but somehow I know that I am the reason he's crying. There are four other men in the cell as well. They all stand over by the bars. Their heads hang low. They won't even look at me.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. And everyone in my cell knows about it. But the only person who will talk to me is the man with no teeth. And like I said, I can't really understand what he's saying. The next morning, I'm taken from the cell and brought before a judge. The courtroom is packed. I see Dan Rather and Ted Koppel.

There are hundreds of cameras. The judge explains to me that I am the first class A1 felon who will be put away under the new administration's three strikes, you're out forever crime bill. I ask the judge if I have an attorney and he laughs. Yes, you do, son. You're looking at him. The crowd laughs and bursts into applause. The judge stands up and takes a bow, and then he bangs his gavel, and we all sit down. The judge holds up a crushed can of Pabst Blue Ribbon over his head.

First of all, he bellows, you were drinking in public. A screen drops down from the ceiling. A red bowling pin lights up. Strike one, the court officer yells out. The crowd bursts into applause again. Secondly, he screams, banging his gavel, you had on your person obscene material

at first I think I'm being framed but then he holds up my copy of big ass magazine I forgot that I had that rolled up in my back pocket when I went out to get beer I turn bright red

the judge holds up the magazine for the audience. He shakes his head in disgust. I'm mortified. I put my hands over my face. The cameras zoom in as he flips through the magazine. Pages and pages of big asses. I slink down in my seat. The courtroom boos and hisses. Strike two, the court officer yells out. Another bowling pin lights up on the screen. Then the undercover police officer in the sweatsuit takes the witness stand. He points me out and says that I had tried to purchase $40 worth of Roman candles from him. He explains that in all his years as an undercover agent, he's never met such a depraved and vicious criminal.

The judge thanks him, and a third bowling pin goes up. The screen starts flashing and ringing. Strike three, you're out! The cameras go nuts, and the judge pounds at the bench with his gavel while the audience shouts and stomps its feet. Then the lights dim, and a video starts up. It's an informational video about a new Super Supermax prison. I learn all about the guard towers and the attack dogs and the electrified barbed wire. Then I'm personally greeted by the warden.

He sits at his desk and explains to me that I'll be his charge for the next 50 years. The camera follows the warden around while he shows me the 4 foot by 6 foot cell, which will be my new home. He demonstrates the straitjacket that I'll be wearing 23 hours a day. Then he shows me the 10 by 10 metal pin in which I'll be allowed to run for an hour every morning. He holds out an assortment of rubber balls and explains that good behavior earns me the privilege of playing ball once a week. The camera zooms in on another inmate who's furiously bouncing a yellow rubber ball against the wall of the metal 10x10 pen.

Beads of sweat roll down his face while the guards cheer him on. He bounces the ball faster and faster and faster. Then the lights go up. The courtroom is quiet. The judge tells me that in 50 years, my freedom will be restored to me, and I will have another chance to prove myself worthy of being an American citizen. The room is silent. The judge asks if I have anything to say for myself. I rise to my feet and I tell him that there is nothing in the world that disgusts me more than being a citizen of the country that is responsible for most of the international terrorism that kills and tortures thousands of innocent people every year. I tell him how

infuriating it is to be unable to do anything about the greed and hypocrisy that runs rampant through every body of government. I tell him how I attach a Canadian flag to all of my luggage when I travel abroad. I tell him how sometimes I beg God to wipe this disgusting canker sore of a country off the face of the earth. I tell the judge that if I had known that prison would strip me of my citizenship, then I would have volunteered a long time ago. I tell him that I'm looking forward to the next 50 years because I will no longer have to swallow the lies and the propaganda of corporate media.

I will no longer have to stomach the iron jackboot of the police state. My conscience will be free of moral indignation, and if perchance I do suffer some physical ailment for the first time in my life, I will have health care. I hold my handcuffed wrist out to the judge, and I implore him to change my sentence to life in prison, as it will guarantee me the peace of mind that my freedom will never be taken away from me. The judge just stares at me. His eyes are bugging out from his fat, fleshy face. The entire courtroom is silent. I clear my throat and say, okay then, how much money would it take to bribe you?

At this, the courtroom goes nuts. The judge hammers at his desk with such fury that he breaks his gavel. I was supposed to beg and grovel, and then they were going to commute my sentence from 50 years in prison to 40 years in prison and everyone would go home happy. Compassionate fascism. But I had ruined everything. And I had done it on TV. So they changed my sentence.

They had to in order to save face. Instead of prison, I got banishment. Since you hate America so much, the judge screamed at me, you will never again be allowed to touch her soil. For the rest of your life, you will float above this country that you've disowned, and you will never, ever hear her name again. You really don't remember any of this, do you?

It's a black balloon, and it's outfitted with all kinds of fancy gadgetry. There's a built-in navigation system that takes me back and forth across the amber waves of grain and over the Purple Mountains' majesty, from sea to shining sea. I also have a bread machine. An army plane pulls up once every three months, and they refuel the hot air tanks, and I get a variety pack of bread mixes, whole wheat, country white, Cajun dill, and chocolate chip.

I have a built-in water system which works off of condensation, and I have a pair of binoculars. At first I thought they'd made a mistake, for it seemed strange that they would provide me with a link to the land from which they had banished me. a mistake, for it seemed strange that they would provide me with a link to the land from which they had banished me. But I know now that the binoculars were part of the plan, for the binoculars make it painfully clear that I have been completely and totally forgotten. Thank you. America is not just different from other places in the world,

but superior, morally superior. We're not just technologically superior, geographically superior, militarily superior, we're morally superior. And in that sense, we're exceptional. This is a notion that goes way back in American history, you know, from the very beginning. And the United States is simply better than other places in the world. Howard Zinn was one of America's most important historians and social activists. His most famous book, A People's History of the United States, is a radical retelling of American history. It begins with Christopher Columbus gloating in his diary

about how easy it is to kill and subjugate the natives of the world. Howard Zinn was one of America's most important public intellectuals. In 2005, we spoke about the myth of American exceptionalism. John Sullivan, who coined the phrase manifest destiny on the eve of the Mexican War, said that it was Providence that had ordained that the United States should expand as far as it can and and so the this myth of of manifest destiny that somehow the lord had singled out the united

states uh given it of the exclusive right to go where it wanted in order to expand in the universe. It takes very specific form and enters the language when we go to war with Mexico and end up taking half of Mexico. As the 19th century came to a close, it was clear to many that America's manifest destiny would require more military campaigns. And the justification for these campaigns began to change. Not every American leader claimed divine sanction. But the idea persisted that the United States was uniquely justified in using its power to expand throughout the world. American exceptionalism was never more clearly expressed than by Secretary of War Eliyahu Root. Quote, the American soldier is different from all other soldiers of all other

countries since the world began. He is the advanced guard of liberty and justice, of law and order, and of peace and happiness, unquote. Well, at the time Eliyahu Root was saying this, American soldiers in the Philippines were starting a bloodbath which would take the lives of 600,000 Filipinos. For Howard Zinn, the only way out of this quagmire that is American exceptionalism is a national coming to terms with history. The arguments of the United States that its intentions are moral, that it cares about democracy, when those arguments are subjected to the test of history, that is the history of American foreign policy, then one must become exceedingly suspicious. Because when you look at history of American foreign policy and you ask, oh, has American foreign policy

been consistently in favor of democracy and of establishing democratic countries, democratic regimes around the world, you find rather the opposite. You find that the history of American foreign policy is a history of overthrowing democratic governments at various times, instituting right-wing governments, supporting death squads in other countries. So history is one of the most powerful weapons.

Up until his death in 2010, Zinn did his best to combat what he called mythical history. But he also came to realize that the main force sustaining American exceptionalism is the belief that America is the greatest country in the world. Most Americans, regardless of their political persuasion, hold this as a self-evident truth, even if facts say otherwise. I mean, this is a very important part of the myth of American exceptionalism, that the United States is simply the best place in the world. It isn't, from many, many points of view. Simply from the sort of normal criteria of what is a decent society, the United States, despite all the

television sets we have, and all the automobiles we have, and all of the cell phones we have, all of the superficial appurtenances. We are not the best. We certainly don't treat our older people and our kids as well as many, many other countries in the world. We are doing more harm to other people in the world with our weaponry than any other nation in the world. We are the most aggressive nation in the world. We are an exceptionally aggressive and arrogant power. There's truth there. Thank you. Everything in my craft is bolted down. The bread machine, my pallet bed, the navigation system. They knew that I would be of the mind to hurl whatever was at hand, and they designed my craft accordingly.

So I'm limited to bodily invectives. I'm limited to communication through virulent urinary tracts and truculent blasts of defecation. Occasionally I'm able to connect with a woman walking down the street, chattering on her cell phone, and every now and then I make contact with a man showing off the street, chattering on her cell phone. And every now and then, I make contact with a man showing off his sports utility vehicle. But most of the time,

my vituperative commentary on the stupidity and vulgarity that parades beneath me goes unheard. I've been stuck over Boston for weeks now. There's something wrong with my navigation system. I'm afraid I'll be stuck until the supply plane shows up. I'm stuck in a pattern which takes me over the suburbs and the strip malls and back through downtown.

It's an apocalyptic loop-de-loop, for it's clear that this city is in its final days. The roads have linked up to form one snake-like strip mall. At night, it glows with the colors of Pizza Hut and Taco Bell. Tractors and wrecking balls tear down everything that doesn't bear the markings of this beast. Soon, there will be nothing but Starbucks, Gap's, McDonald's, Burger King's, Toys R Us, Walmart's, Home Depot's, Staples, and gigantic behemoth super stop and shops. The other night, I awoke from a nightmare

and I thought that I was over Vegas. Downtown is getting at the worst. There are new luxury high-rises everywhere, and the wealthy suburbanites are taking back the elegant brownstones. The squatters and the street poets and the junkies are awakening to the fact that their world has changed hands. They're no longer welcome in their neighborhood bars. They're no longer left alone by the police.

They no longer even exist. They stare through their hands in horror as they melt away in the hot afternoon sunlight. Their passing is marked only by the rush for the empty street corners. Angry suburban teenagers and frustrated music school dropouts battle it out while anything but PhDs fight over the empty bar stools. I spend most of the day now curled up on the floor of my gondola with my hands clamped over my ears. But I can't block out the buzz. I think I'm going mad.

There's a girl who lives at the corner of 12th and Broadway. She has a cat and she plays the banjo. She rides a bicycle with a basket on the front. She is undaunted by the franchises or the wrecking balls. She frequents Boston's few remaining used record stores and secondhand bookshops. She stays up late. She reads Russian literature and listens to 45 records with the window open. She isn't even daunted by the giant super stop and shop sign, which buzzes obnoxiously down the block. Every Sunday, she takes her cat out on a leash and rides down to the river. She puts the cat

in the front basket and it stares out wide-eyed as the girl maneuvers through traffic, dodging the monster trucks and the monster cars. When she gets to the Charles River, the girl loops the leash around her ankle. The cat chases after the river geese while she reads large, tattered paperbacks. Today, a boy sat down next to her. He asked her if she was enjoying the book. She was reading Anna Karenina. She turned to him and said yes, she was enjoying her book. And then she continued to read. This boy should have gotten up and walked away, but he didn't.

He chewed on a blade of grass and made faces at the cat, who was cautiously watching him. Then he asked her whether she thought Anna's attraction to Vronsky stemmed from his brash behavior on the train, or was it rather just a case of intense physical attraction. The girl lowered her book and thought about it for a moment. The boy took the cat into his lap and stroked its fur. I'm not sure what her reply was. While I am quite good at reading lips, I missed her reply entirely. The two discussed Tolstoy and Russian literature for a few hours, and then the girl put the cat into the basket and got onto her bike.

The boy had a bike as well, and the two rode to a small Italian restaurant in the Fenway. They tied their bikes up outside and sat at a table in the window. The boy told the girl about how much he hated his PhD program and about how life didn't really begin for him until he dropped out and moved to the city. She told him about her banjo and her desire to one day write as many good songs as Lou Reed. The two drank a bottle of wine, and when they emerged from the restaurant, her face was flushed. The boy kept running his hands through his brown curly hair. They rode to her apartment at 12th and Broadway.

She invited the boy up. Her apartment is very small, two rooms. She put on some music. They sat down next to each other on the bed. Soon their mouths were intertwined. His hand slid around her waist. She rolled up on top of him. When the record was over, she got up and put on another one.

Then she came to the window. She looked up at me for a few moments. The night was clear. There was nothing in the sky except for me and the moon. Then she pulled down the window shade and turned out the light. You have been listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Man Without a Country, Part 1. It was written and produced by Benjamin Walker, with help from Bill Bowen and Laura Mayer. And it featured Horald Zinn.

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