When I started college in 1985 (at 29 years old), we still used typewriters. It having started as a teaching school, we got a computer writing lab early on, in 1986, and I used the machines pretty much like a typewriter, drafting first by hand, until a pressing deadline forced me to discover the liberation of composing onscreen. So long typewriter!
We used WordPerfect on PCs.
Later that year, when I landed a job at GDW, we used MS Word on Macs. At home I had a PC, also using Word. I just found it more satisfying than WordPerfect.
When I moved to TSR, they gave me a choice: DOS PC with WordPerfect, or Mac with MS Word. I lied and said I didn’t know DOS (despite digging into PC innards at home). Just so I could keep using Word.
For the past 20 plus years I’ve continued using Word daily, absorbing its shortcuts, doing obscure search-and-replace functions, manipulating its layout options, and publishing to PDF for both etext and print.
Lately, though, I’ve become unfaithful to this long relationship. Drafting in Google Docs is sooo much more convenient. (Not tied to any one machine or OS, I can even access drafts by phone!) Scribus (open source) does a better job of layout, and can export to PDF/X1-a (a necessity for DriveThru/Lightning Source). And though a Microsoft 365 subscription isn’t terribly expensive, I could buy a big-ticket boardgame with that money instead.
Admittedly, it’s a bittersweet parting. So many memories wrapped up in those three and a half decades of MS Word. It’s time to go our separate ways. But we’ll always have Paris.
I’ve reached a point in life where I prefer to spend my hours writing, publishing, or even doing home repair, rather than learning yet another software program or fixing laptops.
That wasn’t always the case. In 1997, I was desperate for a job of any sort in publishing. My kids couldn’t handle a move to Seattle, where TSR staff had gone, leaving no steady work for a game designer.
A friend who was leaving a tech writing job in Chicago (to accompany his significant other, a TSR staffer going to WotC) recommended I apply for his position, saying I’d be a shoe in, and that he thought I could ask for a $20k salary. So I sent my resume and scheduled an interview.
The day of the interview was a series of disasters. Though I left home with a half hour to spare, my car broke down on the highway about 10 miles short of Chicago, I had to walk to a payphone, called just about the time the interview would start, to tell them I was waiting for a tow truck. My friend left work to come get me.
So I arrived hot, sweaty, and definitely short on confidence. The job was as a technical writer for a half-dozen programmers, to turn their documentation into readable instruction manuals. I had the tech writing training, and I had some personal experience dealing with the innards of personal computers, so I knew I could handle the work.
“What salary are you looking for?” I answered what my friend had said, $20k, and the interviewer looked stunned at the audacity, though he covered it pretty well. The interview was over. Needless to say, they never called me back. I vowed I’d never go to another interview without some Web coding knowledge.
To pay for milk and bread, I took a minimum wage job soldering horn parts, while still applying to publishers. One Saturday, two days before my health insurance kicked in, I agreed to some overtime at the horn factory, slipped on ice walking to work, and broke my ankle. Yet more depressing medical debt.
Still, I had scheduled an interview for later that week, with a small, family-owned educational publishing house. I showed up in sweat pants to accommodate my cast, expecting another disastrous experience. But they hired me then and there on a provisional status, I suspect out of pity. It was a six-week gig for a project that kept getting delayed another week, so they kept giving me other work to fill in, until I finally just quit asking each Friday whether to show up on Monday. The salary was $25k. A good six years went by on that six-week project before they finally remembered to have me sign an official full-time contract.
But I digress. One of the duties they asked me to take on, about six months in, was to handle the company’s presence on the new-fangled World Wide Web. “I don’t know coding,” I said. “You’re the most tech savvy guy on staff, we know you can handle it, and we’ll pay for whatever classes you need. We’ll even pay for half your homework hours.”
At the time, outputting HTML to PDF was virtually unheard of, but I’d learned a trick from contacts at a startup in LA. So my employer put me in charge of beginning an epublishing department before epublishing was a thing. On a trip to the Houghton-Mifflin branch that published our books, I accidentally saved them from a $6 million investment in what they had thought was proprietary software for that HTML to PDF trick. (Didn’t think to ask for a cut.)
Part of my enthusiasm with the tech was the knowledge itself; part was that vow to never again apply to a job without it.
Now I’m retired. My interviewing days are over. The Web is no longer the Wild West of code. I’m not getting paid to learn more. And I’m pretty sick of disassembling and repairing or upgrading laptops. Which explains why I’ve been self-publishing with Word as a layout program since 1999. I’ve been dragging my feet about getting an actual layout program, despite having some experience with InDesign from that old job. But to print through Lightning Source now requires PDF/X-1a, which Word can’t manage.
Sitting here, leg propped up post surgery, I can’t work at my desk. I’ve been using a Chromebook in my lap to mirror the PC, to do Scribus and LibreOffice tutorials, so as to dump MS Office altogether. But to do even that, I first had to fix the Chromebook’s malfunctioning touchpad. So here I am, feeling a shadow of that old tech fun, from opening up a machine today to mess with ribbon cables and hardware, and mastering some new software.
Learn or die.
Mainly though, now I can get back to work on the good half-dozen writing projects waiting in the queue.
I’m convinced it’s impossible for any white person, especially older white people, and most especially old white males like myself, to grasp the impact of racism on its targets. Some things have to be experienced to be understood.
Part of the larger problem is our knee-jerk thought, “But I’m not racist,” however true it may seem. Feeling victimized by the accusation brings our own discomfort to the fore, ahead of actual suffering by others. That instinct is in itself passively racist. We may feel like kind people, but our ignorance and inaction keep the machine running, to our benefit.
Fair warning, fellow whites, acknowledging this opens the door to much more discomfort. No matter what action we may take, our motives are suspect. As Jeremiah 17:9 puts it, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” How much are we motivated by guilt? Salving that guilt is selfishness. What solutions to the problem can we devise? Again a self-centered viewpoint.
So if whites can’t actually grasp the suffering, and we can’t come up with solutions, what can we do?
Shut up. Accept the blame. Accept the anger and frustration caused by our years of ignorance and inaction. Take our wounded pride out of the equation. Listen. Be vulnerable and accepting. Ask only “How can I help?” And then do it.
Don’t expect credit for it. Don’t accept praise for being a decent human being. Don’t get irritated if we’re still criticized about even our best efforts. It isn’t about our feelings. It’s life and death for others.
That’s all I know so far. I’m still learning. But I do have a hope: Supporting the Black Lives Matter movement may break the logjam of not just racism but of every sort of bigotry. Opening our eyes to one sort of oppression brings others into view.
Evidence indicates that the earliest human societies were hunter/gatherer, with men the hunters and warriors, and women the gatherers and nurturers.
That division of identities has remained pretty much universally throughout history.
Women’s activism over the past 200 years or so has eroded that relationship, leaving males in general to feel threatened at the loss of their own identity. If women can do man’s work, what use is there for males?
Parallel to this is a perception of some races as more advanced than others. In a nutshell, European nations married technological advances to a rapacious nature and briefly conquered the world.
Racial activism over the past 200 years has eroded that relationship, leaving whites in general to feel threatened at the loss of their own identity. If subjugated peoples are allowed to achieve equality with whites, what value is there for whiteness?
Parallel to these is a perception that wealthy people are intrinsically better than poor people. Wealth has been assumed the main measure of success, quality, and capability. That some poorer people rise to this level is taken as proof of concept for intrinsic superiority. There are those meant to rule and those meant to be ruled.
The rise of an educated Middle Class and educated poor threatens that relationship, leaving wealthy people to feel uneasy. If everyone becomes equal, what use is there for rulers?
Put these three together and you have a picture of white males in general, but particularly rich white males, threatened with loss of their identity. (Along with people suffering the Stockholm Syndrome of inferiority—such as Evangelical white women supporting the notion that Eve was created to serve Adam.) In essence, rich white males have no identity beyond their wealth; even charitable giving is simply reaffirmation of their wealthy value. Fear breeds anger, which breeds abuse and oppression.
The trouble for males, especially white ones, and most especially rich white ones, is that oppression leads to rejection of identity roles by the subjugated. Since the 1990’s in particular, American White Males have fucked themselves by hoarding more and more. As the American Dream becomes increasingly unobtainable, new generations are opting out of identifying themselves by their work, their household roles, and even their genders. They are discovering an identity of true individuality.
Vincent Cerf, Tim Berners-Lee, and the open-source movement have provided a means for the oppressed to disengage from an oppressive society. The heretofore dimly perceived tectonic shift of the Information Age is becoming clearer, and it spells a toppling of more than a few statues. Those icons are merely metaphoric, as evidenced by things like the crumbling Republican party.
For decades, I’ve watched men retire, go home to fish and visit relatives, and die within a few years from lack of purpose. I’ve seen marriage after marriage collapse after children leave home and the work of managing a family disappears. The people I’ve seen survive those transitions have invariably possessed an individual personality beyond those roles, often through hobbies.
The lesson is pretty clear: Accept society’s definition of your role and you’re going to die when it’s taken away; define yourself as something other than that and you’ll survive with joy.
The young don’t really care what we think of them, and the future is theirs. If the rest of us hope to survive, we need to follow their example.