T.M. Down writes:

"Selective Selling of Ideas in the U.S."

T. M. Down

If anything can be said about the prevailing culture in the United States, it is that commodities infiltrate every aspect of life. Indeed, Americans identify themselves most by those commodities they consume: music, cars, clothing, food, jewelry.

Although popularly characterized as the fleeting attribute of a youthful search for identity, such behavior still carries well into adulthood, and represents the core of identity by which most Americans define themselves. Commodities are so essential to identity in the United States, in fact, that mere ideas and beliefs have been transformed into commodities — traded, branded, sold and sanctioned.

In the United States, nothing is too sacred to be sold: from morality and religion to political ideology and patriotism, all are conveniently pre-packaged for consumption, stamped on T-shirts, bumper stickers and commercial advertisements conveniently disguised as news; that is, at least, those commodities that the establishment wishes to sell.To understand the lack of social cohesion beyond To understand the lack of social cohesion beyond excessive commodification in American culture, one must observe the origin and growth of the massive insecurity that led Americans to embrace the commodification — and thus control — of their own culture and identity. Nobody is more willing to buy commodities than the American populous — and therefore their own respective self-image — in an insecure and increasingly alienating world. Whether material or simply pre-packaged ideas, commodities are the most readily available connections to a tangible, secure world that U.S. citizens are provided. Whereas many modern societies provide a multitude of connections to the external world through which to identify — class, occupation, political affiliation — the United States stands apart from all in its uncanny absence of political variation and class consciousness.

Furthermore, while many Americans identify themselves relative to their occupation, it is only when the occupation allows for greater accumulation of commodities: while a CEO will happily identify himself as such when facing inquiry into his identity, the hamburger flipper will not. Indeed, the less one is able to accumulate, the more alienated from his work he seems, paradoxically further heightening his need to find comfort in the commodities through which he defines himself, leading to excessive debt if nothing else. Through alienation, the worker is left yearning for whatever connection is readily available. In much of the Western Industrialized world, labor unions provided this essential connection for the worker to his labor-identity; in the United States, however, such conditions largely failed to materialize.

In approaching the American labor experience, one might look to an interesting quirk in America in contrast to much of the rest of the world: while Labor Day is celebrated in the United States, May Day is celebrated elsewhere, even though May Day (also known as International Worker's Day) marks the remembrance of an event that occurred within the United States itself: the Haymarket Massacre of 1886. In an overly simplified summation, labor organizers were holding a peaceful protest rally in Chicago. According to the official story, a supposed anarchist threw a bomb in the midst of police forces, causing riots and the eventual arrest of the labor organizers — themselves anarchists. Other known Anarchists and socialists were rounded up as well, under the direction of Julius Grinnell, the state's attorney, quoted as stating: "Make the raids first and look up the law afterwards." The jury that tried them were business leaders and their clerks, as well as one relative of a policeman killed in the bombing, all of whom were chosen by a special bailiff appointed by Grinnell. Even more farcical, no proof was ever given that the labor leaders were involved with the bombing. Five were sentenced to death, three to life imprisonment after international outrage. 600,000 people reportedly attended the funerals of the hanged.

One would assume that no day is more suitable than May first for a celebration of labor. Yet in the United States, the celebration of "labor" is usually attributed to the first march of the Knights of Labor in September 1882. This difference, although seemingly arbitrary, displays a characteristic of American culture that prevails throughout the ages: by and large, the interests of business directly determines the American social consciousness. While May Day is a celebration of Workers, Labor day is celebrated by all: management and workers alike. Not only does this perpetuate the myth that Labor and Management are unified, but it isolates the American worker from his colleagues around the world — a dichotomy that threatened to end during the great depression.

Although unions exist within the United States, few Americans identify themselves as workers, nor as the prime ingredients of unions--the union in which an American worker holds membership is often referred to as "they" instead of "we." Furthermore, labor unions in the United States have been commodified as well: if not demonized as unnecessary and impeding prosperity, employees are often required to join the union, usually part of the AFL-CIO — which just so happens to be regulated by the United States government, pre-packaged and sold to the workers as representative of the workers themselves. More often than not, however, unions are officially devalued unless it can serve the interest of American business; indeed, the largest official American labor unions mirror the corporations it supposedly opposes, in operation and corporate values. In fact, between 1949 and 2003, Communists were forbidden to join the AFL-CIO, and the Industrial Workers of the World — a comprehensive labor union considered too "radical" in the United States but still active globally nonetheless — was reduced to near non-existence within American borders.

Furthermore, the separation of the communist movement from the general labor movement in America led to the weakening of both. Although communists lived in the United States before the depression era--and remained afterwards — their activity peaked in the depression era in conjunction with sweeping labor movements. For a brief period in American life, a genuine leftist movement appeared, through which many workers began to identify themselves. Indeed, revolution was a genuine fear of capitalists during the depression, if not a dreaded expectation. Fed by Hoover's refusal to aid the unemployed (in 1932, 50% of Cleveland was unemployed), the U.S. Communist Party and Socialist Parties gained momentum unheard of beforehand or afterwards. In an era of uncertainty even regarding the necessities of life and the inability of the workers to afford commodities linking them to a secure and tangible world, social movements that were previously absent from American consciousness seemed to finally grow. The workers, having produced more commodities than they could afford to consume, now starved as a consequence, unemployed: the poverty of abundance.

The election of FDR, however, reoriented control of society back to the hands of those who owned the means of production, undermining the burgeoning leftist movements. However, unlike today, Roosevelt readily admitted his intentions: to save capitalism from itself. FDR wished to continue the current order of American society, not upset the balance. He established social security not to save the working class from poverty, but instead to save the capitalists from revolution: a remedy against the social movements gaining momentum in the United States. An obituary in the IWW newspaper upon FDR's death summed his accomplishment: "He was hated by those [capitalists] he had helped and loved by those [workers] he had harmed."

Even so, FDR's blunt admission of capitalism's failure marked an unorthodox period in American History, and has not been spoken by an American politician since WWII. On the contrary, one would face immediate defamation in the mere questioning of capitalism. Although seemingly purely political in nature, the dichotomy between then and now represents a cultural trend in the United States: the limited number of commodified ideas and expressions allowed to permeate social consciousness, both in response to and as a result of depression-era movements. While Leftist movements began to fall under intense persecution, the uncertainty of the depression era moved from internal conflict to external threat after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Before U.S. involvement in WWII, in fact, many capitalists supported Fascism, most notably in Mussolini's Italy. The capitalist's support was understandable: while Fascism glorified the role of capitalists against labor, Communism glorified labor against the capitalists. In secrecy, many capitalists (Rockefeller, for instance) vowed to supply Italy with supplies to stop the spread of Communism. Yet the Japanese were aligned with the Fascists as well, creating an enemy of the very regime that glorified capitalism to its extreme. Moreover, Stalin overtly advocated "socialism in one country," not only turning the basics of Marxist philosophy upside-down but decreasing its immediate threat to capitalists. In conjunction with the Nazi attack on Soviet Russia, the capitalists had no choice but to temporarily align with their sworn enemy.

After the war, however, persecution of leftist movements continued virtually unabated, particularly Communists. Furthermore, leftist movements in the United States were substantially weakened during the depression era by immigration: for the first and only time in U.S. history, more people left the United States than entered, a great many of them to the U.S.SR. Many of whom the core of leftist movements were comprised no longer lived in the United States. Those that remained were routinely persecuted, and the institutions that once stood as leftist organizations--such as the AFL-CIO — were incorporated into business as a means to control the workers it once represented.

Further isolating American citizens from global social movements, political terminology was essentially reinvented within the United States, especially in the era following WWII. The color Red — historically representative of anti-establishment movements since the mid-1700s — represents the Republican party in America, which in modern times quietly holds many ideological points once espoused by fascism. The term "Liberal" stands in opposition to the prevailing global definition as well: while it describes primarily Democrats in a derogatory fashion in the U.S., around the world it has been used to describe the Laissez-Faire ideology of the Republican party. Liberals in America usually would be called social democrats elsewhere. Furthermore, "conservative" in the U.S. refers to anyone who is neither liberal nor identifies himself as a fascist, regardless of how fascist the policies he supports are in actuality. Even the term "Libertarian" has been reinvented in the U.S.: while within U.S. bounds it refers to what the rest of the world would call a classical liberal, externally "libertarian" and "anarchist" have been used synonymously for almost two centuries.

Furthermore, leftist movements are virtually non-existent in American politics, save for derogatory accusations of centrist democrats as communists. Once again, the left portion of the political spectrum is marginalized, unlike the more even balance in the world beyond U.S. borders. Though political in reference, this exclusion has profound social and cultural implications: not only are workers significantly alienated from the fruits of their labor and society at large, but they are also entirely isolated from the rest of the world and the social movements that endanger the ruling establishment.

Americans are left with ethnicity, religion and commodities to bind themselves to the world around them, in addition to a very limited political spectrum of moderately centrist to far right-wing. Yet both religion and ethnicity have transformed into commodities to be bought and sold. Virtually no religion is prevalent in the United States that does not sell, whether by trinkets or political association, nor is ethnicity publicly acknowledged unless in relation to marketing power. The Appalachian poor are sold Jeff Foxworthy; the misunderstood petite bourgeois white kid is sold Goth Rock; the Latino is sold Jennifer Lopez; the Urban black youth is sold Gangster Rap. In addition, not only are their identities sold to those it respectively labels, but those searching to impose an identity upon others: schism sells, dubiously called multi-culturalism, and keeps the lower class from association.

Americans are left with very little other than material objects to identify themselves, especially in contrast to a world in which they are increasingly isolated, despite growing globalization. In contrast to other modern societies, world news rarely makes headlines in the United States unless it directly impedes upon American business. Most especially, social movements are virtually unheard of in the American popular media: ask the average American what is happening in Venezuela, and they'll reply with a blank stare. Ask the same American what album is likely to sell the most this month, or what SUV they like the best, or the newest funny commercial, and they'll talk endlessly. Americans are relentlessly force-fed a culture of commodities, and all else is withheld.

Since the chaos of the depression, Americans have flocked to commodities and material acquisition as tangible symbols of security in a world otherwise insecure. These insecurities, in turn, have not gone unnoticed by those who own the means of production — and intend upon keeping it that way. Much of the insecurity Americans are faced with is manufactured within the political landscape through pitting Americans against an invisible foe: sometimes external, sometimes internal, sometimes both. Although perhaps coincidence, one can't help but notice that while internal conflict was high during the depression, external conflict was at a historical low in modern U.S. history: between 1927 and the beginning of WWII in 1941, U.S. military intervention was used only twice: in China 1927-34, and in El Salvador 1932. Pearl Harbor provided an externalization of the enemy — led by U.S. industry — that served to internally placate the masses while externally pitting them against a force beyond the United States, a lesson not forgotten by the business elite in a time quickly forgotten by successive generations of the working class.

In the 1980s, Gorbachev claimed that his actions would be the worst thing that could ever happen to the United States. At the time, many thought he referred to military aggression, perhaps even nuclear warfare. Only after the fall of the Soviet Union did he fully explain his position: the United States needed an enemy to remain stable; an elusive, evil, ferocious and "freedom hating" force by which the alienated masses could direct their fears and guide their dreams in opposition — in essence, a justification for the social order and a reason for people to remain loyal to it. Gorbachev understood that America needed an enemy to survive in unity.

Unfortunately, so too did the forces of fascism, albeit in altered form, once thought defeated but instead born anew. As long as a the spectre of anything can haunt the psyche of the American public — from Communist to Muslim, Mexican immigrant to French elitist — so too will Americans frantically grasp for whatever commodified comfort they can find in a frightening, hostile world, provided materially and culturally by the ruling elite that deceives them — chanting "buy! buy! buy!" as the world crumbles around us.