Today I became an American citizen.
The ceremony itself is, well, very American. Me and 854 other soon-to-be citizens assembled at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland, clutching our precious green cards and the flimsy single-page letter we received in the mail saying we had passed all the tests needed to become citizens. As we filed in, a choir of elderly volunteers on stage sang various patriotic songs, with more enthusiasm than talent.
At the door, you hand them your green card -- a terrifying event; my green card is a precious document that cost me 5 years and well upwards of $25,000 in fees to acquire -- and in exchange you get a tiny American flag on a stick, and an envelope. In the hallway, a massive team of USCIS officials work in parallel to process all 855 applications at once, so that by the end of the ceremony they can hand you a certificate of naturalization.
A USCIS official who had obviously done this many, many times -- there are two ceremonies per month, and he looked like he'd worked there a long time -- ran through the program. We'd hear how to register to vote, how to update social security, how to apply for a passport. Then we'd be led through the Oath of Allegiance, which is the actual point at which you become legally a citizen. He encouraged people to feel free to clap and cheer, and the audience responded enthusiastically, frequently accompanied by waving all the little flags we'd been given.
He had a bunch of little jokes, obviously time-worn. He talked about all the countries participating, and rattled off welcomes in Spanish, then French, then -- prompting gasps of increasingly impressed surprise -- Chinese, Hindi and Taglog. These corresponded to the biggest countries of origin -- China was the biggest, then Mexico, Nicaragua, India, the Philippines and Canada. He listed all the countries participating in alphabetical order and got people to stand up when their country was called.
He thanked us for coming to America and strongly encouraged us to register to vote. He skirted as close as I can imagine he was professionally able to pointing out that America has a lot of problems right now, and a bunch of new voters might go some way to fixing that.
Then somebody came on and sung the national anthem -- we were encouraged, but not required, to sing along, and the crowd enthusiastically joined in -- and then we administered the oath, which took all of 45 seconds. Then a second, even shorter oath for those who intended to apply for a passport that day. Then a video message from Madeleine Albright, talking about how proud she was to have risen from refugee to Secretary of State, a second video from Donald Trump, who unconvincingly espoused the virtues of immigration, and then another very patriotic video of multi-cultural people waving flags.
Then they played "Proud to be an American", which is an aggressively condescending and arrogant song, but yet again most of the crowd sang along enthusiastically. Then the officials who'd been frantically printing certificates in the hall filed in and very efficiently handed them out. There was a lot of cheering, more flag waving, tons of selfies. And that, about 2 hours after we'd started, was that.
Growing up in my family, America was not the shining land of the free. Americans, according to my family, were definitely The Worst. They were loud, boorish, arrogant, rude, uncultured. My family, who watch every televised sporting event of any kind up to and including sheep herding trials, would not watch American football, baseball, or basketball. Liking American TV and movies was considered letting people down. As a child, even liking Mickey Mouse was considered shamefully unpatriotic.
But of course we did watch American movies and TV, because that was most of what was available. We consumed American culture while vilifying Americans all the while. There was no shortage of hypocrisy in this.
But the rest of the world and especially the Caribbean has a lot of very justifiable reasons to be unenthusiastic about American hegemony. American drug policy is responsible for political and economic disaster across all the countries south of the border. American culture is, in fact, violent, materialistic, and full of unhealthy and contradictory messages about bodies, food, beauty, religion and more.
So when my career took me to America my family were genuinely aghast. You want to move to *America*? But there are Americans there! It'll be awful! How can you stand being surrounded by Americans all the time? I tried to explain that not all Americans are like the terrible Americans who take cheap vacations to the Caribbean, and that there are many parts of America that are beautiful and cultured. My family, whose primary experience of America is visiting some relatives of ours who live in south Florida, were unconvinced. America, as far as they were concerned, was an un-ending series of strip malls, shitty chain restaurant food, and rednecks.
I arrived in the USA in 2007, and worked hard as a volunteer to elect Barack Obama in 2008. Here was a vision of America I could be proud of: diverse, caring, cultured, humble and respectful of the rest of the world. Obama's presidency had a great number of flaws, but I was a fan all the way to the end.
Having originally planned to stay only a few years, I hung around. I swapped between a few visas and, after five years and a huge amount in lawyers fees mostly paid by my employers, acquired a green card. You have to wait 5 years after getting a green card to become a citizen, so I had a few years to decide if, in far-off 2017, I wanted to become a US citizen.
Then the 2016 election happened.
A week after becoming president, Trump signed Executive Order 13769, usually called the Muslim Ban. Quite apart from the horrifically cruel and transparently bigoted nature of the order, it included a side-effect that was particularly horrifying to green card holders: the ban apparently applied to us too. Green-card holders were initially denied entry. Some were coerced into signing documents that forced them to relinquish their precious green cards.
After fighting so hard and so long to get our green cards, the idea that they could be stripped away was unprecedented, shocking, and filled me and my fellows with fear. There was a mad rush to apply for citizenship. Green card holders who'd been sitting on the cards for years not applying for citizenship suddenly were desperate for the additional security it afforded. Unable to apply until August 2017, I watched helplessly as the queue for citizenship lengthened from 3 months to a year. Equally fearful, I applied as soon as I could.
So now I find myself a citizen. It's a hard time to feel excited about that. The country is sliding into fascism (though in fairness so apparently is much of Europe). Inequality is rising. Racial injustice is omnipresent -- though, again in fairness, it was always there and has just recently become visible. There is much that is broken about America.
It would be easy to rationalize my citizenship to myself and my now even more horrified family as a mere administrative convenience, a security device to keep this dangerously capricious administration from summarily deporting me. But easy as that would be, it would be false.
There is, as I kept telling my family, a lot to like about America. There's natural beauty, friendly people, culture. There is a sense of possibility, an openness to trying new things that I never found in the seven years I lived in the UK. There's institutions and a respect for the rule of law that Trinidad, though it will always be home to me, increasingly lacks.
There's potential to America, potential it's not currently living up to, but that remains tantalizingly close. A new generation are rising who genuinely value the diversity that makes America better, who understand that there is virtue and strength in taking from the richest to help the poorest, who realize systems like healthcare and gun laws that make America a horrifying outlier amongst rich nations can be changed for the better.
The day after the election, I was walking through downtown San Francisco and passed through one of the many spontaneous protests that were happening that week. A woman in the crowd handed me the small pink button in the picture above. It says "freedom protector". You're supposed to wear it to indicate that you will fight to keep others safe. I knew I couldn't wear it, because I couldn't fight. Even being near a protest was a risky thing for a green card holder.
But I held onto it. I kept it in the pocket of my favorite hoodie like a talisman, for the 21 long months between the nightmare of election night and today being finally safe from the whims of a dangerously unhinged executive. I was not a freedom protector, but that was the day that I decided I wanted to be. Tomorrow I get to wear the badge. Finally safe, tomorrow I can start protecting others.
I haven't become American just to stay safe. I've become American because after 11 years, Americanness has seeped into me. I'm choosing to be here because I want to help. I'm choosing to be here because I am, no matter how bad things are right now, fundamentally optimistic about the future of the country. I think America can be better, and I think I can do something about that. And that's a very American way to think.
Imagine you lived in a world where all there was only one kind of shoe, in a single size, called "medium". Everybody wears these shoes and no other shoes are available.
Most people do in fact have medium-sized feet. For most people this world would be totally fine, and since there was only one kind of shoe available, they'd probably not think about their shoes very much. They've got some shoes, no further decisions to be made.
But it wouldn't work for everybody.
Some people have smaller feet. People with smaller feet would find the shoes really annoying. For people with slightly smaller feet, the shoes might just flop around uncomfortably. For people with really small feet the shoes would fall off all the time. They'd get annoyed with the stupid shoes and they'd stuff newspaper into the toes to make them fit. It would work, and probably nobody would even be aware that their shoes don't fit properly.
Some people have bigger feet. People with only slightly larger feet would find the shoes uncomfortable. They might get calluses, or the heel might cut up their ankle and hurt a lot, but not so much they couldn't walk. But people with really big feet would find the shoes excruciating. Every step would be agony. They might want to stop walking altogether.
This is how I've come to understand gender. Most people, the gender they were handed at birth suits them just fine, and they don't even think about it. For other people, their gender isn't great but they can make it work with some extra effort. But for others, their gender is excruciating. Every step reminds them that these shoes don't fit, that something is wrong, that they need to change things.
The revolution in gender identity that's going on isn't just about the people who identify as trans, the people whose shoes fit so badly they had to change them no matter the cost. It's the realization for everybody that shoes come in every size. Maybe your shoes are fine, but it gives you the opportunity to explore: what if a couple sizes larger or smaller? Would that be more comfortable? What if I don't want to wear any shoes at all?
And of course, not only can we get shoes in different sizes, we can get them in different colors and styles. Some shoes look kind of ridiculous, especially if you've only ever seen standard, medium-sized shoes up until now. But for some people some brightly-colored new shoes are just what they've always needed. And why should anyone object? If somebody else changes their shoes it doesn't do anything to the shoes you're wearing, except maybe make you wonder if you need some new ones.
My shoes didn't always fit perfectly, so I got a slightly different size twenty years ago. Nobody noticed the shoes had changed, but they did notice that I walked more easily.
How are your shoes?
I've written about my teenage years several times before: about how my childhood shaped my choice of career and how the internet helped me connect with people and how it got better. I've mentioned in passing that I was, as a teenager, depressed and suicidal. But I've never written about how that period changed me in a very specific and important way: I live my life in a bonus round. It's fundamental to the way I think about myself, so I wanted to write it down.
Firstly: there is a different between being suicidal and just being a moody teenager. I was the first kind. I had written the notes (lots of them), and I had not just a plan but a backup plan. I also had a specific date: the day before my sixteenth birthday.
In the end I didn't do it. That day wasn't too bad, so I didn't think about it that day, and then I'd missed the date. But the intention to do it was so strong, so clear, I had spent so much time imagining exactly how it would go -- the rush of the air, the crunch as my neck hit the concrete -- that it made me think: what if I *had* done it?
What if I did die that day? I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, so death is just the end. Everything that's happening to me, good or bad, ends. All the dials go to zero. And I thought: what if I could then, at that point, make a decision about whether to keep going? Like in a video game, where you die or the game ends but it gives you the option to keep playing. What if life had a bonus round?
In a bonus round it doesn't matter how you do. There's no score, you can't win or lose, you're just playing for the fun of playing. You can stop any time. There's no time pressure and no ranking.
See, until that point in my life I had been judging myself relative to a pretty strictly defined idea of my own future. I was a straight white male in good health, from a well-off family and excellent opportunities for education. I knew how my life was going to go, and it was going to be great.
Discovering I was gay changed that. I still had a lot of internalized homophobia back then, so my idea of what being gay meant was a lot harder than my life has actually turned out to be, but there's no denying that being gay threw this perfect life I'd imagined for myself off the tracks it had been running on. There were roadblocks and obstacles I'd never expected. The game was no longer on the easiest setting. Don't get me wrong, my life has still been really easy relative to most people, but it was hard to think about it like that back then, when I was weeping myself to sleep every night, mourning my future.
But thinking about it as a bonus round allowed me to change my perspective. Okay, life #1, the perfect one, that was gone. That kid killed himself. Now it's bonus round. Everything that happens now just happens for fun. Every achievement can be measured relative to "nothing happened, because you were dead". Doing anything at all is better than doing nothing, no matter how well or how badly it goes. And if it ever becomes unbearable, well, you already died. That option remains available.
Does this sound sad or scary to you? I don't really know how it sounds to somebody else. But to me it's always been a comfort. In this life the scoreboard is turned off. I can't win or lose. I'm just playing for the fun of it. My life is, forever, the bonus round, and I'm still enjoying the game.
A million years ago I happened across a blog post called A Love Song About Web Standards. It featured a song called "Hands to Boag", a perfectly reproduced cover of the 80s song "Hands to Heaven", but rewritten to be about web standards and web development and the blog Boag, which is about those things. Even if you have never heard of Boag it's a pretty great cover and should make most web developers smile.
It's pretty good, but even better when you learn that Marcus Lillington, a host of the podcast in question, used to be a member of the band Breathe, who originally sang Hands to Heaven.
Every so often this idea that an 80s superstar is a web developer and people remade his song to be about web development returns to my brain and I go back and find the song and laugh again. But the last time, I discovered bit-rot had set in and the MP3 was no longer playable on their site. This is a tragedy! So I have rescued it and put it here, so you can still enjoy it:
Then, in the spring of 1977, Quasar rolled in the door. Its arrival marked the beginning of the first debate over free speech in cyberspace. The controversy centered on an unusual device made by Quasar Industries and blew up into an argument over using the taxpayer- fundedARPANETto speak, in openly critical terms, about a private company.
The brainchild of Quasar Industries, the device stood five feet four inches and weighed two hundred forty pounds. It was called the Domestic Android robot, a programmable helper that could perform a dozen basic household tasks such as mopping the floor, mowing the lawn, washing dishes, and serving cocktails. It came equipped with a personality and speech, so that it could “interact in any human situation.” It could “teach the kids French” and “continue teaching them, while they sleep.” At the advertised price of $4,000, the thing seemed a steal.
Phil Karlton of Carnegie-Mellon was the first to alert the Msg-Group, on May 26, 1977. His site on theARPANETwas heavily involved in exploring artificial intelligence, speech recognition, and related research problems, so he knew a thing or two about robots. The android and its inventor had attracted a fair amount of national press attention, most of it favorable. Quasar’s sales pitch had also caught the attention ofConsumer Reports,which ran a skeptical item on it in the June issue, just out.
At first Quasar seemed nothing but an amusing diversion from the MsgGroup’s main business. Everyone in the group knew the thing was a hoax, and for a while that seemed enough. But then a sense of civic duty arose. Dave Farber told of being in Boca Raton, Florida, and hearing on the radio that the Dade County police department was considering purchasing a Quasar guard robot for their county jail, for $7,000. In March theBoston Globeran a story quoting MIT’s Marvin Minsky and other skeptical AI experts. But the article took the overall attitude, said a MsgGroup member, that it “just goes to show you, those academicians can’t do anything practical, and all you need is some guy working in the back of a garage to put them to shame.” The saga left a trail of disbelief in the artificial intelligence research community.
Brian Reid and a colleague, Mark Fox, from the Carnegie-Mellon Artificial Intelligence Lab, posted an offbeat report to everyone in the MsgGroup, giving them a personal account of their inspection of the domestic robot, “Sam Strugglegear,” at a large department store in downtown Pittsburgh. People in the research community, knowing of CMU’s pioneering AI work, had been calling the Lab to ask how it was possible for Quasar’s robot to be so much better at speech recognition than anything CMU had produced. Rising to the challenge, a four-member team from CMU had done the fieldwork.
“They found a frightening sight,” reported Reid and Fox. In the men’s department, among the three-piece suits, was a five-feet-two-inch “aerosol can on wheels, talking animatedly” to a crowd. Electric motors and a system of gears moved the device’s arms. The robot seemed conversant on any subject, recognized the physical features of customers, and moved freely in any direction. The crowd was charmed.
But the scientists were skeptical. They looked around for some evidence of a remote controller. “Lo and behold, about ten feet from the robot, standing in the crowd, we found a man in a blue suit with his hand held contemplatively to his mouth like Aristotle contemplating the bust of Homer in the famous Rembrandt painting.” Reid and the others watched for awhile and noticed that whenever the robot was talking, so was the man in the blue suit—muttering into his hand. The man had a wire dangling suspiciously from his waist.
The discussion about the Quasar robot continued on and off for a couple of years until in early 1979, Einar Stefferud, the MsgGroup’s moderator, and Dave Farber, who had been lurking on the sidelines of the commentary, sent a note of caution to the MsgGroup. “We are asking for potential problems,” they warned, “when we criticize the Quasar robot.” Using U.S. Government facilities to cast aspersions on a corporation, they said, could backfire on the ARPA research community. They urged their peers to impose careful self-censorship, to report only facts of technical interest to the community. Not everyone agreed, and with that the MsgGroup got embroiled in a soul-searching exchange.
The country where I was born and grew up still has some terrible, outdated laws against homosexuality. The laws are seldom enforced, but hang over the heads of gay people in T&T, forcing them to be quiet, subjugated, and fearful. They live their lives as second class citizens before the law. It is the reason I can't live in the country I was born in. These laws create misery for tens of thousands of people.
I have been waiting a long time for somebody to step up to the challenge of taking on these cruel and repressive laws, and finally, that's happening:
The brave @trinijayjay is taking the government of Trinidad and Tobago to court to overturn their outdated and cruel laws against gays. Read his story here https://t.co/ZlWQcxEFGR and please do donate to his crowfund to fight the case here https://t.co/e5nH9rQawn— Stephen Fry (@stephenfry) December 12, 2017
Jason Jones, a Trini based in London and an activist for 28 years, filed a legal challenge to these laws in February 2017, and the case will be heard in January of 2018.
The government is defending the law. Jason has received dozens of death threats and has had to hire bodyguards to protect him. But he's sticking to his guns, and his bravery for a cause that is so close to my heart is inspiring.
Jason isn't getting anything out of this case. There's no payout for him if he wins, just the freedom for him and the thousands of other gay Trinidadians to be openly themselves in the country they were born in. His legal team is working for free. Nevertheless, there are legal fees, travel and security expenses to cover. He's raising funds, and I want you to donate to his campaign right now. Over on Twitter, I'm going to be encouraging people to donate by matching funds.
Everyone's favorite sarcastic talking pushpin asked an honest question about the state of the web:
From the outside, front end development in 2017 looks pathologically overcomplicated. Is this a fair perception? If so, why is it happening?— Pinboard (@Pinboard) May 21, 2017
I replied with a tweetstorm. Here it is as a slightly more readable blog post on my ancient, creaky blog.
The replies to Maciej's tweet are interesting to read. They fall roughly into two camps:
As is often the case, both camps are correct! The web is a shitshow of wheel reinvention and bad APIs. It's also a blizzard of innovation.
Expectations for what a web site should be able to do have evolved enormously. Users expect snappy, desktop-like responsiveness and rich presentation in web apps. They also expect those same web apps to work equally well on mobile devices. And they expect these apps to load basically instantly. As Tom Dale says, that's actually a harder problem than desktop or mobile apps face. Users expect to download and install those types of apps before they will run.
Devs must meet these high expectations, but they have no more time and no more co-workers than they did before, and they still have to ship just as fast. To meet this requirement, they are throwing ever larger combinations of frameworks, boilerplate code, tools and build chains at the problem. The result is a lot of complexity and it's frequently frustrating.
Devs aren't adopting all this new tech just because it's new and fun (though it's a bad idea to dismiss fun as a valuable quality in a development tool). They are doing it because they have to in order to survive.
Modern web dev has the complexity of, say, the native mobile ecosystem, but no single vendor or consensus build chain or tools. iOS and Android have compilers and long build steps and dozens of competing frameworks, but nobody complains that these things are unnecessary. But they do for the web, because the web didn't need them before. (And if you're okay with throwing together a simple, 2000s-era web page, they're still not. But few users are happy with those any more.)
Over the next 5 years I expect there will be a lot of consolidation in technologies and in tools. A lot of the stuff web devs are currently constructing using frameworks will be adopted as first-class citizens, built into browsers. Because the web has a lot of inertia, people will keep using these tool chains longer than they need to, much as web devs still use jQuery even though mosts of its API is part of browsers natively now.
jQuery is an instructive example: jQuery was a reaction to a terrible API and a lack of raw functionality in the web at the time. It changed the web for the better, forever, by showing browser makers what devs needed, and how it should work. It was a huge success, and its ultimate success is that it made itself unnecessary.
Webpack, babel, react, and the cambrian explosion going on in that ecosystem will do the same thing again. All of these frameworks and tools are devs experimenting, seeing where they want the web to go.
jQuery was a performance problem at scale, and sometimes over- or mis-applied, or used superfluously by newbies who didn't know there was a simpler way. Big deal.
Modern front-end devs are repeating the same mistakes: these new frameworks often create shocking performance hits. Sometimes we over-use them. Sometime we mis-use them. But the web is evolving, and evolution is by nature slow and messy. And the results are already amazing.
Is modern web development fearsomely, intimidatingly complicated? Yes, and that's a problem. Will we make it simpler? Definitely, but probably not as soon as you'd like. Is all this new complexity worthwhile? Absolutely.
The web's amazing capacity to reinvent itself, to evolve and adapt to new needs is its strength as a platform. Things that don't adapt die or are replaced. Nobody is talking about the death of the web. Nobody is demanding it be replaced. If anything they're pleading for it to slow down a bit, and let them catch up. That's a sign of a healthy platform, an innovative platform. The web was like that in 1996 and it's still like that, and that's amazing.
Nobody but nobody loves the web more than I do. It's my baby. And like a child, it's frustrating to watch it struggle and make mistakes. But it's amazing to watch it grow up.
It's a question on the minds of all right-thinking Americans, and on mine. I don't claim to be a political genius, or that this is the right solution or the only solution. But here's what I've got so far; tell me what you think.
First, to defeat Donald Trump you must make him unpopular. His popularity is what elected him, but more importantly it is what drives him. An unpopular Donald Trump will melt down and quit, humiliated. That's what we want. We need "being the next Donald Trump" to be an ignominious fate. We want Donald to never run again, and we want any Donald-shaped monster in future to be terrified of the possibility.
To work out how to make him unpopular, we must understand what made him popular in the first place. To do this, we must look beyond our liberal peers, with whom he is already maximally unpopular, as widespread demonstrations have indicated.
Here's what Donald Trump supporters believe about him (however incorrectly) that they like:
Anything about economic insecurity and not listening to the concerns of rural voters or the working class is bullshit. Poor people did not vote for Trump (his voters earn above the median wage, unlike Hillary). There are also plenty of rural voters who went for Hillary, and plenty of city dwellers who voted for Trump.
So to defeat Trump, we must make him look highly corrupt, part of the establishment, unwilling or unable to privilege white people over other people, and weak. The first two are easy, the second two more challenging.
It's easy to make Trump look like part of the establishment because he is part of the establishment. He is the damn president. Everything bad that the government does, whether or not he had anything to do with it, can and should be tied to him. Every slip in the economy, every problem with healthcare, every sparrow that falls from a tree should be loudly attributed to Donald's mismanagement. Republicans got really good at this and so should we. We can also point to his appointments of CEOs of Exxon, Goldman Sachs and other very-much-establishment companies to important posts.
Making him look more corrupt than most politicians is trivial because he is shockingly corrupt. His casino deals, his mafia ties, his many bankruptcies, Trump University, and repeatedly welching on debts to contractors establish him easily as a cheat, a liar and a crook. His base seemed to overlook or ignore these things as "tough negotiation" or something but we can keep dredging up more tales of his thievery basically forever.
Making him look like he's not secretly racist is very tricky because he is openly racist. He has repeatedly said he believes his superior genes guarantee his success, and that's before you get to his many obviously racist acts, from refusing to rent houses to black people, to failing to condemn the KKK, to demonizing Mexicans and Muslims (neither of which is a race, but racists aren't very bright).
To make Trump look un-racist will not work. What we can do is make him look powerless to act on that. Here we've already seen the most action: protests on the Muslim ban and swift legal action have halted it and may overturn it entirely. Protests against his border wall will likewise do so, and legal or legislative action should come there too. Making him look powerless to enact racist policy, however, is just part of the bigger play: make him look weak.
Because by far what people responded to in Trump is his strong man persona. He claimed he could do anything, fix anything, build anything, and it would all be great, the best, yuge, people would love it. His supporters bought these empty boasts as promises, so we have to puncture the idea that he can get anything done.
We have to be careful though. If the obstruction appears to come from outside -- from filibusters and other legislative hacks, from well-meaning heroics by democratic appointees, from "the establishment" -- then we bolster his support rather than erode it. Instead it needs to come from within, and here we are aided by Trump's stupidity and incompetence. His failure to negotiate trade deals, his inability to fund the wall, his botched attempt to ban Muslims, his failure to deport illegal immigrants: these are or will soon be his failures, and we can amplify them. This house of cards will collapse on its own, but we need to make sure it falls our way.
The other way to make him not just look weak but really become weaker is to peel off his inner circle one by one. The loathsome, openly racist and anti-semitic Bannon has already overstepped several times, to Trump's displeasure. By amplifying Trump's sense that he is being manipulated and overshadowed, we can use Trump's own ego to get Bannon ejected or diminished.
The repugnant Kellyanne Conway, with her "alternative facts" and imaginary terrorist attacks, is also faring badly in the spotlight. In any other administration her repeated, obvious lies would have already had her fired. In the Trump administration what will get her fired is if news organizations refuse to interview her anymore because her every word is openly mocked. If she doesn't get to speak on television, her power and her value to the administration will fail and she will be discarded after one lie too many. Sean Spicer will suffer a similar fate, perhaps even sooner.
What can we do? We can amplify. Every failure must be trumpeted, every policy overturned, every decision nullified by protest or local action. His inner circle must be hounded until they become political liabilities, leaving Trump isolated and impotent. But be selective: don't amplify things that make liberals angry (you'll exhaust yourself, everything he does makes liberals angry). Amplify things that make him look stupid, make him look inept, make him look corrupt and compromised by establishment ties. And above all, make him look weak. If we can persuade his base to abandon him, he will not last as president.
He mentions, briefly:
But it seems to me this conflates two very different use-cases that we should consider separately:
The generational disconnect I mentioned earlier seems to be coming from the fact that web developers are in two groups, with different "default" ways of thinking about web development. The first group, who turned up in the past 5 or maybe even 10 years, think of it as application development with the web as a medium. The second group, which includes myself, who started 20 years ago think of it as building a set of discrete pages. Obviously, both groups can and do build both types.
As I argue every time I give my Stuff Everybody Knows talk, web development is not a competition between single page web apps and multi-page web sites. Neither is going to "win". There will always be both kinds of web experiences, and what counts as "graceful degradation" is very different depending which one you're building.
Nobody's arguing that graceful degradation is a bad policy, merely what it looks like, and I think these widely diverged use-cases is the source of the disagreement. In fact, as I mentioned on Twitter early this month, web app development and web site development are so different now that they probably shouldn't be called the same thing anymore. Both types of developers are web developers, but you should probably specify which flavor you're talking about. Web app development and web site development (pick your own terminology if you don't like mine, just make it unambiguous) are so different now that rules from one flavor almost never apply to the other.
The tragedy of all online community spaces is that the goals of "inclusive" and "safe" are, at the extreme, mutually exclusive goals.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
If you keep including people you will eventually end up with people in the same space who cannot stand each other and will not get along.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
At some point you have to exclude someone. You get to pick if it's the people feeling unsafe, or the people making them feel unsafe.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
And *that's not always an obvious choice*. Somebody's "reasonable topic of discussion" is *always*, eventually, somebody's threat trigger.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
I've run online communities for 20 years and I have learned that there is not even an approximation of a consensus of "reasonable".— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
This is why online communities fragment. Let them do it. It's the only viable solution to the existence of mutually incompatible people.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
Define your space clearly. Let in anyone who shares your reality. Be honest that people who don't share it will be excluded. Say why.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015
Don't wring your hands about free speech. You are under no obligation to let people say things you hate. They can go elsewhere, and will.— Laurie Voss (@seldo) July 13, 2015