Bruce Mulkey's Blog Subscribers

We are showing up together again on Saturday, March 28.

When our families are under attack, and costs are pushing people to the brink, silence is not an option. We will defend ourselves and our communities against this administration’s unjust and cruel acts of violence. America does not belong to strongmen, greedy billionaires, or those who rule through fear. It belongs to us, the people.

There are more than 3000 events planned around the nation! Click here to find the rally nearest you. And bring a friend!

I wrote this piece prior to the start of the U.S. war with Iraq, and it was published in my Asheville Citizen-Times column on August 31, 2002. Change a few names, and I believe it fits our current situation.

When the rich wage war it’s the poor who die.
–Jean-Paul Sartre

Indeed, I think that people want peace so much that one of these days governments had better get out of their way and let them have it.
–President Dwight D. Eisenhower

Having failed to capture Osama bin Laden as promised, President Bush has revived a tried-and-true boogeyman—Saddam Hussein, the mother of all despots. Yet does it really matter who the “bad guy” is? We’ve stockpiled a lot of bombs and missiles; we’ve declared war without end; we’ve got to attack somebody.

When Bush orders our troops into Iraq (according to some sources this has already begun on a limited scale), do you think that his children or any of the other Bush clan will be among the first wave of troops? Do you think that any of the presidential advisers who are cheering loudest for war will have a child whose life will be at risk? And what about the kids or grandkids of our senators and representatives in Congress? Many of these folks seem to be perfectly willing to send our offspring into battle. If their progeny were at risk, however, I suspect they’d be a bit more judicious.

If Bush and his cohorts are so anxious to get it on with Saddam, I have a more modest proposal than Middle East conflagration: tag team wrestling on international TV. In the red, white, and blue tights we have “Gorgeous” George Bush and Karl “King Kong” Rove, and in the black tights, Osama “Yo Mama” bin Laden and Saddam “Bruiser” Hussein. Wrestle to the finish. The losers cry “uncle” and refrain from building or using weapons of mass destruction for the rest of their days. No innocent bystanders hurt, in fact nothing hurt but perhaps a little pride.

Recently I met a small group of committed women who are walking across the nation for peace. They departed from California on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday, January 21, 2002, and reached Asheville after seven months of walking on their way to Washington, D.C. One of the women spoke of breaking bread with folks of disparate political, economic, and religious backgrounds in many towns and cities across our nation. During her remarks she revealed a common thread in the conversations she’d had: “Everyone really wants peace. In many respects we’re all the same; we want to love and be loved. Our beliefs just get in the way.”

Not too many decades ago, some white politicians in the South retained power by practicing the politics of divide and conquer—playing whites against the blacks. You may not have much, but at least “you’re better than him; you’ve been born with white skin,” they exclaimed. And of course, the hope was that the white folks would regard the black folks as scapegoats for whatever was not working in their lives, while the wealthy politicians, at the top of the heap, endeavored to maintain the status quo.

Now the strategy is a bit more complex what with our various ethnic backgrounds, our multitude of spiritual beliefs, our different social groups, our divergent political persuasions. But as long as those in power can keep us fighting among ourselves, we frequently don’t take the opportunity to discern who is making out like a bandit (sometimes literally). And who is sending our kids off to a fight in which only the arms manufacturers, the energy corporations, other corporate powers, and the politicians have a significant stake. Saddam is not moving our jobs overseas. Saddam is not diverting U.S. tax dollars from health and education toward the acquisition of more sophisticated weaponry. Saddam is not plundering American corporations for his own benefit.

If those of us who really oppose this war stand up, we can stop the madness advocated by Bush and Lieberman and Lott. We can keep our young men and women (and the people of Iraq) from harm’s way. We can resist. We can let our voices be heard. We can support those who refuse to serve. When the drums roll and the trumpets blare and the flags unfurl, war may seem a patriotic and noble venture. But how will we feel, I wonder, when our kids start coming home in body bags?

In 1961, I was preparing to start college at the University of Tennessee, and it was time to choose a major. My dad, Mack Mulkey, was an electrical engineer, and I had previously thought, Maybe I’ll follow in his footsteps. But math wasn’t my strong suit, so I settled on pre-med—not because I wanted to serve and heal people, but because I saw becoming a medical doctor as a pathway to prestige and plenty of money. I had unconsciously bought into the cultural narrative that treats accumulating material wealth as the highest goal in life, the narrative that was dominant then and that remains dominant today.

In 1964, I transferred to Sewanee: The University of the South. Perhaps because I had an inkling of the path to come—but mostly because it seemed a relatively undemanding track to graduation—I became an English major. I was drawn to a creative writing course led by Andrew Lytle, a highly regarded Southern Agrarian author who espoused the belief that Americans are torn between the desire for power and control and the longing for a more pastoral life and deeper connection with our natural surroundings. While fascinated by Lytle’s worldview, I unfortunately allowed my doubts about my writing ability and my fear of sharing my innermost thoughts to prevent me from partaking of his mentoring and wisdom. (Lytle would become a relative by marriage later in my life.)

After college and a time in the construction business, I worked in advertising and marketing, fields that required some writing. However, I didn’t take the hint. So, as Gregg Levoy writes in Callings, “Callings keep surfacing until we deal with them.” And during a break at a weeklong intensive workshop called Way of a Warrior, I was talking with a fellow participant when he asked what I did for a living. I hemmed and hawed, but the senior trainer who had overheard the conversation walked over and said to me, “You’re a writer.” So, after this wake-up call and several others, in 1992 I finally acknowledged the voice inside me that quietly whispered, “You’re a writer, and you’re here to use that skill to help create a more compassionate, just, and sustainable world.”

Living in Fort Worth, I took a gig writing customer correspondence for a national insurance company. In Austin, through a serendipitous connection, I landed a freelance job creating teacher materials for high school textbooks at Holt, Rinehart & Winston. After moving to Asheville, I wrote a regular editorial column on any topic of my choosing for the Asheville Citizen-Times for nearly five years. My column from August 17, 2002, was titled We Have Met the Leaders and They Are Us in which I encouraged readers to break free from consumerism and walk softly on the Earth. I began with a quotation from Barbara Marx Hubbard:

As we approach a time of global breakdown and breakthrough, we find that there is no external authority to tell us what to do: not our parents, our priests, our presidents—the only authority to guide us is the inner authority of knowing.

During this era, perhaps kindled by memories of Andrew Lytle’s thesis, I became inspired by David Korten’s The Great Turning, a sweeping critique of hierarchical, corporate-driven “Empire” and a hopeful call for a grassroots transition to a just, sustainable “Earth Community.” I continued to write in support of such a transition, and my wife and I even explored moving to an off-the-grid ecovillage to more fully live our beliefs. However, when we saw that folks there were living only a notch above camping, we declined the opportunity and settled into a modest condo just north of downtown Asheville, where we could ride our bikes to work, shop, and play.

Given our nation’s current slide toward authoritarianism, I had been searching for a positive vision of our future when I came across Korten’s more recent book, Change the Story, Change the Future: A Living Economy for a Living Earth. In this book, Korten argues that humanity’s crises—economic inequality, political dysfunction, and ecological collapse—stem from our dominant cultural narrative, which regards money and financial markets as the highest social values. He posits that if we truly want to change the trajectory of society, we must change the underlying story by embracing a new worldview grounded in interdependence and life-centered values.

What resonates most deeply with me in Korten’s work is his insistence that systems change begins with story change. Policies matter. Institutions matter. But beneath them all lies the narrative we carry about what it means to live well, what constitutes success, and what we want for one another. For too long, the prevailing story has equated human worth with economic output and national success with perpetual growth. Korten invites us to tell a different story: one in which the health of communities, the vitality of ecosystems, and the dignity of every person become our primary measures of progress.

I find myself fully aligned with this life-centered vision. Over the decades—through my writing, my activism, and the choices my wife and I have made about how and where to live—I have been slowly, sometimes haltingly, trying to step out of the old story and into the new one Korten describes. It is not an easy shift. The habits of Empire run deep in our culture and in our own thinking. Yet I see encouraging signs everywhere: in local food movements, in young people demanding climate action, in communities rediscovering the power of mutual aid and neighborliness, in citizens nation-wide taking a stand for democracy.

Korten does not promise that the transition will be smooth, and current events certainly confirm that. Periods of great change are often marked by backlash, fear, and confusion. But history suggests that when old systems begin to fail the majority of people, new possibilities—once considered unrealistic—suddenly move into the realm of the practical. The question is not whether the old story is unraveling; it clearly is. The question is whether enough of us will help midwife the new one.

If we are to come through this current era of chaos, hate, and confusion into a positive future, it will not be because a single leader saves us or a single policy fixes everything. It will be because millions of ordinary people choose, in ways both large and small, to live into a different story—one grounded in compassion, shared responsibility, and reverence for the living Earth. Change the story, Korten reminds us, and we truly do change the future.

Arthur Brooks—Harvard professor and behavioral scientist—defines anxiety as a chronic, low-grade fear response that protected our hunter-gatherer ancestors but now often misfires in modern life. He offers strategies to reframe one’s anxiety.

1. Regard your anxiety as “unfocused fear.”
2. Endeavor to clarify and name your anxiety so that it is not a vague fear lingering in the background of your thoughts.
3. Journal your anxiety. Write down your source of anxiety, then write what you believe is the . . .

• Worst possible outcome
• Best possible outcome
• Most probable outcome

Here’s how I used the process above to tame my anxiety:

Naming my anxiety: Trump administration’s actions toward creating an authoritarian government in the U.S.

My worst-case scenario: Chaos, violence, and a slide into permanent authoritarianism
My best-case scenario: Trump is forced to resign, without their leader the cult splinters, and MAGA is swept into the dustbin of history
My most likely scenario: The administration’s missteps and overreach continue to erode public support, and elections help restore balance.

​Did my anxiety completely disappear after I completed the actions above? No, but having gone through those steps separated my worst fears from what I believe will actually happen. I am not now overwhelmed by the chaos and violence. And I know that I have a role in putting an end to it.

Watch Arthur Brooks’ video Stop Trying to “Let Go” of Anxiety. Do This Instead.