The Poltics of Fear

My wife and I recently had dinner with two other couples at their home. During the course of the evening the discussion turned political. At one point one of the husbands asked if we would go around the table and reveal who we would likely vote for in 2012. The three wives and I indicated we would likely again vote for Obama; one of the guys was leaning toward Ron Paul. The third guy said he had voted for Obama in 2008 but he would now vote for whoever the Republican nominee was. Clearly the character, experience, or the political platform of the final Republican candidate did not matter whatsoever to him; his vote will simply be “Not Obama”.

During the course of the discussion, Third Guy dropped a few key phrases such as: “Socialism”, “redistribution of the wealth”, “entitlement reform” and finally how Obama’s policies were blatantly “anti-business”. Stereotypical (and mythical) opinions regarding Welfare, Unemployment and Food Stamps were also bandied about. Having personal career experience in administering those programs, I was quick to point out their thinking errors… though I had a sneaking suspicion my facts did little dislodge any already congealed ideas in their minds.

I’m not the best at thinking on my feet and, of course, one often thinks of more salient responses long after the fact. Recalling the previous night’s conversation, the nagging suggestion that Third Guy was a regular consumer of Conservative Talk Media came to mind. Given the opportunity to go back in time to the previous evening, I might have offered the following in reply:

Socialism:
As in publicly run institutions for the greater good such as public schools, municipal water supplies, air traffic control? Third Guy had already revealed he was waiting until he reached 65 to retire so he would not be without medical coverage… you know, in order to quality for that Socialist of all social programs – Medicare.

Redistribution of the wealth:
Is he talking about fearing what he thinks WILL happen; or is he completely ignorant that we have already seen the LARGEST REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH IN OUR NATION’S HISTORY? I am talking about the monumental transfer of ownership from the Middle Class to the upper few percent. There is no shortage of data to confirm this has happened already.

Obama is “anti-business”:
Really? I am curious if the employees of GM, from the highest compensated CEO down to the assembly line, think the government guaranteed LOAN he orchestrated to keep the auto maker from closing, is anti-business. (Conservatives dismiss this as him merely to pay tribute to Unions) The Obama administration even facilitated millions of taxpayer dollars investment in (non union) solar technology company Solyndra, only to have their corporate management squander Our investment and declare bankruptcy. Let’s make this abundantly clear: this private company dropped the ball, not the government.

I find it discouraging to attempt to have any sort of meaningful discussion with people who have surrendered their thinking for mindless parroting of simplistic, and often outright false, propaganda from Conservative handlers. When faced with such doltishness, facts unfortunately become completely irrelevant.

I'll leave you with this little gem I stumbled across on Reddit:

Fear of Flying

In the course of five minutes, Air France flight 447 dropped from cruise altitude down into the Atlantic Ocean; none of the 228 passengers and crew on board survived. There was nothing mechanically wrong with the aircraft until it hit the the surface, sinking two miles to the ocean floor.

The opposite was true of US Airways Flight 1549 whose twin engines flamed dead out after climbing through a flock of birds during takeoff. The captain and first officer ditched the plane in the Hudson river; all 115 passengers on the flight survived.

The reasons for the diametrically opposite outcomes between these two airplane crashes reside entirely within the differences in the brains of their pilots. It involves the response of the human mind to situations of stress, fear and cognition.

Statistically half of all airline crashes can be attributed to “pilot error”.^[1] However, these statistics are not entirely unequivocal. For example there are cases of what is termed: “controlled flight into terrain” where pilots, completely unaware of a dangerous situation, believing that they were fully in control and on course, still crashed their aircraft. Then there are fatal incidents directly resulting from the pilot’s incorrect responses to emergency conditions; disregarding warnings or not following accepted procedures.

The latter was the case of Air France 447. While at cruise altitude and on automatic pilot, ice caused the plane’s airspeed indicator to read incorrectly. Unable to reason through the situation, the co-pilot did the unthinkable – failing to consult the checklist for this situation, he disengaged the autopilot. Attempting to fly the aircraft manually at that altitude, he pulled back on the controls, placing the aircraft in a stall condition.

Student pilots learn from their earliest training that pulling back on the control is exactly the WRONG response to a stall; a condition where the nose is lifted up to the point where the plane loses all lift. Even through every pilot knows that placing ANY aircraft in a nose-down attitude is the proper recovery procedure for a stall, the Air France co-pilot continued to attempt to pull back on the controls until the plane hit the ocean. Why?

Analysis of the cockpit voice recorder revealed that the co-pilot in command at that moment (the pilot was away from the flight deck) was apparently overcome with fear, unable to stop and reason through the predicament. Psychologists who study people’s reactions during periods of extreme fear sometimes refer to this inability to think a situation through as a “brain lock”. Deep within our brains the Amygdale processes our fear responses. If these responses override the Frontal Cortex, the “reasoning” portion of the brain, the person mostly likely will respond using instinctive behavior.

The crew of Air France 447 had almost five minutes to attempt to diagnose and recover control of their aircraft. Conversely, Capt. "Sully" Sullenberger in command of US Airways Flight 1549, had mere seconds. But Sully did possess the benefit of both years of experience and specific training which had been programmed into his cognition. When the engines flamed out on his Airbus, his rational frontal cortex overrode the fear. By thinking and responding rationally Sully and his First Officer saved 115 lives. Reacting to fear without thinking cost the lives of 228 Air France passengers.

Fear can cause us to believe things that are not true, to draw to incorrect conclusions and take inappropriate actions; fear often is a response out of ignorance. The antidote to fear is knowledge – education, training, experience and critical thinking.

In 1993, Chinese pilots flying a U.S.-made MD-80 were attempting to land in northwest China when the aircraft crashed on approach killing all on board. The pilots were baffled by an audio voice alarm from the plane's ground proximity warning system. Recovered from the wreckage, the plane's cockpit voice recorder picked up the Chinese pilot's last words: "What does 'pull up' mean?"

References:

1. PlaneCrashInfo.com accident database and represents 1,300 fatal accidents involving commercial aircraft, world-wide, from 1950 thru 2009 for which a specific cause is known.

Repo Man - First Blood

Fresh out of college with a Biology degree, I was eager to put my “science” to practical experience. However, pickings were slim and I soon reached the acceptance that ANY employer willing to pay me would be greatly appreciated. I accepted employment for a large Pacific Northwest Bank. As it turns out, as a scientist, I was in good company; virtually none of my fellow bank employees had degrees in finance or business – mostly Liberal Arts majors; there was even a guy in the commercial lending department who graduated from seminary. But I digress…

This bank wanted its future loan officers to understand implicitly what a “bad” loan was. Therefore budding young loan officers began their tenure collecting bad debts in “the field”. My entry level position was, therefore, as a “Repo Man”.

This was going to prove to be a tough gig for a shy, 5’ – 6” 145 pound middle class white boy. I was already fairly shy; so much so that I would avoid calling the movie theater to check show times unless I was fairly SURE I would get a recording. My first trial was making it through the interview, which I thought I had blown as the old codger interviewing me never gave me the opportunity to say anything. Miraculously I was hired and soon found myself in “training”. My training constituted riding along for two weeks with another experienced “Outside Collectors”. Once fully trained, I was issued my own vehicle, credit card, assorted Portland road maps and a briefcase full of delinquent accounts.

Here was the game: If the bank (me) could get the collateral back to the car dealership before the delinquency passed the 90-day mark, the car dealer would have to make the delinquent loan good for the Bank. We usually were assigned cases at the point where they were about 60 delays delinquent; previous collection efforts having failed to this point.

So here I am someplace in rural Oregon out on my own my first week on my own. I pull up to the delinquent customer’s house (referred to in repo jargon as “the Flake”). Step one; position your car (door unlocked) facing toward the street in the event one should need to make a hasty escape. There on the front lawn I positively identify “The Collateral”; a bright red Toyota Land Cruiser. Of course this house happens to be situated by itself in the middle of a field, visible for miles in any direction. My reconnaissance reveals that this location is NOT going to be an easy target to sneak up on should I have to return later in the dead of night. Noted.

I knock on the door; a HUGE man steps out the screen door and onto the porch. He’s wearing torn red and black plaid shirt and bib overalls. The stereotype generator in my mind suggests his name might be either “Tiny” or “Bubba”. I am dressed in a sky blue leisure suit.

I launch into my spiel – “…you are two months delinquent on your account, blah blah…ignored notices, blah blah blah.” Then I wrap it all up with my demand “… and if you do not bring this account current, I will be required to take yon vehicle into my possession.”

At the close of my speech – total silence… except for the annoying dog at our feet barking incessantly throughout my entire dialog. Bubba, not wanting his response depreciated by the interrupting dog, draws his leg back then punts the dog into the air and clean off the porch. While the dog is still in flight, he then turns to me and says: “So a little guy like you is going to drive my car away?” Summoning Herculean effort in retaining my composure, I respond: “Yes, sir… I’ll just move the seat forward and drive it off.”

I think the disparity in our body builds mutually suggested that physical combat, at this point, was not warranted. To my relief, he agreed to arrangements whereby he would come into the local branch office the following day and pay up his arrears. I believe I have pulled off a coup.

However, a few days later the branch informs me that Bubba never showed and his account is still delinquent; the guy just blew me off.

By now it’s a Friday afternoon. Having the “key code”, a local locksmith has cut a key for the Toyota. I am at “the Flake’s” place of employment, a manufacturer of railroad freight cars where he is a welder. I cruise up and down the employee parking lot until… there it is, the red Toyota Land Cruiser. I gain access to the vehicle; It is full of fishing gear. He apparently has a big weekend planned.

The engine fires and I slowly drive this guy’s car out of the employee parking lot. Damn, he’s going to be pissed when he gets off work and finds his car gone! I’ve just repossessed my first car. Oddly, my right foot is trembling... it will tremble like that with every car I repo over the next two years.

Letting go of Fear

I’m terrified of heights; that and the dentist. But being in high places is particularly anxiety inducing to me. I guess my worst possible scenario would be visiting a dentist whose office is located on the top floor of a very tall building.

But I digress; in my late 30’s I did volunteer work with juvenile offenders. Rather than incarcerate these problem teens, this program would have them participate in different sorts of community service activities. But the program was also designed to provide some positive guidance, self esteem and confidence building. (Although a couple of them didn’t seem to be lacking any confidence when they robbed a gas station.) Anyway…

On one particular outing with the Troubled Teens we went through an exercise called a High Ropes Course. This involves having a person climb up to a platform high in a tree and then walk a tight rope. Of course the person was tethered with a harness and safety line; but the safety person was also another Troubled Teen. I guess the idea was this would foment some concept of trust in others as well as team building and all that malarkey. (Again, they seemed to have worked well as a team knocking over the gas station.) Anyway….

As one of the adult supervisors on this expedition, I hadn’t actually expected to try the climb up to the platform some 110 or more feet up the tall tree. When asked, I politely declined and instead continued to help the boys. But it was all too obvious to the teens that I wasn’t willing to risk the climb myself. I hate competition and I hate even more macho competition, but my reputation was being challenged here. As we were wrapping up the exercise for the day, my self esteem relented; I agreed to try the climb up to the platform on the wobbly rope ladder.

The climb wasn’t difficult itself but upon reaching the top and transitioning from the ladder to the platform, I was in mortal terror. An instructor was already on the platform, attached to the tree by a safety line as well. She helped me onto the platform wherein I hugged the trunk of that tree like a bear. Noticing my hyperventilating she reassured me that I was safely attached to the tree and wasn’t going anywhere.

Okay, main problem overcome… except now I had to get back down. The instructor offered to have me lowered on the safety line, but the thought of having my scared ass lowered to the ground like a sack of flour in front of these cocky teens was not an attractive prospect. I opted to attempt to rappel to the ground by myself.

After a brief explanation of the rappel equipment, I lay on my stomach on the platform, legs dangling in space. My heart was racing, my head pounding - I thought I would self combust from the adrenaline coursing through me. I inched back and down, whimpering as I worked my way off the platform tensing the rappel line.

Then there I was… free of the platform, dangling there suspended in space.

And at that moment a funny thing happened… my fear completely and utterly disappeared. It was as if the “fear switch” in my brain had been turned OFF! I’m hanging there by the rope, clearly not falling to my death. This was really cool! I lowered myself to the ground thinking that was totally fun. Still it seemed odd to me that safely perched on the platform I would be so afraid yet actually suspended from the rope my fear dissipated!

Fast forward another decade – I was at the Willamette Valley Parachute Club Drop Zone for my first skydive. I had just survived a serious and nearly fatal heart infection the previous year and now felt somehow compelled to experience things in my life that I had always been afraid to do. The plan was for me to do a “tandem” skydive where one is attached (securely) to an experienced skydiver by a special harness.

Following roughly two hours of “training” we were ready to go up in the plane and experience my first skydive. The aircraft was a small 4-passenger Cessna in which all the seats but the pilot’s had been removed. I actually like flying in airplanes and was having a pretty good time, that is, until the tandem master opened the door of the tiny aircraft and I looked out – down, actually.

The TERROR was indescribable; there was NOTHING between me and the earth 12,000 feet below. I was a sack of dead weight as I felt the Tandem Master shove me toward the opening rush of wind.

“Ready” I heard. My body rocked forward.…
“Set” rocking now back...
“GO” Then in a terrifying forward somersault into empty space our conjoined bodies were accelerating toward earth.

The rush of wind was deafening. I felt the tandem master doing something, but soon we started to “helicopter”; the ground below me was spinning – double spinning as I could not get both my eyes to track together. After what seemed like an eternity I heard a distinct “fump” then felt as though I was being lifted upward. Within three seconds the chute was fully opened, the air became deathly quiet. I felt like I was going to vomit. I didn’t.

Then there was magic. The ride under canopy was wonderful; the feeling as if “flying”, exquisite. I could see the mountains and clear up and down the length of the valley. We gently touched down on my ass in wheat field stubble. Then it was over. Within minutes I was safely in the car heading home. I was a different man when I woke the following morning.

One week later I returned to the drop zone to sign up for lessons. I HAD to know if I could skydive independently, completely responsible for my own safety. Somehow the experience at the high ropes course years previously had suggested to me that possibly, if I could again take control of that “fear switch” in my brain, could I overcome fear as a barrier to other aspects of my life?

I was a sport skydiver for two years. By that time I had resolved to not let fear prevent me from doing the things I wanted to do.

Oh and in case you are wondering… I visit my dentist regularly every six months.

Photo: The author (right) having just completed a skydive from 10,000'.

Not for the Faint of Heart

Thanks to fellow blogger Jerry whose recent post reawakened one of my deepest fears and dredging up the following memory.

Few things used to strike fear into the darkest depths of my soul than a trip to the dentist. I confess that I have fainted only twice in my life, both times I was in a dentist chair.

The first time was when I was a kid. I was trying to be a brave little boy; to psych myself through the ordeal I recall I was imagining myself as an astronaut. Brave and confident, the countdown commenced when the doctor walked into the room. But soon the g-forces caused me to pass out. I woke up tilted backward in the dental chair, my feet above my head.

The second experience was as a married adult. I needed a single wisdom tooth pulled. Even though I knew my insurance wouldn’t pay for it, I requested (demanded) general anesthetic which I was more than eager to spring for. As they started a drip IV in my arm, I recall the translucent window across from me began to blur then undulate, then...

The next thing I noticed was the dentist's assistant patting my hand saying, “Robert…Robert… wake up”! With a great sigh of relief I said, “Great, I’m soooo glad that’s over with”. “No, I’m afraid we haven’t even started yet… you just fainted”, She said.

So in some great leap of contradiction, during junior college, I found myself taking the college entrance examinations at the University of California Dental School. How I got there is a long story in itself involving an overbearing mother and a dearth of self identity… best saved for another post. Suffice it to say; there I was, supposedly poised on my first step to becoming a dentist. I certainly had the manual dexterity skills, I was very adept at making things. But beyond that, I had absolutely no business whatsoever even considering a career doing to people that which I was in mortal terror of having done to me.

The examinations took all day. I had brought a lunch, so after the first half of the exams I retreated to my car to eat. As I munched my bologna sandwich, I contemplated the absurdity of path I was supposedly going – I finished my sandwich then started the car and drove home without completing the remaining half of the exams. When my mother asked how my dental school application was going I told her I wasn’t accepted because they were “full”.

Now I am sure, at this point, you have questions so I will preemptively address your concerns: Yes, I do regularly go to the dentist every six months. I have adopted this behavior pattern, not from any admirable sense of self-discipline, but rather out of fear, as a survival mechanism – my rationale’ being that if I go in for regular maintenance, I will less likely be facing the specter of major “repairs” in the future.

Alas, my best efforts not withstanding, my dentist has occasionally found the need to repair one of my old fillings or build a crown. I routinely remind him that my tooth nerves are so sensitive that they can actually detect his presence when he walks into the room. I therefore request sufficient Novocain injections that cause me to limp when I walk out of the office.

My dentist really is great; I love the guy. Unfortunately he doesn’t do Nitrous Oxide so I’ve never had the experience. I know there are dentists in town who do use the gas, but I can’t bear to hurt my dentist’s feelings by taking my sissy teeth somewhere else. Really, he has never hurt me and that holds a lot of significance for me.

Still, having taken up skydiving in my mid 40’s, when asked which I would prefer, jumping out of an airplane at 10,000 feet or going to the dentist… yup, the skydive every time!

A few years back my cousin’s husband (a dentist) stayed with me while he was taking some dental school continuing education requirements at Oregon Health Sciences Dental School in Portland. One evening he and I went to the Laundromat to do our clothes. He was studying one of his textbooks for an upcoming test while I was reading a magazine. Being the curious and scientific sort that I am, as we sat together on the clothes folding table, I asked him what specifically he was studying.

“Extractions”, he said. And he proceeded to explain how sometimes during an extraction, the root breaks off and you have to chip away the jaw to dig it out. “Here, let me show you.” Then he raised the book up, turning the open page toward me so I could see the photographs accompanying the explanation.

“Interesting”, I replied… Then the room started to slowly undulate; I closed my eyes and lay back down on the table. “Really really interesting...”, I mumbled.

Driving Up Fear

My wife and I have owned five Toyota vehicles; our two current cars are Toyotas. If I listen to the news media I would be convinced that I should be taking out life insurance policies if I am to continue driving a Toyota. “If it bleeds, it leads” is an old news adage that rings particularly salient in today’s “you’re gonna die any minute” news environment.

The Media is salivating over the incidents of Toyota stuck accelerator pedals; the public cannot get enough and the news media knows it. But like so many things that garner the public’s attention, they do so because of their rarity. We are horrified at the stranger abduction of a child, yet the vast majority of abducted children are taken by a non-custodial parent. That isn’t news. Likewise, 40,000 people die each year in motor vehicle accidents. But what makes it into the news; the 19 people who died in stuck Toyota accelerator accidents.


So in the news yesterday is this guy who claims his Prius, (a model year that is NOT part of the heretofore acceleration recall class), accelerated out of his control necessitating a California Highway Patrol cruiser intercede to stop his car. You can read the article here.

Ok, I am going to go out on a limb here and document my skepticism on this guy’s particular claim. I am going on record that an investigation will reveal that this guy faked this incident for the purpose of gaining personal wealth through litigation. Here it is, my wager time stamped and documented on this blog. This incident smells like a stunt – so stay tuned.

In the mean time people are now wanting to trade in their Toyotas for a Ford. Good luck with that. Let me know how much you paid in maintenance to keep your Ford running for 200,000 miles.