Looking Backward from the Tricentennial

Chapter Eighteen (part 2)

After a moment's silence, Julian spoke again to the gray-haired man seated across from him in the parlor. "Dr. Leete said I should ask about voluntary temperance." He looked to Idabee. "Is it connected to the sobriety pledge you mentioned for delegates?"

"Yes," Idabee answered, then gestured for Carlton to answer the rest.

"For most of human history," Carlton observed, "intoxicants were primarily for ceremonial and celebratory purposes. Eventually, growth in productivity, when safety and survival weren't a constant struggle, enabled widespread social use. Then, of course, their addictive nature made production and distribution a profitable business model. But more consumption didn't actually add value to society. Instead, it was a net negative.

"Alcohol was legal, but caused huge problems in America every single year—it cost hundreds of billions in lost productivity, it was involved in hundreds of thousands of violent crimes, including most sexual assaults, and it killed more than a hundred thousand people."

"Dr. Leete told me it causes cancer, too?"

Carlton nodded and continued, "People were starting to recognize the harm it inflicted, but the alcohol industry was spending more than a half-billion dollars a year in advertising. Street drugs had their own set of problems—another hundred thousand deaths, global violence from the cartels, and a destructive influence on the criminal justice system.

"In short, Julian, voluntary temperance is the philosophy that drugs and alcohol should be legal, but people shouldn't use them," Carlton explained. "As Gandhi wrote: 'The man who stops drinking under compulsion by law, and not as a matter of duty, cannot be called a virtuous man. It is the man who of his own free will avoids drinking that is really virtuous.'

"Voluntary temperance was a philosophy that addressed both sides of the problem: secure the liberty of people to make decisions about recreational intoxicants, but encourage them to make the best choice and not partake.

"Sobriety is also an important component of nonviolence in a couple of ways. First, one of the duties of nonviolence is to consume mindfully. Intoxicants are, of course, toxic, so their use is self-harm. Second, clouding our minds limits our ability to serve others. It's this part that ties back to the sobriety pledge for delegates during sessions of the legislative assembly; when delegates volunteer to exercise decision-making authority on behalf of others, it's a way of committing to doing the best job possible. Thirdly, sobriety has a component of self-purification."

"That's one of Dr. King's four steps for a nonviolent campaign, isn't it?" Julian asked. Idabee looked at him in astonishment, and he grinned with pride.

"It is," Carlton agreed, seeming pleased Julian had made the connection. "You can also look at it as self-sacrifice or self-improvement. Since the American Union was pitched as a moral crusade to address King's triple evils, advocating for sobriety and leading by example helped deflect any accusations that supporters wanted to end the drug war so they could get high."

"Wait, people had to embrace sobriety just to join the American Union?" Julian said skeptically.

"No, like the fasting, it's voluntary, but it's also part of the culture. Part of becoming an American Union organizer is completing an annual training program that includes thirty days of sobriety, like a Dry January. Events to promote the organization had to be sober ones, and people arranging local meetups were encouraged to find places that didn't serve alcohol."

"This is the self-improvement program I was telling you about, Julian," Idabee said. "You can come on April 1."

"If you're willing to commit to sobriety that month," Carlton clarified. "I lead the group because I find value in self-improvement, and have since I went through the program more than five decades ago. This is a way of paying it forward, but seizing the moral high ground for the American Union makes it win-win."

Julian nodded thoughtfully. "Legalize drugs, but don't use them," he said. "Everyone had to have liked at least half of that. Did it make drug use go up or down?"

"Remember," Carlton said, "just like Dr. King's triple evils, these solutions didn't exist in isolation. Ending the drug war went hand in hand with ending poverty; drug use went down, but there were many contributing factors."

"I talked with an economist last week about unconditional basic income. The data about all the problems poverty caused was pretty surprising." Julian reconsidered. "Surprising isn't the right word; it all made sense. I've always seen poverty; I've lived it. I just never really thought through all the consequences before."

Carlton nodded. "But did she explain to you why the program was universal when only about half of Americans were living in or near poverty?"

Julian agreed halfheartedly. "She said it was simpler—less bureaucracy. But in my day, there were three Americans"—he held up three fingers for emphasis—"who had as much wealth as the bottom half of the country. Three! If I were going to end poverty back then, I sure wouldn't have given them any more money."

"It was my day, too," Carlton said lightly. "What would you have done with their share of the money instead?"

"Given it to people who deserved it," Julian answered promptly.

"Wasn't that precisely the argument for all welfare reform? Some people didn't really deserve the money, and if they were excluded, there would be more for everyone else."

"It's not the same thing," Julian repeated.

"It was the same pitch, but to different targets," Carlton said, drawing imaginary lines in the air. "'If we divide America into these two groups, yours will be better off.' It's the old story of us versus them: divide and rule. You heard a practical reason for including everyone—simplicity—but there's a principled one as well." He leaned forward. "The real purpose of the American Union Jobs Program was to finally put everyone on the same side, universally. As a matter of principle, it refused to draw a line and instead insisted on a circle, one that included all Americans unconditionally.

"Nonviolence is built on recognizing the value in all of us. By establishing universality as a core principle of the American Union, that every American is deserving, it created a new paradigm of unity and addressed the social problems of division."

Julian shrugged. "I found the practical reasons more compelling. I can see how a universal program is simpler. But it's silly to assume everyone deserves it."

"Why?" Carlton asked neutrally. "If I conceded your point—a non-zero number of people are undeserving—why would it be silly to build a program on the assumption that everyone is worthy? Wouldn't you rather live in a society that believes the best in you instead of constantly reminding you that you might have the worst qualities?"

Julian struggled for a rebuttal, but a childhood memory surfaced. Carlton held his gaze in a nonconfrontational way, patiently waiting for a response, and when he could no longer let the silence fester, Julian spoke. "I remember sitting at the kitchen table when I was little—maybe six or seven? I was supposed to draw a picture of what I wanted to be when I grew up. My mother told me I could be anything I wanted, and I wanted to be an astronaut like I'd seen on TV. But my dad, he said, 'Georgia, don't lie to the boy. He can't be an astronaut.'

"Looking backward, I realize he was probably drinking. He kept arguing with her until finally I just scribbled over my picture. But he was right," he said, taking a deep breath before plunging forward to his conclusion. "I couldn't be an astronaut; it was unrealistic. But I'd rather live in a society that believes in my potential than one that emphasizes limitations."

Idabee offered him a sympathetic smile, and Carlton pressed his hands together again, an encompassing gesture of gratitude, sympathy, and solidarity. "Well, now you do," he said warmly.