Can people with bad political beliefs change?

“They should know better.”

Well, they don’t. What now?

I see a lot of rhetoric these days about how certain people in certain political cults–oh, you know the ones–are beyond saving. This is often applied extremely broadly, to anyone who has voted a certain way or espoused certain beliefs, even if they also hold other contradictory beliefs (which, like it or not, most people do). They’re lumped together and called “they” with no room for complexity or exceptions. They are like this, they are like that, they won’t listen, they are bad people.

When we say that people can’t change, that is not leftism. It implies one of two things: 1) a carceral approach, or 2) a doomerist approach. Because it essentially means either 1) we have to lock those people up (or worse) because they’re unfixable–ironically, the exact same authoritarian dehumanizing rhetoric They use about Us, except it’s fine because we’re good and correct. Or 2) there’s nothing we can do and we should just give up.

When we don’t make any space to allow for people to change and reintegrate, then we are guaranteeing that they will choose the more viable option for their social survival, which is to continue on the fаscist path that they’re going on, surrounded by other people who are doing that shit. We are also playing right into the hands of capitalists, who fucking love it when we see each other as Democrats, Republicans, Liberals and Conservatives rather than working class people. They’re roaring with laughter at us inside their skull-lined caverns full of gold coins, while we stand outside the castle yelling at each other instead of turning to face them.

There’s a weird situation on the left where people believe a lifelong gang member can be reformed, but not a conservative. (It’s possible I’m overestimating how many people are abolitionists who even believe the first one, but I like to hope we’re further along than that.) The reality is that there’s plenty of evidence for both: people who have done harm or believed harmful things can and do change.

This is an essential subject to talk about, because we badly need information from those who escaped right wing cults so we can understand how they draw people in, and intervene in that process. We need stories of people who were raised conservative coming around to realize that they’ve been lied to. We need to practice talking to people who have contradictory, misguided, propagandized beliefs in order to build a viable working class movement. If you appreciate the political work of literally any person who is white or a man, you can thank the people who helped them deconstruct the beliefs and behaviours they grew up with. When we foster an environment in which people are shamed and shunned for being honest about their deprogramming journey, we are depriving ourselves of an incredibly important resource.

It’s emotionally easier to believe that other people can’t change, because changing them is exhausting work and most of our experience with that is with family members, strangers online and other people who are seemingly irredeemably stubborn. But it’s also exhausting partly because we’re using the wrong tools for the job. We’re wildly under-resourced, and that’s been done to us on purpose: centuries of domination, forced competition, trauma, traditional lifeways and practices stolen and coerced and beaten out of us. But we still want to try, because we’re desperate. So we use the tools we were given by the same shitty society we’re trying to change: shame, judgement, berating, dominance, arguing, dehumanization, bad faith interpretations. We don’t first put the work in to build a trusting, mutually respectful relationship. We don’t try to really understand where another person is coming from, see their pain and struggle, and meet them where they’re at. That’s an uphill battle when we’re so starved for recognition ourselves. It feels unfair to have to be the one to offer empathy first. So instead of trying to bridge the gap and connect, we non-consensually shove facts and logic at them, call them bad people, tell them they’re wrong and problematic, vent our anger and disgust. We expect that to work, because we’re exhausted and we want it to. Then we get mad at them when they’re defensive and repulsed. They then go back to the people they feel safe with, the people who don’t challenge them in any way and have politics that are ecocidal but who also make them feel accepted and cared for in some way, and we throw up our hands and say “see? These people refuse to change!”

Parenting has been the most shocking, revolutionary experience I’ve had in a lifetime of learning. It’s like seeing into the Matrix: everything adults do that is annoying and dangerous is just something that wasn’t intervened in with empathy in childhood. For example: my 4-year-old does not want to wash her hands. It is the hill she is determined to die on, every single day, and it’s not an optional part of life. I am absolutely sick of it. It feels like I’ve tried everything, and I can feel the exhaustion taking over when I am tempted to just grab her hands and wash them for her while she screams. But force does not create healthy development. Just because I think she should know better, doesn’t make it so. Just because it would be easier for me if she just did what I told her to do, doesn’t make that actually happen. We spend a lot of time wishing reality were different, which stops us from seeing things as they are, and working with them. This is a form of healing that I’ve learned from plant medicines and Buddhism, and it’s made me a better parent and a better organizer. Instead, I strive to understand my 4-year-old’s aversion. She is probably also exhausted from a day spent being told what to do at school. She has sensory sensitivities and the soap is slimy. She is wired for play and novelty, and washing your hands sucks and is boring. If I understand where she’s coming from, I can help meet both our needs by turning handwashing into a game, or . Do I want to make a goddamn game out of handwashing when it’s 9 pm and I just want her to go to bed? Fuck no. Is it still good practice to try, whenever I can? Yes! Because when I push myself to do things that are tiring but align with my values, all sorts of benefits arise that I otherwise am blocking myself from. It feels better in my soul. I’m connecting with my kid, I’m connecting with my own joy. I never regret at least trying.

When we try using our same old tactics to change people, and fail, and decide that they must be unfixable, we are depriving ourselves of an opportunity to learn from the situation and better hone the most important tool of all—determining who is too far gone to be worth the energy vs. who can be brought around, and focusing on the latter group. We end up with a self-fulfilling prophesy of “nothing can be done,” retreating further and further into the safety of only engaging with people we deem to be Good who have our exact same politics. Which leaves everyone else, all the imperfect, lost, confused, lonely, well-meaning people who’ve been heavily propagandized and raised in a dysfunctional, racist and capitalist society, wide open to being scooped up by the people who are willing to or are paid to scoop them up.

It’s not working, fam. I want liberation and I’m willing to humble myself and try any tactic. I don’t want to look my kids in the eye as the ecosystem collapses and say “sorry, I was going to do everything I could but emotionally regulating myself enough to have frustrating conversations and choosing where to spend my energy wisely was too far.”

One of the problems, and it’s one I am complicit in, is that rather than focusing on fаscіst dogwhistles or racist microaggressions or sexist tropes or people who voted for X politician–specific behaviours that people engage in–we frequently use terms like right-winger or racist or misogynist. People are always more complex than whatever label we give them. This entire project becomes much easier if we see our fellow working-class people as people rather than as identities or labels. Labels can be useful as shorthand, and I’m certainly not against calling the most obvious and dangerous cases what they are–for example, JK Rowling is a transphobe. But labels are inherently flattening and dehumanizing, and dependence on them is dangerous. We risk eventually believing through repetition that the labels are reflective of objective reality, where reality is always more complex than any label can describe.

As always, by communicating all of this, I am not saying you personally have to do anything. You don’t have to personally fix your MAGA uncle or coddle Yahtzees. If that’s what you think I’m saying, then there’s a fundamental communication disconnect, so please feel free to go do whatever aligns with your values. What I am doing here is offering information and suggestions to better inform and hone our tactics on the left. This is for people who are committed to movement-building praxis and are interested in challenging themselves. Building a working-class movement requires us to engage with people who have all sorts of weird and incongruous beliefs; any seasoned organizer can tell you this. 100% of the people we need to talk to in order to grow the movement are not yet radicalized into liberationist politics. Most people are not hardcore white supremacists with a coherent worldview. They don’t realize that their weird misgivings about trans people or their reflexive defenses of Taylor Swift are a result of a colonial/capitalist project designed to turn them against their own interests. And personally, I don’t ever want to have so much confidence that I’m one of the Good and Correct ones that I support a system in which we have to lock the Bad and Wrong people up (or worse). The leopards will always come to eat our faces too.

So, what can we do?

If you do feel ready to do this deep, difficult, rewarding work, here are my suggestions. But first, I want to express my gratitude to you, because it’s honestly REALLY fucking hard to push past the anger enough to do this. Most people are not resourced enough for it. I struggle with it all the time!

Identify which of your identities makes you best suited to talk to other people with that same identity. As much as it sucks, I have to talk to white people because they are more likely to listen to me than the Black and Indigenous people I have learned from. It’s a responsibility, but also an opportunity. Men, talk to other men. Straight people, talk to other heteros. Religious people, talk to others in your faith. Non-Indigenous people, talk to other settlers. Most of all, working class people, talk to each other about class issues! (Class is generally the most productive place to focus your efforts in my opinion, because it’s the great uniter, and the reason we were divided against each other by capitalists in the first place.)

Here are five resources I suggest to start with to build these communication and organizing skills. None are perfect, all are just tools in a toolbox. Pick whichever interests you, leave anything you don’t feel aligned with.

1) Nonviolent communication training: an incredibly resource for learning how to talk to and connect with people using a non-authoritarian approach. (This is where I learned to identify how often people interpret suggestions and requests as demands, a quick way to see how unresolved trauma functions to hamstring our movements.)

2) Let This Radicalize You by Kelly Hayes and Mariame Kaba: practical advice for organizing and activism, and how to make hope something that you build with others.

3) Maybe I’m cheating by calling this one a single resource, but it’s just too good! Interrupting Criminalization has got so much! Use it all, share it all! They are amazing!

4) Shaun does amazing work speaking to and about young white men from a critical but also humanizing perspective. Here’s another of his videos, and more resources I’ve compiled for fostering positive masculinity.

5) This one is a bit of a spicier recommendation, but if you’re ready to go even deeper and see how spirituality is an essential component we need to integrate in order to combat the appeal of fundamentalist cults, then listen to The Emerald podcast. “Oh Justice” is a relevant episode, but listen to any that pique your interest. My favourite is “Snail Juice.”

Be well, keep up the good work, rest and find joy. I love you, we’re all in this together.

If you appreciate the labour that went into this article, please share it with others! Here are three ways to say thank you, and support me doing more of it:

❤️ Join my Patreon 

💲 Send me some cash I can use to pay rent

👧 Buy my kids supplies like toothpaste and sunscreen!

Dr. Hilary Agro is an anthropologist, community organizer and mother of two young children.

Community organizers were arrested for providing a safe supply. They need our solidarity.

Skip to the action steps

You know how we’ve been fighting to legalize and regulate drugs, so people have access to a safe supply? Well, two community organizers in Vancouver got tired of watching their friends die from the poisoned supply, so they went ahead and created their own safe supply organization, the Drug User Liberation Front (DULF), to give away free, pure, tested drugs to people who need them. This is the kind of direct action civil disobedience we need more of! DULF has been running for over a year with few problems. It has saved countless lives, and is a crucial living demonstration of the possibilities of community care and self-sustenance.

However, after right-wing backlash this summer (Poilievre and the National Post have been relentlessly attacking harm reduction so they can scapegoat drug users and blame them for the effects of the housing crisis, as capitalists always do when their profiteering wreaks havoc), this week two co-organizers at DULF, Eris and Jeremy, were arrested. Solidarity protests are being organized around the country right now. This is an injustice!

Supporting and protecting activists and organizers is essential for dismantling capitalism. As we fight for a better world, we need to ensure that the people taking risks to create alternative infrastructures and divest from carcerality and capitalist modes of production are protected, supported and loved. Stand in solidarity with these brave community organizers!

More information is available here. Action steps below.

Action Steps:

The last free words of a cannabis prisoner

My friend Daniel Muessig went to prison today.

A former criminal defense attorney himself, he sold cannabis in Pennsylvania, a state where it’s legal. But it’s still illegal federally, and now he’s spending the next 5 years of his life in a cage, torn from his family. He left me the letter below to share with you. They are his parting words. Share them with anyone who still doesn’t understand how the War on Drugs is destroying lives.

To hear the whole story of what happened to him, listen to my interview with Dan, or read one of the articles linked below the letter.

To all free people,

By the time you read this I’ll be inside a federal prison for the first day of my five year sentence for cannabis trafficking.

The last few weeks have been a dystopic and sickening blur as I sought to wind down what was left of my life as a nominally free man.

Tonight will be the last night I sleep next to my wife in several years and tomorrow will be the last time we kiss, touch, or hold one another until I’m free or COVID restrictions cease, an unlikely prospect given the rapacious and adaptable nature of the virus and the utter recalcitrance of the staff to be properly vaccinated. My prison is in “Let’s Go Brandon” country and little as I like Biden I at least agree people should be vaccinated.

This small digression was to provide context for why I will most likely pass my first few weeks to a month inside in quarantine, unable to leave my dorm, obtain commissary, or interact with my new environment. I probably won’t have access to much else save a bunk and a few rancid meals a day until such time as I’m deemed fit to enter the compound and begin my prison life in earnest. The fact I’m vaxxed and double boosted is meaningless although it may keep me alive through the inevitable multiple COVID cases I will be infected with during my sojurn in the human petri dish sans medical care that is prison in America.

My release date will be almost 5 years to the day I walk in, whenever they bother to update it.

Now my personal space will be truncated to a bunk. I will answer largely to a number, stand to be counted, wear only a uniform, and have my day subject to the whim and will of staff, guards, and counselors.

My life in any sense one would want to live it is over for quite a while.

Some people find meaning in this suffering. They rise above it and forge an architecture of righteousness and purpose. Others, poisoned by the assaultive nature of confinement and its incessant aggressions, humiliations, depredations, and losses oscillate between depression and rage, their souls brittle and unable to ever embark any meaningful joys or salutory impulses like patience or peace. The former exit emboldened with a mission to do good. The latter with a wish to die.

I don’t know which I’ll be. I know which I aspire to. But any prediction smacks of the premature.

I can only do what every convict with a release date can do: take it day by day.

For how many days? I do not know.

I don’t know the future. I do know pain.

I’ve experienced agony behind this process that I cannot adequately describe. My abilities fall so short to convey the terror, rage, helplessness, loss, and stultifying, suicidal depression that takes hold of one when a Damoclean sword hangs over one’s head for years on end.

My wife and I strove so mightily to create a new life for ourselves. Away from the risk and pain of my previous life and line of work.

There were some beautiful moments inside of that interstitial fever dream of a life.

We tried to adopt a child. We stood in the high desert Mesa near Taos and hugged narrow mountain passes to siesta at Alpine lakes.

We smoked chopper joints at the rocky Maine coast and watched the spray break on the gray ziggaraut of rock that jutted like an alien edifice or battlement, crenelated and speckled with tidal pools suspended at heights far above the rolling floor of green glassed thunder that leapt at impact.

We saw seals roost at the coves in La Jolla and watched a technicolor sun paint the palms each night.

We sat on a loamy berm above Algiers Point New Orleans with colorful overpainted Queen Anne’s and shotgun bungalows lifted four feet off the dusty ground and watched Oil Tankers and and barges wend their way down the placid, muddied, riverine highway of the Mississippi.

The copper adobe azure sky with Pueblo Terra Cotta of an Indian village outside of Santa Fe and the black glass glacis of the stratotowers of Midtown Manhattan.

We went everywhere COVID would let us post Vax because we knew on some base, elemental level that our world was fragile. One phone call would end it like the Death Star’s laser pulverizing Alderaan.

And one humid night after a mundane day in what would going to be a beautiful life that call came.

We lost our child to be, our sanity, peace, hope, and future.

My refusal to cooperate is well documented. We don’t have to masticate that morsel again.

Instead I want you to know that my mother felt frail when I hugged her goodbye and she shook when she wept. She felt leaflike in my arms. Her 300lb son hugging her 90lb frame while we both sobbed.

My father cried in a way I’d never seen him do in my entire 40 years. His grief so raw and seismic that it almost separated my feet from the ground when it pulsed like orange magma from steaming crater.

I didn’t want to cry after I left them. I wanted to die. I never wanted to see that again and know I caused it. But I did. This did.

My wife and I passed our last night in loving embrace. Whispering our dreams to each other. Things many of you take for granted. Peace. Freedom. Hope. A chance to be together again. I haven’t left her side since 2003 for more than a few months on tour and now I will be gone years.

The gods gave Odysseus and Penelope an eternal night at one point. But no delphic deities touched here. Ours ends at dawn.

She’s my world. And I’m leaving her.

She should have my presence and protection. My love and attention. Instead I leave her with a tear spattered kiss and depart.

I met some of the fellas and said goodbye.

We hugged and slapped backs.

Til the next time, we said. We joked about past travails… the bum deals and the near misses. The fast money and the teeth cracking Ls.

I on boarded a rapid fire stream of advice about prison life as they imparted their wisdom and my friend called from Otisville.

Get your Pax # he said.

112# gets you on the payphone. You’ll be quarantined. Stay level.

He said one day we’d be cracking lobsters next to our wives and eating babka for dessert.

I won’t see or hear from him for years. We’d spoken nearly every day since 2019. He’s been in since 2020.

Before I left one friend said:

Thank you. Thank you for keeping me free. You know what you did. And it’s appreciated.

I said it was my pleasure. And it is.

I didn’t do what I did to buck authority.

I didn’t do it to be a gangster or want to be one.

I didn’t do it to burnish a rep.

I did it for love.

I’m not a hero. I’m a crook. Your parents are heroes. Doctors are heroes. People who house the homeless are heroes. Democracy activists and community organizers are heroes. Not me. .

What I did is the baseline of what a decent human being should do.

I didn’t emmiserate the next person so as to diminish my own fear or pain.

I could never do to another person what was done to me here.

No one else’s wife or mother or father or brother should have to feel like this.

No one else should be sitting in the bedroom in these scant predawn hours so wracked with grief and stress that sleep is a fantastic myth for the nth night running writing their farewell missive to the world, physically ill from sadness, loss, and trepidation.

I look at our wall art, our pillows, and most of all her and I know that I won’t be here for YEARS and I die inside. Each heartbeat is poison pain.

But I could never make anyone trade with me. So I will go. My fate is sealed.

I love the people I saved. Those whom I’m close with and those I never will speak to again. I can one day sleep again knowing that they are free no matter what happened to me.

And although all I want is to be with my wife again for just one more night I also understand I could never be with her at peace knowing my freedom was purchased by the incarceration of others.

Love of humanity. Love of good. Love of my family. Love of an ideal that should be followed even if others break it.

To inform was based in fear. It’s opposite was always based in love.

Remember me well,

I will miss the world fiercely,

But most of all I’ll miss my wife, she is my world.

When I ran away from that raid lurching to freedom I just wanted to see her one more time.

And now as I say goodbye to her and depart for captivity my wish is unaltered.

“Just let me see her one more time….just one more time….I have to make it….one more time.”

Till that time,

Daniel Muessig
61770-509
FCI Morgantown
60 months
No cooperation

Dan has asked people to do just one thing, which is to sign this pledge: No Pardons, No Votes. http://pardonsnow.com Agitate your elected officials. Tell them to legalize cannabis (and all drugs) and pardon cannabis (and all drug) prisoners.

Note: I do this abolitionist/anti-prohibition work in my spare time, and it costs a lot in child care money. If you want to help me keep doing it, please consider sending a tip on PayPal, supporting me on Patreon, or sending some diapers for my baby from my Amazon registry. I’m a grad student and mother of two trying to fight against the devastation of the Drug War—every little bit helps.

Other places to find me on the internet ranting about drug policy, criminal justice reform, capitalism, psychedelics and anthropology:

YouTube
Twitter
TikTok
Bread & Poppies Podcast
Facebook
Twitch

More on Dan:

https://truthout.org/articles/im-facing-60-months-in-prison-cannabis-prohibition-has-destroyed-my-life/

https://www.forbes.com/sites/andrewdeangelo/2022/02/03/meet-one-of-the-last-cannabis-prisoners-daniel-muessig/

The ad that made Dan famous: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_iaugcJW7Q