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2 monkeys were paid unequally; see what happens next

Sometimes you get the grapes; other times it's just cucumber.

Image pulled from YouTube video.

A study on fairness packs a punch.

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Workonomics



This is short, but it definitely packs a punch.

Be sure to pay close attention from 1:34 to 2:06; it's like equal parts "America's Funniest Home Videos" and "Econ 101."


And nearly 10 years after it first premiered, the message remains as powerful as when we first shared it.

Watch the full video below:

This article originally appeared on 4.4.13

Amazon founder and CEO Jeff Bezos (a.k.a. The Wealthiest Man to Ever Walk the Earth) has announced that his company (a.k.a. the Most Valuable Company to Ever Exist) will contribute $1 million Australian dollars in aid to Australia to assist with the country's bushfire recovery efforts. In U.S. dollars, that's approximately $690,000.

For sure, $690,000 is not a small amount of money, and every donation counts. But the announcement from Bezos has people expressing their not-so-charitable feelings about the mega rich man and his mega valuable company. And when you calculate what kind of an effect $690,000 has on Amazon's bottom line, it's not hard to see why.


We're about to get into some unreal numbers here, so it's worth doing a bit of a "How Much Is a Billion" review. Most of us don't have a good grasp on how much a billion is.



So now that we understand how bonkers a billion dollars is, how many billions is Amazon worth? Valuing a company isn't a straightforward endeavor, so estimates vary. Some market cap valuations have put Amazon's worth at $1 trillion. (That's a thousand billions, $1,000,000,000,000 if you really want to see the zeroes.) A much more conservative estimate puts the company's true net worth at less than a fifth of that, at $160 billion.

RELATED: The Truth Behind Amazon's Success? It's Kinda Evil.

Just for funsies, let's take a look at the math for both Amazon value extremes and compare it to the average American's charitable giving.

If Amazon is valued at $1 trillion, a donation of $690,000 would be .000069% of the company's worth. According to the Federal Reserve, the median net worth for American families is $97,000. So that means for the typical American, a donation equivalent to Amazon's would be less than 7 cents. Now, that's not nothing, right? But is that a donation people would feel good about announcing?

Now let's look at the more conservative estimate of $160 billion. In that case, a $690,000 donation would be .00043% of Amazon's worth. For the typical American household, that's the equivalent of giving…wait for it…42 cents. Again, is that a donation most of us would announce proudly?

Twitter users were quick to point out the relatively tiny donation from the world's most valuable company, especially compared to what several others whose net worths are far lower have donated. For example, the heavy metal group Metallica reportedly donated $750,000. Pop singer Pink has pledged $500,000 (and Bette Midler is matching it).


In turn, other Twitter users chided people for charity shaming, pointing out that Amazon didn't have to give anything, but did. And it's true. Giving is voluntary. (It's also true that charitable giving is a way for rich people to pay less in taxes, so giving isn't always about altruism.) But it's also all relative. For a person making minimum wage, even a few dollars is a huge sacrifice. Relative to total wealth, Amazon's donation is the sacrificial equivalent of a few coins of pocket change for most of us.

The debate boils down to whether or not someone with gargantuan amounts of extra money has some kind of obligation to society to share the wealth with those in need. And if so, how much of that wealth is a reasonable amount to expect? (For an interesting look at how much billionaires give compared to their wealth, check out this article.)

The guy who originally posted the Bezos story pointed out that if everyone on Twitter donated $2, they could beat Bezos' donation, but that suggestion seems to miss—or perhaps reinforce—the point. A $2 donation for the typical American would be the equivalent of more than $3 million for Amazon.

Good effort at rallying the 99.9%, though, man. But perhaps people can give their $2 and also push for accountability for megabillionaires whose companies pay no taxes.

For years, breast cancer patients, survivors, and their families have wondered if decades of walks, ribbons, fundraising, awareness, and dedicated activism were making a difference.

On Tuesday, a new batch of results came in.


A statistical analysis published by the American Cancer Society found that mortality rates from breast cancer fell 39% between 1989 and 2015.

The decrease amounts to 322,600 saved lives in 26 years, according to the paper's authors. Researchers attribute the drop to increased early detection and more effective treatment options.

The percentage of women over 40 who have had a mammogram in the prior two years grew from 29% in 1987 to 64% in 2015. Meanwhile, options for combatting the disease have increased, thanks to the advent of new drugs and therapies.

Hundreds of thousands of fewer people dying is good news.

The bad news is that black women continue to die from the disease at higher rates than any other demographic.

While a lower percentage of black women are dying from the disease overall, their fatality rates are still nearly 40% higher than those of white women, a rate that has remained maddeningly persistent for decades.

[rebelmouse-image 19531394 dam="1" original_size="700x466" caption="Photo by USAG, Humphreys/Flickr." expand=1]Photo by USAG, Humphreys/Flickr.

"The reason for the black and white difference is primarily related to economic status and lack of insurance on part of black women," Harold Freeman, former director of the American Cancer Society, told NPR in a 2014 interview.  "But also, we have a health care system that doesn't treat everyone equally." He cites a lack of ability to pay for preventive care and subconscious assumptions that lead some medical professionals to ignore black women's concerns as contributing factors.

The study also found that the racial mortality gap varied heavily by region. Disparities were worst in eight mostly southern states: Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri, North Carolina, Virginia, Indiana, and Michigan.

Eliminating the racial disparity when it comes to breast cancer diagnoses will require more than ribbons and walks to solve — and organizations are already rising to the challenge.

Groups like Breast Cancer Action have made racial justice a core plank, citing the need to address the disparities in education, housing, and economic power that exacerbate the mortality gap at its root.

As a stopgap, programs like the CDC's National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program help provide early detection screenings to low-income and uninsured people.

While some states indeed showed large, persistent racial disparities in mortality rates, according to the study, the gap was nearly nonexistent in several others. Three states — California, Massachusetts, and Delaware — made significant, verifiable progress in making outcomes more equal over the 26-year span.

"This means that there is light at the end of the tunnel," Carol DeSantis, lead author of the study, told The Washington Post. "Some states are showing that they can close the gap."

For the 252,710 people expected to be diagnosed with breast cancer this year — and hundreds of thousands more in the years to come — the progress in treating the disease is a welcome sign.

The work to make sure they all have an equal shot at a full recovery remains.

After two weekends successfully dodging spoilers, my wife and I finally had a chance to see "Get Out."

Written and directed by Jordan Peele of "Key & Peele" fame, "Get Out" tells the story of Chris Washington (Daniel Kaluuya), a black, 20-something photographer who accompanies his white girlfriend (Allison Williams) on a trip to meet her parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener) for the first time at their family home. What should be a potentially awkward but innocuous visit becomes anything but, as Chris quickly realizes something sinister is going on.

From left to right: Keener, Whitford, Williams, Betty Gabriel, and Kaluuya.  Image via "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.


Before I go on, I should mention that I'm black, and my wife is white. We met nearly six years ago, and I was warmly welcomed into her family.

Immediately, however, "Get Out" reminded me of a pivotal moment that happened early in our relationship.

I had joined my wife's extended family for her cousin's high school graduation in eastern Kansas. Rows and rows of mostly white teenagers sat in folding chairs at the 40-yard line of the football field, while their mostly white parents waved and peered at them through zoom lenses.  As we waited for the ceremony to begin, I played a game I often play in moments of intense whiteness (folk concerts, theme trivia nights, farmer's markets, etc.). I call it "Find Another Black Person," and depending on where I am, it's much harder than it sounds.

That day in Kansas, I didn't see any other black people.

I've played this game for years without ever really thinking much about why I play it. After seeing "Get Out," it clicked: This harmless game is more than just a way to occupy my impatient mind — it's a safeguard. In a sea of white people, I look for a lifeboat. And "Get Out" reminded me that maybe I'm right to.

Logan (Lakeith Stanfield) and Chris (Kaluuya) meet at the party.  Image via "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.

"Get Out" is unsettling, suspenseful, witty in just the right places, beautifully shot, and well-acted. It's fantastic.

The rest of this story will have spoilers, so if you haven't yet seen "Get Out," get out.

As I watched the film — from its title theme, "Sikiliza Kwa Wahenga," a song in Swahili that loosely translates to "listen to the ancestors," to the tears streaming down Chris and Georgina's faces when they were in the "sunken place" — something stirred loose in me. Scenes of Chris dodging microaggressions from all sides while Rose gaslit him without abandon felt familiar — yet horrifying — on the big screen.

I'd say it couldn't have come at a better time, but to be honest, we've needed a film like this for years. It was frightening for the same reason a stadium full of white Kansan parents and their children left me looking for a familiar brown face — sure, nothing bad will happen ... but it could.

Whitford and Keener.  Image from "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.

To put it plainly, "Get Out" left me shook. I needed to talk about it immediately, and thankfully, I had a car ride home with my wife to do so.

I needed to digest what I'd just seen. "Get Out" was certainly no ordinary film. The way my heart lodged firmly in my throat when I saw the red and blue lights approach our hero in the final scene, only to be saved by his trusted black friend, his lifeboat? I saw my worst fears play out on the silver screen. It was just too real.

The sunken place is terrifying. Image from "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.

While my wife and I are an interracial couple, we're also both women, so my experience watching and reflecting on "Get Out" isn't quite the same as what Chris experienced.

I was nervous when I met my wife's white parents for many of the reasons Chris was nervous in the movie. Did they know I was black? What was I walking into? But, as a black woman, I also had the privilege of coming to my future in-laws' front door without the burden of more than 150 years of assumptions and lies about violent black masculinity, hypersexuality, and predatory behavior (especially as it pertains to white women). It doesn't mean I rang their bell without worry or fear, but as a woman dating a woman, I know I didn't shoulder the burden of history as black men in heterosexual interracial relationships do, and I recognize that.

Chris (Kaluuya) and Rose (Williams) get comfy.  Image from "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.

When we got in the car, I turned to my wife. I knew we'd watched "Get Out" differently. How could we not?

I needed to know if in watching the film, she saw me. Not just a character in a horror film, but me, her wife, who faces fear, isolation, and anxiety about racism every single day.

We discussed the film in-depth the whole way home, but there was one part of our conversation that stood out to me because, in that moment, something clicked — for both of us:

Me: "When do you think about being white?"
Her: "When racist stuff happens."
Me: "What do you think when racist stuff happens?"
Her: "I feel bad."
Me: "You feel bad for whom?"
Her: "For whom? The victims of racism. I feel guilty."
Me: "You feel guilty after racist things happen. Did you feel guilty after watching the movie?"
Her: "Yeah, maybe a little. Yeah. It's so extreme though, you know?"
Me: "Yeah."
Her: "It kind of got out of the range of like, 'realistic racism,' I guess. Once we got into brain transplants, we're obviously outside of a realm. I feel like I felt more guilty when they were doing other stuff, the minor stuff ... that turned out to be major."








That right there — the conclusion she drew — is an important one.

Whether we're talking about Hollywood horror or real life, racism is never just small stuff. It may start with small things, like being followed around a store, having your hair stroked by strangers, or people assuming you grew up in poverty. Before long, it becomes voter suppression, subpar medical care, limited economic opportunities, and poor public schools. One racist misdeed begets another, and it all starts "innocently" enough.

Chris (Kaluuya) greets guests during the party.  Image from "Get Out"/Universal Pictures.

Punishing experiments on black soldiers like the Buffalo Soldier bicycle mission, the Tuskegee syphilis trials, the stripping of cells from Henrietta Lacks — these things don't happen all at once. They happen when a group of people is not seen as fully human by society. That's when these small things cross into what my wife called the "realm of the impossible" — a realm that black people in particular know from history is actually very possible.

That's the frightening reality I grappled with while watching "Get Out," and, while it didn't leave me screaming in the theater, it definitely keeps me up at night.

I adore my wife, and I know the feeling is mutual. But I was black long before I met her, so even as our families blend, my blackness won't.

My blackness is non-negotiable. It's not a hobby or a casual interest. I won't get bored with it one day and shove my blackness in the attic. It's here. Always. It's with me at work, at home, when I'm driving, and when I'm in a crowded football stadium watching a high school graduation.

Thankfully, my wife recognizes and appreciates that. But even on her best day, she won't know what it's like to feel so out of place, to look out into that sea of white faces and need a lifeboat. She can't. No white person can. But in that theater, for 103 minutes, a surprising and innovative movie helped her get a little closer to understanding what that's like. That's more important to me than she'll ever know.