Military Disconnect

The United States is unique in its suspicious approach toward government and its adamant support of gun ownership. Supposedly every citizen is to be a soldier in defense of the nation. A citizen soldier.  It is curious that there is little outcry at the disconnect when members of the military influence or overrule those same citizens. The result is often the opposite.

When then President Clinton sought to end the restriction on gays in the military back in the early 1990′s there was an immediate, vociferous and visceral response against the president. The attack came from the “usual suspects”, the so called Christians, the Republicans,and the “traditionalists” but also from the military. In what amounted to nothing less than a military coupe, top military leaders of the armed services publicly vowed to defy the Commander in Chief’s order to integrate gays into the ranks. And they closed their own in response.

Colin Powell, I recall, threatened to resign. President Clinton, at that very moment should have accepted his resignation and those of all who openly and publicly defied his orders. Instead, what happened was a wimpish acquiescence to their cries and a political defeat for the President. The pain and the defeat were much more devastating to other Americans serving in the military.

The resulting legislation created by this fiasco was more devastating because it allowed the military to continue its witch hunts of homosexuals under the protection of law. “We don’t ask, but you best not tell, nor let anybody else tell on you.” What was a gay soldier to do while speaking to his chaplain about a relationship, a death or even homesickness? What defense was there against a bitter lover or vindictive comrade? No, the military, in this instance, over ruled its civilian leadership.

Jump back ten years and we had the Iran-Contra where in military leaders secretly defied the Constitution and betrayed the People. Jump ahead ten years and the military leaders are creating an atmosphere of contempt towards their civilian leadership. While not openly defying policy, they are infusing politics into their sworn duty. General McCrystal and his staff’s comments were contemptuous and wrong. Not to mention dumb. To their credit the right-wing media have kept quieter on this issue than I had expected, perhaps because they realize how egregious the actions were in an organization designed around hierarchy.

McCrystal may have political aspirations after his career in the military, he will certainly have the support of many, mostly from those who served in the military. This is fine, but we must continuously be vigilant of a culture that fosters contempt towards those not of the military; even as it continues into post military life.

America has in its fear of offending, berating, or demoralizing its military become apish in its support of its troops. There is a certain emotional rush that comes with seeing troops who put their lives on the line walk by. They undoubtedly deserve our respect; it takes a special strength to volunteer. It might also take a certain desperation. Nonetheless they deserve our respect; the same respect entitled to every citizen soldier.

It is a tremendous strength to have a military under civilian control. We must never, ever forget this.

There You Go Again!

“There you go again.” said the demential candidate. Simple words for a B rate actor to a public that wants cowboys and tough talking showman to lead a nation. “There you go again!” Simple words to simple folk who demand simple answers to complex problems and soundbites rather than honest discussion and problem solving.

Governor Jindal of Louisiana recently stated that the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the deepest oil leak in history, was a threat to their way of life (Louisianans’). Ironic that that same argument was/is used to promote off-shore drilling and wave environmental standards and controls. Ironic that his legislation would have ended the moratorium on off-shore drilling entirely. Drill baby, drill!

There you go again, first demanding that the government KEEP OUT, then demanding that they fix whatever it was that went wrong. Hey, just don’t send us the bill. There you go again. Eight years of creating a laissez fair culture within government toward regulation of business, and a generation of creating a contemptuous relationship towards the bureaucrats and public servants who dedicate their careers to serving the public interests, and now the government is supposed to ensure that the corporations, whose interests instead were served for profit, are going to protect the little guy, the wild-life, the entrepreneur, the states whose coastlines are threatened. In the immortal words of that same demential president, “Government IS the enemy.” So, from that conservative view point, I thought the government was bad and that it should stay out of your life and let business regulate itself? Oh, my bad, it’s just this: There you go again!

X and (20-X)

It was in my thirties, I think, when I finally understood grade nine Algebra. It came to me, like an epiphany, as I did the exercises in the workbook “Forgotten Algebra”; I was studying in order to help local middle schoolers with their math lessons. Little did I know at the time that “Algebra” was, for them at the time, like discussion of Astro-physics; not going to even be a consideration for these little Chaniquas, Laquishias, Al’Dentes and Justins for a long, long time. But an epiphany it was, and it brought me back to my high school classroom of 1977.

Algebra was, back in the day, furthest from my interests. Soccer was second furthest. English was a struggle and so was History. In fact, everything was a struggle. My biggest concern and my biggest interest was fitting in; fitting in with my class, fitting in with my religion, fitting in to my jeans, fitting in with my self. I was worried about my present and my worried about my future. I day dreamed about the places I wasn’t and the places I wanted to go, about the things I hadn’t done and the things I had yet to do. I thought about sex constantly. The only thing that kept me from thinking about sex was the guilt brought about by the thinking about sex. I can honestly say I tried. Not to stop thinking about sex, but to grasp the subjects of my classes and to excel in soccer. And even football, with that big mouth priest who ended up shooting his big toe off in a hunting accident. I honestly wanted to be good and studious, and intelligent. Suddenly, my Attention Deficit Disorder stopped on a dime.

Replacing it was pure panic and prayer. JMJ, any Catholic school kid remembers that one. It was used by all of the students who never paid attention, who cut up, who day dreamed; it was used by them at test time as a last refuge, a last desperate appeal for divine intervention. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. We used to put it at the top of our test papers. I wonder now how many nuns in grade school laughed at the nervously scribbled “JMJ”s on the predictable papers. “Oh, God, please! Please God.” Of course my pleas weren’t for God to intercede and grant me with the intelligence of Albert Cipolla or Richard Castellon. My supplications weren’t for the athletic abilities of Mike Schwab my brother or the wit of Phil Pouter; no. Instead I prayed, “Oh, God, No. Don’t let him call on me! Please don’t let my name be called.”

“Ed Wright!” said Fr. Mc Mahon from the front of the room with his oiled mustache, balding head and nice, strong body underneath his fashionable shirt. Did I mention that sex was constantly on my mind and a constant distraction? “Ed Wright. Two numbers that add up to 20.”

What? What’s that supposed to mean? I thought, looking around the room for clues of understanding. My eyes were assuredly not directed towards Ed Wright. It wasn’t that Ed wasn’t good in school, or smart. Not at all. Odds were, he’d get it wrong on this one. “Ten and ten”. Wrong. “Ed Wright, two numbers that add up to 20!” Ed grasped blindly again, “7 and 13.” Wrong! “Ed Wright! Two numbers that add up to 20! One of them is X!” Mc Mahon’s face grew redder as he got closer to Ed. Shit, I’m glad it wasn’t me. I was in the same boat as Ed. 6 and 14, 1 and 19, how many combinations could I come up with?

Oh, wait. Mc Mahon gave us a clue! One of the numbers is X! After all, this is what we had been studying. It’s Algebra. Ed answered. “X and (X-20).” Wrong!!!! “Ed Wright!!!!! Two numbers that add up to 20!!!!!!! One of them is X!!!!” It was no use at this point. What was to happen next was formative for me.

Ed Wright burst into tears. Through crying eyes he burbled between sobs, “X and (X-20)” for the last time. I glanced at Albert who had been trying discreetly to mouth the words, “X and (20-X)” to no avail. “Ed Wright leave the room.” Fr. Mc Mahon said in exasperation and frustration.

Now, if I had been in Ed’s place I would have left the room just as he did, but unlike Ed I would have kept leaving, probably heading for a taco at Taco Cabana on Hilderbrand and San Pedro. That’s where I always used to go. For a smoke. And a taco. No. Ed stayed in the hallway. Sobbing. Right by the window. Right across from the sophomore classroom. Nothing could be worse in a Catholic  school than to sob in the hallway in front of the sophomore class. Except pulling out a rosary. While you sob. In the hallway.  Directly in front of the sophomore class, directly in front of that runt of a bully who probably went on to become an interrogator at Abu-Ghraib.

No, my joy of understanding Algebra, years after the class was sweet because I realized that no matter how hopeless I thought I was, and no matter how helpless I felt at the time to console my friend who stood sobbing in the hallway,  it would be all right.  Sooner or later. These were merely lessons to help me grow. The athletics came. The religion came and went. The love came many times and so did the sex. The math came too; some of it anyway. And Ed got a job with numbers as a stock broker. It’s not Algebra but it’s math.
It would come one day for the students I tutored too and  I wouldn’t have to get all flustered and frenetic about it either.

Huddled Masses Yearning to Breathe Free

After several discussions about the Arizona Immigration law, the one that requires police officers to act as immigration officials for a xenophobic populace, I have come up with several solutions to the so called problem of illegal immigration. Given that most people’s fears are actually the result of criminals, Congress should enact legislation that would: 1) allow one year work visas to any body willing and able to work in the United States, 2) Regulate and legalize the drug trade. The People should, 3) Encourage those of Mexican and Latino heritage in Arizona to carry unregistered hand guns, and 4) adjust to the fact that the United States is continuously remaking itself and that change, while frightening, is going to happen.

My initial reaction to allowing immigrants to take jobs away from “hard working” (I love that phrase. it always comes from a politician) Americans was as visceral as those of Sean Hannity, but then I realized: Illegal immigrants are not taking away jobs. They are actually creating jobs, providing valuable services, allowing U.S. citizens access to cheap produce and farm products, and improving the lives of their families in their home countries. These one year work visas would solve the problem of illegally crossing the borders, they would eliminate the black market smuggling of people across borders, and they would give immigration more of a handle on where exactly these workers were while they are remain in the states. Each year the worker would be required to leave and re-enter the country. Don’t do it? Visa denied. There would be no social services provided by the state, and both the worker and the employer would be required to pay into social security. The employer would be required to pay a minimum wage. These workers, would be able to file grievances against their employers thus ensuring a more equitable business relationship with them.

Regulate and legalize the drug trade: This is an issue that is most troubling to U.S. residents and Mexicans alike. How to get rid of the drug cartels? Simple. Take the market away from them by legalizing it through the state. The state then receives tax revenues, has a handle on the drugs, and eliminates the drug lords. Of course the Puritans would scream Holy Hell but they will get over it when crime falls and revenues increase.

From the people’s perspective, and those of the “Government is the enemy” Arizona is one of the states that allows its citizens to carry unregistered hand guns. The people should simply be encouraged  to carry a hand gun, thus providing a check of sorts to any state officer considering harassment of fellow citizens based on race.

Finally, and this is a harder one for me as I get older too: recognize the fact that the United States is not a White People Country. The challenge is to create a truly multi-ethnic nation that welcomes all races and cultures; one that strives to take the best of each culture and blend it together into one delicious culture.
That cannot happen with xenophobic laws that require police officers to act as immigration officers, and for citizens who may look like “illegals” to carry travel documents with them at all times.

Mining Disasters, Prayers, and Miracles

“We did not receive the miracle we were praying for,” said West Virginia Gov. Joe Manchin about the miners who died in last week’s mining disaster. “This journey has ended and now the healing will start.” Another horrible, avoidable, mining disaster.

Since the 1980s and the era of “government is our problem” ushered in by America’s favorite President, government bureaucrats have bee seen as the enemy, as the ineffective, the lazy and the burden. This view has rendered regulators virtually ineffective. Bureaucrats from the State Department down who have spent their lives trying to do good things for their government and the citizens they serve have left their posts because of low morale, low funding, and lack of respect. This was especially true during the recent Bush Administration.

The Upper Big Branch mine had repeated problems with methane buildups and had been cited eight times for “substantial violations.” My guess is that the regulators’ teeth had been filed down to the gums and any citations issued were meaningless in the “free-market, business is the answer to all our troubles” World According to America. In two of these incidents, the corporation that owns the mine was calibrating methane monitors every three months instead of the required 31 days. Why? Now Kevin Stricklin, of the federal Mine Safety and Health Administration, said he planned an aggressive investigation of the disaster. Surely a “No stone shall be left unturned!” approach for political reasons.

Well, we saw this coming and it was avoidable. Now we go through the crying and the sorrow and the vows of never letting this happen again; until the next time. Fact is, safety costs money, regulation costs money and it is expensive to protect our citizens. So until Americans can accept that fact and put their money where their mouth is, these accidents will continue to happen, not only in the mining industry but the oil industry, the transport industry, you name it. The governor is right, “We didn’t get the answer we were praying for” but we got the answer we were paying for.

Good without God

Do religious folk actually donate more to charities than secular folk? Do they actually devote more of their time and energy to charitable activities than their secular neighbors? The underlying reason according to an author and professor named Brooks in his book “Who Really Cares: The Surprising Truth About Compassionate Conservatism” is religion. http://www.nationalreview.com/redirect/amazon.p?j=0465008216 . George Will did a piece on Brooks’ book called Conservatives More Liberal Givers. A heated discussion among friends prompted me to read both these articles, even though they were several years old. Some, like Glenn Beck, had also used these statistics and arguments more recently and they surfaced because of the Health Care Reform Bill.

It got me thinking, and wondering, and doubting. Then I remembered my own advice to my nephew years ago, “Always ask, ‘Who stands to gain?’ by certain statements, studies and statistics.” Finding intelligent discussion on giving by liberals is difficult. So many blogs are devoted to trashing the secular, the liberal, the “intellectual elite” and the atheist, but I was after all, suspicious of Professor Brooks’ statistics and had no way to counter them.

Without contradicting Brooks’ numbers, his methodology and conclusions surely serve the interests of the Conservatives; I wonder why he did not chose to look more closely at those numbers, as Christopher Shea did in his article  Who Gives? Seems to have been some ulterior motives in Brooks’ conclusions. When numbers are factored with cost of living, the results are the same, especially when some of the money is attributed to membership fees and up keep. And where Brooks argues that the secular are less virtuous than the religious, many secularists have taken the view that the religious give out of a sense of guilt and fear.

It is timely that just this morning the New York Times had this article on giving, Atheists’ Collection Plate, With Religious Inspiration. There are other groups for the secular to give and many secular charities. The church does not have a monopoly on charitable giving, nor does it have the mandate to operate charities exclusively. There are many avenues for giving not the least is through being a good citizen and paying your taxes and taking part in the operations of government. One more link, to get you started, the American Humanist Association . This is the organization that offered $20,000 to Mississippi high school students for an alternative prom after the school board canceled this year’s prom rather than let a lesbian student bring her date. Now, how many virtuous religious givers would support a gift like that?

Cholos en Barcelona

In an ancient city, rich with history and culture, one would expect to see people  from all walks of life; especially in a city like Barcelona, a port, a crossroads, a fortress, a last stand against a ruthless dictator.

I walked along las Ramblas towards the water. I’d stopped thinking about Gaudi and the cathedral of La Sacrada Familia, and was focusing my attentions on the skateboarders, the young people and the macabre street performers that lined the Ramblas.

Still performers wait motionless until money is dropped into their box. Then, space aliens with grotesque appendages move and solicit, frozen bicyclist with skeleton companions peddle to nowhere, and severed heads on tables shriek. Yuck! I’d rather see a mime. And I hate mimes.

More interesting are the pedestrians: I saw Arabs and middle easterners, Africans with dark chocolate skin, Germans, severe and unsmiling, Catalans comfortable and sure, and Americans amazed and unsure. But most amazing to me were the two Cholos I followed.

They looked as though they belonged in East L.A. or somewhere along the Texas boarder. Their arms and bodies swayed in as they walked with a sort of “No me chinges” (don’t fuck with me) attitude. Even when they laughed they didn’t lose the Cholo affect. I wondered if their affect was intentionally choreographed. It must have been a “green” day for them because they both wore green shirts, one lime like in color with a matching bandanna tied thoughtfully in a wide band around a large forehead.  Why were they here in Barcelona? Were they working or were they vacationing far from their native lands?

It didn’t matter, they were here in this fascinating city and were now, whether they knew it or not, part of its epic tale. I spotted some motorcycle cops, turned off, and took my place among the other Americans. Unsure and amazed.

Broken Bits of Glass

A friend of mine died a few years ago; Grace was amazed by life. She expressed interest in almost everything I shared with her. Sometimes I  miss her deeply. Last night was one of those nights.

I went about my day, more or less absorbed in self-centered thoughts, but once, twice, three times the thought of Grace came to my mind: first it was the smell of the melting snow and the north breeze that wafted across the fields by where the cows live on the other side of the lane. I remembered her story of the cow gone out of the barn. It made me smile to imagine a little shy girl sewing in a New Brunswick farm house suddenly looking out the window into the eyes of an errant cow. Then it was the woodpecker eating suet from the feeder. She had trouble seeing in later years but she continued to be an observer of nature, and that woodpecker would have delighter her. Third, was while I ate dinner with son and I saw her in his eyes. That same joy of life.

Grace loved Seattle, she loved the shops, she loved the climate, she loved the restaurants. She maneuvered throughout the city as though it were her own. And she had a love affair with Mt. Rainier, this I know. She also had a love for the Bon Marche, our local department store. She’d spend hours shopping with her son. Grace liked  pretty things. She liked bling.

When Grace died, Garry’s aunt told him a story of their childhood walk from school. Grace, walking beside her siblings spotted something on the road. She went to it, bent over and picked it up, a sparkling piece of blue beauty. She was fascinated by the broken bit of blue glass, studied it, took it home and kept it. One piece of broken glass had made her so happy, and her sister would recall that moment throughout her entire life.

Imagine. A broken bit of glass, how happy it made two people! Grace and her sister who relished in her joy. No, that broken piece of glass, I realized last night, made four people happy. If I had only heard that story years earlier I might have discovered more broken bits of glass along my path to share with my friend Grace. Nah, that bling is in me, and she saw it. And her bling keeps appearing when I least expect it. Only, I’ve promised myself to be more aware of broken bits of glass.

Home In Canada

“A Jew and a Catholic are walking down the street with an Asian and his African lover:”
Gosh is it good to be home in Canada!

I returned home after fifteen days away. The doors that separate customs from the terminal opened. My heart beat faster; it always does when I come home. “Hello Canada, I’ve missed you.” I say upon seeing the faces of those awaiting loved ones. Faces of global heritage, people whose ancestors came from Europe and Asia, African, India and Latin America. This is the face of my Canada.

On the way home we stopped at the Swiss Chalet (a distinctly Canadian institution). While we were there I commented on how I love to see the diversity in Canada.That diversity is not merely different groups going about their business among other groups but diversity within groups. A glance around and I saw a black man with his Asian girlfriend, a Latino family finishing dinner with a Chinese couple, an Indian trio laughing with the tiny Asian waitress named Ruth. My partner agreed and said to me, “It was so wonderful. While I was at the mall waiting for you I saw three girls walking and talking together as they shopped. They were each so different in their looks and appearance that I never would have guessed that they were friends.” He then proceeded to describe their heritage and attire which ranged rocker to conservative business woman.

This face of Canada is the result of a conscious effort by previous governments to open Canada and create a truly multi-ethnic society. As a new immigrant I am thankful for this. It brings cohesion and unification. It brings understanding and acceptance. It is one of the reasons that so many Canadian Muslims feel that they are a part of Canada. It is one of the reasons why a black man from Jamaican can marry a white woman and live on the same street happily with a married gay couple and an Indian pharmacist next door to a white farmer so far from the urban center.

It is a mixture that creates, in actuality, an ethnic Canadian.

Cowboys at the Airport

Atlanta Hartsfield Jackson International Airport is filled with people. It always is and probably always will be. It’s the perfect place to people watch. If there were fewer sensory distractions like beeping carts that beep for now particular reason, the omnipresent CNN ad nauseum, airline announcements, airport and government announcements, and my personal dis-favorite, piped music it would be a people watching heaven. Christ, who needs piped music with everything else that goes on at an airport?

Airports are one of the best places for people watching because everyone in them is out of their element. They’re all from somewhere else going to someplace else,from such an enormous cross section of cultures, styles and affectations.

This brings me to cowboys. In the United States cowboys have a mystique. Masculine, strong, tough, just the image for America. But they wear such impractical clothing; big hats, high-heels, tight fitting jeans. You’d sort of expect a hat box along with their carry-on luggage too, and imagine taking off those boots at every security check point, not to mention the turkey platters attached to those belts. As impractical as the costume is, I find it very sexy. Even if I am not into cowboys per se, I find the get up sexy because it conveys masculinity. Real or imagined, I suppose it also conveys that they know how to work.

So this cowboy comes off the train and makes his way up towards the escalator to concourse A; I’m walking from concourse E toward T concourse and  I speak the words softly, “Oh, hi cowboy.” just as I notice the blue-jeaned, black hatted, brown booted tough guy in cowboy drag. Say the word slowly, “Cow-boy” and from no matter where you are in a room everyone will understand what you are saying.

There’s one more thing about cow boys, they tend to be more insecure about themselves than their image gives them credit for. Perhaps it’s just the wannabes that are most insecure but I’m not sure. Dude, you can’t choose who finds you sexy. Sometimes it’s a cow girl, sometimes it’s a bearded guy from Canada.