It is one of the fundamental Things About Me: I am not comfortable until I have caused you to laugh.
It doesn't have to be much. Of course, if I had my way, every bon mot would bring laughter. Every wisecrack would prompt a shared grin. Each pun would be a serve which would lead us through the Volley of the Shadow of Wit. But I will settle for a mercy chuckle, or a groan and an eyeroll; even the grimaced recognition of a misfired punchline will make us "friends". It is the connection of minds that I crave.
And so when I met Steve, the Marine, I knew I faced a formidable challenge.
Steve was the original Robo-Grunt. He moved with a purpose, or not at all. Every turn he made was a right angle. He sat at attention with his Korean dictionary aligned in the upper right corner of his desk, and his pencils -- all freshly sharpened with the points to the right -- resting in a row on the left.
He was crisp, he was sharp, and he wasted no movement.
I didn't stress about it at first. I don't need immediate gratification; I don't need constant adoration. I waited for my opportunities, and took them as they came.
There were three Marines in that class; the other two were easy prey. Marines are generally smart people, and coming fresh from boot camp, they have egos the size of Chesty Puller's medal rack (that's big, kids). They don't expect much from non-Marines, especially not from slacker Airmen like myself. So all I had to do was a little self-parody to knock off the first; referring to myself as a "wingnut" did the trick. The second, a Filipino lad, took a little more effort. I asked him very seriously for the Tagalog word for "penis", and when he told me it was "penis" -- Tagalog borrows many English words -- I made a big show of writing it down.
"Did I spell that right?" I asked, showing him the name of the insufferable Army private who sat next to him. Two down.
But Steve was tough. He rarely spoke, and when he did, he sounded like he was quoting regs. "What did you have for breakfast, Steve?" Dave might ask. Dave was one of the three Dave Williams' in Alpha Company (one of the two real ones, in fact), and he happened to be our class section leader. So, of course, Steve called him "sir".
"Sir, eggs scrambled; juice, apple, 8 oz.; toast, qty. 2, no butter," Steve might reply to the breakfast question. Ask him how he slept, he would tell you the time of onset of R.E.M. sleep, and report any incidents such as head-calls. Very perfunct.
With so little to work with, I got a little desperate. It had been several weeks, and much drama had unfolded. Our little section was growing more friendly, but I just couldn't read that damned Jarhead! I simply HAD to get him to let his guard down. It was the one obstacle to my total sense of "belonging" there. My usual smart-aleck remarks and puns in class were no good. Steve ignored them, and the teachers didn't speak English well enough to get them. God forbid that they hear me and ask me to explain a joke.
Korean humor does not allow for the kinds of jokes I tell. Take the assignment to translate a joke; should be right up my alley? I tried one from my second grade joke books: Q: How do you catch a squirrel? A: Climb up a tree and act like a nut! (rimshot) It would help if they had a word for "nut", or "squirrel". My joke translated as "How do you capture tree rats? Climb a tree and act like a crazy person." It was much funnier trying to get a Korean to say "squirrel".
"Soo-kah-lo-lo. Ser-ko-laller. Sok-ho-lillah." Never mind. Steve sat staring straight ahead throughout the episode.
I tried all kinds of subtle tricks; I tried stupid stunts. One day we were sitting in a line: me, Angie, Steve, and Dave. Angie blew a bubble with an illegal piece of gum while the teachers were in the hall between class periods, and I shot it with a rubber band, and crowed "Fire in the Hole!" Gum shrapnel flew everywhere, and the rubber band landed on the desk in front of Dave. Dave shook his head in bewilderment and said, "I don't even want to know what you are thinking." Angie demanded a new piece of gum. It was, in a word hilarious, and the class lost it.
Steve had festive little pink balls strewn across his immaculate uniform and festooning his bristly crew cut. This HAD to be it! I expected something, even if it wasn't humor; maybe rage, maybe ire. Anything to make him bend! His only reaction was to blandly brush his desk clear. I felt hopeless. I was ready to give up, and concede that I would never see into the soul of this fellow human being. It was, for me, a bitter kind of defeat.
But then my day arrived in the person of Mr. Minh.
Mr. Minh was a very special teacher. He was ancient in a way that only a Korean man can be ancient. He had a steel wool mop of hair, and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. He stood a stooped 4' 11", at most, and he was the only teacher to level with us when we asked insensitive, "ugly American" sorts of questions. Like the day he was asked if Korean people really eat dogs; while the other teachers blustered and denied it as slander, Mr. Minh simply shut the door (after checking to make sure the hallway was free of eavesdroppers) and said to us, "Look; Yerrow dog, most tender..."
Mr. Minh was to join our teaching team. He had belonged to another class on the first floor, and he was going to need help moving his things up one flight of stairs. His "things" included a 1950's era, powder blue metal desk. It must have weighed as much as a city bus. But what is the point of having stupid, young men around if you can't get them to volunteer to move a 2-ton desk up a flight of stairs?
So, a bunch of us went down: me, Dave, Steve, the other real Dave, and Harris (a female soldier wanting to put us to shame). Together we hefted the behemoth, and trundled it to the stairwell. We somehow managed to work it through the door, and up to the first landing, but we had to lift it about four feet up to work around the turn. Daves were on the bottom, Steve and Harris were above, and I was guiding the side. It went well, until somehow the thing began to tilt; in slow motion, I watched as the desktop loomed, pressing me closer to the concrete block wall of the stairwell. When I realized that it was about to press my head into the wall... no, through the wall... I said something. Unfortunately, they didn't hear me, so I made more noise.
I do not recall what noise I made, but I imagine that it was the sound of an animal that the Korean people would have no problem eating. Steve looked around the corner of the desk to see what was the matter, and saw me being ground into USAF grade A dork flour. "Stop!" he bellowed, and the others stopped moving.
And then the corners of his mouth quirked up, and he uttered two sharp, "Heh"s.
Everyone heard it, too. They all knew about my quest, of course. It's not like it was a secret. I think there was even a pool going on when/whether it would ever happen. Steve's double "heh" surely cost someone a six-pack of crappy beer. But at the time, no one said anything about it. They shifted the desk, removed the danger to my cranium, and finished the task at hand.
Once we were back in the room, there was no time to comment. Mr. Park was in full lecture mode, acting as though five sweaty young students had not just barged into the room. We tucked right into the lesson. It wasn't until break time that it was mentioned at all, and it was Steve who had something to say.
"Sir," he said, turning to Dave, "I apologize for my loss of bearing."
Dave looked over at me and asked, "Are you alright?"
I was a little dazed, frankly, but as I told him then: It was worth it!
Sunday, April 1, 2007
The Jarhead Who Laughed
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Mighty Acorns: Grandpa Bob
When I first took an interest in "Family Trees", I was young and innocent of sense, common or otherwise. I had the idea that if I looked hard enough I would find lurking in the branches of my ancestry kings, astronauts, baseball players... or maybe someone wealthy who had left behind a healthy fortune just for me.
So far, the closest my DNA comes to fame and fortune is "7th cousin to Richard Nixon and Dwight D. Eisenhower's grandchildren".* But as cool as it is to be able to say that, I've discovered a much deeper fondness for my less "glamorous" ancestors than my younger self would have thought possible.
One of those regular people was Bob Callin. His great-grandfather, William Callin, was a true pioneer, clearing at least two farms in Ohio. Before the Civil War, one of those farms was a "stop" on the Underground Railroad. Bob's grandfather, John Henry Callin, fought for the Union, alongside brothers and cousins, and became a teacher after the war. His father, John Quincy Callin, was another groundbreaker, moving the family to Florida long before it became the Enchanted Kingdom. Bob himself enlisted in the Army when the rumbling approach of the Second World War could still be mistaken for a thunderstorm, and by the end of it, he had found his best friend and greatest partner, Nancy. They eventually settled in Glendale, the desert city where her father had carved out a farm back when Pancho Villa was still a real threat.
But, as impressive and manly as these deeds may sound in the history books, the real men behind them were not John Wayne archetypes. These were Real Men, who got by with love and a strange sense of humor. They would have needed a lot of both to survive. Great-grandpa William discovered an oil well on his farm, and sold it for what he thought was a great profit -- just a few years before Mr. Ford's very popular automobile took off. Grandpa John's Civil War service was spent largely in hospitals, recovering from diseases picked up in Civil War hospitals. And Bob's father, John, would write ruefully humorous letters to his son chronicling "that old Callin luck" that kept him from becoming a real estate tycoon. (It had less to do with luck, and more to do with a man who was too generous to succeed in such a cutthroat market.)
The man I knew as Grandpa Bob was every bit as lucky as his forefathers; blessed with happiness and a healthy family, yet plagued by minor tragedies. Prone to accidents around open cupboard doors and his beloved Volkswagen, Fang, he met every challenge with a long-suffering grin, and a ready joke. My last visit with him, during our 2005 Christmas trip to Arizona, he had just come out of the hospital. He had required another procedure to clean up his circulatory system, and the doctors had left him with livid bruises on both his arms. I asked him if it hurt him, and if he was alright, and he said he was.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he told me, looking somewhat glum. But then his eye twinkled, and he perked up as he said, "But you shoulda seen the OTHER guy!"
So, while I may not have found any kings or powerful magnates in our past, I have found something of much greater value to me. Our stories are the treasures that we spend at family gatherings. They collect in our memories, and the interest compounds with time. They are fortunes built on love, and Grandpa Bob always had a great storehouse of that treasure.
He will be missed, but our sadness is overwhelmed by the joy of having known him. We will mourn, but we are grateful for his life and his love: the greatest inheritance.
*Julie Nixon married Dwight D. Eisenhower, II, and my grandmother was 5th cousin to President Nixon. I can prove it, if you like!
So far, the closest my DNA comes to fame and fortune is "7th cousin to Richard Nixon and Dwight D. Eisenhower's grandchildren".* But as cool as it is to be able to say that, I've discovered a much deeper fondness for my less "glamorous" ancestors than my younger self would have thought possible.
One of those regular people was Bob Callin. His great-grandfather, William Callin, was a true pioneer, clearing at least two farms in Ohio. Before the Civil War, one of those farms was a "stop" on the Underground Railroad. Bob's grandfather, John Henry Callin, fought for the Union, alongside brothers and cousins, and became a teacher after the war. His father, John Quincy Callin, was another groundbreaker, moving the family to Florida long before it became the Enchanted Kingdom. Bob himself enlisted in the Army when the rumbling approach of the Second World War could still be mistaken for a thunderstorm, and by the end of it, he had found his best friend and greatest partner, Nancy. They eventually settled in Glendale, the desert city where her father had carved out a farm back when Pancho Villa was still a real threat.
But, as impressive and manly as these deeds may sound in the history books, the real men behind them were not John Wayne archetypes. These were Real Men, who got by with love and a strange sense of humor. They would have needed a lot of both to survive. Great-grandpa William discovered an oil well on his farm, and sold it for what he thought was a great profit -- just a few years before Mr. Ford's very popular automobile took off. Grandpa John's Civil War service was spent largely in hospitals, recovering from diseases picked up in Civil War hospitals. And Bob's father, John, would write ruefully humorous letters to his son chronicling "that old Callin luck" that kept him from becoming a real estate tycoon. (It had less to do with luck, and more to do with a man who was too generous to succeed in such a cutthroat market.)
The man I knew as Grandpa Bob was every bit as lucky as his forefathers; blessed with happiness and a healthy family, yet plagued by minor tragedies. Prone to accidents around open cupboard doors and his beloved Volkswagen, Fang, he met every challenge with a long-suffering grin, and a ready joke. My last visit with him, during our 2005 Christmas trip to Arizona, he had just come out of the hospital. He had required another procedure to clean up his circulatory system, and the doctors had left him with livid bruises on both his arms. I asked him if it hurt him, and if he was alright, and he said he was.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he told me, looking somewhat glum. But then his eye twinkled, and he perked up as he said, "But you shoulda seen the OTHER guy!"
So, while I may not have found any kings or powerful magnates in our past, I have found something of much greater value to me. Our stories are the treasures that we spend at family gatherings. They collect in our memories, and the interest compounds with time. They are fortunes built on love, and Grandpa Bob always had a great storehouse of that treasure.
He will be missed, but our sadness is overwhelmed by the joy of having known him. We will mourn, but we are grateful for his life and his love: the greatest inheritance.
*Julie Nixon married Dwight D. Eisenhower, II, and my grandmother was 5th cousin to President Nixon. I can prove it, if you like!
Sunday, February 25, 2007
New Blog/Old Tricks
Welcome. I know that saying this will make it seem like I don't know what I'm doing, but that's alright because I really don't know what I'm doing.
Here's the story:
Back in my USAF days, I worked on a watch floor. This meant regular mid-watches, often with little or nothing to do (don't start in on the self-improvement crap, or I'll get very cranky). Out of the dull stretches of the wee hours grew a weekly gathering/editing/resending tradition that I called "Tad's Happy Funtime".
From day one of the existence of email, there have been bad jokes circulating, and I made it part of my personal mission to collect them and distribute them to others who, like me, were sitting before a CRT screen at 2a.m. wondering how long they could hold their urine without doing permanent damage to their kidneys.
After a time, finding new material to forward became harder. Either I had seen it and sent it, or seen it and deleted it in disgust. Eventually, I began to include more of my own brain scribblings and meanderings... and much to my surprise, this was a bigger hit with people than the stupid jokes, lists of "actual quotes", Onion articles, and other violations of taste and UCMJ regulations.
Upon finding myself in the civilian world, several friends urged me to keep up THFT, and I tried half-heartedly to do so. Finally, James started up a Blogger.com account, called it "Tad's Happy Funtime", and begged me to start posting. We put up a number of stories there (happyphuntime.blogspot.com), and also started a seperate account just for our toilet humor (cornerstall.blogspot.com). But it was hard to keep up with, and I didn't really see the point. Eventually, I just stopped going there.
Then came MySpace. I've been putting all kinds of goofy crap up on there, including some stories I wrote for a science fiction contest sponsored by my favorite Podcast (Escape Pod). The trouble was that I wanted to be able to share some of these writings with family and friends who weren't on MySpace.
And so, I have returned to Blogger.com in order to make my favorite snips and tails available for the public at large. If you care to see any of the older items, please visit the "happyphuntime" site, and skim through the archives. Newer stuff will show up on a strict schedule of "when I feel like it".
Either way, I'm not here to sell anything, change any minds, or make any enemies. I'm here to help anyone who is stuck in the watches of the night, staring at a screen and wishing there was something to read that can take the mind off of a swelling bladder for a while. I'm here to share. I'm here to reminisce (albeit imperfectly). Most of all, I'm here to help you take life a little less seriously.
It's only life, after all.
Here's the story:
Back in my USAF days, I worked on a watch floor. This meant regular mid-watches, often with little or nothing to do (don't start in on the self-improvement crap, or I'll get very cranky). Out of the dull stretches of the wee hours grew a weekly gathering/editing/resending tradition that I called "Tad's Happy Funtime".
From day one of the existence of email, there have been bad jokes circulating, and I made it part of my personal mission to collect them and distribute them to others who, like me, were sitting before a CRT screen at 2a.m. wondering how long they could hold their urine without doing permanent damage to their kidneys.
After a time, finding new material to forward became harder. Either I had seen it and sent it, or seen it and deleted it in disgust. Eventually, I began to include more of my own brain scribblings and meanderings... and much to my surprise, this was a bigger hit with people than the stupid jokes, lists of "actual quotes", Onion articles, and other violations of taste and UCMJ regulations.
Upon finding myself in the civilian world, several friends urged me to keep up THFT, and I tried half-heartedly to do so. Finally, James started up a Blogger.com account, called it "Tad's Happy Funtime", and begged me to start posting. We put up a number of stories there (happyphuntime.blogspot.com), and also started a seperate account just for our toilet humor (cornerstall.blogspot.com). But it was hard to keep up with, and I didn't really see the point. Eventually, I just stopped going there.
Then came MySpace. I've been putting all kinds of goofy crap up on there, including some stories I wrote for a science fiction contest sponsored by my favorite Podcast (Escape Pod). The trouble was that I wanted to be able to share some of these writings with family and friends who weren't on MySpace.
And so, I have returned to Blogger.com in order to make my favorite snips and tails available for the public at large. If you care to see any of the older items, please visit the "happyphuntime" site, and skim through the archives. Newer stuff will show up on a strict schedule of "when I feel like it".
Either way, I'm not here to sell anything, change any minds, or make any enemies. I'm here to help anyone who is stuck in the watches of the night, staring at a screen and wishing there was something to read that can take the mind off of a swelling bladder for a while. I'm here to share. I'm here to reminisce (albeit imperfectly). Most of all, I'm here to help you take life a little less seriously.
It's only life, after all.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
2 Chikkn 2 Pro-TEST!
Originally posted Sunday, January 28, 2007, I wanted to remind everyone that I have LONG argued against war, and have LONG been uncomfortable with those who protest. This is something that often confuses people.
As you may or may not have noticed, depending on your media coverage of choice, there was a Peace Rally in DC on Saturday. Many thousands of people showed up to denounce the poor handling of the war, to protest the proposed surge, and to call for the impeachment of the President and his V.P.
As you may or may not have noticed, depending on whether you have read Kater's blog (my #1 friend), I didn't go.
I will admit that the main reason I didn't go with her was that I chickened out. I was afraid for the safety of my family (always a risk when leaving the house), I was worried about my legal standing (marching around with people dressed as the Devil and dangling marionette effigies of one's boss from their hands is frowned upon by most employers), and... I'm not 100% in agreement with the protesters.
That's right: I'm not willing to stand in front of Jane Fonda and cheer just yet, despite my general opposition to this war from day one. (Day one being 15 September 2001, which is when I first heard Mr. Rumsfeld trying to tie Iraq to the 9/11 tragedy, and realized that I heard a grand national railroad building up steam.)
The way I see it, I'm already doing what I can do to for the war effort on a daily basis. I won't talk about that here, but those of you who know me are welcome to invite me out for a quiet drink sometime to discuss it.
As for the "surge", my objective feeling about that is this: isn't it a little late to be second-guessing the Commander in Chief? I heard a lot of (pardon me, Mom...) assholes during the Clinton administration pulling that "I don't have to respect the man, but I will respect his office" crap, and now it's my turn. He may have failed to fulfill every promise I wanted him to keep (and kept a few I wish he hadn't made), but until he is legally removed from office, I am legally sworn to support his decisions.
Which brings us to the popular calls for impeachment. I put it to you this way: there is as much evidence to impeach as there was to invade Iraq. People like AG Gonzales may be slimy, double-talking, word-raping lawyers... but they are good lawyers, which means you won't be able to pin much on them when the dust settles.
Furthermore, it is my humble opinion that our Congress wouldn't have the intestinal fortitude to impeach a president who ate a baby on national television; all he would have to do in his defense is:
a) stonewall them with denials until they produce the tape,
b) claim that the baby was a terrorist until they can prove otherwise, and
c) use the intervening time to dig up instances of Congressional baby-eating, thus forcing them to admit that, gee, it's not that impeachable an offense after all, is it?
So, you might now be wondering, "If he feels that way, is he mad at his wife for going to the rally?" No, I'm not. I know she has agonized over the events of the last few years right along with me. I know she has supported our troops steadfastly throughout, organizing charity events through her Girl Scout troop, and generally contributing in any way she can. In other words, I know she hasn't changed her opinion with the winds of the media (when they deign to cover the real events); I know she isn't just going down to be part of some "party" atmosphere or to be near celebrities. You go ahead and list a few more of the petty barbs the pundits might sling at the protesters: they don't apply to my wife.
So yes, I support what she is doing, even if I don't feel I can join her. I maintain a firm belief that people should exercise their right to assembly, and their right to express their opinions, whether I agree with them or not.
That said, I hereby exercise my God-given right to say "I told you so" to:
* everyone who allowed the 2000 election to fall to the right, and groused about it later
* everyone who told me to shut up when I tried to warn you that this stuff would happen after 9/11
* everyone who let them string us along, promising "evidence" of WMD, but didn't make them produce it in 2002
* everyone who insists on blaming the media for the bad news, but lets the administration off the hook for the bad planning, and...
* every 3rd party member who voted either Democrat or Republican for fear of "wasting" your vote.
I'll say again, for anyone still reading: let's find a better way to pick these people. Let's not blow it again.
As you may or may not have noticed, depending on your media coverage of choice, there was a Peace Rally in DC on Saturday. Many thousands of people showed up to denounce the poor handling of the war, to protest the proposed surge, and to call for the impeachment of the President and his V.P.
As you may or may not have noticed, depending on whether you have read Kater's blog (my #1 friend), I didn't go.
I will admit that the main reason I didn't go with her was that I chickened out. I was afraid for the safety of my family (always a risk when leaving the house), I was worried about my legal standing (marching around with people dressed as the Devil and dangling marionette effigies of one's boss from their hands is frowned upon by most employers), and... I'm not 100% in agreement with the protesters.
That's right: I'm not willing to stand in front of Jane Fonda and cheer just yet, despite my general opposition to this war from day one. (Day one being 15 September 2001, which is when I first heard Mr. Rumsfeld trying to tie Iraq to the 9/11 tragedy, and realized that I heard a grand national railroad building up steam.)
The way I see it, I'm already doing what I can do to for the war effort on a daily basis. I won't talk about that here, but those of you who know me are welcome to invite me out for a quiet drink sometime to discuss it.
As for the "surge", my objective feeling about that is this: isn't it a little late to be second-guessing the Commander in Chief? I heard a lot of (pardon me, Mom...) assholes during the Clinton administration pulling that "I don't have to respect the man, but I will respect his office" crap, and now it's my turn. He may have failed to fulfill every promise I wanted him to keep (and kept a few I wish he hadn't made), but until he is legally removed from office, I am legally sworn to support his decisions.
Which brings us to the popular calls for impeachment. I put it to you this way: there is as much evidence to impeach as there was to invade Iraq. People like AG Gonzales may be slimy, double-talking, word-raping lawyers... but they are good lawyers, which means you won't be able to pin much on them when the dust settles.
Furthermore, it is my humble opinion that our Congress wouldn't have the intestinal fortitude to impeach a president who ate a baby on national television; all he would have to do in his defense is:
a) stonewall them with denials until they produce the tape,
b) claim that the baby was a terrorist until they can prove otherwise, and
c) use the intervening time to dig up instances of Congressional baby-eating, thus forcing them to admit that, gee, it's not that impeachable an offense after all, is it?
So, you might now be wondering, "If he feels that way, is he mad at his wife for going to the rally?" No, I'm not. I know she has agonized over the events of the last few years right along with me. I know she has supported our troops steadfastly throughout, organizing charity events through her Girl Scout troop, and generally contributing in any way she can. In other words, I know she hasn't changed her opinion with the winds of the media (when they deign to cover the real events); I know she isn't just going down to be part of some "party" atmosphere or to be near celebrities. You go ahead and list a few more of the petty barbs the pundits might sling at the protesters: they don't apply to my wife.
So yes, I support what she is doing, even if I don't feel I can join her. I maintain a firm belief that people should exercise their right to assembly, and their right to express their opinions, whether I agree with them or not.
That said, I hereby exercise my God-given right to say "I told you so" to:
* everyone who allowed the 2000 election to fall to the right, and groused about it later
* everyone who told me to shut up when I tried to warn you that this stuff would happen after 9/11
* everyone who let them string us along, promising "evidence" of WMD, but didn't make them produce it in 2002
* everyone who insists on blaming the media for the bad news, but lets the administration off the hook for the bad planning, and...
* every 3rd party member who voted either Democrat or Republican for fear of "wasting" your vote.
I'll say again, for anyone still reading: let's find a better way to pick these people. Let's not blow it again.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Is It Too Much to Ask?
From Martin Luther King Day, Monday, January 15, 2007 - again, note that I wrote this before I had heard of Barack Obama. It's worth reflecting, regardless of your opinions, that electing him was a significant moment in our history.
Some would argue that a certain dream will never come true. They will point to the problems that we still have, and to the conflicts that still arise, and they will tell you that this is how it will always be. They will hold up the human failings of the dreamers and sneer at their faith and their goals. They will tell you that holding on to that dream is foolish and weak.
I disagree.
People will always be people, and that means there will always be something to fight over; but look at how very far we have come. Those who used to be banished to the back are now driving the bus. Those who were forced to run a gauntlet through jeering crowds to get to school are now the administrators, teachers, coaches, and superintendents. The transition is not complete, but it is implacable, and the Dream is attainable.
It is still going to be hard to take it all the way to its conclusion; past the grudging acceptance of the last generation, through the sometimes painful transition of our own, and into the peaceful and colorblind integration of the next. I can see it coming in the way my own children behave with their classmates; working together every day, seeing their similarities, and minimizing their differences.
Some have argued that this "politically correct" vision is being forced on them. They say that things like Martin Luther King's holiday and Black History Month are being shoved down their throats -- and they try to pretend as though it is this that they object to, and nothing else. They try to pretend that their resentment comes from some betrayal of their rights. To those people I say, you are not being dragged from your home and forced to endure 400 years of subjugation. You are being asked to help bring about a society where that sort of thing can't happen, and if you don't like the methods being used, you are more than welcome to offer a peaceful alternative. You have that right because courageous people like Dr. King led the fight for promised equality, and not for dominance.
And you can't stand in the way of that goal without giving the lie to your own avowed American ideals.
The beauty of the Dream was not that it led to a peaceful fairytale vision of the future; I don't think anyone has ever really believed that we could bring about Utopia. The beauty of the Dream lay in the non-violent nature of the journey. Dr. King's faith in those ideals that we have had "forced down our throats" since primary school -- the ideals of peace, freedom and equality -- is what makes his Dream so powerful. His Dream was that the so-called American Dream would come true, and we would all pay more than lip service to it.
It is that faith in our own ideals that we need to hold onto, even in the face of war.
The last few years have been a test of our belief in those ideals; a test we have done poorly on. We have allowed ourselves to be led into all of the old, familiar traps that have perpetuated violence and oppression throughout human history. "Eye for an eye", "if you are not with us you are against us", and "by any means necessary"; these are not the ideals our fabled founding fathers set out for us. These are the easy answers of the reactionary, the tool of those who crave power, and the Achilles' Heel of the ignorant.
The tragic truth is that people who truly believe in peace are few and far between. Finding people with the courage to say, "We have a reason to fight, but there is a better weapon than violence" is my own dream, though it seems impossible these days. Prevailing logic tells us that our enemies must be killed, but our methods have driven away our allies, and the violence has only continued the cycle of revenge.
What we desperately need is someone who, like Dr. King, can articulate a way to bring about peace peacefully, and can convince even the most rabid hawks to give us that chance to end the fighting.
And let's see if we can't keep that person alive this time, along with the Dream.
Some would argue that a certain dream will never come true. They will point to the problems that we still have, and to the conflicts that still arise, and they will tell you that this is how it will always be. They will hold up the human failings of the dreamers and sneer at their faith and their goals. They will tell you that holding on to that dream is foolish and weak.
I disagree.
People will always be people, and that means there will always be something to fight over; but look at how very far we have come. Those who used to be banished to the back are now driving the bus. Those who were forced to run a gauntlet through jeering crowds to get to school are now the administrators, teachers, coaches, and superintendents. The transition is not complete, but it is implacable, and the Dream is attainable.
It is still going to be hard to take it all the way to its conclusion; past the grudging acceptance of the last generation, through the sometimes painful transition of our own, and into the peaceful and colorblind integration of the next. I can see it coming in the way my own children behave with their classmates; working together every day, seeing their similarities, and minimizing their differences.
Some have argued that this "politically correct" vision is being forced on them. They say that things like Martin Luther King's holiday and Black History Month are being shoved down their throats -- and they try to pretend as though it is this that they object to, and nothing else. They try to pretend that their resentment comes from some betrayal of their rights. To those people I say, you are not being dragged from your home and forced to endure 400 years of subjugation. You are being asked to help bring about a society where that sort of thing can't happen, and if you don't like the methods being used, you are more than welcome to offer a peaceful alternative. You have that right because courageous people like Dr. King led the fight for promised equality, and not for dominance.
And you can't stand in the way of that goal without giving the lie to your own avowed American ideals.
The beauty of the Dream was not that it led to a peaceful fairytale vision of the future; I don't think anyone has ever really believed that we could bring about Utopia. The beauty of the Dream lay in the non-violent nature of the journey. Dr. King's faith in those ideals that we have had "forced down our throats" since primary school -- the ideals of peace, freedom and equality -- is what makes his Dream so powerful. His Dream was that the so-called American Dream would come true, and we would all pay more than lip service to it.
It is that faith in our own ideals that we need to hold onto, even in the face of war.
The last few years have been a test of our belief in those ideals; a test we have done poorly on. We have allowed ourselves to be led into all of the old, familiar traps that have perpetuated violence and oppression throughout human history. "Eye for an eye", "if you are not with us you are against us", and "by any means necessary"; these are not the ideals our fabled founding fathers set out for us. These are the easy answers of the reactionary, the tool of those who crave power, and the Achilles' Heel of the ignorant.
The tragic truth is that people who truly believe in peace are few and far between. Finding people with the courage to say, "We have a reason to fight, but there is a better weapon than violence" is my own dream, though it seems impossible these days. Prevailing logic tells us that our enemies must be killed, but our methods have driven away our allies, and the violence has only continued the cycle of revenge.
What we desperately need is someone who, like Dr. King, can articulate a way to bring about peace peacefully, and can convince even the most rabid hawks to give us that chance to end the fighting.
And let's see if we can't keep that person alive this time, along with the Dream.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Majority Report
Originally posted 3 January, 2007, I thought I adequately expressed my lack of enthusiasm about the Democratic Party's recapture of a slim Congressional majority, but I guess since I didn't call to have them poisoned or compare them to Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and Darth Vader, I was considered "too tame"...
Well, the holidays are over, and it's time to get back to the business at hand. The Dawn of the Dems has arrived, friends and neighbors, and a new chapter in American politics begins. Of course, it will sound a lot like the last chapter...good luck keeping straight who's who.
The new majority may be slimmer than Nicole Ritchie, but it will still behave as though it has a universal mandate from the mythical People (you know, the People they are all supposed to be looking out for). The new minority, despite 12 years of nearly unimpeded corruption and a full death grip on all three branches of government will blame their ascendant opponents for all of the country's ills. Careers will rise and fall like Roman candles on the 4th of July, characters will be assassinated in the run-up to the next big brouhaha, and nothing much will be accomplished except the small accidental triumphs that come from the rest of us ignoring them all and struggling on as best as we can.
But rather than waste the next year or so listening to the Leaders of Conventional Wisdom blat away at each other with overwrought and under-thought rhetoric, how's about we try something new. Let's start a list of "things that really matter that we can fix", and maybe another one of "people who really ARE looking out for us". Don't put labels on them, just note when they do things right. You may have to go looking for them, because people doing good things doesn't make the news; but they are out there. Let's start now so that when the Coke and Pepsi candidates ask which tastes better, we can tell them... I'll take a beer, thanks.
I know it's sad to think of putting them out of work... but I can think of a very nice parting gift: Has Been, by William Shatner
Well, the holidays are over, and it's time to get back to the business at hand. The Dawn of the Dems has arrived, friends and neighbors, and a new chapter in American politics begins. Of course, it will sound a lot like the last chapter...good luck keeping straight who's who.
The new majority may be slimmer than Nicole Ritchie, but it will still behave as though it has a universal mandate from the mythical People (you know, the People they are all supposed to be looking out for). The new minority, despite 12 years of nearly unimpeded corruption and a full death grip on all three branches of government will blame their ascendant opponents for all of the country's ills. Careers will rise and fall like Roman candles on the 4th of July, characters will be assassinated in the run-up to the next big brouhaha, and nothing much will be accomplished except the small accidental triumphs that come from the rest of us ignoring them all and struggling on as best as we can.
But rather than waste the next year or so listening to the Leaders of Conventional Wisdom blat away at each other with overwrought and under-thought rhetoric, how's about we try something new. Let's start a list of "things that really matter that we can fix", and maybe another one of "people who really ARE looking out for us". Don't put labels on them, just note when they do things right. You may have to go looking for them, because people doing good things doesn't make the news; but they are out there. Let's start now so that when the Coke and Pepsi candidates ask which tastes better, we can tell them... I'll take a beer, thanks.
I know it's sad to think of putting them out of work... but I can think of a very nice parting gift: Has Been, by William Shatner
Friday, November 10, 2006
What Makes Me Gay
Originally posted Friday, November 10, 2006, this little piece still makes me giggle at my own wit... which is pretty gay. My hope is that, if YOU are gay, you will recognize that the intent is to mock the clueless way supposedly non-gay people have stereotyped and demonized you - and, in their cluelessness, me. If you are NOT gay, the intent is to make you wonder.
Current mood:Super (thanks for asking)
I am not a homosexual, and yet people feel compelled to tell me with alarming frequency that I am Gay. What prompts this sort of thing? Well...
1) I don't like football. Nor do I care for professional wrestling, NASCAR, hunting, or even fishing. I do, however, enjoy all manner of music, and even a bit of theater. This, I am told, makes me Gay. I first learned this from a football player -- of course -- who told me that being in choir was gay, and that a real man played football. I questioned his logic, since choir brought me into close, occasionally intimate contact with a variety of lovely young women, while football offered the prospect of showering en masse with a roomful of men.
Years later there was a major scandal in our state involving "hazing" practices on many of our varsity teams. A few of the teams had forced new players to participate in highly illegal and certainly immoral acts with livestock and with each other.
Conclusion: football is "gay".
2) I love my wife. This beautiful woman, whom I often refer to as "my lovely bride", is the central focus of my existence, my business manager, my lover, and of course, my best friend. I will emphasize one of her most obvious features: she is a female. Yang to my yin, if you will. Most assuredly NOT a man.
And yet, when I mention -- or even hint -- that I feel this way about my spouse, my fellow men tell me (you may have guessed): how very Gay I am.
Pardon me for asking, but isn't being "gay" supposed to have something to do with activities between males? Or, at least, two or more persons of the SAME gender? After all, the subject usually comes up when I'm making excuses for not going out "with the fellas", drinking, watching football, or other "manly" activities. Somehow, preferring the company of my wife -- a person of the opposite gender -- to that of my male counterparts is what they are pointing out as my fatal flaw.
Conclusion: marriage, between a man and a woman, is Gay.
3) Then there is Grandpa. Grandpa would come to our house, and my parents would hover about, making sure that his Archie Bunker-esque comments were edited for our wee ears. But Grandpa felt that there were Things We Should Know about the world, so we could effectively gird ourselves with the whole armor of God. (Ephesians 6:13) So, when mom and dad were busy, Grandpa would pull us aside and "warn us" in extremely cryptic terms about the evils of the world.
"Never cross a brown horse with a white horse, son," he said once. I was confused. "Isn't that how you get an Appaloosa, Grandpa?" I asked. He made and exasperated noise, sounding rather like Foghorn Leghorn trying to talk the chicken hawk out of eating him. "No, son, you misunderstand me..."
He often suggested haircuts, though my hair was never any longer than you see it in the Superman picture to the left. And of course he cautioned against earrings of any kind. "You don't want to get too light in the loafers, son" he would say. Whatever THAT was supposed to mean. I ran to the bathroom to weigh myself, but I wasn't even sure what would count as "too light". So I changed into sneakers.
As near as I could figure, before someone actually explained what a "homosexual" was, being gay meant growing your hair out, piercing your ears, and walking around hating Jesus. So, basically, I thought it was a big word for "pirate". I did have one question about Grandpa's definition, though.
"What about Jesus, Grandpa? He had long hair. Was HE gay?"
After the choking and spluttering died down, Grandpa explained that Jesus didn't actually have long hair. All those pictures you see were just propaganda made up by Satan. (Also known in Grandpa's world as "the Catholic Church".) You see, they were all shepherds back then, and of course, they knew how to shear sheep. So, undoubtedly, he kept his hair shorn in a nice, brisk, 1950's era flat-top like any respectable Southern Baptist preacher. He appeared to be so relieved to have come up with that explanation, I didn't even ask about all of the kissing going on between men. Or why Jesus never got married.
Conclusion: Jesus was secretly Gay.
Summary: while I am not a homosexual, I am definitely going to hell. Which is fine with me, as long as they don't let in any football players!
Current mood:Super (thanks for asking)
I am not a homosexual, and yet people feel compelled to tell me with alarming frequency that I am Gay. What prompts this sort of thing? Well...
1) I don't like football. Nor do I care for professional wrestling, NASCAR, hunting, or even fishing. I do, however, enjoy all manner of music, and even a bit of theater. This, I am told, makes me Gay. I first learned this from a football player -- of course -- who told me that being in choir was gay, and that a real man played football. I questioned his logic, since choir brought me into close, occasionally intimate contact with a variety of lovely young women, while football offered the prospect of showering en masse with a roomful of men.
Years later there was a major scandal in our state involving "hazing" practices on many of our varsity teams. A few of the teams had forced new players to participate in highly illegal and certainly immoral acts with livestock and with each other.
Conclusion: football is "gay".
2) I love my wife. This beautiful woman, whom I often refer to as "my lovely bride", is the central focus of my existence, my business manager, my lover, and of course, my best friend. I will emphasize one of her most obvious features: she is a female. Yang to my yin, if you will. Most assuredly NOT a man.
And yet, when I mention -- or even hint -- that I feel this way about my spouse, my fellow men tell me (you may have guessed): how very Gay I am.
Pardon me for asking, but isn't being "gay" supposed to have something to do with activities between males? Or, at least, two or more persons of the SAME gender? After all, the subject usually comes up when I'm making excuses for not going out "with the fellas", drinking, watching football, or other "manly" activities. Somehow, preferring the company of my wife -- a person of the opposite gender -- to that of my male counterparts is what they are pointing out as my fatal flaw.
Conclusion: marriage, between a man and a woman, is Gay.
3) Then there is Grandpa. Grandpa would come to our house, and my parents would hover about, making sure that his Archie Bunker-esque comments were edited for our wee ears. But Grandpa felt that there were Things We Should Know about the world, so we could effectively gird ourselves with the whole armor of God. (Ephesians 6:13) So, when mom and dad were busy, Grandpa would pull us aside and "warn us" in extremely cryptic terms about the evils of the world.
"Never cross a brown horse with a white horse, son," he said once. I was confused. "Isn't that how you get an Appaloosa, Grandpa?" I asked. He made and exasperated noise, sounding rather like Foghorn Leghorn trying to talk the chicken hawk out of eating him. "No, son, you misunderstand me..."
He often suggested haircuts, though my hair was never any longer than you see it in the Superman picture to the left. And of course he cautioned against earrings of any kind. "You don't want to get too light in the loafers, son" he would say. Whatever THAT was supposed to mean. I ran to the bathroom to weigh myself, but I wasn't even sure what would count as "too light". So I changed into sneakers.
As near as I could figure, before someone actually explained what a "homosexual" was, being gay meant growing your hair out, piercing your ears, and walking around hating Jesus. So, basically, I thought it was a big word for "pirate". I did have one question about Grandpa's definition, though.
"What about Jesus, Grandpa? He had long hair. Was HE gay?"
After the choking and spluttering died down, Grandpa explained that Jesus didn't actually have long hair. All those pictures you see were just propaganda made up by Satan. (Also known in Grandpa's world as "the Catholic Church".) You see, they were all shepherds back then, and of course, they knew how to shear sheep. So, undoubtedly, he kept his hair shorn in a nice, brisk, 1950's era flat-top like any respectable Southern Baptist preacher. He appeared to be so relieved to have come up with that explanation, I didn't even ask about all of the kissing going on between men. Or why Jesus never got married.
Conclusion: Jesus was secretly Gay.
Summary: while I am not a homosexual, I am definitely going to hell. Which is fine with me, as long as they don't let in any football players!
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