It's taken me a while to figure out how to present my highly personal reaction to the case that has captivated the nation this week. I don't want to write about race; instead I am going to frame this as something at once broader and much more specific:
George Zimmerman is a bully, and this tragic case is about bullying.
Last fall, during the presidential campaign, I wrote a post called Romney the Bully, which resonated deeply with many other survivors of abuse. Like me, they picked up on an aspect of Mitt Romney's personality that apparently flew under the radar for a lot of people. From the very first, I had similar vibes about George Zimmerman. The man seemed like a bully.
An article posted on HuffPo last year confirms my suspicions. It describes Zimmerman's old MySpace page, which his lawyers acknowledged "will cast Mr. Zimmerman in a less-than-favorable light especially considering the charges he faces." On it, among other things, Zimmerman describes his delight that a judge had dropped two felony charges brought after his ex-fianceé, whom he calls "the ex hoe," accused him of domestic violence and took out a restraining order. He also disparages Mexican Americans in highly offensive terms. He comes across as a man itching for a fight and eager to humiliate others: the definition, in short, of a bully.
Now ask yourself whether a person who writes such things and who had domestic violence charges brought against him a few years earlier should be able to get a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and you'll realize exactly what is wrong with the lax "shall issue" concealed carry laws in Florida and many other states. People with serious attitude problems and poor impulse control can carry a weapon almost anywhere they go, and this increases their sense of power—and their actual power—over the people they disrespect and wish to humiliate.
And then there are the Stand Your Ground laws that played such a central role in this case. (True, Zimmerman did not invoke Stand You Ground, but Stand Your Ground language was in the judge's instructions to the jury.) The existence of these laws on top of concealed carry laws creates a perfect storm of enabling mechanisms that encourage bullies to provoke fights, knowing that if they encounter any resistance, they can kill and have the law on their side.
The most common advice given to bullying victims—as I know from personal experience—is to fight back and show the bully who's who. Most bullying victims are unlikely to do that, often for the very reasons that made them victims in the first place. It comes much more naturally to just suck it up and let the bully have his petty triumphs, one after another after another, day after day and year after year. Anyone who has been in an abusive relationship can also understand this trap and its implications: Someday, when it gets to be too much, you may finally let the bully have it. Previously that might have gotten him to back off. Now he can pull out a gun and shoot you, and the law will back him up.
As someone whose childhood was stolen by relentless bullying and whose entire adult life has been a long, painful arc of recovery from that devastating experience, I am horrified by the legal nightmare that the combination of concealed carry and Stand Your Ground laws has created. A civilized society cannot keep creating laws that increase the power of bullies and bullying. For those of us who have experience with abuse, this situation perpetually opens deep wounds that will never entirely heal. For all of us, it debases our society and our lives, pushing us inexorably toward brutality and ugliness.
The jury may have had no choice, based on the laws, but to acquit George Zimmerman. The rest of us must do everything we can to change those laws. As a bullying victim, I am more determined than ever not to yield another inch to the bullies of the NRA. I will spend the rest of my life struggling to regain whatever ground is still possible.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
This week from hell
It would be unseemly, I suppose, to feel relaxed and happy after the week we all just experienced, so I hope I can be forgiven for sounding a bit grouchy in my first blog post in over a month. If you don't know, West, Texas is just a hop down the interstate from where I live, and I've stopped there many times to buy delicious Czech pastries. The disaster there on Wednesday has hit this area hard.
Like many people, I have also paid morbid attention to the events in Boston that reached the crisis point last night. The young man whom they cornered, bleeding and defiant, was the same age as my son. I can't even begin to comprehend what drove him to his recent actions.
By far the hardest disaster for me to witness this week, though, was the failure of the United States Senate to vote either for universal background checks on gun purchases or for an outright ban on weaponry that no civilized country can allow people to own. Notice that I said "can," not "should."
Perhaps it was unreasonable to hope for more. Making some progress on gun control, though, would have been an enormous morale boost at a time when the struggle to keep the machinery of death off of college campuses has dominated much of my past teaching term. I could not have coped with that struggle last spring, when the wound from losing Barbara was still raw and my daily teaching round required all my concentration and strength.
At the same time, though, the joy that I take in teaching was a major part of what got me through that incredibly difficult spring and summer. This year, having to work so hard against people determined to bring guns on campus has robbed me of much of that joy. I love teaching so much that I used to assume I would keep doing it until I could no longer physically make it to the classroom. Now I'm wondering if I will have the strength to keep fending off this insanity every two years until I am eligible to retire. This makes me very sad.
I know there are probably few gun rights advocates reading this blog, but to any who are, I have a very simple message. I know you believe that you are working to expand your freedoms. I need you to understand that you are destroying mine. I feel less free than I have felt in a long time, and even the limited freedom I have left seems threatened. We cannot live together in a democracy unless you are willing to compromise. Otherwise, in your efforts to oppose tyranny, you become tyrants yourself.
What I am trying to recover is nothing less than my freedom, my joy in what I do and, most importantly of all, my country. I care about those things too much to give them up. I've heard all your arguments. Please listen to mine.
Like many people, I have also paid morbid attention to the events in Boston that reached the crisis point last night. The young man whom they cornered, bleeding and defiant, was the same age as my son. I can't even begin to comprehend what drove him to his recent actions.
By far the hardest disaster for me to witness this week, though, was the failure of the United States Senate to vote either for universal background checks on gun purchases or for an outright ban on weaponry that no civilized country can allow people to own. Notice that I said "can," not "should."
Perhaps it was unreasonable to hope for more. Making some progress on gun control, though, would have been an enormous morale boost at a time when the struggle to keep the machinery of death off of college campuses has dominated much of my past teaching term. I could not have coped with that struggle last spring, when the wound from losing Barbara was still raw and my daily teaching round required all my concentration and strength.
At the same time, though, the joy that I take in teaching was a major part of what got me through that incredibly difficult spring and summer. This year, having to work so hard against people determined to bring guns on campus has robbed me of much of that joy. I love teaching so much that I used to assume I would keep doing it until I could no longer physically make it to the classroom. Now I'm wondering if I will have the strength to keep fending off this insanity every two years until I am eligible to retire. This makes me very sad.
I know there are probably few gun rights advocates reading this blog, but to any who are, I have a very simple message. I know you believe that you are working to expand your freedoms. I need you to understand that you are destroying mine. I feel less free than I have felt in a long time, and even the limited freedom I have left seems threatened. We cannot live together in a democracy unless you are willing to compromise. Otherwise, in your efforts to oppose tyranny, you become tyrants yourself.
What I am trying to recover is nothing less than my freedom, my joy in what I do and, most importantly of all, my country. I care about those things too much to give them up. I've heard all your arguments. Please listen to mine.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Spiritually confused
I heard a man testify today that he feels naked when he goes to church because he can't bring his gun there.
It's called being in the presence of God.
I heard a man describe a simulation he had carried out to prove that concealed handgun licensees were effective 100% of the time in preventing campus shootings, and security guards weren't effective at all.
It's nice to know that you can design an experiment to prove your pre-determined beliefs.
I heard a young woman fiercely describe her "God-given" right to defend herself with a gun and assert it in terms that easily lapsed into self-parody.
I sure wouldn't want to run into you on a dark street at night. Oh, and I've said it before, but describing violent self-defense as a God-given right is the clearest example of blasphemy that I've ever heard.
I heard a young man say that *I* am suppressing the free expression of ideas by arguing against guns in classrooms.
A gun is not an idea. You can come to my class and argue for gun rights all you want. Bring a gun to my class and I will personally see you expelled.
And so it went for nearly five solid hours. Arguments both for and against campus concealed carry were made before the Homeland Security and Public Safety Committee of the Texas House of Representatives. I said my piece and it went well. John Woods, whose girlfriend was killed at Virginia Tech, gave an amazing speech. Articulate people from colleges, schools and police forces spoke against the four bills under consideration, as did three survivors of the 1966 shootings on the University of Texas campus that are the unfortunate archetype for all subsequent such events.
What I mostly felt during the testimony, though, was a constant low-grade horror at the mentality of so many of my fellow citizens. Not because the people who testified for campus concealed carry were fools, but because so many of them were not. A lot of them, I have to say, appear to be good people who honestly think that they need to carry a gun everywhere they go to be safe, and that everybody else does as well.
And here's the sad truth: A society in which a few extremists hold that view is par for the course. A society in which good and decent people hold it is sick unto death spiritually.
I hope against hope that what I saw today in a Texas hearing room is not typical of my state, let alone of the country. Recent news stories suggest that despite escalating gun sales, fewer and fewer people actually own guns, and violent crime is on the decline. After hearing that testimony all afternoon, though, I am very confused spiritually. I have rarely felt so certain that I was speaking for the side of the angels, and I have rarely felt so appalled at the arguments used by the other side: appalled not so much by the arguments themselves but at the casual ease with which they are assumed to be unanswerable.
Nevertheless, they can be answered. The inability to think outside of the box of violent self-defense is a sickness, and it cannot possibly be cured by more and more guns. The only way to deal with it is by removing the cause, and that cause is the ridiculous availability of deadly firepower in this country. Reasonable restrictions need to be adopted, because there is no other solution. I made that case today as best I could, by speaking up for the culture of the academic world to which I have dedicated my life, and to which campus concealed carry poses an unimaginable threat. I will keep making it in as many ways as I can, because my conscience will accuse me if I do not, and then I will have no answer to make.
It's called being in the presence of God.
I heard a man describe a simulation he had carried out to prove that concealed handgun licensees were effective 100% of the time in preventing campus shootings, and security guards weren't effective at all.
It's nice to know that you can design an experiment to prove your pre-determined beliefs.
I heard a young woman fiercely describe her "God-given" right to defend herself with a gun and assert it in terms that easily lapsed into self-parody.
I sure wouldn't want to run into you on a dark street at night. Oh, and I've said it before, but describing violent self-defense as a God-given right is the clearest example of blasphemy that I've ever heard.
I heard a young man say that *I* am suppressing the free expression of ideas by arguing against guns in classrooms.
A gun is not an idea. You can come to my class and argue for gun rights all you want. Bring a gun to my class and I will personally see you expelled.
And so it went for nearly five solid hours. Arguments both for and against campus concealed carry were made before the Homeland Security and Public Safety Committee of the Texas House of Representatives. I said my piece and it went well. John Woods, whose girlfriend was killed at Virginia Tech, gave an amazing speech. Articulate people from colleges, schools and police forces spoke against the four bills under consideration, as did three survivors of the 1966 shootings on the University of Texas campus that are the unfortunate archetype for all subsequent such events.
What I mostly felt during the testimony, though, was a constant low-grade horror at the mentality of so many of my fellow citizens. Not because the people who testified for campus concealed carry were fools, but because so many of them were not. A lot of them, I have to say, appear to be good people who honestly think that they need to carry a gun everywhere they go to be safe, and that everybody else does as well.
And here's the sad truth: A society in which a few extremists hold that view is par for the course. A society in which good and decent people hold it is sick unto death spiritually.
I hope against hope that what I saw today in a Texas hearing room is not typical of my state, let alone of the country. Recent news stories suggest that despite escalating gun sales, fewer and fewer people actually own guns, and violent crime is on the decline. After hearing that testimony all afternoon, though, I am very confused spiritually. I have rarely felt so certain that I was speaking for the side of the angels, and I have rarely felt so appalled at the arguments used by the other side: appalled not so much by the arguments themselves but at the casual ease with which they are assumed to be unanswerable.
Nevertheless, they can be answered. The inability to think outside of the box of violent self-defense is a sickness, and it cannot possibly be cured by more and more guns. The only way to deal with it is by removing the cause, and that cause is the ridiculous availability of deadly firepower in this country. Reasonable restrictions need to be adopted, because there is no other solution. I made that case today as best I could, by speaking up for the culture of the academic world to which I have dedicated my life, and to which campus concealed carry poses an unimaginable threat. I will keep making it in as many ways as I can, because my conscience will accuse me if I do not, and then I will have no answer to make.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
"Perfect love casteth out fear"
I have had my attention drawn to I John 4:18 repeatedly in the past few weeks, and as I prepare once again to testify in the Texas State Capitol against campus concealed carry this Thursday, I feel drawn to record a few thoughts about the resonance of those words in my life.
I am not a Greek scholar, but I understand that the love of which the apostle speaks is "teleia," and that this word refers to something that has been brought to completion, not something that is immutably, inhumanly perfect. It is a love to be aspired to, and perhaps to be glimpsed in moments of our full humanity. It is not a pill, a formula, or a magic spell, and it doesn't mean that a life without fear is the normal state for somebody who loves, any more than it is the normal state for anybody else. You cannot have love that is perfect in this sense unless you have known and experienced fear as an everyday companion, and have discovered the inadequacy of any other means of taming it.
Two very different circumstances these past two years have reminded me that many people are afraid to live in fear. It is very natural and very human to seek a way out that is neater and easier than this messy business of perfecting our love for each other. Thus, I have heard repeatedly since Barbara died that "there is a reason for everything that happens, and you have to believe that, even if you can't understand right now why this terrible thing has happened to you." I struggle with this statement, because I know those who make it mean well and honestly believe they give comfort by saying those words. If you are reading this now and are one of those people, please know that I understand.
I can state from hard experience, though, that there is probably nothing worse you can say to a bereaved person. That statement tells us that God is responsible for the death of our loved one: that God took him or her for reasons that are clear to God but that make no sense to the rest of us. If God is in full control of everything that happens in the universe, then fear is unnecessary and grief is insufficient. What this means, though, is that in order to cast out the fear of the random, unfathomable nature of everyday life, you have to make God a monster and then suggest that we conquer our own fear and grief by making our peace with that monstrosity. Such thinking cuts like daggers into the hearts of the bereaved. In it I hear the voice of fear, not that of faith.
I also hear the voice of fear in repeated statements that "the world [including college campuses] is a dangerous place, so I need a gun to protect myself." If this is your belief, then I would suggest that you are also yielding to fear and seeking an easy way out. You are seeking - and again, I understand, because this is human nature - to take control when reality counsels that you should learn to live with some degree of uncertainty instead.
If the Gospel teaches anything, it is that achieving such control is beyond our ability, but that with faith we can live in uncertainty, knowing that behind the randomness is a powerful force of love that alone deserves our trust and allegiance. Turning to anything else - either to the false god of total control or to the equally false god of violent self-defense - only serves to make our love less perfect than ever, and to move us further from the one God.
When I walk into the capitol building on Thursday, I will be wearing my love as conspicuously and as vulnerably as possible: not in a concealed holster or with any kind of assurance that my actions will achieve the desired results. If guns come to be openly allowed on college campuses - one of the safest and least fearsome places in our country - fear will have won an important victory and love will be correspondingly diminished. On Thursday I will be taking a step not just to try to prevent that disaster from happening, but to perfect my own love as well, in the knowledge that by so doing I am casting out fear from the world. I would appreciate your prayers.
I am not a Greek scholar, but I understand that the love of which the apostle speaks is "teleia," and that this word refers to something that has been brought to completion, not something that is immutably, inhumanly perfect. It is a love to be aspired to, and perhaps to be glimpsed in moments of our full humanity. It is not a pill, a formula, or a magic spell, and it doesn't mean that a life without fear is the normal state for somebody who loves, any more than it is the normal state for anybody else. You cannot have love that is perfect in this sense unless you have known and experienced fear as an everyday companion, and have discovered the inadequacy of any other means of taming it.
Two very different circumstances these past two years have reminded me that many people are afraid to live in fear. It is very natural and very human to seek a way out that is neater and easier than this messy business of perfecting our love for each other. Thus, I have heard repeatedly since Barbara died that "there is a reason for everything that happens, and you have to believe that, even if you can't understand right now why this terrible thing has happened to you." I struggle with this statement, because I know those who make it mean well and honestly believe they give comfort by saying those words. If you are reading this now and are one of those people, please know that I understand.
I can state from hard experience, though, that there is probably nothing worse you can say to a bereaved person. That statement tells us that God is responsible for the death of our loved one: that God took him or her for reasons that are clear to God but that make no sense to the rest of us. If God is in full control of everything that happens in the universe, then fear is unnecessary and grief is insufficient. What this means, though, is that in order to cast out the fear of the random, unfathomable nature of everyday life, you have to make God a monster and then suggest that we conquer our own fear and grief by making our peace with that monstrosity. Such thinking cuts like daggers into the hearts of the bereaved. In it I hear the voice of fear, not that of faith.
I also hear the voice of fear in repeated statements that "the world [including college campuses] is a dangerous place, so I need a gun to protect myself." If this is your belief, then I would suggest that you are also yielding to fear and seeking an easy way out. You are seeking - and again, I understand, because this is human nature - to take control when reality counsels that you should learn to live with some degree of uncertainty instead.
If the Gospel teaches anything, it is that achieving such control is beyond our ability, but that with faith we can live in uncertainty, knowing that behind the randomness is a powerful force of love that alone deserves our trust and allegiance. Turning to anything else - either to the false god of total control or to the equally false god of violent self-defense - only serves to make our love less perfect than ever, and to move us further from the one God.
When I walk into the capitol building on Thursday, I will be wearing my love as conspicuously and as vulnerably as possible: not in a concealed holster or with any kind of assurance that my actions will achieve the desired results. If guns come to be openly allowed on college campuses - one of the safest and least fearsome places in our country - fear will have won an important victory and love will be correspondingly diminished. On Thursday I will be taking a step not just to try to prevent that disaster from happening, but to perfect my own love as well, in the knowledge that by so doing I am casting out fear from the world. I would appreciate your prayers.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
For the record
The messages of support I have gotten during the past week and a half because of my opposition to SB 182, Sen. Brian Birdwell's bill to legalize concealed carry of handguns on college campuses, have been overwhelming. They have come from colleagues, students, administrators and friends: groups which, of course, are not mutually exclusive. The public reaction, though, has been more equivocal. Letters have appeared in both the Baylor Lariat and the Waco Tribune-Herald opposing the stand my colleague Blake Burleson and I have taken, and the Lariat managed to find a colleague to interview who supports the bill. I have written a letter to the Lariat that I hope will appear tomorrow, so I am going to use this space to clear up a misunderstanding which unfortunately is all too typical of the way this debate is conducted.
In the Lariat's coverage of our delivery of the petition to Sen. Birdwell's office last week, I was quoted as saying that if the bill passes, Baylor, as a private university, could still make it against our policy to bring guns to campus, but that students who violated that policy would no longer be committing a felony. In response, a student wrote the following in a letter that is currently on the Lariat's website:
"Wallace again claims that if concealed carry was legalized in Texas on college campuses, Baylor would still retain the right to deny that freedom being a private university, which is true. He points out that the university would need to produce signage and a 'legal force' to enforce such policies; however, he also states, in the event concealed carry on campuses is legalized, that '[s]omebody who violated that rule would no longer be committing a felony as they are at present.' While I do not deny that instilling some ‘physical force’ would be more effective, clearly Wallace has not taken the time to educate himself on concealed carry laws – Texas Penal Code § 30.06 to be exact. There is already a 'legal force' in place in the form of a sign. It is called a 30.06 (pronounced 'thirty-ought six”') sign. Texas CHL owners are instructed in the proper interpretation of these signs, meaning that to enter any premises that visibly displays this sign while carrying a legal firearm is, in fact, a felony. Wallace’s statement that they would not be committing a felony would be false if Baylor were to place them at all boundaries of the campus."
I checked and easily confirmed that violating a 30.06 sign is, at worst, a misdemeanor trespass and not a felony. Furthermore, the law requires that 30.06 signs must be displayed in a conspicuous manner clearly visible to the public. I am informed by a knowledgeable third party that the lack of a clear definition of the words "conspicuous" and "clearly visible" opens up a huge legal loophole that makes 30.06 violations extremely difficult to prosecute. So Baylor is actually on even weaker legal ground than I had previously thought. If SB 182 passes, the most serious charge we would be able to bring against someone who brought a concealed handgun to our campus would, as I thought, be misdemeanor trespassing. Even that, though, would be hard to substantiate, especially on a campus as large as Baylor's.
In the Lariat's coverage of our delivery of the petition to Sen. Birdwell's office last week, I was quoted as saying that if the bill passes, Baylor, as a private university, could still make it against our policy to bring guns to campus, but that students who violated that policy would no longer be committing a felony. In response, a student wrote the following in a letter that is currently on the Lariat's website:
"Wallace again claims that if concealed carry was legalized in Texas on college campuses, Baylor would still retain the right to deny that freedom being a private university, which is true. He points out that the university would need to produce signage and a 'legal force' to enforce such policies; however, he also states, in the event concealed carry on campuses is legalized, that '[s]omebody who violated that rule would no longer be committing a felony as they are at present.' While I do not deny that instilling some ‘physical force’ would be more effective, clearly Wallace has not taken the time to educate himself on concealed carry laws – Texas Penal Code § 30.06 to be exact. There is already a 'legal force' in place in the form of a sign. It is called a 30.06 (pronounced 'thirty-ought six”') sign. Texas CHL owners are instructed in the proper interpretation of these signs, meaning that to enter any premises that visibly displays this sign while carrying a legal firearm is, in fact, a felony. Wallace’s statement that they would not be committing a felony would be false if Baylor were to place them at all boundaries of the campus."
I checked and easily confirmed that violating a 30.06 sign is, at worst, a misdemeanor trespass and not a felony. Furthermore, the law requires that 30.06 signs must be displayed in a conspicuous manner clearly visible to the public. I am informed by a knowledgeable third party that the lack of a clear definition of the words "conspicuous" and "clearly visible" opens up a huge legal loophole that makes 30.06 violations extremely difficult to prosecute. So Baylor is actually on even weaker legal ground than I had previously thought. If SB 182 passes, the most serious charge we would be able to bring against someone who brought a concealed handgun to our campus would, as I thought, be misdemeanor trespassing. Even that, though, would be hard to substantiate, especially on a campus as large as Baylor's.
Monday, February 18, 2013
But, doctor...
"Dr. Toothacre, can you understand why some patients would think they need to be prescribed heroin in order to deal with the pain they experience after having a tooth extracted?"
This morning, my Baylor colleague Blake Burleson and I went over to State Senator Brian Birdwell's office in downtown Waco. Senator Birdwell is one of the main sponsors of SB 182, the latest attempt by members of the Texas legislature to make it legal to carry concealed weapons into buildings on college campuses, including classrooms, dormitories and libraries. We were accompanied by a small entourage of interested people, including a reporter for the Baylor Lariat, and were met by reporters from three local TV stations, the Waco Tribune-Herald, and KWBU, the local NPR station. We were carrying a petition signed by 120 faculty and staff members at Baylor, explaining why we think the bill is an extraordinarily bad idea.
"Yes, I can understand that. Having a tooth extracted is a significant trauma to the body. It can hurt."
It was kind of eerie standing with Blake in the lobby of 900 Austin Avenue while flashes went off and three TV cameras were trained on us simultaneously. I felt pretty composed as we dealt with primarily softball questions about our reasons for opposing the bill and about its implications.
"It would be a dentist's job, though, to explain to such a patient why the demand for heroin constitutes an excessive and misguided response to that pain."
After the interview, we took the elevator up to the senator's office, where they clearly weren't expecting us. The staffer there was very polite, but emphasized that the Waco office doesn't handle political issues and that the senator was in Austin with his political staff. She kindly offered to scan the petition and send a .pdf to Austin. She also gave me the name of the senator's chief of staff there and suggested I call him. I did. He hasn't responded.
"What would you do, though, if the patient persisted?"
Going back downstairs, we found the reporters still there, and the Fox News reporter asked for a longer interview. He tried to push Blake and me a bit—as I suspected he would—asking whether we understood why some people really wanted the ability to defend themselves and didn't feel comfortable without it. Again, I think we both handled ourselves well and gave valid, articulate responses.
"I would tell him/her that this was a matter for my professional judgment, and that as a medical professional, I could assure him/her that taking heroin would not be beneficial or helpful, no matter what the short-term benefits in terms of pain avoidance."
The point that we tried to leave him with—and that we will try to impress upon the senator if he deigns to meet with us—is this. As education professionals, we are best suited to know what is beneficial to our students and to the learning experience. Just as we would expect our state senator to consult with local dentists before trying to push through a bill mandating that they prescribe heroin for toothaches, so we would expect him to consult with us before trying to push through a bill allowing students to bring guns into our classrooms. The fact that he didn't feel the need to consult with college professors before introducing this profoundly misguided legislation for the second legislative session in a row is telling. It means that he, and the other senators who are sponsoring this bill, do not respect our professional integrity. They don't think we know what's best for our "patients." It's time we told them otherwise.
"And if he/she ignored that advice, I would still know that I had the full support of my profession in giving it. I would know that I had the law, and common sense, behind me as well."
Shouldn't professors be entitled to that kind of support?
This morning, my Baylor colleague Blake Burleson and I went over to State Senator Brian Birdwell's office in downtown Waco. Senator Birdwell is one of the main sponsors of SB 182, the latest attempt by members of the Texas legislature to make it legal to carry concealed weapons into buildings on college campuses, including classrooms, dormitories and libraries. We were accompanied by a small entourage of interested people, including a reporter for the Baylor Lariat, and were met by reporters from three local TV stations, the Waco Tribune-Herald, and KWBU, the local NPR station. We were carrying a petition signed by 120 faculty and staff members at Baylor, explaining why we think the bill is an extraordinarily bad idea.
"Yes, I can understand that. Having a tooth extracted is a significant trauma to the body. It can hurt."
It was kind of eerie standing with Blake in the lobby of 900 Austin Avenue while flashes went off and three TV cameras were trained on us simultaneously. I felt pretty composed as we dealt with primarily softball questions about our reasons for opposing the bill and about its implications.
"It would be a dentist's job, though, to explain to such a patient why the demand for heroin constitutes an excessive and misguided response to that pain."
After the interview, we took the elevator up to the senator's office, where they clearly weren't expecting us. The staffer there was very polite, but emphasized that the Waco office doesn't handle political issues and that the senator was in Austin with his political staff. She kindly offered to scan the petition and send a .pdf to Austin. She also gave me the name of the senator's chief of staff there and suggested I call him. I did. He hasn't responded.
"What would you do, though, if the patient persisted?"
Going back downstairs, we found the reporters still there, and the Fox News reporter asked for a longer interview. He tried to push Blake and me a bit—as I suspected he would—asking whether we understood why some people really wanted the ability to defend themselves and didn't feel comfortable without it. Again, I think we both handled ourselves well and gave valid, articulate responses.
"I would tell him/her that this was a matter for my professional judgment, and that as a medical professional, I could assure him/her that taking heroin would not be beneficial or helpful, no matter what the short-term benefits in terms of pain avoidance."
The point that we tried to leave him with—and that we will try to impress upon the senator if he deigns to meet with us—is this. As education professionals, we are best suited to know what is beneficial to our students and to the learning experience. Just as we would expect our state senator to consult with local dentists before trying to push through a bill mandating that they prescribe heroin for toothaches, so we would expect him to consult with us before trying to push through a bill allowing students to bring guns into our classrooms. The fact that he didn't feel the need to consult with college professors before introducing this profoundly misguided legislation for the second legislative session in a row is telling. It means that he, and the other senators who are sponsoring this bill, do not respect our professional integrity. They don't think we know what's best for our "patients." It's time we told them otherwise.
"And if he/she ignored that advice, I would still know that I had the full support of my profession in giving it. I would know that I had the law, and common sense, behind me as well."
Shouldn't professors be entitled to that kind of support?
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The first salvo
It's that time again. Every two years, like a smoothly oiled machine, gun rights supporters in the Texas legislature reintroduce a bill that would make it legal to carry concealed weapons into college classrooms, dormitories and libraries. This year, it has surfaced in the form of SB 182, which has the sponsorship of my very own state senator, Brian Birdwell.
As readers of this blog know, we managed to stop this juggernaut two years ago, preventing the implementation of what surely ranks as one of the worst ideas in the history of democratic government. We—by which I mean the overwhelming majority of college teachers, administrators, campus police and parents—are determined to stop it again. We wish to stop it for the sake of our children and our students, and of the academic community to which we all belong.
One important step will be to make Sen. Birdwell aware of the depth of opposition his proposal stirs up within the college community. (Based on my conversation with his office staff two years ago, he has no idea.) My colleague Blake Burleson and I have written the following letter, which we plan to deliver to Sen. Birdwell's office in a few weeks with maximum possible publicity. The more signatures we can get the better. So I am including the text of the letter here. If you are connected with a college or university in Sen. Birdwell's district in any of the capacities I mentioned above—teacher, administrator, campus police or parent—please feel free to copy it, sign it, and return it to me. Thanks. Together we can beat this thing—and we must!
Robin Wallace
Box 97408
One Bear Place
Waco, TX 76798
As readers of this blog know, we managed to stop this juggernaut two years ago, preventing the implementation of what surely ranks as one of the worst ideas in the history of democratic government. We—by which I mean the overwhelming majority of college teachers, administrators, campus police and parents—are determined to stop it again. We wish to stop it for the sake of our children and our students, and of the academic community to which we all belong.
One important step will be to make Sen. Birdwell aware of the depth of opposition his proposal stirs up within the college community. (Based on my conversation with his office staff two years ago, he has no idea.) My colleague Blake Burleson and I have written the following letter, which we plan to deliver to Sen. Birdwell's office in a few weeks with maximum possible publicity. The more signatures we can get the better. So I am including the text of the letter here. If you are connected with a college or university in Sen. Birdwell's district in any of the capacities I mentioned above—teacher, administrator, campus police or parent—please feel free to copy it, sign it, and return it to me. Thanks. Together we can beat this thing—and we must!
Robin Wallace
Box 97408
One Bear Place
Waco, TX 76798
February 13, 2013
Senator Brian Birdwell
1400 Congress Ave
Austin, TX 78701
1400 Congress Ave
Austin, TX 78701
Dear Senator Birdwell,
We are writing to voice our opposition to the proposed legislation
SB 182 that would
allow students and other individuals to carry concealed weapons on our college
campuses. While those of us at Baylor
University are relieved that this bill would not force private universities to
comply, we object to the proposed change that it would no longer be a crime for
someone to carry a weapon on our private campus. Furthermore, as educators we are concerned
about the effect this law would have on higher education at all of our public
universities in Texas.
Not only are the intended outcomes of this legislation (i.e., a
safer campus against acts of violence) highly questionable but the unintended
outcomes of this legislation are predictably disruptive and potentially disastrous. Allowing students to carry deadly weapons
into our classrooms will potentially change the way we lecture and facilitate
discussions. It may very well impede the
free flow of ideas and exchanges which are essential in the academic
enterprise; it may introduce an element into this environment that causes
anxiety, tension, concern, and fear.
Allowing students, parents, or others to carry deadly weapons into
our administrative offices where decisions are made about the academic status
of students (including probation, suspension, expulsion, grade appeals, and
graduation), where decisions are made about disciplinary matters (including
probation, suspension, and expulsion), where decisions are made about financial
matters (including the awarding of scholarships, financial aid probation, and
financial aid termination) would, as you can surely imagine, create potential
risks to administrators and their staff; this would be somewhat like allowing
an individual to carry a loaded gun into a court room. When transcripts, personal records, and
financial aid of students are affected by decisions that we make, you can
imagine the high levels of emotion which can be engendered in these situations.
Furthermore, it is no secret that our 17 to 25-year-olds are in
transition from youth to young adulthood; they are at various stages of
intellectual, emotional, and moral maturity.
Loaded handguns carried by youth can be dangerous anywhere but surely we
do not want them in our classrooms, chapels, laboratories, residential halls,
recreation centers, sporting events, intramural fields, health clinics, student
government meetings, cafeterias, cashier’s office, financial aid office,
registrar, record’s office, and many other administrative offices.
We ask you not to gamble with the lives of our students, staff,
and faculty at Baylor University and other Texas colleges with this ill-conceived
experiment.
Instead,
we ask you to support universal background checks as a way to keep our campuses
safer.
Sincerely,
Friday, January 18, 2013
Before and After
Two years ago, on January 18, 2011, I launched my Not Ready for Facebook blog. Over that time I have posted 100 blog entries (this is no. 101) and have received a total of 16,833 pageviews. That's about 168 per post.
Of course that's an average. By far my most widely read post was An Open Letter to Rick Santorum, calling him out for the hypocrisy of his views on healthcare, which was read by over 1500 people within hours of when it was posted. My statement of support for the Occupy movement, in which I challenged a widely circulated but suspicious picture with a line-by-line refutation, was read by about half as many people. After that come my commentary on Mitt Romney's bullying behavior during the debates and a number of posts on guns, including my account of my showdown with a Texas State Senate committee over the proposed bill to make concealed weapons legal on college campuses.
I started this blog in order to have a safe place to share political commentary, since I was getting some serious flak over comments I'd been making on Facebook in the aftermath of the 2010 elections and, specifically, the Gabrielle Giffords shooting. Over the first year I touched on a wide variety of topics, including musical ones. My favorite political post was the one I wrote about the national conscience at the height of the debt-ceiling debacle in 2011.
At the end of the first year, my life was dramatically transformed, and my blog followed suit. In Barbara's Gift, my final post in 2011, I struggled to use words to come to terms with the sudden death of my wife of nearly 23 years. This remains my most heartfelt post, although grief and bereavement were my primary theme through most of 2012, and the total number of posts was much smaller than that of the previous year.
With this post, I kick off the third year of Not Ready for Facebook with a sense of uncertainty. I am through the first year of grieving, which many consider a major milestone, and I probably won't have as much to say about that subject. That doesn't mean I'm "over it," or even that I will ever be "over it." I continue to take that journey one step at a time, and will no doubt continue to describe it on occasion.
I also confess that my passion for politics has cooled down a bit. Intense personal tragedy will do that to you. I also feel vindicated, though, by the 2012 election and the long-term demographic trends that it seems to represent. I have a sense, which I didn't have two years ago, that America is finally moving in the right direction again.
We're not out of the woods, of course, and I'm likely to take more than one occasion to comment on the gun issue as things play out this year. I may also contribute a few more ruminations on musical subjects like this one. And there will probably be long stretches when I am simply silent. I'm not going away. I'll just be taking some time to smell the roses.
Of course that's an average. By far my most widely read post was An Open Letter to Rick Santorum, calling him out for the hypocrisy of his views on healthcare, which was read by over 1500 people within hours of when it was posted. My statement of support for the Occupy movement, in which I challenged a widely circulated but suspicious picture with a line-by-line refutation, was read by about half as many people. After that come my commentary on Mitt Romney's bullying behavior during the debates and a number of posts on guns, including my account of my showdown with a Texas State Senate committee over the proposed bill to make concealed weapons legal on college campuses.
I started this blog in order to have a safe place to share political commentary, since I was getting some serious flak over comments I'd been making on Facebook in the aftermath of the 2010 elections and, specifically, the Gabrielle Giffords shooting. Over the first year I touched on a wide variety of topics, including musical ones. My favorite political post was the one I wrote about the national conscience at the height of the debt-ceiling debacle in 2011.
At the end of the first year, my life was dramatically transformed, and my blog followed suit. In Barbara's Gift, my final post in 2011, I struggled to use words to come to terms with the sudden death of my wife of nearly 23 years. This remains my most heartfelt post, although grief and bereavement were my primary theme through most of 2012, and the total number of posts was much smaller than that of the previous year.
With this post, I kick off the third year of Not Ready for Facebook with a sense of uncertainty. I am through the first year of grieving, which many consider a major milestone, and I probably won't have as much to say about that subject. That doesn't mean I'm "over it," or even that I will ever be "over it." I continue to take that journey one step at a time, and will no doubt continue to describe it on occasion.
I also confess that my passion for politics has cooled down a bit. Intense personal tragedy will do that to you. I also feel vindicated, though, by the 2012 election and the long-term demographic trends that it seems to represent. I have a sense, which I didn't have two years ago, that America is finally moving in the right direction again.
We're not out of the woods, of course, and I'm likely to take more than one occasion to comment on the gun issue as things play out this year. I may also contribute a few more ruminations on musical subjects like this one. And there will probably be long stretches when I am simply silent. I'm not going away. I'll just be taking some time to smell the roses.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
A curious juxtaposition
I haven't written anything here in a while. The reason is that I've been struggling to get through the holiday season, which holds so many memories of traumatic events from last year, and I just haven't had the energy. Today I reached a kind of closure with the first anniversary of Barbara's funeral, and I've decided to take a few moments to pause and write a final blog post for this year.
What I want to write about is the deeply ironic juxtaposition we've all just witnessed of two completely opposite world views. From a Christian perspective, I would simply describe them as heaven and hell. Yes, I do believe in hell, and I do believe that a powerful spiritual struggle is going on around us in which we all have a stake so important that we can't afford not to recognize it.
Let me take a few minutes to review the nature of that struggle. In doing so, I am going to use terms that are widely used by religious writers but that I'm convinced few people really understand, since we put so much unnecessary emphasis on their literal truth that we forget to ask about what they mean. In Karen Armstrong's terms, we privilege the logos or kerygma over the mythos or dogma of religious discourse, to the extent that both "myth" and "dogma" have become terms of derision.
Take the virgin birth. It is very clear to me what it means. Something happened two thousand years ago that impregnated the world with divinity, raising the entire human race to a new, previously inconceivable level. Such a thing cannot happen naturally. Its very reality defines it as something that occurs, as a medieval hymn writer put it, "praeter rerum seriem:" outside the natural order of things. What happened is often described as the birth of a baby under precarious circumstances: the father barely sparing the mother a life of disgrace; the birth taking place among lowly animals because the inn had no room; the king jealously striking out against all newborn boys, with the miraculous baby surviving only by another miracle. All the powers of this world—the social, the political, the military—were arrayed against this fragile birth, and yet it survived and flourished. Such things can only happen against all reason, and can only be recalled by extraordinary faith.
That miraculous baby, we are told, grew up to be an adult who turned his back on the powers of this world. He did so by completely rejecting the terms of imperial control by which his world was organized and making it clear that there was another way to live. That way involved rejecting coercion or violence of any kind. It is this complete refusal to play by the established rules that led to the events of Good Friday that we will acknowledge in the coming months.
But I am getting ahead of myself. What I want to stress is the utter contrast of what I have just described with the story that dominated the news in the week before Christmas. In that story, we seemed to be learning that our world is controlled by random violence. Then, just four days before Christmas, we were told by a leader of a prominent national organization that there is a way to respond to that violence and assert ourselves in its wake: the way of violent resistance. We must solve the tragedy of violence in our schools by putting more guns there and arming more and more people, so that we can live in this transient life with the illusion of control, no matter the spiritual and moral cost.
Or, to put it in religious language, Wayne LaPierre, the Vice President of the National Rifle Association, laid out for us all to see exactly what it would be like to live in hell. He seemed to actually relish the opportunity to describe a world in which our own delusions of grandeur have exploded to such horrid proportions that every classroom is dominated constantly by the prospect of armed violence, which can be deterred only by the fear of further violence used against it. It is easy to imagine this nightmare vision expanding and engulfing our entire world, to the point that the prospect of random violence anywhere is matched by the much more terrifying prospect of planned, retaliative violence in every corner of our lives. America, in Wayne LaPierre's vision, would be transformed into a real, living hell in which all of us would be imprisoned any time we venture out of our front doors.
So let me repeat that this Christmas season has laid out two completely, radically opposing visions of how the world can operate, and has placed them next to each other so that the contrast can be clearly understood. They are, quite simply, the hell of endless retaliative violence on the one hand and the hope of miraculous, heaven-sent transformation on the other. I am writing this because I want my readers to understand that we have a choice which way we are going to go. As I venture into the new year I will do my best to speak for the side of the angels.
What I want to write about is the deeply ironic juxtaposition we've all just witnessed of two completely opposite world views. From a Christian perspective, I would simply describe them as heaven and hell. Yes, I do believe in hell, and I do believe that a powerful spiritual struggle is going on around us in which we all have a stake so important that we can't afford not to recognize it.
Let me take a few minutes to review the nature of that struggle. In doing so, I am going to use terms that are widely used by religious writers but that I'm convinced few people really understand, since we put so much unnecessary emphasis on their literal truth that we forget to ask about what they mean. In Karen Armstrong's terms, we privilege the logos or kerygma over the mythos or dogma of religious discourse, to the extent that both "myth" and "dogma" have become terms of derision.
Take the virgin birth. It is very clear to me what it means. Something happened two thousand years ago that impregnated the world with divinity, raising the entire human race to a new, previously inconceivable level. Such a thing cannot happen naturally. Its very reality defines it as something that occurs, as a medieval hymn writer put it, "praeter rerum seriem:" outside the natural order of things. What happened is often described as the birth of a baby under precarious circumstances: the father barely sparing the mother a life of disgrace; the birth taking place among lowly animals because the inn had no room; the king jealously striking out against all newborn boys, with the miraculous baby surviving only by another miracle. All the powers of this world—the social, the political, the military—were arrayed against this fragile birth, and yet it survived and flourished. Such things can only happen against all reason, and can only be recalled by extraordinary faith.
That miraculous baby, we are told, grew up to be an adult who turned his back on the powers of this world. He did so by completely rejecting the terms of imperial control by which his world was organized and making it clear that there was another way to live. That way involved rejecting coercion or violence of any kind. It is this complete refusal to play by the established rules that led to the events of Good Friday that we will acknowledge in the coming months.
But I am getting ahead of myself. What I want to stress is the utter contrast of what I have just described with the story that dominated the news in the week before Christmas. In that story, we seemed to be learning that our world is controlled by random violence. Then, just four days before Christmas, we were told by a leader of a prominent national organization that there is a way to respond to that violence and assert ourselves in its wake: the way of violent resistance. We must solve the tragedy of violence in our schools by putting more guns there and arming more and more people, so that we can live in this transient life with the illusion of control, no matter the spiritual and moral cost.
Or, to put it in religious language, Wayne LaPierre, the Vice President of the National Rifle Association, laid out for us all to see exactly what it would be like to live in hell. He seemed to actually relish the opportunity to describe a world in which our own delusions of grandeur have exploded to such horrid proportions that every classroom is dominated constantly by the prospect of armed violence, which can be deterred only by the fear of further violence used against it. It is easy to imagine this nightmare vision expanding and engulfing our entire world, to the point that the prospect of random violence anywhere is matched by the much more terrifying prospect of planned, retaliative violence in every corner of our lives. America, in Wayne LaPierre's vision, would be transformed into a real, living hell in which all of us would be imprisoned any time we venture out of our front doors.
So let me repeat that this Christmas season has laid out two completely, radically opposing visions of how the world can operate, and has placed them next to each other so that the contrast can be clearly understood. They are, quite simply, the hell of endless retaliative violence on the one hand and the hope of miraculous, heaven-sent transformation on the other. I am writing this because I want my readers to understand that we have a choice which way we are going to go. As I venture into the new year I will do my best to speak for the side of the angels.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Christmas Dinner
As we prepare
for Advent and the new church year, I am trying to figure out the best way to
get myself through a season that now bears painful as well as joyful
associations. It is usually difficult enough for newly bereaved people to make
it through their first holiday season, but I will have a particularly
challenging time of it for two reasons. My wife died last year shortly before
Christmas. What’s more, her fatal stroke occurred on my birthday, whose
proximity to Christmas has always brightened this season for me. Now I need to
figure out how to mark those occasions so as to recognize both the joy and the
horror.
I’ve decided to start with the lyrics to a song that has moved me deeply the past few years at this time: Noel Paul Stookey’s “Christmas Dinner.”
And it came to pass on a Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
Outside standing, a lonely boy-child
Cold and shivering in the night.
This, of course, is the paradox of Advent. A young boy comes into the world, yet it is not in the midst of plenty but in a poor and meager place because the doors of those who could give in abundance were shut and barred to keep strangers out. It is a strange kind of joy that must stand cold and shivering because the night envelops it, the taint of death ever-present even at birth. But note that it is of this child that we long to hear, because his predicament touches our common humanity.
On the street every window
Save but one was gleaming bright
And to this window walked the boy-child
Peeking in saw candlelight.
Why did the boy go to the one window that was dark: that seemingly had the least to offer? Yes, he may have felt himself unworthy, but perhaps there is also something about darkness that draws us as no mere light can do. Darkness is deep and rich and welcoming, and the faint glow of candles warms the heart.
Through other windows he had looked at turkeys
And ducks and geese and cherry pies
But through this window saw a gray-haired lady
Table bare and tears in her eyes.
Why, we may wonder, is this lady alone? Has she no children, no grandchildren, no family at all to make this night a time of laughter instead of tears? Or have we simply all missed her, all in our mad rush to the turkeys and pies whose richness dulls our senses to the truly lonely, to the ones among us for whom any special day will yield only a bare table and candlelight? To her the child is instinctively drawn, for he has no abundance to distract him.
Into his coat reached the boy-child
Knowing well there was little there
He took from his pocket his own Christmas dinner
A bit of cheese, some bread to share.
Where, I wonder, did he get that food? Someone in pity must have reached out to him as he, instinctively, is about to reach out to someone else. The gesture is so universally human that we may be ashamed to have forgotten it. He who has so little has had no time to forget.
His outstretched hands held the food and they trembled
As the door it opened wide
Said he "Would you share with me Christmas dinner?"
And gently said she "Come inside."
In the question and the answer are stored all the mystery and holiness of the season. The young boy and the old lady are strangers and opposites, yet they complete each other. She has the home without joy or sustenance. He has the food without company or the nurturing presence of another. An old lady should have grateful children, and a young boy should have loving parents. By reaching out to each other, both acknowledge their need.
The gray-haired lady brought forth to the table
Glasses two and her last drop of wine
Said she "Here's a toast to everyone's Christmas,
And especially yours and mine!"
How many others, we wonder, had toasted that year to everyone’s Christmas? In all the houses with the turkeys and ducks was such a toast ever heard? Why is it the lonely old woman and the poor shivering boy who alone (in both senses of the word) share such a Christmas wish?
And it came to pass on that Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
That in that town the happiest Christmas
Was shared by candlelight.
And now we see the point of the story. I imagine that the old lady had been mourning the loss of her family, either to death or to its spiritual cousin, indifference. She had been crying because this Christmas, for her, was a time of heightened pain and grief. The boy must have either run away or been, inconceivably, cast out. In their dinner together, loss and rejection met and embraced, and the result was the magic chemistry that produced happiness from out of nothing at all: no turkey, no presents, no beloved children or loving parents, death from cold and starvation a mere step away.
This year I will acknowledge that my birthday is a time to honor both birth and death, because the two are always and inextricably bound together. I will acknowledge that Christmas is a time to celebrate both joy and loss: the blessing of family at hand and the deep and lyrical grief of a great love that now lives only in the past, but whose memory paints hope and comfort on the unknown canvass of what is yet to come. I will step into that vastness with gratitude. I will live to begin another year.
I’ve decided to start with the lyrics to a song that has moved me deeply the past few years at this time: Noel Paul Stookey’s “Christmas Dinner.”
And it came to pass on a Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
Outside standing, a lonely boy-child
Cold and shivering in the night.
This, of course, is the paradox of Advent. A young boy comes into the world, yet it is not in the midst of plenty but in a poor and meager place because the doors of those who could give in abundance were shut and barred to keep strangers out. It is a strange kind of joy that must stand cold and shivering because the night envelops it, the taint of death ever-present even at birth. But note that it is of this child that we long to hear, because his predicament touches our common humanity.
On the street every window
Save but one was gleaming bright
And to this window walked the boy-child
Peeking in saw candlelight.
Why did the boy go to the one window that was dark: that seemingly had the least to offer? Yes, he may have felt himself unworthy, but perhaps there is also something about darkness that draws us as no mere light can do. Darkness is deep and rich and welcoming, and the faint glow of candles warms the heart.
Through other windows he had looked at turkeys
And ducks and geese and cherry pies
But through this window saw a gray-haired lady
Table bare and tears in her eyes.
Why, we may wonder, is this lady alone? Has she no children, no grandchildren, no family at all to make this night a time of laughter instead of tears? Or have we simply all missed her, all in our mad rush to the turkeys and pies whose richness dulls our senses to the truly lonely, to the ones among us for whom any special day will yield only a bare table and candlelight? To her the child is instinctively drawn, for he has no abundance to distract him.
Into his coat reached the boy-child
Knowing well there was little there
He took from his pocket his own Christmas dinner
A bit of cheese, some bread to share.
Where, I wonder, did he get that food? Someone in pity must have reached out to him as he, instinctively, is about to reach out to someone else. The gesture is so universally human that we may be ashamed to have forgotten it. He who has so little has had no time to forget.
His outstretched hands held the food and they trembled
As the door it opened wide
Said he "Would you share with me Christmas dinner?"
And gently said she "Come inside."
In the question and the answer are stored all the mystery and holiness of the season. The young boy and the old lady are strangers and opposites, yet they complete each other. She has the home without joy or sustenance. He has the food without company or the nurturing presence of another. An old lady should have grateful children, and a young boy should have loving parents. By reaching out to each other, both acknowledge their need.
The gray-haired lady brought forth to the table
Glasses two and her last drop of wine
Said she "Here's a toast to everyone's Christmas,
And especially yours and mine!"
How many others, we wonder, had toasted that year to everyone’s Christmas? In all the houses with the turkeys and ducks was such a toast ever heard? Why is it the lonely old woman and the poor shivering boy who alone (in both senses of the word) share such a Christmas wish?
And it came to pass on that Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
That in that town the happiest Christmas
Was shared by candlelight.
And now we see the point of the story. I imagine that the old lady had been mourning the loss of her family, either to death or to its spiritual cousin, indifference. She had been crying because this Christmas, for her, was a time of heightened pain and grief. The boy must have either run away or been, inconceivably, cast out. In their dinner together, loss and rejection met and embraced, and the result was the magic chemistry that produced happiness from out of nothing at all: no turkey, no presents, no beloved children or loving parents, death from cold and starvation a mere step away.
This year I will acknowledge that my birthday is a time to honor both birth and death, because the two are always and inextricably bound together. I will acknowledge that Christmas is a time to celebrate both joy and loss: the blessing of family at hand and the deep and lyrical grief of a great love that now lives only in the past, but whose memory paints hope and comfort on the unknown canvass of what is yet to come. I will step into that vastness with gratitude. I will live to begin another year.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
A multiple choice quiz
A good friend—a college roommate with whom you've stayed close over the years—comes down with cancer. Because that friend is single and quit his job after a midlife crisis, he doesn't have health insurance, so he waits too long to seek treatment for his ambiguous early symptoms. By the time he finally seeks medical help, the cancer has metastasized into his bones and his diagnosis is terminal. He cannot afford the treatment required. You:
a) Express sympathy.
b) Express sympathy and offer to help with his medical bills.
c) Decide to pay all of his medical bills so he can have the best care possible during the final months of his life.
Most people, I imagine, could find a choice on this list that they are comfortable with, even if it is likely to be a). That's why I didn't include
d) Savagely tell him that he has brought his suffering on himself and mock him during his final days.
So when Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times wrote a column last week about his former roommate from Harvard, to whom the unspeakable events described above had actually happened, I figured he was making the strongest case possible for why we need nationalized health care, or at least a makeshift system like "Obamacare" that is designed to bring more people into the ranks of the insured.
That's why I was taken aback yesterday when Kristof published a followup column expressing shock at the number of readers who had been "savagely unsympathetic." It doesn't take much effort, after all, to say "your friend has my sympathy; sorry for your loss." (Kristof's friend did in fact die on Monday morning.) Instead, readers lambasted him for making a foolish decision—whether it was the one to quit his job or the one not to seek help earlier isn't clear. It appears that all Kristof's column accomplished was to fortify the battle lines between those who support the Affordable Care Act—which is what I will insist on calling it from this point on—and those who are desperate to repeal it.
I am writing this because I still want to believe that most of those people, if it were their friend whose life was at stake, would at least choose option a) above. Sympathy is famously inexpensive, but at least it is a human and moral response. Mockery of the dying is not. So when Kristof is deluged with messages from people who are "not sure why I'm to feel guilty about your friend's problem," I'm not sure what I'm supposed to think, but I do know what I feel. I feel something akin to the disgust at humanity found in the satire of Jonathan Swift.
To me and many others, the Affordable Care Act, for all its imperfections, is quite simply the best thing that has happened to this country since the Voting Rights Act of 1965. It is an expression of the very best in our nature: the mutual sympathy with our fellow beings that binds us together as a society. It shows we understand that when we extend a helping hand to others, we are sewing the fabric of civilization together, so that we know it will be there when we or someone we care about needs it. It shows we know perfectly well that we are not savages living in relentless competition with the clans of our neighbors, but an advanced society in which all are interconnected.
That's why this presidential election matters so much to me. If Romney and Ryan win, and if they succeed in repealing the Affordable Care Act, I will be forced to conclude that America's best days are over. I will be forced to conclude that I do in fact live in a country controlled by people for whom sympathy is not an option and shared responsibility is not a concept. I will be forced to conclude that the majority of my fellow citizens would choose "none of the above" as the best answer to the question that I posed at the beginning of this blog. As someone for whom not caring is simply not an option, and who understands grace as all-encompassing and all-forgiving, I will despair.
a) Express sympathy.
b) Express sympathy and offer to help with his medical bills.
c) Decide to pay all of his medical bills so he can have the best care possible during the final months of his life.
Most people, I imagine, could find a choice on this list that they are comfortable with, even if it is likely to be a). That's why I didn't include
d) Savagely tell him that he has brought his suffering on himself and mock him during his final days.
So when Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times wrote a column last week about his former roommate from Harvard, to whom the unspeakable events described above had actually happened, I figured he was making the strongest case possible for why we need nationalized health care, or at least a makeshift system like "Obamacare" that is designed to bring more people into the ranks of the insured.
That's why I was taken aback yesterday when Kristof published a followup column expressing shock at the number of readers who had been "savagely unsympathetic." It doesn't take much effort, after all, to say "your friend has my sympathy; sorry for your loss." (Kristof's friend did in fact die on Monday morning.) Instead, readers lambasted him for making a foolish decision—whether it was the one to quit his job or the one not to seek help earlier isn't clear. It appears that all Kristof's column accomplished was to fortify the battle lines between those who support the Affordable Care Act—which is what I will insist on calling it from this point on—and those who are desperate to repeal it.
I am writing this because I still want to believe that most of those people, if it were their friend whose life was at stake, would at least choose option a) above. Sympathy is famously inexpensive, but at least it is a human and moral response. Mockery of the dying is not. So when Kristof is deluged with messages from people who are "not sure why I'm to feel guilty about your friend's problem," I'm not sure what I'm supposed to think, but I do know what I feel. I feel something akin to the disgust at humanity found in the satire of Jonathan Swift.
To me and many others, the Affordable Care Act, for all its imperfections, is quite simply the best thing that has happened to this country since the Voting Rights Act of 1965. It is an expression of the very best in our nature: the mutual sympathy with our fellow beings that binds us together as a society. It shows we understand that when we extend a helping hand to others, we are sewing the fabric of civilization together, so that we know it will be there when we or someone we care about needs it. It shows we know perfectly well that we are not savages living in relentless competition with the clans of our neighbors, but an advanced society in which all are interconnected.
That's why this presidential election matters so much to me. If Romney and Ryan win, and if they succeed in repealing the Affordable Care Act, I will be forced to conclude that America's best days are over. I will be forced to conclude that I do in fact live in a country controlled by people for whom sympathy is not an option and shared responsibility is not a concept. I will be forced to conclude that the majority of my fellow citizens would choose "none of the above" as the best answer to the question that I posed at the beginning of this blog. As someone for whom not caring is simply not an option, and who understands grace as all-encompassing and all-forgiving, I will despair.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
More on Romney
Every once in a while I post something to this blog that takes off in a way I don't foresee. I've never had a post go "viral," if that means page views in the millions, but I occasionally have one that gets way more hits than usual. Such a post was last week's "Romney the bully," which, at 589 page views, is now at four times my average. Since that average includes some other posts that have been read even more widely, the reality is that "Romney the bully" has been read by about six times as many people as normally read one of my posts.
The reason is clear: It was shared repeatedly by friends who agreed with it, many of whose friends shared it in turn. Many, but not all, of those friends were women. Some clearly thought I had articulated something particularly important, and said so in their forwarding messages. I can thus confirm what I said in that post: I am far from the only person who found Mitt Romney's behavior at last week's debate to be personally abusive. Many others read what I wrote and said: "Yes; that's exactly what I thought." We may be a small group or we may represent a broadly shared opinion - it's too early to tell - but the fact that we shared the same experience means that that experience was real.
A few comments on the blog shares were also revealing. One person said that personally, she considered Barack Obama to be one of the biggest bullies she has ever encountered, and that by contrast she finds Mitt Romney to be a compassionate leader. Another said that my reactions, and those of others, were clearly dictated by emotion. The implication was that all of our reactions were somehow not valid, while those of more rational thinkers are.
I want to take this occasion to clarify that I know my reaction to Romney's performance was based on emotion. THAT WAS THE POINT. Watching Mitt Romney in action set off emotional responses that harked back to the years of bullying I endured in school, while it reminded others of abusive partners. All of us realized that, for personal reasons that have nothing to do with his policy positions, we profoundly do not want to have this man as our president.
Since I have never seen Barack Obama bully anybody in person, I suspect that those who see him as a bully are reacting to his policies and the way he has enacted them. Yes, asking religious employers to include birth control in the health insurance they offer employees can be seen as abusive if you are so inclined. Passing the Affordable Care Act without a single Republican vote can be seen as an abuse of power by those who opposed its passage.
Such actions, though, are not bullying. Bullying is something that happens at a personal level between individuals, and it is a matter of style, not substance. Mitt Romney could have spent the entire hour and a half talking about chewing gum and toothpaste and his behavior - if he had pushed the other two participants around in the same way - would still have struck me as abusive. This is a man who apparently terrorized one of his classmates at school and who, when reminded of that behavior earlier this year, said: “There’s no question that I did some stupid things in high school, and obviously, if I hurt anyone by virtue of that, I would be very sorry for it and apologize for it.” This is a lame, conditional statement with no substance. It shows no contrition, no awareness of wrongdoing beyond the usual run of youthful indiscretions, and notably, contains no apology.
It's not surprising, therefore, that the bullying persona is still very much in evidence. An unrepentant bully has no business being president.
The reason is clear: It was shared repeatedly by friends who agreed with it, many of whose friends shared it in turn. Many, but not all, of those friends were women. Some clearly thought I had articulated something particularly important, and said so in their forwarding messages. I can thus confirm what I said in that post: I am far from the only person who found Mitt Romney's behavior at last week's debate to be personally abusive. Many others read what I wrote and said: "Yes; that's exactly what I thought." We may be a small group or we may represent a broadly shared opinion - it's too early to tell - but the fact that we shared the same experience means that that experience was real.
A few comments on the blog shares were also revealing. One person said that personally, she considered Barack Obama to be one of the biggest bullies she has ever encountered, and that by contrast she finds Mitt Romney to be a compassionate leader. Another said that my reactions, and those of others, were clearly dictated by emotion. The implication was that all of our reactions were somehow not valid, while those of more rational thinkers are.
I want to take this occasion to clarify that I know my reaction to Romney's performance was based on emotion. THAT WAS THE POINT. Watching Mitt Romney in action set off emotional responses that harked back to the years of bullying I endured in school, while it reminded others of abusive partners. All of us realized that, for personal reasons that have nothing to do with his policy positions, we profoundly do not want to have this man as our president.
Since I have never seen Barack Obama bully anybody in person, I suspect that those who see him as a bully are reacting to his policies and the way he has enacted them. Yes, asking religious employers to include birth control in the health insurance they offer employees can be seen as abusive if you are so inclined. Passing the Affordable Care Act without a single Republican vote can be seen as an abuse of power by those who opposed its passage.
Such actions, though, are not bullying. Bullying is something that happens at a personal level between individuals, and it is a matter of style, not substance. Mitt Romney could have spent the entire hour and a half talking about chewing gum and toothpaste and his behavior - if he had pushed the other two participants around in the same way - would still have struck me as abusive. This is a man who apparently terrorized one of his classmates at school and who, when reminded of that behavior earlier this year, said: “There’s no question that I did some stupid things in high school, and obviously, if I hurt anyone by virtue of that, I would be very sorry for it and apologize for it.” This is a lame, conditional statement with no substance. It shows no contrition, no awareness of wrongdoing beyond the usual run of youthful indiscretions, and notably, contains no apology.
It's not surprising, therefore, that the bullying persona is still very much in evidence. An unrepentant bully has no business being president.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Romney the bully
What's worse than getting a bad grade because you "don't play well with the other children," when it's the other children who refuse to play with you? Seeing the biggest bully of all elected class president would probably come close.
As I watched the presidential debate last night, I thought to myself several times: "Mitt Romney is being a bully." I didn't say anything, though, because I was afraid I would be accused of overreacting to a performance that was simply long on assertiveness. Today, though, I have seen numerous women say that Romney's performance reminded them of abusive former husbands and boyfriends. So I now believe I'm in good company when I say that by effectively walking over the debate moderator and the President of the United States and running the debate entirely on his own terms, Romney was exhibiting classic bully behavior. What passed as effective debating in the dysfunctional world of the Republican primaries, where audiences cheered the idea of letting someone without health insurance die in the gutter, is now revealed more clearly for what it is.
I'll try not to comment on what was said in the debate, since the fact-checkers have been busy and may actually have some impact on the spin this time around. I want to single out, though, Romney's repeated statement that President Obama refused to work with the Republicans in Congress while, as governor, Romney willingly (i. e. out of dire necessity) worked with a legislature that was 87% Democratic. As anyone who has been paying the slightest bit of attention for the past few years knows, it is the Republican Congress that has refused to work with the president. It was the leaders of the Republican Congress who proclaimed, publicly, that their primary objective was to deny Obama a second term. It was the rank and file members of that Congress—including, I'm embarrassed to say, my own newly elected Congressman—who strapped on suicide vests last summer and threatened to blow up the country if they didn't get everything they wanted. (I borrow the metaphor from the NYTimes's Joe Nocera, who was later bullied into retracting it.) For Romney to try now to score a debating point by blaming Obama for not playing well with that kind of children is beyond shameful. It is the tactic of a bully.
During the debate last night, Romney repeatedly refused to be silenced either by Jim Lehrer or by the president. He made it clear that he considered himself the one in charge, and unfortunately Obama played along, smiling sheepishly every time he was humiliated. A lot of people have asked, in effect: "What happened to the president last night?" As someone who was bullied to within an inch of my life as a teenager, I know the answer. It's the same thing that happened to Jim Lehrer. They were both bullied into silence. They are both strong, experienced men who know better, but bullying works because it is so effective. Ask Rush Limbaugh. Ask Glenn Beck. Ask Mitt Romney.
And please, don't vote for a bully for president. You might be startled to know just how many of us you would be condemning to four years of PTSD.
As I watched the presidential debate last night, I thought to myself several times: "Mitt Romney is being a bully." I didn't say anything, though, because I was afraid I would be accused of overreacting to a performance that was simply long on assertiveness. Today, though, I have seen numerous women say that Romney's performance reminded them of abusive former husbands and boyfriends. So I now believe I'm in good company when I say that by effectively walking over the debate moderator and the President of the United States and running the debate entirely on his own terms, Romney was exhibiting classic bully behavior. What passed as effective debating in the dysfunctional world of the Republican primaries, where audiences cheered the idea of letting someone without health insurance die in the gutter, is now revealed more clearly for what it is.
I'll try not to comment on what was said in the debate, since the fact-checkers have been busy and may actually have some impact on the spin this time around. I want to single out, though, Romney's repeated statement that President Obama refused to work with the Republicans in Congress while, as governor, Romney willingly (i. e. out of dire necessity) worked with a legislature that was 87% Democratic. As anyone who has been paying the slightest bit of attention for the past few years knows, it is the Republican Congress that has refused to work with the president. It was the leaders of the Republican Congress who proclaimed, publicly, that their primary objective was to deny Obama a second term. It was the rank and file members of that Congress—including, I'm embarrassed to say, my own newly elected Congressman—who strapped on suicide vests last summer and threatened to blow up the country if they didn't get everything they wanted. (I borrow the metaphor from the NYTimes's Joe Nocera, who was later bullied into retracting it.) For Romney to try now to score a debating point by blaming Obama for not playing well with that kind of children is beyond shameful. It is the tactic of a bully.
During the debate last night, Romney repeatedly refused to be silenced either by Jim Lehrer or by the president. He made it clear that he considered himself the one in charge, and unfortunately Obama played along, smiling sheepishly every time he was humiliated. A lot of people have asked, in effect: "What happened to the president last night?" As someone who was bullied to within an inch of my life as a teenager, I know the answer. It's the same thing that happened to Jim Lehrer. They were both bullied into silence. They are both strong, experienced men who know better, but bullying works because it is so effective. Ask Rush Limbaugh. Ask Glenn Beck. Ask Mitt Romney.
And please, don't vote for a bully for president. You might be startled to know just how many of us you would be condemning to four years of PTSD.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Nine months
Today is nine months since my 56th birthday, which means it is also
nine months since my life fell apart. I set in my living room tonight
listening to Obrecht and watching Barbara's and my Marriage Encounter
candle flicker and burn for the fourth time since the visitation last
December, when I awakened it from its long slumber. On the way home
today I stopped by the cemetery and wept. A grief observed takes many
forms. Today I want to recount some other significant dates in our all
too brief history together.
May 17, 1988—I have my first date with Barbara Elaine Hutter Sellers. I take her to a nice restaurant, even though I'm not sure I can afford it. We eat rack of lamb and share a bottle of Chenin Blanc. Afterward she tells me about the brain tumor diagnosed on her 23rd birthday that she barely survived and the first husband she lost in a tragic accident. I tell her about my history with depression and my ongoing struggles to find a job. We instantly bond, and so begins the love of my life. We are both 32.
Jan. 14 1989—We are married in the same small Lutheran church in Pomona, California in which she had been baptized nearly 33 years earlier. I am unemployed, but she has just received a large financial settlement over her first husband's death. This allows us a memorable honeymoon, even though it is plagued by uncertainty about my future.
Dec. 1 1991—After a series of medical interventions for infertility, we complete a successful pregnancy and our first child, Jennifer, is born. For most of the next two years I will be her custodial parent while Barbara supports us through her work as a home health nurse.
Feb. 24 1994—After further interventions, our second child, Jeremy, is born. I am still under-employed, although I now have an adjunct teaching position that provides enough income for Barbara to take an extended maternity leave.
May 1994—Ten years after receiving my PhD, I am finally offered a tenure-track teaching job at Converse College in South Carolina. Our family, launched amid uncertainty and conceived on faith, will move cross-country that summer to a new home and a bright future. We are both 38.
February 1999—After four and a half years of professional fulfillment and administrative purgatory, I am awarded tenure. At 43, I have finally achieved my professional and personal goals. I have a secure job that I love, two children that I adore, and a devoted wife who means the world to me.
March 2000—While I am attending a regional meeting as President of the Southwest Chapter of the American Musicological Society, Barbara suffers a stroke: the first sign of complications from the massive dose of radiation that saved her life exactly 21 years earlier. For a few months her vision is seriously impaired, and she retains a lingering visual aphasia that will baffle and frustrate her for the rest of her life.
July 2000—Barbara wakes up and is unable to hear out of her right ear. She gets out of bed and falls flat on her face. The hearing never returns, and the balance only returns gradually and with great effort. The diagnosis is six months in coming, but it is grim. She has suffered another stroke, this one in the small capillary that feeds the inner ear. All of the blood vessels in her brain were damaged by the radiation, we are now told. In order to postpone or minimize future complications, she is put on Plavix, a blood thinner. She will take it for the rest of her life.
June 2003—On the very day that we plan to travel to Texas and look for a house in Waco, where I have just gotten a senior appointment at Baylor, Barbara suddenly loses the hearing in her left ear. With no warning, she has gone completely deaf. This is a devastating experience that completely dwarfs everything either of us has been through previously, and it casts a pall over what should have been one of the happiest episodes in our life together. Two weeks later, we dutifully go through the motions of the house search while barely able to communicate.
Nov. 2003—Barbara receives a cochlear implant in her left ear. A month later, on my 48th birthday, it is activated. The results are disappointing, and a long period of retraining now begins in which she will struggle to learn to hear again.
Dec. 2004—Barbara receives an implant in the other ear, and it too is activated a month later. We now know not to expect too much, but we are tentatively encouraged by the improvement in her hearing. We are confronted, though, by the stark realities of advanced hearing loss. Among the things we will never be able to do successfully: hear a concert, attend a movie, attend a public talk of any kind, participate in a group discussion, talk on the phone without struggle, carry on a family conversation. At the dinner table, the kids talk to me and largely ignore Barbara. In the car she can't hear them even when they do talk to her. We make furtive lunch dates simply to find a quiet place where we can talk to each other. We continue to hold out hope that her hearing will improve, but it never really does.
Sometime in 2007 (the dates seem to be getting less clear as they grow closer to the present)—After several dental procedures and a tooth extraction, the increasing pain that Barbara has been experiencing in her right jaw is diagnosed as trigeminal neuralgia, an inflammation of the main facial nerve that is known to cause the most excruciating pain that a human being can experience. (The condition's nickname: the suicide disease.) The only effective treatment for this debilitating condition, also likely caused by the radiation, consists of large doses of anti-epileptic drugs, which make Barbara's balance problems much worse. She now begins to walk with a cane, and the rest of her life will be a trade-off between her compromised ability to walk and the attempt to attain a respite from the unbearable pain. Repeated surgical procedures bring only temporary relief.
Dec. 19 2011—As we are preparing to go out to dinner to celebrate my 56th birthday, Barbara suffers a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Because she is taking Plavix, nothing can be done to stop the bleeding, which pools around the base of her brain and chokes off not only her consciousness, but her ability ever to regain it. A little over three days later, in the wee hours of Dec. 23, she dies.
We were together for a little over twenty-three and a half years. For thirteen months we had it all: a secure job for me, children, health, prosperity. The rest of it was lived under the shadow of financial insecurity, career frustration, infertility and, finally, declining health and dire suffering. Every minute was precious—and, I now see quite clearly, snatched forcefully from inexorable fate. We loved, and we gave of each other in ways that are hard to describe and precious to remember. I have now completed a gestational cycle of grief and mourning, and I know that it is from the hard times that the most lasting memories were forged. So much joy, so much love. Life so fragile that there is none of it to waste. Tears that sting and memories that burn in my heart. Every moment is ours, Barbara's and mine. Every moment we love, and the loss follows as does the fall that will now turn to winter. It was in the spring that we met, and in the winter that we were parted. The winter will now come again, followed by the spring, and it is only love that continues unabated through it all.
May 17, 1988—I have my first date with Barbara Elaine Hutter Sellers. I take her to a nice restaurant, even though I'm not sure I can afford it. We eat rack of lamb and share a bottle of Chenin Blanc. Afterward she tells me about the brain tumor diagnosed on her 23rd birthday that she barely survived and the first husband she lost in a tragic accident. I tell her about my history with depression and my ongoing struggles to find a job. We instantly bond, and so begins the love of my life. We are both 32.
Jan. 14 1989—We are married in the same small Lutheran church in Pomona, California in which she had been baptized nearly 33 years earlier. I am unemployed, but she has just received a large financial settlement over her first husband's death. This allows us a memorable honeymoon, even though it is plagued by uncertainty about my future.
Dec. 1 1991—After a series of medical interventions for infertility, we complete a successful pregnancy and our first child, Jennifer, is born. For most of the next two years I will be her custodial parent while Barbara supports us through her work as a home health nurse.
Feb. 24 1994—After further interventions, our second child, Jeremy, is born. I am still under-employed, although I now have an adjunct teaching position that provides enough income for Barbara to take an extended maternity leave.
May 1994—Ten years after receiving my PhD, I am finally offered a tenure-track teaching job at Converse College in South Carolina. Our family, launched amid uncertainty and conceived on faith, will move cross-country that summer to a new home and a bright future. We are both 38.
February 1999—After four and a half years of professional fulfillment and administrative purgatory, I am awarded tenure. At 43, I have finally achieved my professional and personal goals. I have a secure job that I love, two children that I adore, and a devoted wife who means the world to me.
March 2000—While I am attending a regional meeting as President of the Southwest Chapter of the American Musicological Society, Barbara suffers a stroke: the first sign of complications from the massive dose of radiation that saved her life exactly 21 years earlier. For a few months her vision is seriously impaired, and she retains a lingering visual aphasia that will baffle and frustrate her for the rest of her life.
July 2000—Barbara wakes up and is unable to hear out of her right ear. She gets out of bed and falls flat on her face. The hearing never returns, and the balance only returns gradually and with great effort. The diagnosis is six months in coming, but it is grim. She has suffered another stroke, this one in the small capillary that feeds the inner ear. All of the blood vessels in her brain were damaged by the radiation, we are now told. In order to postpone or minimize future complications, she is put on Plavix, a blood thinner. She will take it for the rest of her life.
June 2003—On the very day that we plan to travel to Texas and look for a house in Waco, where I have just gotten a senior appointment at Baylor, Barbara suddenly loses the hearing in her left ear. With no warning, she has gone completely deaf. This is a devastating experience that completely dwarfs everything either of us has been through previously, and it casts a pall over what should have been one of the happiest episodes in our life together. Two weeks later, we dutifully go through the motions of the house search while barely able to communicate.
Nov. 2003—Barbara receives a cochlear implant in her left ear. A month later, on my 48th birthday, it is activated. The results are disappointing, and a long period of retraining now begins in which she will struggle to learn to hear again.
Dec. 2004—Barbara receives an implant in the other ear, and it too is activated a month later. We now know not to expect too much, but we are tentatively encouraged by the improvement in her hearing. We are confronted, though, by the stark realities of advanced hearing loss. Among the things we will never be able to do successfully: hear a concert, attend a movie, attend a public talk of any kind, participate in a group discussion, talk on the phone without struggle, carry on a family conversation. At the dinner table, the kids talk to me and largely ignore Barbara. In the car she can't hear them even when they do talk to her. We make furtive lunch dates simply to find a quiet place where we can talk to each other. We continue to hold out hope that her hearing will improve, but it never really does.
Sometime in 2007 (the dates seem to be getting less clear as they grow closer to the present)—After several dental procedures and a tooth extraction, the increasing pain that Barbara has been experiencing in her right jaw is diagnosed as trigeminal neuralgia, an inflammation of the main facial nerve that is known to cause the most excruciating pain that a human being can experience. (The condition's nickname: the suicide disease.) The only effective treatment for this debilitating condition, also likely caused by the radiation, consists of large doses of anti-epileptic drugs, which make Barbara's balance problems much worse. She now begins to walk with a cane, and the rest of her life will be a trade-off between her compromised ability to walk and the attempt to attain a respite from the unbearable pain. Repeated surgical procedures bring only temporary relief.
Dec. 19 2011—As we are preparing to go out to dinner to celebrate my 56th birthday, Barbara suffers a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Because she is taking Plavix, nothing can be done to stop the bleeding, which pools around the base of her brain and chokes off not only her consciousness, but her ability ever to regain it. A little over three days later, in the wee hours of Dec. 23, she dies.
We were together for a little over twenty-three and a half years. For thirteen months we had it all: a secure job for me, children, health, prosperity. The rest of it was lived under the shadow of financial insecurity, career frustration, infertility and, finally, declining health and dire suffering. Every minute was precious—and, I now see quite clearly, snatched forcefully from inexorable fate. We loved, and we gave of each other in ways that are hard to describe and precious to remember. I have now completed a gestational cycle of grief and mourning, and I know that it is from the hard times that the most lasting memories were forged. So much joy, so much love. Life so fragile that there is none of it to waste. Tears that sting and memories that burn in my heart. Every moment is ours, Barbara's and mine. Every moment we love, and the loss follows as does the fall that will now turn to winter. It was in the spring that we met, and in the winter that we were parted. The winter will now come again, followed by the spring, and it is only love that continues unabated through it all.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The cartoon liberal
Every day, it seems, somebody posts a statement affirming that hard work and success are honorable things, and greatly preferable to depending on handouts. The message, whether stated directly or not, is that there are people who disagree. It is also clear who those people are supposed to be, and who they are not. They are liberals: the people who allegedly denigrate success and think that everybody should depend on government handouts. They are not conservatives: the right-thinking people who know better.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Nobody I know in either political party, whether liberal or conservative, thinks that hard work and success are not good things. Nobody I know of either persuasion thinks that it is desirable to make people dependent on government handouts. Nobody. That position doesn't exist. It just keeps getting attacked in a classic straw-man argument. It's easy to score points for your cause, apparently, by demolishing what you think your opponents believe, especially if others are predisposed to see it that way as well. It's easy to attack a cartoon liberal. I'm a real liberal, though, and I'm not going to take it lying down, so let me once again explain, briefly, what I do believe.
As a liberal, I believe in freedom: the maximum amount of freedom compatible with a just and decent society. I also believe that freedom is threatened in a variety of ways, most of which do not come from government as commonly perceived.
The common perception of government, though, is part of the problem that liberals seek to address. The fact, as Howard Zinn and others have convincingly established, is that the United States has always had big government and always will. It could hardly be otherwise, given that we are a bafflingly large and diverse society. Such a society cannot run by itself.
We do, however, have a rational choice to make. We can choose to be governed by largely open and transparent institutions whose avowed purpose is government, and which are answerable to the people, or we can choose to be governed by shadowy corporations and people of great wealth whose operations are opaque and who are accountable to no-one.
As a liberal, I believe that our precious freedoms are slipping away at an alarming rate and are being replaced by the power of the moneyed corporate behemoth. As just one example among many, that behemoth, operating in the supposedly free market, has devised a strikingly inefficient way of administering health care that maximizes profits and disempowers individuals. Until the passage of the Affordable Care Act, somebody who has had a serious and chronic illness - somebody like my late wife - could have his or her freedom taken away by the need to appease the arcane, self-serving requirements of corporate health care. The Affordable Care Act, by empowering people with "pre-existing conditions," has made all of us more free.
I have lost another significant personal freedom over the last few months. I can no longer go to a public place and relax without at least thinking about the possibility that a madman armed with military assault weapons will open fire and kill me and those I am with. As a society, we seem incapable of doing anything about this loss of freedom, since we are in the thrall of arms manufacturers, the NRA, and other representatives of corporate power. As a liberal, I think this is a horrible state of affairs, and we would be much freer if the government transparently regulated who can own such weapons and under what circumstances.
Notice that I haven't said anything about giving handouts. The fact is, I do give them. I recently gave a significant amount of money, for example, to Lutheran Ministries and Social Services of Waco to help fund its Legal Assistance Project, which provides low-cost paralegal services for those in the community who cannot afford them. This is a handout, and like all such handouts, it is intended to get those people back on their feet so they can gain a modicum of self-respect. When I sat on the Board of Directors of LMSS, it included both liberals and conservatives and we all agreed about this without question.
So please, let's stop attacking the cartoon liberal. That success-despising, handout-loving, anti-American figure of so many conservative imaginations simply doesn't exist in real life. It is a lie. Therefore, any argument directed against it is inherently dishonest in substance, if not necessarily in intent. For the record, I don't care what time Paul Ryan says he ran the marathon in. He may have been mistaken or her may have been lying, but it doesn't really matter because the issue is a trivial one. I do very much care if Ryan or anybody else attacks the cartoon liberal, because such an attack is dishonest at the core, and it matters deeply.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Nobody I know in either political party, whether liberal or conservative, thinks that hard work and success are not good things. Nobody I know of either persuasion thinks that it is desirable to make people dependent on government handouts. Nobody. That position doesn't exist. It just keeps getting attacked in a classic straw-man argument. It's easy to score points for your cause, apparently, by demolishing what you think your opponents believe, especially if others are predisposed to see it that way as well. It's easy to attack a cartoon liberal. I'm a real liberal, though, and I'm not going to take it lying down, so let me once again explain, briefly, what I do believe.
As a liberal, I believe in freedom: the maximum amount of freedom compatible with a just and decent society. I also believe that freedom is threatened in a variety of ways, most of which do not come from government as commonly perceived.
The common perception of government, though, is part of the problem that liberals seek to address. The fact, as Howard Zinn and others have convincingly established, is that the United States has always had big government and always will. It could hardly be otherwise, given that we are a bafflingly large and diverse society. Such a society cannot run by itself.
We do, however, have a rational choice to make. We can choose to be governed by largely open and transparent institutions whose avowed purpose is government, and which are answerable to the people, or we can choose to be governed by shadowy corporations and people of great wealth whose operations are opaque and who are accountable to no-one.
As a liberal, I believe that our precious freedoms are slipping away at an alarming rate and are being replaced by the power of the moneyed corporate behemoth. As just one example among many, that behemoth, operating in the supposedly free market, has devised a strikingly inefficient way of administering health care that maximizes profits and disempowers individuals. Until the passage of the Affordable Care Act, somebody who has had a serious and chronic illness - somebody like my late wife - could have his or her freedom taken away by the need to appease the arcane, self-serving requirements of corporate health care. The Affordable Care Act, by empowering people with "pre-existing conditions," has made all of us more free.
I have lost another significant personal freedom over the last few months. I can no longer go to a public place and relax without at least thinking about the possibility that a madman armed with military assault weapons will open fire and kill me and those I am with. As a society, we seem incapable of doing anything about this loss of freedom, since we are in the thrall of arms manufacturers, the NRA, and other representatives of corporate power. As a liberal, I think this is a horrible state of affairs, and we would be much freer if the government transparently regulated who can own such weapons and under what circumstances.
Notice that I haven't said anything about giving handouts. The fact is, I do give them. I recently gave a significant amount of money, for example, to Lutheran Ministries and Social Services of Waco to help fund its Legal Assistance Project, which provides low-cost paralegal services for those in the community who cannot afford them. This is a handout, and like all such handouts, it is intended to get those people back on their feet so they can gain a modicum of self-respect. When I sat on the Board of Directors of LMSS, it included both liberals and conservatives and we all agreed about this without question.
So please, let's stop attacking the cartoon liberal. That success-despising, handout-loving, anti-American figure of so many conservative imaginations simply doesn't exist in real life. It is a lie. Therefore, any argument directed against it is inherently dishonest in substance, if not necessarily in intent. For the record, I don't care what time Paul Ryan says he ran the marathon in. He may have been mistaken or her may have been lying, but it doesn't really matter because the issue is a trivial one. I do very much care if Ryan or anybody else attacks the cartoon liberal, because such an attack is dishonest at the core, and it matters deeply.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Hard truths
I’m writing this because the time has come to make some hard
choices. I know the readers of this blog expect me to level with them, and the
time has come to stop ducking the choices and instead spell out what we need to
do. It is not enough, after all, to just keep talking about it. We’ve been
doing that for a long time—and I’ve done as much talking as anybody. The time
for talk is gone. It’s time to make it clear what we need to do.
So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to stop talking
and start making some tough choices. I’m going to be very clear about this,
because making tough choices isn’t easy, and spelling them out is even harder.
It’s much easier to just avoid them, and that’s what we must not do at all
costs. We can’t avoid the hard choices. We have to make them, and make them
clearly.
I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You live with the
results of choices every day. Those choices have been made for you or by you or
despite you, but they have unquestionably been made. That is hard. It is much
easier to duck making choices and to talk about them instead, until people
begin to believe you’ve actually done something, or have a plan to do
something, or know what you’re talking about. So I’m here to tell you that I’m
not going to duck any of those choices. I know you expect me to level with you
about this, so here’s the truth: Hard choices need to be made. Hard truths need
to be heard. That’s the truth. It’s hard. But it’s also true. That’s the thing
about truth. How hard is that?
You all know people who don’t level with you. I know you do.
When things are going well, that might be OK, but things are not going well, so
you need people to level with you. You need them to stop talking and tell you
the truth. That’s the truth. Then you need them to make choices. Hard choices.
You need them not to duck those choices, but to make them, even though they’re
hard.
That’s what you can count on me for. I’ll never duck those
choices, and you’ll always know I’m not ducking them because I’ll tell you
about them. Just like I’m doing now.
Trust me.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Barbara's Gift, Part 2
It poured cats and dogs yesterday, and today was that rare August day in Texas when the sun shone bright and the temperature never rose above the high 80s. Classes start tomorrow, and since one child is away at college and the other is at work, I took a 5-mile hike by myself this afternoon in Waco's Cameron Park, in the shade along the Brazos and Bosque rivers. I felt truly good and in possession of my life—more so than I can remember at any time since Barbara's stroke tore my world apart exactly eight months ago today.
Our trip to Hawaii last month was definitely a watershed. We packed as much of life and renewal as we could into the seven and a half days we were there, and that was surely an important thing to do. There was something else going on, though, and I will try to write about it impartially, even though it is the most personal subject of all.
Barbara and I went to Maui for our honeymoon in January of 1989. Her lawsuit over the death of her first husband had just been settled out of court and she received a payment of nearly a quarter of a million dollars a few weeks before we were married. We had money to burn, and we also packed as much as we could into that week, including a day-long private plane tour that took us to all four major Hawaiian islands. I watched in astonishment as we flew directly over the active volcanoes on the south end of the Big Island, then savored lunch on Kauai, at a restaurant with covered outdoor seating around a central courtyard. We enjoyed mahi-mahi burgers at Kimo's in Lahaina, then ate dinner at Chez Paul, the five-star French restaurant down the road. We snorkeled and swam and savored a relaxed dinner cruise on calm seas.
I decided to go to Kauai this time because I had been there for only two hours and had few memories to distract me. Nevertheless, I puzzled the whole time we were there over the location of the outdoor dining site I remembered. On the final day, I was craving one more dinner at a fine restaurant with the kind of food you just can't get in Waco, and Jennifer located one using a mobile app that sounded perfect. We phoned in reservations and showed up at 5:30, our rental car vacuumed and ready to return as we tried to prepare for the red-eye flight to Los Angeles and the two connections that would land us back in Texas the next afternoon.
It was **the place,** and it seemed for all the world as though Barbara had led us there as a final blessing on our week of catharsis. I returned with a deep inner peace that has never entirely left in the three weeks I've been back.
I don't want to claim too much here. Barbara told me that a few weeks after her first husband died, she distinctly heard his voice saying "It's OK; I'm happy." Knowing how much that meant to her, it is easy for me to suggest that she led us back to this place so I could have a similar moment of preternatural closeness with my departed spouse. Skeptics will scoff, of course, and I don't blame them. After all, we crave such revelations, and are all too eager to read purpose and meaning into chance events.
Still, I will say this: I have kept with me a strong sense of Barbara's inner peace, which allowed her to trust and slough off the burdens of stress and uncertainty through circumstances that would have brought most people to their knees. Her deafness and her profound difficulties with balance, both of which I have written about on this blog, were the ongoing symptoms of the radiation damage that ultimately led to her death. How does one maintain trust and faith when visited with such perverse afflictions? How does one find the strength to continue through the daily round of petty challenges and victories that makes up the better part of most human lives?
I don't know the answer, but I do know that in the wake of Barbara's death I have internalized that strength in a way that I had never been able to do before. In the face of bereavement, I have treated myself to spiritual calm, and have let the stresses and worries fall away from me as that source of unknown strength, latent within my inner being but too rarely tapped, has slipped from her shoulders onto mine.
Our trip to Hawaii last month was definitely a watershed. We packed as much of life and renewal as we could into the seven and a half days we were there, and that was surely an important thing to do. There was something else going on, though, and I will try to write about it impartially, even though it is the most personal subject of all.
Barbara and I went to Maui for our honeymoon in January of 1989. Her lawsuit over the death of her first husband had just been settled out of court and she received a payment of nearly a quarter of a million dollars a few weeks before we were married. We had money to burn, and we also packed as much as we could into that week, including a day-long private plane tour that took us to all four major Hawaiian islands. I watched in astonishment as we flew directly over the active volcanoes on the south end of the Big Island, then savored lunch on Kauai, at a restaurant with covered outdoor seating around a central courtyard. We enjoyed mahi-mahi burgers at Kimo's in Lahaina, then ate dinner at Chez Paul, the five-star French restaurant down the road. We snorkeled and swam and savored a relaxed dinner cruise on calm seas.
I decided to go to Kauai this time because I had been there for only two hours and had few memories to distract me. Nevertheless, I puzzled the whole time we were there over the location of the outdoor dining site I remembered. On the final day, I was craving one more dinner at a fine restaurant with the kind of food you just can't get in Waco, and Jennifer located one using a mobile app that sounded perfect. We phoned in reservations and showed up at 5:30, our rental car vacuumed and ready to return as we tried to prepare for the red-eye flight to Los Angeles and the two connections that would land us back in Texas the next afternoon.
It was **the place,** and it seemed for all the world as though Barbara had led us there as a final blessing on our week of catharsis. I returned with a deep inner peace that has never entirely left in the three weeks I've been back.
I don't want to claim too much here. Barbara told me that a few weeks after her first husband died, she distinctly heard his voice saying "It's OK; I'm happy." Knowing how much that meant to her, it is easy for me to suggest that she led us back to this place so I could have a similar moment of preternatural closeness with my departed spouse. Skeptics will scoff, of course, and I don't blame them. After all, we crave such revelations, and are all too eager to read purpose and meaning into chance events.
Still, I will say this: I have kept with me a strong sense of Barbara's inner peace, which allowed her to trust and slough off the burdens of stress and uncertainty through circumstances that would have brought most people to their knees. Her deafness and her profound difficulties with balance, both of which I have written about on this blog, were the ongoing symptoms of the radiation damage that ultimately led to her death. How does one maintain trust and faith when visited with such perverse afflictions? How does one find the strength to continue through the daily round of petty challenges and victories that makes up the better part of most human lives?
I don't know the answer, but I do know that in the wake of Barbara's death I have internalized that strength in a way that I had never been able to do before. In the face of bereavement, I have treated myself to spiritual calm, and have let the stresses and worries fall away from me as that source of unknown strength, latent within my inner being but too rarely tapped, has slipped from her shoulders onto mine.
Monday, August 6, 2012
We Beat the NRA in Texas
They said it couldn't be done. Session after legislative session the NRA-backed bill to create a legal right to carry fully loaded weapons into college classrooms had been stealthily blocked by a handful of sensible Democratic legislators. Now all of those legislators had gone down to defeat in the Tea Party bloodbath of 2010, and the bill was coming up again. It was a foregone conclusion that it would pass.
I really don't know why we did it. There was no chance the bill would be defeated. We might as well just accept that it was inevitable and go on and do our best to adapt. Some of our students were probably bringing guns to campus already. They could be hauled into court if they were caught, but they were never caught. That's what concealed means.
Still, we couldn't let it go. Somewhere in the great ledger book in the sky, it would be recorded that we had tried. It might not be remembered as our finest hour. It probably wouldn't be remembered at all, but we would at least know that we had made the effort.
So we began the writing of letters. We began to contact our colleagues and ask them to join us. The letters flowed, and soon they turned into petitions, and the signatures mounted. We would at least be heard. It would be known that there were people in Texas classrooms who really didn't want guns there among the already volatile mix. It would be remembered that we had gone on record with our belief that the answer to the possibility of violence was not the threat of more violence.
Nobody thought we could win. This bill was a bad idea whose time had come. Nevertheless, we persisted. We watched the legislature's moves carefully. We drove to Austin on multiple occasions to wait in cramped committee rooms and speak our minds to stubborn politicians who were legally obligated to hear us. We told them why what they proposed to do was wrong; why we wouldn't stand by and let common sense - which we made our living teaching and defending - be trampled to death. Increasingly, we were joined by students and administrators. Some had had experience with violence before, and wanted no more of it. Some simply wished to lend their support. Our numbers grew.
We made phone calls, and we made them again. We argued with staffers, and we left messages of gratitude with the occasional legislator who changed his or her mind. We received new lists of new people to call, and somehow we made the time to press the phone once more to our ears and speak our convictions into the broad void of indifference.
We wrote Op-Eds. Mine in the local paper provoked a storm of protest, which I ignored. I briefly wondered whether my home was safe, but I knew where such fears could lead and I dismissed them as distractions - temptations from a source that had spawned countless paranoid acts and raised the death toll ever higher. I could not let myself worry. Now more than ever I needed the strength of my convictions.
So we persevered, and again and again it looked like time had run out and the terrible idea was about to triumph. The NRA was behind it - they were there in the hearing room trotting out the usual arguments - and politicians bowed to their will. This was Texas, and there was no way we could fight the NRA here. Ours would go down in history as a lost cause, and we would lick our wounds in defeat and wonder how we could have been so foolish as to hope.
Ultimately, it was the politicians who squashed the bill. As usual, they didn't take the lead; they waited to follow. Only after they saw that our numbers were growing and that we were in dead earnest about our convictions did they start to show signs of wavering. State Senator Jeff Wentworth, who seemed to regard passage of this bill as his life's work, tried every trick in the book to keep it alive, and time and again we thought he had won. But he lost, and, in a crowning irony, he was defeated in his re-election bid this year by a Tea Party challenger.
Of course, the bill may come up again next year. Someone else may step up to the plate to take Wentworth's turn at bat. Rick Perry, no longer running for president and watching the national polls, may decide to give this bill more attention. But we will be there too, because we did the impossible, and we know it can be done again. Whether in Texas or in any other state, the NRA can be defeated, if only the people who care will make their voices heard. The politicians will not do it for us. They will only follow once they hear us loud and clear and realize that we are not going away.
We beat the NRA in Texas. If it can be done here, it can be done anywhere. We are not going away.
I really don't know why we did it. There was no chance the bill would be defeated. We might as well just accept that it was inevitable and go on and do our best to adapt. Some of our students were probably bringing guns to campus already. They could be hauled into court if they were caught, but they were never caught. That's what concealed means.
Still, we couldn't let it go. Somewhere in the great ledger book in the sky, it would be recorded that we had tried. It might not be remembered as our finest hour. It probably wouldn't be remembered at all, but we would at least know that we had made the effort.
So we began the writing of letters. We began to contact our colleagues and ask them to join us. The letters flowed, and soon they turned into petitions, and the signatures mounted. We would at least be heard. It would be known that there were people in Texas classrooms who really didn't want guns there among the already volatile mix. It would be remembered that we had gone on record with our belief that the answer to the possibility of violence was not the threat of more violence.
Nobody thought we could win. This bill was a bad idea whose time had come. Nevertheless, we persisted. We watched the legislature's moves carefully. We drove to Austin on multiple occasions to wait in cramped committee rooms and speak our minds to stubborn politicians who were legally obligated to hear us. We told them why what they proposed to do was wrong; why we wouldn't stand by and let common sense - which we made our living teaching and defending - be trampled to death. Increasingly, we were joined by students and administrators. Some had had experience with violence before, and wanted no more of it. Some simply wished to lend their support. Our numbers grew.
We made phone calls, and we made them again. We argued with staffers, and we left messages of gratitude with the occasional legislator who changed his or her mind. We received new lists of new people to call, and somehow we made the time to press the phone once more to our ears and speak our convictions into the broad void of indifference.
We wrote Op-Eds. Mine in the local paper provoked a storm of protest, which I ignored. I briefly wondered whether my home was safe, but I knew where such fears could lead and I dismissed them as distractions - temptations from a source that had spawned countless paranoid acts and raised the death toll ever higher. I could not let myself worry. Now more than ever I needed the strength of my convictions.
So we persevered, and again and again it looked like time had run out and the terrible idea was about to triumph. The NRA was behind it - they were there in the hearing room trotting out the usual arguments - and politicians bowed to their will. This was Texas, and there was no way we could fight the NRA here. Ours would go down in history as a lost cause, and we would lick our wounds in defeat and wonder how we could have been so foolish as to hope.
Ultimately, it was the politicians who squashed the bill. As usual, they didn't take the lead; they waited to follow. Only after they saw that our numbers were growing and that we were in dead earnest about our convictions did they start to show signs of wavering. State Senator Jeff Wentworth, who seemed to regard passage of this bill as his life's work, tried every trick in the book to keep it alive, and time and again we thought he had won. But he lost, and, in a crowning irony, he was defeated in his re-election bid this year by a Tea Party challenger.
Of course, the bill may come up again next year. Someone else may step up to the plate to take Wentworth's turn at bat. Rick Perry, no longer running for president and watching the national polls, may decide to give this bill more attention. But we will be there too, because we did the impossible, and we know it can be done again. Whether in Texas or in any other state, the NRA can be defeated, if only the people who care will make their voices heard. The politicians will not do it for us. They will only follow once they hear us loud and clear and realize that we are not going away.
We beat the NRA in Texas. If it can be done here, it can be done anywhere. We are not going away.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Heads I win, tails you ...
It was a wonderful week. After a few days in California visiting my late wife's family, my two adult children and I took off - as many of my Facebook friends know - for Kauai, Hawaii, where we spent the better part of eight days treating ourselves to a relaxing, healing vacation after one of the worst years in our lives.
The mass shooting in Aurora, Colorado, happened the day before we flew out, and I tried my best not to think too much about it and about the inevitable political mudslinging that followed. While I was in Hawaii, the flap over Chick-Fil-A began to develop, and it later exploded into the festival of name-calling we've all been witnessing this week.
I have so far avoided commenting on either event, and I've largely avoided obsessing over them either. As the dust begins to settle, though, two things stick in my mind and won't go away:
• The statement from a Second Amendment supporter that any attempt to limit people's ability to buy enormously large magazines of ammunition restricts our freedoms.
• The claim by various people that calls to boycott Chick-Fil-A threaten our First Amendment freedom of speech.
What is so appalling about both of these claims is the complete failure to recognize the corresponding freedoms of those on the other side: the right of those who abhor violence to live without fear of armed vigilantes on the one hand, and the right of those who don't like Chick-Fil-A's president's views on gays to exercise their free market prerogative not to eat there on the other. The clear message in both cases is "I demand that you respect my freedoms, but forget about yours."
And this is a problem, because when freedom only applies to me and not to you, neither one of us is free. I'm not free because I don't have to listen to your views or your concerns, so I am never challenged to emerge from the prison of my preconceived ideas and interact with you or with others. You're not free because I have no respect for your personhood, even though I'm willing to disguise that lack of respect as promoting "freedom." So we are all in prison together.
As we prepare for the endgame of yet another presidential campaign, I greatly fear that we will see a lot of lack of freedom on display. What we seem to have lost is our sense of community - of all being in this (whatever "this" is) together. So I would like to suggest that everybody back off a bit and acknowledge that if any of us is not free, none of us is free. If any of us demands rights that deprive others of theirs, those rights are the antithesis of freedom. If we really want to affirm ourselves as Americans (and all the cheering for our Olympians this week suggests that, at some level, at least, we do), then we must affirm that America is a community: a frighteningly diverse community, perhaps, but a community all the same. In a community, nobody wins, and if hyper-partisanship prevails, we all lose. It's about as simple as that.
The mass shooting in Aurora, Colorado, happened the day before we flew out, and I tried my best not to think too much about it and about the inevitable political mudslinging that followed. While I was in Hawaii, the flap over Chick-Fil-A began to develop, and it later exploded into the festival of name-calling we've all been witnessing this week.
I have so far avoided commenting on either event, and I've largely avoided obsessing over them either. As the dust begins to settle, though, two things stick in my mind and won't go away:
• The statement from a Second Amendment supporter that any attempt to limit people's ability to buy enormously large magazines of ammunition restricts our freedoms.
• The claim by various people that calls to boycott Chick-Fil-A threaten our First Amendment freedom of speech.
What is so appalling about both of these claims is the complete failure to recognize the corresponding freedoms of those on the other side: the right of those who abhor violence to live without fear of armed vigilantes on the one hand, and the right of those who don't like Chick-Fil-A's president's views on gays to exercise their free market prerogative not to eat there on the other. The clear message in both cases is "I demand that you respect my freedoms, but forget about yours."
And this is a problem, because when freedom only applies to me and not to you, neither one of us is free. I'm not free because I don't have to listen to your views or your concerns, so I am never challenged to emerge from the prison of my preconceived ideas and interact with you or with others. You're not free because I have no respect for your personhood, even though I'm willing to disguise that lack of respect as promoting "freedom." So we are all in prison together.
As we prepare for the endgame of yet another presidential campaign, I greatly fear that we will see a lot of lack of freedom on display. What we seem to have lost is our sense of community - of all being in this (whatever "this" is) together. So I would like to suggest that everybody back off a bit and acknowledge that if any of us is not free, none of us is free. If any of us demands rights that deprive others of theirs, those rights are the antithesis of freedom. If we really want to affirm ourselves as Americans (and all the cheering for our Olympians this week suggests that, at some level, at least, we do), then we must affirm that America is a community: a frighteningly diverse community, perhaps, but a community all the same. In a community, nobody wins, and if hyper-partisanship prevails, we all lose. It's about as simple as that.
Friday, July 13, 2012
My favorite Mozart for piano
I didn't want to leave for vacation on a downer, so I'm posting a link to video I just made of Mozart's Rondo in A minor, K. 511, which has long been my favorite Mozart keyboard piece. I recorded it using the new camera I bought to take to Hawaii with me.
I wrote on Facebook earlier this week that there is more depth of emotion in Mozart's music than in that of almost any other composer. Many have tried to make up the difference by being louder and more obvious, but few have ever gone this deep. This piece exemplifies that. Please enjoy, and if you're wondering, I did look at the camera a few times just to make sure it was filming me - if "filming" is the right term any more. I'll be relaxing next week far away from here. I am thoroughly ready.
I wrote on Facebook earlier this week that there is more depth of emotion in Mozart's music than in that of almost any other composer. Many have tried to make up the difference by being louder and more obvious, but few have ever gone this deep. This piece exemplifies that. Please enjoy, and if you're wondering, I did look at the camera a few times just to make sure it was filming me - if "filming" is the right term any more. I'll be relaxing next week far away from here. I am thoroughly ready.
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