But, this year was entirely different. I was to be joined at one of the required gatherings by my son, who I had not seen (and only rarely heard from) for over 6 years. It was, once again, the tired old story of a estranged father and son who were, after years of animus and trying, vainly I suspect on both our parts, to ignore each other’s presence on earth, reuniting. The ice was finally broken and, suffice it to say, father and son had an enjoyable reunion, at long last.
The story of how this separation occurred in the first place is worth telling if for no other reason that to give other fathers and sons hope that, despite much hatred and hurt feelings, gaping wounds can be breeched and, maybe, even healed. I hope so. For if Ronnie (he is the III in the "chain of Ronalds"; I am the "Jr.") and I can reunite through the harsh and painful trials we have experienced together, then any bridge can be crossed.
I have written of my children before on this site that I suspect much of this will not be new but might, perchance, serve to frame how the conflict began. I was blessed with twin boys, August 29th, 1980. Their birth was not uneventful but, for the sake of brevity, I will state the obvious: they both made it to adulthood despite prematurity (2.5 lbs at birth), hyaline membrane disease (the lung disease common to preemies), a hereditary blood disorder (courtesy of your truly) and various and sundry other afflictions, not the least of which they were born in an Army hospital. They lived fairly privileged lives (tragically and irreparably spoiled by the father) and did what young boys usually did in their adolescence.
In their late teenage years, things began to sour. With their mother and father constantly waging emotional warfare at home and cohabitating rather than being married, they began to drift into the world of drugs, as children from troubled homes so often do. They both did steroids to "bulk up" and then, most catastrophically, moved on to worse illicit substance abuse. They began to chronically use GhB (gamma hydroxy butyrate). The daily use of this dangerous drug began to affect their behaviors and their school performance. Ronnie was summarily kicked out of school his senior year; somehow, Danny managed to graduate.
To fund their habit, Ronnie began to sell GhB which, at the time, was just hitting the radar of the DEA and it was made a federal crime to sell it a year of so before Ronnie was caught doing just that. He was sentenced to a year in Federal prison but it was suspended if he agreed to mandatory drug testing. He failed enough of the tests that he ended up doing his full sentence in a minimum security Federal facility about 90 minutes from Birmingham.
While he was incarcerated, Danny continued his downward spiral. Without his older brother to keep him at least partially in line - Ronnie was always the "alpha" male of the pair - the youngest twin fell completely into the sewer of worsening drug abuse. I suspect he was using methamphetamine among other things and continued his GhB habit. Despite in-patient psychiatric care and rehab clinics, Danny never pulled out of his dive to oblivion. He died in his sleep in May, 2002.
In my mind, this was when the schism cracked open between father and son. I believe, though we have not reached the point in our new relationship to actually discuss this touchy topic, that Ronnie felt more than a little responsible for his younger brother’s death. I am equally convinced that he blamed me, possibly in equal or greater measure, for our family tragedy because, by now, I had left our family home and was in the process of obtaining a divorce when Danny died. I went to see Ronnie in prison a couple of times after Danny died and the atmosphere was cordial but never approached the closeness we had once shared in better years. I stopped visiting about 3 months before Ronnie’s release - probably, from equal measures of stubbornness and laziness on my part. If I was not going to be treated as his father, the hell if I were going to drive that 90 miles each way to experience what was more like visiting a prison pen pal. Yes, Virginia, there are lousy fathers just like there is a Santa Claus. I was in the former category.
After Ronnie’s release, He made a decision that, I believe, ultimately saved his life. He was smart enough (he always was the smartest in most crowds) to recognize that if he returned to his old home and his old friends, he would very likely fall back into the same old destructive behaviors he had (barely) lived through before. So, unbeknownst to me, he convinced his presiding judge to allow his to serve out his probationary period in Nashville. He vanished to Music City without so much as a fare-thee-well to dear old dad, found a half-way house that actually worked and slowly climbed out of the mire and the muck he was stuck in. He breezed through his drug tests and was finished probation with flying colors. He eventually passed his GED, got a job as a salesman and, according to reliable reports, is doing quite well. He had paid his debt to society and, though he cannot vote (convicted felon and all), he is beginning to put his shattered life back together. I pray he is also getting over some of the guilt he might still feel over the loss of his younger twin.
For the past 3 or 4 years, there was always the rumor that Ronnie would be coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas but, like a morning fog, when the day arrived he would call his older sister (with whom he has always been close) to offer some excuse as to why he "just couldn’t make it" this year. It was her job to try, in vain, to convince dad that it had nothing to do with me and it was "just one of those things". I would smile, as best I could, hug my daughter and half-heartedly mouth words to the effect: "I understand! No big deal. I am sure it couldn’t be helped". All the time, I knew my oldest son just wasn’t ready to face his dad. Too much pain, too many memories and too much anger lay between us.
To say I was not hurt by this annual snubbing would be a nice lie to tell but a lie, nevertheless. I missed my child and, not knowing what would ever remedy the situation, just allowed it to lay fallow and rotting, like dead leaves. Maybe I would never see him again. Maybe, my faults in fatherhood and failures as a teacher and role model could never be surmounted. I thought of it as a curse: one son buried below ground, one son, figuratively, buried above ground. I began to feel I deserved the dual vacuum that grew annually in my heart and walled myself off from feeling much of anything. I became a bit of a hermit and an "island unto myself". Numbness, after all, is much easier to deal with than pain and failure.
This year, the rumors of a reunion didn’t come, as in the past, from Rhonda but from Ronnie, himself. He called a couple weeks prior to Thanksgiving and proudly announced he would be in Birmingham for the holiday. I told him, half seriously, that if he didn’t show up, I would drive to Nashville and bodily drag him home. He seemed to accept that in the spirit I meant it: that his coming to town was important to me. He swore he would and, this year (sound of cracking ice) he did.
We had a wonderful family gathering, three generations of Ronald Gene Albrights (Sr., Jr., and the III) all embraced for the first time in over half a decade. Dad, recently turning 80 and not in the best of health, seemed 25 years younger. Ronnie III seemed to smile the whole time and, well, yours truly was blessed beyond measure. After all, at least for one day, I had my son back.
And, now, after all these years, Thanksgiving is no longer a chore to dread but a memory to be thought of often and with tremendous fondness. And, I am not too proud to admit, with the hint of a tear of happiness in my eyes.
]]>I have not written for a while because my life has been a bit "topsy turvy" over the past few weeks. More on the specifics, I am sure, soon but suffice it to say the computer and writing have been the last things on my mind. My "to do" list has been filled with other activities though I fully intent to resume my endeavors shortly.
Again, apologies for my absence and a promise that a return to casting spit balls at the powers that be, charging a few windmills and goring a few sacred cows will come soon enough. In the interim, my best to you all and the happiest of holidays to you and yours.
]]>– Jean-Paul Sartre
Emotions are pesky things, aren’t they? They are unpredictable: the exact same situation that sends me over the edge in a full-blown rage can elicit a calm sense of purpose and the challenge of "solving the problem" for another. What makes me smile and start analyzing what components of a human’s behavior are causing a particular action ("Why did that person expect to accomplish by calling me a bastard and shooting me a middle-finger salute?") can cause another to become enraged, vengeful and, even, physically violent. We can say to ourselves a thousand times, "I am not going to let that jerk make me angry ever again!" and, before you can turn around three times and click your heels, you are boiling over again at the same jerk for the same offense. Or, you can be enraptured by "falling in love" only to have the object of your affection tear out your heart, break it over your head and do the Cotton-Eyed Joe over its remains. Gathering whatever splinters of dignity you can find among the ruins, you may solemnly swear to "never allow yourself" to fall in love again. And, then, like the swallows to Capistrano, eventually you fly back into the arms of a new "perfect love".
These patterns of emotions can lead one to several suppositions:
1. We seem to have absolutely no control over the mysterious origins of our emotions. I say "seem to" because I am of the opinion that there are exceptions; more on that later.
2. Emotions almost seem to have a rhythm of their own, like the tides of the ocean or the spawning of salmon. Try as we will, sometimes they simply overwhelm our best intentions and our staunchest attempt to suppress them.
3. Emotions are Janus-faced: that is, some bring us joy and make us feel energized, excited and alive and others snatch whatever sanity we may have left and cause us to act in ways we would never dream we could act without the igniting spark of our emotions.
4. Finally, emotions - and probably our inability to fully and completely harness them - are one of the major components in our wiring that make us human. I do not deny that lower (a word I use with tongue firmly planted in cheek) animals display outward signs of what we might think of as "emotions" (anger, rage, love, jealousy, et al) but I do not think they are as mentally-driven and complex as those of our species and are more instinct-driven. But, then, who knows what two dogs are thinking about when they fight or copulate? Mister Spock of Star Trek fame is easily identified by viewers as not human because he simply has no emotions; without them, we are somehow stripped of our humanity.
I find emotions particularly fascinating as they have been a predominant force in my life for most of it. I seem to be one of those people with an adrenalin reserve the size of the Arabian oil fields and a hair-trigger (and hyperactive) release mechanism. For the first half-century of my life, I could "go hot" with the a single word, look or even the prospect of an ill wind. I remember the dry mouth, fast heart rate and sweaty palms as constant companions in my academic years as the fear of being called on in class constantly loomed like the birds on the schoolyard in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic movie. I remember the hurt I felt from people who, probably without even knowing it, crushed my hopes, my fantasies or my unceasing quest for approval.
I was driven, for most of my life, by equal parts testosterone and adrenalin all the time. And, for those who are unfamiliar with this deadly cocktail, it is not conducive to long life or peaceful demeanor. While I don’t think I was actually manic-depressive, one might have easily made that diagnosis. My emotional states varied like the swing of a pendulum. One minute mellow; the next, volcanic. Fortunately for my teeth and facial structure, I was not one to physically act out my anger but, Lordy Mercy!, my verbal tirades would, as one account described General Washington’s dressing down of General Charles Lee (Battle of Monmouth), "shake the very leaves from the trees." Of course, afterwards, I would suffer from the usual accompaniments of epinephrine overload - pounding temporal headache, racing pulse, sweating and overall sense of overwhelming and unfulfilled rage and, yes, embarrassment that I allowed myself to be so "out of control".
But, as I have said, emotions are part and parcel of us all and are, to a large degree, what make us fully human. Thus, we are stuck with them. It is not necessarily true that we become more in control of our emotions as we mature but I do believe emotions evolve with experience. I still get angry but, since my testosterone is distinctly on the decline and my adrenalin reserves are measurably depleted, the outbursts are neither as frequent or as bombastic. I am still quite capable of having my feelings hurt but I seem to recover more quickly and have learned to make a conscious effort to understand if what I perceived as intentional was, in actuality, just my imagination rather than ill-will.
Some emotions, conversely, seem to intensify as I have aged: compassion, sympathy, empathy - call it what you will. I seem to feel the suffering of others more acutely and am more moved by the omnipresent cruelty of man’s inhumanity to man and nature’s creatures. I understand it less and mourn it more deeply. I am measurably more sentimental as well. For instance, I have been known to tear up at some commercials, for Heaven’s Sake, and more than a few scenes in movies, reactions that would have horrified me in my younger days. But, in my observations, that seems to be almost universal among the elderly population. Its roots are probably many and varied and need not be enumerated here.
Jean-Paul Sartre said that "Emotions are our way of magically transforming the world". I agree with him. A classic example is Aesop’s fable of the fox and the grapes. After failing to acquire his prize, the fox walks dejectedly away and thinks: "They were probably sour anyway", thus the origins of the term "sour grapes". His emotional response - disappointment, dejection, sense of failure - allowed him to "magically" (the grapes remained just as they were) transform them from something desired to something just not worth the effort. The disappointment and failure, likewise, were magically morphed into "I am such a smart fox to be able to recognize bad grapes from sweet grapes just by a glance!".
Sadly, many people, particularly, the young, are very much like Aesop’s fox. Some young people who are" thrown into the world" (Martin Heidegger‘s phrase) in poverty, inner city crime, fatherless homes and incompetent school systems become very much like the fox. They come to see the world as cruel, violent and unforgiving. Without anything or anyone to teach them the truth, they come to believe they have no chance for any semblance of success. So, like the quest for the grapes, they ask themselves: "Why bother trying"?. They are "too smart" to buy into all that "American Dream" bullshit. And, thus, they sink into the easier world that lies before them - promiscuity, drugs and violence. They have, in essence, "magically transformed their world", just like the "wise" fox. Their perception becomes their reality. The lethal, negative, dead-end emotions of anger, frustration, and hopelessness become "hip", "fly," (I am dating myself here) and "cool". The acceptance of their circumstances drive their transmogrified emotions to self-destruction, prison or murder being their final destinations.
The truth of the matter is that we are not, as some would have us believe, "products of our environments" or slaves to our emotions and our passions. If we choose to be blindly driven by our emotions, we might easily buy into that prevailing alibi and self-justification for nonparticipation in civilized society that says "he just never had any other choice" or "society let him down". The fact of the matter is, we always have choices. We are products of the character we elect to cultivate and how we decide to view the possibilities of our circumstances. If we choose to understand and, with that, gain some control over our passions, we can begin to see the world as it really is: anything we believe it to be.
Passions - from the Greek pathea or "to suffer" - will always be part of our humanity. At times our emotions, our passions if you will, can cause us to act foolishly, even to ruination; at other times, they might raise us to the heights of creativity and ecstacy. They are imbedded in all of us and no one is exempt from their sway. But, at the same time, their variations and particular (and, for some of us, peculiar) admixtures, give each of us our character and our uniqueness among our fellow Homo sapiens.
Never, however, should they be thought of as excuses for anything.
]]>You see, the world we live in is driven by what George Washington (and many others) called "self interest". It is known, in more common parlance, by another word, a less flavorful word, indeed, one of the seven deadly sins. The world of mice and men is driven by greed. This is particularly true in Democratic societies and has achieved its rather ugly pinnacle in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, America. Our society knows no greater driving force (and I include the desire for sex, drugs or rock and roll in this proclamation) than simple greed. The lust for material acquisitions is nurtured by democratic ideals and courses through the veins of every society which has ever adopted that mode of governance. Democracy is to greed as sunlight is to the growing flower, soil is to the earthworm and corruption and deception are to public officials.
Please allow me to explain. Democracy posits that "All men are created equal". The fact that this position is patently indefensible in any debate is of little consequence. We have been infused with the idea, it has been spliced into our DNA and, as such, we believe it from the cradle to the coffin. We are all equal under the law and, if that is true, then we must be equal de facto. If that is the premise, then let us see where it leads us. When we believe, to the core of our marrow, that we are all equal, we are disquieted to observe, all around us, inequity. There are men who have more money, better jobs, more comely wives and more opulent homes. Yet, we are supposed to be equal. After all, our most hallowed document, the Declaration of Independence declares it to be so. Thomas Jefferson penned it (though he surely didn’t really believe it) and, therefore, it must be true.
So, what is our reaction when we see those about us, presumably, born our equals but in possession of grandeur that we do cannot possibly acquire? We become envious and, even, often enough, grow to hate (or, at least, despise) these men. They must have achieved their wealth through stealth, skullduggery, thievery and deception for, after all, we were born equal! We seek respite from government and, as all governments which seek not to be overthrown are wont to do, it intervenes on behalf of the angry "have nots" (always a majority) to level the playing field. It’s snipers are affirmative action laws, its heavy artillery are suffocating taxes on the "haves" and its infantry proudly bears the crest of the IRS. It is the single goal of the democratic government to legislate equality. Which is to say, to make all men exactly alike, clones of one another, so that The Great Lie that "All men are created equal" can be finally achieved.
And, yet, inequalities remain, a blight upon the land, like offensive graffiti on the marble pantheons of democratic government, immune to bleach and the strongest cleaners. The presence of financial disparities were the prime source of propaganda in the 1950s and 1960s by those in the Communist Party and widespread socialist movements of the time. They bleated: "How can America be a ‘Land of Equality’ when people live in poverty and others in obscene grandeur? Where is the equality of the poor sharecropper in the South or the factory worker in the North?" It was eventually decided (at least by most of America) that the cure socialism offered was worse than the disease, but the movement still exists and, in some quarters, grows strong even today.
Each election, candidates promise to rid the nation of this heinous "inequality of wealth" - some going so far, recently, as to propose a "redistribution of wealth." And yet, those who "have" continue to have and those who "have not" continue to wallow in their envy and hate. And, so, society firmly believes that we must all be equal and if not equal de facto then, at least, equal in appearance. The inevitable result? The "have nots" spend money they do not have (nor are likely to ever have) to appear to be one of the "haves". This is altogether fitting and proper for it is ordained by law, sanctified in the Declaration of Independence and promised by every Democratic candidate since Roosevelt.
Since politicians dare not refute the lie upon which democracy is based, government has - particularly over last half century - allowed the disastrous process of "personal credit" to bloom like red algae, fed it with benign neglect and have brought about a suffocating desolation on the land. When the follow-the-herd American is driven by greed and constantly infused with the lie of the entitlement of equality of lifestyle and possessions (without the necessary equality of effort), disaster looms close to heel. Boobus americanus (lacking any personal control over the forces that drive them), therefore, buy not the necessities of life but the trappings of wealth. And they buy it not with money they have earned but by money that is not actually theirs, i.e. credit.
Thus, I assert that Democracy - based on and perpetuating the fallacy of equality - has brought us to the point we are in America today: in a word, bankrupt. We, as a nation and a people, are so financially destitute that if a depression is not already upon the land, it is a cat’s whisker away. The average American proudly carries on his person 7 or 8 credit cards (for which they simply pay the minimum payment due, i.e. interest charges, each month) and, deluded as they are, somehow believe they are acting responsibly. On average, we all owe upwards of $20,000 dollars in credit card debt. This does not include the heavier burdens of a mortgage or car loans. And our fraudulent pursuit of the fabled "equality" (about as real as leprechauns, unicorns, honest taxpayers and ethical attorneys) has brought us to this ignominious - if not ultimately fatal - state.
It is so bad that Russia’s President has placed the blame for the world economic crisis squarely on the broad shoulders of American greed. Even worse, he proclaims to the world that Russia’s financial solvency is the solution to the problem. And who is to refute him? The irony of the Chief Executive of the former communist empire claiming to be able to solve a financial dilemma for the greatest capitalist nation to ever exist is not lost on this observer. Krushchev once banged his shoe and declared that "We (the then U.S.S.R) will bury you". Who knew then that he meant his shovel would be our own greed and avarice and that he would bury us, not with missiles, but with little plastic cards with our names embossed on them?
The simple fact of the matter is that democracy, as an ideology, does not mean that all men are created with the same gifts - physically, mentally or socially - and that we are not equal in nature. Homo sapiens, like all species in nature, have variability and individual strengths and weaknesses within the individuals of the group. I cannot play basketball, fix an automobile, design a building, sew, balance a quadratic equation, open an ironing board, plant and harvest a crop, complete a marathon or wash dishes. Others are blessed with these unique talents but I, destitute of them, cannot come close to performing them with any degree of expertise.
Democracy is not a biological theorem. It is, simply enough, merely one of many methods of government. It declares that equality exists in all men under the law of the land. That law, when properly formulated, allows for equality of opportunity and guarantees that no man shall be unduly hindered from his rightful pursuit of "happiness" (whatever that might mean to that individual) by his fellow citizens or by government, itself. He cannot be denied any rights due any other citizens (except when that individual forfeits his rights, such as the right to vote currently denied to felons) due to any characteristic of the individual, himself. He cannot be hindered because of his race, creed, religion, sexual orientation, gender, etc. And, thus unfettered, he is free to use the gifts nature has given him (and strive to overcome the weakness she has inflicted him with) to achieve and become anything he may choose to become. That is the "equality" - and the only type of equality - democracy can enforce. In brief, democracy is not a panacea for the cruel arbitrariness of nature; it is a system of governmental. If democracy could legislate equality, all men would look like George Clooney and all women would look like Catherine Zeta-Jones. And unappealing people (think Lyle Lovett) or women (think Rosie O’Donnell) would be extinct.
Some might argue that this is merely a dusty recitation of William Sumner’s "social Darwinism." In a sense, it is. Sumner believed that men differed and had, based on their biological gifts, varying chances to succeed in a competitive society. He also believed that government intervention, when taken to the extreme, will never solve the stark, cruel biological reality that some men will succeed in the world and others may not. Biology trumps legislation every time. History has shown that social welfare (a kinder, gentler writer would use the more P.C. phrase, "safety nets") actually hinders and neuters the natural instincts for man to compete. After all, why should someone compete to get a job and put his mental and physical skills on the line when he can sit at home and draw a government paycheck? Why toil for minimum wage when one can make more than that simply by staying at home and procreating?
And, so, here we are. We feel entitled to be "equal" and spend to make it so. But leasing a Mercedes and wearing the latest fashions levels no scale and fools few friends. If we really understood that what we drive, wear and live in has very little to do with who and what we actually are as human beings, perhaps we would rethink our lifestyles. I, for one, revel in the fact (a fact, incidently, that each of us can claim) that there is only one "me" and, quirks, warts and all, I am unique and like no other on this planet. For me, at least, that tops any futile attempt I may make to "be" anyone else. No amount of wishing or my part or democratic legislation will ever have me "be" George Clooney in wealth or appearance. Mores the pity.
Let the powers that be "redistribute wealth" and legislate economic equality to their merry heart’s content. I will never be the equal of any man, in any sense other than equal under the law, for I am simply me and, precisely so, one of a kind. I’m not saying that I am superior to anyone but will quickly affirm that, in some capacities, I am the inferior of many. I am the equal of no man simply because there is no one who is me.
And no matter how much I might wish it were not true, you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
]]>First, at this early hour, the world appears to still be spinning on its axis and I can say with almost complete certainty that the sun will come up in the east, as usual, though I cannot yet say with 100% certainty it will set in the west. I have no reason to doubt that it will. Despite predictions from the lunatic fringe that the end of the world is nigh, the results of yesterday’s election has, for all appearances, made not a whit of change on the geophysics of our planet.
Second, I find myself energized by the new-found interest in the usually placid and inert American voters. If nothing else positive resulted in the past 24 hours, democracy has awakened from its deep slumber in this nation and people are interested in politics again. Politics is no longer like the weather: people talk about it but don’t do a damned thing to change it. Not only have Americans talked about politics, they have seemingly come to the startling revelation that they actually are able to make changes in who and how their country is run. I am thrilled that the obvious has slapped Joe Sixpack upside his head and brought him to the point where he seems to actually know his vote can make a difference. My hope is that this is a new birth of political activism in this nation that will carry on for years to come.
Thirdly, I hope and pray the election of our new President will silence, once and for all, the brazen voices of the tired old school civil rights figureheads (Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, et al) who, for too long, have kept the ancient wounds of segregation and discrimination from healing. If our black citizens cannot look at the results of this election and see that failure to achieve success in America is no longer based on the color of one’s skin, their eyes remain blind to the truth. If the old arguments used to justify the underachievement of some blacks in American society cannot be dismissed for what they really are - merely excuses for personal choices - we have, in reality, not made any progress at all with this election.
Finally, if I may be so bold, like, Dr, King, I, too, have a dream. I dream that the dual evils or "white guilt" and the myth that all the ills of black society are due to the "legacy of slavery" can finally be rightfully and finally buried in unmarked graves. If our white citizens can shed their 200 year old curse and our black citizens can truly feel, once and for all, that they have overcome ancient wrongs, this election will have fulfilled my dream.
I sincerely pray that our new President can fulfill not just my dream but the dreams of all those who voted for him to instill a new sense of patriotism, hope and purpose in our great nation and that we can, finally, become what our forefather envisioned: "one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all".
From my pen to God’s Eyes.
]]>But, fear not, ye few readers of this intrepid chronicle. Where others - particularly the geriatric miscreants who have run the minstrel show on the Potomac for the past decade - will wallow in predictions of doom and gloom and the talking heads (assuming Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity haven’t imploded already) will continue to scream at us nightly about the latest "redistribution of wealth" scheme of the new King’s "Great Society - Part Deux" legislation, I feel strangely blessed. I have kept my sword (at least) partially sheathed for the past few years out of deference to my nation and its troubles, noting that most were partially created by those who would call themselves "conservatives" or, at least, "neo-conservatives" - whatever the hell that means. While my conservatism differs diametrically from those who claim its mantle today, out of a small measure of sympathy with their professed (but seldom practiced) ideology, I have cut them a little slack. I didn’t always enjoy it but, like any good soldier, I took the good with the bad and stayed in my little foxhole for most of the campaign, such as it was.
It is with great relief, now that the smoke has cleared, that I announce that the gloves are off and the sword of wrath unsheathed at long last. In the words of Teddy Roosevelt, "The fight is on and I am stripped to the buff!" Or was that Pamela Sue Anderson? No matter. I feel newly energized and fully capable of blasting away at the ever-rising walls of give-aways, government-as-nanny and the new socialism soon to start oozing its way (like "S.N.A.P." - the new supplemental nutrition assistance program) out of the grand granite pantheon we call Washington, D.C.
I will be writing not for the Mob, the Great Unwashed booboisie who, predictably were attracted - like bugs to the glowworm - to shiny objects and have, through their hard-wired herd mentality, elected a complete novice to the highest office in the land and now are destined to sleep in a bed of thorns made by their own hands. Instead, I will write for the remnant, that tiny collection of Americans who still have the capacity to think for themselves and, not only that, actually have an original thought or two. For these four or five Americans, I put fingers to keyboard.
I suppose it is fitting and proper at this time to include a disclaimer. This seems to me to be prudent lest someone not in the select group for whom this writing is intended - which is to say, the aforementioned four or five free-thinking, fully-employed patriots who love this nation bemoan her exponentially-accelerating decline - stubble by this journal and say aloud to themselves, "Look, Kwame! Some guy is dissing us since we ain’t got no job!" If you fall into any of the following groups, you will probably not find the discourse on this site to your taste.
BE FOREWARNED: What appears on this journal will most assuredly offend your sensibilities and, worse, you may even have the uneasy feeling (totally unfounded in reality, I assure you) that I am writing about you! I beseech you: do not read this site. If you ignore my plea, two things are likely to happen:
First, you might get angry. In fact, you may get very, very angry. You might be compelled beyond the bounds of your self-control (I think we both can agree that, by definition, you have less than your fair share of that commodity) to seek redress and avenge my effrontery. One night, you may be so deeply enraged that you might actually seek me out to do your worst upon my person or my property.
Second, should the last instance occur, I may be forced, at best, to soundly kick your ass or, at worst, to blow your friggin’ head off.
So, you see, nothing good will come of your meager attempt to read and understand this journal. I suggest some other site that will give you ease and sooth your fragile ego. You might try The Huffington Post, Tavis Smiley or just curl up with a good book (is that an oxymoron?) by Michael Eric Dyson. I assure you, these will bring more comfort to your troubled mind.
This chronicle will not provide a poultice to your scarred psyche. I am tired of three things: white guilt, political correctness and the welfare state and I fully intend to attack all these plagues and more. It is not a "white thing" or a "black thing" or any color scheme. Those who work and contribute their fair measure to this nation and their fellow citizens are my friends, whatever melanin content their skin my hold. Those who pay their fair share, support their families and obey the prevailing laws of the land are no enemies to me. They have my respect, my support and my admiration.
On the other hand, those who trudge about expecting a free ride on my taxpayer dollars, are no friends to me and, since they are not, are ergo my enemies. The growing ranks of those who, like leeches, are content to suck the life’s blood from this nation are to be attacked at every opportunity and, where possible, purged from the public body. There is not a citizen in this land who - if physically able - cannot find gainful employment. Even in our current recession, this remains irrefutably true.
It would, unfortunately, require that the employee actually get out of bed 5 mornings a week, bathe (preferable but not required) and spend 8 hours at labor. This means that you will probably have to give up your party life and cease and desist from getting trashed on your favorite illegal drug on those nights that precede a work day. But, this is a small price to pay for the self-respect gained by actually having a job and getting a paycheck. You will gain the added benefit of being able to support your family and/or children. To refer to a trite but popular commercial:
Getting trashed on crank (or heroin, PCP, Ecstasy, etc): $50-100
Waking up on an unfamiliar park bench and taking a taxi to your hovel: $10
Getting a paycheck you earned at the end of the week: PRICELESS!
To all those who make this country great through hard work, playing by the rules, earning a paycheck at the end of the week and looking after your families, I welcome you with open arms. For the others, I say: "Get a friggin’ job, losers!" Get off the government teat and be an adult for a novel change. Grow some testicles and be a man (or, conversely, grow some ovaries and be a woman!) instead of a wart on the ass of mankind, which you clearly are. In the name of All that is Holy, be a productive member of society instead of a blight on our once proud land.
There, I have said my piece....at least for now.
]]>We are, hands down, the most dishonest, two-faced, back-stabbing and self-centered animals to ever walk the surface of this planet. I put celestial limits to this statement only because I have not met any actual aliens or visited any other planets. Were I ever to do so, I am confident I could be more expansive in my assertion.
We chose mates based on their bra or paycheck size, political candidates based on how convincingly they can lie, sports teams by their win-loss records and raise children with the same attention and diligence that we order a "café latte venti soy decaf skinny" at our local Starbucks. We are a nation of Teflon®-coated Homo sapiens: whatever happens to us or is caused by us is never our fault. Any suggestion of blame or personal responsibility slides off our non-stick coating like fried eggs off Pam® or water off a duck’s back.
And in a nation beset with ADD, we don’t really like to think too much either. It gives us headaches or, at the very least, a bad case of hives. So we vote on Presidents based on the simplest criterion our attention-deficit brains can find: which is to say, whichever candidate looks best on TV and whichever smuck can make it through the 2 year gauntlet called "the campaign process" without tripping over his own Doublespeak. The current candidate for President that is the darling of the media and the naive (and I’ll let you decide who I am referring to) has no more qualification to be "the Leader of the Free World" than I have to do commercials for the "Hair Club for Men". But it doesn’t matter, since the rival candidate has the bad luck of following a terribly unpopular President onto his party’s stage and, even if he had an engaging personality (which he does not) or had served his country faithfully for over 40 years (which he has), the media and the gliteratti would hate him and the horse he rode in on regardless. Since we Americans are consummate lemmings just looking for a high enough cliff, we will not decide this election on anything approaching such qualities as experience, dedication to country and its principles or personal character. We will opt, instead, to vote for a very attractively packaged and well-spoken balloon of unlimited hot air.
To propose a ridiculously simplistic metaphor ("dumbed down" so that most Americans might possibly understand it), we chose political candidates the same way 6 year olds decide which Christmas package to open first on that cherished morning. As we toddle toward November 4th, we see two (five, if you are politically-correct enough to include Cynthia "We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!" McKinney (Green Party), Ralph "Unsafe In Any Election" Nader (Independent) and Bob "We Couldn’t Get Ron Paul, so..." Barr (Libertarian)) packages under the tree, beckoning us to tear into them and enjoy their delights. On one side of the tree is a glittering package, wrapped in exquisite paper and tied up in a beautiful velvet bow. It has flashing lights and emits the pleasing smell of frankincense and myrrh. On the other side of the tree is a package wrapped plainly in tattered plain brown shipping paper and bound up with twine. There are no flashing lights and there is only the distinct smell of Ben Gay and spent gunpowder. I’ll let you decide: which package does the 6 year old choose to open first?
Political candidates are like spouses, grab-bags at Halloween festivals and, yes, Forest, boxes of chocolates: Which is to say, you never know what you will get until you have made your choice. And, sadly, as Andrew Johnson and Billy Clinton proved to American, getting rid of a bad apple is as difficult as returning that lime green tie Aunt Rosie gave you last Christmas. So, once you have opened your package, put the batteries in and turned your shiny new toy in motion, quite often you are quickly and, often, embarrassingly surprised. What looked like the Golden Child, often enough, turns out to be a pig-in-a-poke. Most tragically of all, after January 20, 2009, we will be smacked upside the head with the harsh reality that the "no refund, no return" policy has just taken effect.
So, with the most important day in U.S. history since, well, December 7, 1941, a week away it would do us all well to ponder, at least for as long as the typical American mind can hold onto a single thought (let’s be generous and say 30 seconds), just who we are voting for as the next President of the United States. What used to be "The Most Powerful Position in the World" is still pretty damned important, at least to those of us who still actually live here.
Are we going to elect the Chosen One who has been heralded as the next Jack Kennedy (and one hastens to ask" Exactly what was so great about JFK?") or a wizened, old-fashioned "American Hero (remember those?) who has prepared for this job his entire life? Are we going to vote for novelty for the mere sake of novelty or are we going to choose old leather instead of new lace? Oscar Wilde once said: "Experience is one thing you cannot get for nothing."
And, if nothing I have said so far can cause you to think (at least in the available 30 second window) about the monumental and critically important election just a week away, always remember Albright’s Law which states that if the United Nations clearly supports one candidate, any sane American should run - not walk - to vote for the opposition candidate. Do not question why, do not pass go, do not collect $200. And one of the immediate corollaries of Albright’s Law states that if one candidate clearly and repeatedly supports a "redistribution of wealth" (known in economic terms as "socialism"), should quickly and unreservedly favor the opposition.
I might still get excited about Christmas and I like presents just as well as the next guy but, at my age, I really don’t give one whit about the pretty paper and the bows. What’s inside is what really is important. And that applies equally well to political candidates as well.
]]>
In a previous installment of this "Never Ending Story," I waxed philosophically about the contemporary worship in America and, indeed, the world of the false god called "youth". I endeavored to show that while the exterior accouterments of the human body can most assuredly be entertaining - at least for a time, it is only when one "pops the hood" and examines the internal components of nature’s greatest creation - the human animal - that one can appreciate the true magic of the machine we call Homo sapiens.
Indeed, there is (when closely and honestly examined) much to be said for the mellowing process of age. Time takes the dangerously sharp edge off youthful temper and cools the self-destructive fires of lust, hate and bigotry. Further, almost magically, the passing years cause the negative passions to wither and the positive emotions (e.g. love, friendship, patriotism) to reach full flower. Allow me to elaborate:
There was a time, not too long ago, when I truly, viscerally hated (no other word suffices) performers who, as they are prone to do, publically espoused their liberal ideology. Worse, at least in my view at the time, they parlayed their supposed "celebrity" status to lend credence to their beliefs, regardless of how ill-informed and biased they may actually be when scrutinized. Every time Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon (or her hubby, Tim Robbins), Barbara Streisand or, my most recent bete noir. Michael Moore spoke, I would scream at the television, throw cushions at their images and, finally, turn the channel in disgust, raising my blood pressure concurrently. I would spend the next 20 minutes trying to regain some measure of composure and finding enough aspirin to keep me from lapsing into a migraine. All the time, frustratingly aware that, despite my personal protestations, I accomplished absolutely nothing to diminish the audience of the speaker or the expression of his opinions.
Fortunately, with the enforced inactivity of old age, I have more time to read and reflect on just why this reaction occurs and how, ultimately, it is self-defeating and illiberal. Since I often struggle with putting complex notions in common words, I found someone who, long ago, explained why even the speech that we hate the most should be heard and - more - analyzed and dissected. For, only with this approach can the truth of any dispute be discovered. Dismissing ideas and philosophy out of hand, for the simple reason that we disapprove of the speaker, ultimately injures only the person who is too enraged to listen to differing opinions. Closing off one’s mind to opinion - no matter how hateful they might be to our ears - deprives you of the opportunity to enforce the truths that you hold to their opposition.
There was no greater discourse on the desirability of the free expression of even unpopular opinions in a society that John Stuart Mill’s "On Liberty". There was perhaps no stranger bird in the arboreum of English philosophy than Mill but, despite his quirks and eccentricities (which, of my own, I am quite proud), was a brilliant and prolific mind. Even today, a century and a half after its publication, Liberty remains an easy read and displays irrefutable logic. Even for a mind slowed by almost sixty years of abuse, I was able to digest its main ideas in just two readings which, I haste to add, is quite an accomplishment for me these days.
If for no other reason, John Stuart Mill should be remembered for bringing the phrase "the tyranny of the majority" into the mainstream of philosophical debate. This important concept, first coined by Alexis de Tocqueville as an early criticism of the possible ills of a democracy, has intermittently been realized in the most free of societies, including America. The suppression of free expression by Presidents Lincoln, Wilson and Roosevelt (some would add Bush the Younger) is infamous and remain dark shadows on America’s claim as "the home of the free". Admittedly, the periods where the central government most actively and rigorously crushed the very idea of free speech were in times of war but this, I hope most will agree, is the very time when debate and discussion of issues is most urgent. The old saw that to protest the rationale for America waging war "lends aid and comfort to our enemies" is, I hope you might agree, hardly 100% truthful. One can question the decision to go to war without being "anti-American" or, in any sense, "anti-solider". Governments make war, not the brave, serving soldiers. It is just such times as these that the arguments Mill makes for free speech speak to his reader most clearly.
Mill says many things worth repeating. My printout of the work looks like a grammar school collage of yellow highlighting and heavy underlining, sometimes in combination. This occurs sometimes happens when I read a work more than once. But, since space and your interest are both limited, I will reduce my excerpts to just a few of my favorites so that you can decide for yourself whether to read "Liberty" of not.
In Chapter 1, Mill starts off by stating that human liberty is, in fact, three separate "provinces":
He agrees that the third facet of liberty is different as it has the potential to affect other people but argues that it can’t in practice be separated from the trinity that is "liberty of thought".
In Chapter 2, Mill presents his arguments to prove his premise and is the best section of the work. In essence, and admitting forthrightly that I can explain his thesis no clearer than he, he writes:
"But the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it. If the opinion is right, they [those who dissent from the opinion] are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, they lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error. ...
"We have now recognized the necessity to the mental well-being of mankind (on which all their other well-being depends) of freedom of opinion, and freedom of the expression of opinion, on four distinct grounds; which we will now briefly recapitulate.
"First, if any opinion is compelled to silence, that opinion may, for aught we can certainly know, be true. To deny this is to assume our own infallibility.
"Secondly, though the silenced opinion be an error, it may, and very commonly does, contain a portion of truth; and since the general or prevailing opinion on any subject is rarely or never the whole truth, it is only by the collision of adverse opinions that the remainder of the truth has any chance of being supplied.
"Thirdly, even if the received opinion be not only true, but the whole truth; unless it is suffered to be, and actually is, vigorously and earnestly contested, it will, by most of those who receive it, be held in the manner of a prejudice, with little comprehension or feeling of its rational grounds.
"And not only this, but fourthly, the meaning of the doctrine itself will be in danger of being lost, or enfeebled, and deprived of its vital effect on the character and conduct: the dogma becoming a mere formal profession, inefficacious for good, but encumbering the ground, and preventing the growth of any real and heartfelt conviction, from reason or personal experience."
His fourth point is most important. If what we hold as an opinion on a subject or question is, actually, the closest to the actual truth of the matter that exists, to deny further debate prevents "the growth of any real and heartfelt conviction" to this truth. He goes on to quote an unnamed author who poetically describes this condition as "the deep slumber of a decided opinion."
I am taken with those words. For I am, more guilty than most, the prideful owner of many decided opinions. And, as I think of them, I am sometimes at a loss as to why I actually hold them so tightly. I hold conviction to them in my heart, I feel they are true in my gut and I always rely on them when appraising the words of others. But, when I stop for a moment and start to dissect exactly why they are my personal dogma, I often face a blank wall. And, as Mill notes: "The fatal tendency of mankind to give up thinking about something when it is no longer doubtful is the cause of half their errors."
So, I have tried - and it is a struggle - to be, at least, a little more open-minded in my waning years. To listen to the opinions of others - not matter how hateful they may be to our ears and our hearts - can serve a purpose. It allows us the chance to reexamine our own beliefs and bring them out of their slumber. It gives us the opportunity to compare what we "know" to be true with what someone else purports to be an alternative truth. All our personal truths need not stay locked away in a dark box, unchallenged. If they are valid beliefs, they can easily withstand the bright light of disputation without wilting. Otherwise, if keep unexamined, they become cold, inanimate dogma rather than a living, vibrant belief.
Argumentation is fertilizer for truth and poison for fallacy. I say, let the enemies of your personal beliefs speak their minds. Truth can never be forever defeated by fallacy. No matter how famous, handsome, rich or influential its peddler may be.
]]>Once upon a time in America, there was a certain honor and dignity in frugality. It was seen, by most, as a virtue. "A penny saved is a penny earned", "save for a rainy day" and all the other quaint little Poor Richard’s Almanac sayings were actually believed in by the early Americans. We taught our children the fable of the grasshopper and the ant and how one saved for the harshness and depravity of winter and the other saved not. Preachers, who rode circuits from one little backwoods church to the next in those days and didn’t even imagine building mega-churches and tabernacles to gaudily proclaim how close to God the resident pastor was, sermonized on the almost spiritual nature of thrift and reserve. Even our government’s leaders at the highest levels were penny pinchers, Thomas Jefferson who died in bankruptcy being the most notable exception. Mark Twain, one of the wisest of Americans, thought his bankruptcy (from unwise investments) was so degrading that he spent the next 3 years of his life traveling the world, earning money to pay off every penny he owed. And he did just that. Once, long, long ago, we were a nation of, if not misers, certainly thrifty people.
I don’t know exactly when we lost our much-heralded self-control or when thrift (recast as miserliness) began to be viewed as a negative trait but, probably, it began after World War II and was ushered in by the nation finding itself in a post-war employment boom. Everyone - women having joined the workforce to create the "two-income family") had work and America was cranking out goods and services for the nations of the world shattered by the devastation of WWII. Europe was in tatters; Asia, no less so. It was America, alone, who was not only untouched by the bombs of war but was at a level of Gross Domestic Product that equaled or exceeded the remainder of the world, combined. Jobs were plentiful, pay scales (and unions driving them) were on the upswing and goods were cheap. Life was good. In fact, life had become so good that our current President ventured that the best way to show the 9/11 terrorists that America would not be deterred by their assault was - and I am quoting now - "go shopping". Sage leadership and constructive guidance amidst tragedy apparently, died in America with Lincoln and, worldwide, with Churchill.
Those who had survived the dreadful "Great Depression" never lost their sense of the importance of thrift. My parents both worked but, unlike the Escalade jockeys of today, they saved their money. My folks had absolutely no concept of credit and, if they couldn’t pay cash for something as essential as furniture for an empty house, they wouldn’t buy it until they had socked enough away to pay cash for what they needed. When their son reached 14 and was eligible for a "work permit" (required to have a job if you were under 16 years old), I got one, promptly followed by a job. I had one - a job, that is - every summer after that until I escaped to college. Even that happy time had its double-edged blade: the good news was that my parents were proud and all too happy to pay for my tuition and books. The bad news: I would have to get a part time job at the University to pay for my housing and meals. Well indoctrinated in the mindset of Depression-era parents, it really didn’t seem like a big deal to me. When I wanted to go to medical school, I made my parents profoundly happy when, struck by a full dose of independent spirit, I joined the U.S. Army and relied on Uncle Sam to pay all my expenses. Lesson learned.
I was, looking back, lucky. I didn’t like it at the time but, then, some of the most valuable lessons I have learned over my years have, at the time, been painful. Most of the children of the post-World War II years (the so-called "baby boomers") and, now, their grandchildren (whatever generation you wish to call them though "Generation X" seems sadly apropos) were less fortunate. They, also, grew up in those golden times of excess and learned an entirely different set of values. Parenting under the popular mantra of the times - to whit, "I want my children to have it easier than I had it in life" - children were overindulged, spoiled and taught the wonderful Utopian concept of "entitlement". Our nation is, over the past, oh, 10-15 years, now stuck with cleaning up the droppings of the chickens that have now come home to roost.
Before World War II, the savings rate of the average American was near 20 percent of their income; by 1980, that rate had fallen to 4 percent. Now, as if it could actually be possible, we Americans have a "negative" (which is to say, less than zero) rate of savings. I can only surmise that means that what little we have saved, we are now drawing out of the bank to spend. And, then, there is that wonderful development of the 20th Century we call the credit card. Today, Americans have an average of 9 credit cards per capita and carry a average debt (credit cards only) of almost $20,000 per person.
We are, in brief, in hock up to our eyebrows and, with the latest recession upon us, show no evidence of ever crawling out of this fiscal quagmire. And, that beacon of leadership and guidance, the Federal Government, owes a budget deficit that encumbers each and every citizens drawing breath with another $20-30 thousand dollars. If you think that is not going to actually be paid by you, personally, think again. It will be and it will be in the form of higher taxes on income as well as higher sales taxes on the needless things you still buy little Buffy and Jody to keep them entertained and, not coincidently, not bothering you in the evenings after work.
So, what are we to do, Mr. and Mrs. Spendthrift? We already are starting to see some of the coping mechanisms the ever-inventive American public has come up with. Perhaps, we should just shoot our family and ourselves in the head and just say "Sayonara" to the hard challenges of keeping a balanced checkbook. Similarly, when someone (say, your mortgage company) demands you pay your house payments, you might choose, instead, to shoot yourself (nonfatally, of course) in the hopes that they will forgive your debt. If you are really lucky, you might have a wacky enough Congressman plead your case in his esteemed assembly of like-minded buffoons and actually have your debt forgiven. [You can’t make stuff like this up, folks]
Clearly, when it comes to financial responsibilities, my fellow citizens don’t have a clue as to what might actually solve the problem. For example, advising someone to "stop buying stuff that you don’t need" sounds like Mandarin gibberish to most. Of course, that sort of advice is so entirely alien it is about as likely to be followed as "stop breathing!" or "work two jobs, if need be" or "cease and desist from talking on a cell phone when you enter a professional office". Better still, "quit having children you can’t afford or can’t name the father of". Yeah, that last one will be taken to heart, I am quite sure.
While it is only a start and will certainly only begin the process of regaining a measure of reigning in your runaway credit hearse, you can learn a new word in your parent-child dialogue. It is not a long word nor is it difficult to pronounce. While I have no reference to cite or documentation to fall back on, I would be willing to proclaim it is one of the oldest words in every language of the world - ancient and modern. It is, to those of you unfamiliar with it, the word "NO". It rhymes with "Oh". If you are a fan of Snoop Dog, Bow-Wow or 50 Cent (my personal favorite), it also sounds like "Ho". It is defined as a "negative response" as in:
Child: "Mom, can I have twenty dollars for a new CD?"
Mother: "No, you may not."
At first, your family may respond with a quizzical, possibly blank and disbelieving stare. Remember, they have not heard this word either. They have only heard its antonym, the much more common "yes" which sounds like "best" (without the "t") or "guess". "Yes" is universally understood and much more commonly used. But, with practice and judicious repetition, you will become comfortable using it. Your children might not ever accept it, especially the first or second time they hear it, but, if you are consistent, they will begin to understand what counselors have been telling rape victims for years: "No means NO!" Hard lessons are often the ones that stay with you the longest.
That, gentle reader, is where it all begins. Just as respect for others, a sense of family bonds and gentility begin at home, so does thrift. If America is ever to extricate itself from the current sinkhole, that is where the solution lies.
]]>But, then, we of advancing years, stare into our mirrors and wonder, morning after morning, exactly who that old man is staring back at us, how did he come to take up residence in our bathroom and, most important of all, what happened to his hair? Even more curiously, why is he growing hair in such odd places like out of his ear canals, his nostrils and on his back? We quickly learn that, if one is not careful and diligent with the scissors, even our eyebrows will - spreading in old age like genetically-enhanced kudzu - begin to look like Andy Rooney’s after a short period of neglect. I ask this: If it is falling out of my scalp, why is it finding fertile ground which once was barren? Teeth crumble, knees creak their sad sounds on arising, and our vision, once so clear and sharp, fades and blurs. These are the toll that nature extracts from us for each year we are allowed to continue to draw breath.
Some never make peace with the inevitability of age. The vain seek solace under the knife of growing legions of "cosmetic surgeons" (which now surely outnumber pediatricians and GPs, which is to say, the ones actually caring for the ill) and endure all manner of pain and indignity to hold back the hands of time. All, I presume, in the furtive attempt to recapture the image of the youthful face that once started back at them from the mirror. Or, nipping here, tucking there and sucking fat from one place and injecting it (GADS!) into the derriere, they seek to fit into the dress they once slithered into before babies, osteoporosis and age wreaked their perfect size 2 frames.
Men, surely no less vain than women, go through the same medieval (ever watch Nip/Tuck?) torture. They spend thousands of dollars to replace hair where it has been lost or remove it where it has overgrown. They, like the prototypical postmenopausal female, undergo the same lid and brow lifts, "tummy tucks" and butt implants (yes, you read that last correctly). Last but surely not least, they endure the agony of liposuction to remove those unsightly "love handles". Apparently, like the Scarlet Letter, the presence of a sagging male midriff provides clear evidence to their prospective target population (i.e. women half their age), that their prime years are past .
Personally, I have several reactions to these observations. First, I am tempted to kick myself for laughing at the lone plastic surgeon (there was only one in the 1970s; there was little demand for their work other than reconstruction after trauma) when I did my rotation on his service in medical school. I could hardly hide my disbelieving smirk when he excitedly predicted: "Mark my word, Ron, plastic surgery is going to be the field for medicine in the future." I remember thinking, sure, dude, just as soon as they can find enough idiots to pay out of their own pockets for getting larger breasts or a face lift! Fat chance! Today, I write it off to the same brilliant youthful insight that told me not to buy Microsoft stock when it was first offered for, I think, a dollar a share. After all, my inner Socrates whispered, "What future do computers have anyway?"
My second reaction is an odd mix of empathy and sadness. Exactly when, historically, did enhancing the surface of the human become more important than cultivating that which is hidden from view? Certainly, I am not unaware that, in some professions, the superficial - which is to say, the external - is important. Actors, fashion models and the like are expected to cling to their
youth for as long as possible. I am sure that high-end realtors who peddle resort getaways to the rich, frivolous and the famous also have a certain job pressure to maintain a presentable exterior. Aside from these obvious examples, what, precisely, does a surgically-enhanced body bring to any other relationship, professional or casual? (I leave aside the unique "professional relationships" that involve an exchange of currency for intimate..er...ah...physical activities). If you were in a court of law, perchance, and could pick the attorney that was to represent you against a charge of murder, would you prefer a Brad Pitt look-alike or a Rudy Giuliani clone? If you were about to undergo a heart transplant, would you prefer the John Stamos model or a 60-ish, bookish, balding man with bifocals and eyes that reflected back an assurance that he had seen all this many, many times before? Picture, for example, Fred Thompson, before senility set in.
And, yet, even in every day interactions, we are assessing the external, superficial features of all and move on to the true value of the person - i.e. what lay within - much further down the road, if at all. Even the most shallow among us will admit that a perky, taut, 20-something year old will be entertaining for a time but, when one might wish to discuss the cultural impact of Woodstock or the "good old days" when McDonald’s sold hamburgers for a dime, the exchange may bog down a bit. And don’t laugh too loud, Sparky. There will actually come a time when you will feel the need to actually communicate. Bouncing about in a bed can be entertaining, no doubt, but after a time, one does have to turn the lights on.
So, here’s to the passage of time and the ravages of aging. Wrinkles, sagging midriffs, lax eyelids and the many changes that strip away our youthful perfection are like the stripes on the sleeves of a serviceman’s uniform. They signify experience and a unique wisdom that can only come when one has seen the passage of the cyclical drama that is human civilization. Only when one has lived through the inevitable revolutions of hard times and good times, tragedy and euphoria, defeat and conquest, does one earn their stripes. You can’t earn them by reading books; they must be earned with tears, pain and heartbreak. They cannot (nor should not) be stretched out or cut away but, instead, worn with dignity and a certain pride. For they, like the chevrons of the infantryman who has survived the harshness and brutality of war, signify the time passed that makes a man not weak but wise and chastened.
Amos Bronson Alcott wrote: "To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, kindly, cheerful, reverent that is to triumph over old age." Those are very pretty words, indeed. But to triumph over age also calls for one to become a calm realist. Which is to say, only with maturation can one know the irrefutable truth that as time passes, the tragedies and heartaches of the present fade and, though never forgotten, find their perspective and teach us their lessons. For sagaciousness is not cheap nor should it bought easily.
The wisdom of our passing miseries and fleeting triumphs bring many furrow to our face and may bend our frames but the insights and peace they cast over us is worth any cost. And how our exteriors have borne the expense only reflect how much the interior - our true selves - has been made wise and patient.
For as Cato remarked: "Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative."
Face it: we humans are - hands down - the wackiest, most neurotic, illogical, prideful, unreasonable and instinct-driven animals on this little blue planet. Deep inside, we know it but, in order for us to be accepted by society (and, in some cases, to remain free to walk the streets) we have devised and carry out some of the most elaborate deceptions since The Serpent fooled Eve into thinking the apple would be good for her and Adam’s sex life. We expend untold amounts of energy (which, if harnessed, could eliminate the need for fossil fuels forever) to appear to all the world that we are social animals and not the hairy, snarling beasts that once fought to the death for anything from the best looking woman to the last bite of roasted stegosaurus. We stroll about in our finery, appearing to be genuinely compassionate for the welfare of all mankind, shedding crocodile tears for the victims of the latest natural disaster and savoring the joys of cohabitating with our beloved fellow Homo sapiens for whom we have only the highest respect and affection.
Yeah, right! Given the right circumstances, the right incentives and anything close to a 50-50 chance of getting away scot free with the deed and most of our ignoble species would whack our neighbors over the head, ravage their wives and their daughters, bury them all in the backyard and forge a will that gives their home and their land to us and roast their dog for supper. I am not a cynic, folks, just a realist.
We are, to our core and for all times, primitive and self-interested troglodytes, one short step removed from the primordial ooze. And the only thing that keeps us from reverting back to the sophisticated ethics of our cave-swelling years (to whit: "Kill or be killed!") is the annoying habit that someone usually discovers our dastardly deed and (if we are not O.J. or Phil Spector or Robert Blake) has a tendency to punish us, often severely is we do not have the wherewithal to buy our way out of jail. There are, after all, only two legitimate driving instincts in the nature of our species: the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain. We are only able to (barely) restrain ourselves from nonstop hedonism because of the prospect that the Big Club of Society will fall on our head and lock us away to party no more. Needless to say, these days, there are certainly ways around this possibility but, for most of us, it is still possible that Bang! Bang! Maxwell’s Silver Hammer (apologies for every under 50 for the obscure reference) may come down on our heads.
The fascinating thing about all this dribble is that science has designed ways to measure and quantitate our diabolical misrepresentations of our true selves - science calls them our "personalities" - and, if we use them as guides, can actually help us hone our masquerade to an even finer edge. It seems that our personalities are a composite of 5 basic dichotomies:
As all science is fond of doing, the five scales are nicely ordered into the acronym "OCEAN" or, if you are so inclined, "CANOE". The blending of the five - a dab of this, a pinch of that and a scoop of the other - gives us a picture of how we present ourselves to the world. It is our individual costume for the masquerade, if you will.
I took two versions of the test and found them relatively consistent in the picture they presented. The first, a 39 question inventory, showed that, principally, I am high in my "openness", "conscientiousness" and "neuroticism" - the latter being one of those times when a high score is decidedly not a "good" thing. I am lower on my "extroversion" score and even lower on my "agreeableness" score. In a nutshell, I am "original, creative, curious and complex" (openness index), "reliable, well-organized, self-disciplined, and careful" (conscientiousness scale) and I am rather neutral in sociable, friendly, fun-loving and talkative (extroversion score). Now, for the bad news: I am distinctly not "good-natured, sympathetic, forgiving or courteous" (low agreeableness score) and I am nervous, high-strung, insecure and a worrier (high neuroticism index, that "bad" high score).
The second test, was 122 items and, apparently, is formally called the "California Q-Set" (or, simply CCQ) test was developed by Jack and Jeannie Block in 1980 for use in children and adolescents but, more recently, has been shown to be accurate in adults as well. Whatever. On it, I scored even lower in extroversion ("prefer to be alone, reserved and serious" - check!), continued my tendency to drop off the scale in agreeableness ("hardheaded, skeptical, proud and competitive" - double check!) and, again, scored lousy (high) in neuroticism. I rocketed to the top of the class with openness ("broad interests, imaginative, higher I.Q., musical interest" and - get this - "hold liberal political opinions"; I guess every test has its flaws) and conscientiousness ("responsible, well-organized, high standards and work hard to achieve goals; associated with higher grades on verbal intelligence tests").
Clearly, some things leap out from the tests. Most of which I agree with. I am a loner who entertains himself because of a wide-range of interests. I do not "play well with others" probably because I am a rather snobbish, ego-centric and stubborn person who considers himself an "intellectual" and "I know what I know". I am very conscientious, possibly to the point of compulsiveness. I am a worrier through I, personally, consider the term "neuroticism" misleading. I am not a hypochondriac - the exact opposite, actually - and that, from a medical perspective, is what I most often associate with neurotics. But, I will let that pass. In brief, I am pretty much of a jackass. I’ve know that for years and, for the 3 people who regularly read this BLOG, it should not come as a shock to them, either.
I presume that the question, after all this, is what does one do with this sort of information? Does anything I learned give me the uncontrollable urge to give up my membership in the "Dick Cheney Charm School", adopt a puppy and join "Jerks Anonymous" or, maybe, Greenpeace to mend my ways? (I hear Greenpeace is a great place to meet chicks if you don’t mind the unshaven, "back to nature" types). Alas, no. My obvious shortcomings - primarily, those dealing with interpersonal relationships (the extroversion and agreeableness scales) - I can live with. As luck would have it, I am self-employed and don’t have to kiss anyone’s posterior cleavage to live beyond the scenic confines and reasonably-priced ambience of the "Under the I-65 Bridge Community". Similarly, the only person that has to enjoy my presence is, well, moi. I admit that I do go through employees like a hot knife through butter but, in this economy, they are easy enough to replace. As for training a new worker up to speed, it is a fairly simple process in my work: pull charts, run credit cards, file insurance (rarely) and smile at the patients. We’re not talking rocket science, here.
However, my issues with neuroticism do give me pause. Since it, according to the tests, "depicts a tendency toward negative emotions, such as anger, anxiety, or depression", that might actually need a little work. Apparently, those who score high in neuroticism "are emotionally reactive and vulnerable to stress". Bummer! I’ll have to give that some thought or, better still, maybe begin on Prozac. From my understanding, a good dose of Prozac can significantly suppress the "worry wart" in all of us. And "better living though chemistry" has always been one of my favorite mottos. Since we can seemingly turn deviate behavior of all types into functional citizens with a little pharmacotherapy and dollop of TLC, my little "quirks" should be a piece of cake in the hands of a skilled therapist. Wait, I am a "skilled therapist", at least of sorts!
A little less neuroticism might be a definite improvement. It would sure be better than trying to actually suppress the nagging feelings I fixate on daily that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and there is not a damned thing I can do about it. The end draws near and the orchestra on our Titanic is just waiting for the conductor to start leading a rousing version of "Nearer My God To Thee."
Yep, Prozac it is!
]]>Nature, to keep this reflection as secular as possible, is a Janus-faced force. In our young years, the mighty chisel it wields, composed, primarily, of genetics (nature) and environment (nurture), chips away maladaptive behaviors (if we are lucky) and sharpens the behaviors that are socially acceptable and that will bring us success. The tool deftly crafts the inherently self-interested and vain animal that is man and teaches the inner beast that drives us all to use reciprocal benevolence to advance both ourselves and our species. We learn, hopefully, that when we help others gets what they want, we will most likely receive assistance from others in obtaining what we want.
Nature’s chisel also works on our young bodies. It makes us strong in order for us to perform physical labor and sharpens our mind that we might think and reason. Since the work we do in our early years is, for most of us, often strenuous, nature gives its greatest strength and endurance to the young body. It makes our reflexes quick and our senses keen so that we might avoid danger and perform at our fullest capacity. Our minds mature under nature’s tools and we develop varying degrees of control over our emotions, our sex drives and our decision-making faculties. We are, in brief, socialized.
As we enter our "prime" - the years of what are usually our greatest productivity - we are well-tuned machines. Adaptive to change, malleable to social circumstances and with seemingly boundless energy, we are - between the ages of, let’ say, 21 and 45 - strong of both mind and body and well-prepared to face whatever the world may throw at us. We are as nature intended us to be: functional, productive and confident that we can defeat the obstacles that the vicissitudes of the world may lay in our path. We are unconquerable, invincible and "bullet-proof" - if only in our own eyes. The effectiveness of nature’s brainwashing of the truth is manifested in the foolish thrill-seeking of the young where risking life and limb is called "extreme sports" and is thought (at least, by those who participate in it) to be no more risky than walking up a flight of stairs or washing their car. After all, the bumps, bruises, lacerations and the occasional fracture will, eventually, heal. They are unbreakable.
But, as I mentioned at the outset, Mother Nature is a cruel mistress. She grants us many wonderful gifts in our early years and, as if to further taunt us, makes us believe we will always be thus: strong, supple, resilient and immune to decrepitude. We get regular glimpses of what can only be called genetic aberrations: men and women in the 70's and 80's (and beyond) completing physical feats that most teenagers or twenty-somethings can’t. Sub-three hour marathons, ascending 20,000 foot mountains, skydiving and all manner of physical endurance and strength in the aging Baby Boomers (and even their parents!) lend substance to the fantasy that youth, unlike love, endures. Sly, diabolical and, at times, downright vindictive, Mother Nature would have us believe that we will all live to be 100 years old and die, quietly in our sleep, after a day of 36 holes of golf and a night of raucous sex with our fourth wife who, though she is but 27, married us because she really and truly loved us and because "the sex was fantastic!".
I write these words with no small amount of anger and bitterness toward the Great Dame, Nature. I have lately watched what is more often the reality of her perverse scheme for "paying the piper" for the tunes we joyously danced to in our earlier years. Mother Nature - and I do not say the words with any trepidation or fear - you are a venomous and evil bitch. I hate you with every fiber of my being and with every ounce of passion in my soul. And, whatever you have planned for me, I don’t give it one thought or care. You have already done your worse to me. For you have declared unrelenting, merciless and cruel war on the one man whom I love more than life, itself, and show no signs of accepting surrender or granting leniency despite the agony he is forced to endure. For that, may you be damned for all eternity.
No one ever enjoyed life more than my father except, perhaps, Benjamin Franklin. And, for dad, it wasn’t the luxuries of fancy cars, fine wine, a grand house or silk suits. For this simple man, it was merely the joy of working with his hands - building bird houses with his tools or a wall shelf to hold some pictures in his den. He had no greater joy than his own independence: pulling weeds by hand from his yard, cutting and edging his own grass or cleaning out the gutters on his own house. He loved to travel - overseas when he was younger but settling for group bus trips to Branson, Missouri as he got older - and the sense of freedom he mysteriously savored when he could just drive he and my mother out to eat once a week or to his local Sam’s Club twice a month for groceries. He never asked or expected much but enjoyed simply being able to "do for himself", a trait we Albrights all share.
Just a year ago, he did all these things and, other than an occasional ache or pain, he had little to complain about and seldom did even when he should have. But 2008 has been a very different year. The heartless chisel has begun to do its dastardly work. As we discovered this spring, he began to have "mini-strokes" (T.I.A.’s or "transient ischemic attacks" to the cognoscenti). He would become confused and unable to speak coherently. They would resolve but the sequela were evident to those who knew him. He wasn’t as lucid as he once was. He told the same stories as if they were the first time anyone had ever heard them. He would easily forget things, sometimes in mid sentence. His mind, sharp as a razor for almost 8 decades, became perceptively duller and processed information more slowly.
The most tragic aspect of Nature’s onslaught was that he became more unsure of his footing. And with that unsteadiness, he became less active. He didn’t go for his walks with my mother and, due to muscle weakness that followed, he would take 3 or 4 sessions to cut the grass instead if knocking out the whole job in an hour or so. He would need to use his arms to raise up out of a chair. His day went from being busy with home projects to sitting and watching television. No longer able to focus on tasks, no matter how minor, his mind began to drift even more.
Over the past week, he has deteriorated further. That painted harlot, Mother Nature, has been not happy with just chipping away his mind and his strength. She fiendishly sought more. She gave him pain. He has unrelenting pain in his right thigh that takes away the one thing that allowed him to escape from the cold reality that he was dwindling away: sleep. The pain she brought was constant, like a toothache - a gnawing, omnipresent cramp that was always there. To add to her perverse entertainment, she made the pain worse with lying down so that when he did try to go to bed, perchance to sleep and to dream of better days, the agony would grow to the point that he was forced to return to a chair, any chair, for relief. Sleeplessness, as we all know, fuels confusion and irritability. Just so with my father. His mind grows worse, his thoughts more morose and his mood is without any joy.
The unforgivable irony of all this is that September 22, 2008 was my father’s 80th birthday. I had planned to take the old man who had given me so much and never asked a thing in return to a nice dinner with my mother and daughter. Mother Nature would not even allow that simple celebration of a life well lived. He had neither the strength nor the interest in any festivities. He felt he couldn’t walk to the table without being assisted and, for my father, this was no way to present oneself in public. The truth was that he would be in too much pain to enjoy sitting for a meal and he didn’t want to spoil everyone’s evening should he be forced to leave early or, even more degrading to him, have to be assisted to the levorotary. He has little of his former self left but he still has his immense pride.
I despise the bitch that has whittled my father from a tower of strength (as he always was in my eyes) to the wretched, bent and wasting old man he is today. I curse her waste of strength and painless mobility on the young. I wish she could grow old and withered and spend sleepless nights in pain with no other thought on her mind than "When will it all end?". Why must the old suffer so? Have they not withstood all that life has thrown against their hopes and dreams and survived to reap some reward? Instead, they must, seemingly, be punished for escaping premature death. Having run the cruel obstacle course of life, they must now face the horrors of watching and feeling their own bodies fail them. That is no reward for a warrior who has conquered the battlefield of life.
Perseus conquered Medusa, Odysseus defeated Scylla and Charybdis but no one defeats Mother Nature. And, haughty, overbearing and disdainful punisher that she is, only the lucky few ever escape her toll. In no way is it fair but, tragically, it is the path we all must tread to our own end.
Dad always told me: "Life’s not fair, son." This is precisely what he must have meant.
]]>Samuel Johnson, The Rambler, no, 6
The word "baggage" has come to mean much beyond the traditional definition of luggage or that which is carried. In contemporary society, baggage has come to mean unwanted or detrimental accompaniments that people acquire during the course of their lives that hinder their mobility (upward or otherwise) and deter the progression of ideas because of their potential implications. Especially in an age of "political correctness" when it is forbidden to suggest anything that smacks of difference or uniqueness or separateness or, well, anything distinct or individual about any person or group of persons. And, in my eyes, we are all lessened by this irrational, artificial and self-defeating cautiousness.
For example, it is almost universally forbidden to talk about race and the distinctiveness of certain groups of people. And the sole reason for this attitude lies in the horrific history of civilization in which differences - actual or perceived - were used as excuses for perpetrating atrocities on the people labeled as "the others". From the scourges of the Christians by the Romans to the Catholic-led Holy Wars against the Moslems to the enslavement of Africans by the Europeans and Americans to the Holocaust of the Nazis, the history of man has been that of murder and enslavement since recorded time. The singling out of a group as being different and, by inference, "dangerous" to the status quo, has been used as excuse for those in power to unite majorities through the ages to wage war against any number of unique cultures and races.
Even when outright war was not fought, "the others" have been subjected, throughout the world, to oppression, prejudice and segregation for political or, simply, maintenance of the existing power structure. While America, the focal point of the world’s scrutiny since the early 20th century, has famously been guilty of prejudice and suppression of black citizens, immigrants and Native Americans, she is not at all the only party to such injustices. The Chinese immigrant into Southeast Asia and East Africa, the Armenians in Turkey and the Irish Catholics in Northern Ireland have and, in some cases, continue to suffer the cruel yoke of systematic prejudice. To emphasize that racism and prejudice is not limited to any particular people, one need only review the past 40 years. The genocide of the Igbos in Nigeria, the Hutu in Rwanda and the present annihilation of the frontier tribes of Darfur by the ruling Moslems of the eastern Sudan give testament that the concept of "the other" need not be based on race. Stand the citizens of Darfur side by side with the heinous jinjaweed in the Sudan and you - even they - would be hard-pressed to pick out the lambs from the murderers. "The other" is a sociopolitical construct that is both artificial and, usually, conceived with the purpose of uniting a majority in times of national crisis. (Incidently, establishing a scapegoat in the person of "the other" can also divert attention of the citizenry from corruption, inept management and frank incompetence in the government, itself.)
It is human nature (there’s that phrase again) to perceive difference - or "non-identity" - with others in our daily lives. Whether it is at work or in our social activities or, even, when passively being entertained through any number of the available broadband mechanisms, most people constantly notice and are aware of the differences between themselves and other people. The strength of the drive to identify those like us and those not like us is immense, deeply encoded in our most primitive DNA and, regardless of how often we hear the phrase "I am not a racist!", to varying degrees and as I have proposed elsewhere, we all are. We identify with and have greater empathy for those who look, sound and act like we do. We are wary and have less sympathy with those who are perceived by us to be different. It was an essential and useful protective behavior in ancient times and, now, despite our best efforts, is too much a part of our "wiring" to overcome completely.
The unbiased, at times, cruel and unforgiving sword of human nature is double-edged. First, it allows us to have exposure to new cultures, new forms of dress and music, new languages and diverse ways of living - cultural diversity, if you will. Turning the sword over, we have an easy focus on which to blame our national problems, be they economic (unemployment, inflation, trade deficits and the like), social (drug abuse, declining morality, the ghettoization of neighborhoods. swelling welfare roles), declining educational standards (bastardization of the English language, lowering of standards for high school graduation and college admission) and national security (lax immigration protocols and the concomitant influx of potential terrorists). The social construct of "the other" has served generations in countries around the world to explain away and cast blame on all nature of cultural ills.
When examined from a scientific point of view, the concept of "the other" shrinks to insignificance. Humans share with all races and cultures 99.8% of the 100,000 or so genomes encoded on our DNA. [Interestingly, we are also 99.4% identical with chimpanzees, 95% identical with dogs and 70% genetically identical with the microscopic, primitive flatworm; it has been estimated that the 50 genomes that account for all of the variation of our DNA from chimps accounts for all the cognitive differences between man and beast.] What little actual structural variation there is - skin color, hair texture, eye shape and color, et cetera, are encompassed in that minute fraction of our DNA that is unique to each race and each person. And, yet, it is within this small variation that we attribute all the "baggage" that accompanies our personal conceptualization of "the other".
One thing is immediately clear: what tiny differences that exist between us from a genetic point of view are hardly enough to justify the crimes, passions and animosity we have hard-wired into our attitudes about "the others". Clearly, something else is at work. And that other variable is a simple one to name. To wit, we cling to our bias, prejudice and downright hatred of those we perceive as different for the most basic of human reasons: self-interest. We fear, despise, discriminate against and make every possible effort to suppress those "different" from us in order to hold onto our own self-esteem, our own power and buttress the status quo with which we are comfortable.
If a people speak differently from us, worship differently from us, live and eat differently from us or, simply, dress or wear their hair differently or enjoy music dissimilar from ours, then they are - often enough - perceived as "the others". That is to say nothing of whether their skin color, hair texture or the shape of the eyes vary from what we consider "like us". In truth, down to the most basic sub-microscopic level, there really are very insignificant physical differences between we, the Homo sapiens.
All this brings us to the story of the cichlid fish. In his book, The Third Chimpanzee, Jared Diamond discusses the possible ways that man became the most unique member of the hominid family. Those points are beyond the scope of this discussion. He also, in making a related point, notes that the cichlid fish "differ among themselves as much as do tigers and cows. Some graze on algae, others catch other fish, and still others variously crush snails, feed on plankton, catch insects, nibble the scales off other fish or specialize in grabbing fish embryos from brooding mother fish." The relevant point? These variations in behavior are the result of infinitesimal genetic differences between the varieties of the cichlid - about 0.4% of their DNA studied. Thus, while virtually identical at their very core (their DNA), the cichlid fishes exhibit a range of behaviors as different as, well, humans who are also, at their core, "virtually identical".
From this, a number of things seem self-evident.
1. Animals - low (the cichlid fish) and high (Homo sapiens) - have minuscule differences within their species, but the behaviors within the species may vary enormously.
2. Small variants in individual genomes may combine to produce exponential variance in overt personalities (e.g. I.Q., problem-solving capabilities, work ethic, extroversion/introversion, agreeableness, neuroticism, et cetera) and other behaviors within Homo sapiens.
Thus, we have and have not a basis to establish the social construct of "the other". At the submicroscopic level - that of our DNA - we are (almost) as alike as siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Yet, at the same time, we are as different and, indeed, unique as strangers walking the streets of Calcutta, Bangkok, Hong Kong or Johannesburg. Pick any person walking the face of the earth and the building blocks of their body - the 100,000 genomes coded for in their 3 million of so nucleic acid pairs - will be 99.8% identical.
Yet, from those fractions of percent difference lies the genius of Mozart, Michelangelo, Beethoven, Di Vinci, Shakespeare and Einstein. In them also lies the murderous insanity of Hitler, Stalin, Mao Tse Tung, Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein. We are all alike; we are all different. The only solution to this ageless conundrum - that we are all, at our core, virtually identical yet, at the same time, we are all "variations on a theme" - is tolerance. A human capacity so rare that it is vanishing with the speed of the polar icecap or qualified politicians, yet as essential to perpetuation of the species as air and water.
