D.I.T.W.

Funny what you remember and what you forget. I remember sitting in the teacher’s reserved seats as the Mendon class of ’79 did their walk across the stage. The last act on the program was a slide show. It was the first time I’d seen a slide show at graduation, projected on the wall, to music. It began with photos of the graduates when they were toddlers, through elementary and middle school. There were candid shots, sports photos, band photos and finally their Sr. trip shots; it went on for twenty minutes. The music was timely, popular songs; the one I remember from that show was Kansas’ ‘Dust In The Wind.’ The song doesn’t get much air play 37 years later but whenever it does come up it takes me straight to that commencement day in May of 1979. 

At the time I knew the song and liked it; only knew sound bites of the lyrics but it was one of those songs that moves at a different level. You get a profound message, you feel it more than comprehend the words. The hippies and the rebels, the geeks and the button down collar heroes were all in sync, mezmorized as if they were all wired into the same nerve. Over time, it was the lyrics that caught up with me. They put the feeling into context. Without music it’s a poem so you feel less and ponder more. 

King Solomon, the wise; he got it right. Even kings die and someone inherits their riches, maybe a fool, maybe even an enemy. So he advised that we should live a good life, take pleasure in everything we do because it only lasts a little while. Self righteous zealots dismiss him as a Hedonist but I think his wisdom supersedes their zeal. We are small, a pin point of light, then gone in a heart beat. But we are here and we have this moment. ’Kansas’ put it to music. “. . . just a drop of water in an endless sea. Then we learn in the next verse, “All we do; crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see:    . . . nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. . .” and even a king can’t buy another minute.  All we are is dust in the wind. Big-B Believers take that for a metaphor while little-b folks understand the Solomon reality. We really are star dust constructs with a half life of nanoseconds: now there's the metaphor. “. . . close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment’s gone.” That’s what those graduating seniors sensed. It was their time, with no time to waste. I can’t speak for them now but I’m a believer: All we are is dust in the wind.

UNDERDOG

My dad didn’t care much for sports. When he was a kid, all there was was the farm and work. They played basketball and baseball at school but he had no passion for any of it. He was small for his age and a year ahead of his peer group in school. Top all that off with a Napoleon complex; he couldn’t pass up a fight, even if it wasn’t his. He mellowed with age and my mother’s influence but his flash point was easy to trip. He was never against us playing sports but neither did he have time to come watch me play and that was alright, I just wanted to play. When I asked him who he was rooting for in the World Series or a boxing match he would reply with a question of his own; to know who was playing and who was the favorite. I’d tell him and he always chose the underdog. The cards life dealt him were sufficient for a steady job, a devoted wife, three stand-up sons and the respect of people who knew him; and for him that was enough. But he couldn't shake off Napoleon; always saw himself as the underddog. Whatever he wanted, it was an up hill struggle with somebody else in better position to get there first. If you identify as the underdog, you root for underdogs. 

I recently saw two different movies, both bassed on ture stories, both revolving around the Olympic Games. In the summer games of 1936, Jesse Owens single handedly debunked Arian Superiority, Adollph Hitler and the Nazi movement. The movie followed Jesse from his enrollment at Ohio State, through the games in Berlin where he won four gold medals. It won’t win any Oscars but it did dilligence to the ugly, embarrasing  scourge of Jim Crow and other cultural injustice plyed on people of color. Still, Jessee Owens was a stallion. He was a world class athelete, tying the world record in the 100 yard dash while in high school. If he was an underdog it was in his life off the track. Racism is alive and well and any depiction of that disgrace still disturbs me, even from a self righteous culture 80 years ago.

On the other hand, Eddie Edwards was a white boy from the working class. As far as athletic abiility goes, he was average at best. Nobody, nobody except his mother saw anything remarkable in him or in his obcession with the Olympic Games. He fixated on track and field until his early teens than turned to skiing.  At great expense and inconvenience he pursued skiing until it was obvious that he could not compete with the big names. In a revelation he turned to the ski jump where Great Britain had not been represented in decades. Through a gauntlet of discoouragement and resistance from the establishment, Eddie Edwards met the standards set forth by the British Olympic Committee, that had been fashioned specifically to thwart his aspirations. Eddie was going to the 1988 Olympic Games in Calgary. 

It goes without saying that in England, he enjoyed white privilege. It’s hard to imagine a black man, even in England, overcoming lack of ability to become an olympian.  After a year of self coaching and painfully slow progress Eddie was probably 15 years behind on the ski jump learning curve and a marginal athlete at best. His dream was not to win medals, rather it was the experience of representing his country, to simply be part of something grand. If he could do this without killing himself, his efforts would be a great success. Other athletes and the governing body had a different view. They represented an elite class where financial issues and national prestige were at stake. They didn’t want a ragamuffin-wanna-be taking up Olympic space. 

When Eddie landed his jump on the 70 meter hill he was extatic, celebrating the shortest, last place jump of the competition as if it were a victory. Even thogh considered an embarasment by British officials, he became an over-night folk hero. His simple, naive, unpretentious enthusiasm was so attractive and so wholesome that the world embraced him. Over a hundred years ago Pierre de Coubertin, father of the modern Olympics put his brand on the games; “The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle, the essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.” In every way, Eddie had lived up to Coubertin’s ideal. He was an underdog and my dad would have loved both Eddie and Coubertin. He opened himself up to the jabbs and insults from elitests but he also won the hearts of underdogs everywhere. The spirit of the Olympic Games has evolved and Coubertin’s egalitarrian sympathies don’t carry much weight. I think Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards was the last of his kind. It’s all about corporate sponsorship, world records, national prestige and money, money, money. But in 1988, Eddie ‘The Eagle’ flew and we all watched. In many ways I never wanted to be like my father but the underdog thing is irresistible. Struggle! Never give up! 

2.29 LEAP

I have a grand-nephew who is 24, a leap year baby celebrating his 6th birthday today. I don’t think that keeps him from celebrating when the calendar leaves him out but I’ve got to believe the real deal is cause for a little more enthusiasm. I’m still celebrting Mardi Gras; I got a late start. My BD is still months away so I work every angle trying to squeeze some authorized joy out of every otherwise obscure day. It might only be a nap in the afternoon and maybe for the sake of a Nuthatch at my bird feeder but I’ll take it. In September I celebrated nonstop for eight days and nights, the Grand Canyon. They all even out and you hope by your BD the joy factor is at least up to the speed limit.  

You know, one revolution around the sun takes ever so slightly longer than the 365 days we take for granted. The Romans figured out the 365.25 days-per-year calendar, adding a day every four years to keep the seasons in sync with the weather, thus leap year but it wasn’t perfect. Then, along come the Christians. It was screwing up Easter, which is calibrated on the lunar cycle as well as the calendar and we can’t change the lunar cycle. So what do you do? In the late 1580’s they figured out the current leap year correction and they did it all without computers or calculators. They juggled the days per month and dropped the leap year in century years that cannot be divided equally by the number 400. In the year 2100, which should by all rights be a leap year, it will not. February of 2100 will just be 28 days, like normal years and my grand-nephew will have to celebrate his 108th birthday on the 28th or the 1st.

If you’re following the Chinese calendar it’s either 4653 or 4713 and it’s the year of the Monkey. The Buddhist calendar puts us in 2560. The Hebrews have us in 5776 and if you are scheduling by the British Royal Calendar it is 64 Eliz. 2. It’s the year of the Royals and the Broncos. It’s an election year and I hate it when they do that. The American calendar is about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness but we can't agree on what that means. In Canada, a nation with great curb appeal, they make less noise and track the calendar of peace, order and good government; I love it when they do that. Calendars, I like the photographs better than the numbers anyway. Today is leap day in the leap year. My leaping now takes a short, flat trajectory but when you give up, you’re done. 

FEBRUARY

        In August of 2012 I read a David Brooks column from the N.Y. Times, ‘The Credit Illusion’, it’s easy to find on line. Just a word about Brooks, a conservative commentator/columnist who has managed to stay above the demagoguery that defines our culture. He can see the flaws and weakness of a particular argument from either side of the political-philosophical divide and he does so fairly. For myself I need to reflect on the word, demagoguery; a manipulative appeal that plays on emotions and prejudice. It appeals to the worst in human nature, frequently associated with sleazy politicians. It’s a word like ‘Bigotry’, floating around in common usage; everybody gets the negative connotation but many simply don’t know what it means. Brooks simply doesn’t go there. His arguments are based on well researched facts and transparent logic. The point of the article was that as young, aspiring individuals, competing in the work place for material success; we must believe, or at least behave as if, every success and every failure come as the direct result of our choices and our actions. We must act in that belief whether or not it is true. Brooks says however that after a career has run its course, looking back, we must realize that both our successes and our failures hinged on the decisions and actions of many, many other people as well. Still, in self defense, trusting karma and fate is the blind leading the blind. The ‘Boot Strap’ argument may be a gratifying accolade but it simply doesn’t hold water; nobody succeeds by themselves. He amends that with the observation, “. . . and most of us get better than we deserve.”

That idea of limited control over our lives and subject to the whims of others brings me to February. Negro History week was originated in 1926, for the purpose of teaching the history of American Blacks, then expanded to Black History Month in 1976. Before that, Black history was for all practical purposes, ignored or overlooked. I draw from my own experience, both 1st hand and vicarious, that’s all any of us can do. That’s how we make meaning from the life and times of other people. Over time, their experiences, right or wrong, credible or incredible become part of our 2nd hand experience. If one avoids or disregards a particular class of people, their story, their struggles and the path available to them, then it’s really difficult to have any sense of meaning or rationale for that demographic. 

I am a white man, so white that I squeak when I walk. I never knew a black person by name until I went in the army, never had a black friend until I was in my late 20’s in college, never had a window into that culture until I was in my 50’s. There was no authentic sense of meaning or rationale for the black experience, in my experience. That changed dramatically in 1988 when I went to work in a ghetto school where 11 of about 400 people were white and half of those were teachers. I experienced both charitable acceptance and reverse discrimination simultaneously. I was both alienated intentionally and embraced in innocent ignorance. For people of privilege, equality is terribly uncomfortable. The advantages of privilege seem greater than the benefits of equality. Equality for people of privilege requires a sacrifice.You have to give up something that is valuable and it feels like a demotion to be equal. I had lived the lion share of a lifetime with white, male privilege, believing that it was not only the norm but also righteously ordained. In my 1st hand experience today I can make no other meaning from it than, African Americans still live in the shadow of slavery and carry the weight of Jim Crow in spite of a half hearted emancipation, conditional civil rights and a condescending, convoluted, mock equality. 

My friends who dispel the idea of ‘Black Lives Matter’ and scoff at ‘White Privilege’ are afraid, whether they know it or not. Denial is a wonderful, effective refuge from painful truths. We all want to believe that we are the good guys. When I hear, ‘All Lives Matter’ I understand that someone feels uncomfortable enough, they need to change the subject. All lives do matter but it’s not white lives that are being snuffed out and interned in penitentiaries in unjustifiably, disproportionate  numbers. ‘All Lives Matter’ is simply a diversion, lawyer talk. The fact is, it is still dangerous, risky business to be a person of color in this country. If you need someone to paint a picture for you, you don’t really need a picture, you need to let go of your denial and just look in those places you have been content to ignore. White Privilege is like being right handed in a right handed world. Only left-handers are aware of it. The way tools are designed, the way traffic moves, the way keys turn in locks and handles turn on doors, the way pages turn and the pencil moves across the paper; it is so internalized we don’t think about how it affects left-handers. Privilege of any kind is simply a benefit that has not been earned. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. For privilege to exist there has to be an opposite side for that coin, disadvantage. When that privilege is withheld and the disadvantage is predicated on the social context of race, class, religion, etc., in a nation founded on democratic principles, it’s just wrong. I realize I will not change anyone’s mind or soften anyone’s heart. Undeserved, white privilege is alive and well and I can't make it go away. But I can step out of line, walk away from the great caucasian support group and be other than a stereotype, privileged white man who believes in 'boot-straps', that he deserves all of his good fortune. 

VALENTINE

There should be a special day for every purpose; almost every purpose. Mean, ne’er-do-wells don’t need the extra attention but the rest of us, the every day, try, fall down, getup, smile, try again folks; taking comfort in special days is a self bestowed reward. We have the habit, I think, of framing our days and experiences in the mood that we happen to be in. No matter what the weather, it can be just right for something or no good for something else. But it's all about us, not the weather. So we set aside those special days to remember something that is either important or up lifting. National Pickle Day is November 14; I can’t wait. Albert Einstein’s birthday is March 14; let’s hear a cheer for E=mc2. If it didn’t work, neither would our smart phones. 

Today is Saint Valentine’s Day. Saint Valentine himself is generally believed to be from Roman times. He preformed weddings for soldiers who were not allowed to marry, for which he was executed; it started out with martyrdom. During the middle ages, Chaucer associated Valentine’s reputation with courtly love and by now, romantic love is the object. Today is the day to tell your loved ones how much you care with chocolate or flowers, at least a hug and a kiss. 

When I was in junior high school, a long time ago, ‘Little Abner’ was a hillbilly character in the Sunday comic strip. This time of year in ‘Dog Patch’ they had a Sadie Hawkins dance, where Daisy Mae and her friends pursued Little Abner and his friends. Our junior-senior high was housed in one building. The mid winter dance had a Sadie Hawkins theme and we had 12 year to 19 year olds in hillbilly costumes, sock-hopping around the gym. The only ones really dancing were the high schoolers; we junior high kids milled around in two groups, girls under the basketball goal opposite the stage and us boys near the band. Occasionally a 12-13 girl would ask an older boy to dance but I was a night-long spectator in my too big jeans held up by twine suspenders and a flannel shirt. It was a good dance with Coke in green glass bottles and popcorn at the concession stand. That Valentine celebration was memorable. I watched the big guys woo the girls and I got to spend my dollar. 

My 2016 Valentine and I went to a softball game last night, LSU vs. University of Connecticut. Baton Rouge was warm in late afternoon for the first pitch but but when the sun went down, the chill came on in a hurry. I took some photographs and we cheered the home team to victory. LSU’s little 2nd base-girl was terrific, running down shallow fly balls in right field and turning two double plays. Ladies softball is great. I would compare it to championship table tennis played on a kitchen table. Really, really quick; blink and you miss something. The base clearing, grand slam home run in the 4th inning had everyone on their feet. It was a Valentine mood at the ball park not unlike Sadie Hawkins. We didn’t get a turn at bat or even dance but we did share nachos and a bowl of jambalaya. Then this morning there were two different caches of chocolate on the counter top. 

FAT TUESDAY

        Mardi Gras is a predominantly Catholic, Christian holiday on Tuesday, immediately before the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday. Traditionally people ate fat meat, cheese and eggs in anticipation of fasting and self restraint during the lead up to Easter. Revelry and excess have always been the nature of Mardi Gras with large amounts of alcohol and provocative behavior. Masks are worn to protect the identity of merry-makers. Without knowing exactly who did what, their indiscretions are forgotten after the fact. Major Carnival cities include Montreal, Rio de Janeiro, New Orleans and Sydney with many more across the globe. But the roots of Carnival go back to ancient Rome, to the pagan god of fertility, Lupercus. Then as now, Carnival featured revealing with masks and was followed by 40 days of fasting. When Rome converted to Christianity it gave pagan converts something familiar to assimilate into the resurrection tradition. Even then, Bacchus and Venus, the Roman gods of ‘Wine’ and ‘Love’ were primary to the celebration.

I went to two parades in the past few days. In New Orleans the Krewe of Thoth takes their parade down Magazine Street, past hospitals and care facilities where patients who can’t go out to see other parades can view from their windows. Thoth was a major god of the Egyptian pantheon, recognized as the god of Knowledge, attributed the source of written language and science. Magazine Street is narrow with many power lines and street lights over the route. It’s a tight fit but people turn out and the atmosphere is crazy. Daytime parades through neighborhoods tend to be crazy sober rather than drunk. Strings of beads were snagged and hanging on every power line and stoplight. Everyone I saw finished the day with a sack full of beads and more around their neck. Yesterday, Fat Tuesday, I went downtown to Canal Street for the Zulu parade. It is the African American parade with fantastic costumes and dancers. It’s a wide, main street with crowds that pack the sidewalk for miles. I only collected beads that I grabbed in self defense as I had more than I care to transport already. 

I knew it would be a wild day so I went early. It was cold:30 when I parked on the east end of the Quarter; sun was up but not much going on as I walked the 15-16 blocks. Canal Street was still in the shadows with a cold wind blowing down to the river. People were already lining up with their chairs and coolers but I had time to get breakfast before staking out my spot on the corner of Canal & Dauphine. The parade itself began up stream at 8:00 but two hours later, downtown, we were still waiting. The crowd had filled in and walking space was sparse. Being squeezed in between crazy, redneck women and tall people, it’s not easy figuring out where the good photographs are going to be and then getting into position to make the shot. The parade began with very civilized floats recognizing, giving tribute to celebrities for the day. King Zulu was someone I’d never heard of but for sure a local hero-leader. After an hour of floats, dancers and bands, the big floats with high quality ‘Throws’ were coming one after another. The redneck ladies on my left were tossing bottles of beer up to the masked riders on the floats. In return they got whatever trinkets or treasures they wanted. Costumes on the dancers in particular were awesome. Everybody was having a great time.

A little after 1:00 I realized I still wanted to walk through the Quarter, grab some lunch and escape before my parking expired. They had all the streets blocked off for pedestrians only so the street was full of people. I like Royal Street myself, it’s not reserved for drunks and sex venues like Bourbon Street. I was ready for the crowd but the costumes were wild. Half, maybe more were dressed in Fat Tuesday style. Nothing made sense, just tons of color and bling. Tattoos were color coordinated with wigs and capes. Jackets, pants and skirts were either skin tight or overly fluffed. Big men, really big men were in drag with high heels, masks and a 5 O’Clock shadow. Maybe that’s what I like about the Quarter, nothing is sacred except ‘Let The Good Times Roll.’  On Wednesday morning they measure how successful the night had been by how many truck loads of trash and garbage they haul off. Bourbon Street will have to hose off sidewalks and gutters of excrement and vomit. Royal may have had a few passed out drunks but it got down to freezing and I trust their friends got them inside somewhere. But on Jackson Square everyone relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine. Nearly everybody has a drink in one hand and someone’s hand in the other. None of the artists are out, selling; too much chaos to manage and to be sure, every pick-pocket and thief in town is nearby. I carry my wallet in my front pocket, chained to my belt. 

I checked out of the parking lot maybe, 20 minutes before my time ran out. They are very good about letting you know that violators will be towed for a $90 tow fee, not to mention the fine. Then they are very good as well at towing your vehicle within minutes after your time runs out. The good people who keep New Orleans open and inviting want you to go home happy, leaving as much of your money behind as you can bear. I’ve still to see the ‘Bacchus’ and the ‘Rex’ parades; maybe next year. 

SPANK

     Facebook makes me crazy. I just read a ‘Share’ or a ‘Like’, I don’t know but the guy starts out, “I have to laugh at people who are against spanking.” It goes on, predictably, outlining how he got spanked plenty when he was a kid, how he learned respect and still loves his parents; he wasn’t abused, merely disciplined. He implies, this is what’s wrong with kids now, no respect for anyone; we should spank discipline into our kids. The post makes it sound wholesome, great support for parents who practice corporal punishment.
     I was disciplined by spanking, always loved and respected my parents but not because of spanking. The two things I learned from spanking-discipline were, ‘Don’t get caught’ and, ‘If you can’t have your way some other way, violence is acceptable.’ As a young teacher I learned quickly, what is being taught isn't always what is being learned. As a strategy for controlling children’s behavior spanking is easy, efficient and done with. But how many adults actually punish for the purpose of teaching respect and responsibility? It’s a slippery slope and I’m afraid it’s more often about anger and frustration. Prisons are full of violent people who learned it from their parents.
     What you do is your business; my well adjusted, respectful kids are grown. I quit spanking shortly after I began. There are other ways to teach responsibility and respect. Discipline does not require punishment. You have to be at least as smart as a kid. Discipline time is always at an inconvenient time, you have to sacrifice your own time still, the time and energy you invest in framing those lessons says something about the way you value kids. They are no different than we were at their age. They test the boundaries and give back in kind what they receive. The difference between spanking and beating kids is better determined from the receiving end of the hand, paddle, belt, spoon, etc. If spanking works for your kids, good for you but it’s not a silver bullet. It’s where an authoritarian ego takes you. I don’t need it, neither did my kids.