I saw a woman at the Raceway last week. We were both filling our cars with gas. I wouldn’t have noticed her at all, and she was making every effort not to be noticed, but like a person who draws attention to themselves with a bright, shining smile, she caught my eye because of her overwhelming sadness. Her head was sunk low, hanging heavily off her stooped shoulders. She leaned against her car, her body language speaking volumes about how she felt.
I had never seen her before and would likely never see her again. Still, she broke my heart. No one should walk around looking so sad. I couldn’t help but wonder what was haunting her so deeply. She was younger than me, probably by a good fifteen years, but she carried a lifetime of unresolved problems in her shy, hurting eyes. I wondered who her father was and how he would feel to see his daughter look so beaten down. I thought of my own daughters and hoped that they never, ever looked that way.
My fuel tank filled and the pump turned off, and I was soon sitting in my car, ready to leave. I glanced in my side mirror and took one long last look at the young woman. It crossed my mind to get out and offer her a friendly word. I wondered if one smile from a stranger might offer a slight lift to her gloom. Probably not, I thought, certainly not from me. Who did I think I was? I debated long enough that she finished and got in her car, driving away to whatever in her life was making her look so somber.
The moment had passed. I could not go back. If there had been a slight chance that I could have offered a moment of kindness to someone who seemed to desperately need it, I had let it slip through my fingers. I will never know if it would have made a difference.
I pulled away from the pumps and turned back toward home. I felt pretty fortunate…and more than a little ashamed that I so easily take my own happiness for granted.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Happy Campers
Like most parents, I want my kids to be happy. I look back on my childhood and remember good times and feeling safe and loved. I hope my kids will feel the same when they are my age. Memories are the warm blanket we pull out on days that give us a chill. When work is a little too frustrating, or money causes too much stress, it’s nice to think back to simpler times, when I didn’t have to be responsible.
I know that there a lot of kids who didn’t have that luxury. I was fortunate. I did not have to experience a parent’s death or a divorce. No abuse, no addictions. I never even saw them fight. They were stable. I had no idea at the time what a rarity I was experiencing.
My kids have not been quite as fortunate. I’m not nearly as stable as my parents. I think I’m a little more fun, but that may not always be a good thing. Sometimes kids don’t need a comedian, they need a father. I’m not sure I’ve balanced that as well as I could have.
Still, Connie and I have tried hard to give the kids a relatively stable home life. We do a lot of things together as a family, and I’m both thrilled and proud that Shelby still seems to enjoy being with us all, despite the fact that since she will soon be turning nineteen she has plenty of other options. We like picnics and parks and hiking and movies. Not every minute is whistling and holding hands, but I think we enjoy each other’s company.
As fall approaches, our thoughts turn to camping. Some of my favorite memories with my kids have been sitting around the campfire, watching them roast marshmallows and seeing them laugh in the orange glow of the flickering flames.
Last year was disappointing. Due to my work schedule, weather and other factors, we did not get to camp at all. It frustrated each of us, as if our year was somehow not complete without the frigid chill of sleeping in a tent and the unmistakable sound of zipper flaps opening and closing.
At some point someone told us about a campground in Wartburg, TN which was about twenty-five minutes from our home. Frozen Head State Park is situated at the base of a wooded ridge in the Cumberland Mountains, two miles from the Morgan County Correctional Facility for Men and about five miles (as the crow flies) over the hill from Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary. With armed guards protecting us on both sides, we decided the area had to be safe. That's important to responsible parents.
The park itself has great hiking and a nice secluded, natural feel. The campground is lush, by campground standards. Raised, gravel tent platforms, with large metal fire rings and dry wood available at a central shed. Sturdy, clean picnic tables, charcoal grills and plenty of trash receptacles spread around. Best of all, the large bathroom facility was heated and had hot water for morning showers.
Now, I love camping, and can “rough it” if I need to, but I’ve tried it both ways and I have to tell you: getting up to a hot shower is a great thing on a cold fall morning. That shower, more than anything, makes Frozen Head my favorite place to camp. It spoiled me.
When the kids were very young, we left them with family when we camped. It’s too hard to keep them away from the danger of the fire and keep them quiet in the tent. We learned this lesson the hard way with Shelby when I spent most of one long, cold night sitting in the car, hoping that the windows and metal would keep her cries from waking other campers. It was miserable and one of our worst camping experiences.
Not THE worst, however. I will write about the night that my buddy Thaddeus kept us awake all night, but not today. (I’m also open to a bribe if he would prefer that story remain unwritten. College is expensive).
We always gathered plenty of wood and at night we sat around the fire, laughing and telling stories, but also just enjoying the escape from technology and the world. I loved to watch the girls slow down, sitting in our folding chairs or on a log and staring quietly into the crackling embers. They never once complained that they were bored.
Many times we found ourselves camping in the month of October, on or near Halloween. The girls would carve pumpkins on the table in the afternoon and then put candles in them at night so that we could ward off the spooky spirits of the woods. One year, while camping with friends, a jack-o-lantern was placed in the basket of a bicycle, and as it was ridden through the campground in the dark of the night, it looked like it was floating; the dancing flame inside making the cracked grin and pointy eyes visible and haunting from a long ways off.
I am always the first to get up when we camp, starting the fire again and heating water for coffee. I don’t mind though, it’s a Dad thing. I do most of the cooking, and I enjoy that too. Breakfast in the outdoors is special. There is nothing like the smell of bacon frying over an open fire. Of course, it’s usually so cold that be the time we eat, both the bacon and the eggs have some frost on them, but it’s all a part of the experience.
I am looking forward to camping this Fall. We are going to make it happen. It’s a priority for us. I’ve got room for a lot more memories in my blanket.
I know that there a lot of kids who didn’t have that luxury. I was fortunate. I did not have to experience a parent’s death or a divorce. No abuse, no addictions. I never even saw them fight. They were stable. I had no idea at the time what a rarity I was experiencing.
My kids have not been quite as fortunate. I’m not nearly as stable as my parents. I think I’m a little more fun, but that may not always be a good thing. Sometimes kids don’t need a comedian, they need a father. I’m not sure I’ve balanced that as well as I could have.
Still, Connie and I have tried hard to give the kids a relatively stable home life. We do a lot of things together as a family, and I’m both thrilled and proud that Shelby still seems to enjoy being with us all, despite the fact that since she will soon be turning nineteen she has plenty of other options. We like picnics and parks and hiking and movies. Not every minute is whistling and holding hands, but I think we enjoy each other’s company.
As fall approaches, our thoughts turn to camping. Some of my favorite memories with my kids have been sitting around the campfire, watching them roast marshmallows and seeing them laugh in the orange glow of the flickering flames.
Last year was disappointing. Due to my work schedule, weather and other factors, we did not get to camp at all. It frustrated each of us, as if our year was somehow not complete without the frigid chill of sleeping in a tent and the unmistakable sound of zipper flaps opening and closing.
We didn’t camp a lot when I was a kid. I only remember once, sleeping in a big, green, canvas Army tent my Dad had procured and when we woke up the next morning, any part of our bodies that had touched the fabric had turned a dull shade of asparagus. I looked like Kermit the frog.
It was fun though, and another of those childhood memories I cherish. The next time I camped I was newly married, and our pup tent was cozy and romantic (admittedly, when you are newly married, you pretty much find everything romantic).
Before the kids were born, Connie and I camped a few times with our young married group at Robertsville Baptist Church, which culminated in the legendary night when all the husbands stood around the campfire taking a bite from their hot dog and then a bite from a large onion. The first to finish their onion was the winner (I don’t believe there was an actual prize other than bragging rights). Needless to say, there was not a lot of romance that evening.
It was fun though, and another of those childhood memories I cherish. The next time I camped I was newly married, and our pup tent was cozy and romantic (admittedly, when you are newly married, you pretty much find everything romantic).
Before the kids were born, Connie and I camped a few times with our young married group at Robertsville Baptist Church, which culminated in the legendary night when all the husbands stood around the campfire taking a bite from their hot dog and then a bite from a large onion. The first to finish their onion was the winner (I don’t believe there was an actual prize other than bragging rights). Needless to say, there was not a lot of romance that evening.
At some point someone told us about a campground in Wartburg, TN which was about twenty-five minutes from our home. Frozen Head State Park is situated at the base of a wooded ridge in the Cumberland Mountains, two miles from the Morgan County Correctional Facility for Men and about five miles (as the crow flies) over the hill from Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary. With armed guards protecting us on both sides, we decided the area had to be safe. That's important to responsible parents.
The park itself has great hiking and a nice secluded, natural feel. The campground is lush, by campground standards. Raised, gravel tent platforms, with large metal fire rings and dry wood available at a central shed. Sturdy, clean picnic tables, charcoal grills and plenty of trash receptacles spread around. Best of all, the large bathroom facility was heated and had hot water for morning showers.
Now, I love camping, and can “rough it” if I need to, but I’ve tried it both ways and I have to tell you: getting up to a hot shower is a great thing on a cold fall morning. That shower, more than anything, makes Frozen Head my favorite place to camp. It spoiled me.
When the kids were very young, we left them with family when we camped. It’s too hard to keep them away from the danger of the fire and keep them quiet in the tent. We learned this lesson the hard way with Shelby when I spent most of one long, cold night sitting in the car, hoping that the windows and metal would keep her cries from waking other campers. It was miserable and one of our worst camping experiences.
Not THE worst, however. I will write about the night that my buddy Thaddeus kept us awake all night, but not today. (I’m also open to a bribe if he would prefer that story remain unwritten. College is expensive).
As soon as they could handle the camping experience (usually around age three), we started taking the girls with us. Frozen Head became known as the place with the “big rock,” because of a large boulder that sat across from the bathrooms. Close to ten feet high at its summit and nearly thirty feet long, the girls learned that they could climb the rock and view the entire campground. As usual, I believe it was Ashlyn who first made the attempt. Even at a young age she was fearless and scrambled up the rock like a little monkey. Shelby, who inherited my desperate hesitation for all things precarious, followed soon after, but much more slowly, exact with each hand grip and foot hold.
We always gathered plenty of wood and at night we sat around the fire, laughing and telling stories, but also just enjoying the escape from technology and the world. I loved to watch the girls slow down, sitting in our folding chairs or on a log and staring quietly into the crackling embers. They never once complained that they were bored.
Many times we found ourselves camping in the month of October, on or near Halloween. The girls would carve pumpkins on the table in the afternoon and then put candles in them at night so that we could ward off the spooky spirits of the woods. One year, while camping with friends, a jack-o-lantern was placed in the basket of a bicycle, and as it was ridden through the campground in the dark of the night, it looked like it was floating; the dancing flame inside making the cracked grin and pointy eyes visible and haunting from a long ways off.
I am always the first to get up when we camp, starting the fire again and heating water for coffee. I don’t mind though, it’s a Dad thing. I do most of the cooking, and I enjoy that too. Breakfast in the outdoors is special. There is nothing like the smell of bacon frying over an open fire. Of course, it’s usually so cold that be the time we eat, both the bacon and the eggs have some frost on them, but it’s all a part of the experience.
I am looking forward to camping this Fall. We are going to make it happen. It’s a priority for us. I’ve got room for a lot more memories in my blanket.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Our Little Universe
It can be a little overwhelming when you think about how many people there are in this world. True, most of us don’t think about it all. We’re pretty busy just thinking about ourselves most of the time. If we were honest, truly honest, we’d admit that our thoughts and concerns are primarily consumed with just our own little world and that’s it. By that I mean those things that we see and know on a regular basis: our family…our friends…our co-workers…our jobs…our health. Even this much smaller personal universe is usually narrowed down, moment by moment, based on what we are seeing or doing at any particular time.
I deal with this issue quite a bit. Spending so many weeks on the road, it’s common to feel myself being distanced from others, even my wife and kids. It’s not that I don’t think about them, because I do quite a bit. I worry, I miss them, I pray and I wonder what they are doing when I’m not there.
Still, I don’t think about them twenty-four hours a day. I don’t even think about them sixteen hours a day (that’s if I was lucky enough to actually sleep for eight hours). No, there are too many diversions. The work I am doing on that particular trip, the television show I am watching in the evening as I relax, the minutiae of day to day life. All these things are a distraction from those I care most about.
I am also 100% certain that the same goes for them. I would expect no less. They have other things going on. They don’t sit around all day long looking at my photo, crying for me to be there.
That’s not evil, cold or shallow. That’s just life.
We only see, hear and know what we experience ourselves. We have our own beliefs and thoughts. We do not share the same space at any given time, so our view on the world is always changing and always different. We are like snowflakes. No two humans are alike.
Every experience affects us in some way, changes our perception. We comprehend things differently. Take any ten people to an art museum to look at an abstract painting and they will give you different opinions. Some percentage of the group might come to a general consensus, but no doubt the particular descriptions will be slightly to very different.
People say they know each other. Husbands and wives, parents and children, even best friends…they say things like “no one knows them like I do.” That may well be true, but you don’t know them like they know themselves. Contrary to the popular myth of complete and total disclosure in a relationship, we don’t tell each other everything. We keep some opinions to ourselves…and that’s a good thing.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m being paranoid. Just because I have things in my head that I don’t tell anyone, doesn’t mean everyone else is so sneaky. I t’s probably just me.
If that’s what you are thinking, you’re missing my point. I’m not talking about deep, dark, dirty secrets (although a good number of people have those). I’m talking about the fact that there is no way we could possibly share every thought we have with others.
First, there are just too many (at least I would hope so…thinking is kind of important). Second, we don’t believe anyone else would care about some of our random thoughts and opinions (and that is almost definitely true). Third, we generally don’t like arguments or disagreements. (I said “generally,” because some of us love to be argumentative. It’s kind of a hobby).
Even in the best relationships, there are moments. If you are married, you’ve had them (and don’t lie and say you haven’t). It’s that moment when your spouse does something, even a minor something, that just hits you the wrong way. You look at them and for a brief second think, “who is this person?”
Of course, five minutes later you look at them and fall in love all over again (at least hopefully), but the inescapable fact is that it’s part of being human to be different. We aren’t supposed to agree all the time. We get on each other’s nerves. We are individuals.
There are lots of shades of gray in life. Most serious issues can’t be decided with a simple “yes” or “no” answer (despite the fact that we desperately try to do that). We think every peg should fit in the round hole; every decision should be “one size fits all.”
Despite the individuality of our thoughts, and the uniqueness of our personalities, most of us have religious, political and ethical views based in some part on what our parents or relatives taught us growing up. There’s a good chance that if your parents were Catholic or Baptist, Atheist or Muslim; that’s what you will believe too.
Every family does things a little differently in their own homes. Some families are “ketchup on scrambled eggs” people. Others make their beds every day or sleep in pajamas and socks. There’s a joke about a young wife who started to cook a ham and cut the ends off before she put in the oven. Her husband asked why she did it like that and she said that was the way her mother cooked ham. When they spoke to the mother later, they asked why she did it that way and she said that it was the way her mother had cooked ham. The curiosity was too much for them, so they called the great-grandmother to ask why she did it that way. She said, “My baking dish was short.”
Ugly traits get passed down as well, like bigotry, racism, abuse, and male pattern baldness. We may think for ourselves, but we were probably nudged strongly in a particular direction by someone at some point. We aren’t forced to take that path, but if the trail has been blazed already, it’s much easier to follow.
Last year during the presidential election, I found it interesting that my fifth grade daughter came in from school talking about politics. Some of the kids in her class had discussed who they wanted to be President. They had a very heated discussion, and all believed that they were right because their parents were for that person or political party. Talking about the kids who differed from her opinion (and her opinion was my opinion), my daughter even said “how can they be so stupid?” I imagined the same conversation was going on all over West Oak Ridge, and in many of those homes we were the ones being described as “stupid.”
It’s amazing our arrogance. Anyone who doesn’t believe like we do must be “stupid.” We can’t usually agree with our spouse or friends about where we want to go for dinner, or what movie we want to see, but we feel we have the intelligence, logic and justification to force our political, religious and world views on everyone else. That’s a scary thing.
How do we find that perfect balance between confidence in our own personal beliefs and mutual respect for others who feel differently? Humanity has not done well with this in the past. Some of the most dangerous people in history were usually zealots; obsessed with their own superiority and usually deluded by a perceived “greater calling” in the name of God or some higher power. Both Hitler and the Ku Klux Klan used God as justification for their atrocities. The American government and religious leaders decimated entire tribes of Native American’s for their “heathen” lifestyle. Indian children were taken from their parents so they could be educated in the proper Christian way. It was considered the “white man’s burden.”
What’s sometimes hard for us to comprehend, at least if we take the time to think about it, is that none of the people who did these terrible things thought that what they were doing was wrong. In fact, they probably thought that they had done the right thing until the day they died. Today, as we live under the continued threat of terror attacks, we believe our enemies to be pure evil, while they think that they are doing the will of God.
Stand around any school playground for a while and you’ll probably see a fight breakout. They might not even remember what it was all about an hour later, but at the time each kid is sure of one thing; they are right and the other is wrong. Same goes for almost any divorce, argument between friends, or disagreement in a boardroom. Somebody is right and somebody is wrong.
Sadly, no voice from the heavens booms down to tell us which is which. No magical halo appears over the good guy; no devil horns for the bad. Both sides will likely walk away still believing in their own unquestionable veracity.
It comes down to the fact that we each live in our own little universe. We see what we want and hear what we want. We view the world through eyes clouded by personal perceptions.
Am I saying that we shouldn’t stand up for what we believe in? Absolutely not. If we don’t voice our opinions, nothing would ever get done. Society would stagnate without change. The difference is between having a mutual, informed, respectful debate and a stubborn, angry standoff which will likely lead to escalating violence.
Respecting other people, even when we feel that they are wrong, is one of the hardest things we have to do as humans. So hard, in fact, that we simply don’t try very hard.
It’s just so much easier to call them “stupid.”
I deal with this issue quite a bit. Spending so many weeks on the road, it’s common to feel myself being distanced from others, even my wife and kids. It’s not that I don’t think about them, because I do quite a bit. I worry, I miss them, I pray and I wonder what they are doing when I’m not there.
Still, I don’t think about them twenty-four hours a day. I don’t even think about them sixteen hours a day (that’s if I was lucky enough to actually sleep for eight hours). No, there are too many diversions. The work I am doing on that particular trip, the television show I am watching in the evening as I relax, the minutiae of day to day life. All these things are a distraction from those I care most about.
I am also 100% certain that the same goes for them. I would expect no less. They have other things going on. They don’t sit around all day long looking at my photo, crying for me to be there.
That’s not evil, cold or shallow. That’s just life.
We only see, hear and know what we experience ourselves. We have our own beliefs and thoughts. We do not share the same space at any given time, so our view on the world is always changing and always different. We are like snowflakes. No two humans are alike.
Every experience affects us in some way, changes our perception. We comprehend things differently. Take any ten people to an art museum to look at an abstract painting and they will give you different opinions. Some percentage of the group might come to a general consensus, but no doubt the particular descriptions will be slightly to very different.
People say they know each other. Husbands and wives, parents and children, even best friends…they say things like “no one knows them like I do.” That may well be true, but you don’t know them like they know themselves. Contrary to the popular myth of complete and total disclosure in a relationship, we don’t tell each other everything. We keep some opinions to ourselves…and that’s a good thing.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m being paranoid. Just because I have things in my head that I don’t tell anyone, doesn’t mean everyone else is so sneaky. I t’s probably just me.
If that’s what you are thinking, you’re missing my point. I’m not talking about deep, dark, dirty secrets (although a good number of people have those). I’m talking about the fact that there is no way we could possibly share every thought we have with others.
First, there are just too many (at least I would hope so…thinking is kind of important). Second, we don’t believe anyone else would care about some of our random thoughts and opinions (and that is almost definitely true). Third, we generally don’t like arguments or disagreements. (I said “generally,” because some of us love to be argumentative. It’s kind of a hobby).
Even in the best relationships, there are moments. If you are married, you’ve had them (and don’t lie and say you haven’t). It’s that moment when your spouse does something, even a minor something, that just hits you the wrong way. You look at them and for a brief second think, “who is this person?”
Of course, five minutes later you look at them and fall in love all over again (at least hopefully), but the inescapable fact is that it’s part of being human to be different. We aren’t supposed to agree all the time. We get on each other’s nerves. We are individuals.
There are lots of shades of gray in life. Most serious issues can’t be decided with a simple “yes” or “no” answer (despite the fact that we desperately try to do that). We think every peg should fit in the round hole; every decision should be “one size fits all.”
Despite the individuality of our thoughts, and the uniqueness of our personalities, most of us have religious, political and ethical views based in some part on what our parents or relatives taught us growing up. There’s a good chance that if your parents were Catholic or Baptist, Atheist or Muslim; that’s what you will believe too.
Every family does things a little differently in their own homes. Some families are “ketchup on scrambled eggs” people. Others make their beds every day or sleep in pajamas and socks. There’s a joke about a young wife who started to cook a ham and cut the ends off before she put in the oven. Her husband asked why she did it like that and she said that was the way her mother cooked ham. When they spoke to the mother later, they asked why she did it that way and she said that it was the way her mother had cooked ham. The curiosity was too much for them, so they called the great-grandmother to ask why she did it that way. She said, “My baking dish was short.”
Ugly traits get passed down as well, like bigotry, racism, abuse, and male pattern baldness. We may think for ourselves, but we were probably nudged strongly in a particular direction by someone at some point. We aren’t forced to take that path, but if the trail has been blazed already, it’s much easier to follow.
Last year during the presidential election, I found it interesting that my fifth grade daughter came in from school talking about politics. Some of the kids in her class had discussed who they wanted to be President. They had a very heated discussion, and all believed that they were right because their parents were for that person or political party. Talking about the kids who differed from her opinion (and her opinion was my opinion), my daughter even said “how can they be so stupid?” I imagined the same conversation was going on all over West Oak Ridge, and in many of those homes we were the ones being described as “stupid.”
It’s amazing our arrogance. Anyone who doesn’t believe like we do must be “stupid.” We can’t usually agree with our spouse or friends about where we want to go for dinner, or what movie we want to see, but we feel we have the intelligence, logic and justification to force our political, religious and world views on everyone else. That’s a scary thing.
How do we find that perfect balance between confidence in our own personal beliefs and mutual respect for others who feel differently? Humanity has not done well with this in the past. Some of the most dangerous people in history were usually zealots; obsessed with their own superiority and usually deluded by a perceived “greater calling” in the name of God or some higher power. Both Hitler and the Ku Klux Klan used God as justification for their atrocities. The American government and religious leaders decimated entire tribes of Native American’s for their “heathen” lifestyle. Indian children were taken from their parents so they could be educated in the proper Christian way. It was considered the “white man’s burden.”
What’s sometimes hard for us to comprehend, at least if we take the time to think about it, is that none of the people who did these terrible things thought that what they were doing was wrong. In fact, they probably thought that they had done the right thing until the day they died. Today, as we live under the continued threat of terror attacks, we believe our enemies to be pure evil, while they think that they are doing the will of God.
Stand around any school playground for a while and you’ll probably see a fight breakout. They might not even remember what it was all about an hour later, but at the time each kid is sure of one thing; they are right and the other is wrong. Same goes for almost any divorce, argument between friends, or disagreement in a boardroom. Somebody is right and somebody is wrong.
Sadly, no voice from the heavens booms down to tell us which is which. No magical halo appears over the good guy; no devil horns for the bad. Both sides will likely walk away still believing in their own unquestionable veracity.
It comes down to the fact that we each live in our own little universe. We see what we want and hear what we want. We view the world through eyes clouded by personal perceptions.
Am I saying that we shouldn’t stand up for what we believe in? Absolutely not. If we don’t voice our opinions, nothing would ever get done. Society would stagnate without change. The difference is between having a mutual, informed, respectful debate and a stubborn, angry standoff which will likely lead to escalating violence.
Respecting other people, even when we feel that they are wrong, is one of the hardest things we have to do as humans. So hard, in fact, that we simply don’t try very hard.
It’s just so much easier to call them “stupid.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Remote Controlled
Hello, I’m Bruce and I’m a media junkie.
It probably started when I was a kid, sitting in front of the big black and white console television that was the focal point of our den, watching repeats of shows that were new to me and building a pop culture catalog in my head that provided a wealth of useless trivia and future party tricks. I was friends with Theodore Cleaver, Opie Taylor and Gilligan. I had a crush on Marcia Brady and the Bionic Woman. In the one vital question that faced American males in the last half of the twentieth century, my choice was unequivocal: Mary Ann, not Ginger.
I loved television. The Rockford Files, Starsky and Hutch, Cannon and McCloud. Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Happy Days and Emergency. In my backyard, I pretended to run in slow motion (which for me was called “normal”) and called myself Steve Austin, a man who had been barely alive; rebuilt and better than he was. Better…stronger…faster. I jumped off of picnic tables and over short shrubbery, making a strange clicking noise in my throat and imaging that I was leaping over cars and saving the world. I was the Six Million Dollar Boy.
It’s amazing what you can learn when you don’t have sports and social activities to waste your time. I learned about the Korean War from M.A.S.H., and the inner workings of a television newsroom from Mary Tyler Moore. I learned about life in the ghetto from Jimmy Walker in Good Times, and frontier life from Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie. I learned to appreciate sarcasm from the twisted mind of young Danny Partridge. The education broadcast from the flickering tube was as complete as that which I received in the classroom.
I could turn off the television too, finding escape in books and magazines. I read the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators growing up, imagining myself a young detective, solving murders and robberies that confounded the ordinary mind. As I grew older, I enjoyed the classics, particularly the gruff prose of Hemingway. I found a special place in my heart for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. I loved the book long before I saw the movie…and after I saw the movie, I loved them both even more.
I was haunted by A Death in the Family, by James Agee, and had no idea, as I lay reading in my bed that I would one day move to the Knoxville area where the novel takes place. It was that novel that made me fall in love with the written word, and the power that it can have in transporting you to other places and into other people’s feelings.
In high school I started working at the Public Library, which did wonders for my social life. No girl can resist a guy who works at the library.
I was put in charge of the Periodical Room, and soon became enthralled by the depth of articles in Time, Newsweek, Life and U.S. News and World Report magazines. I realized that there was a lot more to the news than the brief clips and sound bites allotted during the 30 minutes Walter Cronkite delivered each evening. Once again the written word broadened my mind and gave me a deeper appreciation for research and investigative journalism.
I read more than the news, quickly browsing through People magazine to see how the stars lived and Reader’s Digest for the jokes and Drama in Real Life stories. When no one was looking, I read articles in Glamour and Cosmopolitan that talked about what women wanted (and didn’t want) in a man. This was quite and education for my seventeen year old mind. I didn’t understand everything they wrote about, but since I was in a library, I could look it up (and I did).
At the suggestion of our head librarian, I read my first Stephen King novel, Salem’s Lot, finishing it in less than twenty-four hours and feeling a bit like a vampire myself by the time I was done. That night, as I read by the dim lamplight beside my bed, I literally could not put the book down. When I finally fell asleep, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I continued the story in my dreams. When I went back to work that afternoon, I scooped up another King novel, eventually working my way through all of his books. My favorite King novel was and still is The Stand, with scenes that are still fresh in my mind almost 30 years after I first read it.
With the job at the Library and my own disposable income, I was able to expand my media addiction to movies. My buddy Rodney and I would drive to the Louisville Showcase Cinema’s and often sat through two movies in a night; as if we were trying to catch up on all the movies we never saw when we were kids. I remember one magical night in late December 1982, when I saw a double feature of 48 Hours and Tootsie. Both are still among my all time favorite movies.
**Let me digress for a moment and speak of 1982. The year I graduated High School may be one of the greatest years for movies since 1939. Here’s just a partial list of movies released that amazing year:
E.T. the Extra-terrestrial, Ghandi, Tootsie, 48 hours, Poltergeist, John Carpenter’s The Thing, An Officer and a Gentleman, Porky’s, Star Trek ll: the Wrath of Khan, Sophie’s Choice, Blade Runner, Conan the Barbarian, Missing, Diner, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, My Favorite Year, Tron, and The World According to Garp.
There are more films on that list that I love than almost any other year in cinema history (and no, Porky’s is not one of them).
My love for movies, TV and books continued even after I married, and my wonderful wife indulged and continues to indulge me in my obsessive media interests as long as I occasionally take her to the mountains for some fresh air and walk in the woods. Our first year together, we experienced the joy of Top Gun on the big screen (actually seeing it three times before it was officially released…which I am sure is some kind of record), as well as Stand By Me, Aliens and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It was a very good year.
We cuddled on the couch, watching all eight hours of Lonesome Dove, crying together at the death of Gus McCrae and realizing even then that we would probably never see a better mini-series on television. We were right.
Like a lot of us, our dates were often sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. We loved Hill Street Blues, L.A. Law, Cheers, and The Cosby Show. More alternative entertainment took some work, so like a drug dealer whispering through the fence at a schoolyard, I eventually got Connie hooked on Quantum Leap, Star Trek: the Next Generation and The X-Files. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that hard. She won’t admit it, but she’s a junkie like me.
My wife and kids get aggravated at me when I stay too long on a news channel or choose a History Channel documentary over a repeat episode of Full House, but I enjoy learning new things. The kids are junkies too, but their addiction is mainly television and the movie/book universe of the Harry Potter and Twilight series. Ashlyn is reading the Harry Potter books for a second time right now, and although I would prefer she broaden her mind with other literature, I’m simply glad that she is reading. Too many young people let others visualize the world for them, when only the written word puts their own mind to work making it real.
The Internet opened new doors for my pop culture fanaticism. Now I had a massive library of useless information at my fingertips, and if I could only find the right query word, the answers would be mine. Everything seemed to be on the World Wide Web; good, bad, disturbing…inspiring, educational, and conflicting. Time wastes at a rapid pace in the blue glow of the computer screen. One click leads to ten which leads to a thousand, and soon a few years have passed.
With the click of my mouse and a few pecks on the keyboard I have learned things I never knew, viewed things I might have never seen (including a few things I wish I had never looked at). It is an incredible tool; an encyclopedia of humanity that lives and breathes, growing with each passing moment as new information on our very existence is added. Like most things, it can be used for both good and evil, capable of helping or hurting; informing with an expanse of knowledge never available before. Like most things that we are addicted to (whether we know we are or not), the ability to turn it off is there, but often not the will.
As I travel, my laptop has become my outlet and my friend. In my hotel room late last night, I sat on my bed and read news stories and blogs, checked my email and clicked on Facebook to see what my “friends” were doing. Meanwhile, the television whispered to me from across the room and the book about depression era gangsters lay next to me, waiting its turn to take me back in time and eventually into slumber.
I am a media junkie. I just don’t know if it’s a problem, or who I was always meant to be.
It probably started when I was a kid, sitting in front of the big black and white console television that was the focal point of our den, watching repeats of shows that were new to me and building a pop culture catalog in my head that provided a wealth of useless trivia and future party tricks. I was friends with Theodore Cleaver, Opie Taylor and Gilligan. I had a crush on Marcia Brady and the Bionic Woman. In the one vital question that faced American males in the last half of the twentieth century, my choice was unequivocal: Mary Ann, not Ginger.
I loved television. The Rockford Files, Starsky and Hutch, Cannon and McCloud. Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Happy Days and Emergency. In my backyard, I pretended to run in slow motion (which for me was called “normal”) and called myself Steve Austin, a man who had been barely alive; rebuilt and better than he was. Better…stronger…faster. I jumped off of picnic tables and over short shrubbery, making a strange clicking noise in my throat and imaging that I was leaping over cars and saving the world. I was the Six Million Dollar Boy.
It’s amazing what you can learn when you don’t have sports and social activities to waste your time. I learned about the Korean War from M.A.S.H., and the inner workings of a television newsroom from Mary Tyler Moore. I learned about life in the ghetto from Jimmy Walker in Good Times, and frontier life from Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie. I learned to appreciate sarcasm from the twisted mind of young Danny Partridge. The education broadcast from the flickering tube was as complete as that which I received in the classroom.
I could turn off the television too, finding escape in books and magazines. I read the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators growing up, imagining myself a young detective, solving murders and robberies that confounded the ordinary mind. As I grew older, I enjoyed the classics, particularly the gruff prose of Hemingway. I found a special place in my heart for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. I loved the book long before I saw the movie…and after I saw the movie, I loved them both even more.
I was haunted by A Death in the Family, by James Agee, and had no idea, as I lay reading in my bed that I would one day move to the Knoxville area where the novel takes place. It was that novel that made me fall in love with the written word, and the power that it can have in transporting you to other places and into other people’s feelings.
In high school I started working at the Public Library, which did wonders for my social life. No girl can resist a guy who works at the library.
I was put in charge of the Periodical Room, and soon became enthralled by the depth of articles in Time, Newsweek, Life and U.S. News and World Report magazines. I realized that there was a lot more to the news than the brief clips and sound bites allotted during the 30 minutes Walter Cronkite delivered each evening. Once again the written word broadened my mind and gave me a deeper appreciation for research and investigative journalism.
I read more than the news, quickly browsing through People magazine to see how the stars lived and Reader’s Digest for the jokes and Drama in Real Life stories. When no one was looking, I read articles in Glamour and Cosmopolitan that talked about what women wanted (and didn’t want) in a man. This was quite and education for my seventeen year old mind. I didn’t understand everything they wrote about, but since I was in a library, I could look it up (and I did).
At the suggestion of our head librarian, I read my first Stephen King novel, Salem’s Lot, finishing it in less than twenty-four hours and feeling a bit like a vampire myself by the time I was done. That night, as I read by the dim lamplight beside my bed, I literally could not put the book down. When I finally fell asleep, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I continued the story in my dreams. When I went back to work that afternoon, I scooped up another King novel, eventually working my way through all of his books. My favorite King novel was and still is The Stand, with scenes that are still fresh in my mind almost 30 years after I first read it.
With the job at the Library and my own disposable income, I was able to expand my media addiction to movies. My buddy Rodney and I would drive to the Louisville Showcase Cinema’s and often sat through two movies in a night; as if we were trying to catch up on all the movies we never saw when we were kids. I remember one magical night in late December 1982, when I saw a double feature of 48 Hours and Tootsie. Both are still among my all time favorite movies.
**Let me digress for a moment and speak of 1982. The year I graduated High School may be one of the greatest years for movies since 1939. Here’s just a partial list of movies released that amazing year:
E.T. the Extra-terrestrial, Ghandi, Tootsie, 48 hours, Poltergeist, John Carpenter’s The Thing, An Officer and a Gentleman, Porky’s, Star Trek ll: the Wrath of Khan, Sophie’s Choice, Blade Runner, Conan the Barbarian, Missing, Diner, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, My Favorite Year, Tron, and The World According to Garp.
There are more films on that list that I love than almost any other year in cinema history (and no, Porky’s is not one of them).
My love for movies, TV and books continued even after I married, and my wonderful wife indulged and continues to indulge me in my obsessive media interests as long as I occasionally take her to the mountains for some fresh air and walk in the woods. Our first year together, we experienced the joy of Top Gun on the big screen (actually seeing it three times before it was officially released…which I am sure is some kind of record), as well as Stand By Me, Aliens and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It was a very good year.
We cuddled on the couch, watching all eight hours of Lonesome Dove, crying together at the death of Gus McCrae and realizing even then that we would probably never see a better mini-series on television. We were right.
Like a lot of us, our dates were often sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. We loved Hill Street Blues, L.A. Law, Cheers, and The Cosby Show. More alternative entertainment took some work, so like a drug dealer whispering through the fence at a schoolyard, I eventually got Connie hooked on Quantum Leap, Star Trek: the Next Generation and The X-Files. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that hard. She won’t admit it, but she’s a junkie like me.
My wife and kids get aggravated at me when I stay too long on a news channel or choose a History Channel documentary over a repeat episode of Full House, but I enjoy learning new things. The kids are junkies too, but their addiction is mainly television and the movie/book universe of the Harry Potter and Twilight series. Ashlyn is reading the Harry Potter books for a second time right now, and although I would prefer she broaden her mind with other literature, I’m simply glad that she is reading. Too many young people let others visualize the world for them, when only the written word puts their own mind to work making it real.
The Internet opened new doors for my pop culture fanaticism. Now I had a massive library of useless information at my fingertips, and if I could only find the right query word, the answers would be mine. Everything seemed to be on the World Wide Web; good, bad, disturbing…inspiring, educational, and conflicting. Time wastes at a rapid pace in the blue glow of the computer screen. One click leads to ten which leads to a thousand, and soon a few years have passed.
With the click of my mouse and a few pecks on the keyboard I have learned things I never knew, viewed things I might have never seen (including a few things I wish I had never looked at). It is an incredible tool; an encyclopedia of humanity that lives and breathes, growing with each passing moment as new information on our very existence is added. Like most things, it can be used for both good and evil, capable of helping or hurting; informing with an expanse of knowledge never available before. Like most things that we are addicted to (whether we know we are or not), the ability to turn it off is there, but often not the will.
As I travel, my laptop has become my outlet and my friend. In my hotel room late last night, I sat on my bed and read news stories and blogs, checked my email and clicked on Facebook to see what my “friends” were doing. Meanwhile, the television whispered to me from across the room and the book about depression era gangsters lay next to me, waiting its turn to take me back in time and eventually into slumber.
I am a media junkie. I just don’t know if it’s a problem, or who I was always meant to be.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Civil Actions
It’s been an ugly week for America, but we reap what we sow. Somewhere along the line we have forgotten that respect for others and a basic sense of decorum outweighs our personal sense of outrage and slight. Nothing seems to matter anymore except opening our mouths and spewing out whatever is on our minds, no matter how ugly.
Last Wednesday, Jim Wilson failed to control his tongue during the President’s speech to Congress, sparking outrage among the Democrats and embarrassment amongst many Republicans. In the spirit of political debate, opposition during a Presidential speech has been generally restricted to “boo’s,” murmuring and a conspicuous lack of clapping. Although this might not be considered polite, it is a reasonable expression of disapproval and more acceptable than being a hypocrite (don’t clap, smile and nod if you don’t agree). Still, a Congressman yelling out “You Lie!” to the President of the United States during a speech in the Capital of the United States crossed a line that brought immediate admonition from the Republican Party and a hasty apology from Wilson.
“This evening I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the President’s remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill. While I disagree with the President’s statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the President for this lack of civility.”
First, let me say “Kudos” to the Republican Party for calling Wilson on his behavior, and especially John McCain for his gentlemanly rebuke of Wilson. McCain called the outburst “totally disrespectful” and there was “no place for it in that setting or any other.” Good for him! Disagreement doesn’t have to make you “disagreeable.”
I had decided not to write about Wilson last week since I didn’t want to write another political piece (I’d like to keep a few friends and not be kicked out of my family, if I can help it). But there seemed to be something in the water this fine week in September and an epidemic of nasty behavior broke out in our country. This was not a political issue…it was a human issue.
Saturday, tennis professional Serena Williams verbally attacked a line judge at the U.S. Open for what she perceived to be a questionable line ruling. Angrily pointing her racket at the judge, she said (according the Associated Press reports), “If I could, I would take this ... ball and shove it down your ... throat.” Apparently, there were some choice words that the AP would not print.
An apology was issued on Sunday. "(Saturday) night everyone could truly see the passion I have for my job," Serena stated. "Now that I have had time to gain my composure, I can see that while I don't agree with the unfair line call, in the heat of battle I let my passion and emotion get the better of me and as a result handled the situation poorly."
There are those pesky “emotions” again.
On Sunday, Kanye West jumped on stage during the MTV Music Awards, stopping the acceptance speech of Taylor Swift for Best Female Video to say that “Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time.” Swift was understandably surprised by the interruption and left the stage without finishing her speech. Later in the show, when the Beyonce video in question won for Video of the Year, Beyonce exhibited a spectacular amount of class and respect for others by offering the microphone to Swift to finish her earlier speech.
West later apologized on his blog, writing "I'M SOOOOO SORRY TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND HER FANS AND HER MOM. I SPOKE TO HER MOTHER RIGHT AFTER AND SHE SAID THE SAME THING MY MOTHER WOULD'VE SAID. SHE IS VERY TALENTED!"
I know what my mom would have said (and would say to me today), “you should be ashamed of yourself!” My Dad would probably say “go get a switch.”
Somehow we’ve traded basic behavior guides like “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” and “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” for “do whatever you want and apologize for it later.”
As a parent, I’ve tried to teach my kids to do the right thing. It hasn’t been easy. I have problems with that sometimes myself. We all make mistakes, and I make more than my fair share. Still, I think Connie and I have done a pretty good job of instilling a basic respect for others in our children. We’ve tried to make them aware that their actions do not just affect themselves, but an unknown wave of others caught in the tremors of those actions.
This applies to both acts and words. I have never seen a ghost, but I’ve had many words come back to haunt me. No image in any horror movie has ever been as frightening as the lingering ring of a harsh word from my own lips.
Still, there’s a difference between a slip of the tongue and a pattern of disrespectful behavior. Unfortunately, our nation has accepted this kind of behavior as not just acceptable, but the norm. It’s such a rare thing for a young person to say “yes sir” and yes ma’am” that it’s noticeable when one actually says it.
Kids talk back to their parents without shame or fear. Teachers walk a fine line in terms of discipline because they know they do not have the backing of parents anymore. Rather than enforcing a child’s good behavior in classrooms, today’s parents too often enable bad behavior by threatening lawsuits when a teacher dares to hinder their child’s “personal rights” and “freedom of expression.”
Our society has and continues to make excuses for ugly behavior. Serena Williams is blasted on the news (and by me), but are her actions any different than the outbursts of many of her male counterparts? John McEnroe behaved much worse for many years and only received slaps on the wrists. Other athletes have been rewarded with huge paydays despite outrageous and sometimes illegal actions. These are the role models our kids see, day in and day out.
I think about the kids I saw on television when I was growing up. Today, it’s easy to see Wally and Beaver Cleaver, the Brady kids and Opie Taylor as innocent and unrealistic. They may have lived in a homogenized world, but as we watched them then, we couldn’t help but imitate their behavior somewhat. Respect for others, learning lessons from mistakes, being polite…these were not bad lessons to learn.
Recently I was in the room while my youngest was watching an episode of the Disney Channel show Hannah Montana (which seems to be running 24/7 on at least one television of our house). I caught enough of the plot to realize that Hannah had done something wrong and didn’t want her Dad to find out. Through the help of friends and some overly elaborate scheming; she plotted to keep her father in the dark and herself out of trouble.
I wasn’t paying close attention to the show, but I realized as the credits began to roll at the end of the episode that something had been missing from the climax. Unlike every family show I had watched as a kid, this teenage character got away with it. There was no “wise father” chat when he explained that he knew what she had been up to the entire time. No discussion of punishment. No hug, apology and promise to “never do it again.”
Yes…Hannah Montana…idol to countless millions of teenage and pre-teen girls…had escaped the hand of justice, proving that a saucy attitude and a belief in her own entitlement would win out. For those young people watching, and there are a lot, that’s a lesson they like to hear: sarcasm and deceiving your parents is okay if you don’t get caught.
To be fair, this does not happen on every episode of the Hannah Montana show. I’ve seen other episodes where Hannah does get caught and receives a fatherly talk. Still, I have to wonder which episode made the greater impression on young minds.
I’m not sure how I got from Joe Wilson’s outburst to a discussion of Hannah Montana. I’m kind of howling at the moon a bit, I guess, which I have a tendency to do. (It’s my party, so I can bay if I want to). But I have to wonder if we’re devolving somewhat as a nation. We’re losing our civility; we’re losing our interest in being honest, polite and respectful. More than anything, I’m afraid we are losing our way.
Last Wednesday, Jim Wilson failed to control his tongue during the President’s speech to Congress, sparking outrage among the Democrats and embarrassment amongst many Republicans. In the spirit of political debate, opposition during a Presidential speech has been generally restricted to “boo’s,” murmuring and a conspicuous lack of clapping. Although this might not be considered polite, it is a reasonable expression of disapproval and more acceptable than being a hypocrite (don’t clap, smile and nod if you don’t agree). Still, a Congressman yelling out “You Lie!” to the President of the United States during a speech in the Capital of the United States crossed a line that brought immediate admonition from the Republican Party and a hasty apology from Wilson.
“This evening I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the President’s remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill. While I disagree with the President’s statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the President for this lack of civility.”
First, let me say “Kudos” to the Republican Party for calling Wilson on his behavior, and especially John McCain for his gentlemanly rebuke of Wilson. McCain called the outburst “totally disrespectful” and there was “no place for it in that setting or any other.” Good for him! Disagreement doesn’t have to make you “disagreeable.”
I had decided not to write about Wilson last week since I didn’t want to write another political piece (I’d like to keep a few friends and not be kicked out of my family, if I can help it). But there seemed to be something in the water this fine week in September and an epidemic of nasty behavior broke out in our country. This was not a political issue…it was a human issue.
Saturday, tennis professional Serena Williams verbally attacked a line judge at the U.S. Open for what she perceived to be a questionable line ruling. Angrily pointing her racket at the judge, she said (according the Associated Press reports), “If I could, I would take this ... ball and shove it down your ... throat.” Apparently, there were some choice words that the AP would not print.
An apology was issued on Sunday. "(Saturday) night everyone could truly see the passion I have for my job," Serena stated. "Now that I have had time to gain my composure, I can see that while I don't agree with the unfair line call, in the heat of battle I let my passion and emotion get the better of me and as a result handled the situation poorly."
There are those pesky “emotions” again.
On Sunday, Kanye West jumped on stage during the MTV Music Awards, stopping the acceptance speech of Taylor Swift for Best Female Video to say that “Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time.” Swift was understandably surprised by the interruption and left the stage without finishing her speech. Later in the show, when the Beyonce video in question won for Video of the Year, Beyonce exhibited a spectacular amount of class and respect for others by offering the microphone to Swift to finish her earlier speech.
West later apologized on his blog, writing "I'M SOOOOO SORRY TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND HER FANS AND HER MOM. I SPOKE TO HER MOTHER RIGHT AFTER AND SHE SAID THE SAME THING MY MOTHER WOULD'VE SAID. SHE IS VERY TALENTED!"
I know what my mom would have said (and would say to me today), “you should be ashamed of yourself!” My Dad would probably say “go get a switch.”
Somehow we’ve traded basic behavior guides like “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” and “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” for “do whatever you want and apologize for it later.”
As a parent, I’ve tried to teach my kids to do the right thing. It hasn’t been easy. I have problems with that sometimes myself. We all make mistakes, and I make more than my fair share. Still, I think Connie and I have done a pretty good job of instilling a basic respect for others in our children. We’ve tried to make them aware that their actions do not just affect themselves, but an unknown wave of others caught in the tremors of those actions.
This applies to both acts and words. I have never seen a ghost, but I’ve had many words come back to haunt me. No image in any horror movie has ever been as frightening as the lingering ring of a harsh word from my own lips.
Still, there’s a difference between a slip of the tongue and a pattern of disrespectful behavior. Unfortunately, our nation has accepted this kind of behavior as not just acceptable, but the norm. It’s such a rare thing for a young person to say “yes sir” and yes ma’am” that it’s noticeable when one actually says it.
Kids talk back to their parents without shame or fear. Teachers walk a fine line in terms of discipline because they know they do not have the backing of parents anymore. Rather than enforcing a child’s good behavior in classrooms, today’s parents too often enable bad behavior by threatening lawsuits when a teacher dares to hinder their child’s “personal rights” and “freedom of expression.”
Our society has and continues to make excuses for ugly behavior. Serena Williams is blasted on the news (and by me), but are her actions any different than the outbursts of many of her male counterparts? John McEnroe behaved much worse for many years and only received slaps on the wrists. Other athletes have been rewarded with huge paydays despite outrageous and sometimes illegal actions. These are the role models our kids see, day in and day out.
I think about the kids I saw on television when I was growing up. Today, it’s easy to see Wally and Beaver Cleaver, the Brady kids and Opie Taylor as innocent and unrealistic. They may have lived in a homogenized world, but as we watched them then, we couldn’t help but imitate their behavior somewhat. Respect for others, learning lessons from mistakes, being polite…these were not bad lessons to learn.
Recently I was in the room while my youngest was watching an episode of the Disney Channel show Hannah Montana (which seems to be running 24/7 on at least one television of our house). I caught enough of the plot to realize that Hannah had done something wrong and didn’t want her Dad to find out. Through the help of friends and some overly elaborate scheming; she plotted to keep her father in the dark and herself out of trouble.
I wasn’t paying close attention to the show, but I realized as the credits began to roll at the end of the episode that something had been missing from the climax. Unlike every family show I had watched as a kid, this teenage character got away with it. There was no “wise father” chat when he explained that he knew what she had been up to the entire time. No discussion of punishment. No hug, apology and promise to “never do it again.”
Yes…Hannah Montana…idol to countless millions of teenage and pre-teen girls…had escaped the hand of justice, proving that a saucy attitude and a belief in her own entitlement would win out. For those young people watching, and there are a lot, that’s a lesson they like to hear: sarcasm and deceiving your parents is okay if you don’t get caught.
To be fair, this does not happen on every episode of the Hannah Montana show. I’ve seen other episodes where Hannah does get caught and receives a fatherly talk. Still, I have to wonder which episode made the greater impression on young minds.
I’m not sure how I got from Joe Wilson’s outburst to a discussion of Hannah Montana. I’m kind of howling at the moon a bit, I guess, which I have a tendency to do. (It’s my party, so I can bay if I want to). But I have to wonder if we’re devolving somewhat as a nation. We’re losing our civility; we’re losing our interest in being honest, polite and respectful. More than anything, I’m afraid we are losing our way.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Socially Acceptable
In the same way many of us are scared of snakes and bats and spiders, most Americans are terrified of certain words. These words usually cause an immediate response, such as a higher pulse rate, narrowing of the eyes, and possibly a pronounced shiver down the spine. The “IRS” or “Internal Revenue Service” has a negative connotation (unless they are sending us a refund check), and most of us live in some fear that one day they will knock on our door to perform another scary word: audit. We fear hearing words like “lay-off,” “reduction in force,” “cancer,” “affair,” and “infection.” We don’t like bad things to happen, especially to us. That’s human nature.
Other words have become negative, because of who we are, and what our culture has told us. No red-blooded American in the last century has been keen on the word “communism.” After the “red scare” of the 1950’s, and the images and memories of kids crawling under their desks during “bomb drills,” the words “communism” and “communist” have represented our enemy. Walls were built to keep them from us and us from them. Neither side wanted to be tainted with the confused, evil ideology of the other.
Toward the end of the last century and especially at the beginning of this one, the impact of words “terrorist” and “terrorism” surged to an entirely new level. Words like “profiling” and “water-boarding” became a part of our vocabulary. We developed a color coded threat system to alert us to assumed levels of danger at any given time. We bought massive amounts of duct tape.
Considering that we call our nation “the home of the brave,” we have no trouble finding things to fear.
Words are powerful. They illicit vivid images and feelings in those that hear and read them. They can be used for a great deal of good or cause a great deal of damage. We’ve all had words that come into our heads that we know we shouldn’t say, but can’t stop our mouths from uttering them. I have said things to people I love that I regret…words that can be apologized for but never forgotten. Once the word is said, it can’t be unheard.
One of the words I have heard repeatedly in the news for the last year is “socialism.” It’s one of those scary words that we, as Americans, believe threatens our way of life. Considering the economic crisis we’ve fallen under in the last 18 months, I can’t help but question how good “capitalism” has been for our way of life either, but that’s beside the point.
Allow me to quote the genius of Ferris Bueller, “Not that I condone fascism, or any -ism for that matter. -Ism's in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself.”
So, let me be perfectly clear…I am not condoning Socialism. I am a strong believer in smaller government, less control and less spending. Giving more power to a system that is already bloated, wasteful and corrupt is not an intelligent option.
My problem has been the use of the word “socialism” as a scare tactic in the discussion over Health Care Reform. When did concern for those less fortunate become a bad thing? When did trying to help those in need become synonymous with “evil.”
Most Americans agree that there is a serious problem with our Heath Care system. Those who have good jobs with health insurance are seeing higher premiums and reduced benefits. Those without good jobs or no jobs at all cannot afford any insurance. People are being forced into bankruptcy and losing their homes over sky-rocketing medical bills and insurance red-tape that will not pay due to “pre-existing conditions” and exempt services.
There are many sides to the health care debate, and they are all slippery. Should we require everyone to get insurance? How will those who cannot afford it pay the premiums? Do you enforce the requirement by instituting fines? (That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me…how can you fine someone who can’t afford to buy insurance?)
Others say that if a healthy twenty-five year old doesn’t want to pay for insurance, then they shouldn’t have to…even if they have a good job and can afford it. Well, that doesn’t make sense either. That is why it’s called “insurance.” You don’t need it when you are healthy…it’s there for you when and if you get sick. If that logic worked for everything then I will cancel my auto insurance and wait to get it after I get in an accident.
Of course, the other big concern is how much health care reform will cost and how will we pay for it. I really have no idea how much it will cost, but I’m guessing A LOT and like everything else our government does, we will pay for it with our taxes.
What isn’t being discussed is the fact that we are paying for a lot of these expenses already. Patients without any health care insurance cannot be refused treatment if they show up at a hospital with a life threatening illness. This kind of treatment is either paid for by our government (our tax-dollars) or absorbed by the hospital as a loss and recovered through increased fees on those who can pay (through our higher insurance premiums).
This is potentially a no-win situation. If our government rushes through a comprehensive Health Care Reform Act, then it will no doubt find a way to screw it up. Logic seems to be removed from all elected officials of both parties once they take office, and doing the right thing somehow means compromising to the point of ineffectiveness. Spending a lot of money on something that won’t fix the problem is simply stupid. Our government has proven that many times before, but has yet to learn the lesson.
Considering the fact that we have needed Health Care Reform for decades and nothing has been done, it might be prudent to step back and take it slower. Baby steps will still advance the cause and might not cause the stumbles and injuries that a gallop from the gate on wobbly legs would almost certainly cause. Let someone besides politicians, lobbyists and plan providers have a go at devising a solution. There are some very smart people in this world, ask their opinion.
Although I’m suggesting that we slow down, I pray that we do not stop the effort. Fear of failure, or of words that do not accurately describe the situation, should not hinder us from trying to find a solution. We do have a problem. There are people in need. Do we sit back and say “I have insurance, so why should I care about the 46 million Americans who do not?” Is that who we are? Does that make us better than the “socialists” that we hate so much?
I have a friend who cannot afford health insurance. Once a year she stands in line for hours at the Remote Area Medical Clinic Free weekend, doing what she can to stay healthy and take care of herself within a very limited household budget. Thanks to the wonderful RAM clinic volunteers she gets some of the help she needs, but not the peace of mind she deserves and the comfort of knowing that if she gets sick between those annual visits she will receive the treatment needed.
Some will say that people will abuse the system. It’s happened with Medicaid, Welfare and Food Stamps and it will happen again with whatever system is put in place for Healthcare. There are those who will take advantage, but it won’t be everyone, and it won’t even be the majority. There are good people out there who desperately need the help of their fellow Americans. They don’t want a “hand-out” just a "helping hand.” What good are we if we turn our back on that?
Other words have become negative, because of who we are, and what our culture has told us. No red-blooded American in the last century has been keen on the word “communism.” After the “red scare” of the 1950’s, and the images and memories of kids crawling under their desks during “bomb drills,” the words “communism” and “communist” have represented our enemy. Walls were built to keep them from us and us from them. Neither side wanted to be tainted with the confused, evil ideology of the other.
Toward the end of the last century and especially at the beginning of this one, the impact of words “terrorist” and “terrorism” surged to an entirely new level. Words like “profiling” and “water-boarding” became a part of our vocabulary. We developed a color coded threat system to alert us to assumed levels of danger at any given time. We bought massive amounts of duct tape.
Considering that we call our nation “the home of the brave,” we have no trouble finding things to fear.
Words are powerful. They illicit vivid images and feelings in those that hear and read them. They can be used for a great deal of good or cause a great deal of damage. We’ve all had words that come into our heads that we know we shouldn’t say, but can’t stop our mouths from uttering them. I have said things to people I love that I regret…words that can be apologized for but never forgotten. Once the word is said, it can’t be unheard.
One of the words I have heard repeatedly in the news for the last year is “socialism.” It’s one of those scary words that we, as Americans, believe threatens our way of life. Considering the economic crisis we’ve fallen under in the last 18 months, I can’t help but question how good “capitalism” has been for our way of life either, but that’s beside the point.
Allow me to quote the genius of Ferris Bueller, “Not that I condone fascism, or any -ism for that matter. -Ism's in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself.”
So, let me be perfectly clear…I am not condoning Socialism. I am a strong believer in smaller government, less control and less spending. Giving more power to a system that is already bloated, wasteful and corrupt is not an intelligent option.
My problem has been the use of the word “socialism” as a scare tactic in the discussion over Health Care Reform. When did concern for those less fortunate become a bad thing? When did trying to help those in need become synonymous with “evil.”
Most Americans agree that there is a serious problem with our Heath Care system. Those who have good jobs with health insurance are seeing higher premiums and reduced benefits. Those without good jobs or no jobs at all cannot afford any insurance. People are being forced into bankruptcy and losing their homes over sky-rocketing medical bills and insurance red-tape that will not pay due to “pre-existing conditions” and exempt services.
There are many sides to the health care debate, and they are all slippery. Should we require everyone to get insurance? How will those who cannot afford it pay the premiums? Do you enforce the requirement by instituting fines? (That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me…how can you fine someone who can’t afford to buy insurance?)
Others say that if a healthy twenty-five year old doesn’t want to pay for insurance, then they shouldn’t have to…even if they have a good job and can afford it. Well, that doesn’t make sense either. That is why it’s called “insurance.” You don’t need it when you are healthy…it’s there for you when and if you get sick. If that logic worked for everything then I will cancel my auto insurance and wait to get it after I get in an accident.
Of course, the other big concern is how much health care reform will cost and how will we pay for it. I really have no idea how much it will cost, but I’m guessing A LOT and like everything else our government does, we will pay for it with our taxes.
What isn’t being discussed is the fact that we are paying for a lot of these expenses already. Patients without any health care insurance cannot be refused treatment if they show up at a hospital with a life threatening illness. This kind of treatment is either paid for by our government (our tax-dollars) or absorbed by the hospital as a loss and recovered through increased fees on those who can pay (through our higher insurance premiums).
This is potentially a no-win situation. If our government rushes through a comprehensive Health Care Reform Act, then it will no doubt find a way to screw it up. Logic seems to be removed from all elected officials of both parties once they take office, and doing the right thing somehow means compromising to the point of ineffectiveness. Spending a lot of money on something that won’t fix the problem is simply stupid. Our government has proven that many times before, but has yet to learn the lesson.
Considering the fact that we have needed Health Care Reform for decades and nothing has been done, it might be prudent to step back and take it slower. Baby steps will still advance the cause and might not cause the stumbles and injuries that a gallop from the gate on wobbly legs would almost certainly cause. Let someone besides politicians, lobbyists and plan providers have a go at devising a solution. There are some very smart people in this world, ask their opinion.
Although I’m suggesting that we slow down, I pray that we do not stop the effort. Fear of failure, or of words that do not accurately describe the situation, should not hinder us from trying to find a solution. We do have a problem. There are people in need. Do we sit back and say “I have insurance, so why should I care about the 46 million Americans who do not?” Is that who we are? Does that make us better than the “socialists” that we hate so much?
I have a friend who cannot afford health insurance. Once a year she stands in line for hours at the Remote Area Medical Clinic Free weekend, doing what she can to stay healthy and take care of herself within a very limited household budget. Thanks to the wonderful RAM clinic volunteers she gets some of the help she needs, but not the peace of mind she deserves and the comfort of knowing that if she gets sick between those annual visits she will receive the treatment needed.
Some will say that people will abuse the system. It’s happened with Medicaid, Welfare and Food Stamps and it will happen again with whatever system is put in place for Healthcare. There are those who will take advantage, but it won’t be everyone, and it won’t even be the majority. There are good people out there who desperately need the help of their fellow Americans. They don’t want a “hand-out” just a "helping hand.” What good are we if we turn our back on that?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Deep Fried
I was born, raised, lightly breaded and deep fried in the South. My momma cooked with a cast iron skillet on our old gas stove and could set out a platter of Fried Chicken that would make Colonel Sanders weep. We ate vegetables fresh from our garden; green onions, green beans, tomatoes, bibb lettuce (served with sizzling bacon grease dressing), potatoes, kale, collard greens, corn and peas. We’d have fried okra, stewed okra and okra with tomatoes…all of which I ate even though I would have told you that I didn’t like okra.
We ate from our garden because money was tight and our sweat and labor on evenings and weekends was cheaper than the cost of canned goods in the grocery. Besides that, it tasted better.
It was country food, although to us it was just food. We didn’t go to restaurants because we couldn’t afford it and we didn’t need to. Mom cooked better than any chef. That’s what I thought then, when I had nothing to compare her cooking to, and that’s what I’m sure of now, after eating at some mighty fine establishments all over the country.
Saturday lunch was almost always bologna. Back then we didn’t buy it in peel and open pre-sliced packages. Dad bought it in a two or three pound roll, wrapped in red plastic. We’d cut off a thick piece; put it on some white bread with a slice of tomato and some mustard. I was a happy kid. Roll your eyes if you want, but in the days before doctors were on the news every morning telling parents about the dangers of childhood obesity and scientists blamed everything for cancer, we could eat processed food and enjoy it.
Tonight I was driving through town and I passed our local Hardee’s fast food outlet. Outside, standing next to the sign, were two men…dressed more for a nice sit down restaurant than a burger and red burrito. One of them had his cell phone out taking a picture of the sign.
Kind of weird, I thought…wondering why anyone would take a photo of a Hardee’s sign…but then I saw it. The changeable reader board beneath the big corporate logo had the words that could only be found or appreciated in the south:
Fried Bologna Biscuit $1.39
Have you ever been embarrassed by something that has absolutely nothing to do with you?
Understanding the constant flow of business travelers that stay at the hotel across the street from the Hardee’s, I quickly guessed what was happening. Two men from up North, or somewhere more “civilized” than here, had found themselves trapped in East Tennessee for the night. Apparently shocked that they didn’t find goats and chickens roaming the streets or barefoot bumpkins playing banjo on the front porches, they documented their visit by taking a picture of the Hardee’s sign promoting a pure southern delicacy.
Now, I admit that when I first saw the sign a week or so ago, I cringed a bit. Much like their previous “pork chop/gravy biscuit,” this just seemed to cross the line from general fast food unhealthiness into “we have paramedics standing by.” I won’t be buying one, and I won’t let my kids either. Unlike my parents, I have been watching the Today show.
Still, I won’t suddenly turn up my nose at the memory of hot, fried bologna sandwiches from my youth. Covered in a gooey, melted slice of Velveeta cheese, it was like steak for poor people. Mom called it “comfort food,” which along with soupy macaroni and cheese and fried potatoes was a staple of our diet. It was cheap food that tasted good, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for all the Lobster dinners in the world. I doubt that those guys taking the photo, or their uppity friends who they will surely share it with, ever had it so good.
We ate from our garden because money was tight and our sweat and labor on evenings and weekends was cheaper than the cost of canned goods in the grocery. Besides that, it tasted better.
It was country food, although to us it was just food. We didn’t go to restaurants because we couldn’t afford it and we didn’t need to. Mom cooked better than any chef. That’s what I thought then, when I had nothing to compare her cooking to, and that’s what I’m sure of now, after eating at some mighty fine establishments all over the country.
Saturday lunch was almost always bologna. Back then we didn’t buy it in peel and open pre-sliced packages. Dad bought it in a two or three pound roll, wrapped in red plastic. We’d cut off a thick piece; put it on some white bread with a slice of tomato and some mustard. I was a happy kid. Roll your eyes if you want, but in the days before doctors were on the news every morning telling parents about the dangers of childhood obesity and scientists blamed everything for cancer, we could eat processed food and enjoy it.
Tonight I was driving through town and I passed our local Hardee’s fast food outlet. Outside, standing next to the sign, were two men…dressed more for a nice sit down restaurant than a burger and red burrito. One of them had his cell phone out taking a picture of the sign.
Kind of weird, I thought…wondering why anyone would take a photo of a Hardee’s sign…but then I saw it. The changeable reader board beneath the big corporate logo had the words that could only be found or appreciated in the south:
Fried Bologna Biscuit $1.39
Have you ever been embarrassed by something that has absolutely nothing to do with you?
Understanding the constant flow of business travelers that stay at the hotel across the street from the Hardee’s, I quickly guessed what was happening. Two men from up North, or somewhere more “civilized” than here, had found themselves trapped in East Tennessee for the night. Apparently shocked that they didn’t find goats and chickens roaming the streets or barefoot bumpkins playing banjo on the front porches, they documented their visit by taking a picture of the Hardee’s sign promoting a pure southern delicacy.
Now, I admit that when I first saw the sign a week or so ago, I cringed a bit. Much like their previous “pork chop/gravy biscuit,” this just seemed to cross the line from general fast food unhealthiness into “we have paramedics standing by.” I won’t be buying one, and I won’t let my kids either. Unlike my parents, I have been watching the Today show.
Still, I won’t suddenly turn up my nose at the memory of hot, fried bologna sandwiches from my youth. Covered in a gooey, melted slice of Velveeta cheese, it was like steak for poor people. Mom called it “comfort food,” which along with soupy macaroni and cheese and fried potatoes was a staple of our diet. It was cheap food that tasted good, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for all the Lobster dinners in the world. I doubt that those guys taking the photo, or their uppity friends who they will surely share it with, ever had it so good.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
With a Rebel Yell
It seems like I gripe all the time, considering my blogging about pet peeves and what’s wrong with this or that, but I don’t think of myself as a negative person. My family gets frustrated with me because I call a lot of people “idiots,” particularly while driving, and that may well be true, but I’m not prone to road rage or anything like that, I just don’t like sharing the road with people who do not follow the rules.
I’m big on rules, which is not a sexy attribute. It’s boring to follow the rules. Safe is not very attractive.
I’ll never forget one date when I was in college. This girl and I had gone out three or four times at this point, nothing serious, but I thought the appropriate thing to do was buy her a gift; a token of my feelings for her. At the end of the date, I gave her the gift (a small music box, I think, which may have had something to do with her response). She smiled and thanked me, then said, “You’re a nice guy, Bruce…but I’m not looking for a nice guy.”
That could have been a life changing moment. I could have gone out the next day and traded in my Chevy Caprice Classic for a Camero, and my windbreaker for something in black leather. I could have, but that still would not have changed who I am. I would have still been a nerd driving a fast car that he never pushed more than 8 miles over the speed limit. I could have worn the clothes and driven the car, but I would never have been the dangerous type.
In every generation, the more stylish and hip characters are always “rebels.” They don’t need anything or anybody, they are just altogether cool. James Dean could have stood in the maternity ward of a hospital; smoking and spilling ash over twelve crying newborns and women would have still swooned and said, “He’s so amazing.” Guys would just shake their heads and say, “I wanna be like him.”
The romantic allure of the rebel makes a lot of people want to be one. They believe that simply breaking the rules makes them a “rebel.” They have read just enough of the constitution to believe they have the “right” do anything they want, just as our founding fathers must have intended. It is a "Free Country"after all.
Of course, there is definitely a time and place for rebels. We need them or there would never be change. Without rebels, we’d still be under British rule, so I’m not downplaying the need for rebels. I just think they need a “cause.”
I believe a lot of people who think they are rebels are actually just idiots. They believe that normal rules do not apply to them, which is not what it means to be a rebel. Rebellion is only justified when there is a sense of unfairness occurring.
Here are some of my personal classifications on whether a person’s actions are worthy to be classified as a “rebel:”
• Overturning a brutal dictatorship…rebel.
• Breaking in line at the movie theater…idiot.
• Marching for peace during a questionable war…rebel.
• Parking in a handicapped space even though you’re healthy…idiot.
• Rosa Parks refusing to sit in the back of the bus…rebel.
• Wearing your pants so low that your underwear is showing…idiot.
True rebels are those who use their words or actions to point out a fault in authority or in established norms. Idiots do what they want because they are selfish and don’t care how their actions affect others. I have a low tolerance for idiots.
Weekday mornings when I am in town, I take two of my daughters to school. At the middle school where my youngest attends, there is a large, one way loop that is always crowded with minivans and hurried parents. Most of us behave. We follow the clearly marked signs to stay in the right hand lane for dropping off and picking up. The lines may get long, but if everyone follows the rules, it moves pretty quickly.
But not everyone follows the rules. Multiple signs state that the left lane is for through traffic only. Teachers use it to get around the line to their parking area. It’s fairly clear that it is not to be used for dropping off. Still, that empty lane is just too enticing for some folks. They cut into that lane and speed past the rest of us, dutifully waiting our turn. Once they get to the front of the line, they have two choices. They can either drop their kid in the middle of the road to play Frogger in real traffic while carrying a thirty pound backpack and a beat up violin case (and there are more signs on the left hand side of the road forbidding that), or they can attempt to cut in line. Either choice slows the flow of traffic and causes delays for everyone.
It’s a rare morning as I wait in that line that I don’t find it necessary to mutter the word “idiot.” Someone, usually several, will invariably break the rules, apparently because they are in a much bigger hurry and are much more important than the rest of us. I comment on this behavior to my kids because I want them to learn that it is wrong. I feel that it is my responsibility as a parent to teach.
My wife believes I am only teaching them to call people “idiots,” but I believe that she has countered that well by rolling her eyes and sighing heavily whenever I say it in her presence. I hope I have taught them that you should stand up for what you believe in, but not to push others around just to get your way. Following the rules is really about having respect for others. It’s about treating others as you would have them treat you. And that’s a pretty good rule to live by.
I’m big on rules, which is not a sexy attribute. It’s boring to follow the rules. Safe is not very attractive.
I’ll never forget one date when I was in college. This girl and I had gone out three or four times at this point, nothing serious, but I thought the appropriate thing to do was buy her a gift; a token of my feelings for her. At the end of the date, I gave her the gift (a small music box, I think, which may have had something to do with her response). She smiled and thanked me, then said, “You’re a nice guy, Bruce…but I’m not looking for a nice guy.”
That could have been a life changing moment. I could have gone out the next day and traded in my Chevy Caprice Classic for a Camero, and my windbreaker for something in black leather. I could have, but that still would not have changed who I am. I would have still been a nerd driving a fast car that he never pushed more than 8 miles over the speed limit. I could have worn the clothes and driven the car, but I would never have been the dangerous type.
In every generation, the more stylish and hip characters are always “rebels.” They don’t need anything or anybody, they are just altogether cool. James Dean could have stood in the maternity ward of a hospital; smoking and spilling ash over twelve crying newborns and women would have still swooned and said, “He’s so amazing.” Guys would just shake their heads and say, “I wanna be like him.”
The romantic allure of the rebel makes a lot of people want to be one. They believe that simply breaking the rules makes them a “rebel.” They have read just enough of the constitution to believe they have the “right” do anything they want, just as our founding fathers must have intended. It is a "Free Country"after all.
Of course, there is definitely a time and place for rebels. We need them or there would never be change. Without rebels, we’d still be under British rule, so I’m not downplaying the need for rebels. I just think they need a “cause.”
I believe a lot of people who think they are rebels are actually just idiots. They believe that normal rules do not apply to them, which is not what it means to be a rebel. Rebellion is only justified when there is a sense of unfairness occurring.
Here are some of my personal classifications on whether a person’s actions are worthy to be classified as a “rebel:”
• Overturning a brutal dictatorship…rebel.
• Breaking in line at the movie theater…idiot.
• Marching for peace during a questionable war…rebel.
• Parking in a handicapped space even though you’re healthy…idiot.
• Rosa Parks refusing to sit in the back of the bus…rebel.
• Wearing your pants so low that your underwear is showing…idiot.
True rebels are those who use their words or actions to point out a fault in authority or in established norms. Idiots do what they want because they are selfish and don’t care how their actions affect others. I have a low tolerance for idiots.
Weekday mornings when I am in town, I take two of my daughters to school. At the middle school where my youngest attends, there is a large, one way loop that is always crowded with minivans and hurried parents. Most of us behave. We follow the clearly marked signs to stay in the right hand lane for dropping off and picking up. The lines may get long, but if everyone follows the rules, it moves pretty quickly.
But not everyone follows the rules. Multiple signs state that the left lane is for through traffic only. Teachers use it to get around the line to their parking area. It’s fairly clear that it is not to be used for dropping off. Still, that empty lane is just too enticing for some folks. They cut into that lane and speed past the rest of us, dutifully waiting our turn. Once they get to the front of the line, they have two choices. They can either drop their kid in the middle of the road to play Frogger in real traffic while carrying a thirty pound backpack and a beat up violin case (and there are more signs on the left hand side of the road forbidding that), or they can attempt to cut in line. Either choice slows the flow of traffic and causes delays for everyone.
It’s a rare morning as I wait in that line that I don’t find it necessary to mutter the word “idiot.” Someone, usually several, will invariably break the rules, apparently because they are in a much bigger hurry and are much more important than the rest of us. I comment on this behavior to my kids because I want them to learn that it is wrong. I feel that it is my responsibility as a parent to teach.
My wife believes I am only teaching them to call people “idiots,” but I believe that she has countered that well by rolling her eyes and sighing heavily whenever I say it in her presence. I hope I have taught them that you should stand up for what you believe in, but not to push others around just to get your way. Following the rules is really about having respect for others. It’s about treating others as you would have them treat you. And that’s a pretty good rule to live by.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Justice (part three)
“…that we alone are responsible for our actions and no one else.”
As a society we do not like to think about that because then we would have no one to blame for our own mistakes. Listen to almost any fight or argument between my kids, and at some point the words “she started it” or “she hit me first” will be uttered. It’s the same in bedrooms, boardrooms and on the street. Even if we admit some blame, there’s a caveat.
“Yes, I was wrong and I cheated on my wife…but she didn’t understand me.”
“Yes, I lied about the value of our stock…but that’s the way our business works.”
“Yes, I had a few drinks at dinner…but that car pulled out in front of me!”
Our laws have been buffered and neutered almost to a point of being totally ineffective because of our own innate, selfish desire to protect ourselves. Drunken driving laws are basically slaps on the wrists because those making the laws fear that horrible possibility that they too might someday find themselves standing at the scene of an accident they caused. It’s easier to make the laws more lenient than to consider the personal sacrifice of giving up the occasional social drinking opportunity.
Seven years ago one of my dearest friends was killed by a drunk driver. Leaving behind a wife and two young daughters, this kind, gentle man had his life stolen by a woman who had been partying with friends at a local lake that Sunday afternoon. Like so many of us who innocently leave our homes each day with the expectation to return that evening, he had no idea what was waiting for him on that fateful stretch of road.
The woman was charged with “vehicular manslaughter,” and after all the deals and hearings, she served a minimal amount of time in jail. I have no idea what her life was like before or what it’s been like since she killed my friend. She might wake up every morning with the full weight of what she did on her mind. She might have turned away from drinking completely, promising to never again cause such pain. I do not know what’s in her heart.
For her sake, and for what might lie ahead of her, I hope she is truly sorry and has changed, but truth be told, outside of the spiritual battle for her eternal soul, there’s a mark upon her in this life that cannot be removed. Through her deliberate actions, she took a life. No amount of prayer, conversion and tearful pleas for forgiveness can change that.
Our society has taken on a new mantra, one that has been used jokingly in many situations, but has somehow, quite dangerously, been accepted as an excuse for all inappropriate behavior: Act now and apologize later.
There is no excuse for drinking and driving. If you go to a bar without a plan to get home, you know it’s wrong. If you go to dinner and have a few glasses of wine or a margarita, don’t assume you are safe to drive just because you’ve made it home safely a hundred times before. It only takes once. If you do not understand the concept of “designated driver,” you are too stupid to be behind the wheel in the first place. It’s a pretty simple concept. Apologizing later and saying you didn’t think it would happen to you does not reduce your guilt.
Our weak stance on crime and punishment makes our nation an enabler of continued bad behavior. Without serious consequences, those who are easily tempted to break the law find the risk easier to accept. They are gamblers, willing to bet the higher stakes as long as the house gives them good odds. Even if they lose, they know they will generally walk away.
But this is not a roulette table, or a poker game...and the stakes are higher than a stack of plastic chips. While judges and attorneys construct plea bargains, the concern for the next victim is rarely considered. Deals are made to avoid the bother of a trial, turning what could have been a life sentence into a chance for parole in seven years.
There will be a great deal of questions into how Phillip Garrido was released so early from his 50 year sentence. Many will ask just how a convicted sex offender was able to hold a young girl in his home for so long, and even raise two more children in that same home without the authorities noticing. Already, there has been an apology from a local sheriff over a lack of follow up on a three year old 911 call alerting them to his strange behavior and the presence of children on his property. Apparently, the responding officers did not search his back yard. That simple action could have ended this ordeal right then.
I think about the last three years of my life. Three Christmas’s, three birthdays…my time with family and friends. What is that time worth? For me it is priceless. What was it worth to Jacee Dugard?
Jacee Dugard was kidnapped a few months after the birth of my oldest daughter. I can’t help but think about the lifetime of events that seem to have happened since then in our lives. My daughter starts college this week, which is still hard for me to believe, but also illustrates just how much that young kidnap victim has lost. Her family missed her teenage years. She did not have a “sweet sixteen” party (she was a mother at age fourteen, thanks to Garrido’s continued rapes). She did not go to her prom. She did not experience the innocence of young love or her first kiss with a boy she was sure she loved. All these things were stolen from her.
The more you hear of this story, the more infuriating it is. Garrido is now being investigated for a string of murders in his area. Finally, his property and other areas he had access to are being searched. After his arrest last week, the Nevada Division of Parole and Probation (responsible for his early release in 1988 from the 50 year sentence) sent a detainer notice to California, asking for a hold on Garrido for violation of his parole in Nevada. The incompetence would almost be comical if it were not so horribly destructive to the lives of the innocent.
Although I’m sure heads will roll for the miserable handling of the Garrido case, as well they should, we all hold some blame for the way this case and many others are allowed to be handled. We have allowed our laws and lawmakers to turn against us. We do not ask “why?” We do not demand answers. Unfortunately, most of our current “activists” involved in legal reform became that through tragedy. Do we have to wait for death to touch someone we love to see the problem?
As a society we do not like to think about that because then we would have no one to blame for our own mistakes. Listen to almost any fight or argument between my kids, and at some point the words “she started it” or “she hit me first” will be uttered. It’s the same in bedrooms, boardrooms and on the street. Even if we admit some blame, there’s a caveat.
“Yes, I was wrong and I cheated on my wife…but she didn’t understand me.”
“Yes, I lied about the value of our stock…but that’s the way our business works.”
“Yes, I had a few drinks at dinner…but that car pulled out in front of me!”
Our laws have been buffered and neutered almost to a point of being totally ineffective because of our own innate, selfish desire to protect ourselves. Drunken driving laws are basically slaps on the wrists because those making the laws fear that horrible possibility that they too might someday find themselves standing at the scene of an accident they caused. It’s easier to make the laws more lenient than to consider the personal sacrifice of giving up the occasional social drinking opportunity.
Seven years ago one of my dearest friends was killed by a drunk driver. Leaving behind a wife and two young daughters, this kind, gentle man had his life stolen by a woman who had been partying with friends at a local lake that Sunday afternoon. Like so many of us who innocently leave our homes each day with the expectation to return that evening, he had no idea what was waiting for him on that fateful stretch of road.
The woman was charged with “vehicular manslaughter,” and after all the deals and hearings, she served a minimal amount of time in jail. I have no idea what her life was like before or what it’s been like since she killed my friend. She might wake up every morning with the full weight of what she did on her mind. She might have turned away from drinking completely, promising to never again cause such pain. I do not know what’s in her heart.
For her sake, and for what might lie ahead of her, I hope she is truly sorry and has changed, but truth be told, outside of the spiritual battle for her eternal soul, there’s a mark upon her in this life that cannot be removed. Through her deliberate actions, she took a life. No amount of prayer, conversion and tearful pleas for forgiveness can change that.
Our society has taken on a new mantra, one that has been used jokingly in many situations, but has somehow, quite dangerously, been accepted as an excuse for all inappropriate behavior: Act now and apologize later.
There is no excuse for drinking and driving. If you go to a bar without a plan to get home, you know it’s wrong. If you go to dinner and have a few glasses of wine or a margarita, don’t assume you are safe to drive just because you’ve made it home safely a hundred times before. It only takes once. If you do not understand the concept of “designated driver,” you are too stupid to be behind the wheel in the first place. It’s a pretty simple concept. Apologizing later and saying you didn’t think it would happen to you does not reduce your guilt.
Our weak stance on crime and punishment makes our nation an enabler of continued bad behavior. Without serious consequences, those who are easily tempted to break the law find the risk easier to accept. They are gamblers, willing to bet the higher stakes as long as the house gives them good odds. Even if they lose, they know they will generally walk away.
But this is not a roulette table, or a poker game...and the stakes are higher than a stack of plastic chips. While judges and attorneys construct plea bargains, the concern for the next victim is rarely considered. Deals are made to avoid the bother of a trial, turning what could have been a life sentence into a chance for parole in seven years.
There will be a great deal of questions into how Phillip Garrido was released so early from his 50 year sentence. Many will ask just how a convicted sex offender was able to hold a young girl in his home for so long, and even raise two more children in that same home without the authorities noticing. Already, there has been an apology from a local sheriff over a lack of follow up on a three year old 911 call alerting them to his strange behavior and the presence of children on his property. Apparently, the responding officers did not search his back yard. That simple action could have ended this ordeal right then.
I think about the last three years of my life. Three Christmas’s, three birthdays…my time with family and friends. What is that time worth? For me it is priceless. What was it worth to Jacee Dugard?
Jacee Dugard was kidnapped a few months after the birth of my oldest daughter. I can’t help but think about the lifetime of events that seem to have happened since then in our lives. My daughter starts college this week, which is still hard for me to believe, but also illustrates just how much that young kidnap victim has lost. Her family missed her teenage years. She did not have a “sweet sixteen” party (she was a mother at age fourteen, thanks to Garrido’s continued rapes). She did not go to her prom. She did not experience the innocence of young love or her first kiss with a boy she was sure she loved. All these things were stolen from her.
The more you hear of this story, the more infuriating it is. Garrido is now being investigated for a string of murders in his area. Finally, his property and other areas he had access to are being searched. After his arrest last week, the Nevada Division of Parole and Probation (responsible for his early release in 1988 from the 50 year sentence) sent a detainer notice to California, asking for a hold on Garrido for violation of his parole in Nevada. The incompetence would almost be comical if it were not so horribly destructive to the lives of the innocent.
Although I’m sure heads will roll for the miserable handling of the Garrido case, as well they should, we all hold some blame for the way this case and many others are allowed to be handled. We have allowed our laws and lawmakers to turn against us. We do not ask “why?” We do not demand answers. Unfortunately, most of our current “activists” involved in legal reform became that through tragedy. Do we have to wait for death to touch someone we love to see the problem?
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