Anyone ever tell you you were being too emotional?
Ever tell them they were being too mechanical?
Do you enjoy being human? Do you hate it? Do you feel?
Grad school has kept me busy the last two years, but I feel the need to give this a shot.
Nice to hear our leader utter such simple truth in times of contrary statements and doublespeak. Class warfare is the demonization of civil servants as lazy corrupt leaches on the American tax payer. I guess certain factions would prefer to pay for roads, bridges, police and fire protection, education, oh yes, and don’t forget our military, by private and corporate means only. Black Water, yeah, that was agreatidea. There’s a reason mercenary armies went out of fashion in the 17th century (read up on the Thirty Years’ War orCandidefor examples).
...I can hardly listen to NPR anymore, for fear of developing dangerously high blood pressure—and this is a source I trust. Publicly funded, no corporate bias, what a crazy idea!
The fear and anger that the media portrays our country to be in grips with is nothing new to a nation that is on the other side of hegemony. The rhetoric we here today the same it was 30 years ago. No new topics. Promote patriarchy and control women—ban same gender marriage, outlaw abortion, promote religious agendas. Distract the working and middle class from their stagnant economic status with an enemy—blame Hispanics, Mexicans, “illegals,” give them something to fear, and dont' forget the Gays, they're out to get you too. Assuage that fear with Second Amendment patriotic driven dribble, meanwhile completely ignoring the First Amendment when it comes to expression and church-state matters.
I’ve heard that most American’s are quite ignorant of their own nation’s history, let alone the rest of the world. As a former educator, I know this is true of our youth. This should prove beneficial to forces promoting skewed history, outright lies, and the same kind of unoriginal oppressive tactics employed for centuries. It’s almost as if conservative leaders read1984,lesser well knownIt Can’t Happen Here, and the even more obscureIron Heeland thought, “what a great idea!!” But then, most Americans don’t have a stomach to read anything off the NY Times bestseller list. Think you understand poor people? Try outGrapes of Wrath.
And before you label me a liberal, a Democrat, a socialist, or a crazy god hating communist, let me state that I am in favor of fiscal conservatism, at least controlled spending and a responsible budget that still provides the public with its services. Otherwise, paint me what you want. My beef is with social conservatives. Don’t you fucking dare tell me how to live! Keep God in your churches, and out of my politics. And just for the record, if our last president hadn’t started two wars and cut taxes for the super wealthy, then the government might not be bankrupt as fiscally as it is morally.
I don’t care if you agree with me or not, it’s your constitutional right and civil responsibility tomake up your own mind.
As many of you know (and many may not), I'm enrolled at East Carolina University's Maritime Studies Program. One of the options of the program is to pursue a track in nautical archeology. As most ships don't survive long after they're decommissioned or condemned, this requires most nautical archeologists to study their subjects where they rest, normally underwater. Thus, I've been taking Basic Scuba here at the university so I can take Scientific Diving in the spring and participate in the Summer Field Schools in 2010. The class has been rigorous and demanding for the out of shape thirty-year-old that I am. It didn't take long after leaving Trader Joe's for me to slip into a sedentary student lifestyle. I'm sure the copious amounts of North Carolina (Eastern) barbecue and beer haven't helped (this is a college town and my new friends are students after all). My academic courses are equally if not even more demanding but it’s not my brain that's necessarily out of shape. Add to that capsizing at the age of three left me terrified of open water – a fear it took me years to get over in order to enjoy sailing or swimming – and diving for me becomes one of those counter intuitive sports. Purposefully descending and breathing underwater is about as natural a behavior as jumping out of a plane, as far as I’m concerned. But, overcoming that fear, one is rewarded with an amazing experience.
Thursday (the 29th), my class of about 23, myself being the only grad student and oldest in the course, drove up to Fantasy Lake, NC to complete 3 dives to satisfy part of the 5 required for certification. Most of my classmates in the maritime program are divers or at least certified and their input has been useful. But, as my instructor promised us, nothing can prepare you for the actual experience; the fear, the adrenaline, the thrill and awe of entering a world comparative few have ever witnessed first hand.
My darling wife, Ashley, got up with me in the wee hours of the morning to see me off, fed and clothed for a chill morning of intense activity. I arrived at the dive pool just before 5:30am. I was the third of my classmates. It was ghostly sitting in the dark silence, watching the rest of the class trickle in piece meal, most silent, all thinking the same thing: how will I do today? We've trained for almost two months with the scuba gear, practicing basic maneuvers, emergency procedures, rescue protocol--something endemic to diving, everyone must know how to handle the simplest emergencies due to the inherent risk of the sport. However, all that training was in a 15' pool of heated clear chlorinated water surrounded by light blue tiled walls. Today we were going to swim at the bottom of a lake.
After an hour of assembling our gear and loading a trailer full of air tanks and equipment, including new wetsuits we'd never tested before, we caravanned northwest towards Raleigh. The drive up to the lake was uneventful save for a short stop at Bojangle's to breakfast and sign the waiver form for the lake. We arrived at the lake, a flooded quarry used exclusively for diving, both training and recreational. The water is a placid blue on an occasionally overcast day like Thursday. The gray granite cliffs surrounding most of the lake reach up to forty or fifty feet high, winding down to clumps of giant slabs and boulders until reaching the solitary narrow beach from which we would enter. The head of the program, Clint, a very experienced and serious diver, and my instructor Mike, an ex-military, more relaxed, and older than Clint, ran us through the day's itinerary. We set up our gear on a big tarp near the water then gathered for a navigation exercise using our compasses with our dive buddies. Early on in the semester, we partnered up with classmates with whom we would practice and dive with in every pool session and our five open water dives. The trick to navigating underwater, unlike on land, as there is no visible landmark, is to rely entirely on your heading and bearings while underwater, depending solely on your compass between points of navigation.
We then suited up and donned our masks, fins, and snorkels. Our first skills test was the basic snorkeling (or skin diving) techniques we learned in our first two pool sessions. The instructors allowed us to warm up to being in less visible water (visibility was maybe 10 feet) and we all gradually waded and swam out over depths that trickled off into a blue green darkness speckled with the refracting rays of sunlight. The effect was that when you looked underwater, beyond ten feet all the light above you seemed to convey in an epicenter wherever you happened to be looking. After we got comfortable with swimming in depths where you couldn't see the clearly defined bottom with blue lines every few yards, we began our skill set. These involved three tows or pushes in case you had to help an injured or unconscious skin diver. Clint had us push and tow our buddies three times between a rock and the nearest buoy, probably 20 yards away. While we had practiced this procedure at shorter distances, doing so in the west suit was an entirely new experience. To add to it, I was wearing an extra 10lbs of diving weights to counter the buoyancy of our wetsuits, more than I'd ever practiced with in class. We alternated; first, I did a fin-push where you raise your buddy's fins on your shoulders and they float on their back while you swim. Then we did a bicep-push where you grab your buddy's left bicep with your left hand and push them ahead of you. Then we did the dosey-doe, where you lock your left arm under your buddy's, your hand against their back and tow them while you swim. Embarrassingly, I was sucking air after each time. I couldn't believe how tired I already was and we weren't even done our first skill set.
Clint then had us perform three dives: feet first, a tuck, and a pike, clearing our snorkels in the two methods (blast and displacement), retrieving a rock or something from the bottom to show we'd dived to the bottom. Most of us were at a depth of around ten feet. The first dive I went down to the sloping incline of sharp angled granite boulders in search of something small enough to lift; I reached for what I assumed was a rock and nearly grabbed a fish! The fish turned and looked at me for a moment before swimming away. I snatched a fist-sized chunk of rock and surfacing cleared my snorkel with a blast of air. The second dive went fine, but the third, while surfacing with a large rock I got kicked in the face by a fellow diver. This knocked my snorkel from my mouth and I had to surface without clearing. These sort of unpredictable things are good to get out of the way early on in diving so one loses the panic response so easily triggered underwater.
We thought we were done until Clint announced he was going to teach us one more skin diving procedure: rescuing a non-responsive skin diver. It was similar to other rescues we'd done in the pool, except he wanted us to tow our buddies, while simulating resuscitation, to shallow water, remove their equipment and our own while maintaining resuscitation, then carry them out of the water in one of two ways. This was all fine and good except that I was tired already and my dive buddy has 100 lbs on me. To make matters worse, I'd selected fins that too big, which any diver will tell you, will wear your legs out far quicker than usual. I did manage however, to tow my buddy, Kyle, the roughly 60 yard circuit to the beach, though I dropped him a few times—he was a good sport about it. When we got to the beach, I noticed my new $9 watch was gone. A timing device is crucial to diving, you must maintain your time at depth to keep track of how much nitrogen is building up in your system (there is a recommended time limit to all depths). Fortunately, as we weren’t diving for more than 20minutes usually any more than 25-30 feet, it was not a big deal.
After that, we had a short break while we donned our scuba gear and split into three groups. My group would dive with Clint, ironically the more militant of the two instructors. We swam out to the nearer of striped buoys where Clint gave us his instructions. This was the deepest any of use had gone, and the first time for any of us in open water. One thing Clint was good at was not giving us time to over think, second guess, or worry too much than we already were. We descended, lining up on the deck of a sunken glass boat, 25 feet down. It was a surreal and freaky experience, diving in open water where more than ten feet in any direction, the water faded out to the unknown. It was far darker than the dive pool as we descended. I let the air out of my BC (buoyancy control-helps you float on the surface and maintain buoyancy under water) and my 10lbs dropped me quick. I equalized the pressure in my ears and sinuses, holding my nose while gently exerting pressure. When you do this, sound goes from a clogged muffled hollowness to loud waterlogged exaggeration. Lining up on the deck, kneeling, our neighbors all looked closer and larger than life – refraction increases perception of size and proximity by a third. Before we could be too worried by what was or wasn't beyond our field of vision, Clint went down the row having us clear our mask. This is something I've struggled with all semester. I've found full mask removal easier to clear than simple flooding. For some reason, when I flood my mask (rather than simply taking the whole thing off), the shock of cold water up my nose makes me want to inhale – through my nose! This usually results in me coughing through my regulator (mouthpiece) until I can collect myself enough to force air out my nose and clear the water from my mask. I'd practiced and practiced this technique, but I hadn't done the simple flood clearing in weeks, assuming it would be a full mask removal (supposedly more difficult). So, I flooded my mask got cold water shot up my nose with the pressure nearly twice that of sea level. I managed not to inhale the whole nose full but choked a bit before clearing it gradually. When I finished, Clint motioned for me to do it again and flooded my mask for me. It took me a couple of tries but I cleared it successfully, ignoring the pain of a little bit of water in my lungs. When he finished going down the line, he came back up the group having us retrieve our regulators in the two techniques (sweep & reach) while blowing a stream of bubbles (biggest rule of diving is never hold your breath). This I had no problem doing having practiced it a dozen or score times at the bottom of the pool.
Next was buddy-breathing. This technique is one of the emergency procedures used in case you or your dive buddy run out of air (one of the golden rules of diving is never dive alone). Kyle and I had practiced this several times as well, but never in wetsuits or with so much weight, or in open water! Kyle simulated being out of air first and after signaling me, I gave him my octopus (backup regulator or mouthpiece) and we swam a circuit around the boat as instructed on the surface. This is easier said than done. Kyle's larger bulk and our combined diving weights threatened to sink us as soon as we left the deck of the boat. I struggled, breathing hard, my heart pounding, desperate to avoid snagging the various lines that ran off the corners of the boat in four directions into the murky depths; eventually we finished the circuit. When Clint gave us the ascend signal, we linked arms in the Roman handshake and both began to ascend. We'd been kicking for a good minute when I looked down and the deck was only a few inches from our fins. I motioned to kick harder and took larger breaths to increase my buoyancy (I'm a sinker) and eventually we made it to the surface where I had to then, feeling out of breath, remove my regulator and inflate Kyle's BC and my own to finish the simulation, this safeguard's your buddy from unintentionally descending without any air. Before we could catch our breath, Clint ordered us to descend and line up on the deck standing in our buddy pairs. Again, standing in fins on a slippery deck of a sunken boat, not so easy. For some odd reason Kyle and I kept tilting off the deck, threatening to sink to the floor of the lake despite our comical slow motion efforts to stay in place. We repeated the exercise, this time I taking Kyle’s yellow octopus regulator and we swimming the tricky circuit before surfacing. While my loose left fin ground away at my ankle, I managed to avoid any cramps unlike the first time I tried this skill.
On the surface, Clint split our group in half and instructed Kyle and I and another buddy-pair to ditch-and-don on the surface – meaning to remove all your gear except for the weight belt and put it back on. This is easier said than done, especially since our class had only done this exercise once and had been told we wouldn’t be doing this skill at the lake. I didn’t have too had of a time with it, the trick is, your BC keeps you afloat on the surface, so, as soon as you undo the waist belt, it wants to pop off and float away. Think of trying to put on a life jacket in the water that it is super buoyant and more like a backpack than a jacket. I was grateful for the reprieve because then it was our turn to do CESA’s (controlled emergency swim ascent). This is to simulate if you run out of air (even after all the precautions to avoid this) and need to surface. The trick is to take a small breath of air and steadily exhale a stream of bubbles while ascending at the safe rate of 30ft/min. If you exceed this rate or hold the air in your lungs, you risk the greater of diving injuries, air embolism. I descended, took my breath at 20ft and slowly ascended, exhaling all the way. It was a little harder than when we did it in class, mostly because I felt winded. I ran out of air 2ft from the surface but I followed the directions and kept exhaling what little I could till I broke the surface. I got the “ok” signal and when the group was done, we swam ashore and swapped out our tanks for the next dive.
I removed my fins and staggered ashore, my full wet suit adding weight and bulk to the 60lbs of gear on my back, plus the 10lbs of led weights. We grabbed fresh air tanks and after exchanging comments about feeling too heavy in the water, I swapped my two 5lb weights for somebody’s 4lbs and reduced my weight to 8lbs. We waded back out to the water and waited for Mike to return with his first group. Kyle and I snorkeled looking for my watch for a few minutes, to no avail. Mike’s group began straggling in and he swam half way to meet us. When we were assembled, he explained the next skill set and instructed us to swim out to the further of two striped buoys. All together at the buoy, he pointed out the blurred pale outlines of a sunken tour bus to which the two striped buoys were anchored. Our final skill-set was to recover a non-responsive diver from the bottom. This is one of the more physically demanding skills, especially considering the greater depth and difference in bulk between Kyle and me. I wanted to get it over with so I nominated Kyle to descend first. The first group of buddies descended and lay prostrate perpendicular across the roof of the buss. I descended, trying to leave a little air in my BC to assist in my ascent. I went through the procedure: I waved my hands in Kyle’s face, then shook his tank (your buddy essentially plays dead the whole time, no assisting in the ascent, unlike the buddy-breathing skill). I flipped him over, linked arms Roman style and standing him up began kick my way to the surface at the gradual rate. This is one of the cooler visual effects of diving, is watching the glow of day light increase and clarity as you reach and finally break the surface, like some permeable liquid ceiling. On the surface, I removed his mask and my own, orally inflated his BC and my own, then called out “Help, non-responsive diver, somebody all 911!” and commenced simulating resuscitation, counting four beats then giving a breath. I did this while towing Kyle to the closest buoy. Mike waited for us all to surface and finish then the other half descended. It was surreal, sinking down to rest on the top of a bus—30 feet underwater! It was a slippery slimy surface, the missing windows creating dark mysterious holes where light disappeared. Kyle arrived and went through the procedure and soon we were done, both of us grinning since we knew our skills tests were complete. And as Mike put it, we all passed, because we were all still alive and unharmed.
Now came the coolest part of the dive. Mike explained the route we would take, instructing us to follow him in our buddy pairs and follow the line that led off from the front of the bus. We descended along the anchor line of the buoy, Kyle right behind Mike and me right behind him. Standing on the bottom of the lake was another surreal experience. Large chunks of granite and slate littered the sandy bottom. Looking through the front of the bus, I could see all the missing windows through to the back. The rest of the group gathered, Mike counted us and indicated to follow him. I swam behind and to the left of Kyle, avoiding the clouds of silt that our fins kicked up. Following the line, I checked my air and depth to see we were almost at 40 feet. We passed some immersed equipment that had not been salvaged when the quarry flooded, looked like a large industrial air compressor (ironic). Soon the outline of some large white object came into view, gradually revealing a sunken Cessna! The prop was gone and the inside stripped but again, you don’t expect to see these kind of things at the bottom of a quarry. I quickly left my initials in the layer of slime and silt covering the fuselage (as I could see so many had done), and we swam the wingspan. We went on and the bottom began to slope down peaking in a little gorge. Mike stopped to count us again before swimming down into the ravine where giant angled rocks lay on top of each other. As we got close to the very bottom, the temperature dropped dramatically! We’d been told the temperature was around 68F, but that pit felt at least 10-20 degrees colder. We ascended the other side and followed the yellow line to arrive at the glass bottom boat that had held such apprehension on my first dive. Approaching it from the bottom gave me a whole other perspective and I swam around it a bit before following our instructor back towards the shore. Over all it was a truly awe inspiring experience.
We emerged, all of us chattering about how cool the last dive was and lumbered to the beach, removing fins and getting out of our scuba gear. In a stroke of luck, one of our group, Matt (a fellow PG Marylander) found my watch while making his way toward shore! I thanked him and after removing my BC and tank made a beeline for my bag. I guzzled some water – the dry compressed air sucks up moisture as you exhale – before devouring the salami sandwich Ashley made for me. We were the first group to finish and we all felt like victorious veterans, comparing our experiences and observations. One or two at a time we struggled out of our clinging wet suits, another physical challenge as the suit seems very hesitant to let you go. Gradually the other groups returned and we packed up, rinsed our gear at the top of the hill and loaded up in the vans.
I can’t wait for the second open water dive in two weeks, sixteen miles off shore of Morehead City. We’ll be diving to 60 feet on a purposefully sunk Vietnam era ship of 165ft. Mike says if we’re lucky, we’ll see some sand tiger sharks hanging out in the old bridge of the ship. We’ll see. I’ll let you know in two weeks. While we couldn't take any pictures, I did find some videos of previous groups led by Clint. You'll see the bus and the plane. Enjoy!
Those who know me are aware how much I abhor the perversion of our language by text-speak, especially after seeing it show up in senior papers I once graded.But, if ever I heard a WTF moment, it was when my darling wife came home this morning from tutoring to inform me that the Senate had voted against a public option—twice.“Twice!” was my indignant response, “Twice?!”My blood pressure surged, my already ruddy face bloomed a furious hue.My limbs trembled.
Nothing since the re-election of Bush had disturbed such a response from my dizzied brain.And even that was akin to watching a train slowly approaching a car stuck on a railroad crossing—you could see it coming.But this!This obvious corruption of what we so boldly call a democracy (even if by definition it is a democratic republic)?Where is that democratic spirit?And I don’t mean a partisan one.If a majority of Americans are in favor of a public option, if a majority of doctors want a public option (and at least they take an oath to put patients first), then why, oh why, do our congressmen strike it down.Beyond the foregone conclusion that their self interest is not at stake, seeing as how they get health care for life; it is their real self interest in the form of millions of dollars of lobbying from the industry that sways their pendulur minds.
Notice the word industry.Hospitals claim they “lose money” because of existing public programs.But if profit is money one hasn’t seen before, and profits are lower than previously (an inherent risk in a capitalist economy), there was no money “lost” simply less new money gained.This in turn begs the question:why do hospitals and insurance companies profit from human suffering.All insurance is, in essence, placing bets against yourself that you will befall misfortune, and then when you are right, the insurance company may pay out, but assuredly to your greater expense.Are we really in this 21st century still able to allow our health to be exhorted by faceless conglomerates of greed?If a mugger walks up to me and puts a gun to my head and demands my wallet, he is demanding money for my continued existence.How different in principle is the absurd cost of premiums and deductibles for simple visits or necessary procedures?Demanding money for my continued existence… people suffer and die due to the carnivorous appetite for profits.That time must pass to be read in history text by an insured generation.
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
I’m sure some of you are labeling me a socialist, as many do our good president.Well, you’re partly correct.But regardless of my ideologies, I’ll gladly pay for a service I need or want.But, I expect a reasonable price and a decent service.Health care is not a product, it is a right.Shame on those “blue dog” democrats who buy into the woes of insurance, hospital, and pharmaceutical concerns.Corporations don’t vote, citizens do. Yet even with a democratic president and and congressional majority, things stand still.
Are we truly half way to a fascist state?Because we’re already suffering from a corporatist economic ideology.The only insurance that can cover or prevent that suffering is sagaciously entrusted in our constitution and our God given rights.Stand up my fellow Americans, and demand what you work so hard for.Enamour yourself with the First Amendment and speak out on your own behalf.
If we don’t do it, if we don’t demand a fair deal, no one will listen to the one man working hardest for us.
I awoke today with a sense of impending history in the air. The fresh fallen snow helped to hide the barren gray ugliness that winter can have. But we must winter before rebirth in the spring. It is no mistake that our culture's most momentous and extravagant holiday falls within days of the solstice, within days of the darkest day, we celebrate the warmest of virtues. So the snowflake laden branches and white buried grass seemed to reach out and beacon a respectful silence from the land itself. What a brilliant contrast, what a beautiful blend: that a man who is both black and white, who is of this nation, and but a step removed from humanity's nursery; who has been raised here and abroad, that this man is now the leader of the free world. The Free World...
It is exciting to be an American in these trying days.
For the first time I find myself inspired by a leader, a leader we chose as a people. We take our peace and stability for granted, we Americans. This is why we quake when Wall Street fumbles bounces and flutters. That we have a peaceful transition of power every four or eight years, without the threatening shadow of violence or upheaval; that is truly unique and amazing in the history of cultures and nations. I never realized until today that one of the things celebrated in an inauguration is PEACE! A peaceful transition. What a luxury; what a blessing. Today I also felt inspired, encouraged, reassured, and excited. It struck me, Why, that's what a good leader does. In times of trouble, she/he leads, sets an example, reassures, and takes action. Our nation has ached for true leadership. Yet, with all the jubilation, all the excitement, the satisfying departure of a bleak chapter of our history--I am not disillusioned. He is still a man, and he is fallible. My heart goes out to him and his family. So tonight, before I take my weary body to bed, I will do something I have never done before. I will pray for our new president and his family. I will pray that he take sustenance and strength from the trust and faith the America People have in him, that he will continue to seek guidance from the wisdom of leaders past, that he will find in himself that which he needs to overcome doubt and cynicism.
WE are America. WE are the people.
And as the People have chosen to put him in power, so he is bound to answer the needs of his people.
I will also pray that we all may live up to expectation and fulfill our unbridled potential.
May we seek in each other and in our deeds that spark that makes us great.
Congratulations, Mr. President, your presence is much appreciated.
Yesterday the United States of America took the largest step ever toward the healing the gaping historical wound between whites and people of color in this nation. While the Emancipation Proclamation made the abolition of slavery a national intention in 1863, it wasn't until the 13th Amendment was ratified that the monstrous sin of slavery was outlawed. That was on December 6th, 1865. Previously, on June 19th of that year, in Galveston, Texas, a Union general emancipated former slaves in Texas, and the little known (by most white folk) Black holiday of Juneteenth was born. Now one hundred and forty-three years later, a man who in 1863 would have been legally considered inferior, or even more abhorrent, the physical property of a white man in some states where he campaigned the heaviest, is the President Elect of this great country.
Those of you who know me, know I rarely speak about our nation with such affectionate language.
But now Ican.
Now WE can.
All of us. Not just veterans, not just civil servants, not just the descendants of historically prominent citizens, not just bitter/crazy flag waving white people . . .
Back during the primary elections I was torn between so many good democratic candidates. Clinton seemed the practical choice. Richardson and Edwards (at the time) both moved me with their focus on the common citizen, and they had solid experience. I, like so many, was afraid to put my hopes in the exuberant fresh faced young man who reminded me of so many of my heroes from history. I could hear the echoes of John and Robert Kennedy, could feel familiar inspired energy of Martin Luther King Jr. I debated a long time in the polling station. Finally, I decided, I wanted to believe, I wanted to hope, I wanted to bet on a dream. I voted for Obama.
Yesterday, over half of the 133 million participants in the election voted the same way. Today I echo Michelle Obama--today I am proud to call myself an American. Its a strange and wonderful new feeling-to have hope and pride in one's nation.
As I sat on the couch and talked with Ashley, I became aware that for the last eight years I have turned quite inward in my vision of the future. I could see a place and future for Ashley and me, but it was like living with all the drapes closed: I couldn't see the future of this country, not even glimpse an idea of where we might go. Now the drapes are down and I can see good things for us as a nation. My social ostracism as a child had left me feeling like an outcast, my political views the last ten years have left me feeling like I can only relate to the underrepresented views and desires of so many. But now I feel I am part of it. I feel part of the whole. For the first time my vote has been rewarded with positive results. Its an amazing thing. I am giddy with the surreal joy of victory.
But, Obama is not a god or a superhero, he is human and not infallible. But what he represents to our nation and the world is a good example and the mortal embodiment of the American Dream.
Mahatma Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in the world." Obama is that change and represents that change. A change for good, for the better, for unity, not division, for cooperation, brotherhood and sacrifice for the common good. He represents the most Christian values in the New Testament, without bringing his church or religious beliefs to the table.
There are still red states (why the Republican party has now attached itself the color that used to be associated with socialists and Marxists is beyond me, but amusing, nonetheless). And there are still bigots and racists and zealots. And I pray that the guilty parties of this current administration are met with justice and retribution befitting the massive damage done in just two terms.
But I will try to follow the example of the man I helped put into office. I will try my hardest not to be bitter, not to be angry, but instead to reach out a hand to my fellow citizens and make peace. Freedom, get ready to ring baby, because the times, they are a-changin.
The world was so much brighter when life was on the way. Politicos choices and slogans economic crisis, death, poverty, oppression— these were all just passing noise.
Everything would get better, because life was on the way.
Our boy, he’d be special. We’d raise him to make a difference. We’d teach him to love, to respect, to care, to make choices.
Nothing seemed impossible, when life was on the way.
Our love was never greater, our hearts were never fuller. Our joy out shone us, illuminated paths through dark days. …because life was on the way.
Now its been thirteen days… and that little light is gone.
No heart beat to be found, our hopes, our dreams, our love— vanish in a cold breath of sterile doctor’s office air.
Quiet thank yous and goodbyes. A numb stumbling drive home. We hold each other and cry, and painfully wonder why, no longer, life is on the way.
These days we smile, we behave accordingly. We go to work, we say “fine thanks, how are you?” But inside we’re still rebuilding, inside the abscess still heals.
Together and separately we wonder, whether we can make it through each day. Silently we pray, we hope, we fear.
No words spoke nor written can say, how much I long and dread for, life to be on its way.
Why is it whenever I leave my comfy neighborhood, or any major metropolitan area for that matter, that it only takes a matter of miles before I can find the every day American that is lauded on CMT: the NASCAR watching, Budlight swilling, deer-season happy, thinks Jeff Foxworthy is a comic genius, average Joe(Dirt). Observing this trend (which is really a realization, not some developing change in our culture) I kept an eye out for it regardless of what state I passed through.
THE WHITE BETWEEN RED AND BLUE
I live in a very blue state, or so I thought. I began to see this trend in my own wealthy border state on the east coast, prime real estate (not that you can sell it), the richest state in the Union, third best schools in the nation, yadda yadda. Now Maryland is a very historically democratic state, way back when being a Democrat meant being a white southern male; it is one of the few states technically in the South that didn’t make the change over to the Regan era family value republicans with bible thumping conserveative grassroots support. No, Maryland is blue—sort of. Blue around the DC suburbs of MontgomeryCounty (among the wealthiest in the nation), Prince George’s County (wealthiest Black majority population county in the nation), BaltimoreCounty which hovers over BaltimoreCity (as blue as blue gets) happy for the financial promise of a large metropolis but terrified by the gentrification and violence a free market can breed. You have a few other counties where people who work around DC or Baltimore live, like HowardCounty (light blue). But when you look at the last gubernatorial election or last presidential election, it is very easy to see that the solid blue counties are surrounded by lighter blue neighbors, some of which border on white, then fade to pink, finally a light red on the fringes of the state (interesting how the fringes are red...).
What is my point? Obviously there is something about being literally more connected to people and urban life that makes people vote with more democratic sympathies and values. This does not mean the reverse is not possible: you have conservative persons living in Washington, DC, and blue collar democrats working mines in West Virginia; however, the trend is true. Now, I don’t care about party affiliation or politics, my curiosity lies in patterns of behavior in regard to populatino distribution, voting, etc. It seems the further we are from our fellow citizens, the less we care what happens to them, politically. This is not an attack on the Republican Party or conservative values (that would be too easy these days), but the simple truth of the matter is Democrats have been labeled “bleeding hearts” for decades, as though having empathy for the suffering of your fellow man and woman is a bad thing.
GEOPOLITICS
It is no surprise that geography plays such a role in politics. Why, every four years on Election Day, what do they display? a map of all the states in their primary colors. The same trend I see in the counties of my home state I see in nations: the more isolated an individual, group or people, the more xenophobic. Thusly, we are, after all, products of geography. This is something we forget in our globalizing rootless (and wireless) age of technology. We are products of the oceans, forests, plains, and mountains that gave rise to all the different species of life and races of humans out there.
It takes ten thousand years to make a race of people. All that is required is that the people not move from their geographic area for one hundred centuries, or five hundred generations. Now, of course, we forget that the reason white people are pale is they came from the north where the sun shines less and cold weather requires heavy clothes. We forget the reason black people have wider nostrils and curly hair is to protect their bodies from the intense heat of the inner African continent. We forget that Asian persons are all descended from peoples who roamed the open steppes of Asia for millennia, treeless wind bearing down on their faces. Why else can you exchange someone from Italy, Greece, Libya, Jordan, Iran, or Morocco? They all live in the heat drifting off the Sahara, they all live within reach of a major salt sea, and we forget that is the reason they might look alike, if we drop the cultural context, drop the racial perspectives that have evolved up with centuries of conflict.
ITS ALL MUNDANE
So geography is everything. Or rather, the world shapes us, as much as we try or try not to shape it.
One curious thing to me is what sort of race will develop over the next ten thousand years? Will we all be pale skinned people who tan under fluorescent or LED lights? Will our night vision be depleted by computer monitors and tv screens and endless light pollution? Will our fingers elongate and narrow allowing us to type faster and manipulate tools of the digital age? Will we lose all body hair as we adjust to a climate controlled existence? Will our butts and stomachs get bigger as we acclimate to working all day from a chair? Will our brains swell, as they did in the past, to store new volumes of endless streams of information?
Or will we even get that far?
For all the country folk dwelling in this first world nation, we have exponential counter parts all over the world. Most of the world is country, or rural. Even the industrializing beast that is China is still mostly rural, most of its citizens living in conditions somewhat improved from their ancestors a hundred generations past. As globalization creates awareness beyond our own village or town, the infection of wealth and materialism spreads too. Chinese middle class workers want their own cars that guzzle petrol and emit CO2. Indian business men and women want their own SUV’s. Everybody wants to live our way of life. But our poor mother earth, our poor home, she is struggling to provide us with what we need. Perhaps global culture will arise soon enough to meet the crisis before Earth reaches a breaking point. I certainly hope so…
EPIPHANY
I was once working in an Italian restaurant with a bunch of Mexicans (really from Mexico, not a culturally ignorant mis-label). Another cook, Zefferino, he I would trade language in an attempt to better understand each other and communicate. One thing I found to be universal: humor. He told me some dirty joke in Spanish that sounded familiar. And suddenly it hit me, the same centuries-sun tanned stocky guy who sported a mustache working next to me, the same guy who watches futbol, drinks Corona and listens to ranchero (Mexican country music), was the same farm tan guy who cracks dirty jokes at his blue collar job, watches football, listens to country music, and drinks Budlight. You change the labels and language, it’s the same behavior, the same person. Like Zeffy, most people I run into while traveling the highways of this country are from the same place as my friend, the country.
BACKWATER
Should it come as a surprise to a suburb dwelling well educated intellectual like myself, that the universal culture is one of sparseness, dirt, simple humor, family (my closest Budlight swilling NASCAR friend is an amazing family man, and Zeffy left medical school to come here and help support his family after his father had a stroke), cheap beer, grilled meat and some starch (bread, potatoes, maize tortillas, pita bread, pasta, or rice)? Take England for example. Here is a nation roughly the size of Maine that retains one of the largest, ancient, and most sprawling cities on earth. It was once the seat of an empire upon which the very sun itself always shone. But, drive thirty minutes outside of the any major city, and you see green farmland and find down-home people who want to talk to you and offer you food and have a beer. They even like country music, our country music. Country, redneck, mountain folk, rural, even third world (as my Nigerian friend jokingly refers to the poorer man’s way of doing anything), these are the majority of our brothers and sisters.
It shouldn't come as a shock to other suburban bound registered Democrats like me? After all, we are a backwater planet. We reside on the outer edges of the Milky Way, the boondocks of our galaxy. Following the second planet in our solar system, should it surprise us that being Third World is the universal predilection on the third world?
The poverty is inexcusable, the family values are invaluable, folklore and traditional food cloting and music are cultural treasures; its merely the xenophobia that must be tamed.
Maybe we're just a backwoods planet trying to be cosmo-politan.
Maybe Virgin is right and our destiny isn't only written in the stars but lay in the stars.
Maybe one day my descendents will be dirt farmers on Mars--and they'll probably like the sound of fiddles, guitars, and have hover tractor pulls.
We can wash our hands and change our clothes; we can move to the city and buy a hybrid; but you can't get all the dirt from under your nails.
The earth is in our blood, literally.
The iron that builds sky scrapers and metropolis carries oxygen to our trillions of cells.
What's my point?
We're all connected. Everything is connected to everything. Call it Cultrual Chaos Theory.
If a butterfly in Brazil can cause a tsunami in Japan--maybe a vote in Maryland can cause peace in Iraq . . .
