"The Matters That Matter"

The Matters That Matter

“It doesn’t matter, she was just lookin’ at you.”

--Firefall

Sometimes the incredibly obvious escapes my attention.

You too?

Take Blogging, for example. My three previous Blogs were pretty long, all well over 1000 words. They took more time to write than I really have to spare, perhaps as a consequence of the topics they covered: Blogging, Race, and Our Nation’s Political & Fiscal Condition.

But to my and probably your relief, this Blog will be much shorter. And if you’re still around, look for future ones to be sometimes longer, sometimes shorter and frequently something in between.

Oh, there’s certainly no shortage of topics. There’s plenty going on in the world and in my own little corner of it to write about. Matters great and small--from the literally earth-shaking, tragic news in Japan to the historic march my UConn Men’s Basketball Huskies just made in winning the Big East Conference Championship—many things have commanded my attention since last week’s Blog.

In fact, too many matters matter. I seem to find myself barely able to keep up with what’s going and still remain focused on what really matters.

So sorry, Charlie. I wish you well. I really do.But things are a tad busy. So when it comes to your situation, I'll have to get back to ya’, okay? But thanks for understanding...and hey man, hang in there.

You guys know what I mean, right?

Hmmm…that’s a relief.

So for this week, I’m going to keep it short and simple: 幸運とご多幸を祈る to those in Japan, and GO UCONN!!!

"Another Park, Another Sunday"

“Another Park, Another Sunday
It's dark and empty thanks to you
I got to get myself together
But it's hard to do”

--The Doobie Brothers

I’ve been watching the political talk shows for most of my adult life. By1989, when I was in my mid-20’s, my Sunday morning routine began by awakening in my nice, new yuppie-ish apartment in Stamford, jumping on my motorcycle or in my company-issued Ford Taurus, and heading to the deli for the enormous Sunday New York Times and a Ham, Egg and Cheese Bagel Sandwich. I returned home, made a Bloody Mary with plenty of horseradish and Tabasco, turned on the TV and got settled in for my  debriefing of the world’s important events courtesy of my friends Tim, Bob, David, George, Sam, Cokie, and the members of John McLaughlin’s Group.

And there was plenty happening in 1989: The Tiananmen Square protests, the fall of the Berlin wall and Eastern European communism, the Exxon Valdez oil spill, the Soviet retreat from Afghanistan, America invaded Panama and signed a historic free trade pact with Canada, Hurricane Hugo devastated the South Carolina Coast, Pete Rose was banned from baseball for life, the First Supreme Leader of Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini died, the Dalai Lama won the Nobel Peace Prize, and Geraldo Rivera got his nose busted by an angry, chair throwing guest.

But thank God for all of those distractions—at the very least, they helped to temporarily take my mind off the fact that my mother was losing (and would ultimately lose) her valiant battle with cancer in that very busy year.

The Sunday morning shows have always fascinated me. While I think I was first attracted to them because of a simple interest in the news of the day and world events, I grew later to appreciate them as being much more than that. There was and remains no better summary method of seeing how those in Washington not only view the world, but what they are doing (or not doing) to influence it and our country’s condition.

There also was what would become a practical advantage to watching the shows. I got to see some very powerful, very eloquent people exchange their divergent and frequently conflicting beliefs, civilly for the most part, with a talented debate partner or two, a skeptical press, and an interested audience. Their artful exchanges were and are something to behold, and I marvel still at how effective some of these folks are at the art of discussion and debate. 

Agree or not, like them or not, ya’ gotta say one thing about those American politicians who can speak well and communicate effectively; they sure can be persuasive. After all, how else could they have been able to say what they’ve been saying and do what they’ve been doing for the last, oh, 60-plus years and not only have us believe it, but kept us quite literally voting for more. In fact, we continue to hold them in such high regard that we still name our streets, parks, airports and buildings after them, vote them in year after year after year, and when they die, speak glowingly about their selfless commitment to public service with reverence and adoration.

Now THAT’S salesmanship.

And few were better at all this than the late Senator Robert C. Byrd, a Democrat from West Virginia who, according to Wikipedia, has over 50 places named for him. Take a look at the list. It's truly remarkable, and to me more than a little depressing.

The late Senator Robert C. Byrd (D-WV)

So no, never mind that Byrd, once a committed leader of the Ku Klux Klan, and our other entrusted servants were unforgivably negligent as our grandparents, parents, and those of my vintage weren’t minding the store. Let’s just ignore the fact, I guess, that apparently our representatives in Washington simply did not have the intellect, foresight, character or courage to prevent us from being in the place we now find ourselves: saddled with the smothering burden of an enormous debt and other commitments that will be virtually impossible to repay.

How bad is it? Well, by my admittedly simplistic math, each and every one of us, every man, woman and American child, owes our government and its creditors (Read: China) approximately $329, 525.

Not every household. Not every taxpayer. Not every adult. When the Big Hat gets passed around, and it stops at you, you should be prepared to toss in your $329K share of that $101.5 Trillion-and-growing bill. Got a spouse and two kids? That’ll be $1.3 million for the four of you,thank you very much.

And how much do I remember hearing about the oncoming financial Tsunami bearing down on us while sipping my Bloody and watching the Sunday shows in the 80’s, 90’s and 00’s?

Very little.

To his credit (and the outrage of those of us who didn't want to hear it), after his 2004 election and thus free from bondage of reelection concerns, President George W. Bush tried to address part of the problem: Social Security’s long term viability. Often referred to as “The Third Rail of American Politics”, no politician hoping to remain everybody’s friend wanted to anger us by admitting a dirty little truth—that little if any of the money we spent a lifetime entrusting to the U.S. Government, with its Full Faith and Credit security, to invest for us until we retired will be there when we go to collect.  

President Bush’s idea was to allow Americans to put at least part of their Social Security contribution into something other than the government’s fiscal Black Hole. The theory was that by allowing workers to “Privatize” at least some of their Social Security dollars by allowing them to invest it where the returns were typically higher (the Stock Markets primarily…like a 401K) we’d see a greater rate of return (profit) than we would by just having the more capable, more financially astute United States Government hold and “invest” it for us. 

The problem? Taking that money out of its insatiable coffers would mean less for the government to spend elsewhere until it was time for us to retire—a wholly unappealing notion to not only our current President and those of like political mind, but even among the most fiscally Conservative, even Draconian Americans. Sure, they say, cut the spending over there, but stay the hell away from my Sacred Cows.

Indeed. Who among us wants their own favorite government program or service cut, right?

There was another big problem with W’s plan: the stock markets are inherently risky. While historically the return has been higher over the long term, any drop in the markets may mean that a dollar intended to be waiting for us when we retire could be worth not more, but something substantially less than a dollar when we go to put it in our wallets right next to our AARP cards. 

Now we can’t have that uncertainty, can we?

For these reasons and a whole host of others, Bush’s plan withered on the vine. I could be wrong, but something tells me that he and his administration knew the plan had no chance of going anywhere—American’s were not ready then, nor are we now, to face the ugly arithmetic.

Our reluctance to do so and our leaders willingness to enable our delusions was there again last Sunday morning for all to see.Two of the most powerful leaders in Washington, one Democrat and one Republican, were on Fox News Sunday engaging in the type of duel I used to enjoy, arguing over the what should be the appropriate level of spending cuts in President Obama’s proposed $3.7 Trillion dollar spending budget (your share, by the way, is $12,000--about $5,000 of which the government won’t have and will need to borrow for you on your behalf). This is an especially interested debate as the inability to reach an agreement may well mean that the wobbly wheels of government come to a sudden, screeching halt.

The guests were powerful and influential Senators: Dick Durbin (D-IL), the second highest ranking Democrat, and Mitch McConnell (R-KY) the highest ranking Republican. How much did they courageously suggest the spending be cut?

Durbin finally got around to saying that $10 Billion “pushed this (the cuts) to the limit”, and McConnell seemed proud in suggesting something six times larger, $60 Billion.

Big numbers. At least until you consider their relative size: $6 Billion represents a meager .16% of the President’s proposed budget, and $60 Billion is 1.6%. So how much of your aforementioned $12,000 share of this year’s budget are the Senators talking about cutting?

Somewhere between $19.20 and $192.00 for every American Citizen.

Thanks, Guys. Once again and still, Washington inspires me with her remarkable work, and makes me hardly able to wait until next Sunday morning’s fun. 

Meanwhile, I guess somebody somewhere should start making plans for a Richard J. “Dick” Durbin Park in Chicago, and a new federally subsidized terminal in Louisville’s airport that perhaps should be renamed for Addison Mitchell "Mitch" McConnell, Jr.

Who's going to pay for them? Oh, no big deal--just put it on our tab.

Hmmm…

Another Park, Another Sunday. And another Bloody Mary, too, please.

The Color of God's American Houses

“If you can judge a wise man
By the color of his skin
Then mister, you're a better man than I”
“Living on the Edge”, by Aerosmith.

Are you a racist? Am I?

Little evokes more individual and collective unease in America than the topic of race. Indeed, I’m even uncomfortable pondering the answer to my question in my own heart; while I’d really like to believe that I’m entirely free of what ANYONE might consider racist notions, I find myself unwilling to proclaim that I am free of racism—in great part because I’m not entirely sure how to define it.

I guess I would like to believe this, however: with the certain pure-evil exceptions of Adolph Hitler and Osama Bin Laden, I'd need to do a little research and peek into the darkest corners of my heart to hate other things or people.

In that sense. while they truly do suck, I don’t even hate the red sox (those last seven words were hard to type, to my pleasant and amused surprise)…

And while I certainly can find other examples of things or people that I “dislike intensely”, thankfully I gotta look pretty hard.

Deep to left....

But a racist? Well, in case it matters (and apparently it does to me…hmmm…), I think I can flash some reasonably compelling life-experience credentials that have helped at least convince myself that I’m not impressed or unimpressed by the color of someone’s skin.

First, let’s start with the almost entirely obvious: I am indeed capable of visually discerning the difference between a black person, a brown person, a white person and a yellow person. And there are some cultural differences, GENERALLY SPEAKING, that thankfully do not escape my attention.

Diversity, we are rightfully told, is among the things to celebrate in America.

In fact, diversity runs in my family. My parents, who as adults fell generally to the right-of-center politically, were born and raised in New York City. Borough of Manhattan. Not only were they wholly committed to helping underprivileged minorities, but I do not remember them making a big deal about it (and if they did, I bet it was only to promote the worthiness of the cause).

Theirs was among those Beatnik minds that helped perpetuate the “Peace and Love” culture of late 1950’s, 60’s & early 70’s in lower Manhattan. Dad’s parents, my grandparents, were the children of New York City bound immigrants: Grandpa George was Spanish, and Grandma Marion was Czech. At that time, well on his way to being an accomplished chemist in lily-white Corporate America, my father also had the requisite Greenwich Village artistic streak and periodically painted and sculpted my mother in the nude (her, not him…at least as far as I know).

Hmmm…

This commitment to our fellow man, regardless of race or ethnicity, was an especially interesting aspect of my late mother’s sometimes paradoxical nature. You see, she was very, VERY proud of her Southern heritage. Her father’s family, my grandfather’s, fought in Revolutionary War and were farmers in a tiny town in Virginia, Drewryville, which is named for our family.

Revolutionary War? Rural Virginian land-holding farmers? Town named for them? Can it be possible that they could have escaped even the most innocent brushes with matters of race?

My grandfather, Samuel Drewry, died young. My grandmother, literally a Cuban refugee, settled into New York City with young Shirley Jean. But growing up, mom spent a lot of time--mostly summers--reveling barefoot with her kin in rural Southampton County, Virginia.

How did all this help form my views on the complex matter of race?

Well, as kids, my sister and I saw at an early age how much race mattered and didn’t matter (ditto for sexuality—we spent many summer vacations near Provincetown, MA). We, too, removed our suburbian Buster Browns and frolicked in Virginia’s summer heat, only to be summoned by my Aunt Helen’s cook & housekeeper, “Aunt” Lula, to hush up, wash up, and get ready for her cookin’ of Who-Knows-What accompanied by her grits and/or cornbread (yuk).

“Dad, do I have to eat this? And how come they talk so funny here? And why is mom all of a sudden talking that way, too?”

But those were special and formative times. I’ve always loved & liked my Southern aunts, uncles and numerous (and I mean numerous) cousins. And our first pet, a jet black kitten that we named Dixie, was also born in Virginia and relocated to New York to begin rearing kittens of her own (Beauregard, among her first sons, was “my” cat).

What a uniquely American opportunity it was to be exposed to both the "sophisticated" cultural progress of New York City and the tradition and history of the rural Old South.

My racial apathy was reinforced when, at age 10, our family left the New York area for about 30 months and relocated to Greensboro, NC.  It was 1973, and I was bussed across town to attend a school that I recall as being no less than 50% black. And ya’ know what? There I sat, unaware of race and place, as my bus twice daily passed the famous Greensboro Woolworths, which just 13 years earlier had been the site of sit-ins protesting the company's policy to not serve blacks.

I don’t ever remember thinking, on the long trip to Bluford Elementary or any other time, about Alfred, Veronica or Michael’s skin color. Or Jeff’s or Sandy’s or Houston’s, for that matter. Or even how different my classmates were from the ones in Westchester.

While I was aware of the differences, I didn't think much about them. Ya' know why? Me neither. I truly don’t. And that’s exactly what makes me think that they really didn’t matter.

But none of that means anything if I couldn’t believe, couldn’t hope, that anyone, EVERYONE, brought up under similar American circumstance and afforded similar opportunities wouldn’t feel similarly disinterested with race.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I must remind myself, always, that not everyone’s as lucky as I have been. Indeed, the good fortune of simply being an American has not proven enough to keep many among us from being scarred, physically and otherwise, by the evil malevolence of racism.

 

Among the blessings I continue to enjoy in my life is living in the lovely, gracious City of Charleston, SC. We spent two years in Savannah, GA, another great little Southern City, before moving here 15 years ago. Both are richly steeped in American History, Charleston especially so. Among other things, it was key to the ultimate success of the American Revolution, the site of the first shot fired in the Civil War, and remained one of the young country’s largest cities until the late 1800’s.

One of the less pride-evoking aspects of Charleston’s remarkable history, though, is its contribution to the industry of slavery. Regrettably, it was through Charleston Harbor and onto historic Sullivan’s Island that 40% of slaves disembarked from their tortuous journeys, making it the largest slave port in North America. In fact, Wikipedia claims that nearly half of all African Americans have ancestors that passed through Sullivan's Island. Consequently, it is understandably referred to by many as the Ellis Island of enslaved immigrants.

There is little if anything good to say about slavery. Being glad that it gave today’s African Americans a chance to be Americans, while true, is the best I can come up with.

Charleston is also known as The Holy City due to, also according to Wikipedia, “the prominence of churches on the low-rise cityscape, particularly the numerous steeples which dot the city's skyline, and for the fact that it was one of the few cities in the original thirteen colonies provide religious tolerance, albeit restricted to non-Catholics”.

The churches here are historic and beautiful, and I’ve recently begun attending Sunday Service at a different one (or two or three, believe it or not) every week. Among my favorites so far, perhaps due to my upbringing and familiarity with the generally tolerant United Methodist tradition, are two churches: Old Bethel United Methodist and Bethel United Methodist.

Bethel United Methodist Church

Built in 1797, Old Bethel is the third oldest building in Charleston, and the “new” Bethel was completed 50 years later. They are literally across the street from one another, a curious historical consequence of a racially divided city and nation during the Civil War period. Yet as different as they are, both are bound together in spirit, sharing a fascinating history that reflects the tumultuous and complex nature of race relations in America and its churches.

I hadn’t planned on it, but this past Sunday’s service at Bethel ended earlier than usual, so I walked across the street to experience what I thought would be the tail end of Old Bethel’s service.

Old Bethel United Methodist

There was not a black face in Bethel and, other than mine, not a white face in Old Bethel. But I thoroughly enjoyed myself at both. A lot. The tail end of Old Bethel’s service turned out to be over another hour of strong-voiced Amens, Hallelujahs, Hymns and Hand Clapping (I couldn’t help but think of the Blues Brothers as I joined in, careful to avoid becoming  too caught up in it all and somersaulting down the aisle like old“Joliet” Jake).
 

The Congregation of Old Bethel was particularly hospitable afterwards, in part I’m sure because I arrived late and slipped into the back row, and as such perhaps the congregants were seeking to comfort their likely uneasy guest (not the case, I assured them as I prepared to leave--but not without receiving a couple of bear hugs from their large, leather-lunged, Pastor Bowman as he and they repeatedly invited me to come back anytime).

Rev. Dr. Timothy J. Bowman, OBUM

And why wouldn’t I visit again? Soon? After all, like the Service across the street (which happened to be conducted by church youth and was equally inspiring in its own rite) my Fire-and-Brimstone, music filled, Revival-ish experience was, well, inspiring.

There were dramatic differences in the services, of course—differences that again, sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice. But did I overcompensate? Was I trying too hard to fit in? In fact, let’s dig a bit deeper: Was part of my motivation in going to Old Bethel something beyond a curiosity, and perhaps closer to an exercise in self-aggrandizement? Was I seeking a way that I could show (and now tell) everybody how cool and racially tolerant I am by spending an hour in a “Black” church?

Hmmm…

Maybe, but I hope not. Because besides hoping that I’m not quite that vain, I’d like to believe that not only do I not care about race, I don’t care enough to care about it, either.

And I bet you don’t either. Ya’ know why?

Because as flawed as She has been, still is, and always will be, God blessed America. And I bet He wants what we all should want--that the bold, brilliant colors of His houses here have nothing to do with racism.

Church! Can I have an Amen?