Saturday Video

Sunday, Sunday here again in tidy attire
You read the colour supplement, the TV guide
You dream of protein on a plate,
regret you left it quite so late

Together the family around the table
to eat enough to sleep
Oh the Sunday sleep

Sunday, Sunday here again
a walk in the park
You meet an old soldier
and talk of the past

He fought for us in two world wars
and says the England he knew is no more
He sings songs of praise every week
but always falls asleep

For that Sunday sleep

You dream of protein on a plate,
regret you left it quite so late
Together the family around the table
to eat enough to sleep

And mother's pride is your epithet,
that extra slice you will soon regret
So going out is your best bet,
then bingo yourself to sleep

Oh the Sunday sleep

Orgasm for Men and Women

Before I continue further, I need to provide a disclaimer. The intent of this post is not for me to take on a braggadocious pose, nor is it to thump my chest about how versed and gifted I am as a sexual being. Men before me have indicated this kind of ego gratification directly and by implication. The identities I take on might seem contradictory at first glance. If you know anything about who I am, you might find it surprising that a strongly religious person like me has had such a complicated sexual life. I’ve never stayed long in a faith tradition that tried to regulate what I did in the bedroom.

Though we never discuss it, I know many people with whom I attend Worship engage and have engaged in sex before marriage. Sexuality is more permissive in liberal religious groups than the conservative groups who act like they're the only people of faith currently walking the earth. Where I attend Worship, no one would ever bring up anyone’s bedroom behavior for the sake of argument or to encourage innate spiritual purity. They are more inclined to opt instead for privacy and a sometimes isolating, standoffish respect for someone’s private life. However, as is true for almost all of us, religious or non-religious, I do have a sexual side.

I don’t feel ashamed of it and never will. In all honesty, I’ve never let anyone’s dogma dictate how I live my life in this regard. After a lonely childhood, I used my new found courage in high school to find sexual partners. I was not unusual in that regard. What was somewhat unusual was the voracious, exhaustively detailed effort I devoted to learning the game. Because I placed such an emphasis upon understanding sex, I was persistent enough to learn the unwritten rules. Though my first few encounters with the opposite sex were awkward affairs, with time I began to catch my stride, much as everyone does.

Periodically, it is deemed necessary by a feminist publication to demystify the female orgasm. The column I've linked here inevitably deconstructs orgasm and sexuality layer by layer. I’m not criticizing the decision one bit. Women have often been taught to be afraid or ashamed of their sexual lives and their sexual selves. This topic needs to be reinforced with regularity, but I rarely see a man add his own thoughts to the other side of the dimension.

Lesson number one. What I have learned from my own sexual experiences with women is that no two women are the same, especially when it comes to sex. As the Jezebel article noted above discussed, it is often difficult for many women to achieve orgasm with a partner. My own life experiences speak to this fact. In times past, I have literally exhausted myself while performing cunnilingus, then collapsed, sweaty, tired, and disappointed. Sometimes my effort eventually provided the desired response, but sometimes it didn’t. I was usually successful, but not always.

For a perfectionist like me, the defeats were demoralizing. And as for the frustrating times, where I may have gotten my partner at least close to climax, I always felt that I’d failed somehow if I didn't get there. Few women I have ever been sexually involved with have ever been critical of me for trying. As I said, it is extraordinarily difficult for some women to orgasm, but that doesn’t mean that the whole experience was somehow wasted effort or not pleasurable for both of us. Sometimes my partner and I never even had formal intercourse.

What causes a disconnect between the sexes is that men and women process and experience orgasm very differently. For a man, orgasm is the end all, be all. This is because it happens with such frequency and regularity. It’s almost a given, almost an understood that will happen eventually, often sooner than one might like. The beginning of a sexual experience builds slowly but surely towards the sexual release of orgasm. When complete, a kind of sated satisfaction sticks around for a while, then departs.

Antidepressants, for example, make climaxing more difficult, but even with medication most men get there, eventually. As I noted, the entire intent of sexual contact for men is the orgasm, which arrives quickly, lingers for a few fleeting and euphoric seconds, then dissipates into thin air. Perhaps this is why men have been known to feel exceptionally un-virile and therefore far less masculine should they be unable to achieve climax. Men rarely go through multiple experiences of simply not attaining orgasm. It’s almost a birthright assumption and a given.

But again, I know better than to speak in absolutes. There have been women in my life who had an orgasm sooner than I did. This was true both for oral sex and for intercourse. Some women can only climax during intercourse, rendering, for them, oral sex absolutely unnecessary and unhelpful. Again, this disappointed me more than it should have done. Regardless, I never had to worry (even though I did) that I’d done an insufficient job in these circumstances. For me, success in bed was always a huge relief and also a rush of very powerful emotions. In addition to the pleasure of having accomplished an intended goal, I also got the satisfaction of seeing my partner climax. That was always the intended target for me, and maybe there was a little bit of self-satisfied confidence present as well when I was successful.

I’ve never understood men who are selfish in bed. Pleasing my partner is too much of a worthy challenge. I enjoy being creative and persistent, both of which could easily serve as maxims for all of life when the two are conjoined together. One act follows the other. Anything I’ve ever accomplished in life, from music, to writing, and even to my own sexuality has been a product of practice and more practice. When I lost my virginity at 16, I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, nor did my first girlfriend. While my lack of technique didn’t matter then because we were both relative innocents, if I had to evaluate my performance now, I would not rate it as technically proficient or especially pleasurable.

I could share many more stories, but I doubt they would advance my narrative any further than what I’ve done already. They are there for me anytime I want them, which is another pleasing outcome of a sexual experience with another person. My mind often returns to fond memories. They involve the unselfish exchange of energies involving two people. In all of them, two people mutually respect each other while at the same time enjoying the process of causing their partner to experience intense pleasure.

Done unselfishly, it's a positive situation for both parties. As for me, I learned something from everyone I took to bed, the good and even the bad. While I felt at times I had to scale mountains to please my partner, I realized eventually that I only had to be myself to succeed. Wisdom comes with time for each of us. 

Quote of the Week

"If you are not already dead, forgive. Rancor is heavy, it is worldly; leave it on earth: die light."- Jean-Paul Sartre

Saturday Video

Go west
paradise is there
you'll have all that you can eat
of milk and honey over there

you'll be the brightest star
the world has ever seen
sun-baked slender heroine
of film and magazine

go west
paradise is there
you'll have all that you can eat
of milk and honey over there

you'll be the brightest light
the world has ever seen
the dizzy height of a jet-set life
you could never dream

your pale blue eyes
strawberry hair
lips so sweet
skin so fair

your future bright
beyond compare
it's rags to riches
over there

San Andreas Fault
moved it's fingers
through the ground
earth divided
plates collided
such an awful sound

San Andreas Fault
moved its fingers
through the ground
terra cotta shattered
and walls came
tumbling down

o promised land
o wicked ground
build a dream
tear it down

o promised land
what a wicked ground
build a dream
watch it fall down

Thanksgiving Dreams, Thanksgiving Reality

Before I leave for home, I thought I might share a few words about what Thanksgiving means to me. As a kind of exercise in gratitude, I've observed people online listing multiple things for which they are thankful. I'm not led to participate, even though I know I take particular things in my life for granted on a consistent basis. Periodically, I feel a need to get out of my head and to enjoy the poignancy and emotion of the moment as it happens. Intellectual exercises are calisthenics for most of my daily life, but sometimes it's worthwhile to step back and observe.

I pride myself for my lack of sentimentality. Should I take stock of my writing and thinking over time, a pervasive, sardonic theme is present. At my core, I'm a wisecracker, an even distributor of sarcastic quips. Whether fairly or not, I've been critical of those who compete with themselves and others to see who can be the nicest. Though my progressive friends and acquaintances might never make the connection themselves, their boundless optimism can be, to my observation, artificial and quite telling. To thine own self be true is my most cherished proverb. It's difficult for many to keep that unforgiving standard when it is often obscured by ulterior motives, personal agendas, and best intentions. 

My family has seen it fit to preserve several traditions regarding Thanksgiving. Particular foods are prepared, following recipes passed down over generations. The good pewter silverware and crystal, a wedding present to my parents, is methodically cleaned one more time. At most, these utensils make their presence known twice a year, and sometimes not even that. They are now nearly forty years old. When my parents die, as all parents do, I know my sisters and I will determine who should have them. That date is a long way away, but as my folks enter their sixties and retire, it is a reminder of days to come. 

When my grandmother was alive, she insisted that beets and radishes be served at the table. She was the only one who ever saw a need to eat them. When she passed away, they never returned. My mother makes a family recipe for stuffing appreciated by everyone. I have even learned to tolerate bits of hard-boiled egg in the gravy, even though I sometimes remove them with my spoon. The warmth expressed around the table is genuine, even though my family is frequently loud, opinionated, and verbose. I wouldn't say that we rival the stereotypical Italian family, but it does come close. Everyone fights for control of the conversation, but no one takes offense to the banter. This is the way things have always been.    

The invitation to dine with one of my uncles is always extended, though I politely decline. I am not a masochist and do not want to listen to three hours of name-dropping. When I was a child, I was always taken along every year, many times against my will. The last time I went was when I was in high school. Shortly before dinner, I was instructed to pick out my present from underneath the tree. As I unwrapped it, I found that the box contained a model rocket kit, something I would have loved if I'd been 8, not 17. My uncle and aunt hadn't made much of an effort to know me. Knowing me would have meant I'd receive a gift I'd appreciate.

Maybe that's why I'm skeptical of this neo-hippie, kill-'em-with-kindness ethos I view with great regularity. The other night at a Young Quaker gathering, an attender talked about the benefit of momentarily adopting offensive points of view as another intellectual, highly impractical exercise, this time for the sake of conflict resolution. What was shared sounds worse than it was. One such example involved validating a racist perspective to seek to understand another person's offensive views.

The intention was to discover where an adversary's opinions and judgments are based, and that is noble enough, but something about the process was very unsettling to me. Though I did not voice my thoughts, I would have said that it's also possible to rationalize fascism. Neutralizing a opposing perspective for the sake of warm fuzzies is not just ridiculous, it's also ineffectual. Some want to chase dreams and while dreams do have their place, we can't live forever in a paradigm of our own creation. 

Conflict resolution is a sexy topic these days, especially for those who work at non-profits and NGOs. These people believe in making the world a better place, which is, I will concede, a laudable enough goal. At times, however, this line of thinking can also be unintentionally comical. For example, a Friend's daughter has moved to South Africa. She now teaches circus techniques, including juggling, to a group of painfully eager white and black children. Cooperative learning is fine, but I think this idea is very silly.  

The Thanksgiving dream we are supposed to experience takes this same form. The promise often does not provide the reality. I can see why the holiday can be a buzz kill for many. The promised notion of a warm gathering of people chatting pleasantly and then sharing a meal together isn't everyone's experience. The holidays can be a depressing and difficult time for many, especially when the dream does not hold up to the reality.

But, we do have options. We can bog down in cynicism or fly to the opposite extreme, trying too hard to make everything perfect. Living with the cards we are dealt is everyone's lot in life, but if we meet with Triumph and Disaster, as Kipling wrote, and treat those two impostors the same, we'll go far.  

You Have Yet to Win

Don't know where you been
I don't know what you do
But I'm so tired of lies
Why should I keep track of you?

If you won't be
True to me
Then feel free to leave

But don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
You have yet to win
My heart, my friend

Don't know where you go
I don't know who you see
But I'm so tired of lies
What do I have to believe?

If you say you're mine
One more time
I'll know you're lying to me

And don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
You have yet to win
My heart, my friend

Don't know where you go
I don't know what you do
But I'm so tired of lies
Why should I keep track of you?

If you won't be
True to me
Feel free to leave

But don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Spooky

Child on Child Violence

Much of our focus and derision rests upon the violence inflicted by adults against children. That is easy enough to condemn, to call for blood, to clamor for justice. In that situation, there is no question about fault, no confusion about who is victim and who is predator. Our discourse uses loaded language in this instance to emphasize a terrible, damning point. The words we use blast away at injustice in the hopes of reaching eventual fairness. Fairness is a worthwhile concept, but in particular circumstances, fault is difficult to discern. 

If a child knows only violence, violence is often the byproduct. The shame, anger, and humiliation internalized has to go somewhere, even if it rarely goes anywhere productive. As a society we are hesitant to prosecute children as we would adults except for the most heinous of offenses. We give them the benefit of the doubt, for a while at least. Juveniles may never serve a single day in jail, but they may experience the indignity of being separated from their families. Leaving a toxic atmosphere might be good for the short term, but the behaviors already learned do not subside easily. Reversing what has taken hold already is the really hard work, and it can be intensely difficult.

A few weeks ago, the notorious R&B singer Chris Brown shared in an interview that he had lost his virginity at age 8. Subsequent commentators have correctly deduced that if his story is to be believed, Brown was, in fact, raped by a woman twice his age. He views it with a kind of macho pride, one more notch in his belt of sexual conquests. Although most perpetrators of sexual abuse are men, women can commit similar crimes. Boys can be molested by their mothers, or, as is the case here, by women substantially older than them. The stories of male K-12 educators who engage in sexual conduct with their underage female students are commonplace enough. From time to time, one finds a woman guilty of the same offense. 

Although many cases of sexual assault are relatively open and shut, crimes committed by minors against minors are harder to prosecute. Adults should know better, we reckon, but by that logic the same cannot be said for children. Even hardened criminals often have a soft spot in their hearts for children. We would like to believe, as a society, that the possibility for reform exists for those who have not yet been corrupted. By implication, adults have fully formed ideas of right and wrong, whereas children do not. At least that is what we think and rationalize.

I am not a violent person. As an adult, physical violence runs contrary to my definition of morality and to my religious convictions. But, for a couple of years during childhood, I became a major behavior problem. I lashed out at whomever got in my way, with force and with conduct that intended to wound. In time, other boys knew to keep their distance, but what I really regret is the way I treated my sister. All siblings fight, but my conduct towards her was especially vicious. Neither of my parents knew what to do, so I received a daily dose of Dad's leather belt. It never stopped me.

I was exhibiting multiple warning signs of sexual abuse, but my parents missed them entirely. They couldn't understand why my behavior was now so contrary to my usually peaceful, shy disposition. It is fortunate for everyone involved that this period of time was relatively short in duration. At most, it persisted for two years, after which time my family moved away from the source, which had been four houses away. But, nevertheless, the damage had been done. The two of us have been dealing with the consequences ever since.

If my family life had been dysfunctional from the start and if I had no access to help, who knows where I might be today. We may have the ability to make personal choices in our lives, but none of us picks our parents, nor the environment into which we are born. What happened to me was tragedy more than criminal act. My sister has chosen to forgive me of her own volition and without anyone's insistence, for which I am greatly appreciative. I never again raised a hand against her, because I felt no need. I was no longer being abused. But the memory of this painful interlude rarely leaves my thoughts for long. The two of us will share it for the rest of our lives.     

Time Is on My Side

Time is on my side, yes it is.
Time is on my side, yes it is.
Now you always say that you want to be free

But you'll come runnin' back
You'll come runnin' back
You'll come runnin' back to me.

Time is on my side, yes it is.
Time is on my side, yes it is.
You're searching for good times but just wait and see,

You'll come runnin' back
You'll come runnin back
You'll come runnin' back to me.

Time is on my side, yes it is.
Time is on my side, yes it is.
'Cause I got the real love, the kind that you need.

You'll come runnin' back
You'll come runnin' back
You'll come runnin' back to me.

Time, time, time is on my side, yes it is.
Time, time, time is on my side, yes it is.
Time, time, time is on my side

Notice

I will be out of town and away from the computer starting this Saturday, November 23. I will return home Friday, November 29. Spending time with family is the utmost priority. Posting here will be sparse next week. I've always liked Thanksgiving.

Online Activism Beyond the Millennial Generation

I'll be the first to admit that my political views were mostly formed and molded in an online setting. I sought answers beyond those available to me in books, craving the interplay and debate that lead to mature understanding. Online discourse readily invites criticism and critique, removing the need to be polite under the guise of anonymity. The Internet has showed me what people really believe underneath the surface pleasantries. Though we fancy ourselves, as Americans, an opinionated, but level-headed people, we are instead often very repressed and angry.

Some of this may be a result of how we are taught, starting in childhood. Though some interaction between teacher and student is acceptable and encouraged, most of our attention is passive. This approach is often one-sided. I talk, you listen. Critical thinking is essential to comprehension. because it allows us to connect the dots between related disciplines. Our opinions are not secondary to the discussion at hand, they are integral and as important as any lecture. Critical thinking encourages everyone to have a say, based on the information they have absorbed. Educated guesses are what is needed, not emotionally charged, underdeveloped statements intended to shock and offend.

Before someone coined the term "social media", I found companionship and education with people I rarely met face to face. And even today, years later, I may never. I am proud of the achievements of my generation, who have used this relatively new platform to great effect. Causes have been illustrated in rich, brilliant hues. Though Internet communication lends itself to cowardly trolls and those who want attention in the worst way, one shouldn't discount the technology's immense power to educate and build a greater understanding.

For those under the age of forty, it is relatively easy to start people thinking and talking online. A need exists and people arrive to fill it. Yet, the question remains: how do you reach out beyond your target audience? The Quaker meeting where I am a leader and member reflects the demographics of most houses of worship these days, especially the liberal ones. Young Adults like myself are an enthusiastic minority, but a minority nonetheless. My work requires lots of interaction with people who are the age of my parents, and occasionally those of a generation older than that. The Meeting is large and it is impossible to speak to everyone face-to-face.

A few older adults have embraced an online universe with the zeal of a new convert. Many more have been known to resist, unwilling to learn, feeling entirely out of their comfort zones. An integrated, well-constructed platform of information exchange and commentary is often disregarded, much to the misfortune of everyone. But in general, I know that, five years into my ministry, I am finally being heard. 

Much discourse beyond that of an hour's worth of Worship is concentrated in two or three listserves. I've written posts specifically for it, shared pertinent content by other writers, and generally tried to be interesting and compelling. What I trot out rarely gets many comments. Friends are more compelled to read than to reply, but I hope that means I'm viewed as an authority, not a rube. My goal in writing, regardless of intended audience is to invoke contemplation in those who enjoy what I've posted. 

If I had any salient point to share about online activism for everyone, it is the continual effort needed to rope in the reluctant or the intimidated. Shortly before she died, my grandmother asked me to teach her how to use the Internet. It had value to her and she saw how important it had become to the society around her. The first thing I had to teach her is that the DOS classes she took thirty years before were now mostly useless. Following that, progress could be measured at a glacier's pace, but she had at least made the effort to buy a computer and to learn. Until the day she died, my grandmother always viewed the computer as an intimidating machine, hiding its secrets, full of mysterious buttons to push in sequence.

Challenges aside, I find much rewarding in the combination of opinions and terminology that characterize those of my own set. Having said that, I know that my own generation is still greatly behind and deficient in shaping both policy and opinion. Much of my work in outreach to other groups has required I push aside my own bitterness, and begin a dialogue with those who have been known to see me as invisible. This was the reason why online young feminist forums and blogs, for example, sprang up and continue to grow. There must be a willingness to set aside frustrated views, on both sides, that stem from misunderstanding and a lack of adequate communication.    

The generational divide is just as daunting a challenge as the racial divide. Often, both parties begin with defensive postures, expecting confrontation, not conciliation. Inflammatory remarks are a self-fulfilling prophecy, to be expected and then refuted strongly with equally condemning language. It may be helpful here to speak of the difference between sins of commission and sins of omission. We often confuse the two. Sins of omission are, in this context, usually those of privilege, of unconscious slights. Sins of commission are easy to spot, and are usually quite deliberate. Racial slurs and threatened violence fall into this category.

It would be best if we did not talk past people, or worse yet, talk down to them. Blame is not nearly as important as learning from these exchanges. In the end, muting the stridency and volume of our replies could never be confused as a peacemaking exercise. It's a good first step, but it shouldn't stop there. It's easy to go right back to repression, putting a cork in the bottle once more. We can go silent and then explode, or we can do our work. Every interpersonal interaction is a lesson and an exercise in success, not in futility.  

Quote of the Week

"In our country we must trust the people to hear and see both the good and the bad and to choose the good."- Eleanor Roosevelt

Saturday Video

All you’ve found is another back door
That no one sees a reason for
At the heart of the traveling band
You have to understand
There’s a driving need to hit the yellow line

And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke fizz
And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke fizz

Hey you
You’ve been around for a while
If you’ll admit that you were wrong
then we’ll admit that we’re right

Hey you
Come on along for the ride
We’ll hit the money city if it takes us all night

And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke fizz
And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke fizz

Hey you
You’ve been around for a while
If you’ll admit that you were wrong
then we’ll admit that we’re right

Take the heart of the traveling band
You’ll never understand that
All they know is the yellow line, yeah

And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke fizz
And the joke is when he awoke his
Body was covered in coke, yeah yeah yeah

The Greatest Among You Will Be Your Servant

For several years I was a Unitarian Universalist. The church I attended saw itself as the hub of activism and artistic talent for the city of my upbringing. It was a dollop of highbrow culture in a Walmart, deep fried universe, and secondarily, a place for non-native liberals to congregate. Of course, I didn't recognize the history and the precedent until I began to attend, then joined myself. After several years of persistence, I became integrated into a series of interlocking cliques and was made to seem as though I truly belonged.

So practice and obey whatever they tell you, but don't follow their example. For they don't practice what they teach. They crush people with unbearable religious demands and never lift a finger to ease the burden. Everything they do is for show. On their arms they wear extra wide prayer boxes with Scripture verses inside, and they wear robes with extra long tassels. And they love to sit at the head table at banquets and in the seats of honor in the synagogues. They love to receive respectful greetings as they walk in the marketplaces, and to be called 'Rabbi.'

"But you are not to be called 'Rabbi,' for you have one Teacher, and you are all brothers. And don't address anyone here on earth as 'Father,' for only God in heaven is your spiritual Father. And don't let anyone call you 'Teacher,' for you have only one teacher, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.

My opinion about agitators and activists has been forever changed from that experience, those seven long years. Many members devoted their lives to activist causes. In particular, I repeatedly ran across one particular character who was a bonafide and admitted member of the Communist Party. I was surprised that the Party existed in any form following the collapse of the Soviet Union. While I appreciated its focus on social justice and the evils of capitalism, I was not especially keen about how its ideas played out in reality. The Communist Party USA was its own clique, one I didn't care much to infiltrate.

UU services often feature a time for sharing joys and concerns. It is known as the circle of lights, since five or so candles circle the centrally placed chalice, the more or less official symbol of UUism. It is perhaps its only remaining sacrament. The expectation present is that different people each Sunday will light the candles, one-by-one, though no one is obligated to light a single candle. Restraint and discernment is stressed strongly, but speaking Truth to power is much too irresistible for some.

Joys and concerns were meant to commemorate genuine moments of grief and euphoria. They were not supposed to be used as a soapbox platform, but the man of whom I speak ignored the rules. He could never resist an opportunity to hear himself talk. What he said I frequently agreed with, but it was the manner in which he presented sanctimonious pronouncements before everyone that got under the skin of many. Finally, a minister arrived who was unafraid to intervene, and he devised a foolproof system to reduce the chance for self-centered sermonizing.

Yesterday, the man of which I speak passed on to the next life. Much like the Pharisees of Jesus' day, he loved to be called Reverend, as he had been formally ordained a minister. He used it as an honorific title, much in the same way as the Reverend Al Sharpton does. I've rarely seen Sharpton quote scripture or mention religious concepts and the same was the case for the dearly departed. I certainly don't see it on Sharpton's MSNBC television show. Though the Religious Left is often uncomfortable with the notion of God talk, if I had a seminary degree, you better believe I'd make sure to use my Greek and Hebrew skills whenever possible.

I don't want to come down too harshly on this man, but I feel I need to make a statement. I'll let the words of Jesus in which I introduced this post be provocative enough, condemning enough. The Reverend's motives were pure, but the nature of the causes he supported, and his failure to use proper discretion often made me think less of him. He was a partisan first, and a pragmatist second. I would like to think I am too honest to resort to spin. I understand the rules of the game, but I have little to no tolerance for lies and half-truths.

He'd been an insider within the state Democratic party, and had been around long enough to achieve a measure of seniority. Because of this he was indebted to a corrupt Governor who served a largely ineffectual single term as the most powerful public servant in the state. Any impartiality, on his account, was nowhere to be found. It came across as delusional more than politically calculating. The bandwagons the Reverend jumped onto were frequently self-serving, more about political favoritism and cronyism at the expense of servant-led leadership.

Though he was a conduit for me to explore and build my own political consciousness, his ultimate allegiance I recognize now was to the system. Like many progressives of his day, he had used Civil Rights as a jumping off point to other causes and fights. That might have been the pinnacle of his life, but he worked in its shadow for the rest of his days. Some fights he won. Some he lost. But he never breathed a word about his failings. I suppose every life is a combination of thrilling victories and agonizing defeats. Never did I doubt the effectiveness of his great triumphs, but at no time was I ever privy to anything remotely resembling humility. For him, there was simply no need for that much introspection.

Dr. Robert

I thought this was appropriate for today.



Ring my friend
I said you'd call

Doctor Robert
Day or night
he'll be there any time at all
Doctor Robert

Doctor Robert
You're a new and better man
He helps you to understand
He does everything he can
Doctor Robert

If you're down he'll pick you up
Doctor Robert
Take a drink from his special cup
Doctor Robert

Doctor Robert
He's a man you must believe
Helping anyone in need
No one can succeed like
Doctor Robert

Well, well, well, you're feeling fine
Well, well, well, he'll make you
Doctor Robert

My friend works for the National Health
Doctor Robert
Don't pay money
just to see yourself with
Doctor Robert

Doctor Robert
You're a new and better man
He help you to understand
He does everything he can
Doctor Robert

Well, well, well, you're feeling fine
Well, well, well, he'll make you
Doctor Robert

Ring my friend I said you'd call
Doctor Robert
Doctor Robert

Autobiography

My senior year of high school I was too sick to take AP English. I was, instead, enrolled in one of the few non-honors courses I ever took, outside of math and science. In addition to impressing whichever colleges and universities were willing to dangle a scholarship offer in front of me, I enjoyed the company of other intelligent, motivated people. Though I enjoyed being academically challenged, honors courses had a secondary function. They insulated me from cruel remarks and bullying behavior.

Outside of that bubble, I was a target for cruelty and pettiness, even though I could have physically retaliated to great effect. I guess I just didn't have any heart for the fighting. In time, I escaped, enrolling in college. Within the first quarter, the same punks who tormented me in public school had dropped out or gone elsewhere. In those days, I didn't have enough life experience to recognize the difference between the youthful appeal of roguish behavior which eventually gives way to the pathetic behavior of losers in training.
 
The teacher was a quirky, sarcastic transplant from elsewhere. He had no Southern drawl or courtly demeanor. He spoke his mind without needing to soften the blow. In addition, he was an extremely observant Jew, making him ever more the outsider. One day in September he was conspicuously absent, but arrived the next day to provide each of us with a piece of candy. High Holy Days were always celebrated in this way, should they fall during the week.

Though I had been raised in the Christian tradition, I had never been taught to take off work or school for a religious holiday. The closest experience I had observed in my own life was related and yet very different. Certain Christian faiths and denominations refuse to work on the Sabbath. It's the same reason the fast food restaurant Chick-fil-A isn't open on Sundays. Until then, I'd read a little about Jewish culture and religion, but almost always only in the abstract. Birmingham had a few synagogues, but Christian was the predominant religious identification. I knew of two and only two Jewish families that I counted among my classmates and neighbors.

Though a demanding instructor, he saw me as a contemporary, rather than a student. I appreciated his attitude and wanted to please him. He saw no distinction between regular and advanced classes, which was highly unusual. For the first time in my life, I had to struggle to make superlative grades in English. Along with history, I could usually sleepwalk through both subjects. The prior year, I'd taken my AP exam for American History on a day where I was too depressed to eat and had barely slept, but had still managed to make a 4 out of 5.

Though I had started writing doggerel in childhood, I never seriously committed to learn the craft. I had raw skill but it was unfocused. Taking a high school creative writing class began the process. Following my first efforts, when it came time for college, I split my English minor down the middle, taking half literature courses and half creative writing classes. Before then, I had always written prose. A professor whose forte was poetry inspired me to try something different. It felt awkward from the beginning, kind of like trying to write with one's left hand should one be naturally right-handed.

But that was a little later. In some respects, the onset of treatment-resistant depression, my official diagnosis at that time, was a blessing in disguise. It ensured that I didn't have to take an honors course taught by an unhinged, burnt-out teacher. We all called her Mrs. Krabappel, behind her back, after the jaded educator from the television series The Simpsons. Though she had complete command of the discipline she taught, she did not exert any control over her frequent fits of temper. I knew her well because she coached me in Scholars' Bowl. Once or twice I ended up on the receiving end of several choice profanities, one of them being the F bomb.

I often joke that in my own writing, I've gone from unknown to very very obscure. In time, I hope to remove one of those adverbs. Being only very obscure is my next goal. Having tasted the beginnings of success, my next goal is to someday end up revered and respected by a cult audience. I've been at this for five long years and have no intentions of stopping here. The free content era has stretched everyone considerably, and it's difficult not to be pessimistic. Writing, much like performing live music, is a profession and a discipline with lots of talented craftspeople and not enough slots to fill.

Regardless of the impediments, a well-received column of mine reminded me to credit the person who kept the voices of doubt at bay. Earlier in the week, I shared my work with him. It pleased me greatly to hear his words of praise. Following graduation, he asked about me numerous times, always adding that he hoped I was still writing. The e-mail I sent him, after close to fifteen years of no direct communication, was to thank him for the encouragement. He must have seen something promising in the words that I wrote and able to look beyond the rookie mistakes. I am always my own worst critic.

Bus Service Controversy in the Deep South

I've got a busy day today, so I'd like to repost an article. It strongly pains me, on one level, to further publicize this story. Hoover, Alabama, is my hometown. Others who did not grow up there do not recognize the vast strides made since Civil Rights. The city public school system where I grew up had a well-deserved reputation for its focus on academics. I began in Kindergarten and attended until my senior year in high school. As is true throughout the South, this focus on student achievement was balanced alongside a strongly stressed importance upon athletics.

The background of this story is fairly straightforward. The school system claimed it needed to completely eliminate bus service to save money and announced the rationale for its decision. Immediately, their judgment was challenged and debated. Low-income students, mostly black and Hispanic kids, rely most heavily upon busing. The system is fighting against trends unlikely to change. A formally majority white school district has, like the racial makeup of this country, become much more Latino and African-American. Fully one-third of students enrolled are minorities. This is why this decision by the school system comes across as particularly suspect and discriminatory.

This story has a thousand other verses. Before African-American kids were excluded, Irish kids were. The reason for the proliferation of Catholic school is because Irish kids were denied access to the same schools as their Caucasian brethren. In this situation, the school board, city council, and mayor believe that minority students are behavior problems, pulling down test scores, and jeopardizing the property value of homeowners. They do not wish to assimilate. They want to return to the way it used to be, but in the most cynical manner possible.
______________

BIRMINGHAM, Alabama - Hoover parents fighting to keep public school buses today joined forces with the NAACP and other groups to call on the U.S. Department of Justice and state schools superintendent to intervene in the Hoover school bus issue.

The parents also said they plan to protest the Super 6 state high school football championships at Bryant-Denny Stadium in Tuscaloosa next month if something is not done to stop the elimination of public school buses in Hoover.

"We feel very, very strongly this is a race and class issue," said Catrena Norris Carter, a Hoover mother with children at three Hoover schools. Many low-income families, especially single-parent families, cannot afford to pay to have their children ride buses, Carter said.

Hoover school officials know this and saw the elimination of buses as a way to rid the city of lower-income students, some of whom have moved into Hoover from struggling school districts in search of a better education, the school bus advocates said.

They've seen struggling students from other school districts as having a negative effect on the Hoover school district's test scores and therefore perhaps a negative effect on property values, school bus advocate Trisha Crain has said.

Instead of wanting to help those students overcome their challenges, Hoover school officials chose to run them out of the city, Crain said.

The full article is here.

Not Guilty

Not guilty
For getting in your way
While you're trying to steal the day

Not guilty
And I'm not here for the rest
I'm not trying to steal your vest

I am not trying to be smart
I only want what I can get
I'm really sorry for your aging head

But like you heard me said
Not guilty

Not guilty
For being on your street
Getting underneath your feet

Not guilty
No use handing me a writ
While I'm trying to do my bit

I don't expect to take your heart
I only want what I can get
I'm really sorry that you're underfed

But like you heard me said
Not guilty

Not guilty
For looking like a freak
Making friends with every Sikh

Not guilty
For leading you astray
On the road to Mandalay

I won't upset the apple cart
I only want what I can get
I'm really sorry that you've been misled

But like you heard me said
Not guilty

Examining Marriage in the Modern Era

During my senior year of undergrad, I took a human sexuality class. I signed up to satisfy a final elective requirement for graduation. The instructor was a young, enthusiastic woman who was not much older than we were. To illustrate a point, she once asked the entire class, by a show of hands, who among us wanted to get married someday. She noted, with a smile on her face, that every single woman wanted to be married and not a single man did. My hand stayed down as well, but in my defense, I believed I was too young to even consider a thing like that.  

This may be an obvious statement, but men typically do not assign the same importance to the act of getting hitched as do women. Or at least not in the same way. Lest I overgeneralize, in my own observation it appears that only certain women place extreme importance upon every conceivable aspect of the pageantry and ritual, while others could care less. While it is true that bridal magazines and reality television shows fetishize the planning and preparation, I have learned that this ridiculous focus on wedding preparation is true only for some, rather than most.  

To use a personal example from my own family, I’ve never seen my mother apply heavy romantic gloss to what was, for her, a slightly terrifying experience. Life with my father was much more important to her and she has acted the same way ever since then. My folks got married in 1975. Dad was fairly young by today’s urban-dwelling standards, only 24. Mom was 19, barely out of high school.

She had really only just started her adulthood and yet here committed to an act of great responsibility. If asked about her youth, she would always say that she was very mature for her age, to which I respond that no nineteen year old is completely mature. I was definitely not. My two younger sisters and I were implored and admonished, from childhood forward, to never marry as young as she did. We listened to her.

White, middle class American trends have changed considerably in a short period of time. The men I know in my own life are usually close to thirty before they tie the knot. At times, their nuptials take place at ages even older than that. In a statistic I am fond of quoting, the average age of first marriage (heterosexual) for a man in the Washington, DC, area is 32. For a woman, using the same parameters, the statistical mean is 30. These trends are becoming more common even in less cosmopolitan settings.

As animals, I believe that most of us are biologically programmed to pair up with someone. And as I say this, I acknowledge that partnering up with someone may not be what is desired, wanted, or needed for everyone. If yesterday’s standards were in force today, there’d be an awful lot of old maids out there. Even in a different age, bachelorhood is thought of much differently than spinsterhood. Women who have not yet taken their marriage vows are often asked directly and often indirectly exactly what is wrong with them. Bachelorhood is not a pejorative term, but crazy cat woman (spinsterhood) mostly assuredly is.

The societal implication under which we operate state that it should be easy for a woman to find a man. Any man, really. Women are told that there must be something very flawed with them if they can't find a husband, provided it goes hand in glove with enough energetic searching for suitors. This standard implies that unmarried women past a certain age either have too many unresolved emotional issues or aren’t physically attractive enough to be anyone’s wife. The most profound fear of many women is the very thought of being alone forever, a concern they also share with men, though women may vocalize it more frequently and acknowledge more willingly.

We live in a culture where men are still expected to make the first move and to get the ball rolling. This explains the numerous errors in communication and bad judgment calls that happen constantly, errors committed with frustrating frequency. Speaking here in heterosexual terms, for the ease of the analogy, men are still to be the pursuers, women are still the pursued. When the last vestiges of that unfair expectation finally expire, then men and women really will be closer to something resembling real equality. In a fair world, we will articulate clearly what we want and share our perspectives. Gender expectations will no longer trip each of us up.

Where I grew up, it wasn’t unusual for two people to be married after both graduated college. Being betrothed after high school wasn’t entirely unheard of, either. Some of those marriages between high school sweethearts continue today and, like all marriages everywhere, some of them ended in divorce years ago. Though a few couples may have gotten an earlier start than others, their divorces all ended exactly the same.

Before he met my mother, Dad took extreme pride in being a bachelor. He was intent on staying forever single. He saw himself as a bit of a ladies man and was very successful in relationships with women. Why change? When, out of the blue, he announced he planned to marry, none of his male friends could believe it.

This was especially the case since Dad had earlier spoken so dismissively and contemptuously of the very notion of it. To his friends, my father was a kind of hero, some standard of rugged masculinity conjoined with enough hidden sensitivity to be successful in love. Even he, the Alpha male, settled down eventually.

What for some women is a dreamlike fairy tale personified is for many men a colossal sigh of relief. One of my friends was born with a severe speech impediment. Though he is an articulate and intelligent man, the speech impediment makes him sound as though he is mentally challenged. We used to use the word retarded to mean the same thing; I only include it here to make sure my point is not lost.

Many who know him well, myself included, were afraid that his disability might keep him from finding a woman willing to look past first impressions. Thankfully, this was not the case and he was quite happily married around six months ago. He adores and loves his new wife and she feels the same for him.

Alone no longer, hallelujah. No expensive wedding dress to be contemplated for an eternity and then purchased at great expense. No ornate article of clothing hanging forever in a closet, a garment that will likely be worn once, and only once. Men may keep a precious keepsake for years, but it is more likely to be the sort buried in a sock drawer. It is unlikely to be an example of good intentions unfulfilled. It will not be given to his son someday, for his own marriage. Mostly likely it will come complete with an unexpected anecdote some random day, if a full presentation of the facts will ever be forthcoming.

Should men need reminding of that sainted event and the union it celebrated, they need only to glance downward. The band of gold encircling the knuckles of one finger is usually sentimental enough and reminder enough. Simplicity has its place, as does grandiosity, though I do favor the former far above the latter. Love may not be expressed in gushy, showy terms, but it will be given its due. Men are sometimes fearful of expressing unfettered love for their partner. They needn’t worry about either emasculation or femininity and ought to express the great virtue of tenderness which is given in equal measure to every person.

What few people talk about in the midst of fantasies this ornate is just how stressful weddings can be. My father was a mess of nerves and anxieties prior to the small, tight-knit, family wedding that awaited him. There was no need for a big wedding, but neither he, nor my mother could afford one in any case. Noticing his discomfort, Dad's mother gave him a Valium. This worked well for him, but my mother couldn’t understand why her soon-to-be betrothed proceeded with great calm during the whole of an otherwise nerve-wracking ceremony. Mom was nervous enough that her voice broke during the vows, her entire body consumed with fears and anxiety.

If it were up to me, I’d ensure that everyone find the right person for him or her. How they choose to celebrate it and commemorate it for all time is entirely up to them. Love has a redemptive power, one that in our frustration we often ignore quite without meaning to do it. We are, in effect, saving ourselves, not saving someone else from themselves. Many of us, myself included, have made that mistake.

I’ve observed many men in my own life who were aimless, lonely, and downright miserable without a partner. Some men admit this constant nagging ache to others, and some can’t quite make themselves go there. Men may have been socialized to see themselves as an island, fully independent and completely self-sufficient. This pose holds up reasonably well, but after a while, it takes its toll on even the flintiest character.

Being married is not a curative to fix all that ails, but finding a best friend who loves you, hopefully for life, should not be taken lightly. The rest is just commentary and with it a whole lot of needless, misguided opulence.  

Be it opposite-sex unions or same-sex unions, I honestly believe in the promise of marriage, though I may look with suspicion at the lavish spectacle and histrionics of a few prominent offenders. The focus should be on two people who love each other, not seventeen identical bridesmaids dresses or a floor plan of where and how the floral bouquets are to be positioned throughout the chapel. These are secondary details, likely to be forgotten in the end, though hopefully everyone will remember the two people standing together before God, their friends, and their family. As it should be.

Quote of the Week

"There are no good laws but such as repeal other laws."- President Andrew Johnson

Saturday Video

Well, I'm down with my face on the floor
Yes, I got what I asked for and more
Well, the moment she stepped through that door
I was down with my face on the floor

Now I'm standing with back to the wall
Waiting, praying the ceiling don't fall
Well, I once thought that I knew it all
Now I'm standing with back to the wall

Well now she's gone away
Just took time to say I'll drop you a line
Well now she's gone away
Just took time to say I'll see you sometime
Sometime

Well, I'm down with my face on the floor
Yes I got what I asked for and more
Well, the moment she stepped through that door
I was down with my face on the floor

Well, the moment she stepped through that door
I was down with my face on the floor

The Fool on the Hill

Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin
is keeping perfectly still.

But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool.

And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on the way
his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices
talking perfectly loud.

But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice.

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around.

Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around.

Giving Authority Its Due

When asked about the religious persuasion of her children, my mother says that faith only took with one of them. That would be me. If I am to speak honestly, I'm not sure why I felt the concept as appealing as I did. Have you ever entered a space or gathering where you felt instantly that you belonged? That was how church left its lasting mark with me. I was a precocious child in need of something solid and tangible to revere. I respected tradition and saw a need for it, even when further examination later in my life made its flaws gaping and numerous.

At the age of nine, I jotted down a few words of an impromptu poem, having entered the sanctuary very early. I observed the sedate atmosphere before the pomp and circumstance and felt moved to write. I believe I called the piece "The Quiet Church." The minister, her gender a controversial notion in the Bible Belt for some, loved it. She reproduced the entire work, including my childish scribbling, on the front page of the weekly newsletter. This could be said to be my first published work, though I should add that, much as is common today, I received no money for it.

I never left organized religion, even when urged to question and doubt. I've never quite had the heart for radical rebellion and destruction, even for the right reasons and with the proper intentions. Some people believe that every institution, especially that of organized religion, is fatally flawed and must be metaphorically burnt down to save it from corruption. People my own age believe in the very worst of religion, often because they've never been informed of its great strengths. I ascribe this pessimistic opinion partially to 21st Century American culture and to the related attitudes of a generation prior, the Baby Boomers, who saw themselves fundamentally as rebels against the establishment.

Though I have my own criticisms, I believe in established precedent too much to throw it aside entirely. That's my secret conservative side. Be it government or the church, I see the need for continuity within the context of reform. I would argue that our Founding Fathers did something daring by casting aside a colonial mindset and insisting upon the purity of Democracy. And yet, nevertheless, they built upon the Magna Carta's demand for representative authority, not autocratic power.

Every culture and country has its own attitudes towards government and its own expected response should the issue of revolution be raised. Had I lived in the time of the English Civil War, where monarchy eventually gave way to a military dictatorship, then back to monarchy, I might have retained my head. In the French Revolution, where a conservative phase gave way to a radical Reign of Terror, then to a dictatorship, I likely would have lost it.

Today, I see a great dissatisfaction and heavy distrust of authority in American discourse, which is a belief system as old as the Republic itself. And even with our short fuses and angry pronouncements, we are not yet ready to upset the apple cart. Some may attend Mass religiously every week, granting it a measure of reverence, even if much upsets them and may give them reason to leave. Each of us are the truest of true believers, at our core, in the Democracy we would spread around the globe if given half a chance.      

There's a passage, frequently misquoted, in the New Testament book of Romans I often return to in my reading. It's been used over the years to justify bad government and worse policy. I'm sure that the verses in question likely depend heavily on the context of the time, which I why I am no biblical literalist and never will be. Yet, they hold meaning and resonance to the current day.

Everyone must submit to governing authorities. For all authority comes from God, and those in positions of authority have been placed there by God. Consequently, whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves. For the authorities do not strike fear in people who are doing right, but in those who are doing wrong.

Would you like to live without fear of the authorities? Do what is right, and they will honor you. The authorities are God's servants, sent for your good. But if you are doing wrong, of course you should be afraid, for they have the power to punish you. They are God's servants, sent for the very purpose of punishing those who do what is wrong.

This same chapter, a few verses later on, implores its audience to pay taxes. This is a premise that renders many conservatives and Republicans, who have used the first few verses to great effect, hypocritical. In the First Century A.D., this Pauline statement was controversial, particularly because Christianity was in its infancy and was subject to fearsome persecution from the outside and schism within itself. I would argue that Paul is not arguing here for Theocracy, though some have taken these verses to mean exactly that.

We know that our two-party system is flawed, but we continue to grant it grudging respect. We know that Wall Street and high-flown businesspeople hold more of the power than should ever be granted to any person or group of persons. We speculate, with profound dissatisfaction, about why things never seem to change. But we are in a double-bind of a sort, somewhere between believer and agnostic. Habit and good practice still hold sway. We talk about our government and religion like a bad marriage, too emotionally indebted to put it aside, too bitter to let it drop.

Stockholm Syndrome

What's the matter, why don't you answer?
What's the matter with me?
It is so hard to be
Free and easy, we'll disappear completely
Hardly as alone as glad

Your heart is broken, and the doors are open
As you're hoping to be
There's brighter places to see
Hands need warming, early in the morning
Hardly as alone a surprise

No, don't warn me
I know it's wrong, but I swear it won't take long
And I know, you know,
It makes me sigh; I do believe in love

Another season of the same old feelings
Another reason could be
I'm tired of aching, summer's what you make it
But I'll believe what I want to believe

Dig a Pony

I dig a pony
Well you can celebrate anything you want
Well you can celebrate anything you want
Ooh.

I do a road hog
Well you can penetrate any place you go
Yes you can penetrate any place you go
I told you so, all I want is you.
Ev'rything has got to be just like you want it to
Because

I pick a moon dog
Well you can radiate ev'rything you are
Yes you can radiate ev'rything you are
Ooh.

I roll a stoney
Well you can imitate ev'ryone you know
Yes you can imitate ev'ryone you know

I told you, all I want is you.
Ev'rything has got to be just like you want it to
Because

I feel the wind blow
Well, you can indicate ev'rything you see
Yes, you can indicate ev'rything you see
Ooh.

I dig a pony
Well, you can syndicate any boat you row
Yes, you can syndicate any boat you row

I told you, all I want is you.
Ev'rything has got to be just like you want it to
Because

Effective Activism Requires Accurate Understanding of Ourselves

During Worship yesterday morning, I gave a vocal ministry regarding my views about greater growth within the Religious Society of Friends. As I often do, I used a passage in Scripture to bolster my larger point. In the Gospel of Matthew, in the middle of a warning about false prophets and false teachers, Jesus states that honest believers of the faith will be known by their fruits. I noted that Jesus conspicuously did not say that believers would be known by their roots. Many religious traditions are known mainly by their roots, based on old successes that have never been topped or bettered, much less built upon for the future.

A fruit tree requires careful maintenance and only with complete health can it bear its bounty. Anyone can begin at the roots and start over, but it takes real skill and real effort to nurture an organism, not plant a new one in the ground.

A history lesson of a sort is needed here, one that is not always told. Many people know of Quakers by our reputation as fervent abolitionists, years ahead of our time. It can be said that much of the reputation is justified, but the reality, as is the case with much of history, is much more nuanced. There was a time when many Friends did own slaves. Through the tireless advocacy of Quakers like John Woolman, most Friends gave up the practice of slave-holding roughly a century before the enactment of the Thirteenth Amendment, in 1865. While it is true that Woolman's acts only pertained to other Quakers, his effort should not be diminished.

To return to the present, I pause to tell more about yesterday's Meeting for Worship. My ministry served as the impetus for two subsequent messages that, in my judgment, were somewhat disappointing and underwhelming. One told the story, no doubt apocryphal, of a woman who discovered a robber in her house. Rather than call the police or fire a weapon in her own defense, she engaged him in conversation. There, the two bonded, shared a meal, and learned more about each other before parting. Though we may be called to see that of God in everyone, stories like these sound like wishful thinking more than wise.

Back patting for whatever reason, at any time, has always been distasteful to me. It comes across as a needless victory lap and promises nothing beyond the immediate. There's no need to view ourselves as the good people, the ones who have it all sorted out. Every human life has its dark side, the sort never to be aired in public and certainly not in the company of those with whom one worships.

For example, liberals have long been basking in the satisfied glow of the Civil Rights Movement. I will concede that there is something very satisfying about past struggles, of days holding fast to the moral high ground, even in the face of significant opposition. These are now in the past, and very shortly, no one will have firsthand knowledge of them anymore. Like the Civil War, what remains will be consigned to books.

We shouldn't rest on our laurels. Real community is difficult to achieve these days and it is community action that created successes like the abolition of slavery and Civil Rights. These days, liberal activism all too often takes the form a bunch of individuals congregated together, be it within the walls of a house of worship or a political gathering, all trying to think nice thoughts. True enemies do not see being nice as a threat or impediment; they are more inclined to see it as a weakness. They only understand hate and force, two concepts that are unlikely to die out anytime soon, or to have their own obituary included in a website or e-book.

Past successes, as noted above, must be kept alive by continuous effort and reform. I reflect that, at times like these, I can be an anomaly within my own faith group. Those who are critical of such attitudes and people have derisively called some of them "hippies" or "do-gooders". I appreciate the zeal of the Peace Corps alumni who I find everywhere these days, but I don't always believe in the effectiveness of their own private cause. I recognize the struggle of leaving behind the amenities of the First World, and having to make do with far less, but the idealistic gleam in their eye is the same one they took with them before signing up and shipping out.

I was never raised to believe in the inherent goodness of all people, or to seek positive example within every human life or human interaction. I'm enough of a pessimist that I even believe at times in the concept of original sin, wherein humanity's basic nature is self-serving and otherwise flawed. I think that letting one's guard down, depending on the circumstance, can be catastrophic. That being said, I do believe in being vulnerable and am critical of those who build impenetrable boundaries, locking themselves away from hurt and pain, but also from the great pleasure that human interaction can and does produce.

The other extreme is to see the world as shadowy and malevolent, full of invisible adversaries. This is a pattern of thinking that I sometimes fall into myself, but then I realize that the joy of life and the appreciation of simple pleasures departs when I do. In stressing strongly my understanding of the great injustices found in our world, I make myself miserable. My Quaker ancestors must have wrestled with the same tendencies, a peculiar people whose understanding of equality led them to hide runaway slaves and agitate for emancipation. Surely they must have believed at times that their struggle was futile and that an inhumane practice would continue, even spread beyond the boundaries of the Old Confederacy.

If we know ourselves, we will separate real from imaginary. If we push ourselves, we will force ourselves into initially uncomfortable places that will eventually be pleasurable, not painful. No life's work is without careful examination. The fight continues forever. And so long as we understand that enshrining our successes and granting them solemn reverence isn't the end, then we will not live in the past.

Quote of the Week

"I entered into this revolution to contribute my might to sustain the rights of states and to prevent the consolidation of the government--and I am still a rebel no matter who may be in power."

-Governor Joseph Brown of Georgia, 1863

Saturday Video

Hey baby, jump over here
when you do the ooby dooby
I just gotta be near

Ooby dooby, ooby dooby
Ooby dooby dooby dooby
Dooby dooby do wah do wah do wah

Well ya wriggle to the left,
you wriggle to the right
You do the ooby dooby with all of your might

Well ya wriggle and ya shake,
like a big rattlesnake
Ya do the ooby dooby
'till ya think her heart'll break

Well you've been a struttin'
'cause now ya know
How to do the ooby dooby
now baby let's go

Church Trips

What follows is another excerpt of a short story I'm working on at the moment. In a day and age with too much worthwhile content to read in one short day, I write using as many words as needed, but as few as necessary. I know my audience is often pressed for time, just as I am myself.
___________

I entered the church around noon, as the blazing summer sun was at its highest point. My final destination was the heartland of America, a place without mountains, 45 degree angles, and uphill climbs. Where I'm from, one learns the value of the parking brake. Without it, cars would eventually slide haphazardly downward, ending up God knows where by the end of it. This place was flat and uninterrupted. One could see for miles in every direction, though there wasn't much else worth viewing.

My arrival on Saturday afternoon coincided about the same time as the locals were finishing up mowing their lawns. I could tell because of the grass clippings that coated every gutter and driveway. Having taken part in the longest car trip I had ever experienced, I was feeling slightly dazed and eager to stretch my legs. Twenty-two consecutive hours in one go is not something, I thought to myself, that I would ever want to do again. Pushing hard, balanced somehow by wobbly legs, I sought to open the heavy door to the sanctuary. I entered. Following that, I blinked uncomfortably. Adjusting as best I could to the far more subdued lighting inside and away from summer heat. I had not walked twenty paces before a young woman approached me with a flirtatious grin on her face.

We were not alone. Observers instantly flashed concerned and worried looks. Her preacher father arrived, johnny-on-the-spot, purposefully steering her away from me. I had seen this before a time or two. Even the minister's daughter could be guilty of being a little boy crazy. Though I was several years older than her, she honed right in on me. I later learned she had a reputation for serial monogamy, but I wasn't aware of it then. The attention was flattering, but it wasn't too long before she'd been funneled off elsewhere. No one faulted me and I saw no one really coming down harshly on her, either.

Fathers have been known to take similar actions with their daughters from time to time. I'm starting to go seriously grey at the temples, which you think would be a prominent signal that I'm not as young as I once was. Older women who once passed me over as too young have now begun to show interest. Examining churches and Meetinghouses with a careful eye has been a passion of mine for the last several years. Often, I'm the visitor from the mythical East Coast, the source of all authority, news, and events of significance. To small-town residents, there's something a bit reverent in how they introduce and respond to someone from the big city.

A few minutes later, father not to be found, she made second introductions. I mentioned offhandedly that I was a smoker when I was her age, and she noted that yes, she has dated boys who smoke. I add that I drank to excess during the same period in my life and she confirmed that she, too, has dated boys who drink. Preacher's kids are good about outward appearances and even better at the secret life conducted underneath it. I'm feeling thoroughly old by now, but I keep it up, to see if I can still be interesting, even for a moment. The conversation eventually goes nowhere and I begin to think about how to make a polite departure.

Everyone finds me slightly mystifying, wondering why an imposing, important person like me would want to visit their neck of the woods. I'm really not that much different than they are, but my name tag stating place of origin makes an impact. In search of a conversation, I find a native Swede who moved here in pursuit of a boyfriend, now a husband. She assumed he intended to leave eventually for more interesting destinations, but instead has put down roots in his hometown. Her frustration is plainly evident and I know the marriage has suffered because of it.

My official capacity here has been to take part in a conference. Like the Quaker ministers of the past, I satisfy my wanderlust by traveling frequently. In some gatherings, I'm viewed as an equal. In others, I'm the expert who comes from more than fifty miles away and carries a briefcase. At the moment, I am finding my bearings, though everyone is exceeding polite. Now comes the real detective work, wherein I get a greater view of the participants, to cut right to the quick. Sometimes being an expert has its perks.