13 December 2009

Tiana.



It is proper and appropriate to welcome new royalty. So, consider this my formal hello to Her Royal Highness, Princess Tiana.

It might seem odd that a manly man such as myself would make notice of a new animated character --even a Royal one. I'm not particularly keen on cartoons or animation. And in my writing, I tend to pontificate primarily about politics, and religion, and social issues of the day as I see them.

Which puts Her Highness squarely in my bailiwick.

It wasn't until AFTER I'd seen 'The Princess and the Frog,' that I fully appreciated the monumental nature of the moment to which Disney has acquiesced--namely the inclusion of a 'sista into the Pantheon of American Princesses.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's take a moment to review.

American has always styled itself a Democracy. (Ultimately, I take no issue with this self-declaration, notwithstanding that I've argued it is and has always been more of a non-tyrannical oligarchy.) As such, it is as least "odd" that the dream of virtually every little girl in our culture is to be a Princess.

This dream clearly doesn't come from seeing Royals on television, or from a constant telling of their exploits in American media. We have no King or Queen. Our leaders are Presidents, Senators, Governors, singers and movie stars. Until Representative Pelosi took the helm as Speaker of the House, one could have presented an entirely fact-based argument that the highest ranking position guaranteed to a woman is First Lady--a ceremonial title bestowed on the wife of the American President.

Yet somehow the most iconic image for little American girls is ... and for the past century at least, has consistently been ... the Princess. Barbie is who they want to be when they grow up, but "a Princess" is who they want to be NOW.

As a guy, I never appreciated the complexity or depth of this self-visualization process. My ... friend, Stefanie, was all Lady Gaga about taking her daughter to see The Princess and the Frog. Being a simpleton on the subject, I moronically asked "why?"

"Because she's the first BLACK princess! Duh."

Which immediately sent me into research mode, because I'm that kind of nerd.

And sure enough she was right.

A bit more background. The AMERICAN Princess myth belongs lock, stock, and barrel to the Disney Corporation. I've seen all the movies, but never really honed in on the Princesses. Disney counts eight Pre-Tiana. They are Ariel, Snow White, Pocohantas, Aurora, Cinderella, Jasmine, Belle, and Mulan.

{As with all things American, there is fascinating discussion and debate about why Pocahantas and Mulan are included (as neither ends up with a Prince), and why others are excluded despite seemingly Royal credentials, but entering that fray requires much more knowledge and much less testosterone than I typically carry in my purse. So I'll avoid that rabbit hole entirely. Disney says eight plus the newly crowned New Orleanian, so eight it is.}

Each of these fictional animated young women has stellar mythic credentials. They ALL begin with sterling American-styled character, usually hardened by misfortune or some undesirable circumstances. They are usually witness to great wealth and privilege, but not direct participants in the good life. The journey to princess almost always involves a quest that requires some leap of faith, and results in a radical transformation that ends with marriage to a Prince, and their ultimate ascension to Royalty.

This is an impressively lucid premise for a society with a scarcity of coherent comprehensive national mythology. I have no real frame of reference for how it compares to the presence of Greek, or Norse, or Roman mythology in the contemporary lives of the children from those societies. But here, with OUR little girls, Princesses rule! And Disney is the Princess-maker.

I have never even tried to visualize the power of these myths to how little girls see themselves. In fairness, I have never heard a little black girl say "I can't be a Princess because I don't look like those girls." But this particular quest HAS opened my eyes to the clarity with which little girls see not just the mythology, but the complexity and rarity of Princesses in "real life."

They "get" that Princes are few and far between. They understand that being rich doesn't make you a Princess, and they can even point out the evil stepsisters and characterless wannabes that walk among them.

So after noting back and forth a few times with Stef, I decided that it was important to take my Boy King to welcome Miss Tiana.

And I was blown away.

It wasn't "just" the movie; Disney has mastered the formula to the feature-length fantasy, I expect near perfection from a Disney flick, and Princess and the Frog is boilerplate "Waltic" harmony of music, color, and storyline.

It was the ... almost reverence with which they crafted the elements of authentic Princess-hood for this someday queen.

I think I was worried that they would shortcut her somehow. Maybe I wondered if they would make her some sort of Princess-lite; not as challenged as Cinderella, not as magical as Snow White, not as courageous as Mulan, not as pretty as Pocohantas, or just not quite ..."up" to Princess par.

The bias was CLEARLY with me. Disney crafted a story as true to the myth as any. Not only did they manage to not sell out the story, they managed to not sell out the wonderfully complex, uniquely multi-ethnic culture of pre-Katrina New Orleans (although I thought this film did a disservice to Cajuns. I happen to be very fond of the language, food, and music of these Bayou people.)

I took my seven-year old son into a theater packed with little girls to watch the Princess and the Frog.

He has always been taught that he is a Boy King, and that most of the hardest things I require of him are based on his ultimate responsibility to someday rule his domain. He had EXACTLY the response I hoped for.

He liked the movie.

That's it. Nothing else. No epiphany, no sudden awareness of its societal import. Just a "good movie, dad."

On some levels I am jealous of his world.

You see, for him a black President is no big deal. Black guys have ALWAYS publicly excelled at golf. There are black governors, CEOs, news anchors, supermodels ...

... and Princesses.

Peace,

--Stew.




image:
http://stylefrizz.com/img/tiana-the-princess-and-the-frog.jpg

03 September 2009

Tim Wise: On White Privilege


For most of my life; at least since my early teen years, I've been "that" black guy. I'm the one who WILL discuss "race" with white and brown and yellow and blacker people. I ask them the race-charged questions from the barber shop, they ask me why brothas wore their pants hanging off their asses and why so many black people don't believe OJ killed Nicole.

And we talk.

Sometimes it's a discussion, other times an argument, occasionally a fight--but it's always a talk. And over the years I've come to appreciate those moments. I thought they happened to everyone.

They don't.

Anyone who's seen my friends list, knows that if I ever hit the lotto and have my "Equator party" around the world, the invite list is going to be a United Nations-looking, ghetto-fabulous/suburban-chic/farmer-rancher-gardener revival. I will serve kool-aid (red AND grape), water, juice, milk, beer, avena, champagne, wine, whiskey, sake, soju, and Olde English 800--which gets a category of its own. (But probably not soda, because it's bad for you!)

At very specific points in my life, I have been reminded again and again that "friendship" is much more important to me than "race." And I have been blessed to have a Rainbow coalition of friends; many of whom would kill or die for me, and I them--although I'm at an age where I'd much rather talk than throw 'bows.

My friends have saved my life over and over and over again--often with a word, sometimes with a deed--always at a moment where I did not have the strength, or the resources, or the clarity of thought to save myself. I love them for it, and hope to one day be able to repay those kindnesses.

But the questions still come, and I hope they never stop. When the track we (America) are on leads to its almost inevitable race war, I'll be at the front lines, trying to negotiate a truce that probably won't work ... but not for lack of effort.

Philosophically, my ancestors are the "Unforgiveably Black." I sip from the cup left by Nat Turner, Marcus Garvey, Jack Johnson, and Marian Anderson. Muhammed Ali had it right. And while I respect Booker T. and Dr. Martin, I ride with DuBois and Malcolm X. The color of my skin has never prevented me from going anywhere I've ever wanted to go, but once I get there, it hasn't been unusual to look around and discover I am a proverbial fly in buttermilk.

Danny B taught me that's when you start stroking. The exercise will make you stronger. It will also change your environment. Eventually, you'll churn solid enough butter that you can walk around on your own terms.

There are times you have to hunt to eat, and kill to survive. But I believe knowing this should never stop you from sharing a loaf of bread with a hungry soul, or weary fellow traveler who doesn't have the know-how or heart to pull the trigger for himself.

It is not lost on me that race still impacts millions of lives every day. I take this as an article of faith and refuse to believe that everyone stuck in a bad situation is there because they want to be. I've been there too many times myself to hold any other position.

Which brings me to a video brought to my attention by my friend, Tahnee. It's an excerpt from Tim Wise, posted on youtube by the Media Education Foundation. It's from a lecture series he does on White Privilege. He rather articulately presents an argument I've been having and making for decades, now. I encourage you to press play.




That done, what are your thoughts. This isn't a time to be timid, the stakes are too high. Do you agree, disagree, not understand, or not care about the point he's making? Is it still "too soon" for the conversation?

Is he speaking from some sort of fringe? Is he a lunatic? Is he an accurate historian from your perspective? Does his presentation mirror the conversations you've had around your dinner table or water cooler? Have you had an experience not reflected in his point of view?

I'm THAT guy.

The floor is yours.

Peace,

--Stew.

27 July 2009

Letter of Reprimand

Resolved:

When two grown-ased, allegedly intelligent men find themselves in a fairly typical societal encounter, and cannot avoid escalation of said encounter to the highest possible denominator, it is a communications FAIL.

There is no right. There is no winner.

Professor Henry Louis "Skip" Gates: As a community elder, your behavior as described by you is unacceptable. We demand that as a highly regarded civic leader and respected intellectual, you hold yourself to a higher standard than your behavior on the afternoon of July 16, 2009. We expect you to embody proper decorum in ALL public interactions. Over the course of your life, you have earned the acceptance of our society on many levels. You stand as a living witness to the potential and accomplishment of black people everywhere. We accept you as a representative of your family, education, Harvard University, the cultural elite of Cambridge, Massachusetts -- one of America's most cultured townships, an international envoy from the descendants of American slavery to the globe, an authority on black literature and history, and bearer of the proud tradition of black men holding their heads high as they make their way through a system that is flawed, but trying to make itself more perfect. Your choices during this event were stupid and potentially dangerous. You KNOW better than to make reference to other men's maternal guardians--PARTICULARLY when you have cause to KNOW they are armed and angry.

From this day forward, "we're gonna need you to use your big boy words." You are hereby reprimanded.

Sergeant James Crowley: As a 17 year veteran of the Cambridge Police Department, you have accepted an active role in keeping the community safe from hurt, harm, and danger. Your understanding of the reality, perception, and potential dangers inherent in the long-standing relationship between law enforcement and various minority communities is well-documented and demonstrated. As a former instructor of the Police Department's policies on dealing with racial issues, we are dismayed that an Officer of your experience and street-smarts would fall for this particular version of the "okie-doke." Your role in escalating this from a routine 911 response call to a public relations debacle is duly noted, and not with a tone of appreciation by us. We can only assume that in this age of the omnipresent camera, and 24-hour media machine, the possible negative images of our fine Department cuffing a cane-carrying Professor for the "disorderly conduct" of impolite invectives hurled from his home, is not lost on you. We further condemn your unneccessary public refusals to apologize as adding fuel to the fire. If you aren't going to apologize, then don't. No further comment is necessary from you on that particular topic.

Form this day forward, we're gonna need you to take the latter portion of "protect and serve" a bit more seriously. You are hereby reprimanded.

It is our recommendation that you gentlemen take the President's invitation to have a beer in the White House as a gesture of racial harmony seriously. As a nation, and collective communities, we have more important issues to address, and we need the intelligence and contributions you BOTH possess as fuel for our continuing journey.

Professor Gates; there are ignorant freshman ready to be molded into informed citizens. Go play your position.

Sergeant Crowley; there is still plenty of crime to fight, go put your training and experience to good use.

Due to the joint demonstration of your combined ability to turn simple-assed conversations into potential racial flash points, drivers will be provided for you, as we don't need this ridiculous waste of our time to end in DUI's or foolish comments in front of our insatiable media.

One beer each. Budweiser, none of that fancy stuff. We're not trying to turn you into drinking buddies, its an effing gesture.

That is all.

24 June 2009

Saints with Stones.



Had I been raised Catholic, I'm pretty sure my mother would eventually be eligible for Sainthood. I speak with no sarcasm; I sincerely believe she'd survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage?) of either elderly women, or felons. These are her causes.

I don't think she stands alone. Many of the mothers she has surrounded herself with over the years have been women made of the stuff that goes miles beyond basic high moral fiber. These are those who time and again have sacrificed literally everything they have for things only important in spiritual realms, tended the sick and poor when no one else would, and put up with all manner of bullshit people with a smile and a heartfelt promise to 'pray for them.'

Those of you who know me understand that I am agnostic. I have no idea whether there is a G-d, in the sense the Christians who surround me describe. But I do believe that the Universe answers when my mother prays. I have seen her stop storms, and avoid accidents, and rain healing on sickness, and once even pray me up from a C+ to an A- that can ONLY be described as miraculous--based on a test score that amazed even me.

These are serious credentials, and they form the image that comes to mind when I think of women who are walking ever more slowly through their last years of middle age.

Years spent watching the world through the lens of a Betacam have given me a 'different' perspective on video. I don't see things just "happening" when I watch real-life motion pictures, I see people. I smell things, and I imagine the emotions of the person holding the camera.

These senses add a dimension to the sounds and sights of video for me. I automatically default to the question of what has caused the operator to focus on this image, given 360 degrees of possibility. I try to envision what motives determine the instant they start and stop recording. I ponder the nearest stable surface potentially available to steady the shot. I sometimes question if they have the fortitude ... beyond the bravery required to stand still and push record ... to keep their eyes open as the image they are capturing spins into permanent imprisonment on the tape or disk inside the device.

The news junkie in me has been glued to twitter, and youtube, and http://www.huffingtonpost.com for more than two weeks now, as Tehran, Iran has been engulfed in a National protest of epic proportions.

I watched Neda die.

And even though that is the image that will most likely live forever as the touchstone of this moment in history, it is not the one that has seared me most deeply.

That image came Saturday, June 20th, at 4:04 ET.

I've been following the liveblog of a journalist--and if you know me, you know that's a title I don't give every person with a pen and tablet, particularly in the blogosphere--named Nico Pitney, who has been gathering and chronicling the sacred, sublime, and surprising moments of this event from the beginning.

At that moment, Niko posted the video that crystalized my opinion on events in Iran. Here's how he (and Chas, the reader) described it:
Here is another longer video with some graphic content near the end. Reader Chas sums it up: "Its a roaming shot of protesters walking toward a street corner where people are already clashing with the militia, Women hand them rocks on the way, and when they get there shots are fired and the crowd carries back a man who has been hit, and then the crowd retreats away from the scene, showing the blood of the man who has apparently been killed."
What followed was a video that is almost benign compared to some of the more graphic images oozing out of this newly christened war zone. It is precisely as Chas articulates.

I watched it. And women in burqas handed the protestors rocks as they walked toward an inevitable clash with the militia.

And I thought of my Saint Mom.

And I tried to picture the scenario where that gentle, kind, praying, weeping, helpful, honest, hard-working woman would hand me a rock to throw at the soldiers coming down the street.

And it hit me.

If that moment ever came, it would be right. I would take that rock, and walk toward whoever was coming; with their batons, and their guns, and their shields, and their tear gas, and their
fear, and their rage, and their orders, and their intent.

I would hurl that rock as hard as I could and pray the prayer of David to guide my stone and make it an instrument of death.

It was in that moment, as I watched this relatively benign little dispute on a tiny screen, happening in a country 6500 miles from me, that their mini-war became something more than a news event to me. The truth is, I don't care who won their election. I don't understand their politics, and have no vested interest in Mousavi, or Ahmedinijad, or Khameni, or Rafsanjani. I would not know the difference in a Mullah and an Ayatollah if that knowledge could ensure me eternal life with 40 virgins.

But among that group of rock-givers, I believe are some good women. One or more of those women would probably survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage) of elderly women, or felons, or the downtrodden--because these are her causes.

And I would hope that in spite of my agnosticism; in a fight like this one, you would count me as accepting the potentially fatal gift from a Saint handing out stones.

Peace,
--Stew.

Photo:
http://www.iranian.com/History/2000/March/Women/Images/demo17.jpg

23 May 2009

Legacy.



With his team trailing by two and :01 left on the clock of game two of the 2009 NBA Eastern Conference finals, Lebron James exits the time out with his nerves bunched into tight little knots you can almost see in his eyes. 

The 25,000 people who've paid a couple of days middle class salary to witness the moment unfiltered are stunned into an apprehensive silence. This is not Chicago, or Boston, or Los Angeles; those are cities forged and shaped into a persistent expectation that time is always on their side, and the coming miracle will arrive and twist fate to their favor. 

This is Cleveland, Ohio, USA; a world-class sports town known for an unconditional love of its professional teams. In the arena tonight sits a naive crowd; far more familiar with heart-breaking defeat than heart-stopping victory--and it shows.

Their team has done it again. "It" being blowing a huge lead to snatch apparent defeat from the jaws of certain victory. Now, their King must earn his prematurely awarded crown.

By now you have certainly seen the outcome. Number 23 plays possum at the free-throw line momentarily as the ball is handed to the inbound passer, then briefly feints toward the basket before breaking to 3-point territory at the top of the key as the ball is released in his direction. He throws a half-hearted right forearm shiver Hedo's way before catching the pass. 

The timekeeper pushes the button, reanimating time and restarting the countdown clock at ONE. 

The crowd catches its collective breath as Lebron spins, leaps, and releases the ball in a familiar and practiced motion, sending the sphere of rubber awkwardly toward the iron ring. 

The basketball catches on the inner far side of the metal cylinder at about the time the buzzer sounds, rattles around the rim, and drops through the net for a game-winning score.

The Cleveland crowd collectively exhales and erupts.  Mr. James spins on his heels and leaps into the arms of a teammate, and before the celebration can get a good head of steam, the pundits have already started their comparisons to His three-letter Highness, Air.

There is no minimizing this moment.  It is Hall-of-Fame worthy. This is the stuff from which legends are made. In time, Lebron James will earn his spot in the pantheon, and school-children will sing his praises and mark the milestones of their lives by his exploits.

But ... Jordan?

How quickly we forget. Let's rewind history for a moment for a quick recap of what made James and Deloris' offspring ... well, Michael Jordan.

Kobe, you might want to bring your trio of rings into the circle as well for this brief reminder:

The Jordan era begins in 1982, at the end of March Madness, when ... after Dean Smith led his Tarheel team past 62 OTHER teams, the college freshman Jordan dropped a game-winning buzzer-beater over Patrick Ewing.  

Now THAT'S how you create a lifelong rival! Rob the country's most heralded center of the first of what will be many, many opportunities to be a champion.

Lebron (and Kobe) entered the league with no rivals.  Nobody's out to avenge a college grudge, nobody has any deeply held bitterness. A win for Lebron is just a win; not the continuation of a decades long ass-whipping. Every year, Mr. Ewing had to not only face His Airness, he had to remember that this Jordan kid stole his college ring! You can pump yourself up to come back next year in the NBA, but where do you go mentally to recapture your Senior year at Georgetown?

Jordan finishes three years at North Carolina with great numbers, another accomplishment that counts in his legacy.  I have no knock on players that skip college for the pros. 

(C.R.E.A.M. "Get the money; dolla, dolla bills ya'll.")

But to compare skills between players is to look at ALL their accomplishments.  Without a NCAA ring in the trophy case, James starts off at a disadvantage against Jordan.

Air is drafted by the Chicago Bulls, who perennially sit somewhere between the middle and bottom of the NBA's Eastern Conference.  His first year in the league, they were below .500, made the playoffs, and got swept by the Bucks.

Kobe, there was also the spat during MJ's rookie season All-Star game that you can check-off on your "be like Mike" worksheet.  

All the vets (*cough* Isiaiah Thomas *cough*) were pissed that Jordan was getting so much hype, so they froze him out.  Sound familiar?

Anyway.  Season two was the broken foot, 38 - 52 record.  The Bulls make the playoffs again, and Jordan introduces himself to the casual fans by returning from the injury to drop 63 points against one of the top three NBA lineups in the history of the game; the 85 - 86 Boston Celtics. Everybody recounts that record-breaking performance.  Bulls lose the game. 

Nobody talks about the fact that the Bulls not only got beat, but the Leprechauns SWEPT them in that series. I've never asked Mike about this personally, but somehow I think he learned something important about teamwork that Sunday afternoon.

We're talking 20 year old history here, so my fellow old-heads will have to back me up as we recall what an fing juggernaut the East was back then.

During this era, an Eastern conference season meant you were playing against superstars in virtually every NBA city. Boston still had Bird/Parish/McHale, New York was NEW YORK, Philly still had Dr. J (though briefly) then Charles Barkley, Indiana had Reggie and the Dutchman, the Human Highlight reel was contorting himself to new replays every night in Atlanta, and you could buy t-shirts at any mall in America that said Detroit Pistons on the front, and BAD BOYS on the back. Cleveland wasn't a pushover, eventually Charlotte came to play, and Milwaukee sucked, but they could still make you earn a W.

Becoming "Air," meant developing a style that was flexible enough to take a pounding from Detroit one night, and out-hustling Boston the next.  This was no small feat. 

And that was just the East!

Travel west and you had to face Hakeem in Houston, the Admiral in San Antonio, a run-and-gun Portland, a competent Seattle, and the best pick-and-roll combo in the history of the game in Salt Lake City.  This was all just to earn the right to sell TICKETS to Showtime at the Forum; where the curtain raised every night on the most exciting brand of basketball ever offered at the professional, competitive level. 

Magic was likely on any given play to toss a patented, never-before-seen, no-look pass to James Worthy, who might drive to the hole ... OR ... dish to Michael Cooper who might drop one from two feet behind the 3-point line ... OR ... whiz a bullet pass up high to Kareem, who'd probably finish off a seven pass sequence with an undefendable sky hook from nine feet in the air.

No disrespect to the league OR Lebron, but the NBA just isn't that "kind" of good, or competitive anymore. 

Who, exactly is putting Lebron to the test these days?  The hapless Knicks?? Feisty Chicago? umm... the Wizards???  

Exactly.

As good as Jordan was, it took three tries to get past the Pistons.  That's how steep the competition was. 

Pundits: Lebron sweeps two teams in a row to get to the Conference Finals, and you want to compare him to WHO???  

Are you fing kidding me?

By 90 - 91, Jordan has literally transformed himself physically, just to prepare for the brutality of the inevitable series against Motown's Bad Boys. Every sports page in America had an article about the Jordan rules; a style of basketball specifically and unashamedly designed by Chuck Daly for his CHAMPIONSHIP team to beat one man.  Michael Jordan.

Where do I look in today's paper(s) for the Lebron rules? Just the other night, I heard Dwight Howard say "we just try to keep him out of the paint." 

Seriously?

That 90 - 91 season is the start of the first Bulls threepeat. 

Yeah, roll that around on your tongue a couple of times.  

First.  Threepeat.

Knocked off the Lakers, the Blazers, and the Suns. That's what the record books say.  But we who witnessed it, remember the all out WARS against the Knicks, and the Pacers, and the Cavaliers.

Oh yeah, and won an Olympic gold medal.

Then he retired to play baseball, which he kinda sucked at, but seemed to enjoy.

We're not even talking about the fashion impact, or celebrity status.  We're sticking to hoops here, but its worth noting that Lebron wears his shorts the way he does because MJ thought crotch-cutters looked stupid, and insisted on more manly attire.  And Air Jordan sneakers simply revolutionized high school footwear. 

I'm sure Lebron has a shoe contract, but I wouldn't know a Lebron basketball shoe if it walked up and put itself on my foot.  

I'm just sayin'

After RETIREMENT, Jordan came back to the game for his second threepeat.

Yeah, tongue roll time again.

SECOND. THREEPEAT.

Hit a triple double in the All-Star game, won 70 games, knocked off the Sonics, won 69 games, knocked off the Jazz, went to the absolute wall against Reggie Miller to get to the finals again ... immortalized the image of Bryon Russell as he knocked off the Jazz.  Again.

Six rings.  Two threepeats against the strongest, most competitive NBA to date. And just for giggles, let's consider the class of indisputable NBA Hall of Famers who cannot flash their championship rings at class reunions because of a little "Air,"

The late '80s Knickerbockers.  All of them; Ewing, Jackson, Starks, the whole gang of extremely talented ballers.

Drexler. Barkley. KJ. Thunder Dan Majerle. Wilkins ... both of 'em, although putting Gerald in this list is a bit of a compliment. Ehlo. Miller. Kemp. Stockton, Malone the Mailman who "almost" always delivered. Hornacek.

There are more, but this is a blog, not a book.

My beef is not with Lebron, but with those who would crown him the greatest prematurely.  By ALL accounts, young Cavalier #23 is among the premiere players in the league.  He is fun to watch, has an incredible sense of community and responsibility, and (with Kobe) is rising to the challenge of trying to put "air" back into the vacuum that is the modern NBA. He is incredibly talented, and will undoubtedly one day belong in the pantheon of basketball greats!

But legacy is not decided by talent alone.  It is not a purely statistical exercise.  The numbers count, but legacy is decided in direct competition against a field of worthy opponents. The league could improve, and Lebron may one day get to the level of "Air," but at the moment ... he is merely a talented, yet unproven superstar who had an amazing game-winning shot. 

Good Luck, Lebron.

Peace,
--Stew.

Photo:
 

21 May 2009

Tools



Suppose there was a huge brawl at the bar down the street from your house, and the President called in the Marines. I know, I know, that would never happen--but humor me for a moment. There's a larger point I'm aiming for. 

Let's say the Devil Dogs came in a couple of armor and infantry squads, killed a few of brawlers, and 'captured' more. Because they are now in the custody of the Corps, imagine with me that rather than turning these thugs over to the Police for lockup in your local jail, the Leathernecks followed 'their' regulations and tossed 'em in the brig. 

In addition to a tremendous legal mess, what you would have on your hands is an example of using the wrong tool for the job. 

You would have your very own Guantanamo -- a scenario which never should a been a military problem in the first place.

The military exists to represent our nation in war against other nations with whom we have disputes that cannot be resolved by diplomatic or economic means. It is not the most effective tool in America's arsenal for rounding up thugs--even really, really bad ones.

That's what law enforcement is for.

I was watching that Tuesday morning when a group of incredibly inventive thugs pulled off the crime of the century. With a death toll of thousands, these were criminals of the highest order. They belonged to one of the most aggressive international gangs of our lifetime.  

But they had the distinction of not belonging to another nation.  They were and are freelancers--not soldiers.

America loves a good war.  It brings us closer together, and helps us get rid of bad people.  It increases the level of patriotism, and energizes the economy.

That might be why we declare so many of them.  We've had wars on drugs, and poverty, the deficit, and now a war on terror. How have those turned out?

Declaring war on random things is ... wait, let me think of an appropriate word ... ok, got it. 

Stupid.

A war on terror or terrorism is a bad idea from the start.  It engages the wrong tool for a vapor mission. 

America has built the most powerful military in the history of the planet. We can show force at any spot on the globe in mere minutes when we set our mind to it.  And woe be to the focus of our fury. 

But even Spider Man realized that with great power comes great responsibility, and hopefully the lesson we'll walk away from this chapter of history will be to not declare "wars" so frivolously.

Responding to the horrific attacks of 9/11 was a job for crime-fighters, not warriors. Spending the same amount of money on INTERPOL, the FBI, the CIA, and small groups of Special Operations forces under their control would've avoided a lot of this mess.

Why?

Because without an actual country to fight, the military starts off at a horrible disadvantage. They're not equipped for nation-building. They're equipped for nation destroying--which is a very necessary function to have at your disposal.

The military operates under a completely different set of rules, regulations, and laws than the rest of us.  It is a code shared by all the militaries of the world.  At REAL war, you know exactly what to do with the guy pointing a gun at you, because he has on a uniform and when you capture him, there's a step-by-step guide specifying how he is to be treated.

You don't have to make up a name for him, or invent a status.  And you damn sure don't have to create a new prison or judicial system for him. 

There's another bonus.  You know when the job is finished.

Anybody got any idea when we should "end" the Global War on Terror?  Hell, anybody got any idea who the flesh and blood enemy is in the Global War on Terror?  The word "global" should give you a hint.

We have literally chosen to fight everybody who has a thought or idea that could be "terroristic." That should turn out well.

Can you imagine a Global War on Murder?

I mean, seriously.  Can you??

There are hundreds of people waking up in America right now with absolutely no idea that tomorrow they're going to kill someone.  There are a few hundred more who know exactly who they'd like to kill and how, but for one reason or another it won't happen.  Not tomorrow, not ever. There are literally thousands who'd like to kill someone but don't have the guts, or the means, or the opportunity.

How many dollars of your money are you willing to commit right now to go out and find all of those people? 

The GWOT is approaching $1,000,000,000 in cash expended.  That's the actual bullets and bombs and boats.  There are estimates that double and triple that amount in actual costs.

Good investment?  Perhaps so.  There HAVE been many lives saved.

But on the morning we declare the war finished, what will we have put in place to stop a terrorist from committing a heinous act that afternoon?

The answer is simple.  Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

An American life in combat is never wasted. Those brave men and women fight for the idea of America.  Not the flag, not the Constitution, not even the President ... the idea.  They kill and are killed to defend our National interests.

Seems like we owe it to them to be "interested" in putting the right tool to work on the right job.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo: 

20 May 2009

1000 Words



As a writer, I am annoyed by the truth that a picture is 'worth a thousand words.' 

But I get it.

When Danish cartoonist Kurt Westergaard sat down to capture the essence of Western thought about the current wars between the West and "Islamic Fundamentalist Terrorism," he was following a tradition that has been a hallmark of Democracy for centuries. It is unlikely that he was actively trying to inflame ... well, anything.

But he created a visual image.  In retrospect, it is an image that apparently offended many Muslims.

It is only fair to point out that Islam does not specifically prohibit drawing pictures of the Prophet Muhammed ... peace be upon him. More broadly, the idea is that you shouldn't create images of ANY person or animal, unless you can animate them.  The whole "no photos or images" thing is a response to the possibility of idolatry in the same way that full-length burkas are a nod to modesty and a persuasive hurdle to unwelcome lust.

There's a certain logic to it, but to the non-Muslim it comes across as closed-minded and a bit overkill-ish.  But that's a discussion for another day.


Some 70,000 people rioted in Pakistan alone; embassies in Lebanon, Syria, and Iran were set on fire, and Hamas--apparently not wanting to disappoint,  issued death threats.

Here in the United States, we tend to reserve such responses for sports championships, civil right protests, and court decisions we disagree with.
  
But hey, to each his own.

The U.S. government is holding 44 unreleased photos that portend to show American mistreatment of captives from Iraq and Afghanistan. The left wing apparently demands their release under a long-standing philosophy of transparency. The right wing points out that releasing the snapshots is likely to rekindle flames of violence should they ever show up in the Muslim world.

Theses pictures are like naked pictures of your wife. Even though YOU might want to look at them, how do you minimize their impact on YOUR life once they hit the wider world?

The question to my esteemed assembly gathered here is:
"How do we properly position the American legal and cultural philosophy that it is wrong to shout FIRE in a crowded theater with the release of photos that we KNOW are likely to spark violence in nations where our friends and family are currently serving in combat capacities?"

I cannot count on my fingers and toes the number of people I love who are presently at war. 

I have biological relatives in Iraq, brothers in arms whose children's birthdays I celebrate in Afghanistan, and drinking buddies in both. After 11 years in the Air Force, I count hundreds of active-duty servicemen and women among my closest friends and associates. 

They serve in all four of the service branches, plus the Coast Guard. Last week, when the Air Force Master Sergeant list came out, I sent no fewer than 15 congratulatory e-mails, and made no fewer than 10 "maybe you won't celebrate Passover next year" telephone calls.

These are MY people.

And I don't want ANYBODY fucking with them. I want them ALL to retire whole; mentally and physically, from the often dangerous career they have chosen. I want them to leave the military on their own terms; and gracefully move into the next stages of their lives.

And yet, I oppose torture--in all its "enhanced interrogative technique-al" glory.

I'm one of those nerds who reads many of the documents that my government releases to the public (and by virtue of my vocation, many that remain classified) -- including the so-called torture memos. And as a veteran; trained, retrained, perhaps even overtrained in the Law of Armed Conflict--they sicken me.

Luckily--they are words.

I say luckily, because if they were photos, or Heaven forbid, VIDEO ... they would rekindle the flames that would put many of my friends at even more risk.

The conundrum exists because as an American, I value the release of information. I think it is the lifeblood of a healthy democracy.  I think transparency is good, and that if more Americans could see into the bowels of government, they would be ... at best, disappointed.

Having conceded that I believe American troops have committed war crimes in the ongoing conflict, I am torn between the greater good of putting every gory detail into the public domain, and releasing just enough to make the point.

I am unsettled by the thought of either option.

I've also struggled to see how this is a partisan issue. I see the conflict, or else I wouldn't write about this topic.  But how has it managed to break down into a GOP vs. Democratic or conservative vs. liberal question?

I return to my original thought.  I'm a writer. In this case, wouldn't 44,000 words just be ... better?

Peace,
--Stew.

11 May 2009

Defending 'Dubya'



Ethics.

Toss that word into a business circle, or the presence of medical personnel, and you are bound to find yourself challenged and intrigued by the scenarios and questions that pop up. It hearkens images of money, and tough calls, and occasionally life and death. It calls for the sort of fundamental thinking where reasonable people are truly separated by perspective and experience and opinion. Living exclusively in the gray, ethics challenge one to ask not just "what do I think," but "what would I DO?"

No cabal has dived deeper into its darkest depths than the military.

Military ethics provoke quests for responses to queries unthinkable in any context. They pose questions that have no answers; require conclusions no human can live with, and propose solutions that ripple not just through choices of life and death, but through the very essence of history.

A commander in combat faces the fact that war IS hell and s/he may find him or herself in the untenable position of choosing between wrong and wrong. And many are aware that sometimes the only answer is the bad one.

Which brings us ... to the Presidency. It is a job marked by pomp and circumstance, ruffles and flourishes. It promises no easy questions, and no unanimous answers. It christens one COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF and sits heavy on the shoulders of one mortal who is given infinite power, virtually unlimited resources, and stripped of all friendships. Its only tool is wisdom, and its only judge is legacy. There are counselors and policies, but their agendas are hidden in plain sight and history holds only one man accountable. And on many days he is left to singularly condone or condemn the lonely commander's bad answer.

Into this space walks a proud Texan. His most generous friends call him aloof and disinterested. Born on third base, he steals home and is rewarded with this--the most powerful position on the planet. He is not the first; there have been many oval office dwellers cursed by legacy, and thought in hindsight to be fools.

He is rapidly confronted by the most challenging confluence of hard questions to ever face a sitting President. It is a Rubik's cube of international law, war policy, economic theory, and public safety. It presents the new King-of-the-mountain with the most dastardly combinations of bad, illegal, and evil, set to the silent count of an hourglass racing toward empty, and a terrified nation demanding protection.

It is military ethics at its most naked and raw.

And without a looking glass into the future, He makes His call.

It is illegal, and evil.  It contradicts the very soul of the Constitution he has sworn to protect. But he has made his choice(s) and he believes.

He throws himself to the mercy of legacy and history--and the empathy of his successor...

...Who walks out of a brilliant campaign and face first into the resulting mess to confront his first Presidential ethics question: "Should I be the one to set the precedent for going after an ex-President."

At his disposal are the pardon, the ignore-ance button, the condemnation card, and a razor-sharp legal mind. He is a man of compromise, who values the the brilliance of the universally unsatisfactory solution. Like a commander in combat, this combat Commander-in-Chief discerns that the only answers are bad ones.  

Without a looking glass into the future, He makes his call.

The people howl, the pundits pontificate, and his allies scream for blood.

But He is--ethically at least--correct; tho perhaps not "right"

...in defending 'Dubya.'

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo Credit:

31 March 2009

Finnishe




So my six-year old brings home his first grade homework; bit of vocabulary, some reading, a little writing, a spelling list, and some 'color the right answer' problems. My job is to make sure he completes it, go over the answers, and sign the sheet saying it was done. Easy, no problem. It's 6pm, he's bright, the work is straight forward, we'll have this knocked out by bedtime.

Dad and mom aren't together, so this is a nontraditional week for both of us. His mom is out of town and he has to spend the week with the mean parent.
We start with the vocabulary: Use each of the following words in a written sentence; Shouted, drowned, bridge, about, frog.

His entries: I shouted at my mom!!!!!(sic) I drowned in the pool. We walked under the bridge. She asked about him. The frog said ribbit.

I pause for a minute. Not a fan of the first two, but its early ... and even as a relative amateur I know you have to pick your battles, and 6:09 isn't the time to start a battle. There's lots of work left, and these are all legitimate uses of the words in sentences.

Now to the written words: Expand the following contractions three times; shouldn't, couldn't, dose'nt.

I ask him about contractions. I want to know what he's been taught in school so I can reinforce it. He doesn't actually get them, but its okay, I understand contractions fairly well. I explain them the way my dad explained them to me. Then I look more closely. DOSE'NT? Hmmm...not familiar with that one. I draw a line through it, thinking its a typo, write it correctly and have him copy my version rather than the mistaken one. He struggles a bit with the concept, but we get through it.

Now its time for spelling. Full disclosure--spelling used to be my thing. I'm a trophy-earning ex-champion. Love the stuff, even though I make far more mistakes now than I would've in my early teen years. I look over the list, and stop cold. There at number four, in my six-year old's spelling list, is the following gem:

"finnishe."

Finnishe?

I ask him to read it to me. "Finish," he says. I tell him to use it in a sentence. "I will finish the race." Hmmm...he knows the word. He can properly use it in a sentence.

Its one of TWO misspelled words in a list of eight.

The principal says--yeah, let's just skip ahead to that part of the story--"I'm so sorry. I walked into his classroom and saw that on the board, and IMMEDIATELY erased it."

Exsqueeze me?

You ... saw that on the board ... and ... erASED IT?
"This is how it was ... TAUGHT? IT's nOT A TyPO? YOu KNEw THis?"

Frustration ... no, ANGER rising.

"Ma'am; I understand typos, I get mistakes. I make both all the time. But ... this is a SPELLING list. Actually, this is a FIRST GRADE SPELLING LIST." F-I-N-N-I-S-H-E?

Okay, Finnish I might've even given a pass; perhaps you're referring to the fine people of Finland. But the extra "E" means you're

a: just being a dick, or

b: REFUSE to grab a dictionary before you send home bad spelling to a class half-filled with FIRST GRADERS whose parents don't even speak English as their primary language. You ERASED it?

Well ...
what did you say to the teacher? what did you do next? did you think this was a problem? what planet am I on?

Once upon a time, the news was something I watched or covered.

Since moving to the Washington area, it has increasingly become something that I live ... up close and personal.

Over the past eight years there I've had a series of first person run-ins with the health care system, the impact of immigration on a community, subprime loans, and the like.

And now, I've had my first contact with the DC public school system.

It is as bad as they say, and needs to be fixed. Or maybe I should say fixt.

I'm the son of a teacher. I believe it is among the MOST honorable professions, I understand how important it is, I am aware of how much off the clock work goes into doing it well, and I personally comprehend the impact that ONE teacher--good or bad--can have on a person's life.

A closer examination of Mercer's past homework turns up error after error after error.

And I'm telling my son he can grow up to be President? With THIS sort of education?

Unless we find a better system, I'm pretty sure that idea may be finnishied. There's more ...

Peace,
--Stew.
photo:
http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/09_01/misspelledAP0609_468x311.jpg

Stew's Number