Newtown, Connecticut: The Streets of Heaven

"The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight..." ~ President Josiah Bartlet, The West Wing

Following a tragedy such as took place yesterday in Newtown, Connecticut, one often hears the statement, "Let's not politicize this." The failure to recognize the political implications, however, is as irresponsible as attempting to use them for political gain. Remaining silent on the pretense of respect, renders the needless, senseless deaths of children meaningless. Can there be anything worse?

In the later days of the war in Iraq, when it had become clear there were no weapons of mass destruction, when the Bush administration determined a "war of liberation" would play better in the media, families of soldiers killed in action relied on those three words to assuage a loss no parent should ever have to face. The alternative was a sacrifice without meaning, and that was unthinkable.

But we flirt with meaninglessness when a murderer rips our loved ones from us and from the public stage we hear, "I hope no one uses this as an excuse to talk about gun control." What we've witnessed in Connecticut isn't an excuse, nor is it evidence we need an armed electorate because those we've empowered to protect us against violence and mayhem are impotent. What we've witnessed in Connecticut is evidence of our national refusal to listen to the voices of victims at Columbine High School and a theater in Aurora, Colorado.

If we could tune down the noise of our own convictions we'd hear one voice shouting from the periphery of those convictions, "For the love of God, please, don't let this happen again." But we do. The gun lobby argues, "guns don't kill people, people kill people," and there's an element of truth in that. I've never seen an M-16 walking down the street, creating havoc. Not without a person at the butt end, pulling the trigger. Then again, what if they couldn't get hold of a semi-automatic weapon with a 30 round magazine in the first place? Would that really impinge on anyone's Second Amendment rights?

We treat gun ownership like pornography. We put up with Hustler because we want to be free to purchase a copy of The New Yorker or Road and Track at the grocery. We also regulate Hustler to keep it from falling into the hands of children. We presume the right to own an assault weapon secures our right to own the 12 gauge we take bird hunting in the fall. Maybe it does, but that doesn't mean anyone who wants one should have one. Mutual responsibility in a free society requires us, at key times, to limit the exercise of our freedoms for the sake of the common good. 

We regulate pornography better than we regulate guns. If we're going to honor the memory of those who've died tragically, we've got to change and we've got to start now.

(The West Wing citation from 20 Hours in America, (2002); GNU free documentation image of the Columbine High School Memorial via Wikipedia)

Can You Cuss a Little?

I must have been around seven, seven or eight, though it could have been nine -- certainly no later -- when I met my paternal grandfather the first time. If he held me as a baby and surely he must have, I'd be hard-pressed to dig the memory out of my distal recesses. The other first time, however, is as vivid as this morning's frost on the grass. 

He lived in Oklahoma, my parents and I in Colorado, and he'd come for a short visit. More like a stopover than a "visit," he was gone the next morning. I sat in a brown or green -- I never knew which -- overstuffed relic from the 1940s with short, fat wooden feet and a flowery pattern that rose off the fabric like continents on a globe. It was big enough to curl up in while he talked with my parents about people and places they knew and I did not. After a while, he turned to me and suddenly young blabbermouth Beggar was at a loss for words. Particularly, the ones he wanted to hear.

"Have you learned how to cuss yet?" 

For the record, I wasn't really at a loss for words -- by then I'd acquired a vocabulary of two bad and two really bad words and combinations thereof, thanks to my father's verbal creativity. I just wasn't supposed to say them. Ever. And now, here's my father's father, asking me to do what would ordinarily result in my catching the word that began with an "h" and ended with me wishing I'd said "heck," instead. I looked from my mother to my father, hoping for permission. They may as well have been playing poker for all the help I got from their expressions. Hell -- I mean, heck -- of a time to enforce the rules.

"Come on, Beg, you must know one or two. Let me hear you cuss," he said with a truly conspiratorial glint and grin. Let's play a good one on your folks, I read. Talk about caught between "the devil" and the deep blue sea. I wanted to, oh, how I wanted to, the blood rising to my neck and then flowing like a flood over my face. 

The clock was ticking, he was waiting, they're silent, and all I can think is, "Damn it, Grandad, you know I'll get in trouble if I do!" If there was ever a time I needed a Get Out of Jail Free card. 

"Well, I can see you'd rather not go against your folks and that's good. We can save the cuss words for later," he said, winking, after my shirt had nearly soaked through with nervous sweat. 

I felt relieved, but also felt I'd let him down. I wanted to do both, be good (and incidentally, avoid a lickin') and be grown up at the same time. It's funny how these things go. Eventually, you do find out how to be both at once and true to yourself in the bargain. Back then, all I knew was, that's the night I began to love my grandfather. 

I sure hope he knows.  


(English: New Year's Day postcard. Reads: "A New Year's Resolution / Jan. 1st / To Gossip, Slang and Cuss words / I'll bid a last "Adieu" / And place a bridle on my tongue / And thoughtless actions, too!" Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Sighing Thing

 

"Oh, God!" he sighed, heavily. So heavily I thought he and the ancient, paint-stained,  ladder back chair he was sitting in were going to sink through the scraped and scratched wooden plank floor to the soil beneath. I waited for the thunk! -- it never came. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Nor was he being profane.  

"It's all right, Beggar, he's just praying," my grandmother said, overhearing him. I wondered if she knew how many times I'd heard him before. So many I'd lost count.

I looked at her and smothered a smile. Did she really believe that or was she trying to preserve my youthful innocence, the very thing my grandfather -- her husband -- had done his best to turn into good judgment, something he considered eminently more practical.  

He did the "sighing thing," as I came to think of it, mostly while sitting in the shade near our bunkhouse door. It wasn't really a bunkhouse, but we called it that, just the same. It was a detached single car garage that had never housed a car, at least in my memory. My father converted it into a saddle shop at one point and I've written about cutting firewood for his stove. Summers, it was the bunkhouse where my grandfather stayed. Those months, I've realized since, were a journey in character development.

"If you absolutely have to point a gun at someone to protect yourself or your family," he said once, "it's too late for threats. Indecision at a time like that can be deadly." He spoke from experience. Another summer night, years before, he stared down a neighbor who had the nasty habit of occasionally firing his gun in the general direction of my grandfather. "The man's crazy," he said, refusing to get dragged into something he knew he'd have to finish, "and besides, he can't shoot worth a damn." Only this particular evening, it was different. The man had shot at my father who was about my age and I was thirteen. 

Why not call the police or sheriff, I imagine you're thinking. That would have been the thing to do, if they'd had a phone. Forty miles into barely civilized northwestern Colorado, the ranch was a two or three hour drive by Model A Ford from the nearest town. There were no phones, nor were there corner stores or gas stations. I'm not even sure there was electricity. It wasn't that you took the law into your own hands, there just wasn't anyone else who could take it into theirs.   

So, father and son rode out to address the situation. Watching the scene unfold, my father was fearful, certain he was going to witness my grandfather meet out justice just as his father had fifty years earlier. In my imagination, reliving those long seconds, I see my grandfather with a look in his eye that left no doubt, as his hand strayed to the pistol at his side, that he fully intended to use it. The neighbor must have seen that look, too, because he backed down and that was the end of it.

Grandchildren are a second chance for parents to get it right. Those summers, I was my grandfather's trusty teen sidekick. Gabby Hayes to his Roy Rogers. I listened, learned, and hopefully digested far more than I actually remember. I've never forgotten the "sighing thing," though, nor the day I finally asked him what it meant.

I'd really been hoping he'd tell me himself when he was good and ready. That's how things usually went between us, though I never knew from day to day where his mind would lead. But it was nearing the end of summer and he'd said nothing, so I screwed up the courage one day and asked what was he thinking about when he sighed so deeply. He was surprised I'd noticed. How could I not? 

"You live as long as I have, Beggar, you're going to make a few mistakes. Don't be afraid, everybody makes a few and so will you. Some, maybe most, don't matter, least not as much as we give them credit for. People who know you, forgive like you forgive them. Some mistakes do matter -- maybe more than they should, but that doesn't change the fact. Problem is, you either don't realize it or you're too stubborn to admit it, until it's too late. I think about those."

"So you don't make the same ones again, right?" 

"No, because I made them the first time." 

I was too young to understand regret. Sorry, wish I hadn't said or done this or that, oh yes -- plenty. Regret was something else, something -- I don't know -- bigger, something I hadn't lived long enough to become acquainted with. Something that only comes about with experience, with trying to do what you think is right even though you don't and can't know everything but you have to try anyway because it's all you can do and it's really all anyone can do. Don't worry, we all make mistakes, so will you. It's okay. My grandfather said so.

Happy Thanksgiving.


(Fair use of copyrighted photo of George "Gabby" Hayes and Roy Rogers via Wikipedia)

 

Advising Mitt

 
I sort of feel sorry for Mitt Romney. He did what most of us have done, or I have anyway, and wished almost immediately we hadn't. Opened our mouths and watched as the unspeakable came out seemingly of its own accord. Maybe we were angry or afraid or eager to be viewed as acceptable and be embraced by others. At the time, it might have seemed innocent enough -- we thought we were in a protected environment -- and of course, we weren't, as demonstrated by the fallout we're unable to duck no matter how deep we dive into the shelter. Now, we're left, picking up the scattered remnants of our self-esteem, detritus from stepping on one of our own land mines.

Have you ever noticed how easily, on such occasions, a person  says, "But that wasn't me"? Well, if it wasn't, then who was it? It sure looked like me, it sounded like me, people say it was me. I haven't been cloned lately, so far as I know. It sure wasn't Robin Williams doing his best Beggar imitation. I "inhaled" in high school but my sensibilities have long since moved in other directions. I can't blame alcohol -- with my limited tolerance, slurred words are far more likely than misspoken ones. True, at least this way I'll never have to explain how "what made Milwaukee famous, made a loser out of me." (Thanks, Jerry Lee Lewis -- wish I'd written that line.)

So, basically, it was me, or you, or in this case, Mitt. Now, in retrospect, I'm sure he wishes he'd never said anything about the 47%, but it was caught on tape and splattered onto the news, so there's no denying it. The problem is, he's attempting to do what anyone would under similar circumstances, i.e. try to dissociate himself from the image he just created. That's normal -- we don't want people to think of us in terms of what we say or do when we wish we'd said or done something else -- and would if, please God, just this once, is it okay if we turn back the clock?

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if a better strategy might be to simply own up and admit the truth. Instead of trying to convince us that he really is empathetic, state for the record, "Yes, I'm an elitist. I have a strong preference for associating with wealth, I don't relate well to the working class, I disapprove of welfare and those who depend on it, I'm opposed to government restrictions on business and given the opportunity, I'll lower taxes on people like me and if you want to see my tax returns, watch how fast hell freezes over."

You don't think that's going to get him elected. Well, you're probably right, I suppose it is asking a bit much. But trying to pretend he's someone he's not is even worse. The unconscious has a nasty way of making itself known and frequently does when least expected or welcomed. We all have an inner trickster who absolutely delights in making us appear foolish and the harder we try to keep her/him locked in the closet, the more determined s/he becomes to make us regret it. So, Mitt, if you still aspire to the presidency and you don't mind my unsolicited advice, admit you need to change. Trust me, it won't hurt. Okay, it will, but only your pride and most of us can use a little bit of that now and then.  


(Creative commons image, "Trickster Tales Sketch" by Amanda Schutz via Flickr)

Trickle-Down Economics

 
It used to be referred to as the horse and sparrow theory, i.e. if a horse was given enough oats, sooner or later some "ended up" in fields or along the road where sparrows could feed on them -- doesn't that sound lovely. But that's basically what trickle-down economics comes down to. Provide the wealthy with enough tax breaks or economic benefits and eventually the effect will trickle down to those on the lower rungs of the social ladder. As one who's worked his entire life for a living, as did my father (we were both business owners, by the way), you'll have to pardon me if I find that offensive.

For one thing, it's just too much like saying, if I devote myself to the care and feeding of a narcissistic parent, some day I'll be glad I did. Oh, please. For another, it's insulting to presume a "trickle" is all those who compose the majority of the American populace are deserving of. Who's making the rules here, anyway? Who decided a person born into a blue-collar family was less worthy of a seat at the socio-economic table than someone else born to wealth or privilege? It's not a good idea to forget history, you know.    

It was Paris, the summer of 1789, probably a warm and humid one like we had in Maine this year, when the so-called "benevolent aristocracy" came face to face with destiny.  Taxes were inequitable; merchants, tradesmen, and the poor bore the burden while the wealthy lived a life of the rich and famous. The court of Louis XVI had virtually spent the country into bankruptcy and reform was slow in coming. Food was scare and a revolution had taken place in America. The time was ripe for storming the Bastille.

Now, trust me, I'm not sounding the trumpet for revolution and I'm definitely not a member of the Tea Party. Nor, by the way, am I saying there's something wrong with having money. However, I do think it's time to take a look at the underpinnings of trickle-down aka supply-side economics, especially since one of the major presidential candidates seems to think it's the solution to what ails this country. As I see it, trickle-down economics is an outgrowth of an outmoded and substantially mistaken belief that wealth is a sign of moral, intellectual, and cultural superiority. Put another way, personal worth is what distinguishes saints from sinners. Not only is that theologically bogus, it's factually baseless. Crimes are committed by both rich and poor; Louis XVI lost his head making that clear. 

Of all the things we need in this country and God knows, we need a lot, a repeat performance of trickle-down economics isn't one of them. I don't know if anyone's noticed lately, but there are a great many of us out there who are first-generation college, graduate school, and medical school graduates. Like our parents, we've clawed our way through public education and worked like demons to establish ourselves as persons of social, if not yet economic, value. Not because we think that makes us "better" than anyone else or because we think it qualifies us to stand in judgement of those who've made different choices. We've done so because we believe our efforts create opportunities we and our children might not have had otherwise. Opportunities to be of service, opportunities to improve the lives of those around us, opportunities to establish justice and build a world where no one goes hungry or lives in fear of annihilation. It's not wealth that makes us do this, it's our humanity, and thank God for it.      

 (Creative Commons image by David Shankbone via Wikipedia)

His Failing Heart

JVD is an anachronym for jugular venous distention, a phenomenon I observed Friday for the very first time outside a classroom. It's one sign of a failing heart, a heart that has virtually worn itself out pumping against the unrelenting resistance of untreated high blood pressure. Besides the accumulation of fluid in the lungs -- pulmonary edema -- which leads to shortness of breath, with heart failure the jugular vein becomes distended and you can literally see the pulse throbbing away, driving the rhythm of circulation like a drummer's foot on the bass pedal. Boom, boom, boom.

For clarity's sake, we aren't talking oxygenated blood here, the bright purplish juice of life that shoots out the left ventricle into the aorta. Nor is JVD the same thing as an aortic aneurysm. You've heard of those, I'm sure. An expansion of the artery in all directions forming a cul-de-sac typically (though not exclusively) in the gut with two openings, an entrance and an exit, instead of just one. As long as it stays intact, blood can make its way from the heart to the toes and back again. If it begins to leak or worse, if it blows, you get a STAT ticket to the surgical suite.  

The blood carried by the jugular vein is deoxygenated -- it's already given up its cargo of oxygen molecules in the name of everything that constitutes daily life. On its way to the lungs for more, however, it runs into a problem. Heart failure starts out with an overworked left ventricle but as it progresses, the right ventricle slowly turns into an anatomic approximation of a child's balloon that has been inflated a few times too many. Having lost much of its elasticity, the right ventricle can't pump as well and back pressure builds in the veins above it; naturally, they distend with the volume of blood waiting in the queue.

I'd read about JVD, but reading is one thing, seeing it up close, is another. I watched my resident turn our patient's neck to the left in order to tighten the skin on the right, then watched wide-eyed as his neck bulged outward every half-second. I'd been talking with him for fifteen minutes -- how could I have missed seeing it before? As must have been the case with my entering classmates when they were in my shoes, my mind raced through a litany of possible explanations, while I waited for the end of the day when we'd finally have a free moment to recap. I was glad my first best guess was the correct one.

Yesterday, going over material for board exams, I thought about my patient's physiology, why he was short of breath, why he gained excess weight in water only to lose it when he took his diuretic medication, why just sitting there talking with me was an effort. He was a good teacher who taught his lessons well. But I also thought about him, his experience, what it meant for him to retain his driver's license, why he was so determined to hold tight to his independence and live like there was no tomorrow. Why he continued to have heart. Despite his failing heart.

(GNU Free Documentation Image via Wikipedia)

Repeating History

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. ~ George Santayana

I don't know that remembering has much to do with it. Human nature being what it is, we seem bent on some things whether they've worked at all, worked only a little, or ended up in disaster. Knowing they've been tried before doesn't appear to prevent their being tried again with similar results. Mr. Hughes hid in Dylan's shoes and wearin' his disguise, as the late Rick Nelson put it.

I'm thinking about Germany in the early 20th century, in case you're wondering. High unemployment (30% in 1932), deficit spending, economic depression overlaid with inflation from the printing of large amounts of paper money, unable to meet foreign debt payments, national pride in the gutter. Whenever I watch something about the rise of Adolf Hitler, as did yesterday afternoon, I can't help thinking about the social conditions that made him possible. 

And then I start thinking about Santayana's quote.

I know, I know, Germany didn't have 1776 and the aftermath of two hundred years of democracy. Then again, she didn't have slavery and the subjugation of the western frontier. Let's play fair. I'm not one of those writers who makes a living telling you what's wrong with America, but neither do I want to ignore the obvious for the sake of good feelings. When something stinks, there's usually a reason.

What Hitler accomplished was masterful -- demonic, but masterful. Instead of taking reality on its own terms and leading Germany to do likewise, he fled into a delusional fantasy and created a massive marketing machine to sell it like Volkswagens. There are at least two ways to offer hope to those in need of it. One entails accepting responsibility for yourself, your successes and flat out, falling down failures, and by so doing, show others how to survive doing the same. Another is to imagine there's nothing wrong with you or wouldn't be if it wasn't for someone else. Say it often enough, sooner or later people will start believing. Say it long enough, maybe you'll win, and then you get to rewrite history so no one remembers the way it really was.

For instance, an editorial in an upcoming Southern Baptist theological journal, in complete ignorance of the wider social issues involved, described the fundamentalist takeover -- some have suggested "highjacking" is more apt -- of the Southern Baptist Convention a few years ago in terms of a restoration of biblical Christianity. The subsequent split with social-theological moderates, the virtual purging of non-strictly-doctrinaire seminary faculty, and the smear campaign against those who stood up to be counted, were conveniently overlooked. When the ends are used to justify the means, whether we're talking about theology, the search for weapons of mass destruction, or the virtues and vices of universal health care, a lot of things get overlooked.

Trouble is, this is precisely how we end up repeating history. And isn't that a hell of a thing.

(Creative Commons image of singer Rick Nelson via Wikipedia)