Gives Me Pause

"Why can't people like that just stay home?" These were the uptight words that floated through my head as I sat in the audience of my son's high school graduation ceremony. Held in the rarefied confines of Oakland's historic Paramount Theater, the evening began in a festive but reasonably dignified fashion. Friends and family were there to celebrate the achievements of the Class of 2015. There was Pomp. There was Circumstance. There was plenty of attention to pay to this next generation of thinkers, leaders, and fresh faces to bring the world along into the bloom of this new century. There was extra gravity in the room that night.
That didn't mean that the evening was filled with somber directives for missions and work left undone. There was talk about the future, but it was mostly directed in the vicinity of adventure. Grownups weren't handed the microphone to hand out advice and warnings. The kids stood up and shared their vision of their past and their future. It was refreshing and candid. Some of the ties began to loosen as the ceremony wore on, with speeches building to the valedictorian, who urged his classmates to remember where they were from and where they were going, and always to remember to come back, representing that geography: Oakland.
Oakland is a proud city. A diverse city. A city with problems. A city with solutions. Oakland rises to meet their challenges day after day, and the Class of 2015 showed by their attentive listening and boisterous responses that they were up to it. Oakland hoots. Oakland hollers. Oakland shouts its approval at the top of their lungs. As the evening wore on, the refinement of the beginning gave way to the hoots and hollers. As it should. The graduates each took their moment as they crossed the stage to pause, if only to shake hands and get a photo with the principal. Some of them danced. Some of them twirled. Some of them made a show of how the distance across that stage. They had earned it. There were hugs. There were high fives. And shout outs.
And there was an anarchist. One kid, who came to the ceremony with his bandanna, waited until his name was announced and then pulled it up over the lower half of his face reminding everyone in the theater of the riots that had taken place just outside on the streets in front of the theater. He strode up to his principal, who looked at him with brief shock and then abrupt dismay. The crowd settled at this moment, trying to discern just how real this threat was. There was a pause, and then the authority of the occasion won out, however briefly, the mask came down and the hand came out. As he took his principal's hand, he turned to the camera, with his free hand he pointed a finger at his head as if it were a gun.
Then it was over. The next name was called, and the procession continued. Some of the joy had been knocked down, but it wasn't out. Soon, the anarchist was back in the seat from whence he came, congratulating himself as the rest of his class rose back to the moment of their achievement. The problems evoked by the gesture from that one student wouldn't go away that night. The parents and grandparents in the audience knew that. Anarchy is primarily a young person's pursuit. But that wasn't the youth we were there to celebrate. It was a night of beginnings. Hope. Change. Memories. I suppose we have him to thank for "keeping it real."
But I just couldn't help thinking, "Why can't people like that just stay home?"

Firsty

My father used to advocate for equal rights for balding, middle-aged printing salesman. He was a man of deeply held beliefs, one of which there weren't many glass houses at which he was afraid to lob a stone or two. He had a long and storied history as a liberal and compassionate person. He was a committed delegate to Jesse Jackson's 1984 presidential bid, and supported all kinds of causes that would have made him cozy in any blue state. But he missed being a hippie by a decade or so, and his middle-aged printing salesman buddies in Colorado didn't always see things his way. Which may be why he chose to put his tongue so squarely in his cheek as he made his demand for equal rights.

It was the latter half of the twentieth century, the part that came after "Mad Men." For the first time in American History, the white male, balding or otherwise, printing executive or not, were no longer seen as the simple be all, end all. Somewhere in my father's sarcasm was a trace of the fear that maybe there would come a time when he was no longer at the top of the heap.

And now, as the next century rolls on without him, barriers continue to be broken. Women are running for President of the United States. Sure, there was Geraldine Ferraro back in the day, but my dad was far too immersed in the Rainbow Coalition to be distracted. It is interesting to note that the folks at Wikipedia would like us to know that Ms. Ferraro was "the only Italian American to be a major-party national nominee in addition to being the first woman." We are a nation that prides itself on firsts: First man on the moon. First teacher in space. First electrocution of a criminal. There is a lengthy list of "first woman," "first African American," and "first openly gay," this that and so on. Considering the odds against any of these achievements, set up as they were by the ruling class of middle-aged white guys, they continue to be notable. It should be noted, amid the ever-expanding Republican field of candidates for the 2016 election, the first African-American to run for president was Frederick Douglass back in 1888. As a Republican. 

Things were different way back then. There have been many firsts since then. Latino bisexual disabled veterans remain under-represented, but strides are being made. The balding, white male printing salesman might still have a renaissance. Until then, I will consider each advancement of common sense as a first, and will look forward to a day when being first is mostly important when it comes to the one hundred meter dash. I look forward to a time when men and women are judged by the quality of their character, not by their place in line. It shouldn't matter. 

Summer Camp

Last summer when I visited my hometown in Colorado, I had the strange and eventually easily overcome urge to go out and try to score some weed. Not because I wanted to smoke it, or otherwise ingest it. I just wanted the chance to stroll into the corner dope store and proudly announce that I was there to purchase some cannabis, thank you very much. It would be sweet retribution for all those weekends I spent wandering around, looking for somebody who knew somebody who could hook me and my friends up. The only dealing would be the search for clearance items.
And now I should point out that my own marijuana use was of the very limited variety. For a brief time, I lived with a guy who truly enjoyed his afternoon bake. It was part of a social order that I had no trouble falling into, since slamming back a six-pack was certainly in my list of things to do on any given Friday night, and once the cans were empty, they could rather abruptly be turned into rudimentary pipes. Not that I'm condoning such behavior, mind you. This was how I lived. I never owned a pipe or a bong.
My mother did. Not wittingly, of course. She received, as a gift, a curious piece of ceramic that looked to be a martian, with funnels for antennae on the top of his head. On one side, he wore a great bloodshot eyed expression of glee, while on the other those eyes were narrowed to slits and the goofy grin was replaced by a very small hole. About the size of a reasonably rolled joint. This was back in 1970's Boulder, Colorado, where such items could easily have been slipped onto the shelves at any gift store, and I'm sure that it came to her as an object d'art, not a piece de pot. It sat in my mother's window sill for years before the true nature of this little sculpture became hysterically apparent. I am quite confident that in all those years, it was never utilized for its intended purpose.
Now, with the legalization of marijuana in the Mile High State (disclaimer: it is forbidden to write more than a paragraph about pot in Colorado without using that phrase), it seems like a missed opportunity. But the good news is this: Over in Durango, the first cannabis-friendly ranch resort is opening in July. CannaCamp offers the expected outdoor adventures and water sports you might expect from your more traditional summer camp, but also has a number of "cannabis activities" on tap. Or on bud. Laying down in a meadow and staring at the clouds. That kind of thing. And I did check: There are arts and crafts. I can only hope that some enterprising guest takes it on themselves to spend a little times in the ceramics hut recreating their version of my mom's little alien visitor. If they want to get their bud badge, that is.

Know Your Rights

Is it okay to shout "Fire" in a crowded movie house? That question used to shade a little easier before James Holmes shot up a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado back in 2012. Racing out of the exit doors to avoid smoke and flames seems infinitely less dangerous than ducking for cover as a spray of semi-automatic weapon fire opened up just after the patrons had settled into their seats. The question currently in front of a jury in Denver is whether or not James Holmes was sane at the time of his rampage. Which brings us to these next two items.
A man walked into the Atlanta airport last week, carrying a loaded AR-15 assault rifle. You might remember the AR-15 as one of the weapons James Holmes was carrying in his midnight movie assault. Jim Cooley was dropping his daughter off for a flight and while he was there, he figured he would just take his constitutional rights for a stroll as well. According to Georgia State law, Mister Cooley was abiding by the letter of the law as long as he didn't try to take the gun through the TSA checkpoint. However likely or unlikely it was that an alert TSA agent might have stopped him, it was still local law enforcement that was called to check up on just exactly what a guy carrying a loaded rifle through one of the nation's busiest airports had on his mind. With the extended one hundred round drum. When police caught up to him and told Cooley that they had received a number of calls and that many people were worried, he responded, “People’s fears are not my responsibility. If you’re detaining me, then I’m going to have to file a lawsuit against the airport." And everyone knows that there is nothing in this great land of ours that stirs more fear than a loaded lawsuit. Mister Cooley was not arrested, and has become a Youtube celebrity. 
Up the road in Massachusetts, a forty year-old man was arrested for disturbing and loitering within one thousand yards of a school. At this point, it should be made clear that this man, George Cross, was dressed as an Imperial Stormtrooper and carrying a blaster. How could anyone tell that it wasn't a real laser gun? Authorities were called and the bad guy was taken away, much to the protestations of Mister Cross: "Like I'm some kind of weirdo or something? I bought a costume. I was walking through the neighborhood showing friends." Apparently dressing as an Imperial Stormtrooper is not a right protected by our constitution. At least not until the Imperial Senate has their say. 

Begin Again

Commencement. We tend to think about that at the end of things. At the end of a school year, specifically. But I did some checking, and it turns out that "commence" means to begin. Isn't that interesting? Up until now, as a parent and educator, I have been stressing to my son the importance of "promotions." When he finished up at preschool, there was this brilliant ceremony called "Crossing The Bridge" in which kids who were on their way to Kindergarten walked across a plank set across two red boxes from one side of the playground to the other. When they had completed that journey, they were ready for the big time: public school.
The next promotion came a year later, when he had finished Kindergarten, my son wore a construction paper mortarboard and celebrated with his classmates by singing the songs they had learned and the letters they knew. He and his little friends had survived their first year and were looking ahead to first grade, and a few years off the whole promotion tour.
His fifth grade promotion was reminiscent of the one held just down the hall from the auditorium where the big kids were getting ready to say goodbye to elementary school. Those six years, all in one place, made a great foundation for memories: field trips, recess, paper airplanes, boys and girls some of whom would stick with him on his move just down the hill to middle school. It was a packed house.
Fifth grade was a full house, but not nearly as jammed as the Scottish Rite Temple where his middle school promotion took place. The tone was different here. There were more warnings, more admonitions. The kids didn't recite poems or sing songs. They strolled in, sat down, and listened. There were some encouraging words, but it was made clear to my son and his classmates that there was still a long road ahead.
Which brings us to today. The end of the road, at least where public schools are concerned. A great fuss will be made. Speeches too. There will be parties commensurate with the occasion. My son has learned his lessons and sung his songs. It's not the end. It's a beginning. Now all the songs are for him. It's a celebration. It's a commencement for the rest of his life.

In California

A lifetime ago I packed up all my belongings, or those that could be stuffed into a camper-van, and left my childhood home. I left with the expressed purpose of starting a new timeline, one that I could refer to as my adulthood. It wasn't much of a negotiation, when it came right down to it. My girlfriend and incipient wife lived in California with all the antiques. I was living in an apartment filled with rental furniture and no real sense of where I was going. I was installing modular office furniture and wandering over the same ruts that I had for thirty years. I was going to trade in that rental furniture and tired ruts for some brand new ones. In California.
That was the big leap. Leaving Colorado, my birthplace. My heritage. My family. I was as grounded and comfortable as any middle son in his late twenties had a right to be. I had begun to figure out what my life might look like in twenty years, and my usually impressive imagination couldn't come up with much more than a bigger apartment. It took this woman from my past returning to offer me a future. In California.
But it was terrifying to imagine leaving. I had failed before. My initial shot at going away to college turned into returning home and living in the basement for a year, working at Arby's and creeping ever closer to the realization that nothing would change if I didn't do it myself. When I finally made the big leap, it was an hour and a half drive down the interstate that allowed me to be home to stay in touch with those ever-lovin' ruts. After a year of that, I bounced back to my hometown, where there was a perfectly good university just up the hill from where I went to high school. Meanwhile, there was life going on elsewhere, and my eventual bride ended up there. In California.
California isn't that big a stretch from Boulder, Colorado. Sure, there's an ocean. No, there isn't any snow, unless you drive way up into the hills and there isn't a drought. The old joke that compares life in a bowl of granola has easily been applied to both Boulder and California. Flakes and nuts. It's true of a lot of places on the globe, but I staked a claim on the northern coast of the Golden State, and moved out to an even smaller apartment with the woman I loved. In California.
I'm starting to acclimate, twenty-three years later. Happily, Google Maps and GPS have made generating those ruts an endeavor that has only taken a couple decades. The fear that I felt once upon a time about leaving Colorado is now the fear I deal with when ti comes time to consider leaving California. This is where I live now. It's where I vote. It's where I raised a son. It's where I fell in love a hundred different times with my wife. It's where I buy my cheeseburgers. In California.

Too Many Choices

Freedom of choice
is what you've got
Freedom from choice
is what you want
- DEVO, "Freedom of Choice"
When I was a kid, I used to ask for a Band-Aid if I fell down and got a scrape. When I needed to blow my nose, I asked for a Kleenex. When I got to high school and took a course called Semantics, my teacher instructed me that I had been brainwashed by popular culture and advertising. These weren't necessarily Band-Aids. They could have been Curads. All those Kleenex in the trashcan could have been mixed with Puffs. I was caught up in a brand-name vortex, and I needed to be clear about my meaning. I really meant "adhesive strips" and "facial tissue." Someone else had slapped a catchy name on these products and caused me to line up in vague allegiance to a particular manufacturer because of the limited hard drive space I had for storing such information. After that class, my eyes were opened, and I wasn't going to be forced into arbitrary distinctions by popular culture or the media. It didn't occur to me at the time to ask if the course I was taking was really "Semantics" or was it "Semiotics?"
Words and their meaning have fascinated me for the time I have been using them. Before I went to high school to be taught about brand-name recognition and subliminal images in advertising, I took German. This is where I learned more about the mechanics of words and language than I ever imagined. It is also where I first encountered the notion of masculine, feminine and neuter. Like many languages, German nouns are given the distinction of being one of those three. Nurse, for example, is feminine: Die Krankenschwester. Doctor is der Doktor. Masculine. When constructing their culture, the Germans decided to apply sex roles to certain occupations. Things are generally neuter, or das with their article. Except for words like der Spiegel, or "mirror" in English. The thought process behind making a mirror masculine must have been an interesting one. Gender, according to articles, seems to make for more confusion than less.
Labels do that sometimes. Labels are limits. They do a very nice job of making a fence around a person, place or thing. Der, die, das. He, she, it. Pronoun trouble. That's what I've been thinking about lately. Those three don't seem to offer enough room for all the choices that exist out there. Some have taken to using "they" when describing oneself. Singular. Not first person but third person. It does have that clue about multiple spirits inside one person, but I prefer instead to borrow a trademark name from another company: Wii. First person plural with two "I's." For now, let us consider this a Band-Aid for our personal pronouns.