"If you're going to throw the big ball, you should be ready to catch the big ball." This is the wisdom of the school yard as well as the way my family has learned to treat each other when the tone or rhetoric shifts, playfully or otherwise. Be prepared.
I say this because I don't know if every survivor of the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School had this in mind when they took on the role of becoming advocates for gun control. In the month and a half that has passed since the blood was shed in Parkland, Florida, voices have been raised, marches have been made, walkouts have occurred. Media stars have been generated.
I am sure that the path to meme for most of these teenagers would have been much longer or at least much quieter if not for the tragedy that occurred at their school. It is a rare seventeen year old who wishes for a light to shine on them. And yet, when those cameras turned on and the doors to the town hall meeting opened, we all made mythical figures out of these adolescents.
And, as terrible irony would have it in Yahoo News headlines, they have become "targets." Targets of pundits and writers and politicians and talking heads who have the relative safety of their comfort and age from which to speak. And photo shop. One of the nastiest bits of such manipulation has included doctoring a picture of Emma Gonzalez to make it appear as though she is tearing the United States Constitution in half. No matter that Emma has taken great pains to say that she is not anti-gun but is in favor of banning assault type weapons for civilians along with high capacity magazines as well as a stronger system of background checks before weapons can be purchased. This high school girl, along with her classmates, have become lightning rods for the right wing.
Minnesota Representative Mary Franson made a series of Facebook posts that compared the kids in the March For Our Lives to Hitler Youth. It seems as though the only Nazis that she might tolerate are those who actually declare themselves so. Our friends over at InoWars put up a video that overlaid images of a speech given by Adolph Hitler and its attendant rally over the crowd and speeches given last weekend in Washington D.C. All of those posts have since been deleted, having made their ugly point and the makers have slunk back into the darkness.
Meanwhile, the teenagers who found their voices after being shot at continue to press their cause. They seem to understand the game better than most of the adults who have seen fit to challenge them, very few of whom have any common experience of being shot at. My guess is that the courage these young men and women maintain is the super power they have been given, not something they asked for, but giving in a fiery blast they are only now beginning to comprehend. These are heroes and should be afforded the same dignity and respect that anyone with the courage of their convictions is given. I'm not suggesting that we should take it easy on them. I'm suggesting that we should all be ready for when they start throwing that big ball.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
My House
"Thanks for letting me hang at your house."
I've heard that phrase many times in the years that I have been hosting wandering friends and family. Ours has been the pullout bed on the way to something else, or the futon when you needed to be away from your real bed. What we might lack in ambiance, we make up for in rustic familiarity. We will make you a frozen pizza or a tuna sandwich, in that way that we do. We have even made our laundry facilities available. No fluff and fold, however.
Keeping this in mind, and the nature of our hostel-ipality, I would not have expected to hear my own son thank me "for letting me hang at your house."
By a continued fluke of scheduling, the school district for whom I work has deigned the Easter weekend as the beginning of Spring Break, while the college my son attends is wrapping things up on that weekend to prepare for the last quarter of the year. We managed last year by finding a way to meet up with him somewhere between our respective vacation periods. He was able to come home last year for a few days to check in and check in with all those who shared his timetable. This year, with the addition of his work schedule and urge to travel about the coast, he only had a couple of days to return to the place of his birth.
His home. The one he now refers to as his parents'. Which makes sense, I suppose, since he and his stuff have been effectively moved out for more than three years now. Which is a measurable percentage of his life. When he talks about his house now, he does not mean the place that continues to store his electric train sets. He is talking about the place where he parks his cars. The place where he pays rent.
Which might not have been quite the gut shot except for the fact that his mother and I had only the evening before been peeking in on video that we had taken back when he was days old. We bought that house to be the place where he would grow up. Backyard birthday parties and a room of his own. A kitchen where he watched us prepare those tuna sandwiched and frozen pizzas. A living room where we read books and watched TV and played Guitar Hero. It was the place he invited his friends to stay. The place where he spoke his first words and took his first steps.
And now those steps lead away from here. I'm glad he still remembers the way home.
I've heard that phrase many times in the years that I have been hosting wandering friends and family. Ours has been the pullout bed on the way to something else, or the futon when you needed to be away from your real bed. What we might lack in ambiance, we make up for in rustic familiarity. We will make you a frozen pizza or a tuna sandwich, in that way that we do. We have even made our laundry facilities available. No fluff and fold, however.
Keeping this in mind, and the nature of our hostel-ipality, I would not have expected to hear my own son thank me "for letting me hang at your house."
By a continued fluke of scheduling, the school district for whom I work has deigned the Easter weekend as the beginning of Spring Break, while the college my son attends is wrapping things up on that weekend to prepare for the last quarter of the year. We managed last year by finding a way to meet up with him somewhere between our respective vacation periods. He was able to come home last year for a few days to check in and check in with all those who shared his timetable. This year, with the addition of his work schedule and urge to travel about the coast, he only had a couple of days to return to the place of his birth.
His home. The one he now refers to as his parents'. Which makes sense, I suppose, since he and his stuff have been effectively moved out for more than three years now. Which is a measurable percentage of his life. When he talks about his house now, he does not mean the place that continues to store his electric train sets. He is talking about the place where he parks his cars. The place where he pays rent.
Which might not have been quite the gut shot except for the fact that his mother and I had only the evening before been peeking in on video that we had taken back when he was days old. We bought that house to be the place where he would grow up. Backyard birthday parties and a room of his own. A kitchen where he watched us prepare those tuna sandwiched and frozen pizzas. A living room where we read books and watched TV and played Guitar Hero. It was the place he invited his friends to stay. The place where he spoke his first words and took his first steps.
And now those steps lead away from here. I'm glad he still remembers the way home.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Brave Sir Donald (w/ apologies to Eric Idle and the survivors)
Bravely bold Sir Donald
Rode forth from The White House.
He was not afraid to die,
Oh brave Sir Donald.
He was not at all afraid
To be killed in nasty ways.
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Donald.
Rode forth from The White House.
He was not afraid to die,
Oh brave Sir Donald.
He was not at all afraid
To be killed in nasty ways.
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Donald.
He was not in the least bit scared
To be mashed into a pulp.
Or to have his eyes gouged out,
And his elbows broken.
To have his kneecaps split
And his body burned away,
And his limbs all hacked and mangled
Brave Sir Donald.
To be mashed into a pulp.
Or to have his eyes gouged out,
And his elbows broken.
To have his kneecaps split
And his body burned away,
And his limbs all hacked and mangled
Brave Sir Donald.
His head smashed in
And his heart cut out
And his liver removed
And his bowls unplugged
And his nostrils raped
And his bottom burnt off
And his penis
And his heart cut out
And his liver removed
And his bowls unplugged
And his nostrils raped
And his bottom burnt off
And his penis
"That's, that's enough music for now lads, there's dirty work afoot."
Brave Sir Donald ran away.
("No!")
Bravely ran away away.
("I didn't!")
When kids raised their mighty voices,
He bravely turned and made other choices.
("I never!")
Yes, brave Sir Donald turned about
And gallantly he chickened out.
("You're lying!")
Swiftly taking to his feet,
He beat a very brave retreat.
Bravest of the brave, Sir Donald!
Brave Sir Donald ran away.
("No!")
Bravely ran away away.
("I didn't!")
When kids raised their mighty voices,
He bravely turned and made other choices.
("I never!")
Yes, brave Sir Donald turned about
And gallantly he chickened out.
("You're lying!")
Swiftly taking to his feet,
He beat a very brave retreat.
Bravest of the brave, Sir Donald!
February 26, "I really believe I'd run in there even if I didn't have a weapon," Trump said during a meeting with governors.
March 24, as the nation's youth descended upon Washington D.C., Trump was at his golf retreat.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Surly Bonds
"My story really is incredible. It's got a bunch of story lines: the garage-built thing. I'm an older guy. It's out in the middle of nowhere, plus the Flat Earth. The problem is it brings out all the nuts also, people questioning everything. It's the downside of all this."
This is how Mike Hughes, known to his fans as Mad Mike, described the tale of his launch into what turned out to be the troposphere. Mister Hughes realized his dream of launching his homemade, steam-powered rocket into the sky over the Mojave Desert. He also experienced the consequence of the gravity he never fully escaped, plummeting back to the Flat Earth from whence he came. Mike had no argument with gravity. He took issue with this wacky notion that the planet he came from, and abruptly returned to, is not round. Well, at least not in the globe sense. Mike believes the earth is shaped like a Frisbee. There was no immediate response from Wham-O as to whether or not he was getting an endorsement check for this plug.
So here's the confounding part: A guy with the mild cleverness to put a steam powered projectile into the air, traveling to a height of more than eighteen hundred feet, would cilng to a notion that has been out of vogue for seven hundred years. Certainly the calculations necessary to plan for such a scheme would include some whisper or sphere. Driving out to the desert on those long straightaways, there must have been a moment where at least the perception of curvature was hinted.
Or maybe Mike was more focused on the task at hand. In his day job as a limo driver, he most certainly has to keep in mind the shortest distance between two points, and that is the perspective he applied to his mission. Which may have a lot to do with how he got to that point, the apex of his endeavor, before he fell back to the place where he began, give or take the fifteen hundred feet he moved laterally from his launch ramp.
For his part, Mister Hughes did not suggest that his brief sojourn would prove that the earth was flat. That reassurance, he suggested, would come from a new project that would involve a balloon carrying a rocket into the atmosphere before launching even higher than his initial journey across the desert. When asked if he was sure if the earth was flat, he replied in the most scholarly way possible: "Do I believe the Earth is shaped like a Frisbee? I believe it is,Do I know for sure? No. That's why I want to go up in space." And to that I can only respond, Godspeed, Mad Mike.
This is how Mike Hughes, known to his fans as Mad Mike, described the tale of his launch into what turned out to be the troposphere. Mister Hughes realized his dream of launching his homemade, steam-powered rocket into the sky over the Mojave Desert. He also experienced the consequence of the gravity he never fully escaped, plummeting back to the Flat Earth from whence he came. Mike had no argument with gravity. He took issue with this wacky notion that the planet he came from, and abruptly returned to, is not round. Well, at least not in the globe sense. Mike believes the earth is shaped like a Frisbee. There was no immediate response from Wham-O as to whether or not he was getting an endorsement check for this plug.
So here's the confounding part: A guy with the mild cleverness to put a steam powered projectile into the air, traveling to a height of more than eighteen hundred feet, would cilng to a notion that has been out of vogue for seven hundred years. Certainly the calculations necessary to plan for such a scheme would include some whisper or sphere. Driving out to the desert on those long straightaways, there must have been a moment where at least the perception of curvature was hinted.
Or maybe Mike was more focused on the task at hand. In his day job as a limo driver, he most certainly has to keep in mind the shortest distance between two points, and that is the perspective he applied to his mission. Which may have a lot to do with how he got to that point, the apex of his endeavor, before he fell back to the place where he began, give or take the fifteen hundred feet he moved laterally from his launch ramp.
For his part, Mister Hughes did not suggest that his brief sojourn would prove that the earth was flat. That reassurance, he suggested, would come from a new project that would involve a balloon carrying a rocket into the atmosphere before launching even higher than his initial journey across the desert. When asked if he was sure if the earth was flat, he replied in the most scholarly way possible: "Do I believe the Earth is shaped like a Frisbee? I believe it is,Do I know for sure? No. That's why I want to go up in space." And to that I can only respond, Godspeed, Mad Mike.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Trauma Informed
On the survey we give our fifth grade students, inevitably one of the kids gets to a question about marijuana use, and the snickers begin. "Why would they ask this?" some of them want to know. Some of this hilarity continues right up the questions about knowing anyone who has died by violence. These are the questions that make the room quiet again. So many of them answer "yes." Too many of them.
This survey isn't about getting healthier choices for school lunches. It's about life and death. Questions we ask our eleven year olds to answer. So we can figure out how to deal with all that loss. As I sat at my desk Friday night, bubbling in computer forms for each of those fifth graders representing their physical fitness scores, I wondered about their futures. Not just because of their physical fitness, but the world that will receive them.
I know that two of my former students never saw their eighteenth birthday. These little boys that I taught never got to grow up and become what they hoped. They never got to grow up. I wondered if any other those names that I had so painstakingly filled in with my number two pencil would become part of that list. Troubled kids. Angry kids. Scared kids. Who could blame them? Growing up in fear. Mass shootings in schools get the twenty-four hour news focus. Innocent bystanders, "accidental shootings," gang related, crimes of passion: Dead kids. Cancelled futures.
Statistics.
The death of one is a tragedy. Children dying compound the tragedy. Take a look into the eyes of a mother or father whose child passed away before them. Feel that pain. Feel that loss. Remember that this happens nearly one hundred times a day in America. Everyone that dies was someone's baby once.
I am now teaching the babies of some of the students I taught. They will take that survey that asks if they know anyone who has died by violence. They will take the physical fitness test that measures their heart and lung capacity. Their strength. Children are strong. They are resilient. They deserve a chance to grow up.
This survey isn't about getting healthier choices for school lunches. It's about life and death. Questions we ask our eleven year olds to answer. So we can figure out how to deal with all that loss. As I sat at my desk Friday night, bubbling in computer forms for each of those fifth graders representing their physical fitness scores, I wondered about their futures. Not just because of their physical fitness, but the world that will receive them.
I know that two of my former students never saw their eighteenth birthday. These little boys that I taught never got to grow up and become what they hoped. They never got to grow up. I wondered if any other those names that I had so painstakingly filled in with my number two pencil would become part of that list. Troubled kids. Angry kids. Scared kids. Who could blame them? Growing up in fear. Mass shootings in schools get the twenty-four hour news focus. Innocent bystanders, "accidental shootings," gang related, crimes of passion: Dead kids. Cancelled futures.
Statistics.
The death of one is a tragedy. Children dying compound the tragedy. Take a look into the eyes of a mother or father whose child passed away before them. Feel that pain. Feel that loss. Remember that this happens nearly one hundred times a day in America. Everyone that dies was someone's baby once.
I am now teaching the babies of some of the students I taught. They will take that survey that asks if they know anyone who has died by violence. They will take the physical fitness test that measures their heart and lung capacity. Their strength. Children are strong. They are resilient. They deserve a chance to grow up.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Keeping Up Appearances
Another page falls from the calendar, the sun comes up again, and just as surely another member of the current regime falls by the wayside. If you remember H.R. McMaster, then you probably know that he is no longer the National Security Adviser. Much in the same way RuPal brought surprise sashayer Christina Aguilera, game show veteran DoJohn brought in former ambassador to the United Nations, John Bolton to fill that post.
It really does have the feeling of a TV show: sex, scandal, hiring, firing, and did I mention scandal? Most of the White House staff prefers not to bring personal effects to their offices since that would mean the ignominious walk out with the potted plant while being escorted by security is just over their shoulder. But just exactly who is our new contestant?
John Bolton, also recognized as the brother Captain Kangaroo never talked about, may be best remembered for his insistence that the only good Saddam Hussein was a dead Saddam Hussein, and that the axis of evil should include Iran and North Korea because America should never truly be at peace. There's still a lot of evil out there, and John is just the guy to fix it so we won't have to worry about that. Bomb this. Invade that. Negotiate? Not when we have all these bombs.
It is a fundamental problem our "President" has understanding the inner workings of drama. As a participant in "reality TV," he has never truly understood scripted theater. The Good Cop/Bad Cop trope needs a Good Cop to work. Yes, the guy who shows up with a white mustache to hide the foaming spittle coming from his mouth insisting that "There needs to be a strategic response to Russia's new nuclear missiles to show our allies in Europe that we will not let Russia push the US or its allies around," is a pretty good fit for that Bad Cop spot.
So who does that leave in the Good Cop position? Surely not "Fire and Fury" Donnie. Certainly our "President" has not been at global domination/destruction as long as Mister Bolton, but I think I would definitely sleep better if I knew that Christina Aquilera was going to be our new National Security Adviser. At least we know she's a Fighter.
It really does have the feeling of a TV show: sex, scandal, hiring, firing, and did I mention scandal? Most of the White House staff prefers not to bring personal effects to their offices since that would mean the ignominious walk out with the potted plant while being escorted by security is just over their shoulder. But just exactly who is our new contestant?
John Bolton, also recognized as the brother Captain Kangaroo never talked about, may be best remembered for his insistence that the only good Saddam Hussein was a dead Saddam Hussein, and that the axis of evil should include Iran and North Korea because America should never truly be at peace. There's still a lot of evil out there, and John is just the guy to fix it so we won't have to worry about that. Bomb this. Invade that. Negotiate? Not when we have all these bombs.
It is a fundamental problem our "President" has understanding the inner workings of drama. As a participant in "reality TV," he has never truly understood scripted theater. The Good Cop/Bad Cop trope needs a Good Cop to work. Yes, the guy who shows up with a white mustache to hide the foaming spittle coming from his mouth insisting that "There needs to be a strategic response to Russia's new nuclear missiles to show our allies in Europe that we will not let Russia push the US or its allies around," is a pretty good fit for that Bad Cop spot.
So who does that leave in the Good Cop position? Surely not "Fire and Fury" Donnie. Certainly our "President" has not been at global domination/destruction as long as Mister Bolton, but I think I would definitely sleep better if I knew that Christina Aquilera was going to be our new National Security Adviser. At least we know she's a Fighter.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Tough Talk
What happened to the high road?
At an anti-sexual assault rally at the University of Miami earlier this week, Joe Biden said that if he were in high school and heard Trump making lewd comments about women, he would “take him behind the gym and beat the hell out of him.” This is also the same gentleman who once suggested, "if you want to keep someone away from your house, just fire the shotgun through the door." This was back in 2013, while Joe was still the sitting Vice President of the United States. Back in those days, he could be counted on to say the darndest things. Three years after that, he was campaigning for Hillary Clinton when he spouted off about the Republican's nominee: “The press always ask me, ‘Don’t I wish I were debating him?’ No, I wish we were in high school — I could take him behind the gym. That’s what I wish.”
At the time, Private Citizen and candidate Trump responded, “Did you see where Biden wants to take me to the the back of the barn? Me. I’d love that. Mister Tough Guy. You know, he’s Mister Tough Guy. You know when he’s Mister Tough Guy? When he’s standing behind a microphone by himself.” After a pause, “Some things in life you could really love doing.”
At an anti-sexual assault rally at the University of Miami earlier this week, Joe Biden said that if he were in high school and heard Trump making lewd comments about women, he would “take him behind the gym and beat the hell out of him.” This is also the same gentleman who once suggested, "if you want to keep someone away from your house, just fire the shotgun through the door." This was back in 2013, while Joe was still the sitting Vice President of the United States. Back in those days, he could be counted on to say the darndest things. Three years after that, he was campaigning for Hillary Clinton when he spouted off about the Republican's nominee: “The press always ask me, ‘Don’t I wish I were debating him?’ No, I wish we were in high school — I could take him behind the gym. That’s what I wish.”
At the time, Private Citizen and candidate Trump responded, “Did you see where Biden wants to take me to the the back of the barn? Me. I’d love that. Mister Tough Guy. You know, he’s Mister Tough Guy. You know when he’s Mister Tough Guy? When he’s standing behind a microphone by himself.” After a pause, “Some things in life you could really love doing.”
The things in life that I could really love doing do not include going behind a barn or a gym to duke it out with guys in their seventies. Even if I really didn't like them. Even if I found their comments and actions despicable. Maybe that's because I'm still in my fifties and twenty years is just long enough to forget about exactly what it feels like to be in a fistfight. I haven't been in that many myself, but I don't remember coming away feeling like a "winner." Instead, I remember when all that adrenaline left and I was left hurting and wondering if I had made my point by making my hands hurt by hitting and being hit, I was pretty sure that I hadn't. Instead, I had deepened the divide by punching my way into a bigger mess. Those movie fights that go on for several minutes, crashing through doors and windows, bare fists flying and that trickle of Captain Kirk blood dripping from the corner of your mouth doesn't really exist. The only way to make a boxing match last more than two rounds is to pad the gloves and have somebody in the corner to stitch up the combatants. So how did our "President" respond to Joe's most recent assertions? “Crazy Joe Biden is trying to act like a tough guy,” he wrote on Twitter. “Actually, he is weak, both mentally and physically, and yet he threatens me, for the second time, with physical assault. He doesn’t know me, but he would go down fast and hard, crying all the way. Don’t threaten people Joe!” If I'm the principal here, I suspend them both for a few days just so I don't have to listen to them.
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