tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50153402024-03-18T05:24:31.699-04:00The Musings of an Urban Christian73-91 born SEA lived SJC 00 married (Amy) home (UCity) 05 Jada (PRC) 07 Aaron (ROC) 15 Asher (OKC) | 91-95 BS Penn Wharton (Acctg Mgmt) 04-06 MPA Penn Fels (EconDev PubFnc) 12-19 Prof GAFL517 (Fels) | 95-05 EVP Enterprise Ctr 06-12 Dir Econsult Corp 13-20 SrVP/Princ 20- President Econsult Solns 18-21 Phila Schl Board | Bds/Adv: Asian Chamber, Cities Changing Diabetes, City Schl, Missio, PACDC, Penn Weitzman, PHLDiv, PHMC, PIDC, UAC, UPA, YMCA | Mmbr: Brit Amer Proj, James Brister SocietyLHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.comBlogger4310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-21198770711198094222024-03-18T05:24:00.004-04:002024-03-18T05:24:00.129-04:00Where is the Hope<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BYU3ySVwHmBv624OaI9JEav_dLeQQj50XKdunLoIOfxqVFDrKfxi_jAGXnah0V5ganiW2bt4GWdrvDuOdHtt8vMDfHTAlaI6jMaZJChUL35bJHAxFjafisvbtiZiG-ys10VYVagM3OUjc7IusYFm7cpCrNGxiDkXRD6Zzs702RFiCdjmuK7q/s1024/guilty-AI.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BYU3ySVwHmBv624OaI9JEav_dLeQQj50XKdunLoIOfxqVFDrKfxi_jAGXnah0V5ganiW2bt4GWdrvDuOdHtt8vMDfHTAlaI6jMaZJChUL35bJHAxFjafisvbtiZiG-ys10VYVagM3OUjc7IusYFm7cpCrNGxiDkXRD6Zzs702RFiCdjmuK7q/w640-h640/guilty-AI.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p>There's a meme that has been making the rounds in my social media feed of late, which of course I now cannot find, along the lines of "if two 80-something year old firefighters show up at a fire, and one has a hose and the other has gasoline, it's pretty obvious which one is more capable." The insinuation being that Joe Biden and Donald Trump are both old but beyond that the differences could not be more stark. </p><p>I realize memes are meant to be funny, and that political ones are not trying to be diplomatic or conciliatory when making their point. But that meme is, to me, so sad and so telling.</p><p>First of all, let me say where I am politically. I agree with what I believe to be the main premise of the meme. Joe Biden, while old, is reasonably capable. Donald Trump, also old, has the potential to be literally inflammatory for this country. So, now that it's likely these are our two choices, I have already figured out who I am voting and rooting for.</p><p>That said, the beauty of this country is its diversity, which by definition means that different people come from different perspectives and have different opinions. According to the polls, slightly more people plan to vote for Trump than Biden. I can't say how much of that is love for Trump, hate for Biden, desire for change, or preference for R's over D's, but the fact of the matter is that, when presented with the choice of two firefighters, there are lots of people on both sides of that choice. Which tells me that there are lots of people who would not characterize this presidential election as choosing between someone who brings a hose to a fire and someone who brings gasoline. Which tells me that characterizing it as such may feel good to some who like Biden but seems alienating to others who either like Trump, or are unhappy with both Biden and Trump.<br /></p><p>I also imagine that many, when confronted with the scenario this meme describes, would react with sadness that, with the pressing need to put out a fire, the only two firefighters available are in their 80's. I have to think that younger folks in particular are wondering, how is it that we are the future of this country, and when we go to the voting booth, we don't see ourselves in the race for the top job in the land? I lament but understand the deep disillusionment many of our young people feel about a political process that leads to Biden and Trump being our two choices, again. I realize this is a bit circular, but I refuse to be a scold and say that if only young people were more engaged, they'd have more representation. The fact of the matter is that young people do seem reasonably engaged, and yet election after election it is not their candidate who emerges as the choice, and I can empathize with the amount of disillusionment that that creates.<br /></p><p>It is also disillusioning that we are talking about having to put out a fire, especially if, to continue the analogy, some of us are feeling the proximity and damage of that fire while others of us are comfortably buffered from it. Whether it is economic inequity or a sense in which some of us have the privilege of opting out of certain social or political issues, there is a disillusionment that the playing field is uneven, such that some are able to navigate with comfort while others are faced with a raging inferno. That too seems terribly unfair and depressing.</p><p>Where is the hope for this generation? I realize it's just one meme, and memes are supposed to be sarcastic and biting and dark. So apologies if I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. But I feel like this meme is both indicative of and makes a mockery of a hopelessness that I sense among this generation, a hopelessness that I lament but have sympathy for. <br /></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-35585138695051354602024-03-13T05:22:00.005-04:002024-03-13T05:22:00.135-04:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 418 <p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK5gXHW0M9ZV2lybzeKlCN4rluzzRPgNg1zu4IZDhbH6hvJXv4pCqPTkXHikL5sjZXM2b8znLb4YUGbfkcBdZd-KEdOXtmIUrFMK0t4Ih6do8PeA3dtfSg-Z3a_51AV3iQ8Y0jp2Ki-hsI2dLpX292OwItsCa6XaryO1Uwb5MZIPpH_-8z3pAO/s640/man-of-two-faces-viet-thanh-nguyen-2000x1000-6512110ec79a2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK5gXHW0M9ZV2lybzeKlCN4rluzzRPgNg1zu4IZDhbH6hvJXv4pCqPTkXHikL5sjZXM2b8znLb4YUGbfkcBdZd-KEdOXtmIUrFMK0t4Ih6do8PeA3dtfSg-Z3a_51AV3iQ8Y0jp2Ki-hsI2dLpX292OwItsCa6XaryO1Uwb5MZIPpH_-8z3pAO/w640-h320/man-of-two-faces-viet-thanh-nguyen-2000x1000-6512110ec79a2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "A Man of Two Faces: A Memoir, A History, A Memorial," by Viet Thanh Nguyen. <br /><p></p><p> </p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":1ki3" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":7jfa" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":7jfa" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":1ki2" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Like many other immigrants and refugees before them, Ba Má become human sacrifices, throwing themselves onto barbed wire so I can walk across their backs into this strange new world. They work relentlessly, almost every waking hour, almost every day of the year except for Easter, Tết, and Christmas. Every day their own station of the cross.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The writer’s dilemma: be scarred enough to be a good writer, but not so scarred as to be truly fucked up. You have achieved the magic balance! Congratulations!!!</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">You laugh at yourselves because you have been laughed at so many times already. At Saint Patrick, one classmate asks, Did you carry an AK-47 during the war? Another classmate says, Ah-so, asshole! while bowing and clasping his hands. You remember their names and faces to this day.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Many of the Hmong resettle in poor Black communities, where neither is prepared for the Other. When poor people are forced together, they sometimes clash. But after [Minneapolis Police Department officer Jason] Andersen kills Fong Lee, Black activists rally. Lee’s sister Shoua says, "</span><span style="font-family: arial;">They were the loudest voices for us. They didn’t ask to show up. They just showed up."</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Start with an easy question for the students. How many of you are refugees? Two, three hands go up. How many of you are immigrants? </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Everybody raises their hands. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">These students have already absorbed the message: AMERICATM is a nation of immigrants. Not a country of refugees.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">You tell yourself: </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Don’t be a voice for the voiceless. Abolish the conditions of voicelessness.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">You are thrilled to get as far away as you can from San José, even if it is only 330 miles to your Inland Empire. Only many years later do you feel a degree of shame. Ba Má sacrificed so much for you. And you repay them by fleeing.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">You marry Lan. Although the most important thing about her to Ba Má is that she is a Vietnamese Catholic from a good family, the most important thing about Lan to you is that she is a poet, as well as beautiful. Your delighted parents pay for the very loud wedding, held in a Chinese banquet hall with the same elaborate ten-course Chinese meal served at every Vietnamese wedding, a bottle of Hennessy cognac on every table for the four hundred guests, most of whom you do not know. No one expects you to enjoy your own wedding. What a Western idea!</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-24084624579257409272024-03-11T05:20:00.002-04:002024-03-11T05:20:00.131-04:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 417 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFuuDmzRZZMbqSCnI7TYX1ZRHQEmHA0P7U3HTv9oT4nyk9X3de0aII970vINOB3ZETDZJ07ALnPB-O3pUBomUcJaJFC2NuDfroEWJXPxCB_f9ABLPzIh0E9LHrr4ossULAU-KPtgep1AYtVuSHDr3_vuPNCSFvLpYS-Ow0kr968z4-G7B9s5B/s1280/bellho.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFuuDmzRZZMbqSCnI7TYX1ZRHQEmHA0P7U3HTv9oT4nyk9X3de0aII970vINOB3ZETDZJ07ALnPB-O3pUBomUcJaJFC2NuDfroEWJXPxCB_f9ABLPzIh0E9LHrr4ossULAU-KPtgep1AYtVuSHDr3_vuPNCSFvLpYS-Ow0kr968z4-G7B9s5B/w640-h360/bellho.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a couple of excerpts from a book I recently read, "We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity," by bell hooks.</p><p><br /></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":1kbi" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":7jcs" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":7jcs" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":1khc" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Anyone who claims to be concerned with the fate of black males in the United States who does not speak about the need for them to radicalize their consciousness to challenge patriarchy if they are to survive and flourish colludes with the existing system in keeping black men in their place, psychologically locked down, locked out.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Significantly, Moynihan’s report came just in time to reinforce the notion that it was important for black males to fight in imperialist wars. Retrospectively, it is easy to see the reason the state helped stir up gender conflict between black women and men just as it was preparing to enter various wars around the world.</span></div></div>
</div></div><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-12218280725077803722024-03-06T05:17:00.015-05:002024-03-06T05:17:00.129-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 416 <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcs3bhfudXERzKi4xY8KDEuE32lXO_LgXbhxPlmmQCN0r4eyZr50tA3tmdIAUEOHL_30p4QTi5lUKvWzH5dyRdLeB3m6JksiKA_h9I8d7lthGdGAJpfi3yb19KEo5beedVw8AZE0brY4je8XtHTlTtDStzC-fvtvhUNyNfNncf_BG5FfXeyhmC/s316/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="316" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcs3bhfudXERzKi4xY8KDEuE32lXO_LgXbhxPlmmQCN0r4eyZr50tA3tmdIAUEOHL_30p4QTi5lUKvWzH5dyRdLeB3m6JksiKA_h9I8d7lthGdGAJpfi3yb19KEo5beedVw8AZE0brY4je8XtHTlTtDStzC-fvtvhUNyNfNncf_BG5FfXeyhmC/w640-h324/Untitled.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "In the Form of a Question: The Joys and Rewards of a Curious Life," by Amy Schneider.<br /></p><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">One of the key points I want to make in this book is
that I am open to being wrong, to reconsidering my beliefs. It is my
hope that, in the future, I will come to disagree with, and perhaps even
disavow, some of the statements I’ve made in these pages, because it is
my hope that I will never stop learning. I look forward to your
feedback. The next book will be better.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jeopardy!,
like sports, is an attempt to measure a natural talent via an unnatural
competition. So you don’t just need to “know stuff,” you need to know
the right kind of stuff. During my run, Jeopardy! aired a tournament for
college professors, who are essentially professional knowers of stuff,
yet their collective Jeopardy! performance was not particularly elite.
Jeopardy! rewards breadth of knowledge, not depth, and as such rewards
the combination of knowledge and laziness that’s been my hallmark from
childhood.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">A
few months later, I got home from work and, in a routine that had
become automatic, went to my bedroom to pick out which feminine clothes I
would change into for the evening. As I was debating the merits of each
outfit, something occurred to me: if I were to die suddenly, right then
and there, I wouldn’t get to wear any of those outfits. I would be
buried in a suit and tie. That’s how I would be seen at the wake, that’s
how I would be remembered. And that last bit of eggshell dropped off. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">If
I could only wear one outfit for all eternity, I needed it to be
pretty. And the only way I could be certain of that would be to not have
any outfits that weren’t pretty, never to dress in those hideous
god-awful boy clothes that I’d hated my entire life. And if I did that,
people would need an explanation. And the only explanation that would
make sense would be: I am trans. I am a woman. I wear the clothes that
were meant for me all along. I was going to have to come out of the
closet.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Onstage,
you can get away with anything. You can do the very things that
frighten you the most, and not only can you survive them, but you can
enjoy them. You can feel proud, even about the things you’re most
ashamed of. It’s no coincidence that the LGBT demographic is wildly
overrepresented among theater kids. Being queer so often means being
ashamed of your queerness. It means feeling driven to express a part of
yourself that is prohibited, a part you’re ashamed even to have. Theater
gives you a chance to express that prohibited self, right out in the
open, but in a deniable way—That wasn’t me violating my prescribed
gender norms! I was just playing a character! *wink* </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not
only is acting a refuge from societal judgment, it can also be a refuge
from yourself. I have not been a big fan of myself for most of my life.
I kept a mental list of all my shortcomings, all my failures,
everything I had to feel ashamed of, and I tended that list with great
care, always on the lookout for opportunities to add to it. Which made
it a relief simply not to be me for a while every night, not to have any
responsibility for myself or my actions. Left to my own devices, it
seemed like I always did the wrong thing, or said the wrong thing, and I
always would, because I was fundamentally flawed somehow. But in a
play, it’s not up to you. The script tells you what to say, the director
tells you what to do, and for a brief period you don’t have to berate
yourself for always making the wrong decision, because you’re not making
any decisions at all. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">That’s
a lot of what theater meant to me. But when you think of actors, you
probably don’t think of shy, retiring, introvert types like I was back
then. You probably picture big, brash personalities, always putting
themselves at the center of attention. And for good reason, because
those people are also drawn to the stage, and for reasons that are
almost the opposite of the ones I’ve just described. The way I put it is
that two types of people are attracted to theater: people who always
want to be seen, and people who always want to be hidden. In theater,
you can do both at once. Theater is a place where you can stand alone on
a stage, with hundreds of people focusing their full attention on you,
and yet still be invisible. It’s a place where you can say, Hey!
Everybody! Drop what you’re doing and look at me! Notice what I’m doing!
Stop thinking about your own life and focus on what I am feeling right
now!, and yet somehow say it selflessly, humbly, as part of a communal
project. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Theater brings
together people who, offstage, would find each other intolerable, and
offers them each what they need. For the shy, it offers escape,
concealment, safety; for the confident, it offers attention, freedom,
validation. In theater, not only can you do the very things you fear the
most, but you can do them with the very people who make you fear it.
Putting on a play is like a massive simultaneous trust fall, with
everyone involved in the production constantly falling, even as they
constantly catch each other. If you do the thing you’re afraid of, and
do it in collaboration with the people who make you afraid of it, then
eventually you’ll start to realize that you no longer have anything to
fear.</span> <br /></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-52340893998992053872024-03-04T05:35:00.001-05:002024-03-04T05:35:00.128-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 415<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQErLc00jv3f1WQTG7hq6L0cbXZJ4B_F-JYjTA1XXzeaIhNa6L5LmZjDdQL7HVddp7fMZqpRegP6nDL-u5IxI8DUL4YMhl8AqPNJ-MN6CxleKFMsId7ckeBJoylLYwiyUL52NLYKhwD8rFtVr31t-byz0ivGr-M9hHtBgLQPSRDWMLy6H99hz/s1000/71h7beJLwSL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="658" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQErLc00jv3f1WQTG7hq6L0cbXZJ4B_F-JYjTA1XXzeaIhNa6L5LmZjDdQL7HVddp7fMZqpRegP6nDL-u5IxI8DUL4YMhl8AqPNJ-MN6CxleKFMsId7ckeBJoylLYwiyUL52NLYKhwD8rFtVr31t-byz0ivGr-M9hHtBgLQPSRDWMLy6H99hz/w422-h640/71h7beJLwSL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Devotions," by Mary Oliver.<br /></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":ba3v" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":banr" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":banr" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":74k9" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 575px;" tabindex="1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>For Tom Shaw SSJE (1945-2014)</b><br /><br />“Where has this cold come from?"<br /><br />“It comes from the death of your friend.”<br /><br />Will I always, from now on, be this cold?<br /><br />“No, it will diminish. But always it will be with you.”<br /><br />What is the reason for it?<br /><br />“Wasn’t your friendship always as beautiful as a flame?”<b> <br /><br /><br /><br />I Go Down To The Shore</b><br /><br />I go down to the shore in the morning<br />and depending on the hour the waves<br />are rolling in or moving out,<br />and I say, oh, I am miserable,<br />what shall—<br />what should I do? And the sea says<br />in its lovely voice:<br />Excuse me, I have work to do. <br /><b><br /><br /><br />How I Go to the Woods</b><br /><br />Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single<br />friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore<br />unsuitable.<br /><br />I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds<br />or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of<br />praying, as you no doubt have yours.<br /><br />Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit<br />on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,<br />until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost<br />unhearable sound of the roses singing.<br /><br />If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love<br />you very much.</span></span></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-71586178536164430752024-02-28T05:32:00.002-05:002024-02-28T05:32:00.240-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 414 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtEEqwlG_zuUAjELsaJcKqx8h3wvTCpR4TKhiqqXYwkDtXnF05BaLZJ8Nz2phdrDyCgM4-xoA0MWwkl_eXZqWvWCb-YxS-JYGo37NjUsiBrXdqw3fC27t2rTW_FWrAqptcXmWtJw2acPZfuE6XTHsUT-Nl0E205UhXj_biF01_v4qoCpCQro5e/s1000/71qeWx83sxL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="610" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtEEqwlG_zuUAjELsaJcKqx8h3wvTCpR4TKhiqqXYwkDtXnF05BaLZJ8Nz2phdrDyCgM4-xoA0MWwkl_eXZqWvWCb-YxS-JYGo37NjUsiBrXdqw3fC27t2rTW_FWrAqptcXmWtJw2acPZfuE6XTHsUT-Nl0E205UhXj_biF01_v4qoCpCQro5e/w390-h640/71qeWx83sxL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="390" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, The Diary of a Young Girl," by Anne Frank.</p><p><br /></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":b9uy" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":bah8" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":bah8" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":74ka" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.<br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t have a friend. Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen-year-old girl is completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem to have everything, except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how things are, and unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is why I’ve started the diary.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, I don’t want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but I want the diary to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Margot and I started packing our most important belongings into a schoolbag. The first thing I stuck in was this diary, and then curlers, handkerchiefs, schoolbooks, a comb and some old letters. Preoccupied by the thought of going into hiding, I stuck the craziest things in the bag, but I’m not sorry. Memories mean more to me than dresses.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I won’t say much about Father and me. The former is the most modest person at the table. He always looks to see whether the others have been served first. He needs nothing for himself; the best things are for the children. He’s goodness personified.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Margot just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. But I have a right to be taken seriously too. I’ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the family; I’ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair. I’m no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks. I long for something from Father that he’s incapable of giving. I’m not jealous of Margot; I never have been. I’m not envious of her brains or her beauty. It’s just that I’d like to feel that Father really loves me, not because I’m his child, but because I’m me, Anne.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Believe me, if you’ve been shut up for a year and a half, it can get to be too much for you sometimes. But feelings can’t be ignored, no matter how unjust or ungrateful they seem. I long to ride a bike, dance, whistle, look at the world, feel young and know that I’m free, and yet I can’t let it show. Just imagine what would happen if all eight of us were to feel sorry for ourselves or walk around with the discontent clearly visible on our faces. Where would that get us? I sometimes wonder if anyone will ever understand what I mean, if anyone will ever overlook my ingratitude and not worry about whether or not I’m Jewish and merely see me as a teenager badly in need of some good plain fun. I don’t know, and I wouldn’t be able to talk about it with anyone, since I’m sure I’d start to cry. Crying can bring relief, as long as you don’t cry alone. Despite all my theories and efforts, I miss—every day and every hour of the day—having a mother who understands me. That’s why with everything I do and write, I imagine the kind of mom I’d like to be to my children later on. The kind of mom who doesn’t take everything people say too seriously, but who does take me seriously. I find it difficult to describe what I mean, but the word “mom” says it all. Do you know what I’ve come up with? In order to give me the feeling of calling my mother something that sounds like “Mom,” I often call her “Momsy.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Moms”: an imperfect “Mom.” I wish I could honor her by removing the “s.” It’s a good thing she doesn’t realize this, since it would only make her unhappy.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Unconsciously, I had these feelings even before I came here. Once when I was spending the night at Jacque’s, I could no longer restrain my curiosity about her body, which she’d always hidden from me and which I’d never seen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendship, we could touch each other’s breasts. Jacque refused. I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did. Every time I see a female nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears. If only I had a girlfriend!</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“As long as this exists,” I thought, “this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God. For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that God wants people to be happy amid nature’s beauty and simplicity. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">As long as this exists, and that should be forever, I know that there will be solace for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances. I firmly believe that nature can bring comfort to all who suffer. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, who knows, perhaps it won’t be long before I can share this overwhelming feeling of happiness with someone who feels the same as I do.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">My life here has gotten better, much better. God has not forsaken me, and He never will.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">We’ve been strongly reminded of the fact that we’re Jews in chains, chained to one spot, without any rights, but with a thousand obligations. We must put our feelings aside; we must be brave and strong, bear discomfort without complaint, do whatever is in our power and trust in God. One day this terrible war will be over. The time will come when we’ll be people again and not just Jews! </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Who has inflicted this on us? Who has set us apart from all the rest? Who has put us through such suffering? It’s God who has made us the way we are, but it’s also God who will lift us up again. In the eyes of the world, we’re doomed, but if, after all this suffering, there are still Jews left, the Jewish people will be held up as an example. Who knows, maybe our religion will teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and that’s the reason, the only reason, we have to suffer. We can never be just Dutch, or just English, or whatever, we will always be Jews as well. And we’ll have to keep on being Jews, but then, we’ll want to be. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Be brave! Let’s remember our duty and perform it without complaint. There will be a way out. God has never deserted our people. Through the ages Jews have had to suffer, but through the ages they’ve gone on living, and the centuries of suffering have only made them stronger. The weak shall fall and the strong shall survive and not be defeated!</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">That night I really thought I was going to die. I waited for the police and I was ready for death, like a soldier on a battlefield. I’d gladly have given my life for my country. But now, now that I’ve been spared, my first wish after the war is to become a Dutch citizen. I love the Dutch, I love this country, I love the language, and I want to work here. And even if I have to write to the Queen herself, I won’t give up until I’ve reached my goal!</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m becoming more and more independent of my parents. Young as I am, I face life with more courage and have a better and truer sense of justice than Mother. I know what I want, I have a goal, I have opinions, a religion and love. If only I can be myself, I’ll be satisfied. I know that I’m a woman, a woman with inner strength and a great deal of courage! </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">If God lets me live, I’ll achieve more than Mother ever did, I’ll make my voice heard, I’ll go out into the world and work for mankind! </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I now know that courage and happiness are needed first!</span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">And now something else. You’ve known for a long time that my greatest wish is to be a journalist, and later on, a famous writer. We’ll have to wait and see if these grand illusions (or delusions!) will ever come true, but up to now I’ve had no lack of topics. In any case, after the war I’d like to publish a book called The Secret Annex. It remains to be seen whether I’ll succeed, but my diary can serve as the basis.<br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Peter’s a sweetheart, but I’ve slammed the door to my inner self; if he ever wants to force the lock again, he’ll have to use a harder crowbar!</span></div></div>
</div></div><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-34925048886259503152024-02-26T05:29:00.001-05:002024-02-26T05:29:00.129-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 413 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjD0a7ntlqjkpl0W-RF2sb6CzDjXBFMgxwfJgTMM0GdzSGMnhKdJi-OBNceAoRjaNy8TBa7k7w9UMUv3fSATevhR-bXt-8a6OqdN_8quLbRdp3C0n6dleU3C9V4Ogd12FEiqKMJtVkMrjmaOnNwb_E9kkQTU6hBb_jVFkOxnQARxqj47DO8vPz/s248/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="248" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjD0a7ntlqjkpl0W-RF2sb6CzDjXBFMgxwfJgTMM0GdzSGMnhKdJi-OBNceAoRjaNy8TBa7k7w9UMUv3fSATevhR-bXt-8a6OqdN_8quLbRdp3C0n6dleU3C9V4Ogd12FEiqKMJtVkMrjmaOnNwb_E9kkQTU6hBb_jVFkOxnQARxqj47DO8vPz/w640-h524/Untitled.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "A Most Tolerant Little Town: The Explosive Beginning of School Desegregation in America," by Rachel Martin. </p><p> </p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":74qj" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":bacw" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":bacw" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":6irs" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Deciding what narrative—or, more accurately, whose narrative—to feature in the exhibits would be more challenging. The battle over the story of Clinton’s desegregation is part of an ongoing national struggle over the politics of memory. History, like all things involving power in America today, is seen as a zero-sum game. But our memories are not time machines. They reveal something much deeper and truer and more personal than a simple timeline of events. We choose what we want to remember, and we also choose what we will forget. </span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was able to reconstruct these previously unknown stories because the people of Clinton were generous with their memories. My narrators taught me to think of memory as being like music. The basic building blocks are the solos: one voice telling its story. As soon as more voices join in, the music of the past becomes more complex. Some people have held on to perspectives that harmonize, differing only by gradations of nuance, but more often the various voices are in discord and disagreement. This is the most troubling part of memory, but it can also be the most revealing. There is power in the complexity of a community’s story, when it clashes like Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. If you stand next to only one voice, the rest of the orchestra seems to be in chaos, but if you can step back and listen to the whole of the group, the differing narratives become the melodies, harmonies, and descants of the piece.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">But national news organizations sensed a story unfolding in Clinton. Didn’t seem either side was like to give in anytime soon, which meant it could be a town on the verge of exploding. They sent staffers, stringers, and freelancers to town, just in case, filling up Clinton’s two hotels. While in Clinton, these reporters—mostly white and uniformly men—formed a farcical organization they named the Southern War Correspondents Association. (Someone proposed naming it the Southern War Correspondents Association, Suh, a play on the stereotypical enslaved pronunciation of “sir,” but this idea was shot down.) They quickly settled on their motto: “Discretion Is the Better Part of Valor.” To that end, the membership cards were two-sided: one labeled “Integrated” and the other “Segregated.” The men flipped the card to whatever side they thought might be most palatable to the person asking them for identification.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">But word had trickled out to the protestors that the football players weren’t on their side, that they’d protected the Black students, that they’d helped keep the school open and desegregated. As the lettermen walked through the crowd, noticeable in their school jackets, some of the protestors yelled, “You people are a disgrace to the county!” and “Going to school and playing football while we’re out here defending you!”</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">None of the white adults organizing the new school arrangements suggested resegregating the student body—at least not publicly. Most were simply resigned to the situation. For a few of them, however, the events of the past few years had changed them from reluctant participants in desegregation into committed integrationists. Margaret Anderson didn’t want her town to be misconstrued by journalists parachuting in to cover the bombing, so she wrote an article for the New York Times. In 1956, she’d been one of the many white people who pledged to follow the law. Now she wrote: “Integration will work. It is already working in many places. It will continue to work because it is just and right and long overdue.” Setbacks—even the violent destruction of a school—should not “stop integration, for that would be to go backward.” Still, she believed too much of the fight had fallen on her students. “Today’s children are having to pay such a high price emotionally, socially, and academically,” she told her readers. “Are we taking every precaution to guard the safety of these children from enemies we do not know, or cannot identify?” The rubble around her was her answer.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The local police so badly bungled the investigation that some concluded the officers were colluding to protect the perpetrators. For Robert Cain Sr., Bobby Cain’s father, the damning evidence was that the police did not immediately go to Clinton High School to investigate. When he heard the first blast, he rushed to his front porch. Despite the darkness, he could tell something had happened down at Clinton High. He could also see a police car parked by Asbury Methodist even though the officers seldom patrolled the Hill. The car wasn’t moving. It stayed put until after the second blast went off.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Evangelist Billy Graham joined the effort. On December 14, 1958, he conducted a one-day revival in Clinton. His sermon that day was the first time he spoke to a community that had recently experienced racial violence, and it was the first time he directly connected his work as a Christian evangelist to his support for the growing civil rights movement. Billy Graham was a social conservative on many issues, but he believed in racial equality and integration. He insisted on preaching before an integrated audience, a position he took no matter where he preached in the South or across the globe. When the local segregationists heard of his stand, they threatened his life. The evangelist replied that their threats proved he was doing the right thing.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the coming months, contributions to rebuild the school continued to pour in from around the nation. The Franklin Institute squadron of the civil air patrol in Philadelphia contributed their weekly dues. Builders’ unions volunteered their labor. “People may have mixed opinions about integration,” the president of the Building Trades Council wrote Drew Pearson, “but none of them have mixed feelings about using bombs to retard school children. We want to help.”</span> <br /></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-53346141262951818672024-02-21T05:27:00.003-05:002024-02-21T05:27:00.137-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 412<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_nwd4LUqqAR_H3BW68zLMlSLTw5Fj9QH3orwxjpPvW5ErbVKNzk6kFs_EDH3NEktEVYzvfhKRrLrfOSonwroN4yrsFLzpcKcxaOYnoIMATlJ6G8KTedKArLgPul8zliNOXENonRZxBBJPtAugx7Sph2LxLv6UN7TU_gIp4EOpmYm-rpJFuy7/s300/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_nwd4LUqqAR_H3BW68zLMlSLTw5Fj9QH3orwxjpPvW5ErbVKNzk6kFs_EDH3NEktEVYzvfhKRrLrfOSonwroN4yrsFLzpcKcxaOYnoIMATlJ6G8KTedKArLgPul8zliNOXENonRZxBBJPtAugx7Sph2LxLv6UN7TU_gIp4EOpmYm-rpJFuy7/w640-h358/Untitled.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a couple of excerpts from a book I recently read, "Stay True," by Hua Hsu.<br /></p><p><br /></p><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto"></div><span style="font-family: arial;">For
a brief spell, my father toyed with anglicizing his name and asked to
be called Eric, though he soon realized that assimilation of that order
didn’t suit him. You were free to name your children after U.S.
presidents. Or you might name them something unpronounceable, since they
would never be president anyway.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">My
wariness about Ken was compounded by the fact that he was Asian
American, like me. All the previous times I had met poised, content
people like Ken, they were white. It’s one of those obscure parts of an
already obscure identity that Japanese American kids can seem like
aliens to other Asians, untroubled, largely oblivious to feeling like
outsiders. They gave those feelings up long ago. Japanese American
families like Ken’s have often been in the country for several
generations. The children of recent immigrants feel discomfort at a
molecular level, especially when doing typical things, like going to the
pizza parlor on a Friday night, playacting as Americans. We are certain
you’ve forgotten our names. The Japanese Americans I’d grown up around
had parents who were into football and fishing, grandparents whose
stories of the internment camps were recited with no trace of accent.
Some of them had never even been to Japan, and some, too, had family who
fought against Japan in World War II. We all look alike, until you
realize we don’t, and then you begin feeling that nobody could possibly
seem more different.</span></div></div>
<p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-46521312211292529662024-02-19T05:24:00.001-05:002024-02-19T05:24:00.152-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 411 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizj5l_WA50wRq0QTNf0vkVGzQqhp-lm-oTeCnzdSebD7lCTRvSpDTYPMgW5CG2yDXD0CuSGI_ZvPS6V_Gxx10vEONSL0Rr5ZNR57g68MRBK5ghicwEt5qt1JNk5UUbb-S78iNZMPX18uSlpktVd8FbbqMNhlczUMccZVexWC0WALVJ8yoDlOJ1/s1200/2022_CrosscutFestival_NikoleHannahJones_1619Project_courtesyCrosscut.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizj5l_WA50wRq0QTNf0vkVGzQqhp-lm-oTeCnzdSebD7lCTRvSpDTYPMgW5CG2yDXD0CuSGI_ZvPS6V_Gxx10vEONSL0Rr5ZNR57g68MRBK5ghicwEt5qt1JNk5UUbb-S78iNZMPX18uSlpktVd8FbbqMNhlczUMccZVexWC0WALVJ8yoDlOJ1/w640-h426/2022_CrosscutFestival_NikoleHannahJones_1619Project_courtesyCrosscut.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story," by Nikole Hannah-Jones.</p><p> </p><div dir="auto">We were not actors but acted upon. We were not
contributors, just recipients. White people enslaved us, and white
people freed us. Black people could choose either to take advantage of
that freedom or to squander it, as our depictions in the media seemed to
suggest so many of us were doing. <div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The
world revealed to me through my education was a white one. And yet my
intimate world—my neighborhood, the friends I rode the bus with for two
hours each day to and from the schools on the white side of town, the
boisterous bevy of aunts, uncles, and cousins who crowded our home for
barbecues and card games—was largely Black. At school, I searched
desperately to find myself in the American story we were taught, to see
my humanity—our humanity—reflected back to me.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Racist
justifications for slavery gained ground during the mid-nineteenth
century. The majority of the Supreme Court enshrined this thinking in
the law in its 1857 Dred Scott decision, declaring that Black people,
whether enslaved or free, came from a “slave” race. This made them
permanently inferior to white people and, therefore, incompatible with
American democracy. Democracy existed for citizens, and the “Negro
race,” the court ruled, was “a separate class of persons,” one the
founders had “not regarded as a portion of the people or citizens of the
Government” and who had “no rights which the white man was bound to
respect.” This belief, that Black people were not merely enslaved but a
slave race, is the root of the endemic racism we cannot purge from this
nation to this day. If Black people could not ever be citizens, if they
were a caste apart from all other humans, then they did not require the
rights bestowed by the Constitution, and the “we” in the “We the
People” was not a lie.</div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Since
Black women had no right to deny sex to their enslavers, they had no
right to defend themselves against forced sex. Enslaved women who
successfully fought off enslavers who tried to assault them were sold
away from their families, gruesomely maimed, or executed.36 In 1850,
within a year of his wife’s death, a white Missouri farmer named Robert
Newsom purchased a fourteen-year-old girl named Celia for the purpose of
having sex with her. He raped Celia for the first time on the journey
home from the sale. Newsom put Celia up in a tiny cabin on his farm and
there continued to rape her repeatedly over the course of five years.
Celia gave birth to at least one child resulting from Newsom’s assaults.
In the summer of 1855, Celia begged Newsom to stop because she was sick
and pregnant and warned him that she would resist his advances. She
began to keep a large stick in the corner of her cabin to protect
herself. When Newsom ignored her pleas and came to her cabin on the
night of June 23, 1855, Celia clubbed him twice over the head with the
stick, killing him. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Celia
confessed to Jefferson Jones, who was sent by white citizens to
interview her in her prison cell to find out if she had any accomplices.
She was tried for first-degree murder before a jury composed entirely
of white men, and Jones testified for the prosecution. Celia argued that
she should be found not guilty under the state law of self-defense. An
1854 Missouri statute provided that women could defend themselves
against “every person who shall take any woman, unlawfully, against her
will, with intent to compel her by force, menace or duress…to be
defiled” (emphasis added). But the presiding judge instructed the jury
that the law didn’t apply to Celia, for Celia didn’t fall within the
category of “any woman.” Instead, the judge considered Celia the chattel
property of Newsom and therefore without any legal right to protect
herself against him.38 The jury found Celia guilty of murdering Newsom.
The judge delayed her execution so she could give birth to her third
child, which would become the property of the Newsom family. But the
baby was stillborn; Celia’s other two children were sold. Celia was
hanged on December 21, 1855.</div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Most
schoolchildren are taught the Declaration of Independence’s most famous
lines: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain
unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit
of Happiness.” But relatively few children or adults today are as
familiar with the right to revolt that follows: “Whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the
People to alter or to abolish it…. When a long train of abuses and
usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to
reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their
duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their
future security.”</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">When
Thomas Jefferson penned those words, he owned hundreds of enslaved
people. Yet he was acutely aware that Black people yearned for freedom
no less than the white colonists who had waged the American Revolution
and that no principle of justice could defend slavery. Even God, he
later claimed, would likely side with enslaved people if they organized a
successful revolt against their enslavers. In Notes on the State of
Virginia, published in 1785, Jefferson admitted that rebellions were a
legitimate, rational response to an immoral and inhumane system: “I
tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice
cannot sleep forever; that considering numbers, nature and natural
means only, a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchange of
situation, is among possible events; that it may become probable by
supernatural interference!”</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Jefferson’s
anxious reflections were a kind of inheritance, something passed down
from generation to generation among uneasy white enslavers. At the heart
of slavery lay a terrifying conundrum—an epic struggle between the
enslavers who sought to extract labor, loyalty, and submission from
their human property and the enslaved people who longed for freedom and
were willing to obtain their liberation by any means necessary.
Jefferson, whose ancestors had been enslaving Africans on large Virginia
plantations since the seventeenth century, understood this dilemma
well. Slavery, he once quipped, was akin to having a “wolf by the
ear”—white people could not release their grip on it, but they also knew
that beneath the surface boiled a formidable Black rage that could not
be fully contained.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">From
the founding of the original thirteen colonies, white people in the
North and South lived in constant fear that the men and women they
whipped, raped, and forced to work without pay would, if given the
chance, rise up and take revenge on their white enslavers. This is why
governmental surveillance and severe punishment of Black people began
almost concurrently with the introduction of slavery itself. In 1669,
the Carolina colony granted every free white man “absolute Power and
Authority over his Negro Slaves.” Within decades, Carolina law
drastically bolstered white authority, mandating that all white people
ought to be responsible for policing all Black people’s activities. Any
white person who failed to properly monitor suspicious Black activity
would be fined forty shillings. This notion—that Black people were
inherently devious and criminal, and that white people were required to
monitor and police them—ultimately defined the nature of race relations
in the United States. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Convinced
that the prevailing social and economic order could be preserved only
if Black people were objects of perpetual surveillance and control,
authorities across the colonies enacted slave codes, laws that governed
Black people’s lives and denied them basic human rights, including the
rights to move freely, to “resist” any white person, and to carry
weapons of any kind. Failure to adhere to these restrictions resulted
in brutal punishment. Early slave codes also legally empowered enslavers
to beat, maim, assault, or even kill an enslaved person without
penalty. And if found guilty of participating in insurrectionary
activity, an enslaved person would automatically receive the death
penalty. In many colonies, such as Virginia, the public treasury was
even required to compensate enslavers if an enslaved person was killed
while resisting or running away.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Legally
free Black people, in both the North and the South, were subjected to
similar forms of surveillance and terrorism. Lawmakers across the nation
enacted legislation to ensure that free Black people would remain
firmly in their place, at the bottom of the social order. Foreshadowing
the “know your place” aggression that would dominate race relations in
the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, white politicians outlawed any
Black behavior that was not immediately recognizable as labor or
subservience. In Louisiana, for example, it was illegal for free people
of color to “conceive themselves equal to the whites.” As the law
explicitly stated, Black people should “yield” to white people “on every
occasion, and never speak or answer them but with respect.” If legally
free Black people failed to submit to white authority, they were subject
to imprisonment.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The
leaders of the tribal nations, and subgroups within them, that
supported Great Britain were choosing the devil they knew. Although
English settlers had often taken advantage of Native people with dire
effect, the British government exercised greater control over the
actions of its subjects than American statesmen seemed inclined to do.
This was in large part an economic, not a humanitarian, calculation.
During the colonial era, the colonists’ constant westward settlement
financially strained the Crown, which was called upon to protect these
incursions into Native territory with troops and forts. In 1763, King
George III issued a royal proclamation asserting authority to oversee
trade with Native Americans and forbidding the expansion of white
settlement west of the Appalachian Mountains. Although there was no
enforcement arm for this provision, its existence created a legal
barrier that colonists resented, and Native leaders lauded. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">In
fact, this tension was a contributing factor to the American
Revolution. The colonies were growing rapidly in population and running
out of fertile Southern plantation ground that would support the sons of
landholders, as well as open territory that would satisfy the desire
for upward mobility among the swelling yeoman farmer ranks, whose
contentment was necessary for political stability. In addition, as the
historian Jeffrey Ostler has elucidated, eastern elites such as George
Washington held financial interests in these westerly lands that could
not be exploited while the Proclamation of 1763 prevented freewheeling
land sales. As Calloway succinctly put it in The Indian World of
George Washington: “The Revolution was not only a war for independence
and a new political order; it was also a war for the North American
continent.”</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">It is
little wonder, then, that Native people tended to side with the British.
During the war American soldiers attacked hundreds of Native towns and
British loyalist strongholds. Native soldiers also raided Patriot
settlements. In 1777, a group of intransigent Cherokees called the
Chickamauga warriors, led by Dragging Canoe, Doublehead, the Glass,
Bloody Fellow, and others, began a series of guerrilla attacks on
settlements. Sometimes Black people were taken captive, enslaved, or
given to other Cherokees.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The
Second Amendment, ratified in 1791, codified for white citizens the
right to bear arms and to protect themselves. If there were any doubts
about who these rights pertained to, they were put to rest in 1800, when
Virginia governor James Monroe called out several regiments of the
state’s militia to thwart, before it could begin, a widespread revolt
planned by an enslaved man named Gabriel, and then to hunt him and the
other participants down. As the historian Herbert Aptheker wrote in
“American Negro Slave Revolts,” as word of Gabriel’s revolt spread, the
“nation, from Massachusetts to Mississippi, was terror-stricken.” The
response was to double down and make more explicit through legislation
the prohibitions on Black people owning guns.47 One Virginian wrote in
the local newspaper that “we must re-enact all those rigorous laws which
experience has proved necessary to keep [slavery] within bounds. In a
word, if we will keep a ferocious monster in our country, we must keep
him in chains.”</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">According
to a 2020 report by the Equal Justice Initiative, white Americans
lynched at least 6,500 Black people from the end of the Civil War to
1950, an average of three every two weeks for eight and a half
decades. (Since 2015, law enforcement has killed, on average, nearly
five Black people a week.) <br /></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-67324217132825858512024-02-14T05:21:00.001-05:002024-02-14T05:21:00.137-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 410 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUA6TBNLzbtVmJc15abRWiTbB_BBJDTcVdDIsuV6yG19qj4MBJEavo0Px6zA6kcuzE_FySKdXwbjYn2YJI04hQzHyrqk6T28f_ncIfvydDMivlkB-oH4dJw9h6Xl-icqA2qBIjKxM_0PLMZUKROPiyPOFjX8B-gQZ5VUucbdlENWtPWHJpvFF/s1940/e326be24069304b55eac08a84ecfc482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="1940" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUA6TBNLzbtVmJc15abRWiTbB_BBJDTcVdDIsuV6yG19qj4MBJEavo0Px6zA6kcuzE_FySKdXwbjYn2YJI04hQzHyrqk6T28f_ncIfvydDMivlkB-oH4dJw9h6Xl-icqA2qBIjKxM_0PLMZUKROPiyPOFjX8B-gQZ5VUucbdlENWtPWHJpvFF/w640-h426/e326be24069304b55eac08a84ecfc482.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Here are a couple of excerpts from a book I recently read, "Selected Poems," by Gwendolyn Brooks.</p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":74kd" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":b9zd" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":b9zd" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":74kc" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto">
<div>
<h1><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
a song in the front yard
</span></h1>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I want a peek at the back<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows. <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
A girl gets sick of a rose.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I want to go in the back yard now <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
And maybe down the alley,<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
To where the charity children play. <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I want a good time today.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
They do some wonderful things.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
They have some wonderful fun.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine. <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Will grow up to be a bad woman.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace <br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.</span></div></div></div>
<div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div></div><div dir="auto">
<div>
<h1>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span>the sonnet-ballad</span></span>
</h1>
</div>
<div><div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span>Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?</span><br /><span>They took my lover’s tallness off to war,</span><br /><span>Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess</span><br /><span>What I can use an empty heart-cup for.</span><br /><span>He won’t be coming back here any more.</span></span></p></div></div></div>
</div></div><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-34937426598951750912024-02-12T05:21:00.012-05:002024-02-12T05:21:00.141-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 409 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaxLE-3qgYXI22MwdpD7CRSZLNh9inL45aSAR2G-V4OKZSE0vDgDmJHzws28wEhgGTnwpPfnI1hQhxTjqU2TNuF2jDM-R0HmatlOgw5OjCaD2zWsghdBU_hh076jLU_kRi6wCL9Xwn_i_R54HXd0GC5wqyZFsdTCLtZiiZiKxL_6WFGrKw7YX/s1000/https%20__slimages.macysassets.com_is_image_MCY_products_2_optimized_24411382_fpx.tif%20wid=1200&fmt=jpeg&qlt=100_large.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="1000" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaxLE-3qgYXI22MwdpD7CRSZLNh9inL45aSAR2G-V4OKZSE0vDgDmJHzws28wEhgGTnwpPfnI1hQhxTjqU2TNuF2jDM-R0HmatlOgw5OjCaD2zWsghdBU_hh076jLU_kRi6wCL9Xwn_i_R54HXd0GC5wqyZFsdTCLtZiiZiKxL_6WFGrKw7YX/w640-h336/https%20__slimages.macysassets.com_is_image_MCY_products_2_optimized_24411382_fpx.tif%20wid=1200&fmt=jpeg&qlt=100_large.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Bronx Masquerade," by Nikki Grimes.</p><p><br /></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":6ib9" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":b9ux" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":b9ux" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":3dcu" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">That girl in the mirror, daughter of San Juan made of sunshine and sugarcane, looks like me. </span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">She used to run, weightless, </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Time a perfumed bottle hanging from her neck, mañana a song she made up the words to while she skipped— until the day she stopped, caught the toothless, squirming bundle heaven dropped into her arms and gravity kicked in. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Her life took a new spin. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">This screaming gift did not lead her to dream places or fill all her empty spaces like she thought. Silly chica. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">She bought into Hollywood’s lie, that love is mostly what you get instead of what you give, and what it costs, like the perfumed bottle ripped from her neck and sent flying to the ground. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The crashing sound of years lost shattered in her ears, and new fears emerged from the looking glass. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sometimes I wonder if she’ll ever sing again.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I’ve been meaning to tell you, I really liked the poem you read for Open Mike Friday.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah? Well, thanks. I’m not used to writing poetry.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well, nobody could tell it. You know, I could really get into what you were saying about trying to make yourself over, wishing you could be perfect and all. I mean, I feel like that every time I look in the mirror.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Judianne nodded, and her tight mouth softened a little. She was about to say something, but then a toilet flushed and she realized we were not alone. Sheila Gamberoni came out of the stall, and the minute she did, Judianne slipped back behind her usual scowl and turned mean. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Look, I am nothing like you, okay?” she spit out. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re fat and I’m not. And you’re wrong about my poem. It was just words. It didn’t mean anything. You got that?” And she slammed out of the bathroom and left me there, stinging from the inside out. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I bit my lip to keep the tears back. I turned the faucet on and washed my hands a few times, staring at the sink until I heard Sheila step out into the hall. I glanced up at the mirror before I left. “You’re wrong, Judianne,” I said to the mirror. “They weren’t just words, and you know it.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I haven’t tried talking with her since. I don’t want to give her an excuse to be mean to me again. I’m not mad at her, though. I know there’s a part of her that’s as scared to look in the mirror as I am. I saw that person for a few seconds, even if she wants to deny it. Calling me names won’t change the way she feels inside. One of these days, she’s going to find that out.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">In case I forgot to tell you, </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m allergic to boxes: </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Black boxes, shoe boxes </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">New boxes, You boxes— Even cereal boxes </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Boasting champions. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">(It’s all a lie. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve peeked inside </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">And what I found </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Were flakes.) </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Make no mistake, </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I make no exceptions </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">For Cracker Jack </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Or Christmas glitter. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Haven’t you noticed? </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m made of skeleton, </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Muscle and skin. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">My body is the only box I belong in. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">But you like your boxes </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">So keep them. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mark them geek, wimp, bully. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mark them china doll, brainiac, </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Or plain dumb jock. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Choose whatever </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Box you like, Mike. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just don’t put me </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">In one, son. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Believe me, I won’t fit.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Everybody around me is dark and ethnic. Which is in, by the way. Look at all the supermodels. They’re from places like Venezuela and Africa and Puerto Rico. Then there’s me, white bread and pale as the moon. I can’t even tan without burning myself. I look around my neighborhood and this school, and nobody looks like me. I keep thinking if I could just stick out less, if I could learn to walk and talk like the kids around me, maybe I would fit in more. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a dumb idea. Wesley sure thinks so. When he pulled me aside in the school hall and I tried to explain why I was copying Porscha’s walk, stupid was the word he used. The minute he said it, I felt my cheeks go red. That’s not the color I was after. I jerked away from Wesley and avoided his eyes. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Okay, maybe it was stupid. But I just want to fit in. I’m tired of being different, all right?” Suddenly I thought, Why am I trying to explain this to Wesley? He’s Black. He already fits in. “Forget it,” I said, beginning to walk away. “You don’t understand.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh, get a clue, girl! Everybody’s different. It don’t matter what your skin color is, or what name you call yourself. Everybody is different inside, anyway. We’re all trying to fit in. Ain’t nothing new about that.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Great!” I said. “Since you’re so smart, tell me what I’m supposed to do!” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wesley shrugged. “Hey, I don’t know what to tell you, except be yourself.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Wonderful! Pearls of wisdom. Thanks a lot.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wesley put his hand on my shoulder. “Sheila,” he said, “you want to hang with brothas and sistas, it ain’t no big thing. Just don’t try to be them. Keep your name, change it—whatever. A name is a personal thing and I’m not going to get into that. But why you want to change who you are? Soon as you get out of here, you’re going to go to a college or get a job where everybody else is as blond and blue-eyed as you. They walk like you and talk like you. What’re you going to do, then? Change yourself back?” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The truth of his words pinned me to the wall. I never even stopped to think about the future, about leaving this school, this neighborhood, maybe even this city. All I ever think about is now, because now hurts so bad.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I first got up to read, I was my usual self. I sucked in my stomach, walked slow to make sure nothing jiggled, and tugged down on my shirt, like I could really hide my extra pounds under there. I waited for Mr. Ward to switch on the video and then started to read. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I looked up from the page a few times and noticed kids in the front row with their eyes closed, smiling. Amy and Tanisha nodded every now and then, like I’d said something familiar, something they understood. Judianne, Leslie, and Porscha leaned forward so they could hear every word. Everybody really listened to what I had to say, even the guys. Tyrone, Wesley, Steve, Raul, Devon—they all stared at me like I was someone special. And nobody cared about the size of my body. Not even me.</span></div></div></div>
</div></div><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-85609498191063724992024-02-07T05:15:00.011-05:002024-02-07T05:15:00.130-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 408 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ELUWjE5qgQB-qOuvf72nl-yqglZ-OVKpwEVvQMD9yiIkteWh7Xe66gfiIth4bpSLRk28XJqzzVpezbRZ9QNyg2Tft9GK57H8f11SP6oo4n0H_Gm27OYSvs8rwQwmmUBXlBT0AG31vNCgNd9mkI9dCVNQXJtvH4WMQL4mDqSd2lj0STm-2PLS/s1000/81mR8NV879S._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="701" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ELUWjE5qgQB-qOuvf72nl-yqglZ-OVKpwEVvQMD9yiIkteWh7Xe66gfiIth4bpSLRk28XJqzzVpezbRZ9QNyg2Tft9GK57H8f11SP6oo4n0H_Gm27OYSvs8rwQwmmUBXlBT0AG31vNCgNd9mkI9dCVNQXJtvH4WMQL4mDqSd2lj0STm-2PLS/w448-h640/81mR8NV879S._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Monster," by Walter Dean Myers.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">The best time to cry is at night, when the lights are
out and someone is being beaten up and screaming for help. That way even
if you sniffle a little they won’t hear you. If anybody knows that you
are crying, they’ll start talking about it and soon it’ll be your turn
to get beat up when the lights go out.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">There
is a mirror over the steel sink in my cell. It’s six inches high, and
scratched with the names of some guys who were here before me. When I
look into the small rectangle, I see a face looking back at me but I
don’t recognize it. It doesn’t look like me. I couldn’t have changed
that much in a few months. I wonder if I will look like myself when the
trial is over.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"></span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">As
Mr. Harmon’s attorney all I ask of you, the jury, is that you look at
Steve Harmon now and remember that at this moment the American system of
justice demands that you consider him innocent. He is innocent until
proven guilty. If you consider him innocent now, and by law you must, if
you have not prejudged him, then I don’t believe we will have a problem
convincing you that nothing the State will produce will challenge that
innocence. Thank you.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">They
take away your shoelaces and your belt so you can’t kill yourself no
matter how bad it is. I guess making you live is part of the
punishment. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">It’s funny,
but when I’m sitting in the courtroom, I don’t feel like I’m involved in
the case. It’s like the lawyers and the judge and everybody are doing a
job that involves me, but I don’t have a role. It’s only when I go back
to the cells that I know I’m involved.</span></div></div></div><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-63933954846272309592024-02-05T05:15:00.011-05:002024-02-05T05:42:54.542-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 407 <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jWWCKMo54cVvJ6hMt8zOa_KMthXbTvwLv69VDFPOQyLcKnZyX50hcu8nYTrCYnV-7P_uMZMlZllZZOJASdIkZ9GAV7gvO4VyDtOQ5P0e43ePo60SJ3sOBf8VRC1EQX2scerT311Dm8MqNisLFCVmwl29pPtaS10vr9BU_0z5TA48sMW7HUFt/s2000/c3b887-20230810-man-smiles-next-to-separate-photo-of-book-cover-webp2000.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1504" data-original-width="2000" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jWWCKMo54cVvJ6hMt8zOa_KMthXbTvwLv69VDFPOQyLcKnZyX50hcu8nYTrCYnV-7P_uMZMlZllZZOJASdIkZ9GAV7gvO4VyDtOQ5P0e43ePo60SJ3sOBf8VRC1EQX2scerT311Dm8MqNisLFCVmwl29pPtaS10vr9BU_0z5TA48sMW7HUFt/w640-h482/c3b887-20230810-man-smiles-next-to-separate-photo-of-book-cover-webp2000.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Better Living Through Birding: Notes from a Black Man in the Natural World," by Christian Cooper. </p><p> </p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":5orl" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":b7hl" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":b7hl" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":63lk" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Near as I can tell, I was born that way: as queer as the Alaskan summer day is long. It was conspicuous to me from the age of five, when I developed an erotic attachment to a comic-book superhero; one look at that male physique bulging with muscles, and something deep in my psyche said, “Yes, please!” It became conspicuous to my parents not long after. I’d been thinking superhero thoughts and got what must have been my first full-fledged boner, which terrified me at that young age. </span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Mommy, Daddy!” I howled as I fled to their bedroom for help. “It won’t go down, it won’t go down! I think it’s broken!” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was too young at the time to be able to remember today the incident with clarity, so I can only imagine the bemused smirks suppressed on their faces. Now imagine those smirks morphing into worried frowns, if I had truthfully answered my mother’s next question: “Well, Christian, what were you thinking about?” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nothing,” I said after a considered pause. Somehow, even at that tender age, I’d sufficiently metabolized the cultural taboos around sexual desire to know enough to lie about it.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The antigay bias behind the negative reactions was cloaked in respectability thanks to something neither Bobbie, Scott, nor I had reckoned with. Two misconceptions that held sway in the 1990s (and that horrifically is resurging today) converged to fuel the animus: (1) Anything gay is inappropriate for youngsters; and (2) comics are strictly a juvenile medium. The first falls flat immediately when one considers that there are gay kids, as I had been; gay parents and relatives; and gay people and issues in the news, a constant feature in the era of AIDS. The mere existence of gay people could no longer be considered taboo, and the assumption that any mention of gay people requires discussion of explicit sexual content is patently false; Alpha Flight #106, with a story as sexually safe as a cloistered eunuch, is the perfect rebuttal. (Besides, nothing that moved the sexual-activity needle beyond the somewhat suggestive, regardless of the orientation involved, could get past the Comics Code Authority, a 1950s relic that reviewed all of Marvel’s and DC’s books at the time.) The second is a peculiarly American stance, since comics in Europe and Japan are just as likely to be read by adults, and even on U.S. shores the notion that only kids read comics is belied by the millions of comics fans over the age of twenty-one. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">But in 1992 those two misconceptions could be put together to arrive at the conclusion that nothing gay should appear in comics. So Kelly Corvese and I, the two openly gay staffers, had to sit in that emergency meeting as Terry Stewart made that clear to our faces. I imagine this was how those Jews who started the comics business must have felt, identities hidden behind new names, cranking out special Christmas-themed issues, and nary an explicitly Jewish superhero in sight. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was as if we had been told not to bother to exist.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">But the most amusing mismatch of all was when Bobbie assigned me to edit Marvel Swimsuit. A stand-alone special published annually, Marvel Swimsuit was exactly what it sounds like: a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue knockoff, which is to say, an excuse for Marvel’s already super-endowed superheroines to show off their curves, for the titillation of adolescent males and adults developmentally adjacent to adolescent males. It was now in the hands of me, a gay man. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was up-front with Bobbie, who couldn’t have been especially enamored with what Marvel Swimsuit peddled either. If I was going to do Swimsuit, I was doing it my way. No more Captain America in the distant background in frumpy board shorts, while Black Widow fills the page in little more than a thong; from now on, the guys and gals of the Marvel Universe would flaunt it on an equal footing, a fifty-fifty ratio. Not only did that better encompass the kinds of things I and presumably other readers like me wanted to see, but it would inoculate Marvel from charges of sexism. Equal opportunity objectification. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">It turns out that nobody objectifies better than a gay man. I rounded up some truly amazing comic-book artists and instructed them to take their cue from the most provocative images of the era: the Calvin Klein underwear ads and Herb Ritts and Bruce Weber photos, the pouty-lipped close-ups and the glorification of dramatically lit body parts. And with that, for two issues in a row, I turned the artists loose. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I don’t think readers quite knew what hit them. As the comic-book writer Warren Ellis wrote in his newsletter, “That year’s issue was the gayest thing you ever saw. Like, gaydar installations all over the Northern Hemisphere just straight up burst into flames. Anyone who beheld that book from a distance of twenty feet became, by genetic testing, 3% gayer. It was so fucking funny, it was so not what Marvel did at the time, and it was so well played.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">And for whatever reason, my second issue was the last time Marvel published Marvel Swimsuit.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">And that was how I learned about the murder of George Floyd, though at that time his name had not yet been released to the public. By some strange twist of fate, my run-in with Amy Cooper and the far graver, lethal encounter between George Floyd and his murderer, the police officer Derek Chauvin, had occurred on the very same day. Both incidents would be captured on video for the world to see—the latter by the teenager Darnella Frazier, who had the presence of mind to record the events unfolding before her. If she hadn’t, one can only guess what line of bullshit (sorry: fabrication offering plausible deniability) we African Americans would be expected to swallow in the aftermath of Mr. Floyd’s death. (To that point, in findings published in September 2021, The Lancet—one of the most respected medical journals in the world—revealed that about 55 percent of fatal encounters with the police in the United States between 1980 and 2018 were listed as another cause of death. This discrepancy disproportionately involved Black victims.) For once, all Americans could witness for themselves, in moments adjacent to each other by a few hours, what we African Americans have been saying for decades: in the morning, the underlying bias affecting police perceptions; and in the afternoon, its fatal consequences.</span> <br /></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-15711702156418123652024-01-31T05:14:00.008-05:002024-01-31T05:14:00.137-05:00What Am I Working On <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDaHVYs0o1DL_dI7GgXMuI8OCcIUSnADSIbzJ4cxyPD23N6ytyo2uyvINiom5-MHLa8J8m75Q1b19xAwf9y3CicJZv_TIIpOIS7__ML-FKEd_iDDt_Hz7UHCfc3ZYgSkTyZsAhGLu9wX7TazCoeD1NfEGS5_0_mcWRpdu6vIxmTPdcDLoRWVi/s1024/working-hard.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDaHVYs0o1DL_dI7GgXMuI8OCcIUSnADSIbzJ4cxyPD23N6ytyo2uyvINiom5-MHLa8J8m75Q1b19xAwf9y3CicJZv_TIIpOIS7__ML-FKEd_iDDt_Hz7UHCfc3ZYgSkTyZsAhGLu9wX7TazCoeD1NfEGS5_0_mcWRpdu6vIxmTPdcDLoRWVi/w640-h426/working-hard.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>As has become my custom every six months, here's what I'm working on now at work. I won't repeat anything from last time that I happen to still be working on, and for confidentiality's sake I have to blur some of the details for some of these studies.</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Economic and social impact of a golf course renovation in an urban neighborhood.</li><li>Interactive financial pro forma tool for modeling different scenarios associated with two community-serving non-profit organizations merging operations.</li><li>Updated analytical case for funding strategies that attract and retain residential households in a city that has lost population for 70+ years.</li><li>Economic impact of an innovation campus anchored by a large-scale research university.</li><li>Economic impact of a collegiate athletics program.</li><li>Advising a community college system on how to respond to growth in demand for health and life sciences offerings.<br /></li><li>Evaluting a local government's utilization of minority-owned businesses.<br /></li><li>Helping a state government incorporate equity into its oversight of local economic development strategies.<br /></li><li>Economic and social impact of three large research institutions in three different states.</li></ul><p></p><p><br /></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-20645269747579176712024-01-29T05:12:00.002-05:002024-01-29T05:12:00.125-05:00One and One Make One<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2CThFXlZYFFDcTJPxkziT1e8wlT662K7IpCvxM6jTn1z7WttwGO2TdxYL6Z5w1yNqlJAm0zPLzwO4QWABI-lMPawxqGAGb9IE1xP3SOiXmaCtNyV__xgKCDVddvPtcIzUmpR4_WB7HQaKPkpryNbUMC0l3bHKAtUdTpSGnNasBpl4ZZ9lyoK/s300/515f8L8RIHL.__AC_SX300_SY300_QL70_FMwebp_.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="223" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2CThFXlZYFFDcTJPxkziT1e8wlT662K7IpCvxM6jTn1z7WttwGO2TdxYL6Z5w1yNqlJAm0zPLzwO4QWABI-lMPawxqGAGb9IE1xP3SOiXmaCtNyV__xgKCDVddvPtcIzUmpR4_WB7HQaKPkpryNbUMC0l3bHKAtUdTpSGnNasBpl4ZZ9lyoK/w476-h640/515f8L8RIHL.__AC_SX300_SY300_QL70_FMwebp_.webp" width="476" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Something I was once taught, and which I still believe to have some truth to it, is the notion of being "equally yoked." It's a Bible concept and a farming analogy, which is that two oxen pulling a plow will, if unequally yoked, be less strong than each on their own, whereas if equally yoked can pull much more than the sum of what each could do on its own. In math terms: 1 + 1 = 3 or more.</p><p>Something else I was once taught, and which I also believe to have some truth to it, is that there is a sense in which a flawed person should at least address those flaws before entering into a serious relationship, lest they think that the flaws will magically go away once they're in a relationship or that the relationship will magically overcome those flaws. Said another way, people who are not whole often remain un-whole when entering into a relationship. Or, in math terms: <1 + <1 = <1.</p><p>Again, there is some truth to both concepts. But, to counterbalance, I believe that one can go too far with these premises. A relationship formed solely to unlock synergies (1 + 1 = 3 or more) discounts all of the other good things that happen in relationships. And a sense that we cannot benefit from or contribute to a relationship until we are ourselves whole (<1 + <1 = <1) denies the healing and wholeness that can come in a committed relationship.</p><p>I will not throw out these concepts entirely. But, I want to supplement them with another equation, which is 1 + 1 = 1. To use another Bible phrase, two people getting married become "one flesh." One person plus one person becomes one unit. Whether that unit is more or less productive than each person alone is not unimportant. Whether each participant in that unit is whole or not is certainly of relevance. </p><p>But sometimes the most important thing is two people committing to a lifelong relationship as a single unit, independent of whether it yields more productivity and in spite of any shortcomings either party has. When one and one make one, I think that's worth celebrating.</p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-53312365981069757052024-01-24T05:13:00.079-05:002024-01-24T05:13:00.160-05:00The Case for Philly<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-AofY-rKiJeLX9_ukxgxxj_j9EZ3yETutkHYVMi54HAqgIJo92ygwyLrwTIDpC4z5HPJPbjuegl4gJN2V1TXYsn_1AX_jzuq75r5teAk8RBhx2LS0xIK2dQb2dwuCXBX_4oLHW2zFkO3uniUYsVwO7t2sFH-KEkVUb4qmGmh2D-fmvH52E6U/s2200/Franky_Bradleys-group-new-jfusco-for-vp-2200x1237px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="2200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-AofY-rKiJeLX9_ukxgxxj_j9EZ3yETutkHYVMi54HAqgIJo92ygwyLrwTIDpC4z5HPJPbjuegl4gJN2V1TXYsn_1AX_jzuq75r5teAk8RBhx2LS0xIK2dQb2dwuCXBX_4oLHW2zFkO3uniUYsVwO7t2sFH-KEkVUb4qmGmh2D-fmvH52E6U/w640-h360/Franky_Bradleys-group-new-jfusco-for-vp-2200x1237px.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I was honored to be on a panel discussion last month that included a spirited segment on why more young people are choosing to live in Philadelphia, whether that choice involved staying where you grew up or moving here from elsewhere. For me personally, college first brought me to Philly, and in the almost 29 years (gulp!) since I graduated, I've chosen to stay here, through one job and then another, getting married and becoming a dad three times over, and growing deeper social and civic roots.</p><p>I was older than all the panelists and most of the audience members, but my older kids are not too far from making their own grown-up decisions about where to live, so I did not feel unqualified to speak to what is driving young people's decisions. I respect that different people have different preferences, so not all places are equally attractive to all. I do think that Philly's strengths line up nicely with three things young people value and therefore make life choices around: sustainability, diversity, and affordability.</p><p>I could say something about each of these things, but then I'd miss out on how interconnected they are. So instead let me just make a few points that touch on one or more of those things:</p><p>1. In the Venn diagram of places that have big-city amenities, a transit system that allows you to forgo a car, and affordable living options, I think only Philly and Chicago are in the overlap, but I'd give the edge to Philly because not only can you get around without getting behind the wheel, you can also get to New York and DC without wheels. This combination of affordable housing and transportation, high quality of life, and avoiding things that are bad for the environment (gas consumption, suburban sprawl) is an increasingly attractive one for young people who value those things.</p><p>2. Affordability and walkability also enable social mixing across race and class. Public spaces are technically open to all, but things conspire to create segregating pressures such that you can go days without meaningfully interacting with people different from you. Indeed, that is often expressly the point of local public policies, to ensure that housing and schools and shopping and green space are homogenous in their usage. Not so in Philly, where food halls and public parks and sports arenas and downtown streets create ample opportunity to rub elbows with people from all walks of life.</p><p>3. Add it all up and it's a compelling value package, especially for young people who are just starting out in their careers and may still be paying off student loans. Paying less for housing and not having to pay for a car, when combined with the rich cultural and social scene in one of America's biggest cities, is a great alternative to either living in a lifeless place or paying through the nose for rent and transportation. This sort of accessibility is attractive to diverse populations, making Philly more interesting and less homogenous than other cities competing for young talent.</p><p>I don't drink, but I do raise a glass to the City of Brotherly Love. We still have much work to do, but also much to commend to young people making choices about where to live, work, worship, learn, play, and contribute.</p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-83596946283900671032024-01-22T05:23:00.003-05:002024-01-22T05:23:00.248-05:00Minority Voice<p> </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVes61Cek9trMi0gBm1z09MYTLaNMe5GlNzd-IWTrR2fFPvu0ARJErpF4ntP9gheebQ7TXyjZVZbKQ9g8wjzDio1IYxEMxn3_LHihb6muDRv-2nTE5QJhwc2vRHtUAGHILtMclSLRf-jK-Oz_QNdgUNZq8z6fe249LBAMo2bErKpD1GTbvO4J/s1280/advocacyculture_and_empowerment.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="956" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVes61Cek9trMi0gBm1z09MYTLaNMe5GlNzd-IWTrR2fFPvu0ARJErpF4ntP9gheebQ7TXyjZVZbKQ9g8wjzDio1IYxEMxn3_LHihb6muDRv-2nTE5QJhwc2vRHtUAGHILtMclSLRf-jK-Oz_QNdgUNZq8z6fe249LBAMo2bErKpD1GTbvO4J/w478-h640/advocacyculture_and_empowerment.png" width="478" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>One manifestation of the closed-minded divisiveness that pervades contemporary discourse is that people will do the following things all the time without realizing the contradiction:</p><p>1. When at a public meeting and my position is overwhelmingly the sentiment in the room, I scream at the top of my lungs things like "the people have spoken!"</p><p>2. When at a public meeting and my position is overwhelmingly in the minority, I tell my friends afterwards "I felt so threatened!"</p><p>Perhaps it is a combination of privilege, stupidity, and courage on my part, but I do try to be intentional in such settings:</p><p> 1. When I am in the majority, I am reminded that while most people in the room agree with me, some do not. And, in some cases, it is quite possible that most people in the world disagree with me, meaning that "the room" is not a representative sample of society writ large. So some humility is in order. It may feel good that the majority of the people I am in the presence of stand with me, but we may not necessarily have the whole story and we may have it completely wrong. And, even if we have it right, those who disagree with us do not deserve to feel intimidated into silence or assent.</p><p>2. When I am in the minority, I try to stand up for myself and others who might agree with me, not necessarily to win over the room but to assert that how we see things has some validity and deserves to be heard and not shouted down. Perhaps in not backing down, others who disagree with me will learn something, and others who agree with me will not feel so alone or uncomfortable.</p><p>Clearly, there are absolutes. There is a reason "both sidesing" can be annoying or enraging. But I think that's the problem. The world is incredibly complex. When we automatically conclude, on our own or emboldened by the agreement of others in the room, that this is a straightforward matter in which there is a right side that has all the answers and a wrong side that is evil, we cut ourselves off from digging into the nuance and context that is so often required to truly understand let alone solve a vexing societal challenge.</p><p>I hope you will summon the fortitude to be the minority voice when the situation calls for it. And that when you are in the majority in a room, you give room for all, who may be outnumbered in a particular gathering but may have the numbers elsewhere, and even if they don't probably have a few good points to contribute to the solution.<br /></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-52753108993263858602024-01-17T05:40:00.009-05:002024-01-17T05:40:00.127-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 406 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZVWeOJi4u1_iBdJ7Pk6tNFtv2RWptG1F0aPVMdT77aj_exR1si_6aQi343y7whog046J3NIgbaJ2ekJyBozQyAl4QYjBRMFGCCSmV9u3NURAv_Msa0k_qm2zlgYRNN3zBoYJjKXzEzI01PKnCXsAfUDC0PKIWIGXw8rv_xvng8GBd47WYuXc/s1200/1%20rBVKJwLjgwFL9ugAswR25g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1200" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZVWeOJi4u1_iBdJ7Pk6tNFtv2RWptG1F0aPVMdT77aj_exR1si_6aQi343y7whog046J3NIgbaJ2ekJyBozQyAl4QYjBRMFGCCSmV9u3NURAv_Msa0k_qm2zlgYRNN3zBoYJjKXzEzI01PKnCXsAfUDC0PKIWIGXw8rv_xvng8GBd47WYuXc/w640-h436/1%20rBVKJwLjgwFL9ugAswR25g.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here is an excerpt from a book I recently read, "Born A Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood," by Trevor Noah.<br /></p><p> </p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Hustling is to work what surfing the Internet is to reading. If you add up how much you read in a year on the Internet—tweets, Facebook posts, lists—you’ve read the equivalent of a shit ton of books, but in fact you’ve read no books in a year. When I look back on it, that’s what hustling was. It’s maximal effort put into minimal gain. It’s a hamster wheel. If I’d put all that energy into studying I’d have earned an MBA.</span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-18380538291251694722024-01-10T05:05:00.038-05:002024-01-10T05:05:00.238-05:002023 Car Usage<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuXqW14e9YSDiMp8ZwKu0D5Wq6zv660k9MeNSyKnUj1IhPTAcfr8d7c-qxl4MBmQDNtAPsZSRLyQxOV70_8WFburMV1c0soznQ884F3fHI36NtV9-Sc_OaJttOa3twvQSmJgDGmf4oQmRRtT_GORDW6PfgHwooSsZfgEETIMdK0_zYxdGvDnZ/s899/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="899" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuXqW14e9YSDiMp8ZwKu0D5Wq6zv660k9MeNSyKnUj1IhPTAcfr8d7c-qxl4MBmQDNtAPsZSRLyQxOV70_8WFburMV1c0soznQ884F3fHI36NtV9-Sc_OaJttOa3twvQSmJgDGmf4oQmRRtT_GORDW6PfgHwooSsZfgEETIMdK0_zYxdGvDnZ/w640-h470/Untitled.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">This is the 13th
year I have tracked car usage, so I think it's safe to say this has
become a habit. As has the nerdy tracking and graphing of it in
Microsoft Excel. (You can check out 2022 <a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2023/01/2022-car-usage.html" target="_blank">here</a>, 2021 <a href="https://leehuang.blogspot.com/2022/01/2021-car-usage.html" target="_blank">here</a>, 2020 <a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2021/01/car-usage-blog.html" target="_blank">here</a>, 2019</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2020/01/2019-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #338aab; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2018</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2019/01/2018-car-usage.html#more" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #338aab; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2017</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2018/01/2017-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #338aab; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2016</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2017/01/2016-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #338aab; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2015 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2016/01/2015-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2014 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2015/01/2014-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2013 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2014/01/2013-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2012 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2013/01/2012-car-usage.htmlhttp://leehuang.blogspot.com/2013/01/2012-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2011 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2012/01/2011-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, 2010 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2011/01/2010-car-usage.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here,</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> and 2009 </span><a href="http://leehuang.blogspot.com/2010/01/2009-car-trips.html" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #888888; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">.)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">As
before, the Philly totals represent, in order, number of trips, number
of legs represented in those trips (i.e. going to and from my in-laws,
making one stop to get gas, counts as three legs), and number of legs in
which I was driven (rather than driving).<br /> <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #338aab; text-decoration-line: none;"></a><br />The
other city totals represent, in order, number of times I was in that
location, number of days I was in that location, number of trips, number
of legs represented in those trips, and number of legs in which I was
driven. </span>
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white-space:normal;}</span></style><table style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 439px;"><colgroup><col style="width: 329pt;" width="439"></col></colgroup><tbody><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">January 15/52/0 NYC 1/1/1/4/0 DC 1/2/2/9/0</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">February 12/43/0 NYC 1/1/0/0/1 Chicago 1/1/0/0/2</span></td></tr><tr height="40" style="height: 30pt;"><td class="xl21" height="40" style="height: 30pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">March 13/48/0 Wilmington 1/1/0/0/3 Minneapolis 1/1/0/0/4 Newark 1/1/0/0/5</span></td></tr><tr height="40" style="height: 30pt;"><td class="xl21" height="40" style="height: 30pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">April 14/32/0 OCNJ 1/2/1/3/0 Baltimore 1/1/1/3/0 Lancaster 1/1/1/6/0 OC 1/2/1/3/0 AC 1/1/1/6/0</span></td></tr><tr height="40" style="height: 30pt;"><td class="xl21" height="40" style="height: 30pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">May 10/27/0 Easton 1/1/1/4/0 Rehoboth 1/1/1/5/0 Boston 1/2/2/6/0</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">June 15/48/0 NYC 1/1/0/0/1</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">July 8/30/0 Miami Beach 1/4/0/0/3 Italy 1/8/0/0/5</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">August 12/39/0 SJ 1/8/12/39/2 NC 1/1/0/0/4 DC 1/1/1/3/0</span></td></tr><tr height="40" style="height: 30pt;"><td class="xl21" height="40" style="height: 30pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">September 14/52/0 Hershey 1/2/2/10/0 OCNJ 1/2/2/2/0 NYC 1/1/0/0/0</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">October 12/37/2 NYC 2/2/2/13/0</span></td></tr><tr height="20" style="height: 15pt;"><td class="xl21" height="20" style="height: 15pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">November 10/31/0 OCNJ 1/3/4/10/0 Wilmington 1/1/1/2/0<br /></span></td></tr><tr height="21" style="height: 15.75pt;"><td class="xl21" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; width: 329pt;" width="439"><span style="font-family: inherit;">December 10/39/0 CA 1/9/ <span class="font6">16/50/8</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; color: black; width: 565px;"><tbody><tr height="21" style="height: 15.75pt;"><td class="xl65" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td><td class="xl65" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td><td class="xl65" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td><td class="xl65" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td><td class="xl65" height="21" style="height: 15.75pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">So
my Philly total is 145 trips involving 478 legs, plus another 2 legs in
which I was driven. So that works out to about 12 car trips and 40 legs
a month. Then counting non-Philly
trips it's closer to 16 car trips and 52 legs a month. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Note that my "legs per trip" ratio is well over 2 - in fact it's over 3 - so I'm pleased I've been able to bundle trips (since it's better for the environment and the pocketbook to start a warm car than a cold one). Indeed, for this reason I very rarely do the typical "drive somewhere and then drive home."<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The family car is literally as old as Asher, since I got it the day after we got back from Oklahoma City. Asher turns 9 in April, and we've put about 63,000 miles on the car, so we're still tracking at about 7,500 miles a year (as opposed to a typical suburban household with two adults clocking 15,000 miles times two cars). Urban living is green living!<br /></span></p><p></p><br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-2626114310683667472024-01-08T05:03:00.016-05:002024-01-08T05:03:00.130-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 405 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjN_Y8ZAmACfmrp4jCXaOJygQrkwhLwYZI6Ybrd0FhqIMdIUdVkoubsSnY7yFi69rxhdZ_LtYsKp7h9LYC63lVigZNZHI14N8Ti2iu4lZnQ9Qm43FP8OXc_AoUSRMXnf4Kgm7tZl6RTFMfXNFSvY3ZA4A_75rjB3FMQlaaWCMLAFWD__ZfKGY/s1435/lk_devonprice_unmaskingautism_book_custom-c7241bfdddbdda325f0af19382c5a1eaa44a2edc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1435" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjN_Y8ZAmACfmrp4jCXaOJygQrkwhLwYZI6Ybrd0FhqIMdIUdVkoubsSnY7yFi69rxhdZ_LtYsKp7h9LYC63lVigZNZHI14N8Ti2iu4lZnQ9Qm43FP8OXc_AoUSRMXnf4Kgm7tZl6RTFMfXNFSvY3ZA4A_75rjB3FMQlaaWCMLAFWD__ZfKGY/w640-h482/lk_devonprice_unmaskingautism_book_custom-c7241bfdddbdda325f0af19382c5a1eaa44a2edc.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Unmasking Autism: Discovering the New Faces of Neurodiversity," by Devon Price.</p><p> <span style="font-family: arial;"> <br /></span></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":147t" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":14vs" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":14vs" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":147p" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Refusing to perform neurotypicality is a revolutionary act of disability justice. It’s also a radical act of self-love. But in order for Autistic people to take our masks off and show our real, authentically disabled selves to the world, we first have to feel safe enough to get reacquainted with who we really are. Developing self-trust and self-compassion is a whole journey unto itself.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto">
<div id="m_-6198534568733159612m_-2238039905412332642gmail-:pd3" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":13un" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" id="m_-6198534568733159612m_-2238039905412332642gmail-:254" role="textbox" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I look at a person’s face, I don’t simply see “happiness” or “sadness” radiating off them, for example; I see minute changes in their eyes, forehead, mouth, breathing, and posture, which I then have to effortfully piece together to make an informed guess about how they feel. Often, it’s too much discordant data to make sense of. When I don’t have the energy to carefully process others’ emotional expressions, people are inscrutable to me and arouse a lot of anxiety.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">The idea that Autism is a “boy’s” disorder goes all the way back to when the condition was first described at the turn of the twentieth century. Hans Asperger and other early Autism researchers did study girls on the spectrum, but generally left them out of their published research reports. Asperger in particular avoided writing about Autistic girls because he wanted to present certain intelligent, “high-functioning” Autistic people as “valuable” to the Nazis who had taken over Austria and were beginning to exterminate disabled people en masse. As Steve Silberman describes in his excellent book NeuroTribes, Hans Asperger wanted to spare the “high functioning” Autistic boys he’d encountered from being sent to Nazi death camps. Silberman described this fact somewhat sympathetically; Asperger was a scientist who had no choice but to collude with the fascist regime and save what few children he could. However, more recently unearthed documents make it clear that Asperger was far more complicit in Nazi exterminations of disabled children than had been previously believed. Though Asperger held intelligent, “little professor” type Autistics close to his heart, he knowingly sent more visibly debilitated Autistics to extermination centers.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Hiding self-destructiveness behind a mountain of achievements isn’t functioning, not really. The very concept of “functioning status” is predicated on the logic of capitalism and the legacy of the Protestant work ethic, which both have trained us to believe that a person’s productivity determines their worth.[94] No one is more harmed by this worldview than the disabled people who cannot work and produce value at all, and are the most likely to wind up abused, forcibly institutionalized, or homeless as a result. Equating a person’s social value (or even their right to exist) with their productivity is sadly a common outlook, but it’s also a profoundly alienating and ableist one. It harms the Autistic people who are able to “play the game” and mask as productive and respectful; for the Autistics who cannot play along, that game can quickly turn dangerous, even deadly.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Neurotypical brains engage in sensory adaptation and habituation: the longer they are in the presence of a sound, smell, texture, or visual cue, the more their brain learns to ignore it, and allow it to fade into the background. Their neurons become less likely to be activated by a cue the longer they are around it. The exact opposite is true for Autistic people: the longer we are around a stimulus, the more it bothers us. As I’ve already mentioned, our neurons are also “hyperexcitable,” meaning our senses get set off more easily by small input that neurotypicals don’t even notice, such as a hair falling into our face or a pile of mail being left on our desk. We’re better at noticing small details and changes in our environment, which can be a real advantage for meticulous work (like programming, Thomas’s profession), but we are also more prone to being startled or distracted.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">When an Autistic person is flooded with upsetting sensory information for too long, they enter a state of sensory overload. Sensory overload can look like a temper tantrum or a crying fit, it can take the form of a shutdown or meltdown, or it can present as the Autistic person becoming confused and responding to questions in routinized or nonsensical ways. Sensory overload makes it hard to complete complex tasks, think through things rationally, or manage emotions. When we’re overloaded, we become irritable, or filled with despair; we might even start self-harming to get an endorphin rush or ground ourselves. Our bodies are visibly tense with anxiety, and we’re difficult to engage with during these times. What non-Autistic folks often don’t realize is that Autistic people experience intense sensory input as if it were physical pain.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Unfortunately, when an Autistic person complains about the sensory pain they’re in, people think they’re being overly dramatic, needy, or even downright “crazy.” I can’t fully convey how frustrating it is to be in deep distress over a persistent noise my boyfriend can’t even hear. When I find myself stomping around the house anxiously, pounding on the floor with a broom to get my neighbor to turn down her music, I feel like I’m being “crazy.” My partner knows I’m not making this stuff up, and he tries his best to be accommodating and patient. But for most of my life, people were unsympathetic to my sensory complaints. They acted as if I chose to be distracted and furious every day.</span></div></div></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-62520758910818128642024-01-03T05:54:00.014-05:002024-01-03T05:54:00.131-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 404 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmShlms0WksVaBrL6FGAW_l5_QD-_fl5UoGBqwNVRGuYJikFJrvZtCLOfmLA1PiTWiDzbtfS87jtT5CtfuzxguJXoyUwyRaL-4WM2EnRRP4U-RH6dOby3w2IFq94iuMbc60hB2fToy_pt2vu_2wOqpZOv0oyFqulomHDqVbXsdrHmKe6oQNN1F/s398/Ron%20Stallworth%20Photo%20and%20Softcover%2007312018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="398" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmShlms0WksVaBrL6FGAW_l5_QD-_fl5UoGBqwNVRGuYJikFJrvZtCLOfmLA1PiTWiDzbtfS87jtT5CtfuzxguJXoyUwyRaL-4WM2EnRRP4U-RH6dOby3w2IFq94iuMbc60hB2fToy_pt2vu_2wOqpZOv0oyFqulomHDqVbXsdrHmKe6oQNN1F/w640-h482/Ron%20Stallworth%20Photo%20and%20Softcover%2007312018.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are two excerpts from a book I recently read, "Black Klansman: Race, Hate, and the Undercover Investigation of a Lifetime," by Ron Stallworth. </p><p> </p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In the November 1924 general election other Klan-supported candidates
swept to victory. The governor, Clarence J. Morley, was a Klansman; the
two US senators, Rice Means and Lawrence Phipps, had strong Klan
connections; and the Klan held the offices of lieutenant governor, state
auditor, and attorney general. Another Klansman, William J. Candlish,
was selected by the Grand Dragon to be chief of police for the Denver
Police Department, and was officially appointed by Mayor Stapleton. In
addition, Klansmen were seated on the Board of Regents for the
University of Colorado and the State Supreme Court. The City of Denver
and State of Colorado, in essence, were under Klan control. So pervasive
was the Klan's control and influence in Colorado that certain national
publications began spelling Colorado with a K. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I have often been asked, "What did you really accomplish over the
course of this investigation without arresting any Klan members or
seizing any illegal contraband?"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">My answer is always in this fashion: "As a result of our combined
effort, no parent of a black or other minority child, or any child for
that matter, had to explain why an eighteen-foot cross was seen burning
at this or that location – especially those individuals from the South
who, perhaps as children, had experienced the terrorist act of a Klan
cross burning."</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-17970486918286511962024-01-01T05:01:00.005-05:002024-01-01T20:21:22.616-05:00Here's to a Happy New Year<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVk1biA-SNhXBgxKxGzP7BSOAtq6dlb40kkelHpZZvIxU_lehZSo6VQZwO3lA4OOvl17ytrnq8RPixb1y2oYRm6SSdDxTHKekgFZQOGO5vTTTCYZS18I4QCTu0bTrBP8BY_1fOOdGxdsE1QTxu2xc7q81qauDBoeAi465-aDokNew0GaaEsHh/s612/istockphoto-1460985803-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVk1biA-SNhXBgxKxGzP7BSOAtq6dlb40kkelHpZZvIxU_lehZSo6VQZwO3lA4OOvl17ytrnq8RPixb1y2oYRm6SSdDxTHKekgFZQOGO5vTTTCYZS18I4QCTu0bTrBP8BY_1fOOdGxdsE1QTxu2xc7q81qauDBoeAi465-aDokNew0GaaEsHh/w640-h426/istockphoto-1460985803-612x612.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-17712378710881253562023-12-27T05:51:00.003-05:002023-12-27T08:25:51.887-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 403 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvxmquW1TMQy5kZLWVHMm9ihQx6oyYZMUOc1MXFWi8BAmnNuMYVl8HVsqx07Qidi60BSIUrN_ifau5Gfj5ClfDwwcotmnm40HPdaNj4Ye_jL9sxhvkgmNeeBRtYQPa9F4AI1b7HqCGPTPJIUxBUoZopzVHtxrmyP3AFlizfmTUZxhqa3tzuc-/s1920/BUTTON-Nick-Estes-Book-Split.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvxmquW1TMQy5kZLWVHMm9ihQx6oyYZMUOc1MXFWi8BAmnNuMYVl8HVsqx07Qidi60BSIUrN_ifau5Gfj5ClfDwwcotmnm40HPdaNj4Ye_jL9sxhvkgmNeeBRtYQPa9F4AI1b7HqCGPTPJIUxBUoZopzVHtxrmyP3AFlizfmTUZxhqa3tzuc-/w640-h360/BUTTON-Nick-Estes-Book-Split.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Our History Is the Future: Standing Rock Versus the Dakota Access Pipeline, and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance," by Nick Estes.</p><p> </p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":3ty" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":4gc" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":4gc" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":3yo" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Prophecy told of Zuzeca Sapa, the Black Snake, extending itself across the land and imperiling all life, beginning with the water. From its heads, or many heads, it would spew death and destruction. Zuzeca Sapa is DAPL—and all oil pipelines trespassing through Indigenous territory. But while the Black Snake prophecy foreshadows doom, it also foreshadows historic resistance and resurgent Indigenous histories not seen for generations, if ever. To protect Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth, Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples will have to unite to turn back the forces destroying the earth—capitalism and colonialism.</span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Settler narratives use a linear conception of time to distance themselves from the horrific crimes committed against Indigenous peoples and the land. This includes celebrating bogus origin stories like Thanksgiving. But Indigenous notions of time consider the present to be structured entirely by our past and by our ancestors. There is no separation between past and present, meaning that an alternative future is also determined by our understanding of our past. Our history is the future.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Public land” for “public good” was a highly subsidized federal endeavor for private enterprise, racial exclusion, and Indigenous elimination. One and a half million white families gained title to 246 million acres of Indigenous lands—an area nearly the size of California and Texas combined—under the Homestead Act, with the added value of federally subsidized irrigation. A quarter of adults alive today in the United States are direct descendants of those who profited from the Homestead Act’s legacy of exclusive, racialized property ownership and economic mobility, a legacy that categorically excluded Black, Indigenous, and other nonwhite peoples. Access to Indigenous water was crucial for securing the ownership of Indigenous lands and generating wealth from these lands over generations. Thus, a single land policy has had a profound lasting political and economic legacy. It informs present disparities, which boil down to a single axiom: land is wealth and water is wealth. The Pick-Sloan Plan is part and parcel of this massive settler-colonial agricultural machine that greases its gears with water. Today, agriculture in the western United States accounts for three-quarters of all water usage. Water is settler colonialism’s lifeblood—blood that has to be continually excised from Indigenous peoples.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Indigenous resistance is not a one-time event. It continually asks: What proliferates in the absence of empire? Thus, it defines freedom not as the absence of settler colonialism, but as the amplified presence of Indigenous life and just relations with human and nonhuman relatives, and with the earth.</span> <br /></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-29676025624728376212023-12-25T05:47:00.004-05:002023-12-27T08:25:42.449-05:00My Christmas Prayer<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClpDf-77u_L6hayU1QxbU9YyVR1P2ckU348vGpjRKcdtFGTmdlT2BwLM_S5kPtReNzdXRAsRLpZOuPp1rWOVCZBsfT_sP6yBOsOUKsyzIq1buuytNGiIMAVId8KNrsJGW3PXHo940IfT0mAycEyFR31C1n03IAqJ0UB6lC_7tj2-O1IclDxjY/s894/71khpvS5QpL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="894" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClpDf-77u_L6hayU1QxbU9YyVR1P2ckU348vGpjRKcdtFGTmdlT2BwLM_S5kPtReNzdXRAsRLpZOuPp1rWOVCZBsfT_sP6yBOsOUKsyzIq1buuytNGiIMAVId8KNrsJGW3PXHo940IfT0mAycEyFR31C1n03IAqJ0UB6lC_7tj2-O1IclDxjY/w640-h404/71khpvS5QpL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015340.post-7680106499581180432023-12-20T05:39:00.011-05:002023-12-20T05:39:00.132-05:00Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 402 <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIzpFFSefPYFN1AdGOBkAg3M8LBf9-_z9t_nOM-lFZKtw1RzpnHnGOnaNZFsmnJ7FwUeYW9ndxRP8ez-u4jwWvZYRr0xCmqi71dOUE1kPwSkHGqutQBwgXyyM6PuaAOKZUeG9LeT9Y7lXMMuD-TtGmPi1qJvABMOyIvuzd9fVHxLkfFcQU3Am/s960/960x0.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIzpFFSefPYFN1AdGOBkAg3M8LBf9-_z9t_nOM-lFZKtw1RzpnHnGOnaNZFsmnJ7FwUeYW9ndxRP8ez-u4jwWvZYRr0xCmqi71dOUE1kPwSkHGqutQBwgXyyM6PuaAOKZUeG9LeT9Y7lXMMuD-TtGmPi1qJvABMOyIvuzd9fVHxLkfFcQU3Am/w640-h360/960x0.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "GOAT: Who is the Greatest Economist of all Time and Why Does it Matter?" by Tyler Cowen.</p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":3u9" style="display: block;"><div aria-controls=":44m" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":44m" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":3ud" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 535px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">If you listen to Jimmy Wales talk about where the inspiration for Wikipedia came from, he is quite clear that Hayek was a prominent influence. Of course Wikipedia is directly based on the idea of mobilizing decentralized bits of information. Individuals know many different pieces of information, they are free to add that information to Wikipedia, but Wikipedia has rules governing the acceptance of that information, with those rules themselves enforced in decentralized fashion. The result is the greatest encyclopedia ever built and one of the world’s most popular and most useful web sites, all based on Hayekian ideas.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I cannot in good conscience put Samuelson on the short list for GOAT. His main problem is that, while he was a great economist of high import, he did not in fact understand economics . I am sorry to report that, but yes it is true and it is also a deal-breaker.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mill in fact became obsessed with Goethe’s concept of Vielseitigkeit , which can be translated as “many-sidedness.” As Laura J. Snyder has explained: “For a time, he admitted, this notion “possessed” him. Mill took “many-sidedness” to mean seeing all points of view in order to find the portions of truth residing in different, even contrary, systems of thought.” </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Malthus was strongly opposed to slavery and spoke out as such. As you might expect for an author so famous, the participants in the slavery debates both cited Malthusian doctrine as being on their side. For instance, it was argued that taking Africans away as slaves actually helped Africans by alleviating Malthusian pressures and thus allowing additional Africans to be born. Malthus, in the third edition of his Essay in 1806, wrote an appendix that responded to those arguments and made his opposition to slavery clear. Most of all he stressed the wretched condition of the slaves in the New World, and he gave a copy of his appendix to abolitionist William Wilberforce to use in the slavery debates. So on the number one issue of his time, Malthus made a concerted public attempt to be on the correct side. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">For instance, on slavery Smith actively opposed the institution and furthermore he had an influential legacy on the economics of slavery. First, he argued that free labor was more productive and more efficient than slave labor, due to better incentives. Second, he unambiguously identified the falling away of slavery with the onset of progress and the arrival of a better world. Third, Smith attempted to construct principles of justice under which involuntary slavery always was bad. If you wanted to cite an Enlightenment thinker on why slavery was bad, Smith was tailor-made for that purpose.</span> <br /></div></div></div></div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127870226377459490noreply@blogger.com0