Usually, the local media is filled with complaints from Valley residents who object to the "constant" military air traffic in the area. The most consistent complaint is that "I didn't move to this resort area to hear military jets day in and day out." Today, however, there is increased military traffic, perhaps at 9-11 memorial ceremonies, perhaps simply beefing up the availability of fighters just in case, perhaps just doing routine patrols of the SoCal/Arizona air space.
Whatever the reason, those jets can fly over my home any time, even break the sound barrier if they want to show off, and I'll stand and salute their presence!! For the protestors who want the fighter jets rerouted, I hear there are nice resorts in other countries, especially those run by unscrupulous politicians and drug lords who rely on American tourist dollars to finance the terrorism of their own citizens.
Via con Dios.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Night Terrors
I went to bed last night dreading waking up this morning because no one knows if the threats of terrorism will mar this day of remembrance.
On CNBC this morning, prior to the start of the first remembrance ceremony, one of the commentators was moved to tears as he explained to listeners that the families of the women who were pregnant on 9-11-2001 were asked if they wanted the words, “and her unborn child,” inscribed with her name on the New York City Memorial. It was a minute before he could continue, and when he did, he said that is the true terror of this day, that those men, in the name of their god, could join the early-morning crowds at American airports, stand in line with their victims, board planes with their victims, look their victims in the eye – men, women, and children – and know that not only were they going to die that morning, but that their fellow passengers would also die in a heinous act of mass murder committed in the name of a foreign god most of them did not know exists.
This is the first time that I have heard bold truth, rather than apathetic appeasement, for what happened, the truth of a person who says what others believe, but are afraid to say outright in a politically-correct environment of feigned tolerance of that which is intolerable.
The terrorists lived among US, they blended in with US, they singled US out because they would not be US, even though they used our religious tolerance as the foundation for their terrorist attacks. And they still live among US, still plan attacks against US, but we are too afraid of public opinion to publicly recognize that reality and accept that the US has to do whatever it takes to protect its citizens from foreign acts of war committed on our soil.
And, while it is true that not all Iraqis, not all Afghanis, not all people of foreign descent attacked US, when you attack one of US, you attack all of US, and you become the enemy for the rest of your country. When an act of war is committed against a country, the citizens of that country strike back: that is the nature of war. We may call the attacks of 9-11, as well as the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 terrorist attacks, but they were acts of war – and those acts of war result in battle. As so many authors remind us, including John Hersey in his account of Hiroshima, during war there are no innocent civilians, just the enemy we are fighting.
We believe that if you commit the act of war, you’ll get war not just against those who acted for you, but against your nation, because when one of yours attacks US, you all attack US.
It is ten years since the acts of war committed by foreign terrorists against US on 9-11-01, and nine years of solemn ceremonies mark that anniversary. The names of all those who were killed are read, one by one, to remind US of all those people who showed up at the airports that morning, stood in crowds waiting to board with those who planned to kill them, waited in slowly-moving lines to find their assigned seats along with those who were committed to kill them, perhaps smiled as they were seated in proximity to religious zealots who believed that their god would smile with favor upon them for the heinous acts of mass murder they were about to commit. And innocent civilians screamed in terror as those planes took them to their deaths.
It is the ultimate irony that religious America begs US to pray for those who are committed to annihilating US in the name of their own religious beliefs, but pillories Chaz Bono for accepting the invitation to participate in Dancing with the Stars. Focus the prayers on citizens who are still the targets of terrorists, who are still at the mercy of those who are committed to kill US to protect their own religious rights.
Today's headline: 77 US troops wounded in attack on Afghan base. Pray for our service members who stand and fight while America's religious zealots kneel and pray for Chaz to see the error of his life.
On CNBC this morning, prior to the start of the first remembrance ceremony, one of the commentators was moved to tears as he explained to listeners that the families of the women who were pregnant on 9-11-2001 were asked if they wanted the words, “and her unborn child,” inscribed with her name on the New York City Memorial. It was a minute before he could continue, and when he did, he said that is the true terror of this day, that those men, in the name of their god, could join the early-morning crowds at American airports, stand in line with their victims, board planes with their victims, look their victims in the eye – men, women, and children – and know that not only were they going to die that morning, but that their fellow passengers would also die in a heinous act of mass murder committed in the name of a foreign god most of them did not know exists.
This is the first time that I have heard bold truth, rather than apathetic appeasement, for what happened, the truth of a person who says what others believe, but are afraid to say outright in a politically-correct environment of feigned tolerance of that which is intolerable.
The terrorists lived among US, they blended in with US, they singled US out because they would not be US, even though they used our religious tolerance as the foundation for their terrorist attacks. And they still live among US, still plan attacks against US, but we are too afraid of public opinion to publicly recognize that reality and accept that the US has to do whatever it takes to protect its citizens from foreign acts of war committed on our soil.
And, while it is true that not all Iraqis, not all Afghanis, not all people of foreign descent attacked US, when you attack one of US, you attack all of US, and you become the enemy for the rest of your country. When an act of war is committed against a country, the citizens of that country strike back: that is the nature of war. We may call the attacks of 9-11, as well as the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 terrorist attacks, but they were acts of war – and those acts of war result in battle. As so many authors remind us, including John Hersey in his account of Hiroshima, during war there are no innocent civilians, just the enemy we are fighting.
We believe that if you commit the act of war, you’ll get war not just against those who acted for you, but against your nation, because when one of yours attacks US, you all attack US.
It is ten years since the acts of war committed by foreign terrorists against US on 9-11-01, and nine years of solemn ceremonies mark that anniversary. The names of all those who were killed are read, one by one, to remind US of all those people who showed up at the airports that morning, stood in crowds waiting to board with those who planned to kill them, waited in slowly-moving lines to find their assigned seats along with those who were committed to kill them, perhaps smiled as they were seated in proximity to religious zealots who believed that their god would smile with favor upon them for the heinous acts of mass murder they were about to commit. And innocent civilians screamed in terror as those planes took them to their deaths.
It is the ultimate irony that religious America begs US to pray for those who are committed to annihilating US in the name of their own religious beliefs, but pillories Chaz Bono for accepting the invitation to participate in Dancing with the Stars. Focus the prayers on citizens who are still the targets of terrorists, who are still at the mercy of those who are committed to kill US to protect their own religious rights.
Today's headline: 77 US troops wounded in attack on Afghan base. Pray for our service members who stand and fight while America's religious zealots kneel and pray for Chaz to see the error of his life.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Stranded at the Gas Pump
On the way to teach class yesterday, I stopped first at the gas station down the street so when I headed back home at 6:30 pm, I could just go. Had to jockey to access the pump because cars had entered from both directions, making ease of pumping challenging. Filled the tank, hung up the hose, got into my car and nada, nothing, nil. Bupkus. Not only would the key not turn, but nothing else worked either, including putting the car into gear (it may have helped). I got out again, locked the door, unlocked it, got back in, strapped on my seat belt and gave it another go. Nope.
Stranded at the gas pump with long lines of irate customers wondering what the hell was taking me so long to get the hell out of their way!
I went inside to explain to the attendants why I would be blocking access to the pump for a while, but (it’s a guy thing) the male attendant said confidently, “Let me take a go at it.” Nah, that didn’t work either, but in the process of his trying to do something to help me, he mashed the brake pedal to the floor, ignoring my “Please don’t do that!” warning. My RAV has the anti-skid feature, which means that if the brakes are suddenly stomped, the car locks up tighter than a drum and will not move until I push the magic button on the dash. Didn’t matter in this case because nothing worked and the RAV was not only not moving, but absolutely dead, too.
Triple A was instantly responsive to my plight and assured me that a tow truck would be there within 45 minutes; however, with a class starting in 20 minutes, other phone calls had to be made. The school locks the doors at 2:30, which seems an early end to a school day, but no one was there to answer the phones, so I called the college and explained my plight. Not to worry: someone would call the high school site and tell the custodians that I would not be there for my class. As I hung up from that call, the tow truck arrived on-site.
Basically, the Triple A employee jumped the battery and, as the car roared to life, it rocked forward a bit – which may have unlocked what was frozen. Perhaps it was the anti-skid mechanism, but whatever it was, I was not only on my way in about 15 minutes from making the call to Triple A, but I made it on-time to the classroom filled with students who did not get the message that I was stranded.
Neither did the custodians: no way to contact them by phone either, which adds to the safe, secure feeling of teaching at that site!!
Stranded at the gas pump with long lines of irate customers wondering what the hell was taking me so long to get the hell out of their way!
I went inside to explain to the attendants why I would be blocking access to the pump for a while, but (it’s a guy thing) the male attendant said confidently, “Let me take a go at it.” Nah, that didn’t work either, but in the process of his trying to do something to help me, he mashed the brake pedal to the floor, ignoring my “Please don’t do that!” warning. My RAV has the anti-skid feature, which means that if the brakes are suddenly stomped, the car locks up tighter than a drum and will not move until I push the magic button on the dash. Didn’t matter in this case because nothing worked and the RAV was not only not moving, but absolutely dead, too.
Triple A was instantly responsive to my plight and assured me that a tow truck would be there within 45 minutes; however, with a class starting in 20 minutes, other phone calls had to be made. The school locks the doors at 2:30, which seems an early end to a school day, but no one was there to answer the phones, so I called the college and explained my plight. Not to worry: someone would call the high school site and tell the custodians that I would not be there for my class. As I hung up from that call, the tow truck arrived on-site.
Basically, the Triple A employee jumped the battery and, as the car roared to life, it rocked forward a bit – which may have unlocked what was frozen. Perhaps it was the anti-skid mechanism, but whatever it was, I was not only on my way in about 15 minutes from making the call to Triple A, but I made it on-time to the classroom filled with students who did not get the message that I was stranded.
Neither did the custodians: no way to contact them by phone either, which adds to the safe, secure feeling of teaching at that site!!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Family Mythology
I learned first-hand about family mythology when a brother and my sister refused to accept the childhood memories I shared at the kitchen table the weekend before my mother died. It was offensive and disrespectful, as well as the accusation that my whole life is a lie that lives only in my imagination. It has been challenging to accept that other people’s perception can instantly become my reality just because they say so, but my siblings effectively dismissed my memories in the flick of a smug smirk, and that reality stays with me.
Tess Gerritsen writes the Rizzoli and Isles novels, the basis for the current TV show featuring Angie Harmon. Gerritsen’s latest work is entitled The Silent Girl, a story that finds its foundation in Gerritsen’s own Far East family history. I usually find little gems hidden in any storyline, and this reading is no exception. In talking about family descendents, Mrs. Fang, a lead character, explains to Detective Frost, “You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives” (chapter twenty-nine).
The profundity of a lifetime encapsulated in a few sentences struck me silent for a minute, and then I reread, contemplated, finished reading the chapter, then went back several times to revisit the last two sentences: “Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”
First, the assumption is that our family memories are mythology, and then that the mythology means more than the truth, which is certainly the case in my family. Both of my parents are dead, but I have four brothers and a sister. When people say that death brings out the worst in people, it is truer beyond anyone’s imagination, as I found out up close and personal after my mother's death. What is clear before the death is muddied by family mythology afterward, as each individual in the family holds firmly to his/her own myths about what life was and especially about how the family heirlooms should be shared.
But Gerritsen’s second sentence, “It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives,” profoundly affects me as I struggle with that concept on an almost daily basis: my own “sheer insignificance” is a deeply-felt truth that has lived within me since my earliest memories. My entire life has been focused on being someone, doing something, making a difference and being significant, all the while feeling profoundly insignificant as, time after time after time, my presence, my effort, my determination to be significant simply doesn’t matter. When it’s really important to be someone, to do something, to make a difference and be significant, my own insecurities will not be denied.
Far too many times I have wondered why I even try, why I go the extra mile, why I do more than many people know, why I struggle to make a difference when far too often I regret my effort.
An example leaps into my mind, a day when a student was killed in an automobile accident on his way to school, his chair empty when I took attendance that morning. A few minutes into the class, the door opened and the principal stepped into the room to declare bluntly that [student’s name] was dead. There was absolute silence as the students began to process what they had heard: their classmate was dead and some of them, staring at his empty chair, didn’t have a clue who he was beyond his name. My mind kicked into “do something” mode, so I found poster board, markers, a box of photos – and let the day’s lesson be remembrance. When the project was finished, we displayed the tribute on the wall outside my classroom so other students could “picture” the student and share memories of their classmate.
Imagine my surprise when the local newspaper came out that week: the principal was in a front-page photo, standing behind students seated at a table “working on” a poster in memory of the student who had died in the accident. She had taken the poster off the wall, invited two students to join her in the back room after school, and staged the photo to focus on her involvement in the students' grieving process, a process made much more difficult by her tactless announcement that he was "dead."
Why did she do that, pretend that she had done something right that day, rather than handle a difficult situation badly? Simply because she could? Perhaps, after reading Gerristen’s words, her motive was far more complex: having this power truly helped her cope with the “sheer insignificance of [her] own life.” It was not right, it was not fair to take the focus off the student’s death and put it onto herself, but there is no do-over in the real world, no saying sorry for becoming the moment, rather than living it.
Gerritsen's quote takes me on a mental meander and realize that the older I become, the less significant my life is to me. I think about who I think I am, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the people I've met, and all pales in comparison to those around me. I am not heroic; I have not overcome great tragedy; I have not struggled mightily against negative odds and triumphed. I simply awaken each morning, put my boots on the ground, and keep on keeping on, completely lacking significance in who I am and what I do.
Inside, I’d like to be significant, but I’m not: there will be a slight ripple with my departure, but a ripple that will quickly close as life moves on without me. Some will remember for a while, but far more will never know that I existed. I enjoy more than some, less than others; do more than some, but far less than others; touch some lives in a positive way, but mess up just as many times with my stumbling and fumbling to try to do the right thing at the right time for all the right reasons. It’s not that I am insignificant, but that I am not significant that strikes me most deeply.
My family mythology is not a huge help in allowing me to cope with my “sheer insignificance” because so much of what I think I know within myself -- if my siblings are correct -- is pure rubbish. However, again quoting Gerritsen, "If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that." It’s easier to believe the untruth of personal perception than it is to probe the truth of someone else’s reality, and that’s where my thoughts wander this fine Sunday morning.
Tess Gerritsen writes the Rizzoli and Isles novels, the basis for the current TV show featuring Angie Harmon. Gerritsen’s latest work is entitled The Silent Girl, a story that finds its foundation in Gerritsen’s own Far East family history. I usually find little gems hidden in any storyline, and this reading is no exception. In talking about family descendents, Mrs. Fang, a lead character, explains to Detective Frost, “You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives” (chapter twenty-nine).
The profundity of a lifetime encapsulated in a few sentences struck me silent for a minute, and then I reread, contemplated, finished reading the chapter, then went back several times to revisit the last two sentences: “Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”
First, the assumption is that our family memories are mythology, and then that the mythology means more than the truth, which is certainly the case in my family. Both of my parents are dead, but I have four brothers and a sister. When people say that death brings out the worst in people, it is truer beyond anyone’s imagination, as I found out up close and personal after my mother's death. What is clear before the death is muddied by family mythology afterward, as each individual in the family holds firmly to his/her own myths about what life was and especially about how the family heirlooms should be shared.
But Gerritsen’s second sentence, “It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives,” profoundly affects me as I struggle with that concept on an almost daily basis: my own “sheer insignificance” is a deeply-felt truth that has lived within me since my earliest memories. My entire life has been focused on being someone, doing something, making a difference and being significant, all the while feeling profoundly insignificant as, time after time after time, my presence, my effort, my determination to be significant simply doesn’t matter. When it’s really important to be someone, to do something, to make a difference and be significant, my own insecurities will not be denied.
Far too many times I have wondered why I even try, why I go the extra mile, why I do more than many people know, why I struggle to make a difference when far too often I regret my effort.
An example leaps into my mind, a day when a student was killed in an automobile accident on his way to school, his chair empty when I took attendance that morning. A few minutes into the class, the door opened and the principal stepped into the room to declare bluntly that [student’s name] was dead. There was absolute silence as the students began to process what they had heard: their classmate was dead and some of them, staring at his empty chair, didn’t have a clue who he was beyond his name. My mind kicked into “do something” mode, so I found poster board, markers, a box of photos – and let the day’s lesson be remembrance. When the project was finished, we displayed the tribute on the wall outside my classroom so other students could “picture” the student and share memories of their classmate.
Imagine my surprise when the local newspaper came out that week: the principal was in a front-page photo, standing behind students seated at a table “working on” a poster in memory of the student who had died in the accident. She had taken the poster off the wall, invited two students to join her in the back room after school, and staged the photo to focus on her involvement in the students' grieving process, a process made much more difficult by her tactless announcement that he was "dead."
Why did she do that, pretend that she had done something right that day, rather than handle a difficult situation badly? Simply because she could? Perhaps, after reading Gerristen’s words, her motive was far more complex: having this power truly helped her cope with the “sheer insignificance of [her] own life.” It was not right, it was not fair to take the focus off the student’s death and put it onto herself, but there is no do-over in the real world, no saying sorry for becoming the moment, rather than living it.
Gerritsen's quote takes me on a mental meander and realize that the older I become, the less significant my life is to me. I think about who I think I am, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the people I've met, and all pales in comparison to those around me. I am not heroic; I have not overcome great tragedy; I have not struggled mightily against negative odds and triumphed. I simply awaken each morning, put my boots on the ground, and keep on keeping on, completely lacking significance in who I am and what I do.
Inside, I’d like to be significant, but I’m not: there will be a slight ripple with my departure, but a ripple that will quickly close as life moves on without me. Some will remember for a while, but far more will never know that I existed. I enjoy more than some, less than others; do more than some, but far less than others; touch some lives in a positive way, but mess up just as many times with my stumbling and fumbling to try to do the right thing at the right time for all the right reasons. It’s not that I am insignificant, but that I am not significant that strikes me most deeply.
My family mythology is not a huge help in allowing me to cope with my “sheer insignificance” because so much of what I think I know within myself -- if my siblings are correct -- is pure rubbish. However, again quoting Gerritsen, "If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that." It’s easier to believe the untruth of personal perception than it is to probe the truth of someone else’s reality, and that’s where my thoughts wander this fine Sunday morning.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Brownie Points
Brownie is still with us, at least until his own mommie comes back from her vacation. Brownie is the daughter’s dog, but he’s spent the summer with the mom, who definitely does not like dogs in any way, shape or form. She tolerates Brownie, but she wants as little to do with him as possible.
Because I am one of those annoying people who butts in where I am not needed, I volunteered to take Brownie during the day so he could socialize with my dogs and play in our big yard, rather than spend the days locked in a bathroom until someone comes home. Hearing his barking and whining during the day, as then continue all night long, got on my nerves big-time: I’d rather have him quiet and content at my house than whining and barking at his.
Brownie is tiny, about 5 pounds, but he has an attitude bigger than all outdoors. Mia tolerates him, but accepts him, Daisy is not so happy to be sharing the spotlight with him (and refused to be in the picture), and I am adjusting to the constant tug-o-war between them. Brownie has taken over my bed, much to Daisy’s dismay, and he is not willing to share. He climbs all over Mia, settling down so close to her that she cannot move away. Mia acts annoyed, Daisy growls, and Brownie is oblivious. But, he’s happy. He follows the girls as they go in and out, he waits his turn for a little treat, he curls up either on my lap or along my arm, depending on where I’m sitting and what I’m doing. He runs outside like he’s on fire when he hears a noise in the neighborhood, then comes back inside to let me know he’s assessed the situation and we are all secure and safe, just as my other 2 dogs have trained him to do.
When it comes to the morning walk, Brownie is obviously in charge. As the smallest of the three, he takes point, barks warnings about all the other dogs in the neighborhood, wants to select the corners at which we turn, and stops at new bushes along our route that my dogs have not already vetted. Brownie struts, Daisy trots, and Mia lumbers alongside me, shooting me that sideways look that says, “Really? You are letting him be the walk director?”
We are going for shorter walks because I’m not sure Brownie can do our full 45 minutes each morning, and neither of my girls is happy with that as they barely get the kinks out before we are pulling back into the driveway. My girls want to walk through the entire neighborhood. They need to know who’s here, who doesn’t belong, and where the potential problems lurk, and that takes serious commitment every morning, not a little Sunday stroll. If Brownie stays around, I'm going to have to find out whether he can actually do "our" walk, rather than forcing us to do his walk each morning.
Brownie’s mommie will be home Saturday, and I know he will be glad to see her, but school is back in session, so she’ll be gone from 7 am until about 6 pm because she’s working as an aide with her mother at an after-school program. So, even though Brownie’s owners will be back home together, he’ll still spend most of his existence locked in the bathroom. I don’t want another dog, but it breaks my heart to see such a sweet little guy spend his life in isolation for a crime he didn’t commit.
We’ll see what happens after the weekend, but I suspect that Brownie is going to be at least a temporary member of our family even after his owner comes home this weekend. She’ll play with him over the weekend, but I’m betting dollars to donuts that she’s going to ask me to keep him while she’s at school during the week. Guess I’d better come up with an answer for that.
Because I am one of those annoying people who butts in where I am not needed, I volunteered to take Brownie during the day so he could socialize with my dogs and play in our big yard, rather than spend the days locked in a bathroom until someone comes home. Hearing his barking and whining during the day, as then continue all night long, got on my nerves big-time: I’d rather have him quiet and content at my house than whining and barking at his.
Brownie is tiny, about 5 pounds, but he has an attitude bigger than all outdoors. Mia tolerates him, but accepts him, Daisy is not so happy to be sharing the spotlight with him (and refused to be in the picture), and I am adjusting to the constant tug-o-war between them. Brownie has taken over my bed, much to Daisy’s dismay, and he is not willing to share. He climbs all over Mia, settling down so close to her that she cannot move away. Mia acts annoyed, Daisy growls, and Brownie is oblivious. But, he’s happy. He follows the girls as they go in and out, he waits his turn for a little treat, he curls up either on my lap or along my arm, depending on where I’m sitting and what I’m doing. He runs outside like he’s on fire when he hears a noise in the neighborhood, then comes back inside to let me know he’s assessed the situation and we are all secure and safe, just as my other 2 dogs have trained him to do.
When it comes to the morning walk, Brownie is obviously in charge. As the smallest of the three, he takes point, barks warnings about all the other dogs in the neighborhood, wants to select the corners at which we turn, and stops at new bushes along our route that my dogs have not already vetted. Brownie struts, Daisy trots, and Mia lumbers alongside me, shooting me that sideways look that says, “Really? You are letting him be the walk director?”
We are going for shorter walks because I’m not sure Brownie can do our full 45 minutes each morning, and neither of my girls is happy with that as they barely get the kinks out before we are pulling back into the driveway. My girls want to walk through the entire neighborhood. They need to know who’s here, who doesn’t belong, and where the potential problems lurk, and that takes serious commitment every morning, not a little Sunday stroll. If Brownie stays around, I'm going to have to find out whether he can actually do "our" walk, rather than forcing us to do his walk each morning.
Brownie’s mommie will be home Saturday, and I know he will be glad to see her, but school is back in session, so she’ll be gone from 7 am until about 6 pm because she’s working as an aide with her mother at an after-school program. So, even though Brownie’s owners will be back home together, he’ll still spend most of his existence locked in the bathroom. I don’t want another dog, but it breaks my heart to see such a sweet little guy spend his life in isolation for a crime he didn’t commit.
We’ll see what happens after the weekend, but I suspect that Brownie is going to be at least a temporary member of our family even after his owner comes home this weekend. She’ll play with him over the weekend, but I’m betting dollars to donuts that she’s going to ask me to keep him while she’s at school during the week. Guess I’d better come up with an answer for that.
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