Staying home

I became a stay-at-home father largely because of what I now know to be the very patriarchal attitudes of top management at my workplace.  While my immediate supervisors, who were women, were very sympathetic to things like requests for time off because of a sick child, the male head of our organization was quite the opposite.  Frankly, my wife and partner had a far more difficult time cancelling her day to stay home than I did.  She was, in fact, the primary wage earner for our home, and a lost day of work for her affected us far more than a lost day for me did.  But whenever I had to take time off to stay home, our director was the first to ask, “Well, why can’t his wife do it?”  He constantly made comments in front of other (female!) staff about how it wasn’t really my “place” to take time off for that.  Ultimately his feelings about my situation resulted in my being assigned to duties and hours that were more and more difficult until they became untenable.  Unfortunately I chose simply to leave rather than to fight the situation.  I chose to stay at home full time.  We have never regretted my decision to stay at home, but I often regret having allowed this individual to get away with perpetuating his stereotyped ideas about what constituted my proper role as a worker, as a parent, and as a man.

Thinking about Gandhi

When I was a student at the University of Virginia, back in the early 1970’s, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I became involved with a protest against the war in Viet Nam.  We planned to drive up to the Pentagon, meet up with protesters from other colleges and universities, and picket the main entrance.  It was going to be a pretty big deal.  When word of the protest spread to the authorities, they let it be known that our picketing was illegal, would not be tolerated, and if we tried it, we would be arrested.  I remember being amazed at the time at how many people dropped out of the protest when they realized that their arrest was almost certain.  Maybe they didn’t want to hurt their records, or damage their future careers.  Maybe they were afraid it would hurt their chances at getting into the right grad school.  Or maybe, this close in history to the tragedies at Kent State University and the Democratic Convention in Chicago in 1968, they were simply afraid.

Whatever.

We went from being a bus full of people to a van full, but we went.  We WERE arrested, herded into RFK stadium, processed and jailed with as many as 20 of us jammed into a cell meant for four.  We were released a day or so later.  I was never tried, and some years later an amnesty from President Ford wiped even our arrest records clean.  It was, overall, a grand experience, and I’m glad and proud that I went.  I continued to protest the war until it ended.

There’s a story about Gandhi, perhaps apocryphal, about a mother who asked Gandhi to tell her young son to quit eating sugar.  She said, “I know it does him harm, and I know he will obey you.”  Gandhi asked her to come back in a week.  She was puzzled by the delay, and frankly, a little put out by it, but she figured that Gandhi was a busy man, so she agreed.  In a week,  she came back; Gandhi sat down with the boy, joked and played with him for a while and then said to him, “Please don’t eat sugar.  It’s not good for you.”  The boy agreed to stop.  The mother came over, thanked Gandhi, but said, “I don’t understand why it took you a whole week to tell him that.  Why couldn’t you just do that a week ago?”  Gandhi smiled at her, showing her the gaps in his own teeth, and said, “Last week, I, too, was eating sugar.”

To me, sacrifice means talking the talk and walking the walk.  It means not giving up just what's comfortable to give up.  I believe you have to sacrifice for your beliefs when it becomes uncomfortable, or inconvenient, or hard.  The sacrifices you make could be sacrifices of time, or money.  It could mean going on a march for a cause you believe in even though it’s raining, or it’s cold, or you’re hurting.  Even the Bible references this kind of sacrifice in worship:  look at the story of the widow’s mites.  The widow is praised because her donation of two tiny coins is worth more than a rich man’s sack of gold -- it's all the money she has.  Or look at any of Jesus’s rebukes of the all-talk-and-no-action Pharisees.  (Oh, those Pharisees.  When will they ever learn?!)

Could I be doing more, giving more, living my beliefs more?  Of course I could.  But awareness is the first step.  I don’t ever want to be a “do as I say not as I do” person.  I had to remind myself of this last Monday when my daughter and I were freezing outside for a couple of hours on the Dauphin County Courthouse steps, protesting for equal marriage rights for gays, lesbians, bisexual and transgender persons.  Quite frankly, there were times when I wanted to go sit in the car with the heater on.  I think my daughter did, too.  But we stuck it out.

I am so proud of her.

Turning Japanese? I really think not....

I suppose I should be blogging about the great two-part Death Storm that ravaged Pennsylvania this week. It is, after all, the first time in recorded history that two storms of this magnitude hit the mid-Atlantic in the same week.  In a way, it did lead to this blog, but only incidentally.  I'm sure that there are better accounts of the blizzards elsewhere.

One of the things that I share with my daughter is a love of Japanese culture.  We enjoy Japanese food, architecture, animation (anime) and comics (manga.)  We often talk about what we would like to do on our dream tour of Japan -- the temples we would visit, the cities we want to see, and of course a visit to Studio Ghibli where many of our favorite anime were produced by that wonderful genius Hayao Miyazaki.  Some of my favorite films are those starring Toshiro Mifune and directed by Akira Kurosawa, particularly "Rashomon" and "Seven Samurai."  Some of my favorite collectibles are my Japanese toys based on various anime like Cowboy Bebop, Neon Genesis EVAngelion and Keroro Gunsou.  Hell, the names are even fun to type.

But last week, while holed up during the storms and passing the time by reading manga and watching Japanese movies I caught a news report of a Japanese whaling vessel which deliberately rammed a ship which was trying to protect a pod of whales from those hunting them.  And it got me thinking about the dark underbelly of Japanese culture.  While there is much to admire and even, for some, to love about Japanese culture and society, I sometimes forget about the other stuff.  The whaling.  The xenophobia.  The racism.  The denigration of women.  The insane importance placed on "face."

I have to believe that time will heal some of that.  I have to believe that each succeeding generation diminishes the hatred and prejudice of the preceding generation.  I like to think I am less prejudiced than my parents were, despite growing up in their home and under their influence.  I like to think that if I, imperfect as I know I am, can transcend some of their hatreds, then anyone can.  And I do see some progress by Japan, which I find encouraging.  Although women's rights there are about thirty years behind where we are (and we are by no means where we should be), they are better than they were.  Their blind prejudice against other races and cultures seems to be less than it was.  They are kinder to their own indigenous people, the Ainu, than they ever have been.  But they persist with whaling, which is alien to me as anything could be.

Before I can ever in good conscience visit Japan, they have to stop hunting what may very well be the only other sentient species with whom we share this world.  They need to give up the ridiculous sympathetic magic ideas of much of Eastern medicine.  Rhino horn will not give you a bigger manhood, guys, and panda bile is not a miracle cure.  You have hunted creatures to near extinction in the pursuit of a fantasy made of smoke.  And none of the products you get from whales are of any real use to anybody except the whales themselves.  Your argument that whaling is an important part of your culture is belied by the factory ships you use to hunt these magnificent creatures.  It's a business, not a cultural ritual.  So stop it.  Just stop it.  Now.

Thank you.

Politics & Religion

Growing up, I was always told that there are two subjects which you should avoid in polite conversation:  politics and religion.  Granted, this was practically a non-issue, since my family, my neighbors, and most of my town were all Republicans and all went to the same church.  I think that finally ended when Kennedy ran against Nixon in 1960 and the decision had to be made whether to vote Republican, or Catholic.  Nowadays religion is far more likely to come up in conversation, especially along with politics, and I still find myself reluctant to get into it sometimes.  People usually wind up asking me why I go to church if I have no belief in God, or the soul, or an afterlife.  I’ve been asked how I can even consider myself a spiritual person if I, quote, don’t believe in anything, end quote.  It’s hard to convince some people that you can be a spiritual person, that you can believe in personal redemption, for example, without extending that belief to include a God.

But at least most people have HEARD of Unitarians now, if only as the punch line to a joke on Prairie Home Companion, or The Simpsons.  (As much as I love Garrison Keillor, my favorite Unitarian jokes come from The Simpsons.  Probably because back when I was an actor I always wanted to do cartoon voices.)  My favorite Simpsons moments are when Lisa goes to the Church of Springfield’s Ice Cream Social and gets an empty bowl from the VERY right-wing Christian Reverend Lovejoy.  He calls it a "Unitarian Sundae."  She says, “But the bowl is empty!” and he says, “Exactly!”  I also laughed when Bart went next door to his Christian neighbor’s house to play a video game called Bible Blasters, where you shoot unbelievers with Bibles in order to convert them to Christianity.  Bart thinks he’s hit one, but his neighbor says, “No, you just winged him; now he’s a Unitarian.”

Well, I haven’t been winged by the Bible, but the fact is, I DO consider myself a spiritual person, and I do have beliefs.  As I said, I believe in personal redemption.  I believe that through your actions now, you can redeem past mistakes.  I believe that coming to church regularly helps keep me on that path.  I also believe in scientific fact.  I believe in the enormous human potential all around me.  I can appreciate the wondrous architecture of nature and the universe without feeling any need to believe in an architect.  For me, one does not necessarily lead to the other.

And this drives my Christian relatives CRAZY!  You’d think that by now they’d have learned that they’re never going to change my mind.  (I certainly know I’ll never change theirs.)  And yet, some of them still ask me what I believe.  I’m not sure whether they’re hoping for a new answer or an old argument, but now I just tell them, “I believe ... I’ll have some more dessert.”  It obviously hasn’t helped my waistline any, but it does wonders for saving family gatherings.

So.  I don’t believe in a deity.  But I DO believe, strongly, in Unitarian-Universalism's "Seven Principles."  I especially appreciate the Fifth Principle of the Unity of Experience.  I like the idea that there is no conflict between faith and knowledge.  Other beliefs do not threaten mine.  And this doesn’t mean that I am not open to other beliefs.  I have found beauty and wisdom in many places, not only in Einstein and Hawking, but also in the words of the Bible, the Bhagavad-Gita, and the Buddha.  I like to read, and learn, and most of all, I like sharing my journey.  With toleration; with that unity of experience which denies any conflict between Sacred Faith and secular knowledge.  After all, we all get to take this trip together.

So long Joan

I know this is a bit late; sorry about that to all of you who aren't reading.  This past week I have been suffering physically from a dreadful cold that has lingered on for three weeks now.  And I have been suffering spiritually from the news of the death of a high school classmate, Joan Pasterik.  Joan was 56.  I haven't seen or talked to her since high school.  Back then we were never what I could remotely call close friends.  We weren't really friends at all, not really, although we certainly knew who each of us were.  I don't think we ever even shared many classes once we got out of elementary school.  But Joan grew up in Raritan, New Jersey, along with me.  We shared the same small town commonalities that any two people do who go to the same school, the same hangouts, the same parks and so forth.

Joan was always one of the prettiest girls in school.  When we got to high school she became a cheerleader.  But she was a cheerleader who wasn't a Mean Girl.  She was popular without being a Queen Bee.  All the guys adored her and all the girls were friends with her.  Even when we were little kids at Washington School and 98 percent of all the kids tortured me for being the fattest kid in school, or the smartest kid in school, or both (and yes, I was both) Joan always took the high road.  She refused to participate in any of the teasing or mockery.  When we passed in the halls she always had a smile and a hello.  That stayed true right up until we graduated and went our separate ways.  By high school I was no longer fat, and certainly no longer the smartest -- barely in the top ten at best, I think.  Joan still was always nice to me.  She was a Class Act.  I find myself missing her acutely -- someone I have not seen or heard from in forty years.  And yet at our next reunion I know I will find myself missing her acutely.

I understand that Joan went on to get her doctorate in communications.  I know her husband and her family will miss her.  She was laid to rest by the same family funeral home that has served my home town of Raritan since before I was born.  Their motto is "Forever In Our Hearts" and I do believe it will be true for Joanie.  Once, we were kids together; once, we ran around on the same playground and played on swings together; we suffered through the same boring classes and enjoyed the same class trips to the Museum of Natural History in New York City.  Now at age 56 she is gone, and I think that that is a damned, damned shame.

Humanist Me

I discovered that I was a Unitarian-Universalist when I walked into the church in Charlottesville, Virginia, 27 years ago and heard a sermon preached by the Rev. Charles Howe.  That was my “coming home” epiphany.  The congregation was largely  composed of humanists, and while I don’t remember the topic of the sermon, I do remember how much it resonated with me, and how happy I was to have found a community of like-minded individuals.  I want to talk a little bit about how humanist reverence is part of my life.   I personally don’t believe in God, or in any kind of an afterlife, but I DO believe in redemption.  I find redemption from the worst parts of myself, because I share my journey with Pagans and Buddhists and Quakers and Jews, with recent converts and lifelong Unitarian-Universalists.

I didn’t mention the humanists specifically, even though I consider myself one, because I think that deep down I tended to think that most lifelong U-U’s WERE humanists.  That’s what first attracted me to this faith in the 1980’s, and it was only recently that I realized that I might have been doing those U-U’s a disservice.  There’s more to this religion than humanism.  For some time I have seen Unitarians embracing a more spiritual approach and paying more attention to our Judeo-Christian roots, while still respecting the individual's free and responsible search for truth and meaning.

27 years ago, "coming home" for me meant coming to a fairly homogeneous church, where everybody pretty much agreed on everything, from politics to spirituality.  We practiced Kurt Vonnegut’s definition of humanism, trying to behave decently without expectation of rewards or punishment after we’re dead. We rarely mentioned God or Jesus, although I felt very hip whenever we worked Buddha into a service.  I don’t think that church would feel so much like home any more.  I still share time each week with like-minded people, people I care about.  But now coming home for me means coming to be with people who have many differences as well, and who celebrate both their differences and their commonalities.

I still have no use for God myself, except maybe as a scapegoat for the odd mishap, or as someone I can order to damn the driver who just cut me off.  And yet I still manage to find spirituality in all kinds of places.  Recently I spent an afternoon in the Sierra Nevada mountains surrounded by clouds of wild hummingbirds.  I felt what I can only describe as a holy reverence for the natural world.  I felt the same thing when, as a young man in my 20’s, I went out into the Blue Ridge mountains one night, away from all the lights of people and civilization, and I saw the stars, really SAW the STARS for the first time in my life.  (I grew up in New Jersey.  We’re lucky if we can see the moon there!)  I feel that same feeling when a baby makes eye contact with me from across the room, when I KNOW that baby is really LOOKING at ME, and then smiles.  Just for me.  Vonnegut also says that, “Our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us.  Everything else about us is machinery.”  He says that we are the lucky mud that gets to sit up and look around.

I find the holiness of existence all around me.  I wish I appreciated it more, but when I remember to look for it, it’s there.  No God is required.  It’s in the momentary flash of Buddhist mindfulness I sometimes actually achieve, and then promptly lose when I realize, “Hey!  I just achieved mindfulness!”  I find holiness in quiet moments when I see my daughter reading or my wife knitting.  I find it in Bach’s 5th Brandenburg Concerto, I hear it when Sarah Brightman sings “Nessun Dorma”, and I see it in that baby’s smile.  I’ll take that every time.

So Far So Good, or Manifest Destiny: The Movie

So far, so good; still a couple of days to go in my second week and here I am. Maybe I can do 52 posts this year after all!

Recently I was asked to come up with some thoughts on the 19th-Century War With Mexico in the context of the questionable morality of today's conflicts with Iraq and Afghanistan. And this is what I came up with; your comments are most welcome.

Even as a kid, I remember being vaguely troubled in school when I learned about America’s war with Mexico in the 19th Century. I remember that we had to memorize the date of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, because it was going to be On The Test, but we glossed over the truly important stuff and just cut to the fact that when it was all over, the United States had Texas and California and New Mexico and such, because it was, quote, “our young country’s Manifest Destiny,” end quote.

Manifest Destiny. A complete fabrication that was basically marketed to the American people in order to justify an otherwise unjustifiable conflict. I remember my teacher telling me that “manifest” meant “obvious” but she never explained just HOW it was obvious, or to whom. Please remember that this was back when Ike was a President, not a hurricane. Manifest Destiny. It reminds me of a similar phony idea -- the Domino Theory. That was another load of, uh, fabrication used to sell a war with which I DO have some experience, the War in Vietnam.

The Domino Theory was, of course, the idea that if America let Vietnam fall to the communists it would lead to country after country falling like dominoes into the shadow of communist rule. Which sounded like the shadow of Mordor. Y'know. The Bad Kind of shadow.

I never for a second bought the Domino Theory. I was active in the anti-war movement of the 1960’s and 70’s and found it much easier to believe in American colonialism and even imperialism as the real reason for the war, and as a reason, I found it wanting. I was one of the fortunate souls to get a high number in the last draft lottery, so I was free to remain home, to pursue my education, and to protest the war nonviolently at every opportunity. At one protest at my alma mater, the University of Virginia, the county sheriff literally released the hounds on us, and in the course of running for my life I met a man who would become one of my best friends for a brief time in college. We helped each other over a garden wall to escape the dogs. His name was Shep.

Shep was five years older than I was, and a Vietnam vet. He was one of the first members of Vietnam Veterans Against the War. He was funny, and brilliant, and convinced that most, if not all, of his health problems were the result of his exposure to the various defoliants used indiscriminately while he was on the front lines. Shep constantly struggled to get the medical care to which we now know he was entitled as a vet. I was young and naive and had no real idea of how much pain Shep must have been in until he took his own life in 1973. He was the first casualty of that war to affect me personally and directly. He was not the last.

I continue to believe that the Vietnam war was an unjust war, that Americans should have been better than that. I remember being called unpatriotic for that belief. I imagine that the Americans who were troubled about the Mexican War (which the Mexicans, by the way, still call “The American Invasion of Mexico”) felt much the same way -- that Americans should have been better than that. And I imagine that those against that war in the 1840’s were also blasted for a lack of patriotism Now again in my lifetime I find my country involved in the prosecution of a conflict I believe to be immoral, and I feel the same shame, that my government used falsehoods and catch-phrases like “Weapons of Mass Destruction” to market the second Iraq war to the American people, when we should be better than that. And again, a minority who is against the war, as I have been from its very beginning, has to contend with being branded as unpatriotic.

There was one more thing that I didn’t learn in school about the Mexican War. I recently learned that when all was said and done, when you added up the deaths from war and wounds and disease and other consequences, the Mexican War had a casualty rate of around 40%, making it the deadliest war in our history. We may never know the exact casualty rate for the War in Vietnam. Shep is probably not counted among them. His name isn’t on the famous Wall, although I can’t visit it without thinking of him. I hope we find a way to end the wars we’re prosecuting now before the cost becomes any higher. I shudder to think of all the Sheps we are creating even now.