densanity

From Dyke (VA) to Deliberate

From August '87 until May '89, I found myself, at times inexplicably, in the Blue Ridge mountains, teaching 11th grade English at a boys boarding school in Dyke, VA.  And trust me, Dyke somehow was the better of two options, given the area truly was called Bacon Hollow. These are back in the pre-internet dark ages, where one had to speak to customer service over an actual land line phone and there would always be that one person offering childish snickers when I said the name of the town to mail whatever it was.  Somehow Dyke brought the giggles the same way "fart" would in a room full of children (or even some adults I know).

 

 

I didn’t chase the lawyer track that I think many people thought I would chase.  As an English major, someone thought I would be uniquely qualified to teach kids only four to five years my junior….for $13,000 a year...room and board....while wearing a blazer, shirt and tie.  Previously, for me, this attire was reserved for weddings, funerals, and the more than I wanted to brag about trips to my college Dean’s office to discuss various shenanigans.

I was surrounded by drugs, "huffing" deodorant, the Grateful Dead, and a bunch of dark clouds that form over kids preparing to face the big, bad world of college - some who scored less than 800 on the SAT’s, due mostly to apathy, parents giving up on them, and past teachers moving them up the curriculum ladder when they shouldn't have, just because they could catch a football or go yard in baseball. And, I was charged to steer them!?  Let's be very clear - I wasn’t some poster child for Sweet and Innocent magazine.  I was less "just say no" and more "maybe just this once?"  By the time I walked on to that campus, I had been exposed to most things, though huffing was a first for me to see.  I loved the Dead, but wasn’t going to have shared experiences listening to their music with these kids - well mostly.  Once I realized these kids were not going to latch on to Steinbeck, Dickens, or any of the classics, I printed lyrics to Dead songs and turned it in to a poetry class of sorts.  "Ripple" was a personal favorite to discuss.  And? They responded.

For two years, I shaped minds with what little I had to share, veering from traditional curriculum. Those times still feel like the most brutal two years of my life - emotionally speaking.  It was during those two years that I learned about tossing a room.  It was those two years where one of my advisees admitted, almost proudly, that his father was the Grand Dragon of a not too faraway chapter of the KKK.  But, as his Jewish advisor, I need not worry - he had no beef with “us.”  Easy to say "why didn't you just report him?"  This was not the environment for social justice warrior'ing.  Everyone knew what was going on and I look back on it now wishing I hadn't been part of the Blind Eye Club.

I was so ill-prepared to have a 14 year old show up at my apt door (yes, I lived on campus) to let me know his girlfriend was pregnant and what should he do?  Cute that ANYONE on the planet would think I would have advice or the courage to offer it.   At times, you had to bring in the calvary, while others I just gut instinct'ed my way through.  For non life threatening things, I just winged it - and I apparently was winging pretty good, b/c all of a sudden I started getting letters from parents noticing something was different when their kids would come back home. 

There are times in my life where I wish I wasn't reminded of when a large, chauffeur driven Bentley dropped a freshman off at school two weeks before classes even started.  No parent got out to hug this child.  The chauffeur placed the bags on the curb and drove away.  The child stared for a moment, then turned and proceeded to vomit in front of my building.  The only thing going on at school was football camp and this child was NOT there to play football.  This particular child is who football players devour before games - as an appetizer.

Over time, my study hall (detention of sorts) became the place to be - kids who never once got in to trouble were now doing stupid shit so they could get sent there.  Mostly benign things like missing assignments or bad behavior in class.  Think Island of Misfit Toys - students AND teacher.  We would all just talk.  About something.  About nothing.  

 

 

Small victories were always cut short by brutal realities - the "we were so close breaking through to that one" disappointments and older faculty giving me the side eye for my "ways".  The Headmaster truly wanted to inject a younger crop of teachers - outside the box thinkers - but, it was just hard.  I needed an escape strategy from what seemed like VA's second Civil War, us young ones and the old guard, holding on to past beliefs that were not going to prepare these kids for a rapidly changing, more progressive world.  So, in my final faculty meeting, when there was no "new business" to discuss,  I might have raised my hand to suggest I finally cracked the code on the town 's name.   I surmised it was founded by the Daughters of the American Revolution, who ended up being intimate with one another while their husbands were off shooting muskets while standing 10 feet away from their enemy.  To be fair, if you ever really paid attention to how the troops fought back then, these women were better off without those dunderheads. 

For my part, it was a  foolish ploy - my only goal to be uninvited back.  Mission accomplished.  I remember the Headmaster offering me a look - equal parts disappointment and understanding.  He knew. 

So, I left my island behind - only to realize years later, I loved those misfits - and in the end, they weren't misfits at all - they were just kids who had no guidance from parents who were dreadfully invisible and I was the first person that seemed to not only hear them but listen to them. Two very different things.

I retreated to the safety of Dallas, ready to take on the “rigors” of film school, when something odd and timely happened.  In June of 1989, Dead Poets Society was released.  I hadn’t left the Hollow 3 weeks before I was transported right back to school.  I am not suggesting I made it to the level of Robin Williams’ character, but damn if I wasn’t being unorthodox in that coat and tie environment ; bearing witness to the same parental trauma inflicted on my students, now some 30 years after that movie took place.  DPS spoke to me.  

That was the day I was reminded of Thoreau’s epic work that started simply with:  “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life…”  I had not lived enough life to understand living deliberately.   Apologies to Professor Harris, who likely tried to get me to understand in one of the many college courses I took from him.  

It's now 2023 and I am back in the woods - starting to feel, maybe for the first time, that I am growing more deliberate in the way I choose to live this life of mine.  And, if Thoreau was right about one thing, the woods have a way of making that necessary.  

Nestled in the Catskills, I am officially off grid adjacent (real estate recall to my years in LA where people would fudge their neighborhoods by suggesting they were Santa Monica or Beverly Hills “adjacent”).  I can’t claim total isolation, as I have police and fire 3 mins away ; groceries, gas, and mail 6 mins away ; and a liquor store (aka package store) 8 mins away.  There is no DoorDash, no Uber, no ArcLight cinema, no real food options open Monday and Tuesday (some even still Wednesday).  Above all?  No sushi other than what’s made on sight at one of several groceries, nearby(ish).  

There were nights in the beginning where I was sorta questioning this - not in any real way, but, not knowing a soul, no infrastructure for plumbing, heating, or electrical, and a list of other “this is nothing like”s, I was truly naked.  And I am sure those who know me well thought this was insane.  

 

 

But, that’s when it happened - to thrive out here, you need to be deliberate - you have to live with intention - you have to learn to see the issues coming before they actually do.  Need to head into town? Make lists so that you can do all the things on the same trip: Doctor appointments, Home Depot, Target, Adams (the best market in all the universe), and Uncle B’s Car Wash.  If you need something on Amazon, make sure you can wait the 5-7 days it will likely take to get to you.  Secure your plow person for the winter, get your chimneys inspected every year before winter, have someone help put your garden beds to sleep in the fall and wake them up in the spring, make friends with the two ladies that run the local post office, make sure your dog knows to stay away from any number of the critters and beasts that roam the forests, and, keep track of your propane levels - because there is nothing worse than running out of propane in a house that requires it for heat, hot water, and stove.  Yes, I learned the hard way.

It’s re-learning all the things I took for granted.  And? I love it.

It has forced me to slow down.  To be more proactive and less reactive.  To recognize that instant gratification is a luxury and not a necessity.  That utter silence, especially at night, is not scary, but liberating.  I hear the sounds of my very own brook.  Who knew I ever wanted to own a brook? But, I do and it's soothing.  You start to pay attention to all the sights and sounds -  reminders of the lessons that nature can teach us if we only stop long enough to observe. For example, deer? The best weather forecasters on the planet.  They come out in prolific numbers before a big rain or snow storm - somehow they know to graze like there is no tomorrow before they need to hunker down.

In just under 6 months, I have learned much about myself - what I am good at, what I need to work on, but most importantly, what I am capable of.

I have been an extrovert my entire life.  While I found it an enriching way of life on many levels, it had become debilitating - caring so much about what others think of me before I even knew what I thought of myself - not having boundaries - not taking time to just breathe?   

A few weeks ago, I noticed something a little - well - i guess - defining.  I was doing some mindless scrolling around TikTok and Insta and such and came across some random America’s Got Talent video of a 13 year old girl that was shy and meek - but when she sang? Effin’ Janis Joplin.  She got the “golden buzzer” and I started getting a little teary.  I felt truly happy for her.  

 

 

I watched a few other uplifting stories and just got sucked into the emotion - something tragic? I got weepy from sadness. Something inspiring? II got weepy from joy.  What was happening here? I either developed some serious allergies or It would appear that being removed from the constant city din has made me more empathetic.  Another way to look at it is to suggest that being alone, away from certain things, has made me more mortal.  More understanding of the fleeting nature of things.  The ebb and flow of plusses and minuses. 

I am quite certain I didn’t need to go this remote to live deliberately.  Hell, I didn’t even know I wanted or needed to live deliberately.  But, it’s happened and I am better for it. It is as much about thought as it is about movement.  So, here I stay - deep in thought while I allow these old roots to find strength deep in the new soil.

"Carpe Diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary." (DPS)

Rodney Sheppard: The Man, the Myth, the Cookies

Chocolate chip cookies.  Correction.  The SMELL of chocolate chip cookies.  At the time, the scent of fresh baked cookies pouring through the a/c vent of my yet to be father in law’s house seemed unusual for 7:30am. A little odd, no? Well, when is the last time you had chocolate chip cookies and a diet Dr. Pepper for breakfast? Only thing odd is why it took me this long to figure that combo out for breakfast. Genius. Oh, then there was the fact that he didn't believe in small batches. He had rows upon rows of these gems, standing on their sides cooling, wrapped around his kitchen backsplash. It truly was a cookie-palooza.

I knew then and there, I had to marry his daughter. I mean - the cookies. Turns out, they were, in fact, legendary. The name Rodney Sheppard literally became synonymous with chocolate chip cookies. He would pack bags of them when he headed off to the Caymans or Cozumel or Bonaire. Did I mention he was an Ambassador to Bonaire? That’s right. The cookies. My own father would hide his annual holiday cookie batch in bags of frozen peas, so as to not have them found by the calorie police. And it wasn't just the cookies.  They were joined by potato soup, chili, the never to be replicated pozole, and his holy grail - queso. It’s basically just Velveeta and Rotel. Or was it? 

 

Here’s the thing. Rodney wasn’t just offering food. He was giving you a piece of himself. It took time to make these things and he did nothing half ass. It seemed there was no end to how much he wanted to give - until cancer stripped him of the ability to do so.  

 

There were three holidays throughout the year that were difficult. Xmas, Father’s Day, and Rodney’s birthday. The three days where I tried so hard to think of a way to give back to the man who had given so much. Then it dawned on me. If you want to give Rodney the perfect gift then just be the best you you can be.

 

"I am proud of you" was his calling card when he wanted you to know that he noticed: an accomplishment, effort, or act of kindness.  In my case, it was always “I’m proud of you, Deedub.” It occurred to me that he rarely called me David anymore. He had taken a name penned for me by a dear Los Angeles friend, back in 1992, and used it as my namesake for many years now. It felt amazing. Every time he said it, it was just reinforcing our connection. One of the very last things he said to me was,“You raised two amazing boys. You make me proud.” That little re-phrasing brought tears to my eyes. But, what’s important here is more than just the sentence itself. It’s understanding that over the years, he knew I made mistakes. Some really big ones.  But, he never gave up on me and through all of it, I guess I managed to do ok. I learned that you can be proud of someone without that someone being perfect. Novel concept. 

 

 

 

Rodney’s love of scuba diving, the ocean, and all the tiniest of things that call the ocean their home, was infectious. When Caleb was certified, the joy in Grandad’s steely blues was indescribable. When Toby followed it up a few years later, you would think Grandad won the lottery. I would intentionally swim away from them to get photos of grandad, underwater, watching over his precious cargo. Amazing that you can “see” happiness in someone diving just in the way they glide.  Effortless. At ease.  Pure, weightless joy. Before COVID hit, we had big plans for a 2 week adventure in which Luke was going to join the ranks of Rodney’s underwater church. COVID came but then so did the cancer. I have no doubt that Luke will go on to get his certification and I don't believe for one second the group of Sheppard / Wolfson / Watkins and Hohle have taken their last joint dive trip. The next time we jump off the dock at Bari Reef, we will look around for those fluorescent yellow fins and realize that they will forever be burned in to our memories and that Rodney will dive that reef forever, just waiting for us to return.  

 

Rodney wasn’t supposed to get cancer. He was supposed to grow old peacefully.  He suggested, in the past, that his preferred way to go out would be to swim out to a wall and head down. A euphoric descent serving as a proper farewell for someone who wanted no fuss, no muss, no heralding out. Cancer had other plans.  Plans that would succumb Rodney to the very things he despised about growing old. Towards the end, there were just so many people tending to his medical needs. I am sure he felt like a race car surrounded by a pit crew and all he wanted to do was be free and drive.  But, I will say - he was always worried we would put him in a home. So, I guess we did right by him on that one.  

 

I know full well he’s not "gone." He has imprinted on all of us - we carry his love of baking, the ocean, good music, good steaks with dulce peppers, and good champagne. We will always have the vivid memories of live music at the missed Backyard, while sitting on homemade quilts and sharing his love for Robert and Lyle and Willie. Chicken fried ribeyes at Z Tejas.  Taco plates at Maudies.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And above all else: 25+ years of Thanksgivings on Enchanted Rock - drinking bubbly from crystal stemware, after watching Rodney pop the cork letting the grandkids chase it down; feasting on Celeste’s pralines, which, like the cookies, have become legendary; views of the violet crown as we head down, signaling farewell, for now.

 

When I first met Lauren, her brother had been gone roughly one year. Over the course of 30 years, I have listened to stories and toasts, celebrating the Sheppard I wish I had known. It’s odd, but through those stories, I miss someone I never met.  When Rodney spoke about loss, he would tell people, quite simply, it is a hole that will never be filled. You spend your days, weeks, months, and years trying to make the hole smaller. But, it simply never goes away. And by his own admission, it shouldn’t.  It is that hole that endures the memories and love for the one lost. It assures you that you will simply never forget. It is in that spirit that this hole left by the loss of Rodney Sheppard will be my serving reminder of the gifts he has left his family, myself, and my boys.  And to anyone and everyone he touched with his unconditional kindness and love. From the top of E Rock, to the trails of Zilker, to the depths of the ocean, I will never feel alone, nor forget, nor stop loving him.

 

With all the respect and love in the world - 

 

Deedub

 

 

 

 

 

 

We'll Leave the Light On

231 years ago, this little nugget was uttered…”In this world, nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes.”  Well, Mr. Franklin, while true, there are a few things that you could have added.  A few that come to mind? Your dog will, at one point in their life, shit on your nice rug.  You will misplace your AirPods, buy new ones, then find the lost ones.  You will wake up after your 50th birthday party and not remember your 50th birthday party.  But, above all, the one g-d given truth is that you will watch your first born drive away for his LAST semester of college leaving you with the burning question of “I wonder if this is the last time he will be a permanent resident under our roof.”  

 

Naturally, the first thing you do is cry for a solid two hours, gratefully surrounded by your film family who won’t judge, because they know the kid and have watched him grow up - both inside and outside film sets.  Then you will be reminded that you still have one child under your roof. Then you realize that in a few short months, you will lose that child to his first semester of college.   (Which means another blog post coming your way August, 2021).

 

I could go down a road of sadness, but I’ve written that blog.  Sure, the tears are flowing and I am sad, but this is more about Father Time.  This is one of those moments where you get a reminder that time is finite and you can’t do a damn thing about it.  It’s all well and good to say “be happy for him.  You’ve done a good job with him.  He’s gonna be fine.  You’re gonna be fine.”  All true.  But, that doesn’t and won’t change the fact that you grieve.  You grieve the pitter pat of feet.  You grieve the sound of the back gate opening late at night resting easy that all your birds are back safely in the nest.  You grieve the ability to send them out to run the errands you don’t want to run.

 

But, most importantly, you grieve watching this young man who is amongst one of your best friends, move on to write their next chapter, that in many ways doesn’t involve you - at least, directly.  We will never be strangers, but the access to him will just be more limited.  And I think that’s what hurts.  Closeness and immediacy are things we take for granted when confronted with loss of any kind.  Sure, you want them to be successful and happy and safe. But, you also want them to come in to your room and tell you some random fact they learned in class that has them all excited.  You want them to scurry out of their room, put them up against the “measuring” tube you have hanging on the wall and fill it with more quarters when they’ve grown a few inches.  

 

 

So, we give in to the things we can’t control.  We wish them well, watch them drive away and begin the calendar counting until the next time we are all together.  

 

Above all, through the grief, we smile with the knowledge that this means one thing: we don’t just love our kids - we like them.  We want to be around them.  We want them to want to be around us.  And if all those things are true, then we did our job.  And that’s all we could ask.

 

To all those parents out there - here you go.  Don’t listen to anyone tell you they’ve figured it out.  This isn’t a race you prepare for.  There are no words of wisdom. But, if you’ve done your part right, you will survive this moment in time and find the next thing that makes you proud to be their parent.  Because, after all, that is the best thing we can hope for - not only see them fly, but seem the soar.  That feeling I have when Caleb is on set with me and he’s unaware of my existence because he’s engrossed in his job IS exactly the feeling i dreamed of - to see that he’s gonna be ok.  So, remember THAT feeling - remember watching from afar and every so often they will look back, catch your eye and the two of you will have a quick, shared moment, silently saying to one another - it’s all good. 

 

 

 

Caleb Judson Sheppard Wolfson.  I will give you my take on the Franklin quote by offering you the things I can say with certainty: there will always be a space for you on any callsheet I am involved with.  There will always be $175 dollars in quarters outside your room, if and when you need some running around money.  And above all, we will always and forever leave the light on should you come through that back gate late at night. 

 

With love - 

 

Daddy-Man

 

 

 

 

 

 

The River Denial -- (WARNING: Graphic Images)

Same plea, different day.  Please don't look away.  Please don't close your eyes to what is happening right in front of you. To those who are refusing to read the news about what is going on at our borders, because they have deemed it fake, this plea is for you.  Drop the flag of political opposition and pick up the flag of humanity.  This is no longer about how you were wronged by one man's or one woman's impact on your belief system.  This is about your own moral compass.  Your own values.  The very same moral compass and values you are trying, as parents - no, as humans - to pass down to future generations.  There will come a day when the names Trump and Clinton and Obama, and many others that cause people to dig in their heels, will be names in a history book, studied for their accomplishments and their failures.  

So, what will those books talk about?  They will certainly discuss how, for this moment in time, we were no better than other people in other countries who deemed a specific group of people less human.  So much so that they would treat them like animals - often times because they were trying to send a message.  "Go away.  You aren't welcome here."

I have been rattled to the core by the recent articles describing conditions in these "detention centers."  These aren't articles based on opinions or assumptions of leftist fake news organizations.  These are articles based on first hand, eye witness accounts.  Articles based on concrete evidence extracted from the written word.  Sadly?  The hate for administrations past keep people from righting their own ship.  Perhaps their ship is pushed by a different wind than my own or they just can't get past a time when we had a leadership they despised.  I would try and say "hate the player, not the game," but this is not a game.  This is very real and it's a crime.  I don't mean "it's a crime that movie wasn't better." I mean it's a true crime.  The kind of crime against humanity that wars have been fought over.  That people were hung for.  And we are perpetrating those very crimes as we speak.

Perhaps we all need a refresher course of what it LOOKED like the last time a group of people were targeted for being different.  For being sub-human.  I mean, let's face it, it's been going on for years and years all over the globe, but let's stick to the one that is most, sadly, familiar.  Or, if I am being fair, the one that is most gut wrenching to me.

I am sure this will be met by some with "it's not at all the same."  It is exactly the same - make no mistake.  It's depriving humans of basic human rights in a country that is supposedly the beacon for human rights.  Pretend it's not and you are part of the problem.  Or, some might say "this is all part of the fake news agenda."  Sounds vaguely the same as when people doubted the atrocities of the Holocaust.  Until it was too late.  And there will be the ones who say "we didn't ask them to come across the border."  Well, no one asked your ancestors either.  Life, dare I say it survival, dictated it.  These people are escaping terror and bloodshed and we are turning them away.  And if we aren't turning them away, we are splitting up the families and throwing people in rooms unfit for a score of different levels.  Maybe that's part of the problem - we've stopped referring to them as "people."  They are hordes and caravans.  We've dehumanized them to the point of becoming "bothered."  As if they were some rodent problem.  Hmm. Sound familiar?

I don't have the answers.  I really don't.  But, I know this much.  The correct way of dealing with the problem is not repeating the past of others who have tried to eradicate as a means to an end.

Be human.  Stop the denial.  Or, be prepared to answer to your children and their children - for the bleak future that will no doubt come as a result of all this blindness.

The quotes below are CURRENT - from the last few days of people visiting the camps (calling them detention centers is fucking joke) on our borders.  The photos - well the photos are from a time some choose to forget, but for most, will forever leave a wound that will never heal.  What's truly sad is that this is just a small sampling of what was said.  And there was not ONE - not ONE person who saw things differently.  If you aren't remotely fazed by these few, you likely won't be if I kept going.

I don't believe in broadstroked concept of thoughts and prayers.  I believe in dialogue and open minded willingness to make change.  The kind of change that would limit the amount of times we need to turn to thoughts and prayers as the only thing we have to offer.

 

‘‘Build a wall; deport ‘em all,’’ one shouted. ‘‘That’s the way we get rid of this problem!’’

 

 

(Border Patrol Guard) "Let's start a GoFund me for one CTZ agent brave enough to throw a 10-15 lb burrito at one of these bitches.  Who ever does it takes the pot of $$$."

 

 

"15 women in their 50s- 60s sleeping in a small concrete cell, no running water. Weeks without showers. All of them separated from their families."

 

 

"Women sobbing in a crowded cell because they were separated from their kids."

 

 

"Children as young as 7 and 8, many of them wearing clothes caked with snot and tears, are caring for infants they’ve just met..."

 

 

“Multiple cases where pregnant migrants who had just given birth at her hospital were forced to give their children up to Texas DFPS.”

 

 

A pro-Trump heckler yelling "We don't want Muslims here either," "We don't care about Sharia law, we care about Jesus Christ," "Go care about your own country."

 

 

“There are some children, like the age of my sister, they cried for their mother or their father. They cried for their aunt. They missed them,” she said. “They cried and they were locked up.”

 

 

“Their eyes. I'm haunted by their eyes..."

 

Or so I thought.

So many thoughts, questions and feels.  I go back to my 5^th grade social studies class where I was first taught about the 3 branches of government: the system of checks and balances.  It was a relentless year of memorizing details, dates, names, and information I wouldn’t need to draw on for most of my remaining life, especially given I never saw myself as a civil servant.  (Don’t worry, Kanye, this piece is not me announcing my run for President.)

The one thing I do remember was learning about how the judicial branch was about the law and not about the politics.  It wasn’t created to be about left or right.  It was meant to be free from political agenda and special interest groups.  It was created to be the gate keeper. Full stop.

Or so I thought. 

As I got older, I started to learn that the highest court was, indeed, partisan - made up of moderates, conservatives, and progressives. The entire country knew what most every judge was going to do long before the arguments were ever heard before the bench.  Not always, but more often than not.  And it’s only gotten more transparent in recent decades.  So, I re-asked myself - wasn’t that precisely what we were trying to avoid? To have this entity not be swayed by politics or personal values and merely make their decisions based on the law, as presented by the various counsels? Judges are simply not meant to lean.  Their very existence as judges is based on their ability to stand tall and upright.

Or so I thought.

In the last few months, I’ve been called everything from naïve to sore loser to Libtard to gang mentality supporter to dumbass.  I think one Facebook “friend” even managed to call me all of those in one day.  (That was the same day I learned there was a difference between discourse and troll feeding.  A mistake I won’t make again.)  I do tend to see myself as passionate.  Sometimes to my own detriment. I see myself as someone who is now, in earnest, trying to live up to a specific set of values and ethics - my own moral compass. But, I want to stress – MORAL compass.  How I value myself and how I value the lives of others – whether they are close to me, or people I’ve never met.  And I believe there is nothing wrong standing up for one’s moral compass.  But, standing with a sign, a fist in the air, or, dare I say it, taking a knee, is NOT the same as marching with tiki torches spewing words of hate towards a specific race. Or getting in a car and mowing down innocent people.

Or so I thought.

I haven’t always been woke.  In fact, I’ve spent the better part of my life trying not to be woke.  I figured that living in the moment and sucking at the teat of immediate gratification was far more fun than standing up for something bigger than my own little sphere of good times.

The 2016 election saw me sticking my toes in the woke pool.  I made some mistakes – got emotional and waged verbal wars against people (even some friends) without thinking twice.  I argued with my feelings and not with my brain.  I stayed away from the deep end of really understanding what was going on.  I wasn’t reading much news, watching much news, or following anyone on Twitter.  I would soapbox whatever felt right in the moment.  And more times than not, the woke lifeguards would ask me to sit out – like our grandparents did when we ate lunch and they made us wait 30 minutes before getting back in the pool.  (thank g-d we debunked that myth). 

But, when you are barely woke, married to a woke person and are father to woke kids, you get your ass handed to you when you go head first in to a discussion about something you realllllly shouldn’t be discussing – but, rather, you should be listening.

Along came Kavanaugh.  From the very beginning, I went full woke.  I read more.  I listened more (though, I could stand to listen even more, still).  I stood my ground more.  That said, with this week’s confirmation vote, I don’t feel defeated.  I’m actually energized and feel guardedly hopeful.  Singularly, because I don’t seem to be the only newbie woke person.  (Though, I do believe strongly the world could do with more woke men.)

I want to be very clear.  (And this likely separates me from my woke colleagues.) I firmly believe we need to take a step back from partisanship – rather than dig our heels in even further.  I feel we need to, as a country, do what I am trying to do as a person.  We need to re-evaluate our moral compass as a country.  Are we, as a country, voting with our values or merely blind allegiance to a party?  If it’s the latter, then we truly have gone backwards as a society.  If it’s the former, then, yeah, those I tend to disagree with have some values rooted in places I just don’t understand.  And while they are entitled to those, I will no longer turn a blind eye to those whose values are based on antiquated belief systems where women and minorities are second class citizens.  Where gays and lesbians should be in the closet or at a conversion therapy school in some backwoods part of some backwoods State.  And if we truly are voting based on values and morals, I am dumbfounded, that in 2018, these things are still keeping some people from doing the right thing – then again, that’s just me forcing my version of what the right thing is on other people.  It sucks, because sometimes the right thing just seems obvious and humane.

When it became clear that Trump was going to be in the position to appoint two Supreme Court justices, I wasn’t foolish enough to believe he would pick people that would lean the court “my way.”  So, herein lies the checks and balances quandary -  the President nominates the bench position.  And the Senate confirms the bench position.  Meaning? In a time where the White House AND the Senate are one in the same party, that appointment IS, by default, partisan, thus breaking the system. 

Now, some would make the argument, that’s how the governmental cookie crumbles – don’t be a sore loser.  To which I merely suggest, well, no, it’s just not how it was set up to be in the first place.  And, if it was, there is a massive flaw in a system and in our expectations of what these civil servants are meant to be doing.

Let’s try and leave politics at the door for a moment and ponder the following:

• Being a Senator is a job. Yet, it’s the one job where they don’t actually have to show up day to day. In fact, rarely do they ever show up if that day’s agenda involves someone from across the aisle discussing policy change they most likely don’t agree with.  So, on any given day, you have Senators preaching to people of like minds, while the other party’s Senators are off meeting with special interest groups or some other duty that meets their needs or lines their pockets.  What other job allows you to pick and choose what days you go to work based on whether or not you are interested in the activities of the day? 

Senators make $174,000 a year.  The Senate is in session roughly 133-140 days a year.  The normal Joe or Jane works 240+ days a year at an average of $60k (it’s actually less for women).  On days when there is no voting, they simply don’t need to show up.  On days when there IS voting, Senators don’t need to show up.  In fact, the only group that is capable of enforcing such truancy are the voters themselves.  Oh, and then there is the special interest group money.  Money that can double, triple, or in some cases reach factors of 5x that of their base salary.  And we, the people, think this system works? 

• Which brings us to being the President – it, too, is a job. I am not going to spend this paragraph preaching which Presidents I think treated it like a job vs treated it like a title. In the end, it shouldn’t be a conversation we have. It’s the single highest honor in the land, the single most powerful JOB in the land. It should be treated as such.  You can’t do your job from a tee box or a vacation home. You sweat it out in your office – the White House – until such a time you take a break like everyone else.  You show up.  The average Joe or Jane gets two weeks off.  The average President (counting both D’s and R’s) is on record spending upwards of 20% of their term “off,” as described by vacation days or spending time at a secondary residence.  The average Joe or Jane spends .05% of their year “off.”   

When did it fall off the rails so badly, that rather than keeping track of things a President is doing on the job, we have become more focused by that which they are doing away from the office.  It’s simply mind blowing that our expectations have dropped so low.  At least, some people’s expectations.  It’s the mentality of “well, I got no problem with the time off as long as shit is going my way and my freedoms aren’t being impinged on in any way.” And yes, the argument goes the other way when that time is taken and you feel hung out to dry by a President who isn’t doing shit or is stepping on your every freedom or right – all the while on a day off.

• Not having term limits is simply bad for the system. How does a country grow with the times, if the people who govern aren’t of the times? So, to this, many would say, “well, they won their elections, so if the people keep voting them in, then they earned it and clearly that’s who people want.”  Well, I gotta live with the fact that is the system in place.   The majority put the person in the seat, but that doesn’t mean I can’t challenge it as being dated in its thinking.  It simply shouldn’t be the same person term after term after term.  Presidents have term limits.  Senators should too.  Whether you like the seated majority or not, real change comes from new ideas.  New ideas come from fresh blood.  The old guard is just that.  Old.  Stuck in their ways that for many of their constituents works.  It works because many of their constituents don’t weigh the alternatives or the young are too apathetic to challenge the system and vote.  This isn’t about draining the swamp.  It’s about circulating the water. 

• When did compromise go out the window in favor of black and white? Since a clear, and heavily contested, example seems to be guns, let’s talk about guns. But, let’s not talk the politics of guns, let’s talk the theory of gun ownership and how compromise comes in to play. 

You have those who are “come and take them” and you have those that say, “no more guns, period!”  But, you also have those that merely want to talk about specific things with relation to gun control, but not leave people unarmed.  Suggesting a ban on certain types of clips or certain types of guns doesn’t equate to eradicating the rights given to us in the 2^nd Amendment.  It’s a conversation about human life and how things have changed since the words were first written by our single shot musket carrying founding fathers.  It goes far beyond the scope of politics.  And if the argument is “well, people will still get the guns,” and that’s the only argument that gets exercised, then why so adverse to trying?  Oh, that’s right, there’s the “it starts with that and then it becomes all guns.”  Well, again, it doesn’t happen in a vacuum.  The move from one thing to all things can’t just snowball without the same conversation that led to the first compromise.  It’s another ethical quandary for me – are you suggesting that your perceived infringement of your 2^nd Amendment right is more important than the possibility of saving someone else’s life?  When in fact, you will still have countless other weapons to hunt with?  Or, stand your ground with?  Why is compromise seen as defeat in today’s day and age?  Why is candid, civilized, and informed conversation considered mingling with the enemy?  Are those the values we teach our kids in team sport? “See those kids over there? Go kill those motherfuckers, dance on their dead bodies, and let’s go home!”  Nope – we tell our kids, “go out there, do your best, and, at the end of game, shake their hands and tell them ‘good game.’” At least that’s what good parenting suggests we tell our kids.

• When did the attitude of “I just don’t want to think about that kind of stuff,” become the overriding feeling in this country. If we, as a society, don’t think about this ‘stuff,’ and don’t talk about this ‘stuff,’ then this ‘stuff,’ is going to get worse and we are no longer going to be the land of the free or home of the brave. We will simply be land of the entitled and home of the silenced.  When those on social media are criticized for discussing their views, in lieu of a photo of food or fun (yes, I am guilty of both), it creates more divisiveness.  When those that post their feelings or views are met with violent, verbal remarks, it creates more divisiveness. 

In a recent neighborhood post, there was a conversation about a number of recent car break ins.  It was all very informative - for a while – people extending their sincere thoughts for those who lost this or that at the hands of some very bold kids riding bikes around stealing.  And then came the suggestion that the only way to deal with this is the good ole Second Amendment.  I am not going to out the poster, but I think quoting them accurately is important: “Would love for them to roll through my backyard.  Security cameras with motion detection and motion lights and your second amendment will handle that.”  Well, I got news for you Cool Hand Luke – this neighborhood that we so lovingly call a bubble? It has kids who belong to parents who live in this very bubble – kids who also dress up in hoodies and go out petty stealing loose change from unopened cars.  And when your Second Amendment bravado drops your neighbor’s kid “by accident,” are you still gonna stand there and be all tough?  This time they weren’t neighborhood kids.  But, I know for 100% fact, it has been in the past. So, table your wild west bullshit and let’s go back to helping each other call this stuff out and let the authorities handle it.

• When did the logic of “well, I didn’t mean it that way,” or “I was just kidding,” take precedence over what is decent and right. Why does the dad with a gay son get to make homophobic gay jokes out on the golf course? Why does the dad with a daughter get to make comments about drunk sorority girls, when their very daughter is soon going to be one of those sorority girls – and likely, at some point – a drunk sorority girl. Why the double standard? Why is one friend calling out another friend for saying something inappropriate considered taboo.  Does that make you less of a friend? Is there any chance it makes you a better friend for pointing out the harmful duplicity?  The #metoo movement is not about crucifying men for what they have done. It is about giving men an opportunity to understand the things men take for granted and, ideally, could do better.

• Finally, news. It’s a pervasive problem in our society. It hardly even exists anymore. If you are right, you watch Fox.  If you are left, you watch MSNBC.  There simply aren’t many (some would argue none at all), credible news stations any more – ones void of commentary.  Void of opinion. Straight up news – without all the clever, often times over the top, graphics and finger pointing.  Yes, there is a place for the opinions and pundits.  But, while I may believe that MSNBC is largely more based on telling it like it is, I would never make the argument it’s non-partisan.

In the end, if I had my wish, we would hit reset. On all of it. We would clean the slate and discuss new rules that speak to the world of 2018, not 1776.  Or even 1960, when many of these life long Senators first took office.  We would encourage more teachers, scientists and philosophers to take part in our government.  Scratch that – we would demand it.  In order to fulfill the needs of the people of 2018, we need leaders who understand the people of 2018. After all, that’s how this whole country thing started.  Our first “politicians” were printers and educators and farmers.  And they got a lot of things wrong, but they also got a lot of things right. And over the years, we, too, have gotten a lot of things right. But, as well, a lot of things wrong.  This past week was not us at our best. It is not how the system was meant to or should work.

I believe in my moral compass and will be unwavering in trying to follow it best I can.  I have not been victimized by mob mentality.  I have unconditional respect for those that I see as our new, modern day heroes.  Women who hold private sector jobs and share the same passion and moral values as I do.  Cecille Richards.  Ilyse Hogue. Brittany Packnett.  Emma Gonzalez.  They are using their voice and are making decisions based on where they want humanity to go.  And they are trying to get those voices heard across party lines.  Those voices are hard to hear when people see them as party operatives, merely pushing the liberal's agenda.  Can we please just see them as people who want to see all people move forward not backward? 

I don’t turn my back on discourse.  I welcome it.  But, if you want to come at me with an oppositional argument, I merely ask you have the facts to back it up.  Not the feels.  In the end, facts should have kept Kavanaugh off the bench.  While there may have been no hard facts in the judicial hearing proving that he committed the abuse, there were facts that he lied (multiple times), that he is partisan, and that he seemingly has an axe to grind.  And there were facts and accounts that could have been investigated by the FBI, but they were told specifically to ignore them.  In the end, as so many have said, this wasn’t a criminal case, but a job interview.  Yet for those wrong doings, he was confirmed. He passed his interview.  This certainly couldn't be a decision based on our values.  It was pure, unadulterated political agenda.

In the end, the words of Dr. Ford fell on deaf, partisan ears.  Kavanaugh was going to get confirmed.  There were no two ways about it.  And why?  Because checks and balances gave way to power and money.

We are better than this.  And if we aren't, we sure as hell need to be.

Or so I hope.

 

 

An Open Letter from A Father to his College Bound Son

 

 

SUPER: FRIDAY, 4:00AM

SFX: Garage door opens.

SFX: Luggage rolls down driveway.

SFX: Garage door closes.

SFX: Car door opens and closes.

EXT: Driveway. Suburban Austin. A CAR revs to life then pulls away.

VO: “And like that…he’s gone.”

To my dear Caleb -

It is not my intent to suggest you are anything like Keyser Söze. But, I can’t think of a different line of movie dialogue that resonates. For a brief moment, I thought about the end of Shane, where Brandon De Wilde utters that desperate 3-word cry “Shane, come back!” In the end, Usual Suspects was just a much cooler reference. (not to mention I don’t think the neighbors would have appreciated a blood curdling scream at 4am this morning.)

It wasn’t but a few days after April 21, 1999 that I had the first of many, not unique to me, realizations that there was no manual for how to raise a child. Here I am now, 18 years later, realizing there is no manual for how to let a child go.

It’s hard for me to not make this my mea culpa for the 18 years I’ve been your father. I am keenly aware that for as long as I can remember, I tend to use social media and blogging as a means to feel good about myself – to collect whatever positive responses come back my way.  In short? I’m really good about making things about me.  I'm even better at needing love and acceptance. Undoubtedly, I’m not the only parent to feel this way at this critical juncture, so if these thoughts show one other person they aren't alone, then it's worth it.  Besides, as Warren Beatty so aptly said to Madonna in Truth or Dare, "There's nothing to say off-camera. Why would you say something if it's off-camera? What point is there existing?"

So, even now, on what should be the single most exciting journey you have yet to embark on, I find myself diving into my own regrets when I should be showing unconditional joy for you.  This entire bidding you farewell experience has forced me to examine our relationship. Read on, I promise this doesn't stay 100% somber.  Maybe only 70%.  (comic relief so I don’t cry while typing).

My relationship with you has never been what one might call stereotypical – or maybe traditional is a better word.   The life of a freelance producer is basically a modern version of the 50’s traveling salesmen. There were years when I was on the road upwards of 70% of the time. And in the beginning, when I was home, I would rock you, listening countless times to a lullaby CD we crafted, wondering how I would be able to work enough to provide for you the way I wanted to. For the record, it was usually triggered during the lyric “even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey” in Danny’s Song. Freelance and fatherhood was a tough combination. But, it’s what I did and, for better, or at times, for worse, it’s who I was.

I will never forget that first time I pulled out of the driveway for a long shoot to some far off place and you were standing in the window, face and hands pressed against the glass, with a look of equal part sadness and anger, as if to say, “you are leaving? Again?” At 2 ½ - 3 years old, it was impossible for me to explain why I had to go or even let you know that it devastated me as well. That said, you were always an old soul and part of me thinks you got it, even way back then.

While I worked the road, you and mommy forged a relationship that I now realize I wish we had.  And it was not something I could obtain by being part time. You were home – together – nonstop - dealing with the good and the bad. I would glide in, expect things to go my way and never want to realize that there was a system in place and I could either go along with it or buck the system and push you all away.

We most certainly had our adventures and I relish every single one of them.  I do know that I shied away at tough times - accepting the glory when I could sweep in and deflecting the not so glorious when things didn't go as per whatever plan I had in mind.

I cannot count the number of times where you had life moments – some large, some small - where it was easy to celebrate the highs, but too often, I would manage to jack something up by implying what would have made it even better or ways you could have done it - to be more like me.

On that pivotal night back in April, 2013, when you so bravely came out to me, I spent the next several months thinking about how that affected me. Quite sincerely, I told people how proud I was that you knew who you were and you were not going to hide from it. I was proud of you - I was ecstatic for you.  But, deep inside, I had thoughts about how that realization weighed on me. In hindsight, I wish I had handled it better, but not sure I was equipped to do so.  As the years go by, you continue to push me - to use proper terminology or correct me when I say something that is insensitive.  But that pushing is met with deep respect - you are our future's hope and I am optimistic you will change lives with your life and your voice.

So, I am using this letter to let you know that I refuse to let MY sadness of you leaving get in the way. I am here to tell you that I am, above all, proud of you for finding your college – the one that was your choice and is the perfect fit. I am proud of you for the effort you put in by visiting the school, the essays that you wrote, and the decision to put it all out there by going early admission. I am proud of you for going in to it with a strong attitude of working hard and pursuing your dreams. I am excited for you to experience life away from home – as I still have such amazing memories from when I had the same. I want to celebrate with you – rather celebrate YOU – when you experience the highs life will bring you – falling in love, succeeding at school, making lifelong friendships. And I will be here for you should you suffer the lows that undoubtedly come with growing up – whether it be a broken heart, a missed opportunity, or, most likely, missing me. (comic relief so I don’t cry while typing).

My wish is for you to be you – and if that brings you the happiness I know it will, then that is all I can hope for.  Asking you to be me was never something I had the right to impose on you.  The good news is you didn't fall for the banana in the tailpipe.  You are definitely forging your own path and for that I applaud you.

To all of you parents out there? I am sharing this because this is life. And at this very moment in time, life hurts. A lot. And all I want are assurances from life - but it won’t give them to me.

I want to know Caleb will be ok. I want to know that Lauren and Toby will be ok. And for that matter, I want to know I will be ok.  I know I have many friends who just went through this same process and they are still breathing. I have friends who went through this years ago and both them and their kids are still breathing. It’s easy to want to cross the finish line without running the race, but that’s not how it goes.

In the end? The lesson is parental joy should come from watching your child become their own person.  Not your shadow.  Not a better you.  Their own self. And parents? When times are tough? Look for the good. It’s there. Sometimes it’s hiding in the cracks during frustrating or angering times, but, it’s there.

So, off you go, Caleb. As your own self.  And here I stay. Counting days until Parents Weekend and Thanksgiving. Sending texts and emails hoping I will get even a one word response. (hint)

To Mr. Chapin and Mr. Stevens? Sorry to say, I may never listen to Cat’s in the Cradle or Father and Son ever again. #sorrynotsorry

Caleb – you and mommy will always have special things, but when it comes to loving you from the moon to the stars to mars, and back again, I do. From the top of the mountains to the bottom of the ocean and back again, I do.

Love,

Daddy-man

 

SUPER: THE END…FOR NOW.

 

 

 

 

 

The Room Where It Happened

For ever, let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million men, women and children, mainly Jews from various countries of Europe. Auschwitz – Birkenau 1940-1945.

So reads the plaque, translated in multiple languages, at the far west end of the Auschwitz II (Auschwitz-Birkenau) compound.

As is human nature, when you start to feel uncomfortable, you start to let random thoughts seep in just to ease things up a bit. When you show up to visit the Auschwitz–Birkenau camp outside Krakow, Poland, you know from moment one, there will be plenty of times you need to ease things up a bit.

Like a zillion other people, I am obsessed with Hamilton: The Musical and for the past several days, I’ve been humming the tune “The Room Where It Happened” nonstop.   For those not hip to Hamilton, the song is Aaron Burr’s lament that he was not invited into the room when Madison, Hamilton, and Jefferson enter into an agreement that would move the nation’s capitol and move Hamilton forward in the world of finance.

Imagine the twisted irony when that’s the song running through my head during this particular tour. The refrain “I wanna be in the room where it happened,” is the last thing that I “wanted.” But, here I stood – on the grounds, in the buildings, and in the rooms where IT happened. The systematic elimination of 1,500,000 Jews and others persecuted by Nazi Germany.

The tour is broken up into two parts. The first 2 hours you are on the grounds of the “original” Auschwitz.   Walking through the famous “Macht Arbeit Frei” gates, you are shuffled along with your tour group, surrounded by numerous other groups – the tours being given in Polish, English, French, German, Russian, Slovenian, Czech, and others.

 

The famous gates of Auschwitz.

 

Visiting barracks, remains of crematoriums, and other outposts, the tour feels a bit “manufactured.” It’s not without impact, but it’s definitely a tourist site. Even through the best attempts of our tour guide (and she was beyond phenomenal), I don’t think I reached the level of emotional emptiness and sorrow that I felt in my two visits to Yad Vashem or the the museums in Dallas or Washington, DC.   It’s not that I wanted to feel gutted, I just wasn’t as overwhelmed as perhaps I thought I might, or even should, be.

 

Shoes taken off of women and children when they entered the camps.

  

An execution wall outside one of the "Death Barracks."

 

 The crematorium.

 

Dog run.

 

At the end of that portion, we were taken via bus to the Birkenau side of the camp – just a few kilometers away. That’s when the emotional bottom dropped out. It’s certainly not the “museum” that the first part was. It’s literally a walk amongst the ruins and remains - untouched for the most part. But what levels you is the sheer scale - it simply takes your breath away in the worst of ways. It takes your heart away. In the worst of ways. Nearly a square mile in any direction, the vast compound is split right down the middle by the infamous railroad track. Some barracks still standing, some leveled to the ground. All a haunting reminder of what went on here.

Main gate, Auschwitz-Birkenau.

 

Prisoner's quarters, view 1

 

Prisoner's quarters, view 2

 

A single boxcar sits on the track, a symbol of the vehicle that delivered millions to their death. We placed rocks on the boxcar – our attempt at paying respects to those who died – and even that gesture felt small in attempts to grasp the largeness of it all.

 

 

At one end, near the rubble of one of the main crematoriums, rested a large hole in the ground. It was no secret what it was. One of many mass burial plots where the ashes and remains were tossed in to – with pure disregard.  

 

 

There is simply no way to prepare for this visit. I’ve studied the subject extensively. I’ve seen the movies – both documentary and fiction. I’ve read the poetry and the literature. But, simply being in the room where it happened made it feel all that much more real.

Going back to the quote etched on the memorial plaques, the word that struck the deepest chord is that this place stands as a warning. Strong amongst Jewish upbringing is the cry of “never again” and “always remember.” But, the fact this memorial chose to call itself a warning upped the ante.

I am proud of my heritage. And I stared across this landscape trying to imagine the unimaginable: those first thoughts when stepping off the train, the harshness of winter, the whim of the single Nazi official who was judge and jury to your fate with a swift wave of a hand. Left you live. Right you die.

One of the last bits of information shared with our group was the existence of a “role” I was not previously aware of. The term was “Scheisse Commando.” Literally translated, Shit Commander. As Nazi soldiers would never bother themselves to enter the primitive latrines to clean out the excrement and haul it to the opposite end of the camp, it was seen as a prize job to be the prisoner in charge of transporting shit. For if you were the Scheisse Commando, you made yourself valuable in the working mechanics of the camp and were likely spared a different fate – if only for awhile. Mind blowing.

I am sure everyone walks away using the same refrains: It was eye opening. It was devastating. It was horrific. It was a wake up call. And while it was all of those things (and then some) I posit it was most importantly a reminder of our own responsibilities. Atrocities on this level can only happen when authority goes unchecked or unquestioned.

We all need to open our eyes. We need to evaluate the world closest to us and even take a moment to evaluate the world outside our reach. It’s all still too raw for me to know exactly what I will do differently, but I can guarantee you this – I won’t stop talking about this day for quite a long time. And if anything, the hardest part of the day was being 5,703 miles away from the three people who mean the most to me - and not being able to hug them.

Put politics and religion aside for just a moment. Heed the warning of what man has been capable of doing in the past and vow to never let that happen again – to anyone. Look to your left – hug someone. Look to your right – hug someone. In the end, perhaps the thing that matters most is for people just to know they aren’t alone.

 

 

Make Room

Caleb and Toby. It’s on you. Yep. Our generation is failing you and with every day that goes by, it’s becoming your generation that needs to pick up the slack. What’s that you say? A lot of pressure for a 13 and 17 year old to deal with? I wish you could know how much I wish that wasn’t the case. While we aren’t giving up, and while there are so many of us that are fighting to make things better, I just want to prepare you for the mess we are leaving for you.

As we watch news from other parts of the world, we would like to think “how could people act like that.”   Well, turn off the tv and open the front door, cuz it’s not just overseas. It’s right here on our very own streets.

As news of the Baton Rouge shooting broke through this morning, I had literally just seen a Facebook post with artwork that read “Pray for Nice.” Of course, the post was specifically meant for Nice, France. But, it wasn’t lost on me that it actually sends a larger global message. We should all, in our own ways, be praying for nice.

Pick a subject. How about race equality? That seems appropriate. For a brief heartbeat, I thought I came up with a word ripe for urban dictionary. It already resides there, though with a slightly different definition - hypocracist.

For those in the world who have no room for those of color, I can’t help but be amazed how you have no issue when your national basketball championship is on the line. When the music you listen to is heavily influenced by those of color.  For the record? You can’t rally behind race only in the best of times.

How about religion? Well, I suppose this is why I have always struggled with religion. Can it really only be god’s will when it works in your favor? In theory, wouldn’t god’s will explain all things? Good and bad? You can’t rally behind religion only in the best of times. Can you? I suppose that’s why I chose Jewtheism – it allows me to hold on to the traditions, values and customs that mean a lot to me, while looking to mankind to praise and condemn for the good and bad that happens around me.

Do I really need to continue finding examples? In the end, we treat virtually everything this way. Works in our favor? Embrace it. Those things go downhill? Turn our back.

I read a quote this morning: “New things cannot come where there is no room.” Most things that we have accomplished in our history have required room be made. But, that also has made room for those who hate. And that’s what we are seeing now.

Growing up in a conservative Jewish household and attending a Hebrew day school, I was taught early on about the history of Israel and their conflicts with Palestine. I am not talking about Old Testament based stuff. It was modern day history with a natural bent in terms of its perspective.

Years later, who would have thunk that, professionally, my life would take me on several trips to the Middle East to work on various productions? It is only traveling in Arabic countries do you understand that their students learn in a much different environment – where Israel isn’t even represented on a map. They simply don’t exist as a recognized country.

Never was this more tragically proven to me than when I interviewed a 12 year old Palestinian boy who was being educated in a Qatari institution. With his broken English, he described a hatred of Israelis that was nothing shy of shocking. The point being? How can anything get better if the youth are already taught at such a young age to hate. The answer? You can’t.

And we, as Americans, the reputedly (or at least self-proclaimed) most powerful country in the world, sit here with fingers pointed to the rest of the world – with shock and awe at how people in areas of unrest could treat each other so badly. So much hate. So many living in fear. So many with disdain for authority. So many needlessly killed. But, as we turn our eyes to across the shores, we leave our backs to the interior of our country which is slowly burning out of control.

Well. America? We sit on high about how we have created this amazing place of democracy. And often times with justification and pride. We gave women the right to vote. We freed the blacks. We managed equality on many fronts for the LGBTQ community. But, to what end? We never addressed underlying hate. Sure, we made these milestones possible, but we never had a plan on how to deal with the contempt that comes with it.

We are as much a country of hate as we are a country of opportunity. And we are kidding ourselves if we think differently. Political hate. Racial hate. Sexual orientation hate. I hate Indian food and I could go on and on stopping just shy of Katy Perry hating Taylor Swift.

Anti gay. anti police. anti black. anti Jew. anti Muslim. anti liberal. anti conservative. anti abortion. anti (name a President). Remind me again what, as a country, we are pro for?

And now this; most recently in Baton Rouge and Dallas, where we are killing those very people who are sworn to protect and serve us.   Not all cops are perfect. But, that’s not a justification for these acts. It all comes back to hate.

I wrote a few days ago that flags at half mast are the new normal.   I wrote a few days ago that I worry hope is something that is becoming harder and harder to achieve. And why? Because those who hate breed fear – so much so that on what should be a quiet Sunday in Baton Rouge had people stuck in their homes because one person walked the streets with the means, and desire, to disrupt.

I realize that the majority of people who read this are not the ones the message is intended to reach. But, maybe you know someone who could benefit from a reminder that there is simply no room for hate in a modern society.

Make room for the families of those who lost loved ones in the past few weeks of tragedy. Both globally and domestically. But, also, try and make room for those who don’t share your views. I’m not asking you to embrace hate. I’m asking you to embrace difference and realize that if we can find meeting ground, we can start to address change.

Try and make room. And above all, pray for nice.

 

 

 

What Will People Say About Us

I am choosing to not proofread this post.  Maybe because it’s too hard to write in the first place, or maybe because stream of conscious feels more honest. And I am choosing to write this before the moment when I truly have to say goodbye, because in life is how I want to remember this person.  

To set the record straight, I don’t have much personal experience dealing with the death of loved ones - family or friends.  Which in so many ways makes me fortunate.  But, it does make me ill-prepared when it comes.  Not suggesting it’s easy for anyone - especially for those closest to the ones who leave us.  But, it presents its own set of difficulties when it comes to resolving loss.  The fact is that we all leave this life at one point or another and in the end, it truly is what we do with the days we are around.  And more importantly, I need to accept that pain and grief is ok.  And it comes and goes.  And there is no playbook for an active way to deal with it - but there is a playbook for a passive way to deal with - simply accepting that it’s a feeling - and it will pass.  And it will likely return over and over, but those too will pass.  And saying goodbye does not mean forgetting.

Dennie Smith doesn't deserve this fate.  Not that anyone “deserves” to die, but to be taken down by such a brutal disease is not the way a man who did everything right should go.  He should be with us for many more years and slip away peacefully down the road some years living out this beautiful life of his.

But, this story doesn’t have a fairy tale ending.  Which only forces us to come to terms with the fact that we don’t choose how we go out.  But, Dennie did show us what happens when we live life to the fullest. He set an example that almost feels out of reach for the mere mortal.  And now, with the pending loss of this man, we are privileged to read all the stories from the people who are remembering him - his students, his family, and his childhood friends.  And the one constant are the adjectives used to describe him.  And it’s not because it’s the “polite” thing to do when someone is dying - in this case, it’s because they are all so very true.  It’s because he had a gift - of making you feel like you were capable of doing anything - that you were his family - and it’s a deeply profound experience to be around such magnetism.

Many years ago, during the annual McCarty 4th of July weekend, Dennie brought me in as a “sous chef” of sorts, helping him prepare the massive catfish fry that was a trademark of the weekend.  To some, it would appear he pulled the old Huck Finn / Tom Sawyer routine - putting us to work so he could casually retreat for a beer in the shade.  But, it was much more than that.  It was a subtle lesson in the benefits of service. And it was an opportunity to be close to him.  He had a sincere, vested interest to hear about my past year - to share stories of travel and to enjoy the benefits of laughter.  He never had to ask for my help ever again - I relished the chance to sweat it out over those huge vats of oil sneaking first tastes of the fish and watching people share the experience he made possible.

In his death, I will be forced to analyze how I live the remaining years of my life.  In his death, I will fight hard to impress upon my own children the importance of service.  And I will continue to think of him often - for he was the type of person you simply cannot forget.

In his death, I will reflect on his relationship with Lana.  Oh how they laughed and loved.  And oh how they shared that love and laughter with others.  I will forever fight hard to maintain that love and laughter in my own relationship with Lauren.  

In his death, I will reflect on what his friends and family say about him.  For that truly is the mark of a person.  I will never be able to say I knew him better than anyone else.  Point of fact, there was much I didn’t know about Dennie and my time around him was limited to a few times a year.  But, that didn’t matter.  Time was moot.  He made every visit familiar, as if time stood still in between the months until we saw each other again.  

If one were to try and rationalize how it came to be that Dennie would face such a tragic ending, I suppose you could say that it took a disease that only 1 in a million get to bring down a man who truly was 1 in a million. 

So, as you make your way through this life, take a moment to reflect on what will people say - be true to your heart with the answer and allow that answer to guide you to be the person you want to be.  To offer service, love and respect above demanding it in return.  There is no guarantee that putting that out there will bring it back in kind - but it sure as hell seems to be worth the risk.

Thank you, Dennie Smith.  I was never a student in your classroom, but I certainly was your student in life.  And I will continue to be your student focusing on the lessons you have taught me.  

With love and respect.  May you truly rest in peace.

Color Us Biased.

A casual blogger.  That's the best way to describe what I do.  When the muse hits, I sit down, hunt and peck my way through a post, and make a few egregious grammatical mistakes to laugh at the fact I used to be an English teacher.  Lately, the muse has been quiet.  And then I went to see Straight Out of Compton.  Indulge me.

About half way through the movie, my 50 year old bladder needed a trip to the men’s room.  As I stood at a pristine, white urinal, something rather obvious dawned on me and stayed with me during the rest of the movie and into the next day - and no, it's not that I have urinary incontinence.

From the moment we are born, we are taught color association.  It starts as simple lessons on what adjectives are commonly associated with what colors. But, as I stood in the mens room, I started to wonder if skin color bias is a byproduct of those associations.

When describing inanimate objects - white is clean, black is dirty.  White is good, black is evil.  White is virtuous and pure, black is wicked and racy. Light of day is safe, the dark of night is dangerous. And worst of all?  Opinions.  They are far too often viewed through the lens of “black and white”:  religion, politics, sex, drugs and yeah, even rock and roll.  Something has merit or no merit at all.  Someone is right, or they are 100% wrong.  Someone is MSNBC or they are Fox.  Rarely do we practice moderation or at very least, acceptance, that gray is sometimes ok – and we should, because gray allows healthy debate and ideally change. 

Why? Create a black or white square in Photoshop.  Now, try and adjust the color – slide your reds, blues, or greens and see what happens. Nothing. Zip. Zilch.  Now, build a gray square and do the same thing – it easily skews to green, red, blue, or any color in the rainbow.  Seems pretty straight forward that moderation and seeing the middle has a chance to open up new ways to look at life instead of living in a world that is merely black and white.

I am certainly not suggesting this is the only reason we have racial tension.  And I am certainly not suggesting that seeing things through moderate eyes will cure us of skin color bias.  I am merely pointing out that we live in a world where color has connotation. It’s impossible to believe those connotations don’t become labels when it comes to people and their skin color. 

I lived in LA during the 90’s.  I was there when the spotlight of police brutality was shining its ugly light on Compton and Crenshaw. I think the movie did an excellent job being even handed in their portrayal of what their reality was.  LAPD saw “black” and all the labels that came with it seeped up to the front:  dirty, bad, evil, wicked, and dangerous.  It was simply lost on them that while all white urinals aren’t clean, not all blacks are gang bangers.  The truth just didn’t resonate.  And yes, I am quite aware that there were black officers on the force who treated the denizens of these neighborhoods with iron fists, but I think there is explanation for that too – just not something I feel needs to be addressed here, unless someone wants to take me to task on that issue.  

Since this is not exactly some new concept, where do I see chances for change?  First thing we do is admit there is color labeling that impacts how we see skin tone.  Second thing we do is stop using extremes to qualify or quantify something.  Just cuz you are dressed in white, it doesn’t make you pure. And if black is so dangerous and dirty, then why do certain people insist on driving around in black cars.  Oh, right.  Because when it works in their favor as a sign of wealth and power, it’s a good thing.  (Not a general slam on everyone driving black cars, just an observation on the place black cars play in the world for some). Justification is an amazing thing when something works for or against your favor.  

We need to teach our kids to not make assumptions.  About anything.  Continue to teach them about stranger danger – but stress that there is no one single face to that danger.  Someone or something can look friendly and fun, but be anything but that.  Common sense dictates that white can be evil and black can be good.   Most importantly, we need to teach our kids about acceptance of opposing views.  As a friend of mine said about the advertising business years ago during a wardrobe fitting – “if I like the number 5 and they like the number 7, there is NOTHING I can do to make them like 5 more, so, you do your best to agree on 6.”

Acceptance and tolerance does not mean agreement.  And I think that’s where we get lost sometimes. For example, I don’t have to agree with your views on religion, but there is no reason you shouldn’t be allowed to follow your own beliefs nor should you be allowed to judge me on mine.  No one should push their moral, religious, or political compass on anyone.  If people could respect that approach, it’s much easier to see if a friendship or marriage or work relationship can survive.  At least you made that decision without giving up your own code or demanding someone else change theirs.

NWA spoke about their reality.  As the line in the movie goes “our art is a reflection of our reality.” So, because their art is full of vulgar language and rise to action, does that make it less art than something that is full of hope and flowery inspiration?  You don’t have to F**k The Police.  But you don’t have the right to tell them they can’t sing about that reality. People stand up and say, no, they shouldn't sing about that because they are insighting violence and challenging authority.  Well, fair enough, maybe they are, but it's because you don't agree with them that you have a problem.  When someone you might respect challenges authority and cause to action, regardless in what manner, it is seen as fair.  We aren't talking about murder or rape or theft.  We are talking about artistic expressions of one's reality.  And just because you disagree with it, it does not mean it's wrong.  Yes, sometimes it's more clear than others when there is abuse of First Amendment rights - but that is not up to us to decide.  Only up to us to discuss.  The most useful phrase I try to practice – you do you, I’ll do me. 

To our parents, teachers, religious leaders, and politicians:  avoid teaching labels and start explaining the benefits of gray.  Change the way you see the color of  inanimate things and challenge the adjectives normally used to describe them and see how quickly you might spot a change in how you view your fellow person.

Excuse me now - I gotta go pee.