Poverty And The "Born Child"

And soon to be poor.

In Texas this past Tuesday, a lone Democrat in a heavily Republican state, stood for over 11 hours and spoke continuously in an attempt to block legislation that would significantly curtail a woman's right to obtain an abortion in that state. Ultimately she was disqualified in her filibuster but not before she had stretched the process to the point where a vote cold not be taken and the legislation died.

The legislation was purportedly offered in the name of women's health. And, like legislation directed to restrict or repeal women's rights to abortion in so many states these days, there is always the cry of concern over the rights of the unborn child.

Apparently, to many in this country, there is a big difference between the "unborn child" and children at large. Apparently, to many in this country, there is a monumental need to spend a mountain of resources to protect and defend the rights of a fetus with absolutely no chance of survival apart from its parasitic relationship with the host/mother. And yet, the Annie E. Casey Foundation reports that the number of children living in poverty in the United States rose to 23% in 2011. And this isn't just inner city and Appalachian poor: Nevada and Arizona rank in the bottom 4. Add to that number the 40+% of children living in low income economic conditions and the picture starts to look less than rosy for the future citizenry of this country being vigilantly guarded in wombs everywhere.

Childhood poverty is treason. It is the undermining of this country's future well-being. It is a problem that is multi-faceted, for sure, and one that requires a multiple task response. Complicated as it may be, it deserves far more attention, discussion, and resources than what is currently allotted. And certainly far more than the time, attention, and money spent on protecting the "rights of the unborn."

Once again, I turn to George Carlin who had it right.

An "F" in Human

Far better than humanity's worst

I heard and read the recent story of the kidnap, assault and murder of an 8 year old girl in Florida and was so utterly disgusted by this report. Years ago I would have argued that an eye for an eye demeans us as a society but I can't find the patience or compassion to hold on to such altruistic beliefs any longer. To me it seems we have become a society that, in the name of caution, justice, humanity, or just plain uncertainty, we carry the accused's rights to sometimes absurd degrees of protection.

I am a firm believer that people don't just choose to be criminal. I feel fairly certain people become criminal as a result of a multitude of factors beyond their control, the foremost probably being a failed home and absence of nurturing in their own childhood. Abuse, neglect, violence, exposure to substance abuse-- all these factors tumble together to sometimes create the most depraved antisocial individuals. And yet, at other times, people survive such gross misfortune and, if not becoming living monuments to the resilience of the human spirit and capacity to grow and heal, at least they manage to live a full life without kidnapping, raping, or murdering anybody.

At some point, as we continue to amass these miserable statistics, read about abominable unthinkable acts of inhumanity, don't we need to come to terms with the fact that some of these perpetrators have simply flunked humanity? Some crimes are simply so heinous, so far outside the boundaries of conceivable human behavior, that it demands a do-over. No jail, no appeals, no lifetime public support behind bars. Just done, out, over, adieu, don't wanna hear the story, better luck next time, gone. Maybe they can come back as a golden retriever. Or a sunflower. Anything. Just not as a parolee

Terminal Timeline

The recent passing of James Gandolfini caught a whole lot of people by surprise-- not the least of whom, I'm sure, was James Gandolfini. There's the buzz from those who liked his show the Sopranos. There's the buzz from those who really understood and admired his skill as an actor. Celebrity deaths are good news/sad news, if you will. Everybody wants to know. Everybody wants to feel bad.

Over the past weekend we had a wing walker and the pilot of her plane have things go horribly wrong in Ohio. And here in Michigan we had a family on a pleasure flight fail to make it more than a mile from the runway. While some activities are inherently dangerous, for most of us we always, always, always expect to come home at the end of our day.

I always look at these events and wonder how many of us take inventory. After all, dying causes great sadness for a handful of people (family), sorrow for a larger group (friends), distress for some (creditors), and for the rest of the world-- if the story's good enough we gawk, otherwise, what day is it anyway? Tuesday? Friday?

Growing up I would always hear reference to the Biblical passage from the New Testament in which the advice is given to "watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour."  Growing up I had always understood this to mean you had better always be on your best behavior: Let down your guard, slip up, and, BAM! One minute you think you're heaven bound, harp in hand, and a moment later you find yourself at an eternal barbecue-- with you as the featured dish.

It's too bad so much Biblical literature is construed as threatening and guilt producing because, really, in many cases, it's the distillation of centuries of sound advice. In the present example of the passage from the book of Matthew, the story shouldn't be about saving your ass from hell and feeling frightened of death. Rather, I take this cautionary passage to be about living your life to the fullest, in the best possible way. James Gandolfini doesn't give a rat's ass that he's dead. (Yes. I'm sure.) But, if he knew he was going to be dead right smack dab in the middle of an Italian vacation he might have made some other choices. And that's the point: For many people they never do know. All of a sudden it just happens. One minute you're enjoying the world's best gnocchi, the next, game over.

In my life it's all too easy to get wrapped up in other people's stuff. I like my medical work and I like my role in leadership at the hospital, but I do need to realize I'm burning time. And, I guess in that light, I'm sorry for his family but a little grateful to learn of the passing of James Gandolfini.  He makes me look in the mirror and ask myself, What are you going to do today? How many quarters are left in my pocket, how many more free games?

The Happy Misadventure

"I'm sure it's just right up here."

I just got back from a 35 minute walk. That is something I used to do at least 5 days a week. There is no good explanation for why I stopped and, besides, that's not the point. But I enjoyed it every bit as much as I used to and I hope I've rekindled a happy routine-- at least until the snow flies.

This past weekend I decided to take Kelsey up on an invite to see Shakespeare in the park in Ann Arbor. Much Ado About Nothing, one of my favorites.  So off I went on a Friday afternoon. The drive went well.

We decided to grab a bite at the nationally famous deli that calls Ann Arbor home, a deli that shall remain nameless. I stepped outside of my own personal dietary law and had a pastrami on rye with swiss, slaw, and russian.  I don't know, maybe I'm just a snob, but I don't go for deli's serving "rustic" rye, the kind made with a crust that leaves bruises, abrasions, and small lacerations throughout the mouth and esophagus.  And I really, really like it when you can actually taste the pastrami, especially when the sandwich is ordered with a large portion.  Shoulda been a sign.

Then, off to Shakespeare. We parked downtown because the venue didn't have onsite parking and, after all, we thought it was just up the hill from campus. So off we went, across the campus, up the hill, up the hill some more, past the cemetery-- the really big cemetery-- and, finally, after just 20 minutes or so, we were there. Well, almost. First we would have to hike across the park to the amphitheater located about 1.5 miles from where we stood at that moment. So, after a quick application of bug spray we went down the hill, across the valley, and up the hill, and down again (that's 1.5 miles as the crow flies) until we came to the amphitheater-- the vacant unstaffed amphitheater. Nope, we needed to follow the river to the parking area (the what ??). It looked like that's where one got tickets. 0.8 miles later the answer was a definite "no." This we knew because there was a sign telling us where to go to get tickets. Just another mile or so.

Exiting the jungle we finally got to pavement-- a paved pathway that climbed straight up, up, up. Finally, overheated, sticky and wet, we were within sniffing distance of the ticket office. And that's when Kels hit an uneven seam in the cement and blew her sandal apart. The good news was this happened within 50 feet of the bus stop to her apartment. We missed the bus but, first ray of sunshine, incredibly there was another just a minute or two behind the first.

Back at her apartment, with my daughter's feet looking like something out of the dustbowl migration, we realized we would never make the show. We swore we would never leave home without a map and clear directions to a destination/event we think we sorta know about.

Then again, maybe not. We had a really great time laughing about our muggy wandering up and down the forested hills of the Arboretum.  It was fun to be on a walk together. And, we learned where not to have deli. And, Kels got a couple new pairs of sandals-- missed the show but the mall was open. And, finally, I got reintroduced to the pleasure of taking a walk. Not a such a bad little excursion, after all.

A Father's Job

I've been thinking about just what it is that a dad does that's so important. Dad's teach their kids about guy stuff like how to throw a baseball, how to shoot a basketball, how to ride a bike. Our dad taught us how to collect large rocks and build a dam across the creek back of the cabin on Oregon where we spent a week each summer. He sure as heck taught me how to mow a lawn. But, of all the things my Dad did, I think the most important was to show his child how others should be regarded. And that's what I think is really a father's most important job.

By his actions a father can show that a woman is a person-- not a thing, not a servant, not less than, not a toy. By his actions a father can raise a son to know what it means to care for another person, what it means to show respect, to honor, to concern yourself with another. By his actions and expectations a father shows his child she is worthy and capable of attaining any goal-- and expected to reach far. By his actions a father shows his daughter  there is no place for using or accepting humiliation, disrespect, threats, or violence. By his actions a father shows his son there is no place for using or accepting humiliation, disrespect, threats, or violence. By his actions a father shows his child the value of industry, intellect, and motivation. By his actions a father shows his child the meaning of citizenship as a person living in a world filled with other people, of other races, preferences, and genders.

In the end, if he's done his job well, a father will live to see a child who learned from his actions, a child who is loving, caring, capable, and tolerant. And in that, he will have defined what it is to succeed in life.

I may have been a slow learner, but my father was a success.

Aged Related Anxiety

I must be aging poorly. Isn't it supposed to be that, the older you get, the more experience you acquire, the more you know, the older your kids get, the less you worry. So what's up?

I'm a pretty busy guy these days and, frankly, miss writing this blog. I realize a good portion of the time it may not offer all that much in the way of depth or insight but it sure offers a good safety valve for me. My current responsibilities find me writing almost every day, things like long letters to members of the medical staff, consultants, and administrators. And, too, I've had to make a speech or two in the past few weeks (ah, ya shoulda outta been there!). But with all that, I have a fairly steady volume of things to concern me, worry about, and keep me up at night and I miss my safety valve.

So with all that, last night my cell phone rings at 2:20AM. First, I almost never keep my cell phone within earshot of the bedroom, but I did last night.  Second, late night calls are always a wrong number, I assume someone looking for drugs or a hooker. So, even though it rang, I didn't bother to answer.

Then, this morning I checked to see who called: Kelsey at 2:20AM. Crap! At my age I'm supposed to smile and think, "that crazy kid!" Instead I'm thinking the worst.

My daughter recently got back the results of her Medical College Admission Test and she did pretty darn well. So, I'm thinking, wow, good MCAT score, got a new car last week, I hope she wasn't out drinking and driving, picked up, and spending a night in jail! I tried calling her at 7:30 this morning, a Saturday, a time when no self-respecting college kid is up. No answer. Sure hope she's not in jail, poor thing. Sent a text. Same time. No answer. Same worry.

Finally around 10:30 I got confirmation it was an accident. Probably butt dialing. She assured me she doesn't drink and drive. And that's when it struck me: Aren't I supposed to be over this?? Am I not old enough, wise enough, my daughter not proven herself careful enough, to stop with the worry already? Oh well, I'm just glad to know it was an accident. After all, worried as I was, I'm not a worrier by nature.

But wait a minute. Who was she with when that phone went off by accident, and what were they doing, and..........

My Mom's Friend Edith

This story came through yesterday, NPR's obituary of Jean Stapleton, a woman my Mom never knew but whose character, Edith Bunker, became one of her best friends. Mom spent a whole lot of Saturday nights with Edith, admiring her common sense, her resilience, her ability to fend off and stand up to her domineering and ignorant husband, Archie.

My Mom didn't have to cope with as much abuse as did her pal Edith, but she could appreciate and recognize the similarities, the common lot of so many housewives. They were the familiar assumptions and expectations so many American women had to endure for generations. To that, once a week on Saturday night, Edith Bunker took to the television airwaves to demonstrate that "simple housewives"and "dumb women" really did possess the insight and wisdom to guide the species to greater understanding, tolerance, and the value in caring.

It has been more than 40 years since I last sat in the den with my parents and watched All In The Family and it's a bit sad seeing this centerpiece pass on. For both of my parents, as well as my brother and me, watching that show let us enjoy the education of a nation. Through gut splitting laughter and tears we relished the disrobing of bigotry, sexism, and all manner of intolerance. But for the housewives of America like my Mom, I think there was truly a special bond with Edith, the "dingbat" who was just oh so smart, oh so capable, and oh so repressed by her place in this society. But she knew, my Mom did, that Edith Bunker was exactly what so many women of the time were: Trapped by norms, treated as inferior, capable well beyond what most everyone ever saw, and responsible for more than anyone knew. Friends. Sisters in Arms.