CHICAGO, IL, USA - Brandon Timothy Mark Sweat (henceforth refered to simply as Brandon) was my freshman year college roommate. We were paired up as roommates, by chance - we met the day we moved into the dorm on a hot August Austin, Texas day. I walked into our room with my mom and Brandon and his entire family were already in the room unpacking him. Brandon was from Houston. Upon introducing myself to him and his family and telling them I was from Topeka, Kansas, his dad promptly played the ‘Wizard of Oz’ card, ”Well hey! If you get homesick, all you’ve got to do is click your heals together!” He was a great guy, Brandon’s dad, but I wasn’t in the mood after driving for two days from Topeka in the 102 degree heat in a car with no air conditioning.
I almost immediately befriended Brandon - or I should say, he befriended me. Brandon was incredibly outgoing - everyone’s friend. Smart, athletic, handsome, energetic. Within a week he knew the names of every person in our dorm. Our room was the center of activity because everyone wanted to be near Brandon. I benefitted from that. I was shy, but Brandon wouldn’t allow me to be. He forced me to attend functions, forced me to go to parties, forced me to meet people (usually by dragging them to our room) and make friends. He looked after me. There are too many stories to tell, but Brandon was the closest I ever came to knowing an angel. Everyone should have a Brandon in their life.
Brandon has always written poetry and for years he has shared it with me - something I’ve always been very honored by. A lot of his poetry in college, like the one below, gave insight into what was hiding behind Brandon’s outwardly displayed giftedness. After college Brandon suffered. He does, however, in his words, “have [his] world back in place.” I’m so happy for him, he’s in love and getting married May 31.
Falling Up On Lonely Times (by Brandon T.M. Sweat)
CHICAGO, IL, USA - I love the televised Presidential debates. Regardless of who’s debating and regardless of who I am rooting for, I love watching them. I’m a sentimentally patriotic guy - I think the debates are great symbols of our democracy. The debates are not perfect - despite their tendency to turn into scripted sound-byte-fests, they often show the candidates at their most exposed and vulnerable, standing side-by-side, and I think that makes for some of the most interesting discussion on important topics of policy. And to any candidate who participates in a live debate on television in front of the entire country, they earn my great respect just for doing so - regardless of ideology, party or otherwise.
Tonight, ABC News hosted the 20th (and most likely last) Democratic Primary debate. They failed miserably. It was a 2 hour debate, with commercials, and it was not until 63 minutes into the debate that a question of policy was asked of either candidate. The entire first hour was dedicated to tabloid-style questions of both candidates - most of which have been exhaustively vetted in the media over weeks and months. Less than half of the debate was focused on policy - and thusly topics like the environment, Afghanistan, border security, immigration and others were not discussed. Some might argue that policy topics have already been adeqauately covered in the previous 19 debates. But tonight’s debate was for the voters of Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Indiana who have yet to vote and who deserve to have these topics covered in the debate that precedes their primary elections.
I am not alone - the other news networks, pundits, political bloggers and citizen bloggers have resoundingly and deservedly chastised ABC for this debate.
For my part, I’ve written the following people at ABC News the e-mail that follows:
I’m going to assume that the ABC News room is filled with highly intelligent people and gifted journalists. With that in mind - if you can separate yourself from the natural loyalty you must feel toward your employer, your programming and your work, which is typically top notch - with all that in mind, can you admit that the debate tonight was an embarrassment and patronized your viewers? Can you admit that it assumed the worst of Americans - who in these difficult times are faced with an important decision - that as we sat down in our living rooms tonight to hear Clinton and Obama debate, wanting to have ABC News represent our concerns with thoughtful questions, that it consisted instead, primarily, of topics of no consequence to our lives, our families, our communities, our country or our world? Can you admit that you’ve robbed us of an opportunity to hear two highly intelligent, dedicated, patriotic individuals have an actual debate about the issues facing the United States? Can you admit that for the first hour-plus, you made your audience sit through topics covering the worst of American political discourse? Can you admit that?
I expect the debate to give candidates an opportunity to clear the air or needle one another about the political tit-for-tat that has happened between debates. Bosnia, bitterness etc.. I reasonably expect that to be 10% - 15% of the debate. But the integrity of televised Presidential debate, in tonight’s case, was called into serious question as it became less about issues which matter to Americans and more about political gaffes, errors and associations which have no bearing on serious issues.
I know, I know - you’ll say, “…but these are questions that are important to the American people, that get to the issue of character and trustworthiness…” I would have to disagree with you there. I think this argument is insulting to Americans - who I believe have bigger things on their minds and can find better ways to assess the trustworthiness and character of these candidates. An intelligent - an important - Presidential debate, one that is meaningful and one that is responsibly executed by its moderator and host, should allow this very unique opportunity, to see two candidates, standing side-by-side, to debate issues that are of consequence to our lives, our communities and our country.
I am from Illinois and so I voted in my state’s primary on Super Tuesday - I am no longer weighing the decision between these two candidates - like most of the population, my vote has been cast. Instead, I tuned in to hear how these candidates - regardless of which will be the Democratic Party candidate - would propose to deal with the problems facing our country. I crave ideas, I crave details, I crave solutions - and our democratic process gives almost no better opportunity to get to the heart of ideas, details, solutions, in a mass-communicative way, than televised Presidential debates. We’re busy, we’re working, we’re going to school, we’re raising kids, we’re lucky if we have time to read the paper in the morning or catch the news after work - we look to these debates for substance, its our chance to get caught up and to weigh these important issues. You’ve failed miserably in administering a meaningful debate. You’ve taken the very serious responsibility of hosting a Presidential debate, and delivered something that mocks the American political process and succumbs to its worst elements and by-products. You owe an apology to the people of Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Indiana that this is their last opportunity to hear these candidates debate before they make their important decision.
Sincerely,
Eric Schneider
UPDATE - The Morning After: It’s the day after the debate and ABC News has over 17,000 comments on their web-site criticizing the debate. Also, 24 hours later the media, itself, is taking aim at ABC News - here is a sampling:
From Tom Shales of the Washington Post:
“another step downward for network news — in particular ABC News, which hosted the debate from Philadelphia and whose usually dependable anchors, Charlie Gibson and George Stephanopoulos, turned in shoddy, despicable performances.” Shales added that the debate “dwelled entirely on specious and gossipy trivia”
From John Nichols of The Nation:
“This was an ugly, unilluminating debate that neglected meaningful concerns because so much time was spent introducing what had been the silly side issues of the far right to the mainstream discourse.”
From Andrew Sullivan of The Atlantic:
“The loser was ABC News: one of the worst media performances I can remember - petty, shallow, process-obsessed, trivial where substantive, and utterly divorced from the actual issues that Americans want to talk about.”
From the Los Angeles Times:
“Not until 50 minutes in was a policy issue — Iraq — asked about by the moderators. More than an hour went by before a question was asked about what Stephanopoulos called “the No. 1 issue on Americans’ minds” — the economy.”
From Will Bunch of Philadelphia Daily News:
In an open letter to ABC’s Gibson and Stephanopoulos “By so badly botching arguably the most critical debate of such an important election, in a time of both war and economic misery, you disgraced the American voters, and in fact even disgraced democracy itself,”
From Bob Cavnar of Houston Chronical:
“The whole thing was silly. Nothing of substance was talked about, Obama was off his game trying to fend off stupid gotcha questions while Hillary beamed at the onslaught by her personal Clintonista asking the planted question from Sean Hannity. What a waste of air time. And a low point for ABC.”
From Michael Grunwald of Time Magazine:
“This makes for extremely stupid politics, where substance is only relevant to catch politicians in flip-flops or mistakes. Last night, for example, Gibson tried to nail Obama over capital gains taxes, revealing only his own misunderstanding of the difference between correlation and causation. For all the back-and-forth over a crazy Weatherman he once served with on a board, Obama never got to tell voters that he opposed the war in Iraq from the start. For all the back-and-forth over her Tuzla goof — Obama stayed out of it, although he acknowledged that his campaign aides addressed it when asked — Clinton never got to mention anything she’s done in the Senate. And the only real constitutional issue that got discussed was the right to bear arms.”
From Jon Stewart of The Daily Show:
“A 60 minute master class in questions that elevate out of context remarks and trivial, insipid miscues into subjects of national discourse,” Stewart said, and then added, “which is my job. Stop doing my job!”
CHICAGO, IL, USA - When I was in the 5th Grade I decided I wanted to join the band, I wanted to play the saxophone. My parents reluctantly agreed and my dad took me to Midwestern Music in Topeka and got me a shiny new saxophone. I was thrilled. I began attending band practice at my school and learning the instrument.
It turned out, and I realized relatively quickly, that I hated playing the saxophone. I could read music just fine, I could match up them music with the notes, but I wasn’t at all inspired by the instrument or the Whitson Elementary School band. I didn’t want to continue learning, but I also didn’t want to drop out of the band. There was a certain social status of being in the band, carrying your instrument to school and a couple times a week you got out of class to go to band practice. I need all the help I could get to be cool, and being in the band was showing minor gains.
I continued going but I sort of stopped learning. It was well known among the saxophonists in the band, which was made up of all the cool guys in my class, that I was not actually playing. I was filling my mouth with air so as to puff up my cheeks and I was moving my fingers on the saxophone keys, but no sound was coming out. I was literally going through the motions. Even though my fellow saxophonists knew, they didn’t seem to care and didn’t rat me out. I think they just thought I was weird and not even worth the trouble of tattling. Or they had some pity on me, which would have been rare for 5th graders.
So although I wasn’t really learning, or really playing, or really into the saxophone at all. I was still caught off guard one day when someone in the band, a flutist, pointed out that my saxophone looked different than the other guys’ saxophones. I hadn’t noticed until that moment, but it was true. My saxophone was pretty - but it was all golden. All the pipes and metal work was golden. My saxophonist colleagues had golden saxophones, but all their little tubies and pipes were a silver accent color and their keys were mother-of-pearl. Obviously theirs were better. I noticed that they all got theirs from Hume Music in Topeka, which was on the West side of town (the better side) and mine had come from Midwestern Music on the North side of town (the not-so-good side).
That night I decided I was going to have to initiate ‘Operation: New Saxophone.’ If I was going to stay in band, going to keep pretending to play the saxophone, I was going to have to have a better saxophone to pretend to play. I had to have the same one as the other guys.
I couldn’t tell my parents that I needed a new saxophone just because mine didn’t have the silvery accent color on the tubies and pipes. I couldn’t convince them that a Hume Music saxophone was better than a Midwestern Music saxophone just…because. They just wouldn’t fall for that. I had to have a better reason. I decided that I would have to tell my parents that my saxophone was defective - that it simply did not WORK as well as some of the OTHER saxophones that the other guys had, and that as a result I was falling behind my peers in my saxophone learning ability.
I sat in my room preparing for the discussion. I decided I had to rehearse - so I played the role of myself and also took on the role of my mom and acted out how I thought the discussion might go. I sat facing a wall in my room, saxophone in hand, and actually had the conversation out-loud. Here’s how it went:
Me:Mom, there is something I need to talk to you about . . . it’s my saxophone.
Me as Mom:Sure Eric, what’s going on?
Me:Well mom, it’s just that, well, my saxophone just doesn’t seem to work as well as the one the other guys have.
Me as Mom:Well, whuuuusa matter with it?
Me:Well, it just…it just….doesnt work as well. The sound isn’t as clear. The band teacher says mine doesn’t sound as good.
Me as Mom:Well, whuuuusa matter with it?
Me:Well, I’m not sure what’s the matter with it - maybe it’s defective, or maybe it’s just not a very good saxophone, but I think I should get one from Hume Music.
Me as Mom:Well, I don’t understand….whuuuusa matter with it?
< at this point, I’m getting frustrated by my mom’s continued inability to understand the situation - even though I’ve made up her replies entirely in my mind - she just doesn’t get it, and she’s going to keep asking “whuuuusa matter with it?” until she breaks me down and forces me to admit that I’m just jealous of the other guys’ saxophones —- this entire conversation concocted for one purpose, to prepare myself for the worst of what my mom might have to offer in response to my pleas for a new saxophone >
I carried on my imaginary preparatory conversation:
Me:MOM! IT JUST DOESN’T WORK - I WANT A NEW ONE!
Me as Mom:Well….I’m sorry Eric, I just dont’ understand…whuuuusa matter with it!?
At that moment, I heard something. I whipped around and scanned my room. At first glance, I didn’t see anything - but then I saw it. There was a foot and part of a butt visible from behind my bed, close to the doorway to my room. I had thought the rest of my family was downstairs, but someone had infiltrated my bedroom and had been spying on me. It could only be one of two people - my sister Emily trying to scare me, or the biggest snoop of them all, my mom.
A snicker and muffled chuckle followed by full laughter revealed the intruder. It was my mom. Known for her snooping ways and indifference to her kids’ privacy. She emerged from behind the bed. She had sneaked up the stairs and on hands and knees crawled into my bedroom, hiding behind my bed, in order to (as she claims) listen to me practice my saxophone. Instead, she stumbled upon my practice conversation for the great saxophone debate to be had later that evening. She burst into laughter at the end of my practice conversation (laughing AT me, not WITH me) amused by how I represented her in the conversation and maybe a little offended that in my version, all she could say is, “Well, whuuuuusa matter with it?”
I was as embarrassed as I have ever been to have been caught dialoguing with myself. The topic of the new saxophone and my preparations for the conversation were as serious a subject as my 5th grade world could have imagined, and my mom was laughing at me. I told her to “GET OUT - GET OUT OF MY ROOM - THAT IS SOOO RUDE - YOU ARE SUCH A SNOOP (she is)!” She left, probably feeling a little bit bad and embarrassed for me, but also laughing her way down the stairs.
Following this episode, we never actually had the saxophone discussion. I had my pride. I wasn’t going to actually go through with the conversation after such humiliation. I stuck with my Midwestern Music saxophone and a few weeks later told my parents I was quitting the band. They let it go without much of a fight or lecture about sticking with things - I think my mom still felt a little guilty.
My mom, like her father before her, has a way of taking a very embarrassing moment from your life, and never letting you forget it, using it as fodder for laughs for the rest of your life. Although the saxophone became a relic of the past - the eavesdropped conversation with myself became material for teasing me that has lasted into my 30’s - and something I entirely expect her to say on her deathbed. To this day when I’m feeling at all embarrassed about something, or trying to explain something with difficulty to my mom, she’ll stop me and ask, “Well, whuuuuusa matter with it?”
CHICAGO, IL, USA - I live in a beautiful building designed by Mies van der Rohe. I’m what some might call a design snob. I’m very proud to live in my Mies buidling. Not everyone that casts their gaze upon my building sees the beauty that I see. It’s certainly a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder. I have a hard time accepting other peoples’ indifference to architecture - probably as much as some people have a hard time accepting my snobbery and interest in it. When my father and his wife visited recently, she said, “Well, I love the inside of your condo, but I’m not a fan of the outside.” Stab me in the heart.
Ludwig Mies van der Rohe was a German-born architect and furniture designer. He is known for having been one of the pioneers of modern architecture. Specifically he is credited with the ‘glass curtain’ concept - that a buidling’s supporting frame does not have to be an exo-skeleton, that instead the supporting frames can be primarily in-set, with multiple internal pillars, leaving the building’s exterior walls free for more windows - floor to ceiling, wall to wall. If you look at buildings built before 1950, they are primarily stone, brick or steel buildings with a great deal of ornamentation on the exterior with windows set amongst the brick or stone work. In the 1950’s Mies van der Rohe designed the first buildings that appeared entirely of glass on the exterior. Today it is commonplace, but if you could imagine my apartment buidling in 1957 set amongst a neighborhood of brick and stone buildings, it must have looked so completley ultra-modern.
Mies van der Rohe designed, among other famous buidlings; the Seagram’s Building in New York City, IBM Plaza in Chicago and is famous for one piece of iconic furnitre - the Barcelona chair. He immigrated to the United States and to Chicago to serve on the architecture faculty and as dean at the Illinois Insistitute of Technology, whose campus is now primarily made up of Mies van der Rohe buildings. When I first moved to Chicago I was also working in a Mies buidling at the South end of Michigan Avenue. Each morning I would ride the bus from one Mies to the other - enjoying, both at home and at work, the beautiful simple lines and vast views offered by the huge windows. That was actually the very best thing about working at Motorola.
Today I live and work from our condo. The views from our windows look West, North and East from the 22nd floor as far as the eye can see. East is Lake Michigan and in the winter we look down on the icy tundra created by its freezing - the snow whips across its surface. In the Summer its filled to the brim with boats of every kind - we live between two of the largest marinas in the city - and the lakefront is packed with people celebrating the sun in various ways. To the West is the upper Great Plains. Some days I think we can see to Iowa because the horizon is so flat and seems so far.
Someday I suspect we’ll move from our Mies home - for more space, or a yard . . . or Paris. Until then I’m going to enjoy every minute of living in such a splendid building. Thanks Mies van der Rohe.
CHICAGO, IL, USA - It’s April. That means springtime in Chicago - we defrost and wait for the parks and trees to bloom and foot traffic along the lakefront to increase with volleyballers, joggers, and other outdoor activities. It also means that the end of the school year is near. Kids begin to get Spring-fever, knowing only weeks stand between them and the freedom of summer. In Chicago, however, the end of this academic year means something else - a frightening record. To date, 23 Chicago public school children have been murdered. Most by guns - though the most recent having been beaten to death with a baseball bat. Earlier in the year, one 16 year old was shot to death on a public city bus. One was 10 years old, walking home, caught in the cross fire of gang violence. Another was shot dead on the front steps of his South-side high school just as school let out, with dozens of classmates standing nearby.
This ever-increasing metric is a tragedy for Chicago and for the United States - but I don’t hear it being discussed by Republicans or Democrats with any substantive effort. Shouldn’t it be a matter of national attention that we have urban neighborhoods too dangerous to drive through and that in these neighborhoods we have children trapped, unable to walk outside for fear of being shot to death? Shouldn’t that be part of the conversation - along with health insurance, Iraq and Hillary Clinton’s tax returns? I think it should.
I live a mere 8 miles from a neighborhood that I would not drive through at night and would not walk through in daylight because of the increased chance that I might be murdered. I have the choice not to go there. Children live in that neighborhood - without choice in the matter. Asked to stand on the corner and wait for a bus, asked to go about their lives - playing in their yard, attending school - they do so at great risk and usually aware that people in their community die, violently, often and suddenly at the hands of people in their own community who murder for no apparent reason except, usually, because of revenge for a previous crime or because of loyalty to a gang whose primary purpose is to manufacturer violence.
On the news we see Google Earth images of Baghdad - we know where the Green Zone is and we know the southern part of the city known as the “Triangle of Death.” Although most news-viewing Americans sit shocked and conflicted as our nation’s armed forces battle against insurgencies in these far away neighborhoods, we don’t seem nearly as appalled that in our own cities, we have Triangles of Death where gun violence and our own form of sectarian violence - gangs - breed violence, fear and murder and recruit younger and younger members for its corps.
Maybe we’ve just given up, as a nation - or even in the case of Chicago, as a city. Perhaps our cumulative psyche is just too numb to it now and simply accepts it as the way things are and the way things will always be. Perhaps my neighbors are comfortable living mere miles from a zone of violence and poverty where children are being murdered and are provided few, if any, alternatives to gang membership. Perhaps we’re in a prolonged era of selfishness and the issues that we will devote ourselves to are only those for which we can personally gain. Certainly issues abound that need the attention of society and social scientists and policy makers - and we have to prioritize. But my faith in America has always lead me to believe that the safety and protection of children was at the top of our shared values ladder. I’m sad to discover that this may only be true of children belonging to people who vote and that safety and protection of children is not an equal opportunity issue.
I am certain that our country and even my community has the ingenuity and resources to find solutions to this problem. I’m certain that we can find a way to keep kids safe and to provide alternatives to gang membership - if we want to and if we try. What I am, unfortunately, not certain of is that we have the will. And where there is not a will, there is not a way.
CHICAGO, IL, USA - I don’t have anything against Hillary Clinton. I really don’t. In fact, I think she’s a legitimately good politician with sincerely good intentions and convictions. Although, I happen to think there is a better choice for Democrats.
This was a silly mistake from someone usually so expertly calculated:
CHICAGO, IL, USA - My father’s generation was one of the last which will, in large numbers, spend an entire career at a single company or organization. My father retired from working at the State of Kansas after more than 30 years and my father-in-law retired from an insurance company where he worked just as long. Both of them celebrated their retirements surrounded by colleagues - some of whom they’d shared 20+ years of service with.
With some exceptions, my generation won’t be able to relate to this career trajectory. When I do retire, it will likely be from the last of 10 or more companies I will work for during my career. I’m 8 years in the work force, now, and on my third company. Truth be told, there is an attractiveness to working for a single company an entire career - growing with it and feeling a simpatico admiration and dedication between employee and employer - I think it would be my preference. But the truth is, such dedication is difficult to achieve, in either direction, in today’s economy. Companies rise and fall, layoffs are rampant and competition is fierce.
The worst side-effect, on a social level, of this human resources migration pattern is the effect on human relationships. Most of us spend 40+ hours a week at work and most of us work with others. 40+ hours is usually more time than we spend with our spouses or children in a week, meaning that the time we spend with our co-workers makes possible the development of very enriching friendships. With these colleagues we get to often see them during the most effective part of their day, displaying the best of their intellectual ability - we get to see them fierce, assertive, impassioned —- and sometimes apathetic, tired and disgruntled. Still, we form relationships which require us to work together, and the bonds of teamwork can be very strong.
One of the best outcomes of social networking on-line has been to the ability to retain contact with and retrieve contact with these friends and colleagues from previous companies and work experiences - some of whom have been lost in the rubble of layoffs and job migration. So, for the first time, recently, LinkedIn proved valuable to me.
Last week, LinkedIn provided a breakthrough by putting me in contact with my former colleague Ann Cash. I worked with Ann at Sprint PCS (now Sprint Nextel). Sprint was my first real job out of college. I started out in another group, but within a year I was working in a small group within the Brand/Advertising organization with Ann and another colleague, Tracy. The three of us made up a small team dedicated to working with Sprint PCS Affiliates on their advertising and brand strategy and execution. I loved that job. And I LOVED working with Ann and Tracy. A year after I left Sprint, Ann got laid off and in the ensuing few years changed jobs again and we lost touch. While there are many friends from Sprint that I have lost touch with, losing touch with Ann was particularly sad for me because Ann taught me a very valuable lesson at the earliest stages of my career that I will always try to aspire to.
Ann Cash is originally from the “boot heel” of Missouri. While Missouri isn’t technically considered “the South” - the boot-heel of Missouri is. This tiny bit of land surrounded by Tennessee, Arkansas and Kentucky - almost reaches the Northern border of Mississippi. These proud Missourians are also proud Southerners. Ann is no exception.
That thing that Ann taught me, I think, was very much related to where she was from and the values that she was raised with - values she wouldn’t compromise even if some might consider them old-fashioned or unnecessary in the workplace. Ann taught me that kindness matters. Ann was completely dedicated to the virtue of kindness - in her world everyone was worthy, even when they did not return the favor. In my naivety, I had assumed going into the workforce, that everyone was going to be kind and respectful. We were a team, after all - colleagues. I quickly learned that this wasn’t the case - and there were days when I felt that Ann was the exception to the rule. Ann never wavered - even when faced with direct assaults of cruelty and unkind and unfair treatment. At the end of every day, she could walk out of that office building with absolute integrity and certainty that she’d treated everyone she’d encountered with the kindness and respect that she’d hope for in return.
The truth is that the brand of kindness that Ann insisted on conveying is something frowned upon by some people in corporate culture. For some, it’s viewed as a weakness. For some, there is a counterfeit kindness that only takes place in a person’s presence or when strategically convenient. In fact, I’ve come across entire corporate cultures that collectively and culturally suppress kindness. I’ve seen otherwise kind people buy in to this idea that once they walk through the company doors the cut-throat nature of business requires that kindness be kept at bay.
It is difficult to achieve kindness all the time. I certainly don’t. Emotions get in the way of kindness, and even the truest of kind intentions can fall short. Even Ann, I’m sure (though I never witnessed) experienced a lapse or two. But what I believe, and what I hope, is that people in the workplace will aspire to kindness and place value in kindness and that companies and their leaders will value kindness rather than view it with suspicion.
Friedrich Nietzsche wrote about the Economy of Kindness: ”Kindness and love, the most curative herbs and agents in human intercourse, are such precious finds that one would hope these balsam-like remedies would be used as economically as possible; but that is impossible. Only the boldest Utopians would dream of the economy of kindness.”
CHICAGO, IL, USA - Much has been written in the past week about the comments of Geraldine Ferraro, former Democratic Congresswomen and Vice-President nominee, about Senator Barack Obama’s campaign to be President of the United States. She said:
“If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman [of any color] he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept.”
Debate has ensued about whether criticism of this comment is being ‘overly sensitive’ and whether, perhaps, Ms. Ferraro was speaking the truth. It has been suggested everywhere from ‘The View’ to ‘The Huffington Report’ to ‘Fox News’ whether reactions to her comment point to absurd political correctness and whether talking about Obama’s race or Hillary’s gender are now out of bounds.
It’s all ridiculous. Newt Gingrich is ridiculous, Earl Ofari Hutchinson is ridiculous, Geraldine Ferraro is ridiculous. The reason they’re ridiculous - and the ridiculousness is spreading like wildfire - is because the absolute truth about why Ms. Ferraro’s comment was offensive has nothing to do with race. It is utterly offensive because it suggests that the “country is caught up in” something over which they have no control, no free will and no sense of destiny. Clearly Ms. Ferraro believes that this black man has seduced America with his black man mojo. To suggest that this candidate is attractive to Americans (to date, more Americans than have cast a vote for either still-standing rival) only because of his race or that his race has prevented us from viewing him critically, is idiotic and only demonstrates Ferraro’s lack of respect for the electorate.
Its a democracy, stupid. Plain and simple, we all get one vote - and we cast that vote for who we believe will meet our selfish needs. That’s what it boils down to, doesn’t it? How can this person help ME? How can he/she keep ME safe? How can he/she make MY life better? How can he/she make MY job stay in America? How can he/she make MY child’s education better? How can he/she reduce MY taxes? We ask these questions, we look and listen to the candidates, and we punch a hole, pull a lever, touch a screen or whatever the case may be. We vote.
For Ferraro to suggest that I was duped into pulling the lever for Senator Obama last month in my state’s primary, is insulting. To suggest that I, or any other person who has voted for Senator Obama, has been somehow manipulated by him, his race, his orations or his gender is infuriating. Anyone suggesting that the media is so powerful in it’s wisdom and impact, and to suggest that it has unfairly elevated Mr. Obama because of his race, and that this combination has influenced a blind/dumb flock of sheep electorate, does not share my respect for Americans.
Senator Obama gave a helluva speech nearly four years ago at the Democratic National Convention. His race and his youth and his charisma were very convenient to the Democratic Party establishment then - as they gave him a prime-time slot and paraded him in front of America as the future of the party. Well, guess what, he rose to the occasion. Be careful, Ms. Ferraro, what you ask for. His speech was brilliant. He caught my attention that night, and has held it ever since - not because of words, but because of vision. Because he gets it, because he can sell it and because I think he might just be able to pull it off.
Visionaries with courage and humility are rare. Ms. Ferraro and Ms. Clinton have demonstrated that they are none of the above - for they lack and ability to see it when it stands before them. Instead they reduce him and his appeal to enjoying the benefits of skin color - insulting all 13,522,829 people who have voted for him, in the process.
So yes, Newt Gingrich, we can still say he’s black. He’s black. He’s black. He’s black. His wife is black. His kids are black. Politcal correctness isn’t at play here. The only hyper-sensitivity about his race is coming from people who can’t think of any other way to beat him. They want the right to say he’s black, and for that to mean something more than, he’s black. Well, sorry to inconvenience you, but it doesn’t mean anything more than that for those of us who have voted for him - because we couldn’t care less. We care that he’ll keep us safe, and we care that he’ll grow the economy, we care that he’ll protect our rights and we care that he’ll care about our future. We’re taking this election seriously - we’re serious voters, with serious issues on our mind - we’re aren’t “caught up.” We’ve done our civic duty, all 13,522,829 of us - and he earned each one. Keep your eye on the ball Hillary.
CHICAGO, IL, USA - I used to believe that I had the kind of hair that could not be marred by a bad haircut.I’ve always always been a customer of cheap haircuts – the walk-in chain store kinds (admittedly, some are better than others).In recent years I’ve been ridiculed for my choice of hairstylists.When I lived in Kansas City I frequented a Supercuts in the one of the worst areas of the city (bullet holes in the windows and I once witnessed an armed robbery at the Popeye’s across the street, in the reflection of my mirror) and was trimmed by one of several very… shall we say…outspoken women who mostly used employment at the Supercuts as a social salon – interrupted infrequently by a brave soul who dared enter for a haircut.When I was in that Supercuts chair, I was their bitch.I wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to and I wasn’t allowed to make any suggestions on how they cut my hair.Still, it was $10 and it almost always looked the same no matter what.
I’m someone who tends to learn from his mistakes – but when it comes to haircuts, I’m a bit of a masochist.There was one haircut that reigns as the worst…
Picture it…the year was 1999; the place: Austin, Texas; the occasion: college graduation.The long weekend occasion was being celebrated by a visit from my mom and a post-graduation pool party with friends.I was feeling on top of the world.I was heading to law school in a few months, finishing my undergraduate degree with honors, it was a beautiful day and I was really happy in my own skin for the first time in my young adulthood.On top of the world.
In the swirl of activities on that fateful Saturday and the weeks leading up to it, I’d let my hair grow unruly and shaggy.This was before it started thinning – my hair was thick and would get tangled with curls when it got long.I had a bit of a mop-top.The past few days I’d been meaning to stop and get it cut and one of my usual walk-in places – but time had gotten away from me.There I was, with my cap and gown folded neatly on my passenger seat, driving to the graduation ceremony.A glance in the mirror reminded me of my lengthy locks and the fact that this was going to be a heavy photo day – photos I would one day show my kid – grandkids even.I had about 20 minutes built into my drive time – and decided to risk it.
I pulled off the Texas freeway, characteristically scattered with outdated strip malls on either side.I told myself I would choose one strip mall development and if there was a haircut place in that strip mall, I would view it as a sign and stop in for a quick trim.Time was of the essence.
I pulled into a strip mall anchored by a Joanne’s Fabrics and an ‘Everything’s a Dollar.’Bad signs.I drove through and no sign of a haircutting place …foiled! I decided to exit through the rear of the parking lot. Low and behold - tucked in the back of the strip mall, in the shop nearest the dumpsters, in the place where you might expect to see the remnant campaign headquarters for a losing local City Council candidate, I saw that universal symbol – the twirling barber pole!(P.S. – did some research about the twirling barber pole — did you know it originated when ‘bloodletting’ was one of the duties of a barber?The pole represented the blood stained bandages used in the procedure!)
With my track record for haircut masochism, I didn’t think twice about going into this place.In fact, the scarier the better, I always say.I pulled my Saturn right up to the door.Time was running out – this needed to be a quickie.Despite all the exterior warning signs (no cars outside, decrepit signage, tumbleweed rolling past…)I bounced right in.
Through the threshold of the door, I was overcome by the smell.It was an old-man-smell mixed with other layers of unknown foulness.The interior was older than me.The walls were lined not with barber chairs, but with ancient over-stuffed sofas and chairs wrapped in velour with a country scene print and wood accents.The walls were yellow from years of smoking.In the far corner sat a single barber’s chair that was clearly not operable.In the corner by the door sat a large wood console TV set on which an antennae sat and was pulling in a very poorly received broadcast of a terrible old Western that was airing that fateful Saturday afternoon.That Western would soon keep me company during a very dark hour.
There was no human in sight. There was no cut hair on the floor.No signs that life existed there, or had for some time.A single fluorescent bulb lit up the room.I knew this was more than I could bear, I knew it was wrong, I knew I had to get out of there.This wasn’t a barber shop – it was a butcher shop, and I had waltzed right into the trap.
I turned to leave – I pushed the door open and that’s when I heard, “I’ll be right out.”It came from a back room.The room was completely dark except that some light that shone through from the main room – and it was separated from the main room by saloon style swinging doors.
“Crap.”What to do now.I’d been spotted.Being the polite Midwesterner that I am – I decided to do what all polite Midwesterners do to get out of a jam; politely lie.I would tell the stranger behind the saloon doors that, “ooooops, look at the time, I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, I don’t have time for a trim after all!”Yes, that’s what I would say, as soon as he came from the back room, I would provide my excuse, so as not to offend, and scurry along to my graduation with – shaggy hair be damned!
Next I heard the squeaky sound of unlubricated metal-on-metal-on-linoleum.Squeeeak. Squeeeak. Squeeeak.The swinging saloon style doors swung open and emerging from the back room was Sweeny Todd, himself.The man was in his late 60’s, unkempt, frowning and breathing difficulty. This man was curiously disabled in a way I could not fully understand.One leg appeared fully able.The other leg appeared to be completely paralyzed.He had jimmy-rigged a bar stool with squeaky wheels on which he could hoist his paralyzed leg and drag it, and himself, around using his able leg while pulling the paralyzed half behind it via the weight of his left buttock.With this homemade contraption he did not need a wheelchair or any upright assistance like crutches or a cane.
I immediately felt the sting of guilt and despair.I could not – COULD NOT – now turn and leave.Even though the conditions of the shop itself - the uncleanliness, the frightening odor – were enough to make me retreat, I was now in a pickle.Leaving now would surely be perceived as being entirely a result of this man’s disability.Sure I could barely breathe from the smell, sure the foam ceiling tiles were nearly falling from the ceiling, sure the barbershop had no name and was only indicated by a medieval bloodletting symbol.There were a dozen reasons to run – but I couldn’t.I would not, I could not walk out on this man and have him believe it had anything to do with his disability – which, in fact, was the very least of all concerns about the place.
“Have a seat,” he said as he spun the single barber chair around and maneuvered himself close to it.Squeeeeak.Squeeeak.As I walked toward the chair, I was in a panic trying to figure some way out of this place.Nearly to the chair, I noticed for the first time that not only was his leg completely paralyzed, but so was his entire left side – including his arm and hand, both of which I thought crucial to the hair cutting process.It hung by his side, dangling without any muscle control.How on EARTH was this going to work?His newly enhanced disability made me even more forthright in my insistence that I should stay and get my haircut here – no matter what.I would not succumb to any sense of doubt based on his disability. I was an able-bodied advocate for the disabled. But seriously, how was he going to cut my hair with one hand?At that moment he lit a cigarette and rested it in his mouth.
I took a seat, took a deep breath and wondered if it would be among my last.How could this place exist?How could it make enough money to even pay very low-end strip mall rents?It had clearly been here for decades – but how?
As soon as I sat down, the barber turned the chair away from the mirror and faced me toward the TV.He wanted me to be entertained while I had my hair cut.I was mortified.Whatever was going to happen – I wasn’t even going to see coming.I had only the poorly received Western to look at while this man took to my hair.I felt he hadn’t had a customer in months, maybe years.From behind me, I could hear him preparing his tools – moving instruments around, getting things… ready.
He wasn’t even going to ask me how I wanted it cut.He said nothing to me – not since, “Have a seat.”Still wondering how a one-handed haircut could be possible, I used all the strength in my eyes to access my peripheral vision and see what he was doing.That’s when I saw it.Barber took a small black comb using his good hand, and he jammed it into the permanent fist, Bob Dole-style, of his paralyzed arm/hand.He jammed it in their good and tight.What on earth?
The next thing I knew, barber was swinging his body from side to side.Back and forth, back and forth.He was gaining momentum for something.Suddenly, as his paralyzed arm overcame inertia, swinging dramatically he did some kind of miraculous dip and swoop of his upper body, balanced against his rolling bar stool, and his paralyzed arm with jammed plastic comb, flew up into the air and landed, expertly, with an enormous heavy thud squarely on top of my head.“Umph!”We both let out an exhausted sound – his from the effort, mine from the release of tension and shock.
There was a long pause.His paralyzed limb wresting heavily on top of my head.What in God’s name could happen next?With his good hand, he used it to position the paralyzed hand (and jammed plastic comb) in some strategic spot on my head, then scooped up a lock of hair in the comb (still jammed into the heavy dead hand) and grabbed a pair of dull old scissors to ‘snip snip snip’ at the lock of hair.
In order to dispose of the hair from the comb, he had to let the dead arm/hand slide off of the top of my head and back to its resting state by his side.With it, went the comb and the cut hair.As it fell back by his side, it bounced off of my ear and my shoulder on its way down.THIS was how it was going to be.THIS was how this was going to happen. Question answered, mystery solved.With his falling arm, and with my first cut of hair falling to the dirty floor, so went my free will, so went my desire to scream, to run from that place, to deliver myself from this torture.At that point, I succumbed.It was, I knew, the zenith of my haircut masochism – never to be matched.So, I sat back and took it like a man.
Although I only had 20 minutes allotted for a quick trim, the haircut took nearly an hour.I would be late for my graduation ceremony or likely miss it all together.I passively accepted my fate.Over and over and over for the next hour, barber would do his fanciful shimmy, sway and ungraceful tossing of his dead arm/hand onto my head.Sometimes he would miss, hitting the side of my face or my shoulder.I sat silently thankful that the dead hand was used for the comb and not the scissors.I couldn’t see the progress because he kept be facing the scribbly antennae-fed Western which I watched in quiet desperation.I didn’t utter a word, only the occasional “Umph!” when the comb or his knuckles would strike me with force in an untargeted location.The cigarette he started when I sat down hung from his lips the entire time – he never inhaled it, just sort of breathed it in and out the whole time with gasped breath – so it lasted nearly the entire haircut.The smoke trickled out of him onto my neck and head.I thought about crying, but I couldn’t even do that.
As more and more hair fell I thought he was probably getting close to the end.What would it look like?Perhaps I would be awed by a spectacular haircut by a true disabled craftsman of the finest kind.As I sat wondering, the most surprising thing of all happened.My attention was torn from the Western by a movement outside the grimy windows.Someone was coming.The police?My mom?Hostage negotiators?A SWAT team?Inside my head, I cried for help.I’d worked for five long years to walk across a stage in a cap and gown, and I was missing it – and I was still not convinced that the final swing of his dead arm wouldn’t be for my throat.
The front door opened, letting some refreshing air in which smelled of the dumpsters outside – still refreshing in contrast.In walked, none other than, a CUSTOMER. Not just a customer – a PREVIOUS customer – a customer with an APPOINTMENT.What in the name of all that is holy? This guy looked completely normal and in his normalcy also looked like he cared about his appearance and how his hair looked when it was cut.So, what was he doing here?Maybe my hair would look fantastic after all.Perhaps the abuse of the dead hand pounding against my skull would all be worth it.If this guy was a repeat customer, walking in with a smile on his face, making himself comfortable on the velour 70’s sofa and joining me in scribbly Western viewing – maybe there was hope.
As they call it in reality television, I was about to experience ‘the reveal.’I could tell my haircut was drawing to a close.An hour later in my quiet self-solace, I watched peripherally again as the comb was pried from the dead hand and laid to rest on the dirty countertop.We were done.There was a man on deck who needed my spot in the chair.Off came the smelly plastic barber body-cover with only one hand, leaving a trail of my hair across my pants and shirt.My chair swiveled reluctantly and viola.There I was in the mirror.
No.It wasn’t marvelous.It wasn’t the work of a disabled and misunderstood master of hair art.No it was not.It was a terrible mess of choppy and unbelievable uneven chunks of hair, pointing every which way.My theory that my hair was incapable of showing a bad haircut was squashed.My eyes got big.I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t disappointed.I had long ago accepted all possible outcomes.What I had not accepted, however, was the repeat customer.What I could NOT accept was the man with an appointment.My own fate was already sealed – but what of his?What was he up to?How could he have returned?
I spun around and starred at the repeat customer while I went for my wallet to get out money to pay a man for making me look like I’d used a Flowbee.I fixed my stare on repeat customer trying to send him psychic signals, “What’s your game?” and “Run, you idiot, run!” He sat smiling, waiting for his turn.
I paid the barber $12 (a rip-off, Supercuts would have been $9) and, yes, a $3 tip (Midwesterness is a curse and a weakness – of this I am convinced). I sighed a deep sigh and then headed for the door.I stopped when I got to the door and thought to myself – I need to remember this.I turned around to take a final mental photo so that the memory would be accurate.Regular customer was making his way to the chair – still smiling.Barber had only, “Have a seat,” to say to regular customer – no pleasantries, no regular customer chit-chat.The last thing I saw before I exited was the comb being jammed into the dead hand, the body began to rock, the arm began to swing, the shimmy, the twist and the hand went flying through the air.Just before it landed, a huge grin spread across regular customer’s face and then “Umph.”In that moment I admitted two things to myself; 1. I’m not the only haircut masochist in the world and 2. Had I not been moving away from Austin after graduation, I would have become a regular customer too.
——
Only days later I packed up my things and moved away from Austin and Texas.All the way home, the warm wind blew through my uneven coiffure.I’ve never been back to paralyzed barber but on business trips to Austin I’ve driven by to see if he’s still in business.On each occasion so far, I have seen his barber pole spinning.For haircut masochists, it’s a secret, shameful beacon of light – to which I’m convinced people travel from far and wide to find – either deliberately, or like me, by compelling fateful force, to receive the worst haircut, ever.
SEOUL, KOREA - My former boss recently asked for my opinion. For me, it’s an honor to have him ask - since I typically see him as a person with all the answers.
He’s very interested, personally and professionally, in the phenomenon of on-line social networks and he had read an article on the persistent popularity of Bulletin Board Systems (BBS) still in use in China for social networking. BBS is a format that has fallen out of favor in the U.S. and the ‘West’ in general. Early social networking was almost exclusively BBS-based with people finding user groups on-line based on shared hobbies or interests. Over time, however, the tide turned in favor of of each individual having their own space (i.e. “MySpace”) and making your on-line social network a collection of people who may share varying common interests with you and each other. In high school terms, BBS is like joining the debate club and Spanish club and the MySpace/Friendster/Facebook method is like hanging out in the cafeteria waiting for people to get to know you - except your wearing a t-shirt which clearly states all your likes/dislikes/interests.
So Mike asked me, in my opinion, what accounts for this difference - why the Chinese were clinging so tightly to the BBS method (60% of China’s 200 million Internet users visit more than 3 BBS sites more than 3 times per week) and not transitioning to the Western method - taking the same path the West took? Although the article he sent focused on China, my own experience was that this wasn’t limited to China. Korea, for example, relies heavily on a BBS format social networking engine called Naver (cafe.naver.com) which provides an almost unlimited number of topical interest and hobby groups. I gave Mike my opinion - which was, that in my experience working and living in Asia in the past few years that while Westerners view themselves as very independent/individual, that people of Asian cultures view themselves as very interdependent and perhaps even somewhat uncomfortable with social independence. While we are apt to celebrate how we are different and putting our uniqueness on display, Asians are more apt to find common ground first. This, I felt, pointed to the reason for BBS. Chinese and other Asian cultures flock to BBS sites where they can find topically like-minded groups for social networking, while Westerners plant their flag in the ground, set up shop and say, ‘Come find me.’ While there is no right or wrong way, I have to admit that the Asian way seems more fruitful.
I wasn’t sure I was on to something - it was only a guess, but one I’d given some thought to. It wasn’t rocket science - anyone with exposure to both Western and Asian cultures would probably come up with the same theory. However, this morning as I sat in Korea’s Incheon Airport, I read an interesting article in the International Herald Tribune (taken from The Boston Globe). It seems some scientists have put this theory to test, albeit more broadly - going so far as to examine the brains of individuals in both cultures to see if this theory stands-up. In fact, it does. Last month researchers at Massachusetts Institute of Technology conducted brand scans on both American and Asian individuals while having them do certain tasks that test this theory and tracking blood flow in the brain. The conclusion was that the brains’ performance didn’t vary, but the way they processed the task and the effort involved did differ. These results, combined with previous experimental research resulted in a paper published in Psychological Science. The resulting conclusion was that the brain provided proof that Westerners view themselves as highly independent while Asians (specifically East Asians) are highly interdependent.
What is unclear to me, from the article, is whether the culture is effecting the brain or the brain is effecting the culture - on both sides of the Pacific. The chicken or the egg? Regardless, it’s still a fascinating examination of culture and how it impacts socialization.
