Monthly Archives: January 2008

THE NY TIMES WRONG ON CLINTON

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A New York Times editorial this week endorsing Senator Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primary is appalling for what it does say and what it does not say.

I had to re-read one sentence a few times simply to make sure I “heard” it right. “On the major issues, there is no real gulf separating the two.” Did the Times really just say that? Did the Times really just say there is no real gulf separating Clinton and Obama on the major issues? Are they kidding? From day one Obama has consistently been against the war. Clinton, on the other hand, voted for the war and recently angered many by voting for a Bush-backed resolution that pushes my country closer to war with Iran. Obama has been steadfast in his opposition to the war and his opposition to needlessly escalating matters with Iran. No real gulf separating them? Well, I can’t think any gulf wider than supporting a war and opposing a war. But hey, that’s just me.

The Times editorial does not address the increasingly despicable behavior of former President Bill Clinton in Senator Clinton’s campaign, a campaign that is sending a powerful signal that electing Senator Clinton would essentially be electing a married couple to the presidency. Moreover, if Senator Clinton can’t reign in the former president in her campaign, what will happen if they return to the White House?

Some of Clinton’s key supporters and staff can be incredibly sleazy. And while Senator Clinton distances herself from their seedy and divisive proclamations, her inability or unwillingness to stop them raises another question: if you can’t restrain some of your key supporters and staff members, what will happen if you’re in the White House?

Andrew Young is reported to have said “Bill is every bit as black as Barack. He’s probably gone with more black women than Barack.” Not only is that a despicable thing to say (Young later said he was joking – fat chance), but why on earth should that statement make anyone want to vote for Senator Clinton?

And then, of course, there is the typical Clintonian spin (lying, folks) of being the ones who injected race as in issue into the campaign and now whine that Obama started it.

Obama is right when he says the country is sick of divisiveness. Obama is right when he says the American people are sick of fear being used on them as a kind of political crowd control. Obama is right when he says we need to stop thinking in terms of red states and blue states and get back to thinking in terms of the United States.

There is nothing uniting about the Clintons. And every time I find myself thinking we won’t be dumb enough to fall for their blatant character assassination of Obama and elect them to the White House, I remind myself that we elected George W. Bush – and you can’t get any dumber than that.

The New York Times support for Senator Clinton is support for a dual presidency, which is something the founding fathers would frown on. As for Senator Obama’s lack of experience, consider this for a moment: James Buchanan, considered by scholars to be one of the three worst American presidents, had more than 20 years in congress under his belt along with four years as secretary of state before being elected to the presidency. Abraham Lincoln had only two years in the House of Representatives.

To my mind it is the person’s character, not the length of their employ that makes the difference. And when it comes to character, Obama comes out on top, hands down. He has my vote.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY VILLAINIZES SEVEN-YEAR-OLD MURDER VICTIM

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If the justice system has any real relationship with justice, shouldn’t it be able to do something about a hideous attorney-creature like New York’s Jeffrey T. Schwartz?

To call Mr. Schwartz despicable and inhumane would be an act of kindness and an insult to the words, despicable and inhumane. Mr. Schwartz is the defense attorney for Cesar Rodriquez, 29, who is on trial in Brooklyn’s Supreme Court for the murder of seven-year-old Nixzmary Brown. Nixzmary was found emaciated, beaten and dead on the floor or her Brooklyn home in January 2006. She weighed 36 pounds, barely half the weight of a healthy child her age.

Mr. Schwartz said in court that Mr. Rodriquez is a knight in shining armor because he took in Nixzmary, her five siblings and their mother after they’d been living in a homeless shelter. Never mind that Mr. Rodriquez told reporters in a jailhouse interview that he frequently beat Nixzmary. Nixzmary was beaten and held under icy water the day she died after the starving child helped herself to some yogurt.

The New York Times today captures the horror of the crime and the horror that is Mr. Schwartz when it said: “As for what Nixzmary did to provoke Mr. Rodriguez’s wrath on the last night of her life, Mr. Schwartz said, “It’s easy to say, ‘Aw, he killed the kid and beat her because of yogurt.’ Many of us don’t have yogurt problems” — here he gestured to his own well-fed midsection — “but when you’re poor and you can’t afford unlimited amounts of food and you have six children, you have to make sure that everyone gets what they’re entitled to get, so that you can ensure that everyone stays healthy.””

According to USA Today, Brooklyn police say “Cesar Rodriguez beat the little girl to death, then tossed her on the floor of what was known in the family’s apartment as the “dirty room,” a rodent-infested room where she had been tied up and left with only a litter box as a toilet.”
Mr. Schwartz said Nixzmary refused to be disciplined, pointing out that she would slip out of the ropes that tied her to the chair in the “dirty room”. “She was a little Houdini,” Mr. Schwartz said.

While I recoil at labeling of any group of people in society, I do think when it comes to the joke, “What do you call 100 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? Answer: A good start,” Mr. Schwartz should be one of them. He certainly has no relationship with justice, much less human decency or a conscience. The New York Times reports that even the defendent Mr. Rodriquez looked visibly uncomfortable with Mr. Schwartz’s depiction of Nixzmary. When you’re upsetting the moral code of a child murderer, something’s very, very wrong.

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PADLOCKS, GYMS AND AGING (DAMMIT)

I rejoined the YMCA and yesterday left for my first in far too long a time visit; just ask my expanded waistline if you don’t believe me.

I was uncommonly diligent in my preparation, I can tell you. I packed all necessary items with great care: gym shorts, bathing suit for the sauna (that glorious reward at the end of the workout that must be part of what heaven is like), socks, sneakers, jockstrap, sweatshirt, t-shirt, soap in a carrying case, deodorant, eyeglass case, towel, portable CD player and headphones along with a Springsteen CD.

When I say prepared, I mean prepared.

I knew I had to buy a padlock for the gym locker. I stopped in a local store, one of those small area groceries that have gas pumps outside. I like to give them any business I can. They are a delightful couple and seem to work every day of their lives and always, and I mean always, greet me and others from the area with warm smiles and warm voices. They have what I call a knick-knack wall. Lots of little tools and items that meet those tiny little gaps and absences that can unexpectedly occur on the household supplies front. Alas, they had no more padlocks. Maybe, I thought, everyone else in the area had rejoined the YMCA as well and it was going to be very crowded when I got there. I shuddered at the thought and went on my way.

Soon I am at hardware store looking at a glorious selection of padlocks of all different styles and sizes. Combination locks with different color dials, key locks of different shapes and sizes. I finally select a combination lock. I worry about losing the key for a key lock and while I also worry about forgetting the combination, I can write it down everywhere and hope for the best. Now that’s a lot less expensive than buying a couple of dozen backup keys, don’t you think?

I am off to the YMCA with a smile on my face. I arrive, get changed, lock my locker with my new combination padlock. I picked the lock with the blue dial because a wonderful woman told me once I looked nice in blue because of my rapidly greying hair. Okay, I confess, there is a little vanity in that choice. I mean what is the likelihood anyone will look at me and say, “Hey fella, that lock looks great on you!”

I have my workout, pour sweat, which I love, return to my locker, remember the combination, change into my bathing suit, put everything else including my glasses (they just fog up in saunas, after all) into the locker, lock up, and wander off to the sauna, feeling very happy about my decision to rejoin the YMCA.

In the sauna I have a wonderful conversation with a man and a woman. I then return to my locker, ready to shower, dress and return home so I can announce to my three dogs that their old man is getting back into shape, finally.

But first, reality pounces. I wear glasses for a reason. They are in the locker. In order to successfully unlock a combination lock two things must be true. You must know the combination and you must be able to see the numbers on the damned dial! I struggled for some time, keeping the padlock at arms length (wishing like hell my arms were maybe two feet longer – the hell with vanity) and finally succeeded in getting the lock open. It was a harrowing experience.

I am going to the YMCA today. I’m going to buy a padlock for my locker. I am going to buy one with a key. I will buy a chain and carry the key around my neck. I have learned, I just hope I don’t lose the key.

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GYMS AND JOURNALS

They say nothing is a coincidence and while I’m not sure this is always true, I’m pretty sure it’s true most of the time. So here’s the thing. I have rejoined a gym, the YMCA to be exact. I did this just as I am about to revisit the journals I wrote after being shot, during my search and reunion with my birth-mother, the suicide of my adoptive mother and so on.

Right near where I am writing these words now there are three stacks of journals, most of them those black and white marble composition books. While some are a bit dusty, I open them and the words are of a temperament any dust I know would be afraid to go near them. One line reads “I am walking in the space between life and death and the pressure is immense.” I never met a particle of dust, and I’ve met my fair share I can tell you in my 54 years, that would have the moxie to go anywhere near that line.

It makes sense that I would rejoin a gym now. Writing a memoir is an emotional experience in the first place, but, for me, walking back into the journals written during some difficult times can be emotionally overwhelming. Is it any wonder something in me suggested now might be a good time to get myself back into shape? I have long ago learned that the physical self is not, I repeat, not separate from the emotional and spiritual self.

I would like to write more on this and am sure I will. But I don’t have time at the moment. Why, you might ask? I have to go to the gym.

HOLDING MY FIRE

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It can be mighty hard not firing back at someone who has treated you in a way that would make being treating like a second-class citizen feel like you’d been elevated to the ranks of the elite.

Sheathing ones “sword” can be painful, especially when you know that the person you were inclined to draw it on is one who claimed to love and care about you, one who told you that their family was your family, and one who was, on reflection, almost gaudy and certainly melodramatic in their claim that your pledge to be there for them meant so very much. It is not easy when you realize it meant nothing, other than in the smokey light of their penchant for treating life like a movie, moments like scenes, and people like actors that can be recast at will since, after all, nothing is real.

Yet, when my anger begins to emerge, I remember that this is a person who grew into patterns for a reason. And the all of this person is not bad. Have I been wounded? Certainly. Will I heal? Absolutely. The question is, will they? I hope so, I truly do. The patterns were there long before I came along and they are there now. The real question is this. Will this person get free of them before there time in life is up? I hope so.

I am holding my fire. I am not, as I reflect, anywhere near past my anger. But I will be. And when I am, I do not want to look back and know I fired and wounded this person. I would rather look back and know I let go, and forgave, and wished them well.

The following piece by Reinhold Niebuhr is an exquiste one, and for me, says it all, for now.

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime,
Therefore, we are saved by hope.
Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; Therefore, we are saved by faith.
Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone.
Therefore, we are saved by love.
No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own; Therefore, we are saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.