Monthly Archives: February 2009

Murdoch and Sharpton make Great Bedfellows

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Rupert Murdoch’s “apology” for a blatantly racist cartoon in the New York Post has about as much sincerity as Dick Cheney has heart.

Before I get started here, let me say that I have no use for the anti-Semitic attention-whore Al Sharpton. Come to think of it, he and Murdoch have a lot in common. Both are greed-based. Murdoch for money, Sharpton for fame. Come to think of it, they’d make good bedfellows. My apologies for the frightening visual.

Murdoch’s “apology,” includes a phrase that makes it clear Murdoch is lying or is pretty much comatose (my guess is the former).

“I have had conversations with Post editors about the situation and I can assure you — without a doubt — that the only intent of that cartoon was to mock a badly written piece of legislation. It was not meant to be racist, but unfortunately, it was interpreted by many as such,” Murdoch said in part of his statement.

How anyone could interpret the image of two cops shooting killing a chimpanzee and not realize it is racist is beyond belief. Murdoch is flat out lying and his apology is driven solely by greed. Many advertisers were, and, I hope, still are, threatening to end their relationship with the Post.

If Murdoch wants to really do something that hints of sincerity, he can fire all those involved in the publication of the cartoon – and then resign.
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Rescue Missions

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I am lifted up by true stories about the human capacity for survival when facing knee-buckling odds.

I suppose one of the finest examples is the story of explorer Ernest Shackleton’s 1914 expedition to the Antarctic when the ship became trapped in ice and he and his men were 1200 miles away from civilization and how Shackleton, and five others, traveled 800 miles in brutal conditions to get help and return to rescue the entire crew; not one person died.

And then, of course, there are the stories that don’t get the headlines. I encounter these stories every week, in person. I spend time with men and women who have been through forms of trauma that boggle the mind and, if you are paying attention, make you realize that when you are with them, you are among beacons of courage in the truest sense of the word.

Many of us, in one way or another, have been on rescue missions, emotionally, spiritually and, yes, physically. Sometimes we are seeking to rescue ourselves from the debilitating grasp of our personal histories, sometimes we are trying to pull ourselves free from some act of violence, trauma that continues to impede our right to fully live as who we are, and sometimes we are trying to rescue others, sometimes people we know, sometimes people we don’t know.

It is a wonderful and uplifting experience when I see men and women and young people, children, discover that what may feel impossible is not impossible, that feeling hopeless does not mean there is no hope.

And then there are those special moments. Moments when the shackles of history give way and people break into the open, discovering, finally and beautifully, that they have a right to be who they are in life. Those moments, if you see them and breathe them in and digest them fully, that will provide fuel for your rescue missions to come.

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Calling Saw Palmetto

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I have been standing in line in this cavernous shopping center for more than three weeks now and I am sure of two things; management makes all employees take Quaaludes and Saw Palmetto is proof there is God, else I would have been to the bathroom 30 to 40 times by now.

Actually, I think Saw Palmetto would be the perfect name for someone in, say, a movie like the Godfather. Can’t you hear the lines now? Yo, asshole, you ain’t got the money? we call in Saw Palmetto and it’s bye-bye knees. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down here?

Rhode Island could fit in this store with room to spare it’s so big. And there are employees everywhere, or else wearing blue smocks with name tags are in fashion and I’m more confused than I think I am anyway.

Now the couple before me is finally unloading their five carts worth of items for the cashier to ring up. But, there’s a problem with the bread.

The husband is holding up two loaves of bread for the cashier to see, one in each hand. “You got any idea how many slices in these?”

The cashier: “What?”

The wife: “We want to know how many slices.”

The cashier: “Should say on the bag.”

All three scrutinize the loaves of bread.

The husband: “Don’t say shit.”

The wife: “How do we know which loaf has more slices?”

The cashier: “Which one’s heavier?”

Now I want to call Saw Palmetto. Bye-Bye knees.
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On the Walk: Stanchions of My Heart

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I am back to my body now. With every stride I am knowing it. The leg muscles know it too. The all of my body knows it now. Something deep, inexplicable has been uncovered and released. The willingness to breathe rediscovered perhaps.



My powered legs striding have always done me proud. From dancing to sports to getting me back to my feet after I was shot in the head.



Now, at 55, they are again striding again. To my right I can see the summits of the Catskills and they pull at me, challenges that they are. And I think of the Adirondacks and beyond, and I keep striding.



Remember to live, I think. It is what I remind others and so I must remind myself as well. I am 55, I think, and as of March 28 I pass my father in time in this world. And then I am here for the both of us; the stanchions of my heart will have no problem arrying our joined “weight”. I can carry my father forever, and if there is eternity, I will carry him there again.



On the ground bleeding to death it was my father who entered my heart and soul and legs and powered me into standing up; there is no doubt in my mind.



I know now, striding, breaking hills, a phrase I coined for reaching the summit of all inclines, that I cannot wait any longer. Let the stanchions of my heart turn loose and the wonder of the human spirit carry me, as long as possible.



Stride on my boy, my father says, Stride on.



And I break another hill.



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My Task

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And now, to the writing of it. The telling of it, knowing beforehand that no words get close to the realities of those here and gone from life; those we have loved and love still from the center of our beings, our souls if you will. Yet, it seems to me, to not write about them, write for them, tell others about them, would be an injustice of the heart.

I cannot tell you the glory of an Oak tree by phone or on the page. Nor can I tell you in full measure the exquisite beautiful mystery of the always enchanting morning mist. But I can tell you something, and that is my task.

I cannot possibly tell you or explain in any full and complete measure how a woman hours from me warms my heart and lifts my soul with so much love and comfort I find the experience baffling, wondrous, soaring. So much so I hardly dare to believe it. But I can tell you something and that is my task.

I cannot possible tell you in full accurate detail and scope how it sickens my heart and soul when I see people being treated with hatred because of some aspect of who they are. The damage of this kind of hatred and bigotry is wide ranging. It is aimed at those who are gay, lesbian, disabled, black, Latino, Asian, female, Jewish, Muslim and so forth. But I can tell you something and that is my task.

I think, now, as the memoir pushes to its conclusion and I gear up for the next writing task, I need to and must accept that I can never tell the all of life, just, if I work hard enough, glimpses of it.

And that is my task.
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