Bang! and Reason Joins Civility Six Feet Under

I do not recall the first time I shot a gun. It was that long ago. I was that young. Shooting was always just part of my life. We were mostly, but not exclusively, a black powder family.

I recall two muzzle loaders kept in sleeves in the back of Dad’s closet, I’m guessing the 30.06 was back there too. There was also a child’s sized rifle kept under their bed. This was the one I remember best. Not because it fit my shoulder better but because its dark cherry stalk was beautiful. It also had a tendency to just go to half-cock rather than firing when you pulled the trigger. It exposed me as a horrible flincher. For a while there was a flint-lock pistol that lived in the gun chest, the chest filled with led balls, canisters of powder, and ripped up cotton patches. I hated the sulfur smell when we sat in the kitchen swabbing out barrels and wiping them down with oil. I fancied myself a good shot.

I can still hear Dad’s humorless voice ordering me to keep my finger away from the trigger unless I plan to fire, never under any circumstances point the barrel towards another person, and don’t dry-fire, even if you have already inspected the chamber. Always set up the range toward the side of a hill, inspect it for metal or other rick-o-shay hazards, and wear ear protection. These were all non-negotiable. Guns are tools not toys.

Venison was our winter staple. The family got three “tags” every season. Dad got a buck permit for the regular hunt, then grandma and mom each got a doe permit for the black powder hunt. Dad used all three, the doe permits were to make sure we would have something to eat, the buck permit was in hopes of getting the “big one.” Sitting still in the snow with my father is where and when I learned you don’t always have to talk. It is okay to just sit there. It is also the first time I threw a rock at a bull moose in hopes it would go away.

The guys and I used to drive out to the west desert on Saturdays. Most all of them carried semi-auto .22s, except Trevor and I. I used a .22/.20 over under shotgun, Trevor brought a Mak10. That thing never hit a rabbit but it was very fun to fire. I’m pretty sure that out of the ten of us who went out regularly, I was the only one to ever hit anything. A rabbit would pop out and make a break for it, and despite all the noise, it would just zig zag off into the distance. I remember walking next to Mitch. As he was emptying his magazine I calmly lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and and squoze. “I think it was me who got that one,” he would say time after time. I would just nod and pump the empty out of the chamber.

The first time I heard a bullet in flight. Jimmy Cowley was about thirty yards to my left, my dad about thirty yards to my right, and the rabbit popped out of the sage about thirty yards to my front. Jimmy had a semi-automatic .22 with a forty round clip and he opened fire on the mangy jack rabbit. Rather than running away, it ran right for me. Jimmy was not looking at me, he was looking down the barrel toward the rabbit. He kept pulling the trigger as the rabbit ran between us and by the time he and I realized what had just happened, my father’s barrel was pointing at Jimmy. We were both about 12.

The second time I heard a bullet in flight was while riding a bike in Atlanta. My missionary companion and I were pedaling down the street when I heard a whiz then a slap against the wall behind me. The two of us froze in place while people scattered in all directions. A teenage girl ran by with her coat pulled up over her head.  I saw a man crouched behind a half wall with a silver revolver in hand. From somewhere else I heard the “pop—-pop–pop.pop.pop” of return fire. We turned the corner and just kept going.

Most all of us “inner-city” missionaries had tape recordings of machine gun fire made on the fourth of July. I never knew people fired guns on the fourth till my downstairs neighbors made it obvious. His was obviously a shotgun.

We were already married before my wife ever fired a gun. Under close supervision she shot a beautiful Smith & Wesson chrome revolver at a dirt clod. She pulled the trigger, handed me the pistol, and walked away shaking. She says she was unprepared for how violent it was. She has no desire to ever fire one again.

We don’t keep a gun in our house. I would love too. I miss that part of my life but not enough to make my wife uncomfortable in her own home. I suppose she could learn to get comfortable but that isn’t on her to-do list. I guess there is some irony in that I lived in a house full of guns in one of the safest neighborhoods in America, but lack firearms now that I live in one of the most dangerous. Maybe it is ironic, but it is exactly this situation that has taught me a few things.

Safety and rights are relative.

One of the major hurdles Martin Luther King Jr., SNCC, and other non-violent civil rights organizers faced was convincing the general Black population to put away their guns. For Black people in the rural south the danger of a lynch party showing up on your doorstep, often led by local authorities, was very real. Most every home had a shotgun behind the door as a Black family’s only possible defense. The courts and local laws would not help them. Non-violence was not only a public relations victory, but a daily life miracle of self restraint on the part of an oppressed people.

The net result of these people’s 2^nd amendment restraint was the passing of civil rights legislation and the assassination of MLK.

On the other side of the country, and the tactical spectrum, other Black people took the opposite tact and began carrying guns out in the open. The White establishment would have none of this. The self destruction and implosion of the Black Panther Party has made most of us forget that these were not just a bunch of leather clad fools. The Panthers not only organized a militia and bore arms but crafted a constitutional argument defending their right to do so. The idea that the only thing that would stop a bad guy with a gun was a good guy with a gun, was preached by the Panthers. They also happened to believe that a large majority of the bad guys were wearing badges and the good guys were wearing black berets. And really, if one looks at things through the historical lens of a Black American… they had a lot of evidence to prove their point. The Panther’s guns were confiscated. The NRA did not defend them.

Skipping forward to today, most of the Black people I know want guns gone. Gone from the streets, gone from their homes, just gone. I sit in church and listen as month after month someone from the congregation will stand up and tell of someone they love who has been shot, or about when they themselves were hit by flying bullets. I have yet to hear one of these people stand up and pray for more firepower.

My Facebook feed is alive with memes and sound bites taking this position or that on gun control. The newspaper and radio give arguments for restricting guns or arming more citizens. I have seen dozens of stories praising gun owners who have shot intruders in the act of invading their homes. I have also followed a story of man licensed to carry a concealed gun who shot and killed an unarmed kid who was walking home from the convenience store. Where I grew up Elementary school teachers are being taught how to use guns to defend their classroom. Where I live now, a police task force is going to trial for running its own citywide drug ring. A couple of years ago a cop in my neighborhood got drunk, got angry at some noisy kids, went inside to get his gun and killed someone.

I hear and read a lot of arguments, not normally about what to do, but about how the other side is stupid. I talk to people on both sides but I get the feeling they don’t really talk to each other. How does this help? Every kid I know in the city can get their hands on a gun if they want one. Many see guns even when they are trying not too. Would more guns really make these kids safer?

Do I think I have a right to own a gun? Yes I do.

Do I want everyone to own a gun? No I do not. I know plenty of people that would terrify me if they were armed. I know other perfectly law abiding people that I would not trust with a gun in a million years.

I’ll tell every bad guy out there right now, odds are, if you break into my home I will not shoot you.

I do not care how bad you are, I do not think my TV is worth your life.

If my wife were to ever relent and let me keep a gun in the house, it would be unloaded and locked away some place making it impossible to be of any use in the event some burglar comes a prowling. This is because I know I can only control certain things in my life and will do everything in my power to make sure no one accidentally, or intentionally, kills someone with a gun I own. But I can only control so much.

I can’t control others who may wish me harm, just like I can’t control an out of control car coming my way.

But I can do my best. I register my car. I get my car inspected for safety every year and get my picture taken at the DMV. I can keep my home gun free to keep my wife happy but mostly because there are no deer or rabbits anywhere near my door.

Lets go ahead and disagree. If you can show me where I am wrong, please help me out. If I think you are wrong maybe I should try to find a way to effectively communicate why. But please, lets do so in hopes of making things better, not in the name of proving a point. Comparing your apples to another person’s oranges does not make things better. Claiming to know what the other side “really” means or what their ulterior motives are is equally unproductive. Realize that for many people, mostly for the victims of violence, this is not a philosophical discussion. It is real life. It is too often real death.

One of my favorite memories from youth, one I fall back too when I’m feeling old and nostalgic, was the day Jake and I spent at the gun club. It was just the two of us, a .12 gauge, and about ten dozen clay pigeons. I don’t remember any real conversation, and I may have separated my shoulder, but I know I was happy that day. It was a good day, but not the only way to have one.

How do we ensure more good days for everyone?

the Betrayal of Youth

(repost)

We spent most of the night filling up water balloons. 

Trent was the quarterback of the sophomore football team, lived about a block away, and was having a backyard party. Normally we would spend Friday night looking for girls-

but they were all at Trent’s party.

He was a year older than us, and no matter how cool you are, you can’t compete with that.

As we left my house and rounded the corner a Jeep came screeching to a halt, spilling out its human contents. “Where do you guys think you’re going?” the voice asked from behind the headlights.

It was the Seville brothers;

seniors.

We could not hide our intentions, our cargo was conspicuous. What I saw next was so inspiring that all these years later I can still picture it, in slow motion of course. One of the Sevilles took a balloon from Johnny’s hand, hopped back up into the back of the Jeep, and proceeded to send said balloon 100 yards down the street from a launcher mounted on the roll bar. I’m sure the brass at the pentagon felt the same way on the stealth’s maiden flight, a mix of awe and giddiness.

We resumed our advance with new confidence. Our numbers were increased and our allies were obviously superior.

The sound of late summer fun could be heard on the other side of the fence as we all took up position. The signal was given and latex grenades took flight up over the roof, over the fence, and out of the best assault vehicle a suburban kid had ever seen. The advantage of balloons over artillery is that there is no loud boom, nor in-flight whistle to warn the targeted of impending doom; just sweet silence.

We could actually hear the first splash, followed by high pitched screams, and low voiced curses.

The plan was to run back to my house; fast.

It started out well but as we turned to bolt, the Sevilles turned on us. They were behind us, still had extra balloons, and shouted, “there they are,” pointing at us. We were trapped. Sophomores from the party in front of us, seniors behind us, time for plan B, the suburban scatter.

It is standard that when being pursued in a residential neighborhood you hop a fence and make your escape through back yards, trusting that you will regroup later. Every man for himself.

Proverbial wisdom says that when being chased by a bear you don’t have to be fast, you just have to be faster than the next guy.

I have never been fast nor have I ever been faster than the next guy.

Brian got to the wall right before the pack of angry football players caught up to us. He didn’t have time to hop over, but he did have time to dive into the bushes, I only had time to put my hands up in surrender.

There they were, a sophomore and senior coalition, holding me hostage with ammunition I had filled myself. They had me, but they wanted more. “Where’s the rest of ‘em?” they demanded, arms cocked, ready to throw.

I may not have been fleet of foot but that night I was quick. They did not know where Brian was, I did. They did not know Brian used to beat me up in elementary school, I did. Brian didn’t know what I was going to do, I did.

From his hiding place in the bushes Brian could not see me. I plead loudly, “I don’t know where they are, I swear!” all the while pointing to the shrubbery.

I was one of the proud few to finish that night with dry clothes. It was strange how all those upperclassmen had seemingly given up the chase and simply discarded their balloons in the bushes. How odd.

The party goers were drenched, my comrades were wet; covered in twigs, and I think the girls all went home in the Jeep. We walked slowly, and sloppily, down the street.

“Ball tomorrow?” Kirk asked. I nodded yes and went home.

There is No Escaping Consequence

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is a natural law. Not a suggestion but a law. A ball dropped from a tower will fall, and an object at rest will tend to stay at rest till acted upon by an outside force; laws.Holidays with family and friends are wonderful, but as is the case with most things wonderful, they do not happen without work and some sort of inevitable aftermath. The bigger the party, the more work there will be before, and surely, the more work there will be after. Many will eagerly give advice on how to deal with the work, I will not. It is enough for me to say it exists and is inevitable. No matter what you do, it will exist.You could pay to have someone else clean up, ignore the carnage and let it sit for a day, or maybe ask everyone to stick around and lend a hand. Fine solutions but they are all just methods of dealing with an existing fact. For every good party or meal, there is an equal and opposite mess.Now in all such things a person can choose to set  plan in motion but they cannot choose what will actually happen. You can send out invitations but you cannot force someone to show up. You can bring your kids to the party but you cannot guarantee that they won’t drop a plate on the carpet. But you should always take the chance.

You control the controllables the best you can then throw the dice. You enjoy yourself then deal with the aftermath come what may. Otherwise a holiday is just another day. Otherwise there are no great times spent with good company.

Just make sure you are prepared to scrub the carpet.

Forrest Gump says life is a box of chocolates. I say it is a party.

Penn State

They call the place happy valley, though it has not been so much that this year. As I drove over the hills my mind drifted to my Alma Mater’s book store which sells T-Shirts that read “Not Penn State”; then I saw this.

Then right after that I saw this.

That explains everything. Maybe the football program is divinely inspired (the sport itself is in fact divinely inspired. There is no room for argument on this) and should be protected at all costs? yeah, no.

The sadness in the whole series of events is that Penn State is first rate in so many other things. Granted the campus did not awe me, I have no deep love for gargantuan straight lined building that scream 1972.

But if you are a scientist or educator, or aspire to be one.. or aspire to being so many other things, it is by all accounts a top shelf school.

But sadly, over the past decade or so, if you happened to be an underprivileged young boy, the school was willing to sacrifice your youth and peace of mind to protect a revenue stream.

Nutcracker 1776

Tickets are a bit steep but what do you do when the ticket is to see your own kid? What we did was buy one ticket with which the Mrs. saw the first half, then we switched at intermission.When the lights began to dim I found my seat and sat down. The woman next to me looked over and remarked, “you don’t look like the woman who was here before.”

“Yes. She looks much better than I do. She’s my wife.”

“Not better; just different.”

I think I like this lady.I have seen the schools Nutcracker before but it still amazes me that it is more or less a high school production.

When the Sugarplum Fairy danced onto stage the excited woman on the other side of me proudly whispered, “that’s my daughter!”

She’s very good. The mother asked which one was mine. “O, she is little. Does she like ballet?”

“She loves it.”

“I am soooo sorry,” she said in all seriousness. “We moved here from Oregon for my daughter to go to this school.”As I watched my girl all done up in lipstick and blush, bun pulled back tight, I wonder if there will come a moment when this all ends. Will she decide she is done? Perhaps my budget will crush her dream, or maybe a stone faced instructor will one day have to tell her that her skill has taken her as far as she can go and that its over.

But none of those times are now. Now is all smiles and this strange soft, mushy feeling I get when I see her stand with straight back and elongated neck on stage. I love the wide eyed excitement in her face when she tells me all about how the little kid she was in charge of is a hand full and how she got to be in the front row and how there is an after party and can we please, please, please go?

My fear of tomorrow can wait till then.

Dr. Fisher I Presume?

Dr. Fisher is the sort of man who would become lost in Africa, only to turn up in ten unexpected places all at once. I met him when he turned up in Philadelphia for a residency in radiation oncology.

Dr. Fisher in purple tie, likely contemplating Thoreau.

I got to know him when we worked together mentoring a group of young men. He was young, slim, and came off as quiet to the point of being non-communicative. He had this magical ability to either have slightly shaggy, longish, hair or a buzz cut, never in between. I saw him mostly at church on Sundays where he would normally wear a white shirt, tie, and khakis rarely ironed but all were always well fitted.

I recall once seeing him wearing the skinniest tie I had ever seen. As I shook his hand hello he just smiled slightly and continued on his way. As he walked away I realized it was a draw string tied in a full Windsor around his neck. Neither of us ever mentioned the draw string. He rarely mentions anything.

It is natural to assume that those who don’t mention things have nothing to talk about. I guess many made this mistake with Dr. Fisher.

The first time my family ate at his home I noticed a sculpture in the entryway. It was a figure with an up stretched arm and clenched fist, the head had short hair in knots about his scalp. The entire figure was greyish, made of hard straight lines, and looked much like a three dimensional figure pulled from La Guernica. There was a poem hand written down the arm and onto the torso. In his living room was a painting or rather a mixed media collage of two people, trees, and text, another of more trees, both by him. They were good. Positioned in one corner of the room was an upright cannon barrel with a bright red bowling ball perched on top.

I have admittedly not spent time in the homes of many doctors but this was obviously the home of an artist.

Argentina

Dr. Fisher spent a summer living in a VW bus after high school. He can recite lengthy Thoreau poems on demand. And he cures cancer.

on Mt. Ranier

A couple years ago he started a non-profit called “Radiating Hope.” It is a partnership program that raises money to send used radiation machines to third world countries. Turns out America replaces machines regularly with newer and better models.
Some nations don’t replace machines with new ones because they never had any to begin with.

in Panama

In fine Fisher fashion he doesn’t just “raise money”, that would be normal. He fund raises by climbing mountains. Big mountains. He has sights set on the seven summits.

at Drexel

I am writing this from an air conditioned/heated office, sitting in a padded chair, and I’m sure Dr. Fisher is busy doing something better. He is the sort of person who doesn’t just let things go. He acts. He acts while most of us just pose.

Emory

Hunting Season and Menswear as Punishment

Mom could always sew and her skill kept clothes on our back. Dad could hunt and his skill kept food on the table.

Them in 80′s. Not the 1880′s… the 1980′s.

She was making him a nice navy jacket. We called such clothing church clothes and Dad would look quite respectable in this piece. As she sat at the machine threading needles he went off to the woods with some friends.

As the tale gets retold, and knowing what I know of my father, I’m sure the hunting party’s staying out through Sunday was a surprise to dad. Perhaps a truck got stuck in the mud on Saturday forcing them to stay the night.

Mother suffered his lingering over the Sabbath in silence and finished father’s gift.

When the jacket was presented to Dad he found that the lining of the coat was hunter’s orange. It would be rude of him not to wear it and when on, no one could see the blinding insides. But when sitting in the pews, if Dad felt the desire to put his arm around his wife, the Bishop behind the pulpit would get a fluorescent flash from Dad’s jacket reminding everyone of my father’s transgression.

Happy hunting everyone.

Them playing dress up.

Rutgers: Queen’s College and the King of games

In 1766 Dutch reformers formed a college in New Jersey. It was called Queen’s college in honor of Charlotte of Mechlenburg. Some time after the revolution the name was changed to Rutgers in honor of a revolutionary war hero.

The college became New Jersey’s land-grant college in 1864. Of the colleges founded before our country’s constitution was written, only Rutgers and WIlliam and Mary are now state schools.

But none of this is what you should really know about Rutgers. What you should know is that Rutgers is responsible for the bloody lip I got this Thanksgiving morning.

The Turkey bowl started at 9am. 30 or so folks of all ages arrived at the field, including a continngent of teenaged boys wearing under armor and cleats. There was the usual complaininng that “I was open!!” despite being double covered, and an occasional complaint of pass interferance any time there was an interception. The teenage competativeness was for the most part balanced out by fat old men and their 8 year old children.

Except for that one kid who decided to be an all-star at defensive line.

You can spot these kinds of kids at any touch football game as soon as they get in a three point stance. Three alligators were for the most part enough to give the QB some time and we fat old men just sort of rolled our eyes when he would hit the afterburners at two and a half. When the man assigned to blocking him had to leave to run turkey day morning errands, I figured I would step in.

He blitzed on first down. His shoulders were low so I stepped back and let his high octane motor drive itself right into the ground. He did not like this. I was a little surprised when he blitzed again on second down, you only get one blitz per series. Learning from last down he tried to swim me. When his arm was raised above his head, I caught it, shoved hard, and watched as he spun around and fell over flat on his back. I was not surprised when he blitzed for the third time in a row. This time I just caught him directly and held my ground while he drove his feet to no avail.

By this time others took notice and started to ask the kid what his deal was. When the quarterback questioned his following the one blitz per down rule I just waived them off. I figured this kid was wound up and I was no longer bored.

When the game finally ended this kid had gotten zero sacks and I had somehow gotten a bloody lip. As I wiped off my face I realized my lip looked a little like Angelina Jolie, the kid was kneeling on the ground with his face in the grass. I asked him if he was okay and his only response was to stand up and give me a manly hug and then walk away never saying a word or looking me in the eye.

It was at this point I fully realized our mismatch. When he hugged me his head only came up to my chest, but still, take it easy kid.

On November 6th, 1869 on the field where this building now stands, was held the first college football game in history. Rutgers beat Princeton 6 to 4. Since that day the world has been a better place, bloody lips and all. Were it not for Rutgers Thanksgiving may have never had any association with the Detroit Lions.

Yes, that is a ridiculous sentence. Just as ridiculous as getting a bloody lip the morning of the best meal of the year.

Mt. Holyoke: the big sister

One of my family’s favorite people went here. Half Iranian Baha’i girls who studied Hip-Hop aesthetics and linguistics don’t grow on trees… they grow at Mt. Holyoke.

 

Mt. Holyoke is the oldest of the seven sisters. It was founded (1837) in a time when college was only for young men and there was a prevailing idea that education caused infertility in women.

Perhaps this was a classic case of both correlation/causation confusion and self fulfilling prophesy. Maybe most men of the day thought women’s frailty could not endure big ideas and once women got more education they would no longer suffer fools… which could look a little bit like “infertility”.