Wrench in the Works Not Always Regressive

A clerk in Kentucky refuses to issue marriage licenses for same sex couples because doing so runs against her deeply held convictions. That triggers a storm of indignation, much of it claiming she should just "do her job," because that is seen as a higher moral imperative.

Whether or not one agrees with Kim Davis's conviction, one has to admit her tactic has worked to gain attention. 

The internet has flooded with examples of people disagreeing with their duties but doing them anyway as a way to show how "wrong" Kim Davis is. Even Han Solo didn't believe in The Force, but still flew the Millennium Falcon. The line of reasoning has a kind of populist appeal, but is incomplete, dangerous if carried to excess.

Refusing to work or slowing work or going on strike are all great ways to protest some social practice or policy. The sit-down strikes in the 30s at US automaker's plants ended up helping workers get better conditions. Thoreau's civil disobedience drew attention to taxes used for unjust wars.

It's not Davis's not working that bothers me, it's her reasons for doing so.

She supports beliefs that limit and exclude people from rights and freedoms that other people enjoy. She wants to maintain an exclusive, narrow, privileged definition of legitimate love relationship.

She is not a Martin Luther King Jr. refusing to support the bus service in Montgomery Alabama. She is a vestige of fear and bias. She is not a Ghandi refusing to buy manufactured textiles from an Imperial power. She is saying no to people wanting to commit to love. She is not the Sanctuary volunteer who goes to jail because he believes a refugee should be given asylum. She is saying no to broadening the images of what love looks like.

She is in good company. There are many who want to restrict changes that open and broaden acceptance and opportunity of all kinds. We live in an economy with one of the least egalitarian distributions of income on the planet with billionaires that want to keep it that way. We work more, with less time off than much of the rest of the world. We don't give leave for mothers to care for new-born children. We let people go bankrupt when they get sick. We let schools implode for lack of funding. We keep people at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder from rising out of poverty by limiting opportunity and education. We build prisons rather than schools. The list is long, and all of us keep it going by just "doing our jobs."

In a system where going to work might be perpetuating an injustice, it may not be a good idea to make "doing one's job" the highest good. That's what the big powers want us all to believe. Corporations want workers to park their values at the door and get to the work of increasing the bottom line, no matter the consequences.

Saying "no" to the big machines may be one of the few tactics remaining because it is a way to say "yes" to bigger freedoms, more inclusion, more opportunity, and more equality.

So, Kim, I don't agree with your reasons, but do respect your tactics.

Sneakers, Safety Pins, and the Inescapeable Realities of Hay in the Barn

The metal chairs were stacked and secured with a thick cable next to the locked door of the cafe. I could see the baristas bustling around inside getting ready to open. It was just a bit before 5 a.m. and they would open soon.

It was still cool before the sunrise and I still had my headlamp on over my Cabela's cap. Today would be hot, in spite of being in the middle of September, in the high 90s by late morning. The heat sticks around in southern Arizona. That would be a factor in the race.

I was going up to the Arizona State Championship for the Individual Time Trial. I was not going up with any hope of winning, but I felt compelled to do it anyway. I would be the oldest rider in my category and had little real talent as a bike racer.

I like the time trial because it is an exercise in focus and is a race against one's self. No one knows whether or not you might have pushed harder at any given point. No one knows how "honest" you are with yourself when it comes down to pushing through pain. It is the event in cycling that is the most about truth -- no drafting, tactics, team help. I am riding in the "open" Merckx category -- no time trial specific aerodynamic equipment -- and will be against riders much younger and faster than myself. There is some element of luck in terms of wind, heat, and mechanical issues, but most it's just about the clock and the effort.

The barista opens the door. I order my red-eye and hit the road up to Picacho. It's a short fast drive along the interstate. I don't listen to the radio but do visually rehearse what is coming.I put myself on the bike and anticipate the urge to sit up when the pain gets to be too much, to back off when the heart feels like it is about to burst from beating so hard, to relax the legs when the ache sets in. Yes, it is hard, not a sprint, but not far from it, and I will have to both push and pace myself to keep from blowing up too soon.

I pull off beneath Picacho Peak and make my way to the parking area. There are already about a hundred cars filling the overflow truck parking of the Picacho Travel Center. Lean men and women are spinning on stationary trainers behind their cars, their bib shorts loose at the shoulders, the suspender straps draped along their hips. They wear heart-rate monitors and glisten with sweat, even though the first rider will not go off for over an hour.

I find a spot to park and go check in. I have to show my USA Cycling ID to get my race number and safety pins. My start time is written on the back of the number  along with instructions to pin the number on the right side. On the way back to the car I stop to wish some riders from El Grupo luck on their rides, not that they need it. They are seriously trained, hardened cyclists. The program takes disadvantaged kids and gets them bikes and training in exchange for community service. It's become a top-tier youth cycling team and has sent riders into pro ranks. They are a force. Here's their web address: http://www.elgrupocycling.org/.

One of the riders will eventually win my category today, and I couldn't be happier to see them here. Cycling is an elite sport in many ways. In order to be here, riders need the equipment (expensive), transportation, time, and the support of others. Also, cycling has tended to be a "white," male, and European sport, but that is changing. This year, for the first time, there were African teams in the Tour de France, and the peloton saw more diversity in terms of race. I am delighted to see the changes. Women too, have gained better footing in terms of pay and access to the big stages, like the TdF. The World Tour now has events in the Middle East, Asia, and South America. I hope the cycling "tent" continues to grow with participants coming from more cultures and backgrounds.

There is still a long way to go. No rest for the good guys. 

I head to the car, open the hatch, extract the bike, and set up the trainer.

The car next to me is occupied by a couple from Hermosillo Mexico. We talk some about the course and about people we know in common from Hermosillo. He and she both race regularly in Arizona. They are both young, fit, and look like real contenders.

The sound of trainers and quiet conversations mixes with the crunching gravel of new arrivals. A few sun shelters pop up. They have bright tops with logos of various teams and shops around the area: Team Aggress, Southwest Hand, Team Vitesse, Strada, and others. I see a young rider from the UA who forgot his cycling shoes. He tells me he plans to ride in his sneakers. Later I will hear that he achieved a personal best of twenty seven miles per hour. He won the state championship in his age group wearing tennies. Not bad. Sometimes you have to improvise, most times, in my case. I just work with what I've got, and today, for once, I seem to have my ducks in row. I thank the gods of cycling for having been so generous to me, so supportive in letting me fulfill an athletic dream.

As a kid I was one of those weirdos who  followed the Tour de France, who dreamed of riding high into the knife-edged snow-caps of the Alps, rolling through fields of sunflowers, and rocking the bike in a bunch sprint down a narrow avenue in a French village. Nobody in my small Wisconsin high school even knew what the Tour de France was or who Laurent Fignon, Bernard Hinaut, or Eddy Merckx were. I wore black wool shorts and rode a skinny tired bike while the other kids watched the Green Bay Packers and drove burly four wheel drive pick-up trucks. When I finally got a nice bike, it cost more than some of their cars. That's another story.

After enough time on the trainer to work up a sweat I decide to take a spin out on the road. I set my jersey on a day pack and pin on my number. I usually glue it on with spray adhesive, but I don't have that today, so have to do the best I can. The safety pins remind me of changing diapers. That was not such a long time ago. Life is like a race in many ways. You have only yourself to answer to ultimately. Did you do what you could or not?

Out on the road it's quiet. The two lane highway is a lightly traveled frontage road along I-10. The view of Picacho Peak in the rising sun is spectacular. The air is still cool, but has warmed up into the 80s. A breeze has picked up out of the south. That means I'll be fighting wind for twelve and a half miles before turning to return with the wind at my back.

I feel a rush of adrenaline as I imagine the start.

Then I am there. I clip in while a holder steadies the bike. I hear the five second count -- four, three, two, one -- and I am off. The road is rough and dips in and out of arroyos. I don't see much as I settle in to a hard effort. I ride at about ninety or so percent of my maximum heart rate. Into the wind, this is about twenty miles per hour. I have to be careful not to go out too "hot," and blow up from the excitement of the start and the adrenaline.

I feel good and pace the intensity. I settle in and listen to the dramas of the mind. I hear the voice of aversion to pain that begins to whisper "slow down, take it easy" and the reality czar with "you are the oldest in your category; you are not going to win, so what's the use?" and the others who take their turns. I hear too the coach reminding me to be smart. "Ride hard, but settle in. Feel the zone, the paradox of calm in the heat of battle." It encourages relaxing while working hard, the way to sustain over an hour of hard effort.

Almost never do I sustain my heart rate this high for so long. I don't know if I can do it, but I let the body take over. It either will or it won't. Either I have trained well or I haven't. The "hay is in the barn" or it isn't. This is the hard and inescapable truth: you can't spend what you have not earned.

And the truth is that the El Grupo rider, who started behind me, comes around fast, way faster than I could even dream of going, and pulls ahead slowly, inevitably. He recedes like a fading galaxy into to distance, a shining light dimming in an indifferent universe. 

I see another rider who started a minute before me up ahead and close the gap as we cover ground. Three miles, seven, ten, and I pass him. He is still behind me at the turn-around and a race official penalizes him for pacing and drafting. He gets mad and passes me. On the return trip I see him struggling. He is no longer smooth but is bobbing and tightening up. I can see that he is bonking.

I am the bug and the windshield for whatever that is worth. 

I pass him again with about three miles to go. He falls back. The body doesn't lie. I have been lucky today and the long rides up Mount Lemmon have paid off.

I see the finish though a tunnel of oxygen debt. My body is tingling from lack of blood, ears pounding with my pulse. I manage to stand and sprint across the finish. That sends me into the red zone, and I have to coast for a long way to get my breath back.

It was a good effort. I did not win, not even close. I was minutes slower than the El Grupo rider. No state champion jersey for me.

I still have some coffee left for the drive back home. The cafe has been open now for hours and the sun has taken on the intensity of Arizona in late summer. I have done it, met some of my demons, and come out satisfied with the outcome. I have the rest of the day to enjoy the fruits and euphoria of having chased a dream no matter the result.

I hang the bike on its hook and staple the race number to the wall above my tool bench. The bike and number stand ready to testify that I joined the race, that I was lucky enough feel the heat of the fray, the place where no one can hide.

Party Time

Yesterday, in my two English 101 classes, I asked students to look around the room and tell me what they noticed, and how what they saw revealed something about us as a group. The exercise was about looking, about what it takes to observe closely. Writing, I told them, requires observation, and just a bit of suspension of distraction. It's a mind thing as well as an eye thing. Writers look for the surprising particulars as well as the big sweep of ideas. I wanted to hear what they saw in our little gathering.

They did a good job naming the things in the room -- the big teaching station, the VPU, the screen, the US Constitution, the American flag, the cramped feel of a room too small for our numbers, the industrial beige walls.

Then I asked them to speculate about the underlying values, beliefs, desires, fears, assumptions, and motivations of us as a group. Their responses were not surprising, but did reveal a divide between them and me. 

They are practical, likable freshmen, and I think they trust me enough to be frank. The great majority of them said they were at the university to get a degree and then a job. They were in this specific class because it is a required course. The upshot was that they expected nothing and did not plan on really learning anything. It was even acceptable that the class was boring to the point of torture.

They were amused when I told them I went to college because I wanted to learn to think, to learn about the world, and become a different person, one who could see things I didn't see before. In short, I wanted to wake up my mind and heart. Really.

They thought that was quaint and bit outdated.

I told them that the life of the mind requires cultivation, focus, fertilizer of ideas, and learning to see the life in all things, the life beneath the surface of things. Critical thought and observation presupposes effort, intention, curiosity. You have to work at it.

They nodded off, not unkindly.

I observed that they wore, almost to a student, some type of UA logo, that they were almost all white, that the boys dressed one way, the girls another. I also noted the patterns to their stories about education and what it is supposed to do. I tried to get them to see that we, our little classes, are a construction. We work within a context. That context includes the course, the department, the university, the state, and a corporate economic model that wants them to be good workers first, good citizens maybe later.

One of them looked at me and said, "It's OK," like I was some pitiable, doddering old man.

A lively, bright-eyed young woman with a pierced nose said, helpfully, "We just want to have fun." She sits in the front row and is one of the students who leads, who speaks up.

That summed it up, I guess. University education is, now, more about an entertainment package than it is about challenging academics. There is the business of the credential, the grade, and students are very mindful of their grades, but the end game is utility and recreation. The UA, in particular, with its nice weather, research and business emphasis, caters to the career-minded children of the out-of-state elites.

Just what is.

In some ways, I am in their way, interfering with what they seem to be here to learn. They want to make social connections, build a career community, get what they need to enter a shrinking job market. They are smart and practical. I can't blame them at all.

I have to say that the new curriculum caters to this technocratic practicality. The assignments are skills-driven. Get in. Get out. Head off to the game. College is more of a glorified high school.

The decades, to me, have had a flattening effect on teaching. The scope of practice has narrowed to skill and drill and test. The messiness that is writing has been ironed out into nice little hermetically sealed units.

I have to say that I have been mostly blind, in a self-protective denial, about these changes. I'm making it a point now to notice them, to sustain a cold, clear gaze until it surrenders its truth.

It's my job, what I do. I can take a page from my own playbook and put it into practice. We'll see what it is I find.

My Pathway to Fame, Wealth, and Irresistibility to Stray Dogs (A Report From the Tamarisk Thicket)

I have had my eyes on a shopping cart that I saw down at the local Safeway a few weeks back. It's a sporty model, with a shelf that snaps into place. The wheels aren't bad, just a little wobbly when it has a load of Ding-Dongs and diet soda.

That's the first thing I'll need for my next chapter of life.

Other stuff -- the big plastic garbage bags and floppy hat -- I'll have to acquire over time.

I figure my downward mobility and lack of marketing savvy will make this jump in social status possible. My interest in creativity, social responsibility, spiritual attainment, the health of the planet, and my decision to teach in the high-demand area of the humanities have all propelled me to these dizzying heights.

It's just market forces at work, though I do understand your envy. 

Yes, friends, I can see the path from here. It is paved with free time, abundant stimuli, entertainment, and never-ending life lessons. It is down there by the river, the bridges, the camping spots in the tamarisk thickets.

I may finally realize my dream of writing all day, staring off into the clouds, and brooding on the opacity of being.

It will be nice to let go of that academic spotlight, that assault on my privacy. It was glorious, all those years of teaching English 101, thirty of them, more or less. All the screaming and flash photography everywhere I went got to be old though. My hand is arthritic from signing autographs. And the demands from my publicist that I do all those interviews -- Letterman, Charlie Rose, The News Hour -- I can't wait for the phone to go dead, for the phone to be disconnected.

I had to beg the university not to give me a Regent's Professorship. I had no room for another diploma to hang on the wall. In fact, I now have no wall. And I waived the offers of a six-figure severance package, continued health insurance coverage, and use of a state car because all that seemed a bit excessive. Granted, my service had been faithful, but the heavy lifting was done by administrators and policy wonks. Their "poor me" laments elicit pity, but I have been hard-pressed to figure out how to help them. For now, I'll defer to those more deserving. I just want a clean break.

Liberation. Sweet liberation.

When life comes so easy, falls into your lap because you do everything just right, and you are so talented at doing what people need and want, it's a little draining. Doors just open and people usher you in to greater and greater appreciation.

Your department head gives you release time to just sit and think because you are that good.

But it feels empty, if you know what I mean, all that attention.

Better to just drop it, drop out, accept the fact that the pinnacle of achievement is not the pinnacle. It is the strength to accept one's destiny, the yoke of powerlessness, the great responsibility to do nothing.

Now this is living, dear friends.

I am known to the lizards, worshiped by them, have more plastic bottles than I know what to do with, and a pack of dogs vying for my smallest glance in their direction.

Yes, this is living, freedom from making a living.

The way is clear. The fight now won, the Morphean aromas of success fill me with reverie.

Connections

The Greeks believed there existed a "spirit" of poetry. This spirit would sometimes visit a human and deliver what was needed to compose a work of art, a thing of truth and insight, a thing, as my friend Tom says, of beauty.

This spirit did not care a whit for social class, wealth, achievement, power, or pride. In fact, too much ego or pride would send the muse packing. It sometimes visited the humblest of places and people, but did not easily find its way to the page.

Drudgery, lack of education or literacy, want of materials or physical restraint all kept the words from record. The genius was there, but the images, ideas, and language languished.

The spirit moved on.

When the poetry of the outsiders did make it to a song or a memory or a tradition, it did not meet with much welcome by the powers that be. Stories that exposed greed, exploitation, grotesque sides of humanity fell on the point of a spear.

But the poets persevered, often in obscurity. Women, like Hildegard of Bingen, Sapphos, Antigone and more contemporary writers like Jack London and Theodore Dreiser all looked to the realities of social hypocrisy rather than deliver genial, titillating little bon-bons and back slapping for the elites.

And so it goes still. The muses come with me to the prison, not because of me, of course, but because there are hearts waiting and opening with the prospect of telling a truth well. There exists, sometimes, a quantum shift of energy change when the efforts blend, merge, and weave into a synergy of communion and connection with something much bigger than the individuals in the circle.

Often, when a new man comes in, it takes a while for the respect of words to gel enough for synergy to generate. The other men are patient and lend their wisdom. That either works or it doesn't, depending on the willingness of the new guy.

When I despair that the work I have done in obscurity has come to nothing in the way of publication or promotion, I think of the ocean, of the mountain. They are made up of small drops and stones. There are forces at work that add up to the impression of eternity and infinity. The small, necessary component pieces become more than the sum of their parts.

It is like that with any creative work done for the sake of itself, but that might  feel wasted or isolated.

As long as it is done with care, the work reaches out, its tendrils eager to grasp onto the work of others. The creative contributions, in increments, organize into a critical mass of desire.

It then wanders the corridors of the mean places and knocks quietly on doors, inviting to dance the words that might chip away at the fearful dream that we are alone.

The Surface of Things

You notice that she turns away when you kiss her. Things are OK you say to yourself. She is stressed out by classes, trying to get that internship. It's understandable and it will pass. That's what you say again and again when she doesn't return your calls, begs off from meeting or taking a walk. Then she goes cold when you find a night to spend together. You ask what's wrong and she says I just need some space. That makes sense and you keep on wondering, maybe denying. Then she says it: I want out. And you get mad, maybe mean. You say things like I always thought you were a bitch. But it doesn't work to bring her close. Just the opposite. You don't know what else to do. You cry on the phone. She says you are not grown up or successful or confident enough. That goes straight to that terrible secret place in yourself that is sure you are a shit. It sticks there, like an arrow on fire. But you can't look at it because it’s too hot, too close. You just know it and know that you are less without her. Then she leaves for her semester abroad to France. A year later you see her mother at the grocery co-op where you stock shelves and run the register. Her mom says she is getting married. She says she hopes you are getting on with your life. You smile and lie that you are. You bag her broccoli, kale, and hard cheddar cheese. Then you wave to her as she passes through the sliding door out into the hot summer sun. You begin ringing up the next customer. That customer says something you can't hear, but you nod and say something like I hear you. Inside you're burning. It feels like your guts are tied up in a skein of snakes. When you get off work you want to call her and congratulate her on destroying your life. The urge is so strong you want to do it right now, two seconds ago. But you wait. After a few days and a talk with your counselor, you get it: The surface of things never tells the whole story. There are forces at work, beneath a comforting veneer, that will break your heart, steal your innocence, leave you stripped and defenseless. It is then that you know that nothing will turn out the way you want it to and that the way out is closed so you just have live with it, your territory in flames. You rub your eyes and take one breath at a time, put one foot in front of the other. Years later she finds you on Facebook and says she is sorry it turned out the way it did. You say that's OK. There was no way to know, nothing to do, nobody at fault. It is then that the words you didn't say take wing and you feel light and peaceful -- broken though you are.

 

Letter to the Bear On His Late Life Homecoming From Viet Nam

Dear Dad,

You will be reading this after "Mail Call" on your flight back from DC where you got to tour the monuments with other Viet Nam veterans. I hope the flight is a calm one and that you can read this and other letters in peace and comfort.

Those days of the Viet Nam conflict were tough ones for us. I was the rebel teen with long hair and hard rock. My favorite album was "Kick out the Jams, Mother-Fucker" by the MC-5. You were either overseas or home working at the Pentagon.

We didn't get along all that well because we saw the war very differently. We also had father/son issues.

But those days are past, and I want you to know that I now see things differently. We are at the point in life when it is time to stop arguing about things not being the way we want them, what we wanted but never received from each other.

I see that you did what you had to do, what you were ordered to do. It has taken me a long time to learn to discern the differences between individuals and "the system." You didn't cause or escalate the conflict, but just did your job, supported your family, tried to do the honorable thing. I remember that, on your own time, you reached out to kids living near the base and you befriended them. I remember photos of you and them, you seated in the middle, big grin, them grinning too, a soccer ball in front of all of you. You were proud of that and spoke of it often after you returned from your first deployment.

You were then, and still are now, a good man.

I want to thank you for being a good father.

And I ask forgiveness for being an angry son who took his frustrations out on you. I apologize for getting into so much trouble, the juvenile court, the drunken binges, the harsh words.

I did not have to tools I needed to cope with my anger and grief and confusion that comes with adolescence.

We both did the best we could in the moment, and my part wasn't much to be proud of.

But here we are now, and you are coming home a second time. I want to get it right this time.

You went into hell, sacrificed your time and energy to support your family, your country. That is what a man does. I see that now. I see you now and owe you a better homecoming than the last one.

So, you are a hero, a good father, a good man, and I will say that out loud to anyone.

I just want you to know that I know.


With Great Love
Your Son,

Erec