Failure As An Option

I’m hardly an expert on foreign policy. That represents a big difference between most who post on Facebook and me. Between the political experts and Constitutional scholars, social media has just about obviated the need for formal education or rational thought.

I can't help thinking, though, of the news about Afghanistan or the potential future. It’s not a pretty picture, but an inevitable one. "All things must end," as Bernie Madoff said when made off with the last dollar with which anyone trusted him.

It took us longer to fail in Afghanistan than it did the Russians. That, I admit, is "damning with faint praise."

I’m temped to say that it was an example of applying the wrong solution to the right problem which is, someone said, better than applying the right solution to the wrong problem. The bull enclosed in the ring and surrounded by thousands of screamers is not wrong to charge. It's just that the red cape isn't the right problem.

In our case, it was right to deal with the terror, cruelty, murder and instability created by unreasoning religious fever. It's just that guns were never going to accomplish the goal of peace against an army whose members were going to receive 72 virgins in Heaven upon death in battle. Oh, and lest we forget, it was an army supplied and supported by a neighboring country with its own flair for duplicity.

We held the zealots back for a long spell with sheer force. But in the long run, their god was stronger than our god. Instead of applying military power in such cases, we might have tried facts, reason, and rationale. After all, we had 20 years.

But to do that now, we’d have to set an example right here in America first. The current situation in our state doesn't suggest success though.

FACING A CRISIS

 Random thoughts running through my head this morn.

Several years back, I received a license plate designating me as a United States military veteran. Since then, police officers have stopped me four times for speeding. Yeah, about once every two years. Each time, guess what? Yep, they let me go. What’s scary as hell to think about is that, had those stops occurred in some cities in our country, and I had not been white—even with the license plate—I may have been murdered, tased, or beaten.

Yeah, I didn’t run. I didn’t resist. I didn’t become belligerent. In fact, the last time I said “Officer, you got me fair and square. No excuse.” He laughed and told me to go and behave in the future.

I know. I know. I’m white and this ain’t Minnesota.

Every police officer I have known personally is a decent, honest, admirable person. I did meet a few as a young serviceman in Charleston, S.C. back in the 60s who weren’t so, but they followed the “Charleston Model” of hating people of color and military personnel in equal proportions. The usually didn’t kill sailors. They simply beat them until their own mothers wouldn’t recognize them and then “frog marched” them up the gangway of their ship next morning in full view of the crew. Message delivered.

But I digress. I, unlike all other Americans, have no clue this morning as how to solve the crisis among this minority of law enforcement personnel. A simple, “Don’t execute anyone for a traffic violation,” standing order might help. A thorough look into the long-standing rumor that white supremacy cults are actively infiltrating police departments wouldn’t hurt. Suggesting to personnel that if they are going to execute someone for a minor offense, best not to do it on camera might help.

No, I don’t think that is the answer. I’m not sure further training is the answer. As my old running buddy, Argumento de Minimus the Harvard-bred lawyer, would say, “Hell, I thought it was a taser,” doesn’t pass the smell test. I do know that supremely idiotic rantings such as “Defund the Police,” are counter-productive. That one almost got Donald Trump re-elected.

I do know that I want good police officers out there when I go to bed tonight. I do suspect, from actual data I have read, that a small percentage of officers garner most of the complaints from the public, so punishing every officer isn’t the most economical way to solve the crisis.

Maybe if we just quit hating one another long enough to think straight, it wouldn’t to any harm.

Takeaways and reflections:

I hate to say it, but I fear this terrorist rebellion will prove far more inclusive that we now imagine. I hope I'm wrong. I think I'm not. When I heard that the assault had begun, I imagined lines of motorized vehicles and broad phalanxes of police and soldiers roaring into action. Instead I saw a largely unimpeded flow of terrorists charging almost unopposed into the most important building in America like crowds entering stores on Black Friday.

Yes, I expected the National Guard. I had heard they would be on hand, since anyone who had observed a legitimate news source in a month knew the assault was coming. Then I learned that the Guard’s mission was "traffic control” and could not be changed except through the chain of command, a chain of command controlled by the person who instigated the assault.

This mad me think of something with which I am familiar. I imagined a U.S. Naval vessel encountering a sister ship under attack or a modern-day Titanic with her bow sliding beneath the waves and our Captain saying, “Nope, can’t stop. Our mission is to proceed to home port.” Maybe the National Guard is different. I don’t know. I hope not.

How many times have I heard, “Oh, Ted Cruz and Josh Hawley must be smart. They graduated from Ivy League law schools." Folks, I've known Ivy League graduates. They are well educated, fitting one of Plato’s requirements for a good life. Many show spirit in the use of their education, completing a second layer. But it is in the “appetitive” layer, the rational element in our gut that builds moderation, and distinguishes the restraint-guided human soul, that many, including the likes of Cruz and Hawley, lack entirely.

In fact, of three people I’ve known in my life who best fit the prime example of a smart, well ordered life, one graduated from the Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, one from what is now the University of Central Arkansas at Conway, and one from Arkansas Technical University in Russellville. Cruz and Hawley smart? No, they are devious, cunning, and resourceful. Morally, they most resemble the type of people from whom our state suffers, ones who have never worked a day at a job but somehow keep a steady supply of cigarettes and beer on hand for their survival. They squander their health and abilities like Cruz and Hawley squander their educations. We Americans suffer equally from both.

Finally, I haven’t resolved how I can approach what I once considered good, decent people who still support the American president who certainly incited, perhaps took a hand in planning, the terrorist assault on our nation’s Capitol and Constitution. I can’t take them seriously, but my standing orders, both from the Galilean and the military oath I took, require that I offer them the same care and concern as those who would seek a more meaningful life. The hardest to love will be those who spew societal treason from the pulpit of a church. They seem to believe that that the problem of two men, or two women, loving one another outweighs the sight of terroristic thugs ravaging the hallowed halls of Congress.

I’ve much thinking to do. Won’t you join me? Our country needs us.

The Ride: Part Three

 We all stood real quiet, nobody wanting to go on this adventure, but no one wanting to dispute Furlow. We looked at our feet, then at one another. Nobody chose to look at Furlow. The silence didn’t dampen his resolve, though. He just looked at us shook his head. Across the wooden fence, the young bull calf looked at us, and I’ll swear he had a grin on his face.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Furlow said. “We’ll herd him into that chute and then I’ll tie this rope around him like us cowboys do.” He made a motion describing the action in case we couldn’t understand words. “Then,” he said, “I’ll get on and ya’ll will let him out.” He smiled. “I’ll show him who’s boss.”

Before we could act, he climbed over the fence and was in the pen with the calf, who had quit smiling.

I don’t know who moved first, maybe it was T-Boy. He always stood up for his race. I saw him one time beat Teddy Ratliff over half the county for calling him a, well I won’t say what he called him but it got Teddy’s rear end kicked over half the county. I’m pretty sure he followed Furlow first so as to plant a flag for bravery. Anyway, first thing you know, we were all in the pen and closing in on the calf, who looked for one second like he was going to charge us and the next like he was going to break the fence down and run. He chose and just stood there waiting.

The chute Furlow mentioned ran near the side of the barn at the far end of the pen. Mister General Lee had fixed two wide boards at the far end so that if you ran a cow or calf down the chute and it stuck its head between the two boards you could pull the one that pivoted with an attached rope and catch the creature’s head so you could give it a worm pill or whatever. The outside of the chute at that point consisted of a gate that could be swung open and, after the cow’s head was released, you could let it out into the pen.

Are you beginning to get picture?

Good. It didn’t us long to herd the bull calf into the chute and down to its end. He didn’t resist much. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. Furlow had climbed up and had one foot on each side of the chute when the calf reached the end.

“Now pass that rope through,” he said to the  two on either side of the chute and direct them to handle the ends as he drew them up and drew them up so he could hold them in one hand like you’ve seen the cowboys do. He lowered himself down until he settled down on the calf’s back in a rider’s position and pulled the ends of the rope together and held them tight in his right hand. He relaxed, took a breath, and motioned, just like a real rodeo star, for Boogy to open the gate.

Some say he made two bounds. Some say three, but it sure wasn’t more than that before the calf’s butt went straight up the air and Furlow went horizontal over where the calf’s head had been a second before but which had led a sharp turn that allowed Furlow’s body to land in a vacant spot two feet away and bounce before it settled into a dusty heap. We all ran over.

We were happy to see Furlow lift himself up chest first and bounce to his feet. “Was that a full eight seconds? he asked. Nobody spoke. “I don’t think I quite made it, he said. He looked at the calf who was standing ten feet away with the biggest smirk on his face you ever saw.

We all looked at one another, glad for the adventure to be over and for Furlow still standing. “That was some ride,” someone said.

Run that sonofabitch back in there,” Furlow said. “And somebody get that other piece of  rope.”

Next week: Conclusion, or how much damage can one person on a crazy bull calf do.

Dark Waters

While rational people in America breath a sigh of relief, I’m struggling with this uneasy feeling. I fear that the next week may be the most dangerous for this country since the first half of April, 1861. We have a huge number of elected officials of the Trump Party, including three from our state, who have decided to abandon the oath they took to protect the Constitution of the United States of America and follow the whims of their leader. In past times, we would have considered this the bottom. I fear, though, that there is no bottom for the followers of this deluded megalomaniac. There is always a next step lower for this man. Will, “Boys get your guns,” be next? Four things give me hope, on an otherwise cloud-foreboding day.

1.     The “boys” he would be talking to are a group of overweight, marginally functional, cowardly, irresponsible nitwits who would end up shooting one another more frequently than they would others.

2.     We have a military composed of fine women and men who took the same oath I did and still, as I do, honor it. It is much easier to abandon that oath as a politician without scruples than as a warrior whose comrades, as well as their country, depend on shared honor and the duty for which it calls. They are there to protect us.

3.     There is what I call “The Thomas Beckett Syndrome” in which people, like Saul on the road to Damascus, or John Newton on the decks of a slave ship, turn from evil and embrace a better life.

4.     I don’t think the political party of Winthrop Rockefeller, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Theodore Roosevelt will continue to sink into this mire.

If I have given offense, I can’t apologize. It’s that oath I mentioned. One can’t take an oath to protect his country and then forebear standing up to those who have either never taken the oath, and thus disparage it, or, worse, have taken and abandoned it. If we disagree on the facts of governing a country, you are still my brothers and sisters. I still love you. We can talk. I’m just asking that we stop this dangerous foolishness. We can save our country if we hold fast.

Equity

 Sundays I think of the Galilean, not from religious fervor, but because I was trained to do so as a youth and things stick. Lately, I’ve been concerned, since I don’t have to worry constantly about paying bills, with the theoretical aspects of urban planning. Now what would He (with a capital “h”) have to say about urban planning? I don’t know.

He did say, we are told, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” According to another source, he just said, "Blessed are the poor." I sort of like the first since I've know some pretty rich people who were awfully poor in spirit, even people who have buildings named after them.

This hit home to me a number of years ago while working on a project involving a working-class neighborhood in decline. I had attended a workshop by the then current “guru of planning” who had assured the crowd that the type planning pioneered by him and his wife would cure everything from ugly neighborhoods to socio-economic inequity to the “low-down blues.” He was an engaging speaker, much in demand, and charismatic. He enthralled the crowd with his speech and all the slides, pictures, and pronouncements.

I was still hyped when an activist introduced me to a woman who lived in the neighborhood in question. She was talkative. That encouraged me. I just had to ask her about interaction with her neighbors. (The guru had assured us that was a sign of the righteousness of his planning model).

She turned stone cold when I asked. “Mr.,” she said, “I’m a single-mother of two boys whose father ran off with another woman and doesn’t provide a penny for support. I hold down two jobs so I can feed them and provide a place to live. When I’m at my second job, I lock my boys in the house so they don’t get killed by stray bullets. I don’t know who my neighbors are and, quite frankly, don’t care.”

Since then, I’ve not been so sure that streetscapes, bike paths, and inspired urban design are the answers to what our cities face.

Myths: The Danger

Up early and have some time on my hands. I’m thinking about myths. I’m not thinking of myths in the sense of the late Joseph Campbell who sequestered himself in Woodstock, NY for five years while he read about them.

 I’m thinking of myths in terms of why so many people are willing to believe in them despite physical and empirical contradictions.  It may determine the future of America, maybe even the planet.

 What purpose do they serve? Perhaps they allow control. Yuval Noah Harari. an Israeli public intellectual, historian and a professor in the Department of History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem thinks so. In his book Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, he posits that while direct contact only allows an individual or group to control a small number of people, myths allow that control to spread to unknown limits.

 During my lifetime are vivid examples. Consider the fact that on November 22, 1963, a deranged former Marine and immigrant to Communist Russia, remained for lunch at his job in a high-rise depository in downtown Dallas, and with a rifle snuck in as “window shades” needing repair fired at a motorcade killing President John F. Kennedy.

 Today in America, there are college-educated adult Americans walking about us who don’t believe, despite contemporary—repeat contemporary—eye-witnesses and a preponderance of evidence, that it never happened. Oh, it happened all right, they admit. Only a few join the 32 percent of their colleagues who believe that Elvis is still alive and place the former president alive on a South Sea island. No, they believe, without a shred of reliable evidence and using ludicrous claims, (20 year-old repressed memories coming to the surface and such) that a coalition of city, county, state, CIA, FBI, U.S. military, mafia lords, and Cuban leaders led by then Vice-President Lyndon Johnson, carried off the greatest conspiracy in American history for specious reasons and were so powerful that no deathbed confession has ever disclosed its existence. Oh, and some believe that the coalition carefully and specifically chose and employed Lee Harvey Oswald to carry out the mission. It would have been an odd choice at best.

 Now consider a real conspiracy, say the one, by the Ronald Reagan administration to illegally sell weapons to Iran for money with which illegally to fund our side of a foreign war in South America. That real conspiracy, involving probably no one outside the administration, unfolded in a matter of months, not years.

 Results of mythology in America? Well hell, read today’s legitimate press.