Net Positive Impact

   Last week, I asked a friend about his decision to become a vegetarian. I understand that there are numerous reasons that one might make that switch, e.g., personal health, environmental concerns, animal cruelty concerns, and so on. But I nonetheless find myself asking people about their own reasons, mostly out of an interest in what it says about them as a person. And my friend didn't disappoint.

   He talked about a few specific experiences, in which one event or another got his wheels headed down a particular road of thought. And the conclusion that he settled on was this: When his time here on earth is done, he'd like to feel like he's made a Net Positive Impact. It's a noble goal. And one that is worthy of honest consideration by all of us.

   Now this seems simple enough at first glance. Live a compassionate life. Be good to people. Help them when you can. Avoid being hurtful and selfish as much as you can. And there you have a formula for making a Net Positive Impact. But any thinking person living in the Western World should be able to figure out that things are not so simple, because our impact goes far beyond our immediate environment.

   The computer that I'm typing on right now was no doubt assembled by a handful of very poor workers in a very poor country, working under very poor conditions. And the same can be said for the clothes that I'm wearing and the food that I just ate. Those workers, and millions more like them, will never have the opportunity to receive fair financial compensation for their toil. And as a consumer, I bear a chunk of the responsibility for that arrangement. I also consume vast amounts of fossil fuels, the demand for which spills the blood of countless innocents around the world. I fill up landfills with my trash. I waste water and electricity. I accept a government that deploys its' military and economic power around the world in ways that I can rarely agree with. And in spite of my awareness of the aforementioned perils of mass meat consumption, I do still consume a lot of meat.

   And no matter how much I try to remain conscious of the "compassionate life" formula, I can't possibly recognize the indirect, though quite tangible, role that my existence plays in the world, and still convince myself that I am making a Net Positive Impact. I can not look at the quantifiable contributions that I make to the world and stack them up against the things that I take and the damage that I cause, and pretend for a moment that I tip the scales in the right direction.

   Which leaves me with the question: What can I do? I believe that I can still remain conscious of the "compassionate life" formula. While less tangible than many of my actions, I remain confident in the importance of simply being good for yourself and those around you. But what about more concrete efforts?

   I live a comfortable life. By virtue of simply being born on the right patch of dirt at the right time in history, I am afforded luxuries that most people, both at present and historically, could never even dream of. I'm not wealthy by the standards of most Americans. I work in a bar, not a bank. But my income is still far greater than that of most of the world's population. And thanks to modern technology, my resources are far greater than those of even the most wealthy people of years past.

   But how much of that am I willing to forgo, and what impact will those concessions make? I could stop eating meat, like my friend. But I probably won't. More likely, I'll commit to only eating meat that is raised organically and locally, and perhaps limit my consumption to a set number of meals per week or month. What about fossil fuels? I don't own a car, but I love to travel and I fly often. I fly thousands of miles every year. Could I give that up? Should I give that up? Those flights often land me in countries that are eager for my American money. I don't delude myself that my meager tourist dollars will make any lasting impact on those that receive them, but if they put a couple of meals on a table that might otherwise be bare, isn't that a move in the right direction? Or is it not? Does that simply continue a cycle of dependency? What about my food and clothing? I can afford to buy Fair Trade food. I could even balance that cost by purchasing used clothing, and thereby kill two birds with one stone. And I could easily trim my use of water and electricity. And the vacations? What if I cut out one trip per year, and donated that money to organizations like Oxfam, Doctors Without Borders, or 826?

   But even if I do all of those things and more, I honestly don't know that I can function in modern American society without taking more than I'm giving. But I do know that I should try. And I also know that I want my efforts to be thoughtful and honest, so I'm not going to commit to any specific changes right here in this space, at this time. But I will commit to the task of taking stock of my behavior patterns. I will consider what I can concede, and what more I can contribute. I will continue to give more honest consideration to the idea of my net impact on the world in which I live.

Alvarez Hardware Store

   I walked down to my neighborhood hardware store about a month ago to get some keys made. It's a small store, and it seems to be run by just one man. I've tried to bring him whatever business I can over the last six and a half years that I've lived in this neighborhood, but that isn't much. I bought a new toilet seat a few years back. And I've directed a new neighbor or two to the store. But other than that, I've just gone there for keys.

   The man was never unfriendly with me, but I usually felt like I picked up on some sense of frustration mixed with resignation coming from him. I figured that his store had to be struggling. It was usually empty, and my occasional need for keys wasn't going to keep him afloat. But there wasn't much I could do about that. I am a renter, rather than a home owner, so I only tend to the most minor repairs in my apartment.

   It wasn't until this last trip there that I spent any significant amount of time thinking about the store, what it may mean to the man that owns it, and also, what it meant to me.

   I arrived to find that the door was closed. The windows were covered from top to bottom with plain brown paper. And the iron gate that was typically pulled aside during business hours, was closed and locked. Alvarez Hardware Store had finally gone out of business.

   I took a step back and took a moment to look at the store. I'd walked by it over a thousand times. I'd walked into it about a half dozen times. But I think that that was the first time I'd noticed the name.

   This was presumably the name of the man that had owned and operated the store. I have no idea what his first name is. I never asked. But I immediately thought back to that aforementioned sense of frustration and resignation that I thought I got from him. And for the first time, the irony of his key making services struck me.

   This neighborhood, Pilsen, has seen a significant demographic shift since I first moved here in the spring of 2005. The shift started before that. But even if I stick to the changes that I've witnessed first hand, the contrast between "what is" and "what used to be" is stark.

   In 2005, I moved into a neighborhood that seemed to be comprised entirely of Hispanic families. That summer, I saw front porches crowded with friends and families every night. I saw kids playing in the spray of a fire hydrant. I saw mammoth 4th of July block parties. I heard an ice cream truck every 30 minutes. And there was even a small family circus that set up in the park every September.

   Of course Pilsen was not an Hispanic Mayberry. There was a notable gang presence, and it was relatively easy to recognize the houses from which drugs were being sold. And on one evening I found myself frighteningly close to a shooting.

   But on the whole, I felt like I'd moved into a tight-knit community of families that had laid down roots in the neighborhood. People knew one another, and I always got the sense that they looked out for one another.

   Much of that feeling is still here in 2011. It just isn't as strong. The packs of children are thinner. The block parties are fewer and farther between. The songs of the ice cream truck less frequent. And I think 2008 was the last time that circus came through.

   Today's Pilsen, while still predominantly Hispanic, is also home to people that look like me, and live lifestyles that are similar to mine. Single people in their twenties and thirties. Mostly white. Students and artists and hipsters and aimless wanderers. We came here, just a trickle at first, and then a steady stream. We provided a clientele for a few new restaurants and bars and coffee shops. Thrift stores became vintage clothing stores. We drove up the rent and fattened the pockets of the area landlords and real estate investors in the process. And we probably influenced the increased police presence and the improvements on the local CTA routes. (At a time when both of those public sector services are being defunded.)

   But we didn't go to Alvarez Hardware Store. Except of course to get some spare keys for our new apartments. It must have felt something like making a weapon that you know may very well be the instrument of your death. Grinding keys for the new residents of what is soon to be your old neighborhood.

   And as I looked at that closed storefront, I wondered, for the first time, about the man that used to stand behind that counter. I wondered how long Mr. Alvarez had had his store. I wondered if he has a family to support. I wondered if he has had to take a job at some big box store, making keys for low wages. Or if perhaps he found his way to something else. Maybe even something better?

   I also considered the irony of my own role in the demise of this business, and that of other small businesses in the neighborhood. The small bakeries and taquerias. The tailor and the corner drug store. They are a part of the identity and the appeal of the neighborhood. They're a part of what attracted me to the place when I first walked down 18th street, just days after moving to Chicago. But their inexpensive goods and services can't handle the rent increases that I help to bring about. And the new demand for higher end commerce will continue to push them out. And some day down the road, I will wake up to see that the process is complete. That by my mere presence, I've helped to sow the seeds of the destruction of something that I once found beautiful.

   And as these thoughts collected in mind, I didn't experience them with any sense of guilt. Nor did I feel any call to arms. The world changes. And I don't want to fight the dying man's fight against change, as long the living man's embrace of it is an option. I will probably leave a world that looks little like the one I was born into, and I wouldn't have that any other way.

   However, I do want to be conscious of my active role in the world. And I want to be aware of those around me. I couldn't have saved Alvarez Hardware Store. But I could have known the man's first name. I could have taken a closer look at that particular piece of the neighborhood that I am so fond of. I could have taken a closer look at another man, and my relationship with him.

9-12

   Flags waved. Songs were sung with trembling voices. And people all across the country asked each other to remember where they were the day that the planes hit the towers.

   Thousands of lives were lost on September 11, 2001. And in the ten years that have followed, millions more have died or had their lives, their families, their homes, shattered beyond repair by the wars that were fought, and are still being fought, in the name of those attacks.

   I can't tell anybody else how to feel about that. I can't tell anybody else what to think about those attacks, and our collective response to them. But I can hope, for myself and my fellow Americans, that as the dramatic images and stirring words of the anniversary fade, we find our way to a place of thoughtful and compassionate reflection. A place of honest reflection. I can hope that we consider everything that happened that morning, and everything that preceded and followed the attacks, with an open mind.

   And I hope for those things, because I believe that this is the best way for us to truly honor and respect those that have died. I can hope for those things, because I believe that honest and thoughtful consideration of our place in the world, and of those that we share it with, is the most effective means of limiting the deadly conflict that puts such a tremendous weight on the hearts of so many people around the world.

   My own thoughts on the topic are numerous and muddled, and often conflicting. I find it difficult to believe that a world without war is possible, yet I find it immoral and unacceptable that we should strive for anything less. I believe that as Americans, we are guilty of unspeakable atrocities, both historically and in the present moment. I also believe that as Americans, we are responsible for acts of profound beauty, sacrifice, and heroism, both historically and in the present moment. And I believe that those truths, as well as many others, need to be considered in any worthwhile discussion of September 11.

   I don't want to elaborate on the specifics of those beliefs right now. Because that's not the point that I'm attempting to articulate here. I simply want to remind myself to thoughtfully consider those beliefs, how I got them, and what impact they might have on myself and those around me. And I want to hope that my neighbors will do the same.

   (Below are three pieces that offer viewpoints that I found thoughtful and honest. The first was published about a month after the attacks. It is a long article, but well worth your time. The other two were published yesterday, on the tenth anniversary of the attacks. One is a quick read from a faith-based perspective. The other is a four and a half minute video clip discussing the media treatment of the tenth anniversary.)

http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2001/10/14/the-politics-of-rage-why-do-they-hate-us.html

http://www.internetmonk.com/archive/911-the-last-word-for-now

http://www.mediaite.com/tv/toure-calls-out-media-911-nostalgia-leaves-dylan-ratigan-speechless/

Malaise

   I feel like I should have a lot to write about. But nothing worthwhile seems to be coming out.

   I crashed my bike a few nights ago. The wreck didn't cause any notable structural damage to myself, or to my bike. But I did get a deep gash under my left eye. Deep enough that it definitely needed stitches. I got to the hospital around 2 a.m. Five hours later, a doctor finally got around to sewing my face up. In the interval, I sat in the waiting room, with mounting frustration, exhaustion, and anger.

   I was frustrated and angry with myself for the carelessness that landed me in that hospital. I was frustrated with the hospital for the long wait, and the jaded and indifferent staff. And I couldn't help but think of the right-wing claims of private sector efficiency, as I sat in the waiting room bleeding onto my apparently useless insurance card.

   That should be easy to write about. But everything that comes out just seems like a rant. And I don't want to rant.

   I'm also in the process of switching jobs. After six and a half years at my soon to be former job, I'm making a change. The job description will be similar, but the environment is radically different. I'm leaving behind a mammoth, impersonal, bureaucratic corporate restaurant. And I'm starting at a local restaurant and beer brewery. The new place is a breath of fresh air. I like the people that I've met there. I like the environment that they've created. And the product that they're selling is made with pride and a clear commitment to quality, rather than simply focusing on profit margin alone. The contrasts are clear and easy to see.

   That should also be easy to write about. But everything that comes out seems like a preachy rant. And I still don't want to rant.

    Over the course of the last week, I've seen thought provoking live readings and a live painting exhibition. I've read good journalism and literature. I've followed the flavor of the week political stories. I've spent quiet time by myself, taking long walks and runs. And I've found good conversations with intelligent people.

   All of those things usually lead me to write. But I've got nothing more than some bits of fictional dialogue to show for it.

   And that is where I sit now. With a collection of thoughts, ideas, and feelings stewing inside of me. But with no palatable means to organize and express them.
 

Bug Bite - Part 3 of 3

Mexico City (D.F.)

   I had never before seen anything like Mexico City. Street vendors, tourists, beggars, business people, and paint huffing six year old children, walk among 800 year old Aztec ruins, 400 year old Catholic Cathedrals, and modern sky-scrapers. All of which share the same patch of real estate. College kids drink in the same bars as prostitutes. Displaced indigenous women sit on the sidewalk and sell hand made tlacoyos for thirty cents to the Americans and Europeans that reach down to drop the coins into their waiting hands. A beautiful park filled with miles of green grass and lush trees sits just a few miles from the trash dumps that hundreds of families use for food and shelter. Impeccably clean museums frame the history of the city with well preserved art and artifacts, while garbage and pollution help to spread sickness outside of those same walls. Massive Diego Rivera murals show the clash of the cultures that have come together here over the years. Modern subway trains cost twenty cents, and provide transportation for elderly grandmothers, grade school students, and petty thieves alike. The contrasts are unmistakable and unavoidable. The noises, the colors, and the smells of the place bombard you at every turn.

   These different worlds, thrown together in one boiling mass of humanity, produce a chaotic and exhilarating energy, and I was instantly drawn to all of it. But it also brought to the surface a lot of conflicting thoughts and emotions within myself. And as I walked through the city and interacted with the people there, I found myself beginning to question the validity of how I viewed myself in relation to other people.

   I had always looked upon the privileged classes with a degree of judgement and scorn. To my way of thinking, there was something inherently immoral about the accumulation of large amounts of wealth, in a world where dire poverty is so widespread. And I had never had any doubts as to which side of that struggle I was on. But then I found myself surrounded by people that wouldn't make as much money in a year, as I would make in a week, or even a day. There were millions of people struggling to survive in this city, and many of them had to choose between crime, prostitution, begging, starvation, or leaving their home and family for a foreign and potentially hostile land. And seeing this, I had to acknowledge that my own station was far more privileged than I'd ever admitted to myself. Because struggle or not, my options were virtually limitless.

   Here, I did not have the luxury of considering the lives of others through the lens of books and movies. I could not sit in the safety of a college classroom, and talk about the collision of cultures and its impact on those that are directly involved. The people in question were now all around me. They weren't photographs, or statistics in a sociology textbook. They were living breathing human beings. And I couldn't cozy up to the romantic notion that my working class status in the U.S., somehow automatically tied me to the struggles of the poor and oppressed worldwide. Here, I was forced to recognize and accept the fact that no matter where I fell among the income strata in the U.S., my status as an American citizen with full-time employment (and with the resources to travel throughout a foreign country), placed me among the wealthiest people in the world. So I now had to take all of the harsh judgement that I had applied to the people that Americans consider wealthy, and see if I could stand up underneath it myself. And one person in particular helped force that view to come into focus for me, more than anyone else that I met on that trip.

   It was our first night in D.F. I was sitting in a bar with the two friends that I was traveling with. The bar was on the second floor of an old building made of stone. Near the entrance, there was a small wooden dance floor that stood empty. On the other side of the room, sat a group of eight Mexican men and women, that all looked to be about twenty years old. They were clean cut, well dressed, and just loud enough give the impression that they were having a good time, but not so loud as to be obnoxious. A quiet, heavy-set, middle-aged woman was serving us. The rest of the room was empty.

   It wasn't exactly what we were looking for. We wanted to find something a little more lively. But we hadn't received any good suggestions yet, and all of the bar descriptions in our travel book seemed vague. In the other cities that we'd visited, we'd been content to wander the streets aimlessly and leave our night to chance. But we were all a bit apprehensive about the prospect of wandering the streets at night in a city that had such a notorious reputation for crime. So we sat with our beers, and talked about calling it an early night. We still had several more days left, before heading back to Monterrey. Perhaps we'd be better off waiting until we found somebody to point us in the right direction. And then we noticed two attractive young women sitting at a table at the other end of the room, and we decided to have another round of beers.

   We were half way through that next round of beer, and still debating the best way to approach a couple of women that were probably on the opposite side of a language barrier, when we noticed that a third woman had joined them. The significance of the language barrier, and any other social barriers, now seemed to be shrinking rapidly. Clearly this was just short of divine providence. Things had been falling into place for us throughout the whole trip, and from underneath the warm and fuzzy comfort of several beers, it looked as though it was happening again.

   And then our soft spoken waitress decided to help us out. When she came around to offer us another round, she suggested that we buy a round for the three women as well. Perhaps that should have been a red flag. Perhaps three unaccompanied women sitting in a bar in Mexico City should have been a red flag too. But we were seeing the world as we wanted it to be, not as it was. So we bought the round of drinks and asked the women if they'd mind us sitting with them.

   There wasn't any collective "Eureka!" moment for the three of us. But through a series of glances at one another, we did all convey to each other that we finally understood what was happening. We realized that the three women were prostitutes, and that they worked for the bar.

   We knew each other well enough to know that none of us were going to be purchasing another human being for sex. But we weren't sure of what it was that we were going to do. And now that we were seated at the table with the three women, it was an awkward topic to discuss.

   So we just talked with them. We bought another round of drinks for everybody, and we talked. We used what little collective Spanish was available to us, and they did the same with a seemingly equal amount of collective English. The uneasy feeling that had come with the discovery of their profession, began to fade away. And on the surface it almost became something as simple as three guys talking to three gals.

   My supply of Spanish ran out first, and I was initially content to sit in silence and observe. But after a while, I noticed that one of the women had a particularly short supply of English as well, which put her in the same boat as me. So I finished my beer and I asked her if she'd like to dance. She smiled and said yes, and we made our way to the otherwise empty dance floor.

   I put some money in the jukebox. She picked the songs. And we took a few spins around the floor. As we danced, I decided to take another shot at speaking with her. With just the two of us, we could talk at our own speed, and perhaps have more success with our words.

   We started at the beginning. We exchanged names again. I told her that I lived in Chicago, and she asked if it was really so cold there. I asked her if she had always lived in D.F., and she said that she was from an area not far from the city. She asked about my family, and I told her about them. She furrowed her brow as she took it all in, and occasionally she offered a polite nod. I asked her about her family too. I couldn't discern the details, but it seemed that they were no longer around. Then I asked if she had any children, and she gave me a smile that managed to be both sheepish and enthusiastic. She told me that she'd just had a baby three weeks prior. I asked about the father, and she just shook her head.

   I realized how personal our conversation had become, and then the thought came to me that perhaps that was the only type of conversation available to two people that have so few words to work with. Small talk, in its own way, is more complex. It often involves elements such as cultural references and inside jokes. Things which just don't translate well. But simple and honest emotions such as sorrow and joy are universal. And so are the comforts and concerns that inevitably accompany our relationships with friends and family.

   I had also become curious about her age as we talked. When we first spotted the women sitting at the table, I might have guessed that they were in their early twenties. But I was starting to realize that my estimate had probably overshot the mark in this case in particular, so I asked her how old she was.

   When she said "trece", I stopped in my tracks. I asked her again, thinking/hoping that perhaps I'd misunderstood her, or that my limited Spanish was failing me again. The second time she said it, she said it with a whisper. She had obviously noticed my surprise and discomfort. But the number stayed the same. This girl was thirteen years old.

   More specifically, this girl was a thirteen year old single mother. She was living in Mexico City without any family to help her. And she was a prostitute. Those facts punched me in the face one after the other. And on the heels of those facts came several more. I was sitting in a bar, buying her drinks, and talking and dancing with her.

   Somehow, in a matter of minutes, I'd gone from a guy that was out to have a few beers, and maybe talk/flirt/dance with a woman, to a guy that was offering at least a passive contribution to child prostitution.

   There was an unbearable amount of commotion in my head at that moment. I had no idea what to do. I didn't know which direction I should even start in.

   We left the dance floor, and I could see that the girl was embarrassed, and maybe a little ashamed. I wanted to do something to make it better for her. I wanted things to be other than the way they were. But more than anything, I wanted to be out of that building. I wanted to put some distance between myself and what was happening in that bar. I wanted to rebuild that fragile barrier between my world and hers. A barrier that had seemed so solid just an hour before.

   I did leave the bar. But I couldn't rebuild the wall. The shock of learning that girl's age, had blown open the window, and given full view to the ugly truths that I'd been choosing to ignore. My world was more closely tied to the world of that child than I'd ever wanted to acknowledge. And my role in the relationship was not as benign as I'd dreamed it to be.

   In theory, I'd had some awareness of my privileged life for some time. And I knew that my privileges came at the expense of others. I knew, for instance, that the products that I bought in the U.S., often came from countries where workers were underpaid and maltreated. And that by purchasing those products, I was supporting an unjust and immoral system. But I rationalized my decisions. I told myself, that I couldn't change the world, and that I couldn't possibly function in American society without supporting such systems. I told myself that I had to pick my battles and then move on with my life.

   But standing in front of that girl, I was forced to honestly consider the real human impact of that perspective. And, though I tried to block this process out, it also forced me to honestly consider what I truly felt in my gut about my place in the arrangement.

   The truth was, that from the moment I'd set foot in Mexico, I'd been enjoying the power and freedom that my relative wealth gave me. I'd walked around like a tiny benevolent dictator, doling out coins that came so easy to me, and feeling self-satisfied when I saw the enthusiasm with which they were gobbled up. That unequal distribution of power made me feel like a giant, and I liked it. I felt dirty and ashamed for liking it, but I liked it none the less.

   And I'd still liked it when we were talking to three prostitutes in a bar. I'd convinced myself that I was on firm moral ground because I wasn't going to have sex with any of those women. But the imbalance of power was still there. I had money that they needed, and I got to choose whether they'd get it, what they'd have to give me in exchange, and exactly how much I'd part with. The circumstances stripped those women of most of the equalizers that they might have had if we'd crossed paths in the U.S. And consequently, I was free of any insecurities or social anxieties that I'd have been subject to at home. It was an arrangement that was easy to take advantage of, but one that was in direct conflict with my view of who I am and who I want to be.

   I wrestled with that conflict throughout the remainder of the trip, and I still wrestle with it today. I still struggle, sometimes unsuccessfully, to resist selfish impulses, even as I acknowledge the adverse affect that my actions can have on others. I have yet to find a formula for ridding myself of those impulses and desires all together. But I am trying to be more honest with myself about the choices that I'm making. I'm trying to limit the rationalizations and the excuses. I'm trying to be honest with myself about who I am. And I'm hoping that that will bring me closer to being who I want to be.

   We stayed in Mexico City for several more days. We climbed the Aztec pyramids outside of the city. We went to museums and parks. We wandered around in the daytime, and soaked up the raw and vibrant life of the city streets. We ate wonderful food. We watched street performers. And then, eventually, we made our way home.

   I've been back to Mexico a couple of times since that first trip. It's a beautiful country, and it will always have a special place in my thoughts, because it was the there that the travel bug first took a really big bite out of me.

Joe, Me, Jason.
On top of a pyramid, outside of Mexico City.

   I've also had the opportunity to explore some other countries since then. And through those travels, I've made discoveries about myself and the people around me, that I don't think I could have made at home. I'm still drawn to the big cities. I'm still drawn to the unfamiliar. I still find plenty of profound beauty and human dignity among all of the widespread cruelty and tragedy. I enjoy getting out of my comfort zone. I like having to make conscious observations about unfamiliar surroundings. And I like the surprises, even when they're tough to handle.

Bug Bite - Part 2 of 3

   We arrived in Queretaro on a Saturday, and that was by design. Jason had been there once before, and he'd come away with a decidedly favorable impression of the city's nightlife. So we figured we'd soak up the night spots there, and then have the following weekdays to explore Mexico City's museums, parks, ruins, and so on. But those plans had one big hitch that none of us had been aware of. The federal elections were going to be held on Sunday, and it is illegal to sell alcohol in Mexico on election day. So from Saturday at midnight, through Sunday evening, the bars that we'd hoped to visit would be closed.

   We had actually heard about this a few days prior to arriving in Queretaro. But I don't think we really believed it. My own disbelief was rooted in the impression that I had of the country's legal system in general. The handful of cross border excursions that I'd made over the years had taught me that "illegal" in Mexico, really just meant "expensive". And even the term expensive was relative. But the closer election day came, the more we talked to people about this one day prohibition. And the more we talked to people, the more we realized that the bars really were going to close.

Lucha Libre Flyer

   Of course we didn't have to go out drinking at night in order to enjoy the city. I could just enjoy the daytime wanderings through the streets and parks. We'd have a relaxing weekend and move on. But I'd got the idea in my head, and it wasn't going away. (Election day also happened to be my birthday, and that probably added to my stubbornness.) And then those daytime wanderings brought us upon an alternative. While walking down the street, Joe spotted a flyer for some lucha libre matches. There was a full slate of matches scheduled for the night of the elections, and our derailed bar-hopping plans had just been rerouted to the colorful world of Mexican free wrestling.

   Before the liquor sales shut down, we grabbed a bottle of Cuban rum. (Good rum that was illegal in the U.S. because of an outdated, misguided, and inhumane trade embargo. But was readily available at a great price in Mexico.) And with most of that bottle in our bellies and an excited sense of mischief in heads, we arrived at Arena Queretaro.

Myself and Jason at Arena Queretaro.

   Arena Queretaro looked like one of the old high school basketball gyms in the movie Hoosiers. Though time had taken its toll on the place. In the center of the gym was the wrestling ring. Well worn, tattered, and taped up, the ring stood empty when we arrived. As did most of the seats. The rows of aluminum folding chairs were about ten deep on each side. And behind them stood the cracked and dirty concrete walls of the old building. We took a few seats in the front row and watched the other fans and spectators trickle in.

   I was later told that we would have experienced a much larger crowd had it not been election night. But whatever the hundred or so person audience lacked in size, they more than made up for in intensity.

   As soon as the first wrestlers took to the ring, they were greeted by cheers and jeers from the fans. One woman in particular stood apart from the rest of crowd and earned a permanent spot in my memory. The venom that she aimed at her enemies in the ring was both frightening and comical. Her face was red, her muscled strained, and the animosity in her voice might give somebody the impression that she was confronting the murderer of a loved one, rather than an underpaid b-list entertainer. But that alone isn't what made her stand out. Throughout the matches, while she spewed out hate filled obscenities that filled the gym, a baby of about four or five months slept peacefully in her arms. Not once did she hand off the baby to one of the merely mildly ruffled women in her party, who seemed content to shout an occasional admonishment or perhaps shake a fist at the ring. And not once did that baby show any sort of alarm at the fury that was emanating from it's presumed mother. Which led me to speculate that perhaps she is like this all the time. That thought led my down a whole other rabbit hole of questions. For instance, what might life be like for that kid, and for the man that helped produce the offspring?

   But I did eventually pull my attention away from the woman, and return my gaze to the ring. The view from the front row provided an interesting perspective on the wrestling. The punches and kicks were clearly not landing with full force. And they tossed each other around with moves that were obviously choreographed. But it was equally apparent that these guys were taking a beating. The sweat was pouring out, the cuts and scrapes seemed quite real, and the labored breathes coming from the ring were evidence that they were giving everything they had to the performance. And then they took their battles beyond the ropes.

Lucha Libre @ Arena Queretaro

   The first time a wrestler was thrown into the seats, the crowd squealed with mock terror and delight, scattered out of harm's way, and left the two men to fight it out on their own. The wrestlers punched and kicked one another among the fallen chairs, before finding their way back into the ring. The second time, the same thing happened, but on another side of the stage. And at that point I realized that they would probably make their way around to our side at some point.

   As that realization sank in, the excitement and the anticipation began to mix with the Cuban rum, and I turned to Jason and Joe, and told them that I wasn't going to move if one of the guys got thrown our way. I wanted to get in on the fight somehow. And just a moment later they came flying my way.

   I think it was the "good guy" that landed in my lap, but I couldn't be sure. Either way, I grabbed him from behind and held him in a full nelson. This was a pretty big guy, and I have no doubt that he could have shaken off my little seventh grade playground move with relative ease, had he chosen to. But both wrestlers embraced the improvisational moment. The one in my lap pretended to struggle for his freedom, while his opponent tried to stifle the laughter that I could see behind his mask, all while delivering heavy stomps to the prone man's chest.

   After delivering those kicks, the standing wrestler grabbed his enemy and threw him back into the ring and I nearly pissed myself with glee. I looked around and saw the chairs that had been knocked over, the spilled popcorn and cokes that littered the floor, and I noticed that the fallen fighter had left some of his blood on my pants.

   The absurdity of it all was absolutely beautiful. In that environment I could just let go of any attachments that I had to the realm of logic and reason and I could embrace the honesty and the simplicity of impulse and sensation. It isn't a state that I want to find myself in on a daily basis, but there is an undeniably cathartic release involved in the process of giving yourself over to those elements from time to time.

   After the last match, I left Queretaro Arena with an easy smile on my face. It was a quiet summer night in the city, and we rode in silence in a cab with the windows rolled down.

   The polls had closed, and as we rode down the street we noticed that people were posting what looked like results from individual precincts. Big pieces of paper with names and numbers printed on them, were stapled to walls. And the people passing by immediately gathered around to take a look. But it was a close and highly contested election, and the results were far from final that evening.

   That following morning we packed our bags and once again set out for the bus station. We had one stop left, before returning to Jason's place in Monterrey. Mexico City was just a quick ride down the highway and I was excited to get there.

   Mexico City was the red letter destination on that itinerary for me. I love the chaotic energy of large cities, and I knew that this was one of the biggest in the world. And in theory, I knew that I was going into something that was outside of my realm of experience. I'd listened to Jason talk about the place. I'd read about it. I'd seen it portrayed vividly in one of my favorite movies. But in the end, nothing that I had read or heard about could convey the sights, sounds, smells, and the feel of that city. In order to get even a taste of the humanity that that city is teeming with, I had to stand in it.

Bug Bite - Part 1 of 3

Zacatecas, Mexico - June 28, 2006

   "The sun has yet to climb the hills into the sky, but the town has begun to stir. Uphill somewhere, a rooster has been crowing for the last twenty minutes. Two European backpackers leave the hostel and march up the brick/stone street towards the bus station, preparing to leave the sleeping town behind. A stray cat sifts through a bag of garbage until he is interrupted by the garbage truck. Though far smaller and without the loud machinery and warning beeps of its American counterpart, the small white pick-up truck rumbles to a thundering halt, and the sound of its engine echos off the concrete walls of the small colonial era buildings.


   With the chiming of the church bells the sky turns a lighter shade of blue, as if awakening instantly to an alarm that has sounded every morning for several hundred years. And on cue, the sounds of a waking town join in. The clink of bottles from an upstairs apartment. The sounds of footsteps along the walkway. A baby crying in the distance. Traffic noise becomes more constant. Doors and windows open, and heads peak out to assure themselves that all is as it should be. A pack of dogs trot down the street, trying to sniff out scraps that the garbage men, or the cat before them, may have overlooked. And the chirping and tweeting of hungry birds fills the sky until they are overtaken by yet more church bells. This time, louder and more numerous, the sounds of the bells crash throughout the town, insisting that those who missed the first call rise and join the new day." 


   I wrote that in my notebook while sitting outside on the hillside steps of a sidewalk in Zacatecas. I'd gotten up early that morning to go for a walk. I'd been in Mexico for a few days, and I was experiencing the wonderful way in which traveling to an unfamiliar environment can awaken the senses and fill the head with a romantic haze.

   I'd done a fair amount of traveling before that. I'd been on road trips throughout the U.S. as a child and as an adult. And I'd ventured into border towns like Tijuana and Nuevo Laredo, to take advantage of the nightlife. But this trip was different.

   I was with two of my closest friends, Jason and Joe, and we had almost two weeks to explore interior Mexico. We started up north in Monterrey, and then moved south to Zacatecas and Guanajuato, before finishing up in Queretaro and Mexico City, and eventually going back to Monterrey. My friend Jason was living in Monterrey at the time, so we had the benefit of his previous travels throughout the country, as well as the tips and suggestions that he'd received from other people that he'd met there. That additional source of information, more than anything else, helped shape the format of that trip. And that trip in turn, prompted a major shift in how I viewed travel in general.

    We made our way around the country by bus. For a fraction of the cost of a slow and uncomfortable bus ride in the States, we got big comfortable seats, were given complimentary sandwiches and cans of pop, and direct routes with minimal stops. The buses were equipped with TVs that played bad movies, like George of the Jungle 2 and Daredevil, in Spanish. And as we rode them, we got the chance to take in the scenery.

   In northern Mexico, we rode through the empty desert for hours on end. The differing shades of brown dirt and grey rocks, were the only colors outside of our bus. It was like riding through the remains of an old black and white movie, with all of the props having been rounded up and taken away years before. I remember seeing storms far off in the distance, but they never caught us.

   When we arrived in Zacatecas, it was early evening. We went directly to a hostel that had been recommended by one of Jason's co-workers. I never wrote down the name of the place, but it remains one my favorites on an ever growing list of temporary homes that I've settled into while traveling.

   When we stepped into the old building that housed the hostel, we were greeted by a young man by the name of Ernesto. I don't remember much about Ernesto or his life outside of that job, though we did talk a little about that. But I do remember that he was an eager host. After we dropped our bags in our room, he took us on a tour of the small property. He asked us where we were coming from and how long we'd be in Zacatecas, and he talked about the city's people and history with an open and sincere affection. He showed us the refrigerator full of beer that was available for the hostel's guests, and explained that the tab was tallied up on the honor system. And then finally, he took us to the  rooftop, where other lodgers would gather, usually with several of those beers, and take in the view of the city while trading travel stories and offering suggestions on what to see and do down the road.

   We started off the evening on that rooftop, but were soon out on the cobblestone streets. We wandered from one landmark to another. An old church here, and an old tavern there. And as we walked, we kept running into small bands of boisterous revelers. We'd usually see a couple dozen to a group, but sometimes more. They had trumpets and guitars, bottles of tequila, and small ceramic cups hanging from pieces of string around their necks. Anywhere we walked, we heard their laughter and their songs bouncing around us.

   Once we made friends with one of the groups, we learned that these were politically motivated gatherings. The federal elections were just days away, and the celebrations were a sort of "Get Out The Vote" campaign for the candidates/parties that our new friends were supporting. A big part of me was quite interested in the political aspect of the tradition that we had stumbled upon. But the general feeling that I got from the people around me was casual and carefree, so I let my inquiries go and I embraced the music and tequila side of the party instead.

   We spent the rest of that evening on the streets and in the taverns. For the first time, I used a urinal while taking in a full view of the bar, and allowing the bar an almost full view of me. (That particular bar had crossed the gender barrier years before, so there were small saloon style doors separating the urinal from the rest of the room. And the location and visibility of that urinal did seem like a relic that was held onto for its novelty, in order to help the 100+ year old tavern capitalize on the tourist trade. But some of the darker and dingier bars that I discovered in Mexico had not yet crossed that barrier and were far less discreet.) We met a handful of other travelers, including a tattooed girl from Brooklyn that had a wonderful passion for Heavy Metal and was carrying around a donkey skull in a hefty bag. And eventually we made our way back to the rooftop, opened one last beer, and wound down with some quiet conversation under the big desert sky.

Joe, me, and Jason. Outside of El Eden Mine.
Zacatecas.

   We made the sightseeing rounds the next day. We took a ride on the teleferico, which gave us an awesome panoramic view of the city. We went on a tour of the old silver mine that the city was built around. Our guide showed us some of the natural beauty inside of the caves while explaining the brutality of the conditions for the men, women, and children that worked in them.  And after that, we walked the streets while munching on mangoes from street vendors and doing some people watching.

   Those daytime walks have since become one of my favorite things to do while traveling. There is a certain magic to the process of simply wandering around for hours, with no specific destination, taking in the sounds and the smells of a new place. The vast array of differences, both subtle and stark, between that new place and the more familiar surroundings of home, have a way of forcing the mind to open up. Because it's not so easy to put your head down and go through the motions of your day, when you can't quite recognize most of what is happening around you.

Me and Sancho Panza on the left. Jason and Don Quixote on the right.
Guanajuato

   Something as simple as a search for helpful landmarks or an attempt to use a few new words from a foreign tongue, can get the wheels turning. And then little by little, the things that you do know begin to give way to the things that you don't know. You stop seeing passersby as a lump of motion, predefined and categorized in your mind. And you begin to see the individual expressions on the faces of the people that you pass. You may notice an odd gait on another walker, or you may take a moment to consider the intensity with which a small child can explore a patch of dirt. You might take in the woodwork on a door frame, rather than just passing through the door without a thought. Even something as common and mundane as a piece of litter, or the lack thereof, can spawn speculation about the environment in which you stand.

   Whatever form it takes, the awakening that travel can help facilitate is a priceless experience. And this is where I began to make that discovery.

   After a couple more days in Zacatecas, we made our way to Guanajuato. Guanajuato greeted us with yet another hostel with a rooftop patio. This hostel had a different feel to it though. It was significantly more quiet, but it was a peaceful, rather than an oppressive, quiet. The building was at the top of a small hill, at the end of a series of alleyways and narrow passages. Even the main street at the bottom of the hill was closed to automobile traffic because of construction, which just added to the quiet and out of the way tone of the place.

   The man that owned and operated the hostel was in his 50s. In the evenings, he came up to the rooftop and put some lean and stringy meat on the grill for his boarders. We bought caguamas from a store down the hill, and again spent some time exchanging stories with the other travelers. There were a couple of Americans that were regulars on the rooftop. One was a twentyish college kid with too much Dave Matthews on his ipod, and the other was a middle-aged man from San Francisco named Noonan. Both were in town for several months as students.

   Noonan had a zeal for story telling that was eclipsed only by the laughter that was always brimming among his words and that often erupted from his belly, overtaking him and everything around him. Whether we were on the rooftop with him, or tucked away in our room around the corner, there was never any doubt as to whether Noonan was around.

   The hostel's owner, whose name I can't remember, was a great help to us. From the rooftop, he was able to point out different destinations and points of interest around the city. Using that perch, he guided us to museums, statues, and old churches. And he showed us were we could get a hot breakfast and catch a World Cup match at six in the morning.

   The city itself also held a number of pleasant and/or interesting discoveries. Many of which we were unaware of when we arrived.

   We found El Museo De Las Momias on our second day there. The mummies that lined the halls of the museum were both fascinating and disturbing, and at least a little morbidly humorous as well. Wires were used to hold the bodies in the desired positions, and some still wore clothing that seemed strangely well preserved considering the century and a half or so that had passed.

   Not long after leaving that museum I ate the best damn torta I have ever had. We were eating at a small lunch counter that couldn't have fit more than four people. And whether it was the fresh bread and produce, the buzz of the trip, or some combination of the two, that sandwich was amazing. If I ever find myself back in Guanajuato, finding that little lunch counter will be at the top of my itinerary.

Joe, me, and the puffs.

   We had plenty of aimless daytime wanderings and nighttime bar hopping in Guanajuato as well. We found the world's largest bags of cheese puffs. We met more people. A group of teenagers from the city of Puebla taught us a new drinking game, which I think translated into "keep telling that chubby American guy that he has to take another drink". We found karaoke. And eventually made our way onto a late night dance floor.

   But after a few days of that, we got back on the bus. The next ride was quite a bit shorter than the first two. We had made it pretty far south already. And as we moved in that direction, I noticed a number of changes in our surroundings.

   The countryside in between the towns and cities became more heavily populated. The deserts of the north were replaced with rolling hills. Some of the land was crudely farmed and roadside produce stands spotted the highway. Political billboards sprouted up. The red and yellow of the PRD/PT alliance, virtually nonexistent in the north, was now inescapable. On the outskirts of some towns, goat herders and burro-pulled carts passed among the piles of used tires and broken toilets that littered the ground. Near other towns, the land was noticeably cleaner and more green. The broad hills sometimes covered with healthy looking farms, or low and wide trees and enormous cacti.

And then we arrived in Queretaro. A big, bustling city, complete with the noise, congestion, and chaos that often contribute to the electricity that only the world's larger urban areas seem capable of producing. We didn't find any vacancies at the first few hostels we went to in Queretaro, so we decided to settle in at a cheap, and somewhat seedy, hotel instead. It couldn't have been a better fit for that weekend. And with that development, I saw the birth of one of the most valuable lessons I've taken from the traveling that I've done over the last five years. Which is that, things will not always work out the way that you planned, but things will always work out.

David Allen Coe Burst My Bubble

  Every now and then, I'm reminded of the bubble that I live in. I usually feel like I live my life among a diverse group of people. I live in Chicago. A city that people from all over the world call home, and that millions more come to visit each year. The thousands of people that I happen to cross paths with in any given week, provide me with a broad sampling of backgrounds and worldviews, as well as a complex and colorful assortment of ways in which they choose to communicate and express themselves. So I find that I'm rarely surprised by what I see of people on the surface. (Thankfully people are still full of surprises once I get to know them.) But sometimes I stumble upon something that I just didn't expect to see. And that happened a couple of weeks ago when I walked into a room with a few hundred people expressing overt feelings of racism.

  The location was a sports bar/live music venue just north of downtown. The event was a David Allen Coe concert. When I first saw that name among some concert listings last March, I immediately thought of one song. Its a catchy, beer-drinking, sing-along country song that I've heard in a number of bars and at parties over the years, and it was with that song in mind that I decided the concert might be fun. So, without giving it much thought, I decided to get a couple of tickets and invite a friend.

  In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been so surprised by what I found at the concert. I was talking to a friend a few days before the show, and he reminded me that Coe was the author of a few blatantly racist songs. I knew about those songs in the back of my mind, but I forgot that they were written by Coe. And even after he reminded me of the fact, I decided that I'd go to the show anyway. I figured that those songs were just ancient relics of an old songwriter, and that he probably hadn't played them in years. And I rationalized that I'd gone to see hip-hop artists that had misogynist lyrics, and metal bands that glorify all sorts of violence, and that I'd have to cut music out of my life all together if I only wanted to listen to artists that shared my views on everything.

  So I went to this show, knowing that I might encounter some racist sentiments. And that, in and of itself, wouldn't be too surprising in most settings. Racism certainly exists in Chicago, just as it does anywhere else. I see prejudice, in many different forms, on a near daily basis. But here in the city, I don't often see it expressed as clearly and openly, and by so many people, as it was there.

  My friend and I walked in right as the music was starting. The first thing that I noticed was Coe himself. He's 71 years old and severely overweight, and he was sitting in a chair that he would remain seated in for the duration of the performance. There were a few other musicians on stage, but other than that the stage was bare.

  Most of the people in the crowd would have seemed out of place in any other bar on that block. The beer guts that bulged through t-shirts with Harley Davidson slogans and images of the confederate flag (One guy had an actual flag. Not just a t-shirt with the image of a flag.), crew cuts and mullets, and leather jackets with biker gang logos, were things that you'd easily find in the small mid-western towns and rural areas that surround Chicago. However, in the middle of the city, they're mostly limited to the occasional weekend tourist. But that night, they had carved a little niche for themselves at that bar.

  All in all, it looked like a lot of the crowds that I've seen at other country music shows, though just a little more rough around the edges than most. But with the help of Coe, they soon began to distinguish themselves. Coe spat out the vulgar lyrics and the tales of rowdy nights past, that he is known for. And as the words that he spoke/sang became more crass, the crowd responded with raucous cheers and acknowledgments. And then he finally threw out the well worn racial epithet that, by then, I probably knew was coming. And that was received with a roar of approval by a large number of the people in the audience.

  Well before that point, just a few songs into the set, the experience had shifted for me. It was no longer the concert that I had come to see. The music was just a vehicle for the hyperbolic stories and the cheap sixth-grade thrill of saying a bad word. But there were definitely other aspects of the show that I found fascinating. I watched the employees of the bar with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Wondering what their thoughts were, and noticing, in some cases, clear discomfort with the people they were serving and the sentiments being expressed. And the guitar player, that turned out to be Coe's oldest son, was an enigma that I couldn't keep myself from watching. Throughout the show, he stood at one far end of the stage, and his expression never changed. He seemed at once completely detached and yet filled with something that was boiling just below the surface. The exact nature of what was brimming underneath that face was difficult to discern. It could have been deep sorrow, overwhelming rage, or perhaps even guilt or fear. Whatever he was feeling and thinking, he seemed far removed from any sense of peace or contentment with himself and his surroundings.

  But regardless of what I was getting out of the concert, I had begun to feel dirty and guilty by association. And when the loud cheers of approval were given to Coe's racist words, I decided to remove myself from the room. My friend and I walked into the sports bar section of the venue. From there, the music and the crowd were barely audible. So we sat down and ordered a couple of beers and talked about what we were witnessing in the other room.

  We seemed to be more or less on the same page. My friend, who is an actor, shares my proclivity for people watching. We talked about the son/guitarist and the uncomfortable looking young woman that was selling beer from a cooler just a few feet away from where we had stood. We talked about Coe himself, and his boastful rants about his self-proclaimed greatness. And about those in the crowd that had responded so jubilantly to Coe's words. Taken together, it was a pretty sad display.

  That room was full of insecurity, ignorance, fear, self-loathing, and malice. Yet for all of that, the question of whether to go back in still remained. As disgusted as I was, I was also drawn to the carnival. I wanted to watch the freak show. And truth be told, I still wanted to hear the one damn song that had prompted me to buy the tickets in the first place.

  We did go back in. And he never played that song. (Which is okay. I think the simple joy that I found in singing along to that song with friends and strangers will probably be soiled now anyway.) But I couldn't just settle in and watch. By being there, I was making myself a part of it, whether I liked it or not. So after a quick trip to the restroom (Where I witnessed some more ignorance and cowardice.), I leaned over to my friend and told him that I was ready to go. And at that moment, the show came to an abrupt end. He'd been on stage for less than an hour, and he was done. This pathetic and decrepit old bastard wasn't even going to give me the pleasure of marking my protest with an early exit. Instead, I stood with my friend and watched the lights shine on the crowd for the first time since we'd arrived. And they shone on me too.

  Among the many thoughts and feelings that I was sorting through at that moment, was a sense of foolishness and naivety. I know that racism exist, and I know that it is one aspect of country music culture. But for me, its far from the defining aspect of that culture. But I see now, that with David Allen Coe, it is a defining aspect of his music and his following. And the signs of that were all around me, long before I went to that show. But I looked right passed them and saw what I wanted to see, until the truth became so bright that I couldn't do anything but stare at it head on.

  And that lead me to the question that was the central lesson that I want to take from that night. What else do I choose to ignore? Am I really as astute an observer as I like to believe? Do I view myself and others in an objective manner? Or do I carry a pre-constructed paradigm around with me, and then mold my experiences to fit that structure?

  I think the honest answer lies more in the direction of fitting things into my paradigm than I want to believe. The question that remains though, is whether I'm willing to make an effort to move myself in the other direction. I don't want to just think of myself as a free-thinking intelligent man. I want to actually be a free-thinking intelligent man. But that takes a constant effort, that quite frankly I'm not always interested in giving. And it takes a sense of humility that I sometimes find hard to hold.

  But as difficult as that process may be, the alternative is just too unsettling to stomach. The alternative is to insulate myself from thoughts and people that are unfamiliar to me. To dismiss, overlook, and even attack the unknown, or the "other", in order to protect the viewpoints by which I define myself. And that sounds frighteningly similar to the display that I found so disturbing on the evening that I went to go see David Allen Coe.

The Words We Choose

"If thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought." - George Orwell


  Last month, TV cameras caught Lakers guard Kobe Bryant directing a homophobic slur at an NBA referee. The next day,  Kobe released an official statement in which he said "The words expressed do NOT reflect my feelings toward the gay and lesbian communities and were NOT meant to offend anyone." He explained that he was frustrated and in an emotionally volatile state, when he used the term. He also called in to radio talk shows and reached out to individual gay rights activists, in an effort to make it clear that he does not harbor any animosity towards gay people. In the days that followed, the topic was discussed ad nauseum in the sports world, complete with admonishments, condemnations, and a few dismissive "but that's not how he meant it" excuses. A hefty fine was issued by the NBA, and eventually the dust settled and the subject faded away. 


  And then about six weeks later it happened again. This time TV cameras caught Bulls center Joakim Noah using the same slur. The circumstances were not exactly the same. Noah was directing the slur at an unruly fan, as opposed to a referee. And Noah is a role player for his team, while Kobe is one of the most recognizable names in all of sports. But the circumstances were similar otherwise. Noah also explained that he used the slur in the heat of the moment. And he repeatedly stated that "that's not who I am." The sports talk shows once again took up the topic, and the league once again issued a hefty fine. But the dust eventually settled here too, and the focus soon shifted back to the game on the court.  


  I find it easy enough to believe that both of these men were sincere when they said that they had no intention of offending anybody in the gay community. Prior to these incidents, there was nothing to suggest that either one of them might be homophobic. Some may find Kobe to be a bit prickly, but bigotry doesn't really seem like his style. And in Noah's case, his personal background would lead most of us to expect him to have a more open minded view of people in general. 


  But the fact remains that they both chose to use a word that is clearly recognized across all parts of American society as a derogatory term for homosexuals. And, most importantly, they both did so with the clear intention of belittling a person with that word. That action is a tacit recognition of the fact that homosexuals are viewed by many in our society as inferior or degenerate, and it implies that the person using the word shares this view. 


  That implication may turn out to be false. It may be that in a moment of utmost frustration these men reached back into a playground lexicon for a word that would provide an easy and instant sting. Perhaps in a moment of weakness, they fell back on an old crutch. And it may be that in the years since that playground, both men have matured in their thinking and have come to see the dangers and limitations inherent in such broad generalizations and prejudices. 


  And if a moment of weakness is what it was, then that should be easy enough to forgive. We've all experienced moments when we've felt pressured and made decisions that we later regret. And in that case, a sincere apology will often be followed by sincere forgiveness. 


  However, it is one thing to forgive their actions, and quite another to excuse or dismiss them. The word is offensive for a reason. It is a symbol for an attitude of hatred and intolerance, and that hatred and intolerance has concrete consequences for millions of people. Anti-gay sentiment leads to workplace discrimination and harassment. It perpetuates institutionalized forms of discrimination such as bans on gay marriage. It helps to create a hostile social environment that leads many people, especially adolescents, to suicide. And it drives many to commit violent crimes against people that are gay or perceived as gay. 


  Of course, using a homophobic slur is not tantamount to beating a person because they're gay. A free thinking adult can choose how he or she is affected by the words that other people apply to them, whereas a violent assault leaves far less room for choice. 


  But words do have an effect too. They contribute, in either a positive or negative manner, to the collective view of a society. And they also have an impact on the person that is speaking. And that personal impact on the speaker is something that neither of these two men seem to fully grasp. 


  When Joakim Noah says that "that's not who I am", he is mistaken. It may not be who he wants to be, or how he wants to be seen by others. But like it or not, our words, our thoughts, and our actions are exactly who we are. Even the ones we regret. So when we find ourselves doing and saying things that we truly regret, our response should be to acknowledge that aspect of our thought process that we're uncomfortable with, and recognize it as our own. And with that honest assessment in hand, we can then begin to work through and correct our faults. And once we've done that, we can then offer a sincere apology that is deserving of sincere forgiveness. And we can bridge the gap between who we are and who we want to be. 

Judging The Invisible Man

  Judging another person is a difficult and tricky undertaking. But judge we do, none the less. When we come into contact with people, we assess, among other things, their words and actions, and we use our own assumptions to fill whatever holes those observations leave, and based on these brief and inadequate perceptions, and our own views of right and wrong, we summarize and judge the qualities and attributes of those people. Its something that we all do, though we may try to convince ourselves otherwise. Its just how we're wired. Our brains crave definitions and categorizations. We need to be able to label things in order to walk down the street without being overwhelmed by everything we see. When crossing the street, we don't see all of the individual qualities of an oncoming automobile. We don't consider the tires, the body, and the driver. We don't speculate about the engine or the suspension. We simply see a car coming, and we decide when and where to cross the street based on a concept of moving cars in general that our brains have already put together. Our eyes simply take in far more than our brains can process on a conscious level, and so our brains choose to organize those images in a way that makes it possible for us to function.

  And we do this with people too. Certainly there are exceptions. We can limit our assumptions and make a conscious decision to consider the unique individual qualities of a person when we choose to do so. Just as we are capable of considering an individual car when we choose to do so. But given the number of people that many of us come into contact with, whether it be on the street, at work, in the store, or at a social gathering, it is unlikely that any of us are going to find a way to do this with all people, all of the time. And if we're honest with ourselves, I think we'll find that most of us aren't even trying to do that most of the time.

  So we categorize. We generalize. We stereotype. We simplify. When we do this with people that stand physically before us, we have a lot to work with. Tone of voice and body language. Age, gender, ethnicity, and clothing, just to name a few. And while those qualities provide a hopelessly insufficient means of wholly recognizing the dynamic nature of a human being, they can help us make necessary assumptions concerning what this person might mean to us. When I go into a store, I can assume that the person wearing a shirt with the store's logo is an employee. I can also differentiate between a robbery victim's cry for help, and a homeless person's request for money, based on tone of voice, body language, and probably personal appearance, even if the only words I hear from either person are "please help."

  There are also obvious limitations and drawbacks to making generalizations about the people we encounter, and those are well documented. This particular alleyway in our thought process is fertile ground for miscommunication, lies, and sweeping prejudices. And at times the consequences have been catastrophic.

  So what happens when we take this method of processing data, that is so ingrained in us, and is in many ways indispensable to us, and is yet so limited and potentially dangerous, and we limit it even further by blocking such tools as tone of voice and body language, while simultaneously extending its reach by establishing communication between billions of people that would not otherwise have direct access to one another? In other words, what happens when the world hooks up to the internet? And more specifically, what changes in the way that we communicate with each other when we're using the internet?

  With the advent of e-mail, message boards, social networking sites, and blogs like this one, we have undergone a dramatic shift in how we interact with our friends, family, co-workers, and even strangers. And we have gained quite a bit from this shift. We have the ability to stay in regular contact with people that just a generation ago would have drifted to the other side of the barrier of time and distance. And the relationships with close friends and family that we would have had anyway, can be enhanced with these new tools. The internet also opens the door to a seemingly infinite world of ideas and perspectives that offers far more depth and variation than the world of libraries and newspapers. And this world also has a demography that is far more complex than even the most diverse of traditional social environments. We can read about political protests in Syria or San Francisco, on the websites for NPR, Al Jazeera, the BBC, and Fox. Or we can find a blog that offers thirty-two variations on grilled cheese sandwiches, after reading about why gay kittens won't go to heaven. And we can then carry that information with us to a social networking site like Facebook, and share our thoughts with people we know, and often with people that they know.

  And in this sense, the social networking sites are just an extension of traditional social settings. Facebook, for example, is a lot like a big on-line cocktail party. Topics may vary from one group to the next. This bunch by the coffee table will prefer to discuss the day to day aspects of their lives such as work and family. The guys over there by the TV will talk sports for hours. Somebody in the kitchen has had one too many, and is making people uncomfortable with details that seem way too personal. And on the back porch there are those people that just can't help but dive into the dreaded politics and/or religion conversation, because that's what fascinates them.

  But there are critical differences and limitations as well. That same vast source of ideas and perspectives that can provide fresh new insights, can also make it more difficult to discern the value of any given piece of information. There are no more gatekeepers of information. And while that has clear advantages for many of us, it has often come at the expense of accountability and credibility. 

  Our personal conversations and relationships can become more murky as well, as it becomes more difficult to judge the tone of a conversation and the nature of the people involved. After all, the image of others that we get via sites such as Facebook, is one that that person has crafted in order to appear as they would like people to see them. Whether projecting an image of confidence, happiness, and prosperity, or one of frustration and self-pity; when we sit in front of a computer, we mold an image of our choosing, in a way that we are unable to do in person. And our perception of what is being said, and the meanings behind the words, are shaped in part by those distorted images. 

  We also choose to say things to people on line that we wouldn't say in person. Stripped of the ability to see first-hand the impact of our statements, and potentially face repercussions, we often become more careless and aggressive in our choice of words. And while we are speaking from behind these avatars that we have created for ourselves, we are making assessments of, and passing judgements on, real life people. Assessments and judgements that effect how we see those particular individuals, and also how we see people in general.

  I came across one example of this just a few days ago. President Obama had just released the long form copy of his birth certificate, in order to set aside the distractions of "sideshows and carnival barkers", and my sister posted the story on her Facebook page. In her view, this is an issue that really isn't an issue. Like the President himself, she is hoping that this will put the topic to rest once and for all, thus allowing the country to address more practical issues such as high unemployment rates, massive debt, and prolonged war. Most of the people that commented on her post seemed to share this view, as do I. But there were a couple of exceptions. One person appeared to remain unconvinced about Obama's birthplace. And another referred to the President as a "clown" that had "no real experience running anything", while also expressing his hope that Donald Trump would be ushered into The White House in next year's election. But neither of these people, even when pressed, chose to back their points with specific fact-based explanations as to why they feel the way they do.

  It is difficult to read comments like those without passing judgement on the people that are making them. From my perspective, the comments are ignorant and pig-headed at best. They appear, like so much of the right wing anti-Obama rhetoric, to be the product of fear and uncertainty. An irrational, knee jerk reaction to some perceived threat, that usually goes unidentified and unexplained by the person that feels threatened. Or if the fear is explained, it often turns out to be based on misperceptions or outright falsehoods. (That is not to say that everybody that is critical of the President is unable to explain themselves in a thoughtful manner. Nor is it to say that legitimate criticisms do not exist. But the carefully considered critiques that do exist are being lost in the deluge of  ignorance, fear, and lies.)

  So I take that bit of information, and I use it to form an image of the people that made those comments. I fill in the holes with my own assumptions, and based on my views of right and wrong, I assess and judge that image. And as I do that, I add another piece to my view of the world and the people in it. And by extension I alter my view of myself, and my place in the world.

  In a separate exchange with my sister, she conveyed to me that, politics aside, these were good guys. And I have no reason not to believe her. My sister is an intelligent and educated woman, and I trust her judgement. And I've met plenty of good people that happen to have what I see as bad politics. I would imagine that there are some people that see me that way as well.

  But that abstract knowledge does not carry the weight of my direct exchange with those people. And my direct exchange is limited to that small group of letters on my computer screen. I don't see that guy at the playground with his kids. I don't see the other guy using his day off of work to help a friend move. We're not trading jokes over a cold beer. And on the internet, we're not even offering each other a soft smile, a firm handshake, or a nod of respect. We're just giving each other one terribly small excerpt from a long and complex story, and leaving each other way too many blanks to fill in.

  So we walk away from the exchange with negative impressions of each other. But more importantly, we walk away having reduced another person to nothing more than a cultural stereotype. We've simplified them for the sake of making sense of them.We walk away thinking that the other guy is stupid, naive, or a jerk. And both of us could very well be some, or all, of those things. But what we can not be, is that and that alone. Human beings are simply not so static and one-dimensional as that. But we are often going to see each other this way anyway. Because this is the trade off that we accept when we log on. We open ourselves up to a world in which we can see billions of men and women. But the catch is that they're all invisible.   

   

The Politics of Walking Down the Street

  Politics have always fascinated me on a number of levels. The spectacle of the debates between pundits and politicians, complete with strategic maneuvering, absurd blunders, and at times genuine emotion, is something I often marvel at. And the ideologies and policies themselves, offer an endless source of interconnected questions and ideas to work through. The issues, like one great ball of twine, are hopelessly tangled. Each bit of string originating from a source deep inside the ball and incredibly difficult to discern, and then disappearing again, heading off in a direction that is quickly obscured by all of the other bits of string that will inevitably cross its path. Ideologies, in their most pure and honest form, seek to work through that entanglement with intellect and compassion, in hopes of discovering and then actualizing the best within us. At their most dishonest and nefarious, they seek to manipulate fears in order to empower the few at the expense of many. But perhaps the most fascinating facet of politics to me, is the political activity on the ground level. The perceptions, opinions, and passions of the everyday people that are not a part of the news media, the government, or the lobbying sector, are as varied as their methods of expressing them. And those political views reflect far more than the platforms of any party. They reflect our perception of ourselves as individual human beings, and as members of society as a whole. 

  Political activity in the day to day lives of the masses, takes on countless forms. Some of the more obvious forms include getting news from television, radio, and the internet. We also talk politics with friends and family. And occasionally we even vote. What may be less obvious, is the political aspect of our roles as consumers, workers, commuters, students, parents, or church members. Even seemingly anodyne choices, such as what music to listen to on the way to work, whether to drop a coin in a homeless man's cup, or how to interact with the clerk at the gas station, have political implications.

  Our choices in news sources offer an easy glimpse into our outward thoughts on political topics. Though that glimpse may not be as straight forward as it seems (We all bring our own unique personal experiences and perceptions with us when we receive input from news media, which influences how we process the information that we're given.), it does give an indication as to what viewpoints we consider valid, and conversely what we consider misguided or even false. Objectivity after all, even when it is genuinely sought after, is an illusion. The sheer quantity of potential news stories and viewpoints make it impossible for any news source to report everything from every possible perspective. And the process of deciding what to report and how to report it, is inherently subjective. So we seek out news sources that report on what we feel is important, and that frame that news in a way that we find palatable.

  Our conversations and interactions with friends and family also contribute crucial elements to the base of our political beliefs. Through sharing our thoughts with others, our beliefs are either challenged or affirmed. And those conversations also help establish and maintain the social parameters regarding what we feel is appropriate and what is taboo.

  The choices we make at the voting booth meanwhile, seem straight forward enough in their implications as to not require any extensive consideration. But the way that we view the voting process itself, and the value that we place on our individual votes, can begin to open the door to the more deeply rooted, more personal, aspects of who we are as individuals and as political beings.

  For some, the vote is a symbol of freedom. An essential piece of the American pie, that should be cherished as much as the lives that have been lost in the name of defending it. To others it is little more than a placebo. A choice between Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, that is granted to the population at large in order to create the illusion of freedom and choice. And still others, will see the concept, and perhaps even the institution, as sound and healthy, but feel that a degree of reform is required if we are to realize the full potential of our democracy. 

  That spectrum of perceptions on American democracy, while limited in description here for the sake of brevity, is a concept that can also be applied to the seemingly mundane aspects of our daily lives, with telling results. Consider, for instance, the homeless man on the sidewalk that millions of Americans will pass on their way to work today. He sits against a wall under tattered clothes and several layers of dirt, and he has a small paper cup that he's hoping you will drop coins into. But what do we choose to see beyond that? Is this a man that lives in the land of opportunity, and has let those opportunities pass him by? Or is he an inevitable casualty of a broken society? One of the countless, nameless multitudes that are spit out by a system doesn't consider morality or even seek to create equal opportunity. Or is he just a man in need of help? Somebody that perhaps made some poor decisions and had some hard breaks and fell through the cracks.

  These are questions that many of us can answer when called upon. But if pressed further, how many of us can give an honest and thoughtful explanation as to why we feel the way we do? We may offer statistics that seem to support our opinions. But go into a room full of politicians and you can watch people lie with the stats as long as you like. The only difference in this scenario is that we'd be lying to ourselves, instead of just lying to others. We can tell ourselves that we came upon the numbers with a clean slate and simply read the story as it was told, but our perceptions of the world began forming long before any of us picked up a sociology text book. So why do we feel the way we do? 

  Perhaps its as simple as compiling a few monumental moments from our formative years. A few inspiring or tragic events that shaped our lives, and that are merely supplemented by all of the other days in between. Or maybe our views are shaped slowly, through a long process of subtle nudges and suggestions, leading us in one direction or another. George Carlin said that "behind every cynic there is a disappointed idealist." And maybe thats it. Maybe a person that begins their life in the relative safety of childhood, becomes jaded as they are exposed to the honesty of adversity. That person might decide that it is easier to give up on everything and accept the world as a harsh and unloving place, than to allow themselves to keep striving and hoping for the best, while knowing all too well that there will still be times when it is necessary to face the worst. Or perhaps that same person is able to create a bubble for themselves, from which they can deflect adversity and maintain some sense of confidence in themselves and their place in the world. From that bubble, a person can find innumerable ways to ignore ugly realities, to explain and lay blame for the troubles that do arise, and to remove themselves from any position of responsibility to anyone other than themselves. Or then again we might try to walk down the middle of the road. Unwilling to give up, yet uncertain of which fights to fight, let alone how to fight them. 

  There is something to be said for the first two options. They may limit the intellectual, emotional, and spiritual rewards that life has to offer. But they also offer the ease and comfort of familiarity, while limiting the pain and frustration of disappointment and defeat. 

  The latter road however, is a hard road to follow. It asks us to consider that homeless man as something more than a pothole in the sidewalk. It asks us to consider this man as a man, and ask ourselves about the nature of our relationship with him. What circumstances brought he and I to this point? Can I live with those circumstances? Or should I act to change them? If I need to act, then how should I act? Do I simply buy him a sandwich or a coat? Do I start volunteering at a shelter? Do I want the government to intercede? The answers to those questions will be different for different people. But the key is whether we choose to ask them. Because the question, rather than the answer, is what defines who we are as individuals and as a society. 

  And we have these questions in front of us throughout the day, every day. We choose how we make money and what to spend that money on. We choose what to read, or whether to read at all. We choose what to worship, and what form the object of our worship will take. We choose how to entertain ourselves. We choose how we talk to other people, or whether we bother talking to them at all.

  And these are all political questions. They are individual, concrete, real world examples of the many questions that we try to work through on a societal level through electoral politics. They may not directly decide an election, or the passing of a law, or the funding of a program, but they do contribute to the direction that we will take as members of a society. And asking those questions will have a direct impact on the political conversations that we have with our friends and family. It will also impact how we watch the news and how we vote. And that will impact the actions of those news agencies and the people that we vote for. The connections are not simple and straight forward, but they are there. 

  We are all small parts of the vast organism that is our society. And just as the human body can move on for years, even as parts of it deteriorate and die, our society too can move on with or without us. On a societal level, most of us will never be able to reward our ego with the grand moments that it craves. Most of us do not exist in the heart, or the lungs, or the brain of society's body. Be we do exist. We are cells within the whole. And we can choose our nucleus. We can choose who we are, and what we'll contribute to our little corner of our universe. And in doing so we will, for better or for worse, contribute to the health and well being of the whole.