Frank is Emptiness

November 10th, 2024

I know a man who has been working overseas for over a decade. Prior to moving to Germany, he lived in our local area, and many of his family members are here. He returns to Milwaukee once a year, usually during September. He stays in town for a few weeks and then goes back to Europe. When he arrives, he has a busy schedule of visiting with friends and relatives. At some point during his stay, he meets up with his grandchildren. I have no idea how much time he spends with them. I suspect it is only a small portion of his entire sojourn.

The man likes to talk about the interactions he has with his grandkids. He goes on and on about the fun things that they do together. He is convinced that he has a deep relationship with these young people.

I find that hard to believe. I don’t doubt that he gets along well with his grandchildren. I am sure that they are glad to see him when he comes to visit each year. However, how can he really know them of only sees them for such a short period of time?

My wife and I just got back home from visiting our three little grandchildren in Texas. We only see them once or twice in a year, and only for a week at a time. I can’t speak for my wife, but I don’t feel like I know the kids very well. I can’t possibly know them. I don’t interact with them often enough or long enough. To know a person, really know a person, it is usually necessary to be with them physically for an extended period of time. I would need to be with my Texan grandchildren for weeks or months in order to understand who they are. A few days out of the year just don’t cut it. To them I am just a tourist, somebody who enters their life briefly and then promptly leaves again.

The contrast between my relationship with the Texan kids and our other grandson, Asher, is striking. My wife and I are fulltime caregivers for Asher. He is always with us. After almost four years, I know that boy very well, and he knows me. My connection to Asher is more akin to the bond I would have with a son as opposed to a grandson. I am with Asher when he is healthy and happy, and I am with him when he is angry or sick. The man I know from Germany thinks he has a close relationship with his grandkids. I know that I am close to Asher.

I would very much like to be near to the Texans, if not in geographical terms, then at least in emotional terms. At this point in time, I don’t know how to do that. They don’t have the ability to come up to Wisconsin, and my wife and I can’t spend more time down in Texas. Things will eventually change. In a few years, one or more of the kids from down south may be able to come up and spend summers at our house. Or maybe, I will be able to go down there on my own, and my wife can watch over Asher for a while when he older. We do video calls with the Texans, but that’s not the same as being with them. It just isn’t.

Being there matters.

November 8th, 2024

My conversations with my oldest son, Hans, tend to veer in strange directions. He may be explaining to me in great detail the differences between the various types of hollow nose ammunition, and then start talking about the best places to get beef brisket. It is nearly impossible for me to predict what will come out of his mouth. I have to be ready for anything.

A couple days ago, while he was telling me about a check engine light on his F250, he told me,

“I am going to go back to church again. I just don’t know when.”

I thought for a moment, and replied to him, “Do it when you’re ready.”

Years ago, I would have been ecstatic at the notion of Hans getting back to the faith of his youth. Now, after my own struggles with organized religion, I’m not as enthusiastic with the idea. If going to Mass again helps him to heal from his wartime trauma, more power to him. He has to find his own path.

Hans kept talking about religion. He said,

“When I was in basic training, I went to every religious service that was offered. I even went to the Muslim meetings. At first, I just went to get out of doing stuff, but then I started listening to what they were saying. It was all the same message: ‘Take care of your brothers.’ Well, there are extremists that don’t go with that idea, but you know what I mean.”

I replied, “All traditions have extremists.”

Hans looked at me and said, “The Crusades.”

“Yeah, and the Inquisition.”

Hans nodded.

Considering Hans’ history, I found his comments to be quite interesting. Hans fought in Iraq, and he has every reason not to think that Muslims have the same message as Christians. The fact that he sees the similarities between traditions is a bit surprising to me.

I agree with Hans’ perspective. Obviously, there are major differences between the various religious traditions in the world. On the other hand, based on my experience, most of the people I know who follow their faith seriously, whatever it might be, are alike in many ways. They all tend to be humble, generous, and compassionate. The core command to love your neighbor as yourself is paramount to those who really want to know God (however they imagine the divine). That’s across the board. People who are really doing it, are always countercultural and they have much in common with each other.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if Hans’ participation in the violence and chaos of war actually facilitates his understanding of what religion is really about. Maybe, what he has gone through makes him more aware of what is really important than the experiences of other people. Many individuals skim along the surface of life and are never truly tested. Hans has been tested and I think he recognizes the truth better than many of the folks who sit comfortably in the pews.

October 31st, 2024

“There’s one thing that’s real clear to me
No one dies with dignity
We just try to ignore the elephant somehow”

from the song “Elephant” by Jason Isbell

Halloween is for kids. Apparently, it is also for senior citizens. Our grandson, Asher, went trick or treating with his three Texan cousins this afternoon at the Texas Loving Care Senior Living facility in Madisonville. None of us had never been there before. My wife, Karin, and Gabby, the mother of the Texans, went in with the kids. Asher was dressed as a hot dog (with ketchup and mustard). Weston went as a dragon from Minecraft. Maddy was Princess Peach from Super Mario. Little Wyatt was Blippi. There weren’t any other children at the nursing home when we arrived, and there weren’t any when we left.

Texas Loving Care is a small operation in a larger than average suburban home. When we walked into the home, about a dozen old folks were seated in a circle in a room with a fireplace. By “old” I am saying that they are older than me, so that means over sixty-six years of age. Some of them were clearly much older than I am. There was a man sitting near me with a cap that indicated that he was a WWII veteran. That implies that the guy is pushing 100 years of age. He seemed more alert than most of his fellow residents.

The four kids range in age from two to five. They did not seem to be completely aware of all that was going on. The same could be said of some of the people handing them treats. Not many of the old folks talked with the kids. They appeared to be distracted. The residents all wore costumes: Spiderman, Little Red Riding Hood, a witch, a skeleton, a pumpkin. I am sure it was all meant to be festive, but it was also a bit macabre.

As I watched the children make their rounds, I thought to myself,

“Fuck, I will be here soon.”

Well, maybe not in Texas Loving Care, but some place similar. I was not happy with that thought. The staff had put up Halloween decor. The space also had Bible verses posted on the walls. One side of the room was the “Wall of Honor” with old photos of long dead vets hanging there. It was like a version of Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion. Everybody sitting in that circle was teetering on the edge of the afterlife. My mind filled with dark thoughts.

We were only in the home for maybe ten minutes, although it seemed like an eternity. The kids had their bags of loot. We made a hasty exit after thanking the people inside.

My son, Hans, the father of Weston, Maddy, and Wyatt and an Iraq War vet, had been waiting outside smoking a several Pall Malls. I told him what it was like in there.

Hans told me, “Don’t talk like that. Those people have hearing aids.”

He went on, “I saw that WWII vet in there, and I thought for sure that Gabby would put me in there too.”

Gabby replied, “Damn right.”

When I am old, really old, will I want to have somebody dress me up as Spiderman to amuse toddlers on Halloween? I have no idea. Maybe I will.

Why not?

October 24th, 2024

A while back a friend sent me a link to a video about the dangers of empathy. I watched the video until the presenter got redundant, which didn’t take long. The point of his entire spiel was that empathy is a risky business. A person can get hurt by being empathetic.

As I listened to the man, I thought to myself, “Yeah, and… your point is what?”

I am not naturally empathetic. There are plenty of people (especially at my former workplace) who would testify that I am a heartless bastard. However, once in a while I feel and understand the pain of another person, and then act on that feeling. It is not necessarily a comfortable sensation. There is often the nagging question of “What am I getting myself into?” It is sometimes a leap into the unknown. I don’t usually enjoy that. I have already been burnt by standing too close to somebody whose life is an emotional dumpster fire.

Empathy, or let’s call it compassion, is heavily promoted in the world’s great religions. Both Jesus and Buddha were deeply compassionate, as were many of their followers. The Gospels give numerous examples of Jesus’ deep concern for those who were suffering. Images of the Buddha often show him with unusually large ears, apparently so that he could better hear the cries of a wounded world.

The speaker in the video remarked that many professional caregivers (nurses, therapists, etc.) burn out because they empathize too much with their patients. That’s true. A person’s resources are finite, and you can only give from what you have. I have learned the hard way that if I don’t care for myself, I can’t care for others. There are times when a person has to pull back and recharge. The stories of Christ and the Buddha describe how they did that. If a person who is divine, or nearly so, has to take break, then mere mortals definitely need to do so.

It should be noted that being a caregiver brings joy as well as pain. I am not a professional caregiver. I don’t get paid for watching over my toddler grandson, Asher, 24/7. I still retain my amateur status. Sometimes, caring for the little boy gets overwhelming, but there is also a loving bond between us. There are rewards for empathy that are nonmonetary, but nonetheless real.

The presenter also made a point that empathetic people are often manipulated and used by others. That’s true too. However, I go back to my question,

“Yeah, and what’s your point?”

I’ve been manipulated by the U.S. military and by corporate America. I’ve been played by the best. We are always being used by somebody, and we are always manipulating others, whether we are empathetic or not. I would rather get hustled by a homeless person or by my three-year-old grandson than by a slick salesman or a politician.

In Zen Buddhism there are koans, or unanswerable questions, that practitioners of the tradition use for meditation. One of the most familiar of these koans is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”. I used to sit on a cushion and practice Zen meditation. Since I started caring for Asher, I have concluded that he is my koan, my riddle without an answer. Being with him all the time leads me to another common Zen question:

“How can I help?”

Actually, this question is probably the most pertinent to my life, and also the most difficult to answer because the situation changes constantly. His needs are different every day. Asher is growing and developing as I watch him. He is a moving target, and my decisions on how best to help him move along with him.

The question of how I can help relates directly to empathy, and not just empathy toward the little boy. There is always an opportunity each and every day for me to empathize with someone and help them. The dilemma comes with deciding how best to do that. Sometimes, the answer requires a great deal of thought. Other times, especially in an emergency, the answer comes in a flash. Meditation of any kind can help a person see a situation clearly. Zen meditation makes the decision of how best to help intuitive. If I meditate on how to help often enough, then I can decide what to do quickly, almost automatically. In some instances, I don’t have to think about how to help, I just know.

I can still get hurt. As the maker of the video stated, empathy is scary and uncertain. For empathy to be useful and effective, a person needs to be perceptive. The person also needs to have courage. It’s easy to recognize suffering and then still turn away. I’ve done that, and I’m not proud of it.

Sometimes, I have stepped up and turned my feelings into actions. Those are the things that have made my life worthwhile.

October 13th, 2024

There is a relatively large Muslim population in our local area. When I take my grandson, Asher, to the playground, I often meet a parent or caregiver who is originally from an Arab country: Iraq, Jordan, Qatar. A week ago, I had a conversation with a young mom from Palestine. She was at the park with her two little daughters. Asher played with them. While they were occupied with that, the mother of the girls spoke with me. It was interesting for both of us.

As we talked, she became aware that I have friends who are Palestinian and friends who are Jewish. This prompted her to ask me my opinion about the crisis in Gaza. She told me,

“I just want to know what you think. No judgment.”

Well, maybe a little bit of judgment. As she had already used the word, “genocide” with regards to the violence in Gaza, I decided to choose my words carefully. I stated the obvious fact that the Israelis and the Palestinians need to stop killing each other before anything can be resolved. A ceasefire is necessary and overdue. She talked about how it was impossible to make peace while the Israelis were stealing Palestinian land. We did not come to any agreement on the situation, but we never expected to do so. She gave me some things to think about, and that is what I have been doing since I met her at the playground.

I have been thinking about the Nakba (“catastrophe” in Arabic) that occurred in 1948 when Israel fought for its independence. Thousands of Palestinians were uprooted from their towns and villages by the war. The vast majority of them never went back to their homes. They became refugees and many of them did not assimilate into their host countries. It truly was a humanitarian disaster.

Then I thought about my wife’s family. Her relatives on her father’s side suffered a fate like the Nakba at the end of WWII. Her father’s family lived in Silesia, which now part of Poland. They, along with thousands of other ethnic Germans, fled from the advancing Soviet armies. They had heard of the atrocities that happened to Germans living further to the east. With the sounds of Soviet artillery in the background, they marched westward, leaving their homes and property behind. They took almost nothing with them besides the clothes on their backs.

I had the opportunity to talk with Karin’s father and her other relatives when I was dating Karin. I was stationed with the Army in West Germany at the time. During the early 1980’s, I heard some of their stories from the war years and their aftermath. Karin’s family members settled in the west among strangers. Her father worked the night shift at a health spa and married a local girl. Karin’s Onkel Kurt found a job as a salesman. Their lives were difficult at first, but they eventually adapted to their new surroundings. They sometimes missed Silesia, but they seemed to be at home in West Germany. Silesia was part of their past, and that past was nearly forgotten.

Are there actually similarities between the Palestinian experience and what Karins’ elders went through, or am I comparing apples to oranges? Why did Karin’s family succeed in starting new lives, but many Palestinians could not?

Karin’s relatives suffered much, but they also had some advantages over the Palestinian refugees. They were displaced within Germany, so they didn’t need visas, and they did not need to worry about being deported. They were relocated from one place to another where people spoke the same language and had the same culture. The German economy recovered rapidly, partly due to money from the Marshall Plan. It took time, but they found jobs and homes, and they raised families in an environment where their children had access to higher education.

Karin’s relatives had no illusions about having “a right to return”. For over forty years, the Soviet Union held a tight grip on the lands east of the Oder River, and most of those territories were occupied by Poles and Russians. Some Germans in the West carried hopes that Germany would eventually be restored to its 1937 borders. That was always a fantasy. When the Berlin Wall finally fell, Karin’s aunt and uncle made a trip back to their hometown, and quickly regretted do that. They were shocked and disappointed that the town they remembered was no more. The physical structures were still there, but it was no longer German, and it never would be again.

Are there any lessons here? Maybe.

In a just world, Karin’s family and the Palestinians who have suffered since 1948 would get some kind of compensation for their losses. Perhaps they would not be able to return home, but they would receive something in exchange.

We don’t live in a just world, so these people get nothing.

Karin’s relatives knew they would get nothing. Some Palestinians still hope to get back their olive groves and farm fields. Karin’s family had a bright future in their new land and so they could let go of the past. Many Palestinians do not a future full of hope, and that makes it nearly impossible for them to escape from the past.

For Karin’s family, what’s done is done. For the Palestinians the Nakba continues to this very day. The Palestinians are still being robbed of their land, and they are still suffering brutal violence. As Faulkner wrote,

“The past is never dead, It’s not even past.”

October 13th, 2024

As we descend into the depths this current election cycle, it is easy for me to wish that this nightmare was over. November 5th is not far away, but it is likely that our collective agony won’t end there. If the recent past is any indication, the results of the presidential election won’t be known for a long time as there will probably be recounts and lawsuits to follow the actual casting of votes. The conclusion to this strange and twisted political campaign promises to be ugly as sin.

Somehow, this all makes me think of when I was teaching the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera in Milwaukee. I did that for several years and only stopped when I became the fulltime caregiver for our grandson, Asher. Prior to being constantly busy with a little boy, I would go to Voces once a week to help qualified immigrants prepare for their interview with USCIS. On Wednesday evenings, I would sit with several green card holders, usually from Mexico, and we would go over what they needed to know to become naturalized citizens. This was a long and arduous process, often nerve-wracking for the people who wanted to become full-fledged Americans.

One portion of our s concerned civics. We talked extensively about how the U.S. government works or fails to do so. I told them about the variety of ways they could become involved in America’s version of democracy. They could contact their elected officials, write letters to newspapers or other media outlets, publicly protest government policies, put up a yard sign, join a political party, or act in a number of other ways. I would always make one request to each group of students:

“Do one thing for me. Vote. I don’t care who you vote for. It’s none of my business. But vote. Voting is the absolute least you can do as a citizen of this country. Do that.”

Democracy is a living thing. It is also fragile. Like a plant in a garden, it needs to be tended and nurtured. Lately, we haven’t been very good at that. Democracy can easily be killed off by apathy. When I say, “My vote doesn’t matter”, I am destroying our political system in a small yet tangible way. When thousands or millions of citizens shrug their shoulders and say, “Who cares?”, then we are well on our way to anarchy or tyranny.

Likewise, fanaticism is fatal to our democracy. I am allergic to zealots of all stripes. I admire people who are passionate and enthusiastic about a cause. However, that fervor has to be tempered. I have to be aware that my side might lose the argument and be willing accept that result. I also need to accept that, God forbid, my opinion is wrong. That’s hard. Centuries ago, Oliver Cromwell said to his political opponents,

“I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you might be mistaken.”

Elections in our country tended to be sordid affairs, full of lies and corruption. However, they are also an essential marketplace for ideas. The candidates, when they are not busy slandering each other, have to describe their goals and policies. Some of their ideas are silly, some are monstrous, and a few are brilliant. An election allows each citizen to shop for ideas, and by extension to choose a possible future for themselves and their country.

I will be so glad when this election is over. However, I am also grateful that we are able to have one.

October 13th, 2024

Almost every morning, I take my grandson to a playground. Asher is nearly four years old, and he likes to play with other children. He doesn’t differentiate between genders. He is oblivious to race and ethnicity. He doesn’t even ask the other children their names. He is only interested in finding somebody who wants to be with him.

The nearby playgrounds have an eclectic mix of people. I sometimes talk with the other caregivers. They come from all over the world: Qatar, Norway, Mexico, India, Iraq, Japan, you name it. These adults all have different backgrounds and different histories, and yet their kids are all in the same place running and around and laughing like crazy people.

It wasn’t like that when I was young, or even when my children were little. The population then was much more homogenous. People looked the same and sounded alike. Things have changed. Our world is more diverse, and in some ways more divided. We interact with individuals who may not speak our language or share all of our values. Yet, we need to get along with one another.

I look at the kids and I see what the future holds. These little ones don’t share my prejudices. They don’t have my experiences. When they play together, they’re just kids. They laugh and cry and make up games. They may fight bitterly about a toy, but after a couple minutes they are best friends. They haven’t learned to hate. God willing, they never will.

All the children I see at the playground share at least one thing. Each of them is there with an adult who cares for them and protects them. Every child I see is loved, and they know it. That is what these kids have in common.

October 9th, 2024

I had a long conversation with a friend who thinks deeply. We were discussing diversity in the United States. He maintained that America is far too diverse to qualify as a nation. He sees our country as having too many religions, too many ethnicities, and too many cultures to be unified in any real sense. In particular, he noted the absence of communal values among the U.S. population. He mentioned that if you bring up any major political issue, be it abortion, 2nd Amendment rights, LGBTQ, religion in public schools, et cetera, you find starkly contrasting viewpoints. There seems to be no common ground.

It made me remember something I did many years ago. I used to be involved as a volunteer with a program that tried to help families with troubled teenagers to function better. Once a week for twelve weeks, a group of us would discuss an issue that affects how family members interact with each other. One week we always talked about family values. As part of the discussion, we had an activity to get people moving and thinking.

The activity was called “Values Voting”. It was rather simple. On one end of the room, we placed a sign that said “Agree”, and on the opposite side of the room we put up a sign that said, “Disagree”. We instructed the family members to listen to a statement and then decide if they agreed or disagreed with it. If they agreed, they moved to side of the room with the “Agree” sign, if not, they walked over to the side with the “Disagree” sign. If they couldn’t decide, they stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

We, the facilitators, actively sought out controversial or inflammatory statements to give to the participants in the exercise. We said things like “gays are bad” or “abortion is a human right”. We did not necessarily believe any of these statements ourselves. We just wanted to see where each family member wound up.

After the family members chose a position, one thing became apparent. To the shock of many participants, they found that some of their loved ones had very different opinions on certain topics. That was the first learning moment. It is often assumed, especially by parents, that the members of the family all agree on most things. Not.

We then asked each participant why they were standing where they were. We asked each of them what core value lies beneath their position. There was often a long pause while the individual thought about these questions. The person sometimes had never even considered why they held a certain opinion. Many of them had to dig deep to explain their viewpoint. We did not judge any expressed value as being good or bad. We just wanted each person to reflect on why they were standing in a particular place. More than one individual was surprised with what they discovered about themselves.

So, what does any of this have to do with our country’s values? Well, what do we actually believe in? Freedom? Everybody in America loves freedom. Find me two people that have the same definition of the word. People in America say they want a strong defense. What does that mean? What is a strong economy? Is there any consensus as to what that looks like?

What we need is a room the size of the United States where everybody can state their views and then explain why they hold them. Then maybe we can sort this out.

This may take a while.

October 6th, 2024

I often go to Qdoba when Karin or I are too tired or lazy to cook supper. The restaurant advertises itself as a place that serves “Mexican eats”. I’m not sure about that. The people there use a lot of tortillas, salsa, and guacamole, but that does not necessarily qualify their product as being authentic Mexican food. The employees are friendly. Their service is fast, and the food is plentiful. They operate an efficient assembly line. Qdoba provides an industrial version of Mexican cuisine. They always ask the customer to select a “protein”, and that is a term that somehow reminds me of the old sci-fu movie, “Soylent Green”.

I generally order grilled quesadillas for my wife and myself. I go through the line and have the server load up the tortillas to overflowing. The quesadillas usually suffice to more than two meals. The prices are inexpensive, so getting takeout at Qdoba is cost effective. As I mentioned, the assembly line is efficient, and people get their orders quickly. It takes a bit longer with quesadillas because they have to grill them for a few minutes. I’m not in a rush, so I don’t mind the wait. It gives me a chance to observe the clientele.

Most customers are like me. They are there to grab some takeout, and the restaurant is designed accordingly. It’s not a place where I would want to sit and relax. It’s too noisy and too busy for my tastes. The only people who hang out there are the students from the high school across the street. They get a soft drink and some taco chips and talk smack with their friends.

As I waited for my order, I saw eight young guys sitting together at a table. I’m guessing that they were about sixteen years old. If they had driver’s licenses and cars, they would probably have been somewhere else. In any case, they were talking and joking and basically being teenagers, everything age appropriate. They all looked happy and innocent. I felt a surge of melancholy as I watched them. I have half a century more life experience than they do, and I thought to myself,

“These boys have no idea what they are in for.”

That’s probably a good thing. They seemed to be living in the moment, and more power to them for that. I’m sure that they have their worries, but probably not the existential adult-sized versions. They are still protected to some degree. I remember my youngest son, Stefan, telling me,

“When I was a kid, I thought that adults knew what they were doing.”

It’s a cruel realization to find out that those whom you thought to be older and wiser were just older. There is no operator’s manual for life. Everybody ad libs the whole thing. We fake it as best we can, but sometimes that’s not good enough.

What will these young men grow up to be? The possibilities are endless. One of them might fall under the spell of a smooth-talking military recruiter and wind up fighting a war in a country he has never heard of before. One might become a rich entrepreneur. One might end up as a homeless addict. Most of them will settle into a “normal” life: find a job, find a partner, find a home, raise a family, retire, and die. High schools are designed to train worker bees and most of these guys will be just that. They will be cogs in the corporate machine. I was one for a long time.

Perhaps one of them will step onto the roller coaster of adulthood and embark on a grand and terrifying adventure. I don’t think many boys do that anymore. I did that. I’m still on that ride. I can’t get off until it comes to complete stop.

Do I envy these young men?

No.

I take comfort in knowing that I have already made most of the big decisions. Now, I just live with the results. I would never want to do it all again.

September 28th, 2024

Someone once said that the new immigrants to the United States were “beaten men from beaten races, representing the worst failures in the struggle for existence.”

Who said that? Was it Trump? Or was it Vance? No, it was Francis Walker, the president of MIT, who wrote those words in an article in 1896.

The bigotry and hate we see in today’s society were evident back at the end of the 19th century. My ancestors came from Austria-Hungary around that time, and the American public in those days railed against the Poles, Jews and Italians who were coming to this country. Today, some of our national political leaders slander Haitians or Palestinians, causing the same sort of fear and rage that existed over a century ago.

Nothing has changed. Despising the immigrant is an American tradition.

The essay above was published yesterday as a letter to the editor in the Capital Times (Madison, Wisconsin) under the title “Immigrant Bashing a Tragic American Tradition”. It was also published in the Chicago Tribune as “Hating Immigrants is an American Tradition”.