Frank is Emptiness

February 10th, 2019

“If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one

Drying in the color of the evening sun

Tomorrow’s rain will wash the stains away

But something in our minds will always stay

Perhaps this final act was meant

To clinch a lifetime’s argument

That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could

For all those born beneath an angry star

Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall

Like tears from a star

Like tears from a star

On and on the rain will say

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall

Like tears from a star

Like tears from a star

On and on the rain will say

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

How fragile we are”

“Fragile” by Sting

I have visited people in ICU’s three times during the last few months. One of them was a friend from the synagogue. He fell outside of his home, and cracked his skull. Another one was a friend from a Bible study group. His esophagus was clogged like a kitchen drain, and he couldn’t get any food into his stomach. The third man was one of my younger brothers. He suffered a stroke four days ago.

I don’t know why I have been to see friends and family in the intensive care unit so frequently. I suspect that it has something to do with our age. The men in the hospital are my contemporaries. We are all old enough to expect some sort of catastrophic failure in our bodies. We might not die, but each of us will get a chance to see our mortality up close and personal.

To use a metaphor from baseball, we are all up to bat.

Karin and I went to visit my brother two days ago at the hospital. He looked much better than I had expected. He sitting in a chair, and he talked with us. His voice was very hoarse from having had a breathing tube inside of him for two days, but he spoke clearly and coherently. He said that his vision was still a bit blurry, and his balance was not good at all. He was recovering quickly.

My brother suffered his stroke while driving.  His vision went bad, yet somehow he managed to get his truck to the side of the road. That is where the police found him. It is amazing to me that he didn’t get into an accident. It is amazing to me that he is still alive.

A person doesn’t need to be old to have a brush with death. It can happen to anyone, anywhere. My brother, Marc, died in a car wreck at the age of twenty-eight. A moment of inattention and a faulty seat belt put him through his windshield. Death was instantaneous.

Life is so fragile. We are so fragile. I know we pretend to be tough and resilient. We somehow convince ourselves that we are immortal, even when all of the evidence says differently. I know that I can cease to exist at any time. I may not even live long enough to finish this post.

Does knowing this make a difference? Maybe. I find myself caring less about certain things, like money. I find myself caring more about other things, like family. I don’t get angry so often. I find it easier to let things go. I am very concerned with using what time I have left on earth. Every day counts. Every day is a gift.

I just have to remember “how fragile we are”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 7th, 2019

I had only been to centering prayer at St. Rita’s with Karin one time. That was a few years ago. I decided then that I didn’t like the program because people tended to ramble on and on about things. I liked that we together sat in silent meditation, but I didn’t like the endless discussion afterward. Perhaps I was too hasty. I might have decided to go to the prayer group again, but I got involved with teaching the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera, and that is always on a Wednesday evening, the same night as centering prayer. Teaching immigrants always seemed to be more important than silent prayer, so I never went back to the group until last night. Yesterday evening, there was no class at Voces, so I had the chance to go and pray with Karin.

Oddly enough, even after a few years, the group membership was almost exactly the same as when I last attended one of the sessions. There were all the usual suspects (to misquote Claude Rains in the movie “Casablanca”). Fran was there, and Monica, and Tony, and Pam. And, of course, Paul was there.

Paul is the group leader. He started the centering prayer meetings at St. Rita’s, and he continues to be its guiding force. Paul is from Germany. He is old. I understand that “old” is a relative term, but Paul meets the qualifications. Paul grew up in Germany during the Hitler years, so he is old. Paul is a quiet and gentle man. He speaks slowly and deliberately with a noticeable accent. He has a mane of long, white hair. Paul is wise in his own way. His only fault is that he is hard of hearing, so he sometimes fails to hear the voices of the others in the group, and this causes him to keep talking even when he ought to let the others speak. He gets on a roll, as it were.

So, what is centering prayer? It is a form of Christian meditation. In practice (at least at St. Rita’s), it involves reading one of the psalms, then sitting in silence for half an hour to meditate on the words of that psalm. There is a vaguely Eastern feel to the meditation practice. Paul starts the meditation by striking the edge of a singing bowl (that is a classic Buddhist move). He ends the period of meditation by striking the bowl again. After the meditation, people read and discuss a reading from Father Thomas Keating, the priest who started centering prayer. Keating died in October of last year, at the age of ninety-five. He was a Trappist monk, as was Thomas Merton. Trappists are experts with regards to prayer and meditation. They focus their entire lives on those things.

On Wednesday evening we read two very brief chapters from Keating’s book, “Reflections on the Unknowable”. I will quote one passage here:

“Because we are members of one species, all of whom are interconnected and interdependent, our every thought, word, and deed affect everyone else in the human family instantaneously, regardless of space and time. Hence, we are accountable to each other as well as to God.”

Another quote is: “There are further states of consciousness beyond the rational.”

Those comments are totally Zen. I have been meditating with a Zen sangha since 2005. The other people in my Zen group might not like the concept of God, but otherwise they would have no problem agreeing with Father Keating. Zen considers intuition to be another valid way of knowing reality. Rational thought can only take us so far. Zen considers everything to be one. We are all one.

Keating’s words are similar to those of Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest. In Franciscan spirituality there is also an emphasis of the unity of all things. The Franciscans, like their founder, Francis of Assisi, see cosmic interconnections. For Keating, for the Franciscans, and for Zen practitioners, there is no such thing as “us and them”. There is only us. All things complement each other. Everything, including good and evil, belong to the same eternal whole.

Not many people meditate. Not many people can imagine a universe that isn’t split into categories of “good and bad”, “black and white”, and “us and them”.

The people at centering prayer can and do imagine that kind of world.

I need to spend more time with them.

 

 

 

 

February 7th, 2019

I drove to Kenosha this morning to pick up someone I love. She needed a ride to get from her apartment in the hood to her probation officer’s workplace. The probation officer is a woman. That doesn’t matter really, but I thought I would mention it so that anybody reading this post wouldn’t confuse the law enforcement official with the person I love. The young woman’s P.O. has an office that is just down the road from the KCDC (Kenosha County Detention Center). I guess that is a convenient location for the probation officer, just in case there is some reason for a convicted felon to be locked up (again). Somebody who violates the rules of their probation can go directly from her office to jail in less than five minutes, if necessary. I am sure that makes an impression on every person who has an appointment to see this P.O.

I got to the girl’s apartment early. I show up everywhere early. It’s a compulsion. I sat in the car and waited until 9:00 to sent her a text. He appointment with the P.O. was at 9:30. I got no answer to the text. I waited a couple minutes and then I knocked on her door. No response. This made me uneasy. It is a bad thing to be late to an appointment with your probation officer. In general, P.O’s have no sense of humor. At 9:10 I called the young lady. The phone rang for a while and then I heard a sleepy voice say,

“I’ll be right out. I just woke up.”

No shit.

I got back into the car and listened to metal rock. Rain drops that were almost ice splashed on the car. I saw the girl come out of her front door and stumble into the passenger seat. She looked tired, really tired. She just got that third shift job, and she was obviously feeling the effects.

She said, “Thanks for picking me up. I would never have made it there otherwise.”

I replied, “You’re welcome. So, how was work last night?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. Then she said wearily,

“I might be going to jail this morning.”

I said, “Okay.”

My reaction even surprises me. After all this time, nothing shocks me with regards to to this young woman. At this point, jail time is no big deal. It’s kind of normal. I don’t know how to explain it, but arrests are no longer alarming to me. I just go with it.

The girl continued to speak,

“The shift change to days threw me off. I have to do 32 hours of online training for this job, and that is done during the day. I didn’t get my schedule until the last minute, so I didn’t have time to tell my P.O. about the schedule change. My ankle bracelet is still set to show my curfew as if I am working at night. I tried to call Priscilla (the P.O.), and I left her messages, but I don’t know.”

I drove through the rain. “Okay, I guess we’ll find out.”

It is only a ten minute drive to the P.O.’s office. I parked in the lot. As the woman left my car, I said,

“I hope to see you soon.”

No comment from my passenger. She just got out and stoically went to her destiny.

Time dragged. Freezing rain hit the windshield and the other windows started to fog up. I listened to Jack White sing the lyrics to “Seven Nation Army”. That’s a good song. I really want to learn the bass part for that. The girl texted me twice to let me know that she had not been to her interview yet. I got out of the car several times just to look around. Other cars came and left, but I remained in the lot.

I thought about a lot of things. So, what happens if this woman gets busted and goes directly to jail? How do I even know that this happens? Does she just disappear? Do I sit and wait in this parking lot forever? What the fuck?

She came out of the building, looking serious as always. She got into the car, and said with a sardonic smile,

“They had an arrest warrant out for me.”

I answered, “And it’s all okay now?”

“Yeah…for now”, she said abruptly.

I drove her home in the rain. There was very little conversation.

She said, “I need to see Priscilla again at 8:15 on the 21st.”

I thought about that.

“When do you get off of work? 7:00 AM?”

She said, “Yeah.”

“Then I should really pick you up at the hotel. We can go for coffee after your shift, and then go to see your P.O.”

She nodded. “That would save me $12. (for uber).”

We arrived at her house.

“Yeah”. I said, “And it gets you a free coffee.”

She gave me the briefest of smiles. She got out.

I drove away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 3rd, 2019

I see my doctor once a year. Maybe twice, if I really need to do so.

Seeing as I am sixty years old, I go for an annual physical. Actually, I have been doing that for several years already. The annual exam is one of the few things that our health insurance covers without requiring massive co-pays or deductibles.

Every year this physical has involved zero drama. Every visit with the doctor has ended with, “Looking good! Keep it up!”

Except for this year.

I went in for the physical on Friday morning. My doctor had good things to say overall. He stared at the lab test numbers on his screen, nodded, and said,

“Frank, you’re killing it!”

Then he thought for a moment and said, “Well, maybe “killing it” isn’t the best way to express that, but you are doing well. However…”

Ah, the “however” came into play.

We talked about my blood pressure. The first reading was 159/90. Not good. He checked it again, and it was 150/85. Still not good, but not as not good as before. He told me get rid of the salt in my diet. This will be interesting since I love sausage, cheese, and other processed food. But, it can be done. He told me to lose ten pounds. I knew that I needed to do that anyway. I own a scale and a mirror. Also, cut down on caffeine. So, I need to ease off the Mountain Dew. He wants me to check my blood pressure weekly, to see what happens. I figure, now the weather is no longer horrific, I can do some long walks. That may help a lot.

The gist of the conversation was: “Stop eating the foods that you love.”

Excellent.

My doctor also noted that my glucose is slightly elevated. It should be 100. It’s at 119. There’s been a slow upward creep over the last several years. I guess I will have to lose the doughnuts and cut back on the beer.

I can do things to alleviate most of this stuff. Some of it is just heredity. I have heart disease on my dad’s side, and diabetes on my mom’s. So, now it’s my turn. My younger brother already has diabetes. Some of this is the aging process. Mortality is rearing its ugly head.

I’m not sure why I felt surprised to learn that I have a couple medical issues. I guess that I had managed to fool myself into thinking that I was exempt from the human condition. Denial is an amazing thing.

Apparently, I am doing better than a lot of other people. A number of my contemporaries are very sick or very dead. So, I should count myself as being blessed.

I walked all the way to church this morning. That is a seven mile hike. When I got home I discovered that I had gained a pound.

Fuck.

How the hell did that happen?

Well, since that moment, I have been cooking Indian food and swilling craft beer. I will eventually lose some weight. It won’t happen immediately. It certainly won’t happen today.

I suppose I will lose weight when I’m dead. I would prefer to do it prior to that time.

The truth is that I am swimming against the tide. I am going to die. My body is very slowly giving up on me. For sixty years I was able to eat and drink whatever I liked, and nothing happened. Now, it’s different. Now, things are falling apart.

I could give up all of my bad habits. I could eat healthy, stop drinking, and exercise all the time. I am still going to die.

So, what now?

Well, some people still need me on this earth. So, I will do what I can to remain here in order to help them. I can’t stop the clock or the calendar. I will eventually lose the game. That’s the deal. It’s okay with me, not that it matters.

Thinking back to Friday…

Outside the doctor’s clinic, I noticed a heavy set man walking slowly toward me. He appeared to be about my age, and he was looking rather fluffy. He had a faint smile on his face, and he kept staring at me. Finally, he got up next to me and said,

“Wicked beard, dude! I love it!”

He lifted up a pudgy hand and gave me a high five.

That made me feel better.

 

 

January 31st, 2019

There wasn’t much traffic on Highway 31 going south. Of course, I didn’t expect there to be since it was already 10:00 in the evening. Almost everything was closed, except for the bars. This bothered me a bit, because that meant that at least some of the drivers sharing the road with me had probably been drinking.

The thermometer on the dashboard showed an outside temperature of -4 degrees  Fahrenheit. The polar vortex was still going strong in our part of the world. Admittedly, -4 degrees is better than the -22 that the thermometer registered at seven this morning, when Karin and I went to morning prayer and Mass at St. Rita. However,  -4 can still be life-threatening for anybody who is outside. For that reason, I was driving to Kenosha in the middle of the night.

Somebody that I love started a new job tonight. She is working the graveyard shift at the front desk of a hotel in Kenosha. She normally would need to take the bus to work. Seeing as mass transit in our area sucks, the bus trip would have taken her an hour. The journey would have involved at least one transfer, and about twenty minutes of walking in the polar wind. This was not the best possible plan in subzero temperatures. In fact, taking the bus in these conditions would have been an excellent way to get frostbite and/or hypothermia.

The young woman needed a ride.

I gave her one.

A slight change of topic…

Being as I am retired, I have time to cook. Today I decided to make baba ghanouzh. I sliced up three eggplants, and broiled them. Then I put them into a blender and turned them into a paste. I added tahini sauce, olive oil, lemon juice, and pepper. Magically, it turned into baba ghanouzh, a Middle Eastern sort of dip. I took some of that, along with some tortillas, when I picked up this young lady. I didn’t know if she would get a lunch, and this bit of food at least qualified as a snack. Maybe it helped.

The woman was  very quiet as I drove her to her new job. I could tell that she was anxious. I know that vibe. I can feel it. I often do the same thing. She stared straight ahead as I drove. Occasionally, she texted on her phone, or randomly changed radio stations.  There was plenty of nervous energy. The atmosphere in the car was electric. After all these years, I know better than to engage in causal conversation with her when she is wound that tight. It is best to remain silent until she is ready to say something.

We got to the hotel a few minutes before eleven.

The young woman said to me, “I am going to wait five minutes before I go in.”

“Okay. How are you?”

She replied quickly, “Fine.”

Yeah. Fine. Somebody told me once that “fine” is an acronym that stands for “fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and evasive”. I’m not sure that is what “fine” meant to her at that moment. I know that “fine” has been that acronym for me many times in the past.

I asked her, “Are they going to train you tonight?”

“Well, they better. I can’t just learn the system by myself.”

I replied, “Some companies spend a lot of time training people. Some just throw you to the wolves.”

I instantly regretted saying that. I backtracked a bit.

“You told me that the people here were nice. I’m sure they will train you right.”

No reaction from the woman in the passenger seat.

We sat in silence for a little while. Snowflakes fell on to the windshield and melted there.

I remembered things. I remembered working nights for a total of twenty plus years. I remember my first few weeks on the pre-dawn shift at the trucking company, and how those bastards did throw me to the wolves. Sure, they trained me for an entire week, and then they expected me to supervise a ten-hour shift all on my own. The key phrase after the training was “handle it!”. Trial by fire. All those years of working in the dark and the cold, with maximum responsibility and minimum authority.

That sounds bitter, doesn’t it? I hate corporate America.

My reverie was interrupted by the young woman.

“I’m going to go now.” She gathered up her purse and other belongings.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up in the morning. It will still be really cold.”

She replied flatly, “Thanks.”

I told her, “I love you.”

She answered as she got out of the car, “Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 31st, 2019

I was driving home a little while ago when I heard a song on the stereo that was written by…me. That is truly a weird sensation. Karin and I have an ipod with over fifteen hundred songs on it. That is what we listen to when we are in the car. A couple of the songs on it are from me, or at least the lyrics are from me. I worked on the songs with Randy Vanvlaenderen, a close friend and an excellent blues guitarist.

I haven’t written any lyrics for a few years. Perhaps that is due to a lack of inspiration, or sheer laziness. I am good with words, but I can’t make music. Well, maybe I could if I worked at it. It’s been easier working with Randy. His whole life is music, and I envy him because of it. He can turn my words into song, and that is an amazing gift.

I am going waaaay out of my comfort zone now. I can’t describe the songs to you. You have to listen to them. So, I have to go beyond words, and use current technology to bring the recordings to you. I hate doing that. However, I will write down the lyrics for you.

There are three songs. They are all several years old.

“PTSD” is a song for my son, Hans. He fought in Iraq, and that changed everything. This song is modeled on “Father and Son” from Cat Stevens. It is the only song where I actually participate in the recording.

“Kiss My Rebel Ass” is a tune about racism and barbecue and southern culture, and it is also about Hans. I mention Ernie in the song. Ernie was a close friend who died of cancer, and I miss him every day. The song is not PC. Not at all.

“A Brand New Buddha” is about Zen. It is also completely blasphemous. The cool thing is that Zen practitioners won’t track you down and kill you for being a smart ass.

The lyrics:

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Son drove his truck, all shiny and black,
Exhaust rumbling out of the back.
Eight-foot whips to use his CB,
Great machine if gas is for free.

The truck looked like a big, black whale.
I saw his sticker on the tail.
Stars and bars, kind of crude and crass,
Words said, “Kiss my rebel ass.”

Son loves barbecue, spicy sweet.
Down South you always find that treat.
We Yankees don’t have it so much.
We just don’t have time or the touch.

Where could I find my boy this meal?
I’ll ask Ernie; he knows the deal.

Ernie said, “Frankie, go to Speed Queen!”
“It’s all down home, meat nice and lean.”
“Speed Queen? Ain’t that down in the Hood?”
“Hell yeah Frankie, food there’s damn good!”

Son was at home, that was good luck.
I told him, “Son, let’s take your truck.”
“Wait”, he said, and swallowed his pride.
“I’m not stupid, We’ll take your ride.”

12th and Walnut; it’s kind of rough.
We weren’t staying long, just long enough.
“Son, you think that they got some beer?”
“Dad, we’re the only white men here.”

I went inside, ordered some pork.
Meat so tender, it melts on your fork.
Son left to smoke, gone in a flash.
Lady said, “Brother, we only take cash.”

Carried out a big plate of tin.
Smelt so tangy; sweeter than sin.
Son smiled crooked, breathed in the meat.
“Dad, so what are you gonna eat?”

Boy went back to his Lone Star home.
Didn’t stay long. He just had to roam.
It was fun, but all things must pass.
Texas can kiss his rebel ass.

 

A Brand New Buddha
Box arrived from some kind of store.
It happened back a month or more.
Inside was something bright and bold.
It was a Buddha made of gold!

Chorus

Strike the moktak! Sing and shout!
Everybody come and gather ’bout.
Slap the chugpi, chant the sutras!
We got us a brand new Buddha!

Up on the altar sat Kwan Yin.
Taking her down, that seemed a sin.
Couldn’t decide where she should rest,
Guess she can keep the closet blessed.

Got no emptiness. Got no form.
Got us a Buddha gold and warm.
That boy smiles so shiny and bright.
Bet his grin glows late in the night.

No attachments here. None of that.
Cushions are fine, so is a mat.
We sit quiet both night and day.
Just don’t take our Buddha away!

Burn the incense and ring the bell!
Chant those sutras we know so well!
This dharma can’t be bought or sold.
We got a Buddha made of gold!

PTSD

Father: My boy joined up ’bout four years back.
Army sent him over to Iraq.
I didn’t want him to go to war.
He’s here now, but not like before.

Son: My old man. He can’t understand.
He didn’t see the blood or the sand.
He didn’t hear the shouts or the cries.
Don’t look at me with those sad eyes.

Father: What does he feel? What does he think?
That boy just sits there; smokes and drinks.
He won’t talk. He won’t even try.
Just looks at me with empty eyes.

Son: What should I tell? What can I say?
I was ten thousand miles away!
He wasn’t with me. He wasn’t there.
What did he know? What did he care?

Father: Son, I did care. I prayed every day.
I wanted you home safe some way.
Tell me what happened over in Iraq.
Tell me how I can get you back.

Son: Dad, I went some place you can’t go.
What all happened, hell I don’t know.
It’s not simple. Not white or black.
Bye, Dad. I can’t ever come back.

 

Maybe the songs will mean something to you. Maybe not.

Should I write more songs with Randy?

PTSD

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Brand New Buddha

 

 

 

 

January 26th, 2019

Michael is a young novice at our church, St. Rita’s in Racine. He is in training to become an Augustinian priest. He’s a tall, twenty-seven year old, with a very red beard. He comes from Long Island, New York, so he has some experience with winter weather. He certainly has seen more of it than the other novice, Enrique, who was from the Dominican Republic. Enrique was bundled up like an Eskimo as soon the temperature dropped below freezing.

Enrique left St. Rita near the end of December. Michael has remained with us. The weather in December was remarkably mild. Michael got cocky. He said,

“So this is the infamous Wisconsin winter? It’s not so bad.”

My response: “Just wait.”

The fact is that Wisconsin winters are fickle. Some years the cold and snow start right at Thanksgiving. During some years (like this season), Decembers are so warm that there is no white Christmas. But there is always a reckoning. That occurs usually around the last week of January. That’s when we get hit with a monster snowstorm, and that is when the temperatures drop below zero, and they stay there for a while.

I worked for a trucking company for twenty-eight years. I spent most of those years running the early morning dock operation. The loading dock at a trucking company has a roof, but is not really enclosed. There were 179 doors on our dock and they were all open. Essentially, we worked in an outdoor environment. Snow blew across the dock, and the forklift wheels ground it into ice. Gusts of wind blew paperwork around. Whatever the outside temperature was, that was our room temperature. I remember pre-dawn walks on the dock where I could actually see a difference in the air quality. It was so cold that the air seemed thicker, almost fluid. In the intense cold nothing worked. Forklifts and trucks wouldn’t start. People and equipment moved slowly and painfully. A guy ran me over with his forklift during the winter in 2009. The best part of  that experience was going to the hospital so that I could be warm again.

I am convinced that hell is a cold place.

Just as an aside, our son, Stefan, had a teacher named Ann. Ann was in many ways a remarkable woman. In her youth, she worked for a year in Antarctica. She drove the shuttle truck from the helipad to the research facility. Ann told me once that every member of the team at the facility had to go outside at least once a day, regardless of the darkness and the cold. They had to go out, even if it was only for five minutes. Apparently, this rule was in effect to prevent cabin fever and potential homicides. People would dress appropriately, brave the elements, and then rush back into the building before they died. Ann used this experience when she taught at the Waldorf School. The kids in Stefan’s class always went out for recess. Always.

It is now 3:39 AM. I just took my daughter’s dog outside. There is a blizzard out there. Shocky and I decided to return indoors rather quickly. According to the weather report, there will be eight to twelve inches of fresh snow on the ground before this storm ends. After that the temperature will drop like a rock. The day after tomorrow is predicted to have a high temperature of minus thirteen degrees. That is a just a little warmer than the surface of Mars.

Michael, enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

January 21st, 2019

St. Francis of Assisi Church sits on the corner of Brown Street and Vel Phillips Avenue. Vel Phillips Avenue was, until recently, called 4th Street. Vel Phillips was a noted local civil rights activist, along with being an alderperson and judge in Milwaukee. She also served as the Secretary of State for Wisconsin. Phillips died last year, and this street (which is located in her neighborhood) was given her name.

St. Francis parish is in the Brewer’s Hill area of Milwaukee, just a bit to the northwest of downtown. It’s a working class, black neighborhood that is gradually becoming gentrified. The parish is run by Capuchin priests, who are part of a Franciscan order in the Roman Catholic Church. Capuchins (and Franciscans in general) are deeply concerned with the poor, the excluded, and the unloved. This means that they ally themselves with other people who work to help the marginalized in society. This means that work for social justice. This means that they are political.

The Capuchins would probably agree with this quote from Gandhi:

“Those who say religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion is.”

I say this because, for the last eighteen years, the priests at St Francis have allowed Peace Action of Wisconsin to use the church for its annual commemoration of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  Peace Action is not a religious group. However, many people of faith work with Peace Action. I know. I work with them, and there are people who accuse me of being a person of faith. In any case, Peace Action held its memorial service today, inside the warmth of the church, while the cold and snow of the Wisconsin winter held sway outside.  I have been to this service several times over the years, and my one consistent memory is of cold and snow.

Karin and I arrived at today’s service a few minutes late. It wasn’t a big deal. People straggled into the church long after we showed up. A young, black woman handed us a program as we entered the door. There were musicians playing some introductory music when we took out seats. The group gathered in the church was biracial; an even split between white and black. The congregation was rather grey (in hair color). Maybe a lot of the young folk had to work, so it was mostly older people sitting in the pews.

After we got comfortable, a couple of my friends from Voces de la Frontera came inside and sat a couple rows in front of us (Voces is an immigrant rights organization where I have volunteered for a long time). This was about the time that we were all singing “Lift Every Voice and Sing” (the Black National Anthem). It’s a good song. I found it inspiring, and I don’t inspire easily. After the song ended, I went up to greet Mario and Christine from Voces.

These sorts of services for Dr. King have a pattern to them. There is usually a general greeting. Then the MC will call out people who may have had personal relationships with Martin Luther King. Based on the fact that King died in 1968, there aren’t many of these folks left. However, some still live, and they remember, and we are grateful that they do.

While this was going on, Mario came back to our row, and he sidled up next to me. He asked quietly,

“You been arrested?”

I found his question confusing at first. Yes, I have been arrested for civil disobedience (CD), but I thought he was asking if I wanted to get busted again. I told him,

“Hey, I have to take care of somebody who is on probation. Karin and I are her only life line. I can’t go to jail right now.”

Mario hurried to answer, “No, no, no. I meant ‘have you been arrested in a protest?’ ”

“Yeah.”

Mario went on, “Would you like to stand up with these women from Voces to get recognized for doing that?”

“I got busted, but it wasn’t for anything I did with Voces.”

Mario went on, “Yeah, I know, but you have been with Voces for so long. It would count for us.”

It didn’t feel right somehow. I went to jail for CD in Nevada in 2017 while I protesting against drone warfare. That doesn’t have much of anything to do with immigration rights. Also, even after two years, I don’t know why I did that action. Was it because I was fighting for social justice? Was it because I felt intense loyalty to another guy at the demonstration? Was it because I’m just a fucking idiot?

I told Mario, “I don’t think so.”

Mario said softly, “It’s okay. It’s your decision.” Then he went back to his seat.

I talked to Karin about it.

“Mario wants me to stand up when these other people from Voces stand. They were all arrested.”

Karin asked me, “Do you want to do that?”

“No, not really.”

She looked at me firmly and said,

“Then don’t.”

End of subject.

At this time, a young, black man, DiMonte Henning, started reading from King’s sermon at the Riverside Church in New York City in 1967.

DiMonte recited King’s words: ”

The truth of these words is beyond doubt, but the mission to which they call us is a most difficult one. Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government’s policy, especially in time of war. Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought within one’s own bosom and in the surrounding world. Moreover, when the issues at hand seem as perplexing as they often do in the case of this dreadful conflict, we are always on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty; but we must move on.

And some of us who have already begun to break the silence of the night have found that the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak. We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak. And we must rejoice as well, for surely this is the first time in our nation’s history that a significant number of its religious leaders have chosen to move beyond the prophesying of smooth patriotism to the high grounds of a firm dissent based upon the mandates of conscience and the reading of history. Perhaps a new spirit is rising among us. If it is, let us trace its movements and pray that our own inner being may be sensitive to its guidance, for we are deeply in need of a new way beyond the darkness that seems so close around us.”

It’s hard to listen to those words. It’s hard to know that what I have done is so little. Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing. It feels like I haven’t sacrificed hardly anything.

George Martin, a leader at Peace Action, got up to the microphone. He recognized all those who had risked arrest and imprisonment for justice. When somebody from the congregation stood up, we all said, “Thank you”. I didn’t stand up. Maybe I should have. I don’t know. Honestly, it didn’t feel right. I’m just a guy.

There were other speakers. Joyce Ellwanger, a long time activist, spoke about her actions to protest at the School of the Americas in Georgia. She did six months in federal prison for her efforts. After her came a young man, Solo Littlejohn, who has been busted repeatedly for his fight to get a $15 minimum wage. He said this:

“As a person of color, I didn’t like getting arrested. I felt scared. But, if had not been for Dr. King and his fight, it would have been much worse for me and for others.”

Right on.

There was some music after Solo spoke. The musicians sang “What’s going on?” from Marvin Gaye. Then we all sang “We Shall Overcome”.

I guess I am just a sentimental fool. That song made me cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 20th, 2019

The Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin, posted this letter from me a few hours ago.

“Back in the early 1980s, I was stationed in what was then West Germany, courtesy of the U.S. Army. While I was there, I made a trip to Berlin. At that time Berlin was a divided city with a real wall, a wall much more serious than the wall Trump imagines that he can build on the border with Mexico.

In Berlin, there was a museum at Checkpoint Charlie. The museum illustrated all of the ingenious ways that people had gotten past the wall to escape to the West. No matter how hard the East Germans tried to keep people from crossing the border, some always found a way to do it.

Trump’s wall will not keep many people out. The wall will keep out some immigrants, but not all. People will still find a way to enter the United States. These people will be cleverest and the most desperate. Maybe these are the people that Trump really wants to come to our country. Maybe he actually wants to admit only the most ruthless. In any case, the wall won’t work as advertised. In the end the Berlin Wall fell. It was an abject failure. Even if we waste the money to build Trump’s wall, it will still fail, and it will fall.”

January 17th, 2019

The Subaru is slowly dying.

This is not really a surprise, but it is disappointing. I knew the car was a beater when I bought it, but it’s been more trouble than I ever expected it would be. It would be easier for me if the car had regular, chronic problems, but its issues are idiosyncratic. At random intervals the car will stall out, or fail to start at all. The windshield wipers work whenever they feel like working, which is usually not when it’s raining or snowing. Every time I get into the Subaru is like betting at a casino. It’s always a crap shoot as to whether I am actually going to leave the driveway. I hate this car.

And yet…

It’s a stick shift.

I have a sentimental and irrational love of standard transmissions. Perhaps it is a function of my age. I don’t know. All I know is that I like to drive stick shifts.

This goes back a long, long time. Back in 1981, I was assigned to an Army unit in what was then West Germany. I needed a vehicle to get around, and I found, to my dismay, that there were almost no cars with an automatic transmission in all of Germany. Every car was a stick shift. My choices were either to walk to work, or to learn how to drive a stick. I reluctantly learned how to drive a stick. It was a struggle at first.

The first car that I bought in Germany was a used Ford Taunus. It was a European version of some kind of a Ford. I’m not sure what its equivalent in America was. It was a two-door and it was a four-speed. I paid $700 in cash for the vehicle, and that was all it was worth. It was useful for me in that it allowed me to burn out a clutch with no regrets. It prepared me for my next car.

In 1982 I bought a BMW 320i. That car was sweet. It truly was. I loved that car. I suppose that most men have a car of their dreams. That BMW was mine. It was a four-banger, but it was designed to run on the autobahn. That car could move. I remember driving through the Spessart mountains at 90 mph, when I was dating Karin. The BMW had no problem at all at that speed. I seldom drove faster then 90 mph. My reactions always seemed a bit too slow if I was cruising at a speed higher than that. Also, at speeds of 120 mph of more, the car tended to float, and that meant involuntary lane changes. I like to drive fast, but I also like to drive in control.

I had the BMW for twelve years. Karin and I drove that car throughout Germany. We also took it through Austria, and what was then Yugoslavia. We brought the car to the United States, and we went everywhere with it. There are very few parts of this country that we did not visit with that BMW.

Things change. The BMW aged. It’s transmission failed on us. I had the tranny rebuilt, and I tried to keep the car as long as I could. Then the transmission failed again. That was in 1994. At that point, I sold the car to a Mexican who lived near Mitchell Street in Milwaukee. I remember when he gave it a test drive, he told me,

“Man, this car, it shifts really hard.”

I told, “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m selling it.”

Now, twenty-five years later, my two sons bitterly complain to me about my decision to sell the Beemer. Both of them tell me,

“You should have kept it! I could have rebuilt the tranny and put in a new engine!”

Honestly, that car would be worth a lot now, and one of the boys would have a truly cool ride. But life got in the way. Karin and I had three little kids and we needed a reliable car. The BMW was no longer reliable.

The next step was to buy a Nissan Sentra. That was a five-speed. The Sentra was a good car. We drove it long and hard. I finally sold it to my brother, Marc, who lived in Texas. He and his family needed a decent family car, and Karin and I needed to get a minivan. I drove it down to him on Labor Day weekend of 1997. That was the last time I saw him alive. He died the following February when he had a freak accident in his Mazda.

I had another beater at this time. It was a Mercury Lynx. It was also a stick shift, and it was not terribly reliable. I remember driving it during the winter to pick up Hans and one of his classmates at the Waldorf School of Milwaukee back in the mid 90’s. That afternoon there was a sudden blizzard. It was hideous. The streets were littered with abandoned vehicles. A ride that normally took thirty minutes lasted for six hours. Keep in mind that this was back in the days before cell phones, so Karin (and the mother of Hans’ classmate) had no idea what was going on with us.

At one point we were at the filling station on St. Paul Street in the Third Ward. The battery died and I had to get a jump from another vehicle. It was snowing like crazy and the wind was brutal. As I tried to jump the battery, I put the car into neutral with the parking brake on. I told Hans, who was maybe seven or eight years at the time, to keep his foot on the gas once the car was running. He did. He revved that car up all the way to the red line. The Lynx was just screaming. I told Hans to let off the gas pedal a bit.

He laughed.

Karin and I had minivans for long while after that. We had a Nissan for a while, and then a Honda Odyssey. Minivans do not come with standard transmissions. They just don’t. So, there was a period when I didn’t know what to do with my left foot or my right hand. It was boring.

Eventually, after endless miles, the Odyssey gave up its ghost, and we bought a Honda Fit. It was a snazzy little car, but it was also an automatic. Being the Sports edition, the car had little paddles on the steering wheel that kind of simulated the feel of driving a stick. It wasn’t a good simulation.

About eight years ago, our daughter got a used Honda Civic. It was a five speed. She did not know at the time how to drive a stick. I tried to teach her, but she eventually told me to go away so she learn on her own. The truth is that it is impossible to teach a person how to drive a stick. They have to feel the clutch and listen to the engine rpm’s. Sometimes they also have to smell the burnt clutch. It is one of those things that can only be learned by actually doing it.

We kept the Fit for ten years and two hundred thousand miles. We gave it up in 2017. We drive all of our cars into the dirt. Karin and I feel cheated if we can’t get at least 200K out of a vehicle. We should be on a commercial for Honda.

Seeing as we only buy a car once in a decade, shopping for a vehicle is a traumatic experience. I hate looking for a car. Mostly, I hate it when people lie to me, and that is what happens when we shop for a car. Fortunately, Stefan is car savvy, and he located a new Toyota Corolla for us.

It was a six-speed. Yes.

The Toyota is a nice ride. It handles well at over 100 mph. I won’t go into detail about how we know that.

However, I will relate the following story. This occurred in the spring of 2017.

I was giving rides to three Syrian refugees. I took them back and forth to their ESL classes on Mondays and Wednesdays.

One day I drove them around in the brand new Toyota Corolla that Karin and I bought. We finally got rid of the 2007 Honda Fit with the 259K miles on it. The new car had a six speed stick. It took me a few minutes to get used to driving it. Briefly, there was the pungent odor of burnt clutch. At least I didn’t stall it out, or roll back when I stopped on a hill.

The old Syrian sitting next to me liked the car. He kept smiling and making arm motions like he was shifting gears. I told him in my broken Arabic, “Zoujaty tuhib as-sarya al-jadida.” (“My wife likes the new car”.) He laughed a bit. I told him that it had a stick shift.

Nahoor smiled and said, “Steeck sheeft! Automatic?!”

“La ma automatic.” (“Not an automatic.”).

“Steeck Sheeft?”

“Na’am (Yes), Stick shift.”

“Guud. Steeck sheeft.”

We both smiled.