Frank is Emptiness

November 27th, 2017

About twenty-five years ago, I had a friend named Mike Macy. He and his wife had their child in the Waldorf School of Milwaukee at the same time that Karin and I had Hans in that school. Our children were in the same class, and we sometimes met at school functions. Eventually, Mike and his wife moved away, and I lost track of him. However, for a while, we had a number of interesting conversations.

Mike had worked overseas, I believe with the State Department. For a time he was stationed in India. Mike would tell me stories about his life there. I have forgotten most of his tales, but one sticks in my memory.

Mike bemoaned the fact that in India punctuality was an alien concept. While he was working there, Mike would make appointments for meetings with various Indian officials. Typically, the Indians would show up late, or perhaps not at all.  Mike told me of one incident when an Indian bureaucrat arrived very late for a meeting, and Mike asked him in exasperation why he was so tardy. The Indian calmly explained to Mike that he had unexpectedly met an old friend on the way to the meeting, and that he simply had to stop and talk with this man. He couldn’t just blow the guy off. In fact, the Indian and his old friend had tea together, and the Indian felt that he could not leave his companion until the conversation had run its course. Mike was dumbfounded by the man’s story, and the Indian could not understand Mike’s puzzlement. What could be more important than spending time with a friend?

Yesterday I met Rob in the produce section of the grocery store. He is an ER physician, and his schedule is erratic. We literally bumped into each other at the store. Rob and I have known each for a long time. We are close friends, but we hadn’t been together for nearly a year. We stood around, blocking the bins of lemons and kiwis, for the better part of an hour. Other shoppers looked at us with a certain amount of disdain. We were impeding the flow of their shopping. We didn’t care.

Rob said to me, “We really ought to get together. Do you want me to stop by this afternoon? Or do you want to come to my house for coffee? Maybe we could go to that Mexican restaurant again, wherever that was.”

I actually had plans for the entire afternoon. I was going to Kenosha to get some personal effects from somebody’s impounded vehicle. Then I planned to go to a demonstration in favor of the DREAM ACT and immigrant rights. The demonstration was to be held in front of Paul Ryan’s office in Racine.

I thought for a moment. If I put off meeting with Rob, then we would never hook up. Some things need to be done immediately or they don’t get done at all.

I asked Rob, “What time will you be home?”

He replied, “In an hour and a half.”

“I’ll be at your house then.”

I met Rob at 1:30 PM. He made tea for us both, and we sat in his kitchen. We talked, and we talked, and we talked some more. No one checked the time. I only realized that it was getting late because I saw the sun going down through his window.

We accomplished nothing during the three hours that I was there. We solved no problems. We just told each other what was in our hearts. We listened to each other. We joked sometimes. We grieved sometimes. We were just there for each other, as completely as we could be. That needed to happen. That had to happen.

Today I went to Kenosha and emptied out the impounded car. I will surely go to another demonstration in the near future. Some things can wait a while. Some can’t.

I understand the Indian.

 

 

 

 

November 26th, 2017

Visiting hours at the Kenosha County Jail are generally from 1:00 to 3:00 PM on Sundays, but not for everybody. I have found that every jail, in every county, has a different set of rules for visits. Kenosha has a particularly Byzantine set of regulations, one that is possibly confusing even to the people who work at the jail.  Karin and I can only visit our incarcerated family member on the 1st, 2nd, and 4th Sunday of each month. Other people get to visit their loved ones on the 2st, 3rd, or 4th Saturday. Some can only visit on the 1st Saturday of the month. Some get to come on the 1st Saturday and the 3rd Sunday of each month. I’m not making this up. You can go online and look for yourself.

Karin and I arrived a little after 1:00 PM. We passed through a narrow hallway full of people who were waiting. Some sat, but most people were standing. There were a few seats, but not enough for everybody who was there. We walked to the man behind the glass window at the end of the hall. He had us fill out a slip of paper and show him our ID’s. Then we sat down until somebody from inside the locked room called us.

While we waited, a heavy-set black woman came in with her three small children. She went up to register with the man at the window, and they entered into a lengthy discussion.

The woman asked the man, “So, when I go in, can I take all three of the children with me?”

The man looked at a sheet of paper covered with rules, and explained that the lady could only make the visit accompanied by one child.

She replied to him, “I called here before, and they said that I could bring them all. What am I supposed to do with two of them if I can only take one child into the room with me? I ain’t got nobody to watch them other two children.”

The man behind the glass shrugged.

Then the woman asked him, “Well, if I have to leave two of the kids out here in the hall, can I go in three times, once with each of the children?”

The man patiently explained that she could only make one visit for a total of ten minutes. One visit with one of the kids. She wasn’t allowed to have three visits for a total thirty minutes.

She went on, “When I called, they told me that I could bring all three children. I wouldn’t have walked all the way over here if I knew that I could only take one child into that room.”

The man got all bureaucratic and gave her the “rules are rules” speech. He wasn’t rude to her, but he was firm. She sat down and tried to keep her children quiet until she had her visit.

Karin got called to go into see the loved one. Now Karin and I had signed up separately, so we got have two visits for a total of twenty minutes. We couldn’t go in together, and that was just as well. Each visitation booth had only one seat and one phone.

While Karin talked behind the locked door for her ten minutes, I sat and observed. Once again, I was a minority among minorities. I was one of two white guys sitting in a hallway surrounded by blacks and Latinos. The other white guy was a lawyer. It was almost impossible not be struck by the twisted demographics in that hallway.

Karin came out, and my name was called over the loudspeaker. I went in and took a seat across from the loved one. We were divided by Plexiglas, and our histories. We mostly talked business. Being put in jail leaves a lot of loose ends. I am helping to tidy up all the aspects of life that the loved one can not handle under the circumstances. There is much to do.

The loved one asked me over and over to help her find a place once she gets released, whenever that happens in the distant future. I promised that Karin and I would take care of that. She would not be abandoned by us. I am not sure that the young woman behind the glass totally believed me, but I will do what I can.

As Karin and I left the jail, I thought about the other people locked up in there. Our family member has us to support her. We can’t fix everything for her, but we are there. I wonder if all the others have people on the outside. What is it like for somebody who has nobody? What is it like when nobody visits, and nobody writes, and nobody picks up the phone? What is it like to know that nobody will be there when you get out?

What is it like to be alone?

 

 

 

 

November 24, 2017

Hans called twice yesterday. The first call was typical for him. He spent a lot of time describing how much his job has sucked during the last couple days. It’s a family tradition for people to complain about their work. He talked about his motorcycle. He told me that the massacre in Las Vegas was really a conspiracy, and that there had been a second shooter. He bitched about all those lazy, entitled Millennials. The call was more of a monologue than a conversation.

A couple hours later, Hans called again.

“Hey Dad, I got a question for you”, Hans said in his Texas drawl.

That made me wary. “What’s up?”

“What would you and Mom say if I asked Gabi to marry me?”

“I’m okay with that. It sounds cool. When are you going to ask her?”

Hans replied, “I already did.”

“So, what did she say?”

“At first she thought I was joking, but then she said ‘yes’ “.

“Well, good. I’ll let Mom know.”

Hans said sheepishly, “I didn’t have a ring or anything.”

“That’s okay. When I talked to Mom, I didn’t either.”

Hans went on, “I wasn’t sure at first, because we haven’t been together very long.”

“Well, Mom and I were only dating for maybe six months or so when I asked her.”

“Gabi and me, we’ve been together for about five months.”

“You’re good.”

Hans said, “It just felt right, you know?”

“Yeah, you got to follow your heart.”

Hans slowly said, “Wellll, I was just calling to find out what you would think. I was just checking.”

“When are you going to do this?”

“Some time next year.”

“Mom and I will come, if you want us to.”

Hans snorted, “Of course, I want you to come!”

I replied, “I was just checking.”

“Yeah, right. Well, I just called to let you know.”

“Congratulations, Hans.”

“Thanks. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

 

 

November 23rd, 2017

Today is Thanksgiving. Somebody I love will be spending today behind bars. I am sure that individual will find it difficult to think of reasons to be grateful. I know that I am struggling to feel gratitude in this situation.

Jails are all pretty much the same, at least in the United States. Granted, there are obviously variations with regards to the manner in which prisoners are treated, but all jails have certain common characteristics. I have often been in jails, usually as a visitor, and once as an inmate. After a while, you begin to notice certain things.

The Kenosha County Jail has the usual physical hallmarks. The place has cinderblock walls, painted in a dull, bureaucratic green. There are few, if any, windows. There are doors, but none of them open. Most of what is posted on the walls has to do with rules and regulations. There can never be enough rules. It is rare to interact with another human face-to-face. Generally, the other person, be they inmate or guard, is shielded by a window made of Plexiglas, and their voice comes out of a speaker somewhere.

It’s all about control. The state has to control the prisoners, and it employs guards for that purpose. The state also uses an endless number of walls and locked doors to maintain this control. Keep the inmates separate from the guards, and keep everybody separate from the public. Maybe separate the inmates from each other. The separation isn’t just about physical contact. Control is also about minimizing communication. Allow only outbound collect phone calls. Only permit brief visits from friends and relatives. Allow only snail mail correspondence between prisoners and the outside world. Watch everybody all the time.

Jails are expensive. I am not talking about the tax dollars required to house inmates. Jails are expensive for the inmates themselves and for those who care about them. I have had several calls with the family member who is currently incarcerated. Each call is about $15 a pop for a maximum of fifteen minutes of conversation. The prisoner needs money from an outside source (in this case the money is from me) to fund a commissary account, so that the person can get basic personal items (soap, paper, postage stamps, pencils, etc.). There is a fee for almost everything. If a person is not broke before they go to jail, odds are good that they will be when they get out.

A person in jail makes few decisions. Somebody else is running that person’s life. That can be oddly liberating at times, but it is also scary. The person I love is scared. She has a history of anxiety and panic attacks. She is not in a place that will make it easier for her to deal with those problems. This person is worried about the future, and it will be months before her path becomes clear. She may be stuck in jail or prison for several years. Her fate is not yet decided. In the meantime, she waits in a sort of limbo. Justice in America is not swift, and often it is not just.

Would it be better if the person I loved was out on bond? I could post it, if I wanted to do that. However, this individual has often managed to harm herself, although perhaps not intentionally. If she were on the street, would she survive? I don’t know if she would, but I do know from experience that I would have no control on her actions. In jail, she is relatively safe, at least for now. Outside, maybe not. What is the better choice: living as an inmate or dying as a free person?

Should she be thankful on this day? I don’t know. The loved one has to decide that.

Should I be grateful. Yes. She is alive. So, there is hope for the future. Things can get better. Maybe they will.

 

November 17th, 2017

 

I went to a symposium. The title of the session was: “Facing the Challenges Together: Climate Change Impacts on Human Health”. I bet that somebody spent hours, or even days, coming up with that slogan. The printed schedule of events had a picture of the earth surrounded by a stethoscope. Nice. The symposium was designed for people who work in the public health area, so it kind of made sense for things to be geared toward that population. I am not part of that group, so I felt a bit left out.

There were a number of speakers. They were all intelligent and knowledgeable. They also tended to speak in jargon. I found it both interesting and amusing to listen people babble on, using words that made sense to them, but perhaps unaware that these same words that would be very unfamiliar to outsiders. I heard a lot about “priority populations” and about “vulnerabilities, resilience, and mitigation”. I basically understood what was being discussed, but clearly this was a language peculiar to professionals working in the public health field.

There were question and answer sessions interspersed between the lectures. One guy asked, “What do we say to somebody who thinks that climate change is actually good?” I can understand the sentiment of somebody who thinks there might be an upside to climate change. Anybody who has lived in Wisconsin knows how brutal the winter weather can be. I worked for nearly twenty-eight years on the dock of a trucking company in the Milwaukee area. The weather conditions on an unheated loading dock are exactly the same as the those of the outside environment. If it is minus ten degrees outside, it is minus ten degrees on that dock. I used to dread the end of January/beginning of February because we would always get a week when the temperature never rose above zero. Zero Degrees Fahrenheit. That’s lethal. That’s not much above the summer temperature on the surface of Mars. Climate change? Fuck yeah!

There were few , if any, climate change skeptics at that symposium. The presenters had a sympathetic audience. It seems to me that the folks talking about climate change do not sell the idea very well. The scientific evidence seems overwhelming, yet people still are not convinced. In order to sell the concept, it has to be made personal. A picture of starving polar bears cubs simply is not good enough. I don’t care about polar bears. They are ruthless carnivores who would gladly kill and eat me if they had the chance. The little balls of white fur in the climate change propaganda are not persuasive.

However, the public health and safety angle is persuasive. If somebody comes to me and says, “Hey, we are expecting people in our county to contract West Nile virus and dengue fever in the next year or so”, I might pay attention. Or if somebody tells me, “Yeah, fifty people may die in Milwaukee this summer from extreme heat”, I might listen up. I may not care about flooding in Bangladesh or droughts in Syria. However, even if I don’t believe in manmade climate change, I will care about real life problems in my own community. I will give a damn about problems that affect my own family and friends. I will care because now it’s personal.

There are clear connections between climate change and public health issues. The climate in Wisconsin is changing. We are getting warmer and wetter. These changes are making a difference. These changes will cause new problems. We don’t really have to care about the causes of climate change, at least not at first. We will need to care about the resultant issues. Caring about the problems caused by climate change will force us to eventually confront the underlying causes. We have to get kicked in the head before we notice the big issues.

Mayor Barrett spoke at the symposium. For the most part, he talked like a politician. Well. that’s his job. However, he discussed the effects of President Trump pulling out of the Paris Accords on climate change. On one level, it sucks that he did that. On another level, it might be a Godsend.

Barrett said that over 380 cities and municipalities, including the City of Milwaukee, have joined “We Are Still In”, which means that these communities are still involved with the Paris Accords. This also means that in the United States there are at least 380 climate change laboratories. There are 380 local groups working to fight against global warming and/or the effects of it. That means there are 380 different possible local solutions to a global problem. That’s actually pretty cool. The Federal government (i.e. the EPA) does not necessarily have all the answers. A bottom-up solution to the problem might be better than one forced on local communities from the top. Ironically, Trump might be doing the citizens of this country a favor.

I had an interesting morning. I learned some things. It was worth my time.

 

 

November 15th, 2017

Shocky was restless.

Shocky is Hannah’s dog. She’s a border collie, and generally adorable. Shocky sleeps in the bedroom with Karin and me. As I was lying on the bed in the dark, I heard the dog jingling the ID tags on her collar. She does that when she is thirsty or when she needs to go outside. It is pointless to ignore Shocky when she does that. Her next step is to whine pathetically, and she won’t stop until her needs are met.

I got up and stumbled toward the digital clock on my dresser. The time showed as 3:30 AM. I threw on some clothes and took Shocky to the bedroom door. Through the door I thought I heard music coming from Hannah’s old room. I opened the door and saw a light at the bottom of her bedroom door.

I thought to myself, “Is she even here? Why?” Somehow, I felt relieved that she was in the house.

Then I got angry. “She’s going to wake up Stefan! He needs to work in the morning!”

I moved toward our daughter’s bedroom. I heard a voice from behind me saying,

“Frank! Frank!”

“What?!”

I felt Karin’s hand on my shoulder. She was gently shaking me.

She said softly, “It’s okay…it’s okay, Frank.”

I pulled my head off of the pillow, and rolled on to my back. Karin moved over to her side of the bed. She settled down to sleep again. She is used to dealing with years of me having nightmares. I was lying on my back, my heart racing and my breath ragged.

Karin’s breathing found a peaceful rhythm. I stared at the skylight and let the contents of my dream ebb away. I was slipping back into sleep.

Shocky was restless.

I heard her shaking her tags. I got out of bed. I stumbled over to the dresser and looked at the clock. Now it said 3:32 AM. I threw on some clothes and went to the bedroom door.

I opened the door, and I involuntarily looked down the hall toward Hannah’s old room. It was dark and empty and silent. I sighed.

I took Shocky outside. I didn’t sleep after that.

 

 

 

November 15th, 2017

(the following letter was posted in the Capital Times)

Dear Editor: My father is a vet. He served in the Navy during the Korean War time frame. On Friday I went to visit him at his nursing home. The people running the nursing home had a Veterans Day presentation for all the residents. The ceremony was simultaneously corny and deeply moving. It made me think.

I am also a veteran. I was an Army helicopter pilot during the 1980s. My oldest son joined the Army and fought in Iraq in 2011.

Veterans Day made me wonder about America and our wars. Currently, we are fighting in Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Niger, and God only knows where else. These wars seem endless. We have been in Afghanistan for 16 years already. An entire generation is growing up in time of war, but that generation seems totally unaware of the fact. We have been at it so long that people don’t even notice that we are at war. The fighting overseas is just background noise. Nobody cares, except for those who personally know somebody who has been involved in the wars. Our family has three generations of veterans. If my son has children, will they become veterans too?

November 11th, 2017

Karin and I arrived in Iola a little before 2:00 PM. My dad lives in a nursing home there, and we were going to visit with him. Iola is a small town in central Wisconsin, founded by Scandinavian immigrants a long time ago. There is a larger-than-life statue of a Viking warrior in Iola, along with a diner, a feed store, and a Lutheran church. Garrison Keillor would feel right at home in this burg.

It had been a couple months since I last saw my father. Iola is about three hours away from where we live, so Karin and I don’t get up that way very often. When we arrived, we walked into the nursing home and looked for my dad’s room. We found a nurse who told us that most of the residents were gathering in the dining hall for a Veterans Day celebration. She led us to the dining room, and we found my father sitting in there.

My dad was sitting in a line along the wall with other vets. We shook hands, and Dad told us, “Well, find a seat. There are some empty chairs over there.” Karin sat on the other side of the room, and I sat between two old guys. A volunteer came up to me and asked if I could move across the way, because they needed all the chairs in this line for the veterans who were to be honored. I got up and sat next to Karin. Then another volunteer came to me and asked, “Are you a vet?”

I told her that I was. She said, “Oh, go on back to the line on the other side of the room.”

“But I don’t live here. We’re just visiting.”

She smiled and said, “That’s okay. We have vets here who aren’t residents.”

I went back to my dad. Yet another woman came up to me and asked, “Are you listed on our program?”

“No, I doubt it. I don’t live here. I just came to visit my father.”

The lady frowned a bit, and said, “Well,  you know, these seats are just for the men listed on our program, so maybe you could find another place.”

Having been banished again, I went back to sit with Karin.

The Veterans Day program was supposed to start at 2:00, but there appeared to be some confusion. It took a while for all of the veterans to straggle into the hall. Some were in wheel chairs. Some had walkers. Some of them were bright-eyed and talkative. Some of them were slumped over in their chairs, just barely conscious. My dad had struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to him. He’s good at that sort of thing.

The room was decorated with small American flags, and all the tables had red, white, and blue cloths on them. People from the kitchen were putting out snacks to be served after the ceremony. There were several members of the local American Legion standing around, wearing their garrison caps and their insignia that meant nothing to anybody outside of the Legion. Two girls stood there, holding cornets. Nursing home attendants and local volunteers were fluttering around the room, trying to organize people that had no interest in being organized. Eventually, there was relative calm, and Nicole, an administrator, started the program.

She welcomed everyone to the ceremony, and then she introduced the men of the American Legion. They all stood in a line, trying to look proud and military. Actually, they all looked like they wanted to be sitting on barstools somewhere, but they were there for the vets. I’m sure they found a tavern later in the day.

The American Legion guys led everyone in the Pledge of Allegiance. That was a bit confusing, because some people stood up and some didn’t. Most of the people who remained sitting did so probably because they couldn’t stand up. After all, we were in a nursing home.

The two girls were from the local high school. They played the National Anthem. Once again, some people stood, while some sat. The young women needed a bit more practice. They lost their way part way through the song, as did those who were attempting to sing along. When it finally and mercifully ended, I had the urge to yell, “Play ball!” I managed to hold back. Then we sang off-key versions of “America the Beautiful” and “God Bless America”.

There was a moment of blessed silence.

Nicole introduced all the resident veterans on her program. She said their names, their ranks and branches of service, and where and when they served in the military. That was interesting. A number of the men were WWII vets. Some, like my dad, were Korean War vintage. I think there was one guy there was from the Vietnam era. Each man raised his hand as his name was called. Each one seemed to become more alert when they heard a brief story of their time in service.

Nicole then mentioned the names of those residents who had been veterans, but had passed away during the course of the year. Maybe there were family members in the room who remembered them. I don’t know. It was a good thing to say their names one last time.

In conjunction with that, Nicole talked about the “Missing Man Table” that they had set up in the dining hall. It was a tiny table set up with one set of dishes. There was rose on the table and a Bible. The wine glass was inverted to indicate that the missing vet would never drink a toast again. There was a slice of lemon to remind people of the sorrow the veteran may have experienced. There was salt on the table to symbolize the tears of those who miss the fallen veteran. That reminded me somehow of the salt water placed on the table during the seder meal on Pesach.

The two girls then played “Taps”. They did well with that. “Taps” has a deep emotional content. I remember, when I was at West Point, that a senior from the school had died in a car wreck. He crashed his sports car on Bear Mountain. In the evening, just before sunset, all the cadets assembled on the Plain. Three buglers played “Taps”, one after the other. First, the bugler nearest the assembled students played the song. Then a bugler at a distance away took up the melody. Finally, the third bugler, who was closest to the Hudson, played “Taps”. He was barely audible. That cut to the heart. Only a man without a soul could remain unmoved after that.

Nicole concluded the ceremony, and then invited people to stay for food and drinks. They actually served beer there. Dad had a Leinenkugel Honey Weiss. It seemed a bit odd, but then again we are in Wisconsin.

We sat with Dad at a table. He had tears in eyes. He had been silently crying. I’m not sure why or for whom. Maybe he had remembered his Navy friend, Kelly. He and Kelly used to trade their rations. Kelly would give my dad his beer, and my dad would give Kelly his cigarettes. They served in the Caribbean together. Kelly died years ago from cancer. Dad had always talked about going down to Florida to visit Kelly, but then he got a Christmas card from Kelly’s wife, saying that Kelly had died. Maybe Dad was thinking about that.

Maybe Dad was grieving for his lost youth. Veterans Day is not so much about patriotism as it is about being young and idealistic. For many people, maybe even for me, the time in the military was life-changing. It was time that was exciting. It was a time to be alive.

It is worth remembering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 6th, 2017

Recently, my wife received the following email from the leader of her prayer network:

“Dear Prayer Network Ministers,  

Please pray for those who are in, or support sexuality contrary to our church’s teaching. Let us be solid in our understanding of God’s law and have the courage to lovingly speak His truth.

Please pray for faith filled family members struggling with deep sorrow in regard to its widespread acceptance.”

Okay…that is not a typical prayer request. Most of the of the time, people ask for more mundane and non-controversial sorts of things. People ask for prayers so that they might find a job, or that a friend will have a successful surgery, or that a family member may pass away peacefully while in hospice. Generally, the prayer requests are no-brainers. It usually comes down to: “Somebody is suffering, please pray for them.”

On the face of it, this particular request would seem to be referring to gays and trans persons. But, maybe not. The rules of the Catholic Church concerning sexuality are far-reaching. This prayer request might also be speaking to people who are divorced and remarried (without the benefit of an annulment), or it could be talking about folks that are living together, but are unmarried. The point is that there is a very large percentage of the population that is not following the precepts of the Church with regards to sexuality.

So, for what exactly are we supposed to be praying?

Are we supposed to be praying that people who are not following the teachings of the Catholic Church get their act together? I am uneasy with that. I know gay couples who are in loving and monogamous relationships. They are following Christ to the best of their abilities. I find to difficult to see the problem with the way they are living their lives. I know couples who are divorced and remarried. They seem to be good people, living good lives. I know a lot of younger people who cohabitate, and they are doing just fine. I also know couples who are following all of the Church’s rules, and their relationships suck.

I struggle to reconcile the teachings of the Church on sexuality with what I see with my own eyes. If the Church could show me what harm is being done by people who are not in Church-approved relationships, then I would take the teaching far more seriously. The arguments that are based on the Bible or the Tradition of the Church don’t cut it. If people are in relationships that are wrong, I want to know why these interactions are wrong.

The phrase “lovingly speak His truth” irks me. If Jesus has any truth, it is that love is everything. Whatever we do in this world that increases love is good. Rules that create more love are good. Rules that cause suffering and hate are not from Christ. Maybe I just don’t understand, and perhaps the teachings of the Church on sexuality actually do bring about more love. If they do, I don’t see how.

Somebody needs to explain it to me.

 

 

 

November 7th, 2017

(This short letter from me showed up on the Chicago Tribune site “Voice of the People”. Occasionally the Tribune posts my words.)

“People seemed shocked by the massacre at the church in Sutherland Springs, Texas. I don’t understand why they are. We have frequent mass killings in this country. Hardly a week goes by that somebody doesn’t fire up a group of people. That is the American way.

Liberals cry out for tighter gun control. Some conservatives say that we actually need more guns in the hands of churchgoers. I don’t think that the number of guns available matters that much. The issue goes much deeper than that.

The fact is that we, as Americans, truly believe that violence solves problems. This shows up domestically, and it is an integral part of our nation’s foreign policy. We somehow have come to the conclusion that a bullet or a bomb will make the correct and final decision for us in any given situation.

It is irrelevant how many firearms there are if we believe that killing others makes sense.”

— Francis Pauc, Oak Creek, Wis.