After Trayvon Martin

I heard/read three stories on the same day that left me really wondering about the meaning of the death of Trayvon Martin. I tried to write about it in what I'd characterize as my normal style--something like loosely stringing together ideas around a topic in an attempt to provoke thought? I think it's too delicate to be indirect.

I caught the tail end of an audio essay on All Things Considered the other day. A young black man name Miles Best was delivering what I thought was going to be the third in a series of essays I'd heard chronicling the unfair and unfortunate but necessary instructions that the mothers of black boys impart to their children. Basically the intent of all of these instructions is to communicate the importance of seeming non-threatening, in a world that is predisposed to seeing a threat in a black male. Mr. Best closed his essay brilliantly and made me think. In his closing sentence he didn't characterize himself as being seen as a threat, but a target.

The other two articles are linked here:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/07/17/202956379/rolling-stones-tsarnaev-cover-whats-stirring-such-passion


http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=202729367


For the lazy among you I will summarize:

The first link is NPR's take on the Rolling Stone Tsarnaev cover. The part of the angle is that when white people do heinous things, we look for a reason--bad family, bad upbringing, trauma etc.

The second is a piece about high school students transcending gender. If that doesn't make you want to read it, I don't know what will!


It all cooked down in my mind to this:
Seeing young black men as a threat is an absurd position, defensible only with a heavy reliance on skewed anecdote. The contention that in fact, young black men are a target, a representation of something non blacks want to kill is repugnant. When two people meet on the street, after dark, and one is packing; which one is the threat? The only part left for Martin to play was the target. Once this sank in, I was angry.

Then, faced with the reality that when white people commit atrocities, apparently premeditated atrocities, they are apologized for, I almost lost hope.

Until I heard the kids! At first I dismissed them as absurd. However, I'm a sucker for equal parts idealism and immaturity. It's a winning combination. I'm not implying that maturity is good and immaturity is bad either. Immaturity is just fleeting, but idealism...you can hang onto that.

By the time my daughter is to make her own way in this world she will be a minority in our country. Maybe by then it won't matter. As we white's lose our numerical dominance, I'm sure our apologists will grow louder before they are silenced. But even if they aren't, if the adolescents in this story characterize the audience, it won't matter. And as for some being targets or threats...When selection of a gender pronoun takes discussion, I don't see any practical way to generate race and gender stereotypes. If these teens have their way, you'd have to spend an hour every morning defining the shifting description of everyone you wanted to hate for that day. I must admit, I wasn't offended by this last story, but I did feel a touch of bewilderment. That was until I realized that definition is a key ingredient in hatred. You can love everyone. But you can't hate everyone, we've all got moms and kids etc. If you are going to hate, you must define. And it seems like that is getting more complicated.

So maybe my daughter won't be out of touch after growing up in a beach town. We are removed from a lot of violence. We are also removed from the dynamic thought that might expunge some of the violence form our culture. We probably aren't part of the problem, but we aren't part of the solution either. Or maybe we are .... everyone is here to go to the beach. In cheap trunks with your nine dollar flip flops and your Mercedes, or Civic--whichever the case may be--parked at the cottage, we all seem remarkably the similar. In a world where we are remarkably similar, fewer of us get shot.

Stacking The Deck

My vague goal here is to explore what makes place important, or not--my place in particular. I'm motivated to do this as I try to comprehend my personal balance of family, work and play. For a series of moments this evening, my understanding of the value of my choices was crystal clear.

Work was average today. It rained some, the bane of the construction worker. But, on average we continued to enjoy a break in what seemed like an endless heat wave, and I am on the cusp of getting all of the people that depend on me back to very steady work for the next nine months or so. On the cusp, not quite there. Put another way, there is some end in sight to the greatest recurring stress of my professional life.

As I wrapped things up today though, I found myself near my daughter's daycare, picked her up a little early, and took her with me to finish the day at the office. We walked down to the ocean together before heading home. I was hoping for a little wave to ride later in the evening, but it didn't look to promising. We got home and kissed wife/mom, depending on which one of us you asked, and I slipped out for a quick motorcycle ride-my choice B afterwork grown-up stress reliever. I was feeling pretty relaxed as I turned into the driveway, only to see wife, daughter and dog headed to the beach. I caught up. Child and dog wandered the beach and played and fetched, respectively. Special lady friend and I followed and monitored and sipped beverages. The surf looked better and better. I commented to wife. We brought the brood home and she suggested I go catch a few waves. Really? Choice A and B adult afterwork relaxation in one day?

The surf was in fact not good. Two short rides and a little stretching the limbs really. But, the air was just below too hot. The water was just above too cold. The eastern sky was a deep grayish blue, shaking off the days thunder showers. The western sky was a blazing orange sunset. The north and south held every color in between. All the while, it was all so understated. I wouldn't describe it as perfect. It was just great, and made greater by its ease, and its ease is a function of its proximity.

Proximity is what stacks the deck in my favor. That's why we bet on this hand (to drive a metaphor into the ground). The move to Duck was a move closer to the things that can't make everyday perfect, but serve as a constant thumb on the scale of life. Tonight the ocean was in the middle, like a comfortable old friend; refreshing, not to exciting. Sometimes it reminds us how insignificant we are. Other days it cradles us like children. When you are trying to balance a life, being steps from an ocean that makes you feel like a child, and within view of sunsets over the sound that make you feel like a king, it's hard not to feel like you are cheating.

In September, the visitors will thin out, my guys will all have plenty to do, and my wife and I will walk with our daughter to the beach. She will push further into the water than we want, but no farther than I would in her position. She will hold up a jellyfish, or sea star, or sea glass for our inspection. Her lips will be just turning blue. Her grin will be irrevocable. I will beam down at her secure in the knowledge that if her mother and I have given her nothing else, we've given her proximity to the sea. She will learn volumes from the sea, but what is more, I hope wherever she goes, she will feel close to it.

Adversity Not Included

Today Malala Yousafzai, on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, addressed the United Nations. In her own characterization she spoke "for the right of every child." I have followed Malala's story with an interest I would not have had just four years ago; I have a three year old daughter. I love her dearly, as all fathers do their own daughters. In our community of ease and privilege, a community I was not born into, I have seen many daughters and sons spoiled. Of course I have vowed not to do this with my daughter, but will it be so easy? I'm plagued by this question.

Malala speaks out for every child's right to an education. My daughter cannot fight this fight, it has been fought for her. In her circumstance, she might be able to start a campaign demanding a private college prep education, but that sounds as trite a struggle as I've ever heard. Malala Yousafzai; determined to secure her education, determined to assure this accommodation for her friends and neighbors, martyred (so it would seem) for her cause, returns larger than life to proclaim that an education is a right, for all children. This right she even proclaims for the daughters and sons of her would-be murderers. This young woman embodies everything I hope to see developed in my child; determination, bravery, kindness, grace. Her spirit has been tempered by the most intense adversity and yet, hers is a sweet, gracious spirit.

Mine is not a burden unique to the parents of children raised in resort areas, it is the burden of affluence everywhere. Those of us not born with a silver spoon in our mouths went to work--we had to, there was competition there, performance was a necessity, not an option. With some luck and a great deal of hard work we secured our more and more comfortable future. By extension we have secured a more and more secure future for our progeny. Herein lies the problem: the sense that I had to support myself motivated me to work for my security. My childhood could not be characterized as fraught with adversity. Point of fact, it was pretty great. My daughter's is shaping up to be even more secure. So where does character come from? Adversity cannot be manufactured. Generosity born out of the shame of abundance is not generosity--it's just shame.

And yet, for the one Malala we have embodying the goodness of one daughter over the evil of this world, there are scores of lost children. The adversity that has strengthened this young girl and catapulted her to the forefront of our attention has claimed the lives of countless daughters and sons. No father would wish the pain and suffering that this and countless other children have endured on his own daughter in the hope of building character. And what of those who survive adversity only to be come bitter and hard?

I'm not sure that there is a remedy, or a route out of this conundrum. I do know that my daughter will know Malala's story and be reminded of it often. Most of us will never know what the true nature of our character would be when facing down the barrel of a gun. All of us see pieces of constitution when we are facing minor adversity, and we think no one is looking. I don't know her, and I could be wrong, but my bet would be that Malala's singularity was not immediately forged in that one defining moment before a muzzle flash. That was simply the moment her character, built of a million tiny moments of determination to overcome, was galvanized. I hope my daughter never faces down the barrel of a gun but I do hope that I can instill in her the sense that each moment our character is tested, even in the slightest, is our opportunity to tip our own personal balance in the direction of goodness.



A Link to Malala's speech to the UN






Background from Vanity Fair
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/2013/04/malala-yousafzai-pakistan-profile

Leather and Lace...Ebony and Ivory...Khaki and White

I saw something peculiar this morning. I occasionally take my beloved pooch for a beach stroll before work. As a construction worker, this means we must be home before quarter to seven. This particular morning was lovely. It was cloudy, but not overcast, so the sun rise was electric and shimmering orange and gray. There was a lone photographer trying to capture the moment with due diligence. The peculiarity arose from the two other photographers and their clients all clad in--you guessed it--some form of khaki pants and white tops. Kudos to those willing to rise at six am or earlier to get their beach photo. And it is duly noted that they were lovely families. I must say though. It's vacation, no uniform is required. If you are dedicated enough to get up at the crack of dawn to document your moment of "relaxation" go big, or go home. Khaki and white are tired. If you are up at sunrise, you obviously are not tired. Show it! If you are going to curtail my dogs fetch moment. Do it in leather and lace, Ebony and Ivory, orange and pink--whatever, just not khaki and white. It's overdone. Live large, or live meekly...after fetch time.

Water On a Mission

I participated in a canoe trip on the headwaters of the James River this past weekend, and learned something about my home. A brief overview: For those who love and are refreshed by nature, but occasionally loath hiking and its discomforts, I recommend a canoe trip. Canoes are indeed the boat reduced to its leanest and most capable form; fine lines, shallow draft, astonishing payload to displacement ratio. An elegant solution to humanities aquatic needs. Rivers are at their inceptions pristine, quiet and lively places. The trip carried me over forty eight miles of sometimes pristine, but mostly just rural river land. There were small mouth bass and muskie. There were also cranes and cows grazing and drinking at the waters edge. The weekdays were devoid of people. The weekend days were full of floaters. Here is what fascinated me: Even on the most placid sections of the river, I could obviously see that the river was dropping in elevation; going down hill. Subject to the lay of the land and gravity, massive amounts of water were cascading in what seemed like slow motion to the sea. Now, this seems obvious. Anyone that can read a map can see this on paper. However, not only am I a flat lander, I'm a coastal dweller. The water I live with is as level as--well-- sea level. Sure there are hydrological phenomenon at play in my coastal region that allude to the dynamic tendencies of water. Sure there are storms and storm surges, wind events, etc. But on most days this is reality: All rivers flow to the sea, and where I live so is the sea, and all of our water is, ultimately at sea level. Stasis. Now here's the leap. I think that is what makes this area special. It is explicit. You have reached the end of the line. Without some serious hardware, you cannot go on. So sit. Look out, be inspired by the space, the expanse. But sit, because you are on the margin. The thin line where the rivers meet the sea. The point of stasis--the point of equilibrium. The only appropriate thing to do is relax completely. Modern humans have found refreshment for the soul in nature essentially since we've abandoned a natural life. But replenishment comes from the mountain at the price of physical exertion--or fossil fuels in some cases. Replenishment in the meadow is found in the seeing of its true nature--active observation of flora and fauna. At the sea's edge, while there are ancillary pass-times for the uninitiated, true aficionados simply observe. Or perhaps absorb would be the better word. At the point where the river meets the sea, where the earth levels out, in a since, we can level out. Perhaps that is the appeal, you can surf, fish, throw a frisbie. But you can also snowboard, hunt, or document bird sightings. I am having trouble conceiving in my mind anywhere else that it is not only acceptable, but expected that we will just sit, relax, exist, and get exactly what we need out of just being.