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Greater Blind Mole-Rat

This war in the Ukraine is an atrocity.  Russia’s army has done things that can’t be forgiven, but someday there must be a truce.  One day, the two parties have to come together and resolve this conflict, even though only one party is responsible.  The healing will be hard because the sins are so grave: rape, torture and all manner of killing.  Acts such as those are unforgiveable; especially, to the families that were acted upon, but, perhaps, there is a way forward.   The situation seems ever more hopeless as the news coverage and celebrity interest wanes.  However, hopelessness is fertile soil for the seeds of faith.  When the possible seems to have all but abandoned a scenario, there is always the impossible.  Impossible not in the way we have come to think of it; instead, an Impossible that is at the water’s edge of human conception.  From that shore, we can cast wishes, faith and hope!  I’ve found an unlikely symbol of hope and I mean to assign it to this Russian War.  Ironically enough, the creature to lead this movement of hope is a most hopeless little critter itself, ensconced deep in the mountains near the Black sea region: the Greater Blind Mole Rat.

​Buried in the Black Sea region, shared by Russia and Ukraine, is a creature steeped in disadvantage and forlornness.  There is nothing great about the Greater Blind Mole Rat.  It is a small, furry cylinder of a critter with a biology best described as unfortunate.  Perhaps, the only thing truly great about the creature is its blindness, which is supported by failed and atrophied vision cells coupled with a thin layer of skin that covers the already useless orbs (just in case the poor varmint had even a dream of seeing the light of day).  This unlucky lump of a creature has not a blessing in its worthless little body.  One could reasonably theorize that since it’s a mole and most moles live underground, it has no need for good vision.  Well, first, way to minimize the Spalax Microphthalmus’ struggle.  Second, I would say, sure, sight is not a vital need in the dark, but how about digging…isn’t digging important?  Alas, another unfortunate turn for this cursed critter since his arms and legs are too short for effective burrowing.  And, in case you thought, functionality has failed it, but maybe, just maybe, aesthetics will not; I’d say guess again.  This furry little beast has a pair of oblong, threatening and jutting teeth that misshape its already ‘skinned-over’ face.  All told, it looks more like a woodland creature’s genitals than a mole or rat or anything else.  This little tube of ick has amassed a wealth of suffering and yet soldiers on…not towards outward or inward destruction, but to the next promising foothill.

So let’s all be more like the Greater Blind Mole Rat! Let us see the end to this conflict and all like it by rising from hopelessness and despair. Let us gather our strength and move towards a promising horizon, bright with what could be. Let that blind beastie be our beacon to the light – even though it definitely can’t see it. Let that hairy forest penis with teeth be our guide (even though it will almost certainly need guidance itself). It is the patron saint of faith when all seems lost. Andso, as that little blind bastard marches on, so shall we!

The Islands and the Dark Places

On January 26, almost 250 years ago, British Admiral Arthur Phillip sailed a boat filled with convicts into Sydney Cove, in the land that became Australia.  This effort won the admiral a governorship of New South Wales, Australia, much to the distaste of the ignored Aboriginal peoples.  Such are the lengths societies will go to “get rid” of those citizens that committed a crime.  Those people that have severed the cardinal, two-pronged societal rule that if you break the law and do not have the means to defend yourself, you are forfeit.  

​Surely, a quarter of a century later, there has been some progress in the way we rehabilitate, reeducate and reincorporate the convicted population.  Nope.  It has remained the same plan.  We, as a society, stow all those we deem void to the social contract and ship them off somewhere.  Here in New York, we have an actual Island (Rikers) that houses those awaiting trial, no matter their mental health status, gang affiliation or general degree of criminality.  There are many institutions like this around the country, hidden away, to avoid waking the everyday citizen’s sympathy or empathy.  Any ember of sentiment for this lost population is quickly stifled by the brutal and lazy logic that these people “knew what the consequences were” or that they “shouldn’t have done the crime to begin with”.  How profound that branch of empiricism must seem to the complicit?  

In the real world, those that truly understand the vast and uncontrollable variables of life know that we are all one or two bad decisions away from a unique and terrible descent. Society will march on from any of its failed or lost members without a misstep. I would suggest that we, as a society, should never allow extant life be so prematurely obfuscated and forgotten. No matter, for as long as our civilization finds the value in storing people in the dark places and the will to overlook them, we will never truly be civilized.

Call Me A Quitter

​Call me a quitter!  I don’t care anymore.  Let’s just all move to Canada and open up a Maple syrup-flavored Bed and Breakfast called “Sweet Dreams”.  My family is already on board.  If any responsible politicians want to come, you’rewelcome to jump aboard the next Mountaineer train smoking and head out.  We’ve lost the battle for reasonable discourse, legislation and governance.  So, come one, come all, let us flee from this failed state and embrace the Maple Mother of the North.  Meet me on the border my friends; that is, if you can make it through America’s crumbling tunnels and roadways.  

No need to look back, public discussion and consensus is dead.  Turn your weary eyes to the engineering wonder that is the Ambassador Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in the world.  Cast off those mental shackles we knew to be the American Dream not only because it was a ploy by James Truslow Adams to sell books, but also because this country never intended to be meritocracy.  Our system always picked the winners and losers and uses status quo to ensure that the backs of the working class bear the weight of the pyramid to benefit the apex (GASP).  Justice and opportunity was not for all!  No biggie, that’s water under the Peace Bridge; go grab your warmest toque and bunnyhug (Canadian for winter hat and sweater…don’t be lazy, learn the language) and let’s walk away from the corrupt and stifled governance that has plagued us for too long.  Let’s walk out on this sh** show; no need to see the last act!  This experiment never got out of clinical trials.  How many more lethargic metaphors do I need to give you people!  

Sure Canada isn’t as “fancy”; it doesn’t have suit-clad lobbyists with million dollar condos parked in front of the nation’s capital, but it does have charm.  More to the point, it seems to have a semblance of reason about it.  For God’s sake, the country produced Alex Trebek.  

What are we holding onto? The Trump folk seem to want it more; they seem to be willing to break from any tether that links them to morality or reality. I can applaud excellence even when it’s found in the area of delusion. However, my love for reason has put me at a disadvantage, because I can’t simply overlook facts and no amount of double talk or hat giveaways can make me storm the Capitol. Moreover, I don’t go in for many conspiracy theories because I subscribe to Occam’s Razor (simplest explanation and all that) and I don’t believe two people can keep a secret let alone hundreds or thousands. No matter, that place America is no longer my concern; this time next year, I’ll be knee-deep into preparation for National Aboriginal Veteran’s Day and thankful that my October 11st Thanksgiving dinner went off without a hitch. All hail to the Red, White and… Red. How aboot that!

Declaration of Sentiments

Nearly 175 years ago today, the Seneca Falls Convention was held in New York.  With all the current turmoil revolving around voter’s rights (Georgia, Texas and H.R. 1), it seems apropos to look at that moment in time and see how far our democracy has come. 

On July 20, 1848, during the Seneca Falls Convention, Elizabeth Cady Stanton read a sort-of state of the union for women including grievances and twelve demands for equality, patterned after the Declaration of Independence called the Declaration of Sentiments.   The culmination of this manifesto was twelve resolutions focused on women’s rights.  Resolutions regarding equanimity in legal and property rights passed unanimously.  Moreover, all of the resolutions that descried an inequality in educational and employment opportunities were also recognized unanimously.  In fact, eleven of the twelve resolutions were uncontested and approved in this group of sixty-eight women and thirty-two men.  It was only the resolution for women’s suffrage that passed on a simple majority, because it was deemed much too controversial.  So during a convention focused on the inequalities facing women, people still believed that giving women the right to vote was a bridge too far.  As a matter of fact, upon some criticism and derision directed at the suffrage components, many of the men that signed the Declaration of Sentiments later took their names off. 

A lot has changed since then.  With the two-party structure, lobbyist-designed gerrymandering, the obsolete electoral college system and the vastness of the voting battle field, it seems that one vote doesn’t mean as much as it did.  That being said, the one constant in our democracy seems to be an energy (held by the powers-that-be) to limit voting rights.  It seems like even with all the inclusions in our political process contrived to devalue the vote, those in power still seem to hunt for that elusive last bastion of democracy: the vote itself.  Since 1848, that singular vote has been attacked by poll taxes, competency tests, segregation, intimidation culture/domestic terrorism, an oppressive patriarchy and that good old-fashioned American wealth disparity.  And since 1848, the rich have gotten richer and the governing bodies of this country have maintained a stranglehold on power and resources, while only glacially changing the demographics within that landscape.  It seems that the vote will always be under attack for the benefit of the entrenched political class.  But maybe I need more faith.  Maybe the system needs more time to work on reflecting the powerful diversity stretched across this country.  Maybe the ruling class and the bureaucrats that aid them will realize that the people of this country draw strength, resilience and dynamism from our differences and that that is the secret ingredient in winning the future.  Or maybe I will be back here for the 200th anniversary of Seneca Falls still waiting for the first female president*.

*Scoreboard: 1 – African-American President, 0 – Female Presidents, 0 – Hispanic/Latin American Presidents, 0 – Openly Gay Presidents, 0 – Asian-American Presidents, 0 – Jewish Presidents …. 0…0…0…0….

I Blame Fractions

​As rioters from the Cult of Trump ravaged one of the emblems of American Democracy, I realized something.  Just beneath the abraded veneer on the final layer of civility and decorous political discourse in this country, I discovered something that goes beyond the causes of this violent travesty at the Capitol.  People were quick to blame a demagogue that is beyond irresponsible or a demographic of people that are undereducated, filled to the brim with resentment and armed with both presumed and unconscious white privilege, but, although those are factors, I think there’s more to it.  I believe the true culprit is math; specifically, the fraction.

​Just like the foundations of a building, the foundation of a society must be constructed to hold the weight of posterity.  Our country was founded with the cement of liberty and rule of law, but, unfortunately, it was reinforced with the rebar of racism, classism and anti-intellectualism.  The founding class of this country had difficulty reconciling all the different kinds of freedoms that would result from gaining sovereignty.  Consequently, that group chose their own personal freedom and let everyone else work it out for themselves.  As a consequence, the political and military leaders were led into a higher stratum where they were surrounded by the wealthy merchant class that jockeyed at their feet for position.  It was in those conditions that the 3/5 Compromise was born.  The 3/5 Compromise was an agreement between representatives of the Northern and Southern states in 1787 that determined that each slave was worth 3/5 of a white man.  One might wonder, since the forefathers had already achieved the heights of hypocrisy by ignoring the slavery issue during and after a war for independence and freedom, why on Earth would they care about assigning a slave an official value?  The answer is that the North wanted tax revenue and a national partnership while the South wanted census-based representation and a dominance in the agriculture trade aided by slave labor.  This compromise was negotiated by the political class even though they knew it to be untenable as a long-term solution.  The founding class didn’t level with the farmers and agricultural merchants of the South; therefore, the South went about building a culture and an economy on the unsound, immoral foundation of slavery.

It all began with that fraction. It laid the groundwork for the harmful American approach of not leveling with folks…well certain folks. It would seem some folks have a tougher time dealing with the reality outside of the status quo or maybe they’ve just never been given the opportunity. After the Civil War, the South quickly began to collapse, accelerated by the bursting of the agribusiness bubble (profit margins change when you have to PAY your workers). Consequently, Southern culture resorted to counterfactuals and began to cling to the “majesty” of antebellum South along with all its accoutrements – like the Confederate flag. And still the political class couldn’t level with them about the importance of moving on and progress or even the facts of changed circumstances. It’s much easier to let people live in their reality than to take on the the task of helping people work through the stages of grief; moreover, why not make a buck or gain position by telling people only what they want to hear (or do both like Fox News). Nevertheless, it all started with 3/5; it’s just as I always said to every math teacher I’ve ever had, “Fractions Suck!!!”