I suggest that the two best commentaries about this Election Day have come from David Brooks at The New York Times and Richard Cohen of The Washington Post.
They are so effective, and so intriguing, because they look backward to see forward. And they look backward far enough – 45 years – to require us to challenge our assumptions as we try to see forward 45 years. This is a trick I learned how to do trying to see the future of media. From here, looking back 45 years at the media of 1963, and comparing it with the media of today, when I turn around and try to see 45 years forward, I am hit with the same enormity of distance and change that I had just felt looking at 1963. If I had not been there, I might not believe how primitive was media at the time of the Kennedy assassination. How primitive will 2008 media appear, to the citizens of 2053?
Cohen says Barack Obama, popularly described as a transformational figure, is in fact a confirmational figure, whose candidacy and probable election confirms Lyndon Johnson’s work in the early 1960s that resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964. So great is the change from that day to this that it took us 45 years, traveling one day at a time. Today, if we take Obama as a halfway point, and try to see forward from here, what will American liberty look like in 2053? The youth of today, such a new force in this election, will be in their 60s. What will they think, looking back at a 2008 America so quaint that Barack Obama’s election made history?
David Brooks says today “is not only a pivot, but a confluence of pivots.” He calls today the end of an economic era, a political era, and a generational era: “Generationally, it marks the end of baby boomer supremacy, which began in 1968.” Trying to see forward, what will be the synergistic opportunities for three eras, coming to life as one, midwifed by a leader whose watchword is inclusion? As the new, young, green generations assume leadership supremacy, where will the new economic and political eras be steered? What will they look like, by 2053? Will there be fossil fuels? Will there be parties?
My wife has a way of putting her finger on a thing. This morning she said we may never see another presidential election with four white males on the ticket. After 2008, women won’t be pushing their way into politics anymore. They will be pulled. I think that may be the most telling pivot point, as we set out on the first day toward 2053. We are shifting from a push to a pull society. For so long, so many vital issues have had to push their way into consideration. Starting today, they will be pulled.
November 04, 2008
November 03, 2008
Still Obama
Last April, I decided I should vote for Sen. Barack Obama for president for this reason: Of the three candidates at the time – Obama, Clinton, McCain, all fine people – Obama was the only one who gave the citizens of this country room to take a leap of faith. My belief in that unique opportunity has not been altered by anything that has happened in the intervening months of the campaign.
It relates to his famous speech about race delivered last March, after the other candidates attacked his relationship to his controversial minister, Rev. Jeremiah Wright. I found that speech again yesterday and printed it out, all nine pages, and read it again. When I finished, my reaction was the same as at the time. The speech transcended not only the candidates’ attacks, but the candidates, the campaign, and politics itself. In that 45 minutes, Obama laid before a national audience a simple depth of thought and understanding that was not obtainable by Clinton or McCain.
Now it is Nov. 3, and the election is tomorrow. Clinton is gone, Obama and McCain remain. I have thought that Obama should have made one of those 45-minute speeches at least every other month, on the issue of his choice, to remind Americans of the man's transcendent ability simply to think, explore, and resolve. It would have provided a natural and effective barometer of his qualifications for office. That did not happen. Instead, it was John McCain who provided a new benchmark. He selected Sarah Palin. I am trying to imagine what a Sarah Palin 45-minute speech on race relations would sound like. Obama is not running against Palin, but he is running against the individual who gave Palin a national voice. I would describe that as a telling update on the depth of thought and understanding available to John McCain.
For that quality of depth, in the entrenched shallowness of politics, I feel ready to trust Obama’s vision. It is an apolitical trust. This is not an election to be voting politically, or even to be voting against the present administration. What good would that do? The cattle are all out of the corral. We are a people in deep trouble. There is evidence that, given a few days to think about it, Obama could make a 45-minute presentation about people in trouble that would transcend politics. What a starting place that would be. In this election, I am betting on a man's ability and willingness to change the status quo in America in the years 2009-12. In what ways? I don’t know. My belief in Obama is a leap of faith, a roll of the dice. But he is the only one who gives me a chance to roll. That, I am convinced, is a lesser gamble in my future as an American than placing trust in John McCain, even if we had never heard of Sarah Palin, but certainly since we have.
It relates to his famous speech about race delivered last March, after the other candidates attacked his relationship to his controversial minister, Rev. Jeremiah Wright. I found that speech again yesterday and printed it out, all nine pages, and read it again. When I finished, my reaction was the same as at the time. The speech transcended not only the candidates’ attacks, but the candidates, the campaign, and politics itself. In that 45 minutes, Obama laid before a national audience a simple depth of thought and understanding that was not obtainable by Clinton or McCain.
Now it is Nov. 3, and the election is tomorrow. Clinton is gone, Obama and McCain remain. I have thought that Obama should have made one of those 45-minute speeches at least every other month, on the issue of his choice, to remind Americans of the man's transcendent ability simply to think, explore, and resolve. It would have provided a natural and effective barometer of his qualifications for office. That did not happen. Instead, it was John McCain who provided a new benchmark. He selected Sarah Palin. I am trying to imagine what a Sarah Palin 45-minute speech on race relations would sound like. Obama is not running against Palin, but he is running against the individual who gave Palin a national voice. I would describe that as a telling update on the depth of thought and understanding available to John McCain.
For that quality of depth, in the entrenched shallowness of politics, I feel ready to trust Obama’s vision. It is an apolitical trust. This is not an election to be voting politically, or even to be voting against the present administration. What good would that do? The cattle are all out of the corral. We are a people in deep trouble. There is evidence that, given a few days to think about it, Obama could make a 45-minute presentation about people in trouble that would transcend politics. What a starting place that would be. In this election, I am betting on a man's ability and willingness to change the status quo in America in the years 2009-12. In what ways? I don’t know. My belief in Obama is a leap of faith, a roll of the dice. But he is the only one who gives me a chance to roll. That, I am convinced, is a lesser gamble in my future as an American than placing trust in John McCain, even if we had never heard of Sarah Palin, but certainly since we have.
November 01, 2008
Feeling Like Barack Obama's Cultural Cousin
I am starting to feel like Barack Obama's cultural cousin.
When he left the campaign trail to visit his grandmother, who was a key figure in his rearing, I kept thinking about Susie Grant, my grandmother, in whose house I grew up. Today, news comes that Obama has a half-aunt on his father's side, found in circumstances about which he knew nothing, and that development is similar to the half-brothers I never knew, then met twice, and may never see again.
Susie was my mother's mother. She was born in northern Alabama and came with her family to West Texas at the turn of the 20th century, about 1900. There she met and married Roy Grant, who grew up in Pulaski, Tennessee, just across the state line from Susie's home. They grew up 40 miles apart and had to travel clear to Haskell County, Texas, before they would meet.
Susie and Roy had six kids, including my mother, June, who was next-to-youngest. Roy died suddenly in 1929, and Susie raised the six on her own. She was gentle, pious, and remains the toughest individual I ever knew. Was she a racist? I don't want to believe that, but every time she saw a black man on television – one of the few places we saw black people in 1950s Abilene, Texas – she made a face. I suppose it is possible I was reared by a racist, and the people I vote for are just going to have to live with that.
World War II came, and a huge Army training base, Camp Barkeley, was opened a few miles south of Abilene. My father, Don Wayman of Colorado, was sent there to train. He was a wonderful singer, a tenor from the old school, and my mother always said she heard him (at the downtown USO) before she saw him. They were married at Camp Barkeley on Easter Sunday, 1942. I was born on March 6, 1943, by which time my mother and father were divorcing.
My mother and I, and two of her sisters, lived with Susie. They told me my father was dead. There were no photos of him, no letters, no notes, no insignia, no nothing. The only evidence I had of him was me.
In 1989, following an inner pulse, I took steps to find him, and I did. I saw him for the first time on July 27, 1989, in the driveway of his home in Greeley, Colorado. He was happy to see me. He said that on the day after I was born, he snuck into the hospital nursery in Abilene and held me in his arms for 15 minutes. He said my family, particularly Susie, didn't like him. He left Abilene, returned to Greeley, married, taught school, and with his wife Shirley had four sons, my half-brothers. It is an interesting feeling, at age 46, to learn you have four brothers. Circumstances: two of them were in lifelong schizophrenia battles, and a third was gay. In some circles, my political stock must be seriously dwindling.
The weekend was interesting and fundamentally informative on both sides. Don Lee, my dad's oldest son – other than me – said to me: "I'm not the oldest brother anymore." "Sure you are," I said. "I wouldn't know the first thing about being the oldest brother." That is as true on this day as it was on that one.
My father and I remained in touch, but he bonded more with my wife, now my ex, and with my children, than he did with me. That was fine. In our short years of contact, he resolved a lifelong fear of mine, and he told me I removed a weight from his days that he felt was lengthening his life. I went to Greeley twice more, once with my children and the third time at his death. That was in 2002. His sons and I have had no contact since.
Obama and I, and who knows how many others, were spun out of a swirl, created by a century of change, and motion, and mobility of events and of people. Our histories are unconventional. Make of them what you will.
When he left the campaign trail to visit his grandmother, who was a key figure in his rearing, I kept thinking about Susie Grant, my grandmother, in whose house I grew up. Today, news comes that Obama has a half-aunt on his father's side, found in circumstances about which he knew nothing, and that development is similar to the half-brothers I never knew, then met twice, and may never see again.
Susie was my mother's mother. She was born in northern Alabama and came with her family to West Texas at the turn of the 20th century, about 1900. There she met and married Roy Grant, who grew up in Pulaski, Tennessee, just across the state line from Susie's home. They grew up 40 miles apart and had to travel clear to Haskell County, Texas, before they would meet.
Susie and Roy had six kids, including my mother, June, who was next-to-youngest. Roy died suddenly in 1929, and Susie raised the six on her own. She was gentle, pious, and remains the toughest individual I ever knew. Was she a racist? I don't want to believe that, but every time she saw a black man on television – one of the few places we saw black people in 1950s Abilene, Texas – she made a face. I suppose it is possible I was reared by a racist, and the people I vote for are just going to have to live with that.
World War II came, and a huge Army training base, Camp Barkeley, was opened a few miles south of Abilene. My father, Don Wayman of Colorado, was sent there to train. He was a wonderful singer, a tenor from the old school, and my mother always said she heard him (at the downtown USO) before she saw him. They were married at Camp Barkeley on Easter Sunday, 1942. I was born on March 6, 1943, by which time my mother and father were divorcing.
My mother and I, and two of her sisters, lived with Susie. They told me my father was dead. There were no photos of him, no letters, no notes, no insignia, no nothing. The only evidence I had of him was me.
In 1989, following an inner pulse, I took steps to find him, and I did. I saw him for the first time on July 27, 1989, in the driveway of his home in Greeley, Colorado. He was happy to see me. He said that on the day after I was born, he snuck into the hospital nursery in Abilene and held me in his arms for 15 minutes. He said my family, particularly Susie, didn't like him. He left Abilene, returned to Greeley, married, taught school, and with his wife Shirley had four sons, my half-brothers. It is an interesting feeling, at age 46, to learn you have four brothers. Circumstances: two of them were in lifelong schizophrenia battles, and a third was gay. In some circles, my political stock must be seriously dwindling.
The weekend was interesting and fundamentally informative on both sides. Don Lee, my dad's oldest son – other than me – said to me: "I'm not the oldest brother anymore." "Sure you are," I said. "I wouldn't know the first thing about being the oldest brother." That is as true on this day as it was on that one.
My father and I remained in touch, but he bonded more with my wife, now my ex, and with my children, than he did with me. That was fine. In our short years of contact, he resolved a lifelong fear of mine, and he told me I removed a weight from his days that he felt was lengthening his life. I went to Greeley twice more, once with my children and the third time at his death. That was in 2002. His sons and I have had no contact since.
Obama and I, and who knows how many others, were spun out of a swirl, created by a century of change, and motion, and mobility of events and of people. Our histories are unconventional. Make of them what you will.
Google seeding didn't work
About 45 minutes after I Googled "Rain" yesterday, a few clouds showed up in the west.
"Dang," I said. But 30 minutes later they were gone. Beautiful sunset. You should have seen it.
Beautiful, clear, sunrise as well. The sunrise this week transited, from north to south, a feature on the eastern horizon that we call "Dolly's Right One." This marks the beginning of the rainy season in Southern California.
Well, parts of Southern California. Wherever I go, the anti-Joe Btfsplk, a sunny circle opens in the clouds. It is a good thing I was not a farmer. It is now 9 a.m., and outside is just so clear and pretty. The weather bureau says a 30 percent chance of rain tomorrow. I'm not getting my hopes up. Have you ever noticed how hard it is, not getting your hopes up?
Meanwhile, the weather bureau has issued a flash flood watch for Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, and the north part of Los Angeles County, about 150 miles north of us. Thunderstorms are developing in a moist, unstable air mass off the coast and are expected overland before noon.
On Google, Wikipedia identified "rain" as "liquid precipitation." Thanks for the heads-up.
"Dang," I said. But 30 minutes later they were gone. Beautiful sunset. You should have seen it.
Beautiful, clear, sunrise as well. The sunrise this week transited, from north to south, a feature on the eastern horizon that we call "Dolly's Right One." This marks the beginning of the rainy season in Southern California.
Well, parts of Southern California. Wherever I go, the anti-Joe Btfsplk, a sunny circle opens in the clouds. It is a good thing I was not a farmer. It is now 9 a.m., and outside is just so clear and pretty. The weather bureau says a 30 percent chance of rain tomorrow. I'm not getting my hopes up. Have you ever noticed how hard it is, not getting your hopes up?
Meanwhile, the weather bureau has issued a flash flood watch for Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, and the north part of Los Angeles County, about 150 miles north of us. Thunderstorms are developing in a moist, unstable air mass off the coast and are expected overland before noon.
On Google, Wikipedia identified "rain" as "liquid precipitation." Thanks for the heads-up.
October 31, 2008
Rain? Don't get your hopes up
I guess you have to be born a weather junkie, as I was, to gripe about Southern California weather. Wednesday, the forecast suggested a change (!) in the weather, calling for a windy, cloudy, day Thursday with a chance of sprinkles (!!) and more clouds and moisture for Friday.
On Thursday afternoon, sure enough, the wind rose, clouds came over, and a sprinkle of rain fell from the sky just long enough for me to raise my face and catch a couple of drops in my eyes. And with that, it was gone. Now it is Friday morning, 10 a.m. Outside there is not a cloud between here and Hawaii. There is some sprinkly weather, all right, but it is about 100 miles north of us. The good weather always goes north of us. I am a twin to Charlie Brown, and Lucy Van Pelt is the weather bureau. "C'mon, Charlie Brown, I mean it this time, it is going to rain with clouds and wind, and temperature in the 60s. I'll bring this weather, I promise, so you can go ahead and get your hopes up."
So I do, every time, and out there right now the sky is a beautiful, deep, warm, blue, and I am working up a sweat, sweeping up another splintered pile of dashed hopes. I know this is unreasonable. People spend millions of dollars to leave the East and move to Southern California for the weather. I love our weather, I really do. The East gets snowstorms, we get sunstorms. Who's to complain? Yet I have the feeling there are other Charlie Brown cousins out there this morning, wondering why they feel so grumpy.
The depressing effects of gray weather on humans is documented. Light-emitting devices have been invented and marketed to counter these effects. I have always thought such devices were silly, but no sillier, I suppose, than a device to block out sunstruck blue skies and drip water on your head. I am the reverse Joe Btfsplk. In "Li'l Abner," Joe went around with a gray, sprinkly cloud over his head. I go around in a spotlight of blue sky. When I go home to visit Texas, I always hope there will be some weather. There never is. When I moved to San Diego in 1972, God decided that was it for me. I stepped forever on the bad side of the Weather Nazi. No rain for you. No thunder, no lightning. Old friends in Texas know of my plight. When they get a thunderstorm, they actually call on the phone and let me listen.
I would never have been able to spell "Joe Btfsplk" without Google. I wonder if Al Capp, fulminating in his grave, feels betrayed by Google for providing such easy access to a secret he thought would probably be secure forever, outside of a circle of devoted comic strip scholars. With that kind of power, I would think I could Google "rain" and sit back and wait for a shower within the hour. Hm. I actually haven't tried that yet. I will go do that now, and let you know what happens. Sounds like a last resort, doesn't it?
On Thursday afternoon, sure enough, the wind rose, clouds came over, and a sprinkle of rain fell from the sky just long enough for me to raise my face and catch a couple of drops in my eyes. And with that, it was gone. Now it is Friday morning, 10 a.m. Outside there is not a cloud between here and Hawaii. There is some sprinkly weather, all right, but it is about 100 miles north of us. The good weather always goes north of us. I am a twin to Charlie Brown, and Lucy Van Pelt is the weather bureau. "C'mon, Charlie Brown, I mean it this time, it is going to rain with clouds and wind, and temperature in the 60s. I'll bring this weather, I promise, so you can go ahead and get your hopes up."
So I do, every time, and out there right now the sky is a beautiful, deep, warm, blue, and I am working up a sweat, sweeping up another splintered pile of dashed hopes. I know this is unreasonable. People spend millions of dollars to leave the East and move to Southern California for the weather. I love our weather, I really do. The East gets snowstorms, we get sunstorms. Who's to complain? Yet I have the feeling there are other Charlie Brown cousins out there this morning, wondering why they feel so grumpy.
The depressing effects of gray weather on humans is documented. Light-emitting devices have been invented and marketed to counter these effects. I have always thought such devices were silly, but no sillier, I suppose, than a device to block out sunstruck blue skies and drip water on your head. I am the reverse Joe Btfsplk. In "Li'l Abner," Joe went around with a gray, sprinkly cloud over his head. I go around in a spotlight of blue sky. When I go home to visit Texas, I always hope there will be some weather. There never is. When I moved to San Diego in 1972, God decided that was it for me. I stepped forever on the bad side of the Weather Nazi. No rain for you. No thunder, no lightning. Old friends in Texas know of my plight. When they get a thunderstorm, they actually call on the phone and let me listen.
I would never have been able to spell "Joe Btfsplk" without Google. I wonder if Al Capp, fulminating in his grave, feels betrayed by Google for providing such easy access to a secret he thought would probably be secure forever, outside of a circle of devoted comic strip scholars. With that kind of power, I would think I could Google "rain" and sit back and wait for a shower within the hour. Hm. I actually haven't tried that yet. I will go do that now, and let you know what happens. Sounds like a last resort, doesn't it?
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