Be Better

Friendship is a funny thing. Some friends make perfect sense, others sometime make you shake your head in amazement. This past weekend, I had a visit from one of my head shakers...Deen Entsminger. 

I met Deen seven or eight years ago when my son went down to Belmont University for his audition. Deen would become one of his favorite music professors. We were walking through one of the music buildings on campus when we passed by his office. There he was, dressed in shorts, a festive and quite loud Hawaiian shirt, wearing bright red Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. Instantly, I knew I was gonna like this guy. In the following 4plus years, Pam and I were down for practically every chamber singers concert, partially because we wanted to visit our son, but also because the music that would come pouring out of that group was transcendently beautiful. Much of that beauty was a direct result of this chaotic, passionate, whirling dervish of a conductor. Before long, we became friends, not just acquaintances. Every chance we got, we would volunteer to house his choirs whenever they came through Richmond while on tour. The great thing about our friendship is that we don’t have a long list of things in common. I mean, we both love music, and we both love my son, and we both are quite fond of beer...but that’s about it. We probably don’t vote the same way, or worship the same way. But, none of that stuff matters. He’s just super cool and a blast to hang around.

While he was here over the weekend, I took him over to Big Al’s for a beer and we talked a mile a minute, catching up. We started discussing the sorry state of our politics and all of the hatred that seems to be dividing us. Out of nowhere, he told me a story that I want to share in this space. It was very moving, the kind of story that stays in your heart and mind long after the telling...

Deen is 8 years older than me. When he attended middle school in Virginia Beach, he was there when the first black student was admitted. Deen, like most middle schoolers in the early 60’s in Virginia had had very little exposure to black people. In the weeks leading up to the big day, his parents tried to prepare him for what it might be like. They warned him that because of the poverty that the kid probably lived in, he might not be dressed very well, might not have decent shoes...or shoes at all! Deen had no idea what to expect. When you’ve had no interaction with anyone of a certain race, naturally there is a bit of fear and apprehension. The entire school was filled with tension and anxiety.

The first few days after his arrival, Deen never saw him. But a week or so later, while Deen was at his locker between classes, he spotted him down the hall headed right for him...My heart began beating hard in my chest. I could see that we were going to pass within inches of each other. I was too nervous to even think about speaking! But, I did notice something immediately. He was wearing freshly ironed pants, and a madras shirt, which for an eighth grader was considered high fashion back then. He was impeccably groomed. But, when he passed by something amazing happened. It was the smell that I remember as if it happened yesterday...the fresh, familiar smell of...Ivory Soap. It was amazing, something like a revelation for me...he washed his face with Ivory Soap...just like I did, just like almost all of us did. Maybe we were more alike than we were different? To this day, whenever I smell Ivory Soap, I think of that brave boy...

Maybe this story needs to be told again and again as we approach this election. Despite the screaming headlines, and the voices raised in hatred, when we strip away all the noise, we are more alike as human beings than we are different. The love that is possible between us has got to become stronger than the hatred that so easily ensnares us. We can do better. We can be better.

1968 vs. 2018

Recency bias is the phenomenon that causes people to attach greater significance to things that have just happened than they do things that happened at some time in the past. For example, a young Baltimore Orioles fan might be excused the opinion that the 2018 version of his team was the worst team ever, only because he wasn’t alive to witness the 1962 Mets. A twenty-something kid who laments what has become of pop music today should have heard what it sounded like to live through the 1970’s disco plague.

 But, what about politics? I’m starting to hear this complaint...We are now more divided as a country as we have ever been. 

But, are we?

There is no denying the fact that our politics is toxic. The polarization in Washington is deep and getting deeper. Arguments over politics and politicians are more heated and emotional than they used to be, no question about it. Violence, especially politically tinged violence is on the rise. Our political disagreements are doing damage to friendships, families and entire communities. But, is what we are going through unprecedented? Is it, in fact, worse than ever??

Not even close. What is unique about what divides us today is the fact that we are reminded of those divisions 24/7 by multiple media outlets on radio, television, and social media. This is a very different observation than claiming that the news media is the enemy of the people. It is simply an observation that we all know about the ugliness of our divisions because we are constantly reminded by our technological advancements. This was not true during the Civil War, or even during the worst year I’ve ever lived through as an American...1968. Back then, we were informed of the latest mayhem only once a day, at 6:00pm by Walter Cronkite on a 15 inch black and white television set with rabbit ears. Occasionally there would be an interruption of our regularly scheduled programming for a NEWS BULLETIN, which amounted to Walter letting us know of some especially grevious developement from some riot infested, burning city.

In case you’re wondering, 1968 made 2018 look like a garden party. It featured everything from multiple political assassinations ( Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy), to over a hundred burning cities, a Democratic Party convention that had policemen beating protesters over the heads with clubs, while the Soviet Union was busy sending tanks into Czechoslovakia to destroy a democratic protest, and over 10,000 American soldiers were being killed in battle in Vietnam. I remember sitting on the floor in my grand parent’s trailer watching Robert Kennedy give his victory speech afte the California primary. I was ten years old and just becoming aware of the intensity of events happening all around me. Then, the chaos unfolded live. Something had happened. People were screaming and crying. Roosevelt Greer’s sad face on the television...the senator had been shot while walking through the kitchen of the hotel. Welcome to the land of the grownups, Douglas...

But, as divided as we certainly are right now, I do think that the 24 hour, insatiable news machine has amplified the divisions. How could they not? We can’t escape it. It’s in our face all the time. So, a real and substantive political division in America definitely exists. But, if we had the power or inclination to steal back the oxygen that the news machine sucks out of the room every day, we might discover a way to step back from the vitriol, to place our differences in a more historically accurate context. Maybe then, we will find that a middle way is possible, that an accommodation can be reached, and sanity and basic decency can be restored.

Or...maybe not.

My Country

This week, 2018 has continued its unrelenting campaign to claim the title of Worst Year Ever. First, a steroid-eating, body-building, strip-club bouncer, and owner of yet another infamous white van, was arrested for sending over a dozen pipe bombs to prominent Democratic Party politicians and partisans, out of some imagined fealty to Donald Trump. Next, a self-proclaimed Jew-hating Nazi who claims that Donald Trump is scum because he’s controlled by the Jews, walks in to a Pittsburgh synagogue and murders 11 worshipers while screaming... All Jews Must Die.

This is my country.

This isn’t the only thing that defines us, of course. We are a land filled with remarkable people doing remarkable things. We are a hard working people, generous and loving, philanthropic to a degree unmatched in the world. But we are also a land full of lunatics, eager to act out violent fantasies at the slightest provocation. Increasingly, this impulse for deadly violence, is what is defining us in the eyes of the world. 

And now, the specter of Jewish worshippers gathered in a synagogue getting mowed down by an anti-Semite comes to us not from Palestine, but Pittsburgh.

This is my country.

...It’s Never Ok To Lack Effort

I don’t remember how old I was, probably 11 or 12. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the job I had been given by my Dad of mowing the lawn, and it showed. I had missed several spots, and was dragging myself around the yard with lots of attitude. Next thing I know, Dad is standing next to me tapping me on the shoulder. I turned off the mower...

Dad: What are you doing?

Me: I’m cutting the grass...(the reader will notice that I didn’t add...What does it LOOK like I’m doing?...to this statement, because this sort of snarky disrespect would have resulted in a severe, draconian response from my very Old School, greatest generation father, who didn’t appreciate snark)

Dad: No...you are cutting the grass poorly. Look at all the spots you’re missing! 

Then it gets a little fuzzy. I don’t remember the exact words, but he launched into a speech about the integrity of work, about how a man’s reputation is made by what kind of job they do on even the most insignificant assignment, about how you never want to put your name on something that wasn’t done to the best of your ability, blah, blah, blah...All I was thinking was, Dad, it’s just the grass!! But he was having none of it. He ended the speech with this...

Son, it’s ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

It took me years before I understood what wise advice he had given me.

I thought about this last night while watching the World Series. Manny Machado, the most gifted baseball player on either roster, lifted a high fly ball towards the left field bleachers, stood at home plate briefly, admiring his work, then broke out into a self congratulatory trot towards first base. Only, the ball didn’t quite make it to the bleachers, instead, glancing off the wall, 365 feet from home plate. Instead of sliding into second base with a double in a tie game of the World Series with his team down two games to zero, Mr. Machado loafed into first base with probably the longest single in Major League history. I watched it with my mouth hanging open, astonished at his shameless lack of effort. This isn’t the first time, even in this post season, that he has loafed while running the bases. It’s what he does, it’s part of who he is as a player...a supremely talented, lazy player.

It is always this way in sports. It’s always the graceful prodigy who dogs it, it’s always the most gifted athletes who show the least desire. Maybe it’s because the game comes so easy to them. All through my life as a baseball fan, it has always been the scrappers, the gamers who I have loved...the guys who had to compensate for their lack of natural talent with relentless drive and hustle. It’s always been those guys who I can identify with. There’s a life lesson somewhere in all of this. But it all boils down to what my Dad told me that day nearly fifty years ago...

...its ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

Do Teachers Have A Cushy Job?

My daughter is a middle school English teacher. She happens to be an award winning middle school English teacher. She is making a real difference in the lives of her students, instilling in them a love of reading and an appreciation for language. In doing so, she is doing God’s work. I am very proud of her. But her job is insanely difficult. She is reading a book right now by someone named Jane Morris called Teacher Misery. Last night, she texted me an excerpt. To say that I was appalled would be an understatement:

As I read this story, I tried mightily to imagine something like this happening in any classroom when I attended the Hanover County public schools from 1968 through 1976. I simply could not. This is not to say that we didn’t have foul-mouthed, disrespectful students back then. We had plenty. But had any of them used this kind of language, or behaved in this manner, it would have taken maybe five minutes for that kid to be escorted out of that classroom. Full stop. That’s how long it would have taken the principal to run from his office, and physically remove Raptor and his cocky smirk from school property. Maybe another ten minutes to draw up his expulsion papers, then another for his next of kin to be summoned to drive him away. 

But Kaitlin informs me that expelling students is frowned upon by today’s education bureaucracy. If the goal is to educate children, why would we want to expel them from school, they ask. My answer is simple and unpolluted by educrat groupthink:

Me: Education is a privilege. If some jackass doesn’t desire an education and his or her antics makes the education of others more difficult or in this case, impossible, then escorting said jackass off the premises seems wise. There is no way that any sane person can call this progress.

Just in case you might be laboring under the false notion that teachers have an easy job because they...have the summers off... consider the following disgusting asshattery:

Honestly. If I had to deal with this insanity on a daily basis, it would take more than a summer vacation...

Pipe Bombs

The complete and total collapse of our civil discourse now brings us pipe bombs. Yesterday afternoon, eight of them were mailed to a series of high profile Democrats, including former President Obama. This comes less than two weeks before the 2018 mid term elections, against the backdrop of a caravan of Central Americans making their way across Mexico. Even if, like me, you’re not one who takes politics all that seriously, it’s hard not to feel like something big and ominous is about to happen.

I consider myself a cynical observer. The last time I felt anything approaching confidence in Washington was at the dawn of Ronald Reagan’s first term, because finally we had a President who promised to reign in, to constrain, to loosen the government’s grip on American life. The fact that Reagan was largely unsuccessful in this effort convinced me that it was never going to happen, that my country would always be a place where government’s power and influence would always and forevermore grow. The best I could hope for was a slower growth rate. Consequently, ever since Reagan, I have had very low expectations of politics and politicians. I withdrew from the partisan wars as an active participant. I concentrated my actions and passions toward my business, my friends and my family. Whatever was going on in Washington was merely one of a thousand entertainment options for me, something to roll my eyes over, and crack jokes about. Voting became an excruciating experience. How could I possibly pull the lever for that insufferable moron? Well, if I don’t that leaves me with that other blithering idiot. 

But, suddenly, politics isn’t funny anymore. It’s becoming harder and harder to dismiss what’s happening in Washington as theatre, as merely a playground for egotistical narcissists. Now, faux hatred has turned in to real hatred. Now, scuffles are breaking out, and pipe bombs fly through the mail. The political and ideological divide is rapidly becoming a tangible, physical one. We are now red states, blue states, deplorables and resisters. There is talk of secession in the air. There are millions of people out there who have convinced themselves that if the upcoming elections don’t go their way, the country is finished and their lives will be over. I feel helpless to stop any of this. I’m just holding on to the rails of this national roller coaster.

But, you know what I’m really tired of? The blame game. The calculations that start with every new news cycle...who benefits? Who will be hurt? Does the Caravan help the Republicans? Will the pipe bombs boost the Democrats?

Here’s what I know...anyone who would assemble an explosive device, place it in the mail, with the intent of killing a politician, is a treasonous coward. I shouldn’t ever have to say this, but it’s 2018 so...it doesn’t matter who the politician is. I have no interest in living in a country where people feel justified in killing their political and ideological enemies. That’s not America. That’s the 1930’s Soviet Union. That’s Nazi Germany. That’s Mao’s Cultural Revolution. That’s Che Guevara’s purges.

I never thought I would long for the day when the people in Washington were just harmless buffoons. But, when buffoonery meets violence, it’s a game changer.

That’s where we find ourselves in 2018.

9 Miles in 52 Minutes

Yesterday was one of those days. I don’t have very many of them anymore. Up at 5:00, out the door at 7:45, home at 8:20 in the evening. Thirty years ago, this would have been like every Tuesday. Now, it’s a rarity.

I met with some clients in Burke, Va. late in the afternoon. I make the trip every year, usually in October. Since it’s in northern Virginia, there’s no good time to make that drive. But, yesterday was especially awful. I backed out of their driveway at 6:15. It’s exactly 9 miles from their house to the Occoquan exit onto 95. It took me 52 minutes.

In the midst of this interminable slog, it occurred to me that there are thousands of people for whom this is totally normal. The vast majority of the commuters around me on that 9 mile, bumper to bumper, 10 mph soul-crushing journey have to endure it every single day. To ponder this reality is to confront the disturbing truth that contemporary Americans who choose to live in such places...ie., most every large city in the country...have simply lost their minds. When, in the course of human development, did it become acceptable to live in a place where it takes 52 minutes to drive 9 miles? Can you imagine a real estate agent back in 1955 telling an upwardly mobile young couple with two toddlers that the rancher they have their eyes on is a steal at $18,000, and what’s more...It only takes 52 minutes to get to the interstate!!

I suppose it’s possible that eventually you would get used to it. Maybe after a couple of years you would learn to adjust. You would discover books on tape, and other Jedi mind tricks designed to distract you from the fact that you have become a hampster on a treadmill. But Doug, but Doug, you say...eventually self driving cars will mitigate these sorts of commutes. Well...I am here to inform you that the only thing more terrifying and dehumanizing than sitting in a 9 mile long parking lot with 10,000 total strangers is the thought that I might one day do so, surrounded by 10,000 people... fast asleep in their reclining drivers seats.

No thank you.