Happy Holidays Students

To my students,

I hope you are well this holiday season.

If you're receiving this message, it's because you are a current or former student this semester, or the parent of a current or former student.

My initial plan was to mail each of you students a small gift via Amazon. But after some agonizing and vacillation, I have decided to make a donation for each of my students this semester, split between international aid for Syrian refugees and domestic hunger programs.

If any of you feel that this is against your wishes or beliefs, please let me know. While tutoring, we tend to focus on the material at hand, and frequently have less time to understand each other as individuals. I welcome contrasting views, and will accommodate them through an alternative.

When we started tutoring, two choices were made: you chose to work with me, and I chose to work with you.

On the first point, thank you. I thank your families for their trust, and thank you for your hard work. In many cases, you have trusted me not only with subject knowledge and test preparation, but also broader educational questions, college planning, and, most consequential of all, personal stories of crisis, pain, hope, and ambition. It is rare that I have time to really express the gratitude I have for that trust, and I hope that I am working to be worthy of it. I could do better, I know. If you have specific requests for improvement, do let me know.

And, yes, I chose you. In this job, I have been fortunate to work to a place in which I have the luxury of choice. With some families and students, the philosophical, emotional, or ethical fit is just not right, and we go our separate ways.

I chose you because you are willing to work. I chose you because learning isn't just about the drudgery of work -- it's about the difference between living and existing. I chose you because you display intelligence and energy. I chose you because you and your families exhibit qualities of character that I admire. But remember, most of all -- I chose you because of the person you are right now. Who you become is important, but secondary, and will be an ongoing process that will continue long after my time with you has ended. 

Doubts you may have, and goodness knows this has been a tough semester for all of us. But I wouldn't be around if I doubted your potential, your character, or your commitment. 

It might not mean much, but in case it means something: I have the luxury of choice, and I chose you.I am incredibly proud of each of you. 

John Watson (no, not the fictional one) once said, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." You might not be scrambling for your life off a Greek island. You might not be going hungry. But I know, somewhat, the pressure, the pain, and, in some cases, the mourning you have experienced. It is unproductive and wrongheaded to compare trials -- whatever crucible you find yourself in, please know you have my support and an open offer for a chat.

A special note to the seniors: you will be fine. You are all going to go to college, to a good one. Once there, you will find your people, however you choose to define, and redefine that concept. If you got into your dream school -- great! If you didn't -- great! For each of you will ultimately be judged by things more fundamental, more challenging, and more important -- character, judgment, work ethic, emotional intelligence and health. Without going into too much detail, please learn from my mistakes -- you are as much or as little as you choose to make yourself, and if you reduce yourself to a grade, a score, or a degree, you do grave disservice to your humanity and those who have worked to build you up. Be kind to yourself too -- sometimes this is hard, but it's always necessary.

I hope you get some time to be alone this break -- alone with your thoughts, with your memories, with your feelings. It's easy to crowd these out during school, and easy to do that during break with everything the Internet has to offer. Take a bit of time to check in with who you are, and what you value. 

I'm trying to do that, and that's why you're getting this letter.

Be well this break.

Happy Holidays,

Ryan

Notes on work (calculus BC)

Uploaded notes on work for Calculus BC, in case someone needs them.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5YwlOI3V9Chd3BtN2dSWWs0SWM/view?usp=sharing

Mudd Stories (Part 1: The Intimidator)

In honor of Harvey Mudd College's 60th anniversary, I decided to write up some of my favorite professor stories from Mudd.

Today, we have The Intimdator.

Going into Mudd, I knew I wanted to be a physics major. But I didn't quite place well enough to take a slightly accelerated version of freshman physics. Consequently, I took "basic" physics (Physics 23), consisting of calculus-based mechanics. (Unlike the wunderkind of my year, I definitely didn't take calculus-based E&M first semester.) That was a bit of an ego hit, but it was okay. As I rapidly found out, I was surrounded by people far brighter and better prepared than I was. Fortunately, I was not quite sharp enough to figure out how truly far behind I was, and so I did my best to work twice as hard to catch up. It worked reasonably well first semester.

Second semester consisted of Physics 24. It was a slightly unusual class -- a large chunk of it focused on Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity, and was taught by our resident Obi Won Kenobi figure. The rest of the class concerned rotational mechanics and oscillations. Because of it's unusual nature, those who placed out of Physics 23 typically were required to take Physics 24. As a result, Physics 24 was packed with my entire graduating class.

One day, we were covering rolling friction. I was doing fairly well in the class -- on track to get nearly straight-As for the semester. I raised my hand in lecture and asked a question regarding why it was static friction instead of kinetic (or something to that effect). I thought it was a good question.

The professor said, "Oh! I guess someone didn't read the book!"

Audible "Ooohs" echoed through the hall as I shrank to a third my size in my seat.

In that moment, I knew I needed to pick The Intimidator as my academic advisor.

In retrospect, it was an unusual choice. The Intimidator wasn't an astrophysicist. And The Intimidator was scary. The Intimidator was famous for saying things like "You're wasting your parents' money!" whenever students did badly. The Intimidator would also say "I expect most of you [in my section] to do better than average."

According to legend, The Intimidator once told a student, "You're Asian, and your parents are rich. I expect more from you."

So I hesitated, like Fanny Price, before that door, before I asked The Intimidator to be my academic advisor. But unlike Fanny, I walked in.

Where did this bluntness come from?

I never knew for sure. But I heard a story that The Intimidator had majored in physics in China. As a result of the Cultural Revolution, The Intimidator had to work on a farm for ten years. After the end of that dark period of self-cannibalistic madness, Chinese policy permitted the Intimidator to study abroad. The Intimidator earned a PhD in physics from MIT. I can only imagine the tenacity that it took, given those circumstances, to relearn (or maintain) that knowledge and focus.

That was why The Intimidator was at least ten years older than other associate professors.

But I never knew if that story was true. I never asked -- it seemed inappropriate and invasive to ask about that period of life. What I did know is that The Intimidator became The Encourager, The Facilitator.

A few weeks before finals, I got struck by acute appendicitis. Thanks to some less-than-stellar diagnosis from the campus medical center, I tried to tough through it for a couple sleepless days. My mom ended up showing up to campus and taking me to the ER (but not before I fired off the physics lab data to my lab partner), where after hours of waiting, I got it out. It had been leaking, and so I had to spend an extra week in the hospital.

When I got out, I went to the department and was studying for finals. The Intimidator came up, looked at me, and said, "You don't look so great. Maybe you should take the day off."

Given The Intimidator's reputation (and alleged incredible personal history), I must've looked like I was on death's door.

Or, more probably, The Intimidator wasn't in fact intimidating. The Intimidator was, at the core, a good person. The kind of person to bring back tea from China after sabbatical. The kind of person to shrewdly pass me to the second-most-intimidating person in the department during that sabbatical.

I heard that The Intimidator was worried that HMC professors coddled their students too much. It wasn't a judgment on how things were harder in the old days. It was more a statement of fact that HMC was a special place, and that perhaps it was a disservice to give students a skewed set of expectations regarding support. In that, and so much else, The Intimidator was both wise and correct.

I still don't *really* understand static friction for wheels. But I do understand that everyone needs someone like The Intimidator from time to time to troll and cajole the best work from us.

Dear Najet

As a grad student, I was pretty miserable. I  felt trapped on a path that seemed increasingly divergent from my interests and for which I felt increasingly unprepared and ill-equipped.

But if I am honest, there were bright moments. Najet was one of them.

She knocked on my apartment door. Evidently she had just moved in and was unfamiliar how the shower worked. I helped her with that, and took her grocery shopping. She cooked me a delicious meal, a curry I think, though to be honest I wasn't paying so much attention to the food. It was then that she told me that she had a boyfriend in France.

Still, we spent many months going out to eat, talking occasionally on the phone. By all external appearances, we probably seemed a couple to most people. We laughed, though internally I wept.

Then she broke up with Kader. After ten years, it was over.

In the months preceding the breakup, I remember talking with her several times. The relationship was never ideal. Sometimes she cried. I held her hand, and sometimes held her in my arms. I was a good friend.

I had learned a bad habit over the years. To deal with heartache and fear, I tended to rationalize why a relationship couldn't work out before it even started. It had taken many forms over the years.

"It's bad if we're both only children."

"I shouldn't fall for people in the same field."

"I'm a replacement for another Asian ex, and not valued in myself."

"I'm too young."

"I'm too old."

And always, in the background, my mind hissed:

"I will end up like my father. I must protect her from the horrible fate of having a mentally ill partner."

It was easy in Najet's case. Cultural difference (she was French Moroccan), religious difference (she was Muslim), and professional uncertainty (she was on a postdoc, and would leave within a year). I was also a mess at the time.

But I was a good friend. And because I was a good friend, I didn't seize upon her breakup.

And a week later, she had met someone else. Khalid. Online. In France.

We talked a bit of politics. But mostly it was about life. About relationships and family and academia and how many chickens she had killed as a virologist and whether life was out there in the universe.

Like all cases of heartache, I thought I would never get over her. But I did. We drifted apart. She moved to Germany. I moved to Maryland, and then back home. We haven't spoken in five years.

Did she ever know that I loved her? Or that I felt what I thought was love? It's hard to say. She might've known. Or maybe it's easier to believe in a less complicated friendship. Maybe I lacked the words -- or the right connection between words and feelings, in any language.

It's not just the Paris attacks that brought her to mind. I met up with Marc, a fellow grad student, on Monday. Marc speaks French. I remember when they met at a party, he and Najet were able to converse effortlessly . It speaks to my humanity, and I smile at it now. But how jealous I was at that moment! Even though I knew Marc was happily in a relationship with someone else, and in fact Najet, though less happily, was attached to one of the K boys at that time. Even though I had given up hope or ambition, still, I was in that moment, so profoundly human.

For that moment, and for all the others, I am grateful.

And so I think about her now. She is French, and spent many years in Paris, and so is in mourning. She is Muslim, and so is afraid perhaps of what is to come. I fear for her, too. I mourn with her, too.

And so this is what I think of when I think of Paris. I spent a week there, alone and somewhat depressed, in 2005. The city itself has no sentimental hold on me. But the people, I miss.

I worked with a postdoc, Frantz from France. He was seven feet tall. His wife might've been under five feet. He was so kind; even as my world and my mind was falling apart, he always treated me kindly and as a valued colleague. We talked about family, about the future. Though perhaps more than either me or Najet, he had a greater sense of calm and certainty. Maybe that came from aikido. Maybe it came from his own wisdom.

I remember one of the last times I went into the department, I heard his deep bass voice shout, "Ryan!" I didn't turn around; I was so depressed and lost at that time I felt numb. But I wish I had, and wish I had told you how much you had done for me. You hadn't saved my graduate career, but you did save a piece of my humanity and self-respect. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Frantz... he is safe. He is not in Paris. And he is not Arab. He is Safe. But Najet...

I have met other French citizens over the years. But those two loom largest. And so I can't grieve for Paris. I grieve for them. For their way of life, and what they love, and hate, and love to hate about their nation was attacked. And both the best and the worst of humanity will emerge from this. I grieve for them because I love them.

That will have to be enough.

Frantz -- I hope you are still mentoring and teaching, and doing amazing things with light that the French seem to own so well. Fresnel, Fourier, Fizeau, and Frantz. :)

And Najet -- bisou.

You're a Communist, Charlie Brown

What if Peanuts is a metaphor for the Cold War?

What if Charlie Brown was Soviet Russia, and Lucy was America?

Charlie Brown, always pursuing the (nuclear) football, only to be thwarted by American spycraft?

Charlie Brown, seen reaching out to minorities within America to demonstrate the contradictions and hypocrisies within American democracy?

Charlie Brown, who insinuated himself into the hearts of others via the cat's paw of an affectionate dog? Snoopy? To snoop?

Charlie Brown, whose Snoopy agents facilitated the hippie/counterculture movement, culminating in Woodstock?

Charlie Brown, eventually eclipsed by an ascendant Snoopy (China), who sought to assert his own identity and destiny by becoming the true leader of Communist power?

Charlie Brown, whose unrequited flirtations with Peppermint Patty reflect the uneasy relations Soviet leaders had with East Germany, an athletically dominant but restive and ultimately uncontrollable satellite?

Charlie Brown, ultimately rendered impotent by his many internal contradictions and divisions?

If so, then what does that make Lucy? The domineering, physically aggressive, narcissistic force of wrath and vindictiveness?

Ready to diagnose problems in others while offering no useful insights, but charging for the time?

Dragging a younger brother Linus (Great Britain) into conflict after conflict, using the blanket (nuclear umbrella) as leverage?

Completely self-unaware about her own flaws?

Flirtatious with Schroeder (Europe), and yet rejected by him over and over again because her nature was so at odds with his own?

Poor Sally and Linus. They would find love, if they were not pawns in the Great Game. At least the lesser nations always believe so.

A tribute to JL, on his wedding

Just in case this story is deemed unflattering to the subject, I am using the acronym JL. Will anonymize further if necessary.

I was surprised to receive an invitation. I hadn't kept in touch. When asked, JL jokingly (I hope) said, "Oh, that was probably [my fiancee]." I somehow doubted that my volume of article repostings and random thoughts on Facebook had endeared me to her. But it was as plausible an explanation as any.

So I don't know why I was considered special enough for an invitation. But I did think about why he was special enough that I would go.

I knew JL in college. We were suitemates one year, though the "suite" in question consisted of two isolated rooms joined by a long, ominous hallway with an enormous restroom and shower. Both of our roommates were in relationships, and so we occasionally wandered down the hall of horrors to engage in conversation. This was especially true during the summer, when it was just the two of us working that summer.

I remember once during that summer I gave him my video games, in a desperate attempt to quit. A day or two later, I came crawling back for them. He refused to give them to me. Damn him! But he did give them at the end of the summer.

The rest of this post is of a more serious nature.

I am going to say something that I haven't confessed publicly, or to anyone except JL. Once in my life, I drove drunk. Worse, I drove drunk with three others in the car. I was the designated driver, but I caved to pressure and took a double shot at a house party. While driving home, I was drunk enough that I pulled over to the side of the road and pissed in public, near a railroad crossing.

JL took the keys from me and got us safely back. He claims to not remember the incident -- I don't know if he's saying that to be kind, or because he honestly forgot. But he never scolded me, or even brought it up. It was his car, and his life, at stake. I never drove drunk again, but I still feel incredibly guilty about how my gross lapse in judgment could have been fatal. Perhaps he saved our lives that night.

Many years later, in the depths of my depression and unemployment, I spent some time with JL and his then-girlfriend (now wife). I don't know if he asked me to hang out because I was depressed, or if it was just because we had been friends in high school. I had a great time, but I felt too guilty to follow up and hang out with them again. I had nothing to offer. I think I was so depressed that I might not have been entertaining company. We might have met only twice since college, but I was grateful for the lifeline. I don't think he necessarily understood what I was going through, but he was wise enough to know that understanding isn't a prerequisite for empathy.

If you want to judge someone's character, observe how they treat someone who can do nothing for him or her. I'd heard him voice this belief before, many years ago, at a fast food restaurant. It comes back to me now, that distant memory. Maybe as a man he wasn't fully formed -- who is in college? But the framework of his character was already present, and already on solid ground.

One final story. My father died a year and a half ago. I posted it on Facebook, partly because that's what I do, but also because those who know me know how tremendously I have been shaped, both positively and negatively, by my father's presence, absence, and perceived influence. I received many expressions of condolences. But there were only a few people who called, nearly all of them family.

JL called. We talked. He offered to take me out for dinner that week. I put it off, and never followed up. It didn't seem significant then, though in retrospect, it was amazing. I hadn't seen him in a couple years, and yet he felt compelled to reach out with a phone call, nearly anachronistic, incredibly quaint in its courtesy.

He works for one of the most modern companies in the world. And yet, somehow, he's both old school and new tech.

The day of his wedding, my stepdad went to the ER. I almost didn't make the drive to the wedding. But he told me to go. I had to leave the evening celebration early because he had returned to the hospital.

But I'm so glad I went. It was my small way of repaying the many kindnesses I have received from him over the years, to celebrate his commitment to a wonderful woman who, from the first moment, treated me with open-handed friendship.

I cannot claim to know them well. But I am glad to know them. I told them in an absurd post-it note (substituting for a wedding card -- the madness of this week being my excuse) that they were part of my tribe. I mean it. They've met the cutoff of Dunbar's Number. I just need to do better to show it.

Congratulations, JL. I am proud of you, and proud to know you.

Silent Warriors

On my last day in Maui, I noticed a dusty framed certificate in the living room. 

I doubt it had been looked at for years.

I knew that Grandpa Yamada had had a brother who served in World War II in the US Army, and who had died in France. I knew his name was Hideo. I also knew that his family did not want him to go, but he did. His family wasn't interned -- Japanese-Americans in Hawaii were largely exempt.

I remember finding his name on the monument to Japanese-American WWII servicemen in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. I remember making a pencil etching of his name, paying the recommended donation, and hesitating to send it home. Someone suggested that it was unwise to bring him up to Grandpa.

And so, like so many things in my family, it was discarded and unspoken, and the opportunity to hear the story died. How ironic that we would be so cowardly when it came to discussing frankly the brave and honorable death of a relative.

And so here was an artifact from that past. Here was the thing I kept in mind every time I heard a Jap joke, the thing that I thought about every time a Korean or Chinese client or stranger grew slightly brittle upon learning that I am of Japanese ancestry. I have been told that in Asia, a conception of nationality distinct from race is challenging. My exposure was limited, so I can't say if that's the case. But if it is, it is one more reason I am grateful to have been born on this side of the ocean.

But here was new information. I assumed, being Hawaiian, Hideo served in the 100th Battalion. But it appears he served in the storied 442nd Regimental Combat Team, in F Company -- a distinguished company within a legendary regiment.

In high school, I read Silent Warriors: A Memoir of America's 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The author, Jack Wakamatsu, served in F Company.

I think Hideo was mentioned in passing -- just a sentence. At the time I wasn't sure if it was my great-uncle... Hideo is a common enough name.

The certificate indicates he died October 15, 1944, which would put it at the beginning of the attack on Bruyères.  So he died before the regiment rescued the "Lost Battalion".

My father claimed that he was killed by a sniper. But my father had a terrible habit of embellishing stories -- it would be a shame if he chose to embellish this one, for surely it doesn't need artificial drama.

His awards, and brief mention in Silent Warriors, perhaps suggests that he wasn't an exemplary member of the unit. But I'm not sure that means much if the unit itself is the most decorated, for its size and duration of service, in the history of American warfare.

I know nothing else about the man. I can't claim any pride for his service. But I do hope to keep his service in mind as I try to be a more decent man.

Grandma's House

I wish I had said this to you, my cousins. But I couldn't get all four of you together at once. I couldn't, or I wouldn't. For while I felt welcome, I didn't always feel comfortable. It's a powder keg here, and as in all wars, the children will suffer most, and most blamelessly.

What would I say?

I would say that she was your grandma most of all. I was given, unexpectedly, a place of honor at the service, as the surviving descendant of her eldest child, her eldest son. Because of this I was charged with starting the procession for incense and prayer. I also sat in the front row. My mother -- bless her heart! -- sent flowers via the Kahului florist, flowers that read "From Ryan". I know that some read this as arrogance and presumption and not kindness, sounding a dissonant note. (The other two wreaths simply said "Beloved Grandmother" and "Beloved Mother", with no names.) Perhaps worst of all, my aunt proposed, last-minute, to add a brief statement and prayer dedicated to my late father, extending the service another ten minutes.

All of these serve, in some way, to separate me from you. It is the last thing I want, for your kindness has been the one thing that has kept this trip tolerable.

I can't claim her. She gave birth to my father, and my father gave birth to me. But our relationship was a tenuous one, one of a half dozen visits and cards during the holidays. You, on the other hand, were there every week -- even now. You grill, you eat, you laugh, you talk story.

I want to tell you that I don't know that with Grandma Yamada. I'll never know that. But I know what it is to have that, and to lose it.

Every Sunday, with few exceptions, my mother's family would gather at Grandma Yasuda's house. Not everyone had gone to church. But everyone ate. Everyone talked. As the youngest cousin, I enjoyed the attention and patience of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and older cousins.

As an only child of a single mother, this experience was absolutely vital. Without it, I have no doubt I would be dead, in spirit if not in body.

I even lived there for a time. In retrospect, I am grateful my mother had both the privilege and willingness to go to half-time employment and live a couple days a week with her parents when they contracted cancer. I spent even more time with some of my cousins. I learned how to change a colostomy bag. I learned to grieve as I saw both my grandmother and my grandfather alive one day and dead the next.

And I grieved, especially for my grandmother. I lost her in 8th grade, on the cusp of graduation, before I could give the valediction. I talked about teaching then, because I didn't have the heart to talk about how much I missed her, what she had meant to me.

If I am honest, then, I do not share your pain. But I know it. I know that pain better than I know my own face.

You aunts and uncles -- I also know what it is to lose a parent, a parent with whom, maybe, you feel you had unfinished business. But damn you and your foolish machinations and grudges. Choke on your bitterness. I will speak to your children.

You may wonder if you'll lose that center, now that she's gone. You may. Maybe not. You are four, and your spouses, and your own children, bound by a father who yet lives there. Will he be your center? Perhaps, though fathers and sons, and fathers and daughters, do not always have the same luxury, the same patience, the same opportunity for love to feel unconditional, though in these cases, at least, it certainly is.

We lost our emotional center, and eventually, we lost our place of congregation. The diaspora is spread less through space and more through neglected ties. It can be rekindled, and I have the good fortune of picking up where I left off with many of these cousins and aunts. But it is different, and in many ways, inferior.

If your bonds live -- and they have a better chance, for you are brothers and sisters -- it will be because you work to reforge the broken links through frequent and strenuous effort. You will be fine, I hope, I think. But the rest of us? If we let three months, six months, a year pass, what will become of us?

No matter. I will instead focus on my gratitude. You have, without knowing, let me feel the slight touch of a rope tied to a ship long disappeared over the horizon, a ship bearing my happiest memories, my most important influences. I weep for your loss, but I celebrate the realization that I had this best of gifts. I hope you know what you had, and what you must fight to keep.

Sigh - wine has substituted feeling. Food has substituted grief. Let me walk on these sands and clear my thoughts, for they ramble irregularly like the waves in this breakered lagoon.

Small Thoughts on a Small Island

Today is September 13, 2015. I flew to Maui for the funeral of my last surviving grandparent, my paternal grandma. By cruel coincidence, today is also apparently National Grandparents' Day.

I haven't been for 15 years. It may seem strange to avoid paradise for so long.

Fifteen years ago, I was a senior in high school. I had come here with my father to visit family. My grandparents, uncle, and schizophrenic aunt all lived on a small farm in Makawao -- upcountry, about 30 minutes from Kahului.

I remember less than I think I should have from this trip. I remember red soil, a red that stained and dirtied sneakers beyond salvation. I remember that it would rain intermittently at our elevation of three or four thousand feet.

I remember my grandpa showing me his angry, strict constructionist letters to to the editor of the local paper. I remember he gave me Will Durant's book, The Story of Civilization, and showed me his heavily annotated copy. I remember him threatening to shoot the people that stole his cherrymoyas, and my grandmother and father, not taking this threat lightly, said rather lamely in local dialect, "Let them take."

I remember my grandma, who complained about being a farmer, and who fed me lau lau, which, being polite, I ate, even though I hated the stuff.

(I still hate the stuff, though with less passion. All passions, it seem, including those of taste, grow less acute with time.)

But mostly, I remember my father and the AP Biology test.

***

I had brought an AP Biology prep book with me to Maui. My school didn't offer AP Bio, and I had taken Honors Bio as a freshman. Three years later, after determining that I was half a class shy of being a National AP Scholar, I decided to study independently for the AP Bio test. I had done this before -- I had taken the AP Chemistry test as a sophomore, as had four of my classmates. But this was different. For chemistry, I had had the benefit of taking Honors Chemistry that same year. I was on my own this time. And I was three years removed from formal coursework.

So I studied.

During that week, my father had at least one manic episode. Manic episodes with my father resembled volcanic eruptions -- some were sudden explosions, while others started more slowly. This was one of the latter.

He seemed crabby that day. He made some snide comments about how my mother had raised me. I didn't know what he had a problem with specifically, but I did sense the coming storm.

I was studying DNA transcription when he stormed into the house when he marched in. I think he had stormed in and out of the house periodically over the previous thirty minutes. I'm not completley sure -- I was blessed with the power to concentrate and tune out my surroundings.

Finally, he marched in the room. He was shouting at me, telling me I was a bad son, and that Mom had raised me badly. I tried to ignore it. I don't think he used the word "worthless", but that was pretty much the gist of it. He was offended because he was my father, and that I should obey him.

Now, for as long as I had remembered, I was told two things about my father. He was sick, and it wasn't his fault. I was often sad, or angry, but knew I wasn't supposed to be angry with him. (I also was told that I shouldn't work too hard, or feel too happy, or feel too sad, with the unstated implication that I would end up bipolar.)

But something inside me snapped. I told him off. I don't remember everything I said, but I do remember telling him, "You're a small man."

I don't know that I could've chosen worse words to insult his pride. Small man! Small man? I AM NOT A SMALL MAN! Your mother did a bad job! And so on.

He stormed out again. Tears running down my face, I turned back to the book. It took a while for the tears to clear, and for my mind to focus. But I went back to studying.

I honestly have no recollections from the rest of that trip. That May, I took the AP Biology test and got a 5. I also did well enough on my other AP tests (including Microeconomics, which I had studied for on my own) to get the National AP Scholar award.

At Harvey Mudd, I needed to study biology (again independently) and take a placement exam (again independently) to try to pass out of Introduction to Biology (Bio 52), which at that time was notoriously worthless. I ended up doing well enough to pass out of the class, but not well enough to be awarded credit. I was permitted to take Evolutionary Biology (Bio 101), which was a perfectly fine, fairly easy class.

So it didn't really matter that I had studied biology intensively three separate times. It didn't matter that I had gotten the National AP Scholar award. I didn't get an iota of credit from my 11 AP tests.

And yet it did matter. It mattered because it meant I had shit to do. I had a goal, born out of vanity, or ambition, or genuine curiosity, that compelled me to focus on work. It meant that I didn't have time to be patient with the ravings of my father. It meant that the normal precautions and rules dictated by my family, and my own personal anxieties, weren't front and center.

It meant that I could tell him off, recover, and do the job.

***

Fifteen years later, the grandparents are dead. My aunt is dead. My father is dead.  And the dream that I was chasing then is dead. I'm older. Just older.

All passions grow less acute with time. The passion to be right, or to be certain, is diminished. The conviction that something is owed -- resolution, restitution, violence, martyrdom -- by me, or him, or the universe, has been replaced by an accordioning of time and depletion of memory, a diminution of importance.

The house on the farm is half-empty now. I placed some incense at the Buddhist altar, remembering that my grandfather had once said, "Religion is between you and God." Alone, except for the watchful eyes of the god I doubt, I surrendered these memories and committed them to the cerulean sea.

Pausing, but not stopping, to remember the grandmother that passed, and the father who once loomed so unbearably large, but now grows smaller and smaller.

Oh Lord, we commit these bodies to flame, and commit their souls to your mercy. Be merciful to us, Lord, for we do not believe, and yet are saved by the forgetting. Amen.

Dastardly Remander: A review of three borrowed audio books and a confession of colossal stupidity

On my recent trip up north, I took some audio books. I borrowed them from the local library.

I had to make some difficult choices...

One of these is fanciful fiction of the most incredible sort.
The other takes place mostly on a boat.

I ended up settling on four books:

The Great Courses: Great Battles of the Ancient World (Part 1 of 2), Garett G. Fagan
At The Mountains of Madness, H.P. Lovecraft
Slaughterhouse 5, Kurt Vonnegut
Master and Commander, Patrick O'Brian

I ended up getting to the first three. Great Battles of the Ancient World and At The Mountains of Madness covered the trip up there, and Master and Commander covered the trip down.

Don't judge audio books by their covers.

I do judge people by their covers. Looks "academic" enough.

The Great Courses: Great Battles of the Ancient World (Part 1 of 2)lectures by Garrett G. Fagan
copyright 2005, The Teaching Company

I was most excited by this one, and so I cracked it open first. Fagan has a high, Irish accent, one that probably would grate on me in a social setting but perfectly suited to a set of lectures on ancient conflict. He spent a great deal of time on methodology and built a case for his views on ancient conflict. In short, Herodotus exaggerates and lies. Also, artwork and official accounts tend to skew toward the rich, overstating the importance and number of chariots and other elite units. I have no benchmark by which to compare his conclusions to those he discusses and demolishes, but they seem plausible, if somewhat less exciting.

Don't ask me for specifics on Sumer, Akkad, Megiddo, Kadesh, Troy, Lachish, Marathon, or Thermopylae. I was listening while dodging minivans who thought it fit to go 95 on I-5. Still, I did get a sense that the hoplite actually fought in a more open formation, rather than the traditional view of a bunch of dudes 8 deep pushing with unwieldy spears. I now want to find part two and get to Alexander and Rome.

"Disclaimer: The County of Los Angeles Public Library assumes no
responsibility for damage of any nature whatsoever to a customer's
equipment as a result of use of Library's materials."

Does this cover madness? 

At the Mountains of Madness
Written by H. P. Lovecraft
Performed by Jim Killavey
copyright 2014 by JimCin Recordings

I had read At The Mountains of Madness before, many years ago, and enjoyed it. I even liked the trailer for the upcoming movie!

(Spoiler: it's a fake, but it looked good. Wasn't so excited over a fan trailer since Titanic II. And yes, I have seen Encino Man.)

My first warning should have been the production company: Sounds Terrifying: Mystery and Thriller Audiobooks. What a groaner.

My second warning was that I probably read At The Mountains of Madness during a period of acute depression and unemployment, which probably meant that I was not of particularly discriminating or sensitive taste.

In any case, what can I say? I wish I could say that I could imagine, driving up highway 101 among hills, that I could visualize the forbidding titular mountains. But my god!--the voice droned and inflected in a way that sounded like it was trying to thread a balance between drama and narration, and failing at both.

Perhaps it wasn't the speaker's fault. H. P. Lovecraft is, unfortunately, perhaps a gawdawful writer. He was so redundant I thought I was listening to my mom tell me for the tenth time about a person I didn't care about doing something completely inane and boring. He stated the title directly in what seemed like no fewer than five instances. He stretched out the exploration of the abandoned city in a way that killed tension, rather than enhanced it. And, finally, he made the horrible decision to have his narrator break from the story to express hesitation about continuing so frequently that it lost all power.

The most terrifying sound I heard on the CD wasn't "Tekili-li!". It was "Please insert the next CD."

I hesitate to go back and read The Shadows of Innsmouth. I liked that book, too, but I wonder if it holds up as badly. I'll probably definitely not listen to it.

ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?

Master and Commander
By Patrick O'Brian
Read by John Lee
copyright 2003 Books on Tape, Inc.

I have a close friend from college who told me he had read all of the Master and Commander books. I knew he was an anglophile and loved Napoleonic naval stuff. But I couldn't imagine why, or how, he did so. I can't remember if it was in grad school or high school; one seems a more likely time for a 20-novel bingefest than the other, especially because said friend grew up without a TV.

Also, I saw the movie, and enjoyed it.

I decided to get it because he and I tended to have similar tastes when it came to historical interests, though my knowledge of Napoleonic naval warfare was limited to some Wikipedia entries on the Battle of the Nile, itself prompted by Haydn's Missa in angustiis ("Lord Nelson Mass"). (The backstory on that work is great -- in my mind only eclipsed by the background of Shostakovich's 7th symphony, ("Leningrad").

This was a superb audiobook.

First, O'Brian is a delightful author, treating the neophyte with a slough of naval taxonomy that I couldn't follow, but still appreciated. He describes a constellation of characters that are interesting and diverse. A recent Atlantic article compared the series with Game of Thrones (which I have completely read but not watched). In some ways I can see that, though Master and Commander, by its nature, is more proscribed in its settings. But the dynamic of the two main characters -- Dr. Jack Aubrey and Dr. Steven Maturin -- surrounded by a maelstrom of characters, plots, conflict, and actual maelstroms -- makes for wonderful listening, and no doubt, engrossing reading.

I have been told that the series does get a bit repetitive -- it would be a remarkable feat to keep it completely fresh with a nautical setting across 20 novels -- but that it's still worth reading the first few novels. I am somewhat more convinced.

A word on the narrator: I think this performer did a fantastic job of subtly, but clearly, delineating the differences between the characters. He did so without too much affectation, though he did modulate his accent slightly. Sometimes, I think the effect was one more of modifying tone rather than timbre, which is fine by me. I consider this the best audiobook I've listened to, with Unbroken (not reviewed) second, on the quality of the narration.


Epilogue:
After returning home, I searched frantically for the 12th and final Master and Commander CD. I was tired when I finished the book, and driving at the time, so I had sandwiched it among the student notebooks and garbage that covered the passenger seat. After an 11 hour drive, I was spent and went to sleep.

After a couple days, I thought about it and started searching for the CD. No luck. Had I thrown it out with the garbage? Was it squeezed between the folds of the seat? Embedded in one of the multitudinous, seemingly self-replicating notebooks that I had?

Here I channel Lovecraft:

Dark dreams began to take hold of me, dreams in which I walked up the steps of the library of the cursed city of Leng, cradling a secret sin, 11 genuine CDs and one blank. Could I be capable of such evil? Azathoth was blind and an idiot, but wouldn't he know?

Here I hesitate to continue reader. Although guided by the same mission that I had obscurely mentioned multiple times before, I have to fill some space by expressing horror and disgust that I will continue (but yes, I will continue). It is only to prevent others from the same folly unending, and from unleashing unimaginable catastrophe, that I state what I am about to state, etc.

After spending nearly two weeks of searching with sporadic freneticism, I eventually noticed something:

As in, 11 CDs for Master and Commander. I checked: the 11th CD does end with "Here ends the reading of Master and Commander, by Patrick O'Brian..."

So I wasn't missing a CD. I had spent hours scouring through the detritus of lost civilizations that constitute my trunk and front passenger seat of my car, all because I failed to make the logical jump that, maybe, just maybe, I had miscounted the number of CDs consumed in an 11-hour, caffeine-directed, bladder-destroying drive from Garberville to Hacienda Heights. And maybe, just maybe, I should, I don't know, read the notes on the thing from the library.

I used to joke about being functionally illiterate. Must I add innumeracy to my manifesto of armchair diagnoses?

Also, apologies to Ethan Hawke. I'll get to Slaughterhouse Five if I can before the renewal date. I should -- it's too cute that there are exactly 5 CDs.

Because 5 is in the title, right? I'm expecting a laugh riot.

Doing something

I do not intend for the previous post to be nothing but self-indulgent emoting. I've been thinking a lot about what I can do.

In the discussions about what to do with any of the migration and humanitarian issues of the day, I've seen lots of criticism that we must look to our own citizens first. I've also seen critiques of aid agencies as being corrupt, or concerns about moral hazard exacerbating the power of smugglers and criminal elements, or -- in my view -- less rational arguments about racial or religious purity, terrorism, and claims that "we shouldn't have to do more if country/group X isn't doing anything".

I find all of them inadequate. Some may be grounded in a speck of truth. But I believe that ultimately, we as individuals shape our values and destinies by our actions and inactions.

I know that not everyone feels equally able, or equally responsible. The discussions tend to focus on one extreme or another, all-or-nothing views of service and duty.

I know, in my heart of hearts, that even images of drowned children will not cause me to part with everything I have, with the life I am building here. Nor, perhaps, should it. Philosophically, intellectually, and perhaps even at a bare emotional level, I do feel that our first duty is to our own citizens.

But it is not our only duty. And all-or-nothing thinking tends to rationalize inaction on all fronts.

So I've decided to be a bit more systematic, to explore and define where that line lies with me. It's potentially shameful how little I might find myself willing to do, but by looking for that line, and choosing to go up to that line, I'll do more. And that might have to be enough.

Direct Involvement:
Volunteering in Syria for at least a year
Volunteering in Syria for any amount of time
Volunteering in Turkey/Egypt/Jordan for at least a year
Volunteering in Turkey/Egypt/Jordan for any amount of time
Volunteering in the EU for at least a year
Volunteering in the EU for any amount of time
Volunteering at a local NGO for at least a year
Volunteering at a local NGO for at least 4 hours a week.
Volunteering at a local NGO for less than 4 hours a week.
Searching for a local NGO involved in relief efforts

That's all I feel capable of doing for now. It's depressingly low on the list, but it's more than I would do otherwise.

Financial:Donate life savings to an appropriate nonprofit
Donate $5,000
Donate $2,000
Donate $1,000
Donate $500
Donate $250
Donate $100
Donate $50
Donate $20
Donate $10
Donate $5
Donate nothing

I had Donate $500 highlighted for a good minute. But I struggled, and caved in to a lower amount. I'm not proud of that. It's been a good year for me. But it's more than I would do otherwise. I think I'll donate it to Doctors Without Borders -- they appear to be working at train stations directly, which seems like a good place for the money to work.

Now what about Americans? Don't I have an obligation to people here? Absolutely.

Direct Involvement:
Volunteer for more than 10 hours a week
Volunteer for 5-10 hours a week
Volunteer for less than 5 hours a week.
Look into volunteer opportunities.
Don't volunteer.

It's not a lot. I don't know how I found more time to volunteer at Mudd and carry a full courseload. Maybe I'm underestimating how much unpaid work I do. Maybe I am rationalizing my laziness. But I'm willing to cut out some Youtube and Wikipedia time to do so.

Now, what specific volunteering action should I take? I've long wanted to tutor children in shelters. I'm not sure if it's the best approach, given the limitations on shelter stay -- perhaps a long-term tutoring commitment at a local library or school is more important. But maybe I'm focused too much on my current skills/job. Brush clearance and trail cleanup might be a better option, though I think food pantry work would be more important.

Financial Involvement, Domestic:Donate life savings to an appropriate nonprofit
Donate $5,000
Donate $2,000
Donate $1,000
Donate $500
Donate $250
Donate $100
Donate $50
Donate $20
Donate $10
Donate $5
Donate nothing

$100 to the Inland Valley Hope Partners. Done. Sorry Bernie, but I'll give you something later.

Now, psychological research says that saying you're going to do something makes it less likely that you'll actually do it. To avoid that, I've submitted the donations before I posted this.

***

Look, I didn't do this to be a goddamn Pharisee about the thing. I don't think I did much. But again, I did more than I would've done otherwise. I had to grapple with just how little I was willing to do, but I made sure to do that.

It's important to really not give in to helplessness and figure out what exactly you will do. Not what you can do, but what you will do. And then do it. It's humbling, but it's necessary. It's perhaps not optimal, but what is in this life?

Make a spreadsheet. Conduct a more rigorous audit of your nonprofits. By all means conduct a more nuanced budget, building in persistent support instead of one-time gifts. But whatever you do, do something. Our values are reflected in both our actions and our lack of action.

Remember: you have something to give this world. Those who are most bitter, who are most angry -- they are the ones who feel the world owes them something, who feel, in their heart of hearts, too vulnerable to say, "I am of value, I have value to offer, and I give it with the confidence that, after I have given, I will be elevated, not diminished, as a human being." I know this because I struggle with it as well.

You do have value. Within my calculations of distant offerings, I am mindful of my need to also look nearer, and embrace you. I am rediscovering my better nature, and so I hope it will be manifest in my friendships, too.

Sorry for my long, lonely absence. I'm back. After a long, long journey, I'm back.

The Drowned Boy

Once upon a time, there was a father, a wood carver, who lived alone with a cat and a fish. He carved a wooden puppet of a boy and named it Pinocchio. He sighed and dreamed about what it would be like if he had a real son. That night, a fairy godmother, hearing the father's prayers, and recognizing him as a good man, gave life to the wooden boy, and enlisted a vagabond cricket to serve as his conscience and guide. She promises that if he proves himself "brave, truthful, and unselfish", she will transform Pinocchio into a real boy.

The father, upon waking, couldn't believe his eyes. He rejoiced and celebrated. He sent Pinocchio to school, with the cricket following. But Pinocchio was tricked by bad men, kidnapped and enslaved, and forced to perform as a stringless marionette to enrich his enslaver. He escaped with the help of his fairy godmother, who forgives his lies. But then was convinced by the same bad men to take a boat to Pleasure Island, where he indulged in vice and began transforming into an ass. He escapes, and flees toward home.

When he returns home, he finds that his father has gone looking for him, and was now trapped in a whale named Monstro. Pinocchio goes in search of him, but also becomes trapped. With his father, he hatches a plan to escape. They escape, but Pinocchio is found in shallow water, face down, dead.

He is mourned and honored for his sacrifice, but his fairy godmother, honoring his fulfillment of her command to be brave, truthful, and unselfish, restores him to life as a real boy.

By now, you have probably seen the images of the body of Aylan Kurdi, the three-year old boy who drowned off the coast of Turkey.

I've been thinking a lot about him. My grandmother died the same day, and yet I find myself mourning this unknown boy, not the mother of my father. This image, of a boy, face-down, in shallow water, is heartbreaking.

It's probably offensive to connect a real tragedy with a Disney story.

But is it so off the mark? 

Didn't his father celebrate when he was born? 

Weren't his attempts to explore the world or go to school cut short by evil men? 

Didn't he have to leave home, and, with his father, escape certain death of one type, only to meet it in the sea?

And finally, most shamefully:

If we are honest with ourselves, wasn't he not quite a real boy to us, not real at all, a construction, an idea, an abstraction -- was this boy not a real boy to us, until he washed up on a beach? 

Is he real enough now?

McKinley, according to Theodore Roosevelt (via Edmund Morris)

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/presidents/william-mckinley-1417412.html.
(Yes, I'm citing a UK paper for a pic of an American President.)

Mt. McKinley was renamed Denali. It's notable to me, personally, because my cousin Carolyn had just visited Alaska. We were discussing the mountain last week, and how Denali is the local name for the mountain.

According to history books, it was named by explorer Dickey. Later, however, he claimed to name it after McKinley to troll the miners (free silver people) that had harangued him for days with their politics. (Note to self: campsites are probably terrible places to have long-winded political argument.)

As expected, Ohio Republicans are freaking out, though their arguments contain some anachronisms.

Now, McKinley was president over a hundred years ago, and like many presidents who died in office, he was probably most remembered in our history texts for dying in office. Sometimes such an untimely end often cheats some presidents of greater prominence and admiration (see James A. "I-write-math-proofs-in-my-spare-time-when-I'm-not-working-my-way-out-of-poverty-or-fighting-corruption-or-defeating-superior-confederate-forces" Garfield). But in McKinley's case, he had the good fortune of dying in office and being overshadowed by a charismatic and influential successor.

To be fair, McKinley was wildly popular at the time of his death. He presided over a period of economic prosperity (rightly or wrongly attributed to "sound money" policies and protective tariffs). America had just fought the Spanish-American War and won decisively. This was the first major war fought by America against a foreign power since the Civil War, and so it played an often understated role of helping unify the country together in a way that Reconstruction and the Gilded Age hadn't, or couldn't.

His policies? Well, pretty pure Gilded Age stuff. But you can read about that elsewhere; Morris paints a far more interesting image of the man.

Some delightful quotes on McKinley from The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, by Edmund Morris. (Bold emphasis added by me.)


McKinley as a drug-addled empty suit

Swaying gently against the cushions of the Presidential carriage, relaxed after a day of stiff formalities. William McKinley appeared to best advantage. Locomotion quickened his inert body and statuesque head, and the play of light and shade through the window made his masklike face seem mobile and expressive. Roosevelt could forget about the too-short legs and pulpy handshake, and concentrate on the bronzed, magnificent profile. From the neck up, at least, McKinely was every inch a President--or for that matter, an emperor, with his high brow finely chiseled mouth, and Roman nose. "He does not like to be told that it looks like the nose of Napoleon," the columnist Frank Carpenter once wrote. "it is a watchful nose, and it watches out for McKinley."

Not until the President turned, and gazed directly at his interlocutor, was the personal force which dominated Mark Hanna fully felt. His stare was intimidating in its blackness and steadiness. The pupils, indeed, were at times so dilated as to fuel suspicions that he was privy to Mrs. McKinley's drug cabinet. Only very perceptive observers were aware that there was no real power behind the gaze: McKinley stared in order to concentrate a sluggish, wandering mind." (612)


McKinley as a less-than-competent political leader (beholden to moneyed interests)

"The November Congressional elections were disastrous for the Republican party, due mainly to an unpopular tariff measure which William McKinley [then Speaker of the House] had pushed into law at the end of the last session. With prices on manufactured goods rising daily, voters threw the culprit out of office--severely damaging his presidential prospects--and filled the House with the largest Democratic majority in history." (436)


McKinley as a bought-and-paid-for pol

Mrs. Storer was a wealthy and formidable matron whose eyes burned with religious fervor, and whose jaw booked no opposition from anybody--least of all William McKinley, whom she considered to be in her debt. The Presidential candidate had gratefully accepted $10,000 of Storer funds in 1893, when threatened with financial and political ruin. Mrs. Storer was now, three years later, expecting to recoup this investment in the form of various appointments for her near and dear. (563)*


McKinley as a Jefferson Davis/flip-flopper/opportunist

"Not since the campaign of Crassus against the Parthians," in Roosevelt's later opinion, "has there been so criminally incompetent a General as Shafter." [the commander of forces invading Cuba during the Spanish-American War] Yet it was hard in the early days of June 1898 not to sympathize with that harassed officer, for President McKinley was proving an exceedingly erratic Commander-in-Chief. Bent, apparently, on acting as his own Secretary of War, he had been sending Shafter contradictory orders ever since the Battle of Manila. Dewey's overwhelming victory had turned both the President and Secretary Long into war-hawks overnight; their first reaction ot the news had been to endorse Roosevelt's naval/military invasion plan, over the objection of Commanding General Miles, on 2 May. General Shafter was ordered to prepare for immediate departure from Tampa (although the Volunteers were still in training), and on 8 May the President had increased the project landing force from ten thousand to seventy thousand. But then McKinley discovered that there was not enough ammunition in the United States to keep such an army firing for one hour in battle, and an urgent cancellation order flew to Tampa. Shafter's force force was scaled down to twenty-five thousand by the end of May, and the telegrams from Washington became querulous: "When will you leave? Answer at once" Shafter wired back that he could not sail before 4 June." (655-656)

*To be fair, sucking up to her is how the celebrated Theodore Roosevelt got his appointment as Assistant Secretary of the Navy.

Night Shift

After much tearing of clothes and gnashing of teeth, I'm actually, finally, going to Northern California for a short vacation. Headed to Fremont and Garberville. Fremont should be familiar to most of you -- it's Bay-area ish. Garberville is in Humboldt County. My cousin there is a "pharmacist",y which I mean she is actually a pharmacist, perhaps the only legitimate one in the area.

This has been an... interesting 24 hours.

First, my departure time. For whatever reason, I thought it would be a good idea to leave Monday evening. My septagenarian aunt can make the trip to Fremont in one day, but I thought I might need two. The initial "plan" (scare quotes appropriate in this case) was to spend the night around Fresno, spend the day in Yosemite, and the head to Fremont for dinner. But just as plague changed the course of human history, it changed the course of this human's story.

I guess you could say
(•_•) / ( •_•)>⌐■-■ / (⌐■_■)
The trip got off to a bumpy start.

So the " "plan" " became "head up I-5 until you get tired. I had to pull over after an hour because I had to field some questions about O. Henry's use of vocabulary in "The Gift of the Magi". The student is in 9th grade honors English -- but it's pretty tough. Solid vocab chops and a healthy appreciation of puns are needed. I'm actually pretty proud of how I was able to explain, and the student was able to understand, how the author uses beggar as a verb, and why it's funny. Explaining jokes is never a surefooted endeavor, but I managed to not shoot myself in the foot, or put said foot in my mouth, and the mother's offer for compensation for remote tutoring effectively that someone else would foot the bill for the hotel tonight. (O Henry? I don't owe him anything!)

So here's where it gets interesting. I got a text around midnight from the brother of that student indicating he needed help on his first calculus assignment. On that auspicious note I pulled off at Gorman and into a closed McDonalds lot to send off some texts.

A guy approached my car and asked, "Hey, can you roll down the window?"

I stared at him for a good second or two, and obliged.

He then tells me a story about how he and his buddy got stranded on their dirtbikes. I'm glad I checked my cynicism for half a second, because he seemed to be asking for more than a couple bucks for gas. He wanted a ride.

His name was Dante. I suppose a more bemused deity might've sent a Cain.

Now, prior to the trip, I did stop by at the library and picked up some audiobooks. Among the offerings was Malcolm Gladwell's Blink. I didn't take it, because I had read it a few years ago. But I suppose the principles he was outlining were operating, because I said yes before I really had processed anything.

He got in, and we started driving toward a dark, dead-end street, to "meet his friend guarding the bikes". I mentally thought, "Okay, this is going to be interesting."

As it turns out, Dante took over watch duty of the bikes. Ricardo and I ended up driving to their car, which, as it turns out, was about ten miles away over rough roads. It was then that I was able to realize why I had trusted Dante enough to give him a ride. If I'm honest, these were factors:

1. seemed clean-cut, middle-class
2. white
3. offered me money for help
4. I was by myself, and so the direct consequences of robbery/murder would be limited to me.

But perhaps the most important one: he actually had on all the protective gear. Either he was who he said he was, or he was a serial killer particularly committed to playing the part. I respect method actors.

I got to know the two guys a bit. They each have a strong internal locus of control. Ricardo had been in a terrible accident in 2009. A drunk driver had nearly killed him. Doctors warned him against pushing his body too hard, but he found that surfing, dirt biking, and rock climbing were better than Percocet. Ricardo was now a civil engineer for a private water company in Ventura. I knew less about Dante's background, but he had been in the army and had used his navigation skills to help them get out. (Ricardo's bike had started breaking down and a trip that had been planned for five hours turned into a fourteen hour ordeal.)

Through it all they had no fears of dying in the desert, either from biking itself or exposure. They had conserved their water, and had topped off their gas tanks. Before Ricardo's bike had started breaking down, they had been taking trails that involved tight turns exposed to 60-foot drops. Ricardo had tried to jury-rig a solution, but found that the bolt in his shifter had practically fused.

He calmly said, "I knew I wasn't going to die. If we had been trapped overnight, I would've dug a hole to help keep warm." They did have their phones, but had held off from calling 911. (The ranger station had closed at 5pm.)

Ricardo had said that another guy who usually joined them had declined to go today, as a mutual friend had died dirt biking the day before.

I happened to have two peaches in a cooler, and gave it to them. They were grateful. They offered me money again, but I just gave them my card. Somehow, I felt it would be good for me to stay in touch with them.

Hours later, I finally checked into a motel, where I had paid twice as much as I had expected, and where I found WiFi problems that compelled me to squat in the lobby at 5 in the morning. I started whining, furious that I was working on student questions, furious that the blase night receptionist was spraying for roaches in the lobby while I worked, and generally tired and pissed.

Then I thought, goddamn it, Ryan. You don't really pay attention to what goes on around you, do you?

Opus is Back

https://www.facebook.com/berkeleybreathed/photos/a.114529165244512.10815.108793262484769/1004028256294594/?type=1&pnref=story

Berkeley Breathed just posted a new comic on his Facebook page.

It's been 8 years since he last published a comic.

He's the creator of the Bloom County, Outland, and Opus comic strips. The comics cover the adventures of a band of misfits, and center around a jovial and neurotic penguin, Opus.

 While Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes informed my philosophy, and Jim Davis' Garfield shaped my precocious pessimism, Breathed's Bloom County served as a political/current events primer. This was especially useful/weird for a kid who didn't discuss politics at home. Who was this C. Everett Koop, and why is it funny that he gets killed by tofu and bean sprouts?

The timing of his return can't be coincidental. And if I had to guess, it has to do with Donald Trump.

One of the main long-running stories that emerged in Breathed's comics centered around the brain transplant of Donald Trump into the body of Bill D. Cat, the gross, anti-Garfield tongue fetishist. (And possible proto-Hodor: his vocabulary consisted of Ack! and Thbbft!)

"Billthecat". Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Billthecat.jpg#/media/File:Billthecat.jpg

Yeah, there's a lot of sophomoric humor. Maybe that's why I love it so.

Anyway, it's interesting to see Bill transform from bizarre cat to, well, Donald Trump in a cat's body. But between the laughs, there's some good commentary. I still remember this comic.

http://welcometoyouredoom.tumblr.com/post/104760707206

Welcome back, Berkeley Breathed. This might be just a way to fund your powerboating habit. But maybe, just maybe, you see that there is a need for your type of satire.

Charleston

Something had been bugging me about the coverage of the nine murders at Charleston Emanuel AME.

At this time, it seems pretty clear that the shooter was motivated by white supremacy, that he went out of his way to target this specific church because of its tremendous legacy, that he had been forbidden to purchase a weapon because of a pending charge, and that he still had access to at least one weapon. Furthermore, the Confederate flag still flies at the statehouse, but not over it, and will likely not be moved to half-mast.

All of this is documented reasonably well.

But what I return to, over and over again, is how that prayer group welcomed him, allowed them to join, and prayed together.

Faith, especially a faith of redemption, doesn't give people superpowers. If anything it makes people more trusting, more naive, more oblivious to warnings.

It is easy to say

"They should've been skeptical!"

"Why would a white boy show up there?"

and, I'm sorry to see some have even said,

"Innocent people died because of his position on a political issue" [voting against a law that would have permitted gun owners to bring concealed weapons into public places, including churches]

They were armed better than you or I know.

The pastor, Clementa Pinckney, appears to have been a young, healthy man. He didn't pull out a gun. He didn't try to tackle the shooter.

He talked to him. Even in the midst of such carnage and immediate danger, he tried to appeal to this man.

Now, some will say that this was a mistake, that perhaps he should've fought.

Perhaps faith made him more vulnerable.

But isn't that what faith is? Vulnerability?

Faith, for many, is about security, about certainty, about conviction. But it doesn't promise outcomes. The people gathered in that prayer meeting had lives that spanned several decades. They had seen history. They would have had to be blind not to know that what made them great made them a target.

They still welcomed him.

Maybe I wish that things had happened differently, that these nine people -- ten, even -- were still alive, able to do the works great and small that made them a community. Maybe they should have been more careful.

The only thing I know is that they had a welcoming, trusting, spirit that escapes my understanding, which I can only ascribe to a faith I cannot share, but appreciate nonetheless.

There are many stories written into this tragedy: terrorism, racism, gun violence. But there is also faith -- not in a distant God, but in other humans, that caused them to open the door, to welcome, and to appeal, to the very end, for the triumph of goodness over evil.

Now it's time for us to be worthy of that faith. What will we do?

Vroman's Bookstore

I'm a book hoarder.

Note: this doesn't mean I'm well-read. People seem to have that impression. The secret is that I talk about the same three books I've read all year. I'd like to think it's because they are good enough books that they have application to a wide range of circumstances or situations. But maybe it's because I'm a charlatan and a fraud in the knowledge cannery.

I stopped by Vroman's Bookstore, an independent bookstore in Pasadena, in part because I needed something to do in Pasadena, and in part because I now live in a bookstore desert. (The nearest Barnes and Noble stores are in Glendale and Fullerton. All others, including the one in Old Town Pasadena, have shuttered.) A student entering 9th grade needed a copy of The Glass Castle. (Her choice for summer reading -- she and her brother are pretty impressive.)

As I was browsing, I noticed these small laminated cards containing handwritten recommendations from staffers. I noticed that someone named Rafael seemed to have the same taste in US biographies. Curious, I inquired as to his disposition, both spatial and temperamental.

"Um, excuse me. Is Rafael working today?"

"Yes! He's in the back room."

"Does he ever work the floor?"

"Nah. He's the only one that requests to work in the back."

This sounded promising. The guy with tastes similar to my own seemed to be an antisocial troglodyte.

"Um... could I speak with him, if he's not too busy? We seem to have the same tastes in books."

"Sure!" *calls him up* "Oh, by the way, he teaches history at ELAC (East Los Angeles Community College."

For a moment I had that sinking feeling that I had in academic settings in which I demonstrated tremendous intellectual inferiority. I had a flashback to that time when I suggested Robert Kagan, a neoconservative, was writing as a liberal, which earned me the incredulous glance of the otherwise unflappable Professor Andrews. Or that time I asked a question, and had Professor Chen suggest, in front of my entire graduating class, "It looks like someone didn't read the book!"

Then I remembered: I'm a grown-ass man with money in an American store! I can be as ignorant as I damn well please! Emboldened by the pocket bulge of a wallet, I greeted Rafael with a vigorous handshake.

As it turns out, he was friendly and weird in that sort of academic way. We chatted about the relative merits of a biography written by a historian as opposed to a newspaper columnist, about accusations concerning Hamilton's heritage, and whether or not the new Nixon biography would live up to expectations. ("A lot of books written by journalists get a lot of attention, but they end up being surface rehashes of things already known.")

And so, I paid retail, hardcover prices for two books.

Reagan: The Life, by H. W. Brands

The author, according to Rafael, has conservative leanings. "If you're left-wing, you'll probably hate it." I took that as a challenge, though I suppose even if I hate it, it will make a welcome gift to my cousin. If nothing else, I am curious how Edmund Morris, the outstanding Theodore Roosevelt biographer, foundered on this subject.

Being Nixon: A Man Divided, by Evan Thomas.

Although Rafael had this book in mind when commenting on "rehashing known material", I found drawn by the Fresh Air interview too compelling....

wait, did I get the wrong book?

Argh.

Well, at least I still have the receipt somewhere.  The perils of shopping with a dead smartphone.

Anyway, this is probably going to be a difficult summer as far as reading is concerned. I'm probably open to suggestions, although there is perhaps no insult quite as specifically annoying as a rebuffed/ignored book recommendation.

Unforced errors aside, I liked this aspect of Vroman's. Makes me wish I was part of a book club.

An Honest Mother's Day Card to Grandma

Dear Grandma,

Sorry I've been such a screwup and haven't kept in touch. Please accept this offering of a glittery card in type that is, upon further reflection, too small to be legible. It is a down payment on the debt of years of equally crappy cards that I never sent.

Guilt is generally effective, and no guilt is as effective as grandma guilt. When I called you last Mother's Day, I did so because I hadn't remembered to send a card in time. It broke my heart to hear you say that none of the other grandkids had written or called. This is the only case in which me wishing you to have memory problems is not a terrible thing.

You're old. Possibly 90. I'm not sure, because I am a terrible grandson, and we haven't kept in touch. You've seen the world. You have stories to tell. But I'm not supposed to ask. Did you really study in Japan and get trapped there by the war? Did you really disguise yourself as a man to avoid rape and forced prostitution? Grandpa isnt around anymore, but maybe you can tell me about his younger brother, about the fights that led to Hideo joining the US army and dying in France. I had copied the inscription of his name on the 442nd/100th monument in Little Tokyo, and was going to send it to you. I can't recall if I did -- I think there was some concern that it would dredge up bad memories.

Is it terrible that I want to know about the dramatic events of your life, instead of the grueling, daily reality of raising five kids on the farm? I know you fucking hated farming, or at least being married to a farmer. I don't know if you hated grandpa or not -- we have the luxury of marrying for love now. You made it work, and thank you for that.

Did you know something was off about Dad? Bipolar I usually manifests itself in the teens. The vocabulary of mental illness didn't really exist then, and certainly not in rural Hawaii. But I don't know -- grandpa did read a lot, when he wasn't writing angrily to the local newspaper about taxes or the constitution. I remember writing to you both about my depression, and he replied with a message advising vitamins and exercise. I think Grandpa knew a lot, but perhaps didn't understand people. Maybe I'm not so different.

I know we discussed about you leaving the farm. It'll be hard to leave, and god knows I hope your family doesn't go through the same problems mine did when they sold property. Your family. Not Mine. It feels that way. I can't say it's just Dad, either. I'm sorry, but I believed that after Dad died, I wouldn't keep in touch with that side. And it's sort of worked out that way. This crappy card is one of the few connections. It's a fragile metaphor of all the things that could have been and weren't, and all the things that shouldn't have been but were.

I'm sorry Grandma. I'm sorry life hadn't been easy for you.

You have a wonderful laugh, and I hope you make more use of it.

Love,

Ryan

Reunion

Joy, I don't really understand.

But pain?

That is more familiar, more real, and more interesting.

Ten years sounds like a long time. It is a long time. And yet it felt as if many of us were holding our breath. Uncertainty.

Some of us, including yours truly, seemed in better shape now than at five years. We had left grad school. We had found jobs. We had, slowly, rebuilt our confidence, our reserves of emotional energy, and rebuilt -- or built, really built, for the first time -- our sense of self. Maybe we were still reacting to circumstances, but those sprints seemed less harried, with the gap between action and reaction growing, and the gaps between events a bit more comfortably long.

Some of us were less secure now than five years ago.

After ten years, those still in academia were still navigating postdocs, professorships, research positions, and teaching offers.

Some had left or lost their jobs.

Some had kids.

Some were getting ready to finish or leave school, and waiting for the next step.

Whether people were doing well, or doing poorly, it felt like many of us were in some sort of transition.

What a ten years. I think a lot of us bore scars. We were the graduating class that were one week into college when 9/11 happened. We had a cross burning on campus. We went through the drama of the Kerri Dunn saga. The recession hit our class pretty hard, and some of us won't make it up.

The pain we talked about, though, wasn't macro pain. It was personal, private, but in this space, seemed safe to share. Not all shared, and no one shared all. But enough to remind me that these people that intimidate me even as they inspire had lived.

And I was proud of them for fighting for their lives and happiness and purpose, as desperately as our ancient ancestors fought over scraps of meat. These aren't only people who were brilliant and hardworking and lucky. They are survivors.

When I learned that, I loved them for it. I chided myself for not listening better in the past. Pride and insecurity had deadened my ears then, when we were all young and present. How could I forget that under all that talent and beauty were real people, maybe as scared and uncertain as I was? How had I made them gods, and by doing so, forgotten to be present and helpful?

This isn't about me. It's about them. I'm so proud of them. I couldn't give a rat's ass about their professional successes. I should, but I just really don't care. I love the people they've become, the emergent selves that push with grace or blunt power against the world, and build up, raise up, speak up.

I'm misrepresenting. Most of reunion was laughing and catching up, revelry and reminiscing. But I will forget that; those things will fade. I will remember the vulnerability. Remember, but not define, for we each own our grief, and own our responses.

As for the school, we borrowed it for a weekend. And I realized that it never belonged to us.  Maybe we believed our work bought us ownership. But we were borrowers. The school has changed, is changing, in ways I don't fully understand. I am too confused to be hostile, and too ancient and distant to be proud.

But these people? These Mudders? I suppose we belong to each other. At least, I belong to them, and that's a wonderful place to be.