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?