The American faith

I'm American by birth.

But I'm also American by choice.

My family -- not me, but my family -- has endured a bit of shit here. My mother's side was interned. My father's side lost an uncle fighting in the 442nd. I lost a great-aunt in the Hiroshima bombing.

It's not always productive or wise to analyze historical grievances. I'm not going to claim that they went through more or less than anyone else. But I do take pride that my family stayed, and worked, and served, and had children, and lived. "Endure. In enduring, grow strong."

My family didn't produce generals, or cabinet secretaries, or tech savants. We produced mostly teachers and gardeners and clerical workers and programmers and a couple artists. And that's okay. They shed the language, shed the culture, and did what they could do to build a life. And to America's credit, they were allowed to.

I use my race, and my history, to understand certain things. But it's a tool for understanding, or a way of empathizing. The past is not a good place to live; I will take care to be a visitor, and not a resident.

I have learned, and continue to learn, about this nation's sins, both past and present. I have come to see it more clearly (though still through a glass, darkly). I have, slowly, started to listen, to add the historical memory of others to that of my own.

And I still love this country. It has given me much. And it continues to be where I place my heart. It's my faith, the one I have explored and clung to for my adult life.

I do not use that word lightly. Faith demands sacrifice. Faith is a constant struggle. Sometimes, faith seems like a lonely road. I believe faith is a covenant, not a comfort. It is not the faith of a child, but the faith of the adult, who has seen things, learned things, and still believes.

Not everyone feels loved by this country. And that cuts across lines of race, faith, class, gender, orientation, and other categories. And that's a tragedy. It's my personal tragedy, and I feel it as a personal failing. And I'm going to do better about that. I'm going to listen more. And I'm going to reach out more.

I'm going to stay here. And I'm going to work, in my own, small, humble ways, to make it a bit better. Because, now, more than perhaps any other time in my life, my friends and family and country need me. And to be needed is such a powerful thing. Do not feel badly or scold those who cannot, or will not. We all live our faith in different ways, and there is no one best way to love.

I will continue to love this country. And I hope, by setting a good example, by standing up, infrequently but firmly, by training for the marathon, not the sprint, I can be a good citizen, and help others feel loved by their country. It won't be enough. It's never enough. But it's what I'm going to do. I don't know quite how yet, but I'm figuring it out.

Because you are the part of America that has loved me, inspired me, and made me a better man. You've given life to the abstract ideals. You've given of yourselves to make your corner of the country better. You've laughed -- laughed -- and that laughter, indeed, opens.

Of all the jumble of identities I carry, "American" is the most important to me. And I'm going to place that centrally in the coming years, and do a better job of living this faith, and loving you.

Election Day

Today was the first day I asked myself a very specific question:

Was Grandma allowed to vote?

Specifically, I wondered whether Grandma was allowed to vote while interned in Rohwer.

For those of you who don’t know, my maternal grandparents and all of my mom’s older siblings were interned during World War II. (My father’s side was not -- they lived in Maui, and most of the Hawaiian Japanese-Americans were not interned. Some fought, including my grandpa’s brother, who died in a corner of France.)

Wikipedia didn’t have anything. But PRI’s The World did a characteristically excellent story on the matter.

The gist is that there was voting, but it was difficult, and the combination of ballot challenges, state laws, and logistics meant that voting rights were pretty much eliminated.

I try to avoid thinking too much about my racial or cultural identity. But otherness has been a feature of this election in a way that it hasn’t been, at least in the memory of my political life. And so it was perhaps inevitable that I’d come back to that memory, and think about what was, and what might have been, and of course, what may yet be.

It is with a renewed intensity that I gaze upon efforts to make voting harder, not easier. It is with renewed anger that I consider the efforts to change election laws, under the pretense of reducing fraud, to disenfranchise segments of the population. Because it was not so long ago that my family lost those rights, through no fault of their own.

And it’s with some amazement that I consider that, after that experience, my grandparents rebuilt, had sons and son-in-laws serve in uniform overseas, and voted. I wish I had the “I LIKE IKE” button that my grandpa had hanging near his desk for decades. I wonder if he ever knew that Milton Eisenhower led the War Relocation Authority. As a farmer/small businessman, he probably was a registered Republican.

I’m grateful he didn’t get bitter. I’m grateful he didn’t give up. And I’m grateful that he was permitted -- not easily, but permitted -- to rebuild his life. It’s a sobering lesson for me. I’ve experienced nothing remotely close to that level of dislocation, humiliation, and -- I don’t think this is an exaggeration -- state-sanctioned theft. I laugh at my friends who worry about big government taking away their rights or seizing their property. But then I feel shame -- every family has stories of civic failure and grievance, whether governmental or private. It does no good to dismiss their concerns and pain out of hand.

That’s going to be the hard part after today. How do we work together? How will the victors frame their victory in a way that at least reduces the chances that we will spend the next two or four years or decades as two armed camps, unable to do much because we begrudge each other the smallest things?

Because I do think a lot of people are terrible. I do think that support of Trump flies in the face of everything I know and love about this country. I do think that it shows a marked historical ignorance, a lack of empathy to those who would most be hurt by a Trump presidency that borders on callousness and selfishness. I do think that plenty of people, even people more or less on the same page as me, have become stark raving mad.

And I believe I have been one of those madmen.

I've embraced the toxicity that I criticize in others. I've become the partisan that sees winning as essential, even existential. And in my saner moments I feel shame at being part of the problem.

So I’m trying, hard, to remember certain things. I remember that my love for this country is not the naive love I had as a young child. It’s a love that is more aware (though still partially blind) to the real historical truths, and the present truths, experienced by those different from me. I see those flaws, and that pain, and the wars and the cruelty and the short-sightedness.

But I’m finding the strength to not just criticize or willfully ignore it. I’m finding the love that demands I reach out, and do things that are uncomfortable and hard, and pride-crushing, because I know that it makes my tiny corner of the world better.

Not enough. Never enough. But some. And maybe, after today, some more.

I love this country because of its history, too, and not just in spite of it. I marvel at how some individuals and communities discovered, in their pain, in their oppression, in their privilege, something greater, something beyond the limitations of I or tribe.

That all heroes wilt under the scrutiny of history and hindsight is necessary, and even desirable. If America depended on perfect women and men to achieve greatness, we would have no hope to maintain, much less advance, this experiment. I have looked into the mirror, and learned to appreciate the flaws, the dark shadows, without sentiment or excuse. Our scars are our story, though one hopes, not our future.

So this I pray -- and I say that sincerely as a man who has struggled to bend his knees and bow his head, but does so now, at a time of acute need. I pray for a peaceful election day.

I pray for good judgment on the part of the people.

I pray not for an easy life, but to be a stronger man.
I pray for powers equal to my tasks. (Phillip Brooks)

I pray that I remember that the spirit of liberty is the spirit that is not too certain that it is right. (Learned Hand)

I pray I learn how to borrow from those who came before, from those who know more, and love more -- that my pride does not prevent me from leaning too much on my own understanding, but that my honor demands that I develop my understanding to ensure I am not a weak reed.

Today, I will cast my ballot, thinking about my family that, within living memory, was denied that right. I will vote mindful of the past, with an eye toward the future, our future.

I cast it knowing that this is but a piece of citizenship -- that I will judge my worthiness of that vote based on what I do between elections to better advance this nation and the world, and the extent to which I have opened my heart to those across the fissures and chasms of discord and fear.

Today will be the expression of our will. But every day is the expression of our character.

To you good men and women: I pray you vote wisely, live well, and love openly. For you are why I vote, why I live, and why I love. Thank you.

Chant of the Decideds

Low
Low
Stoop and writhe

Love
Love
Stand and rise

Cry
Cry
Wretched year

Sing
Sing
Shed your fear

Sigh
Sigh
Shake your head

Laugh
Laugh
Hug instead

Scream
Scream
Punch and choke

Lift
Lift
Go and vote

Pray
Pray
Time long gone

Work
Work
Never done

Shame
Shame
Cannot last

We
We
One at last

Letters Home From Internet Migrants

Dear Momma,

It has been three days since the great Internet outage, and yet it feels like a lifetime. I hope you and pa can forgive me for leaving North to find wifi. I know life is hard there. I remember leaving pa, staring blankly at his computer chess game. He mustn't blame himself for asking Time Warner Cable for a change. He couldn't have known that those city men would take it away and leave us hungry for email forwards and highlights from The Voice.

To-day I found work. I have migrated north to the La Puente Starbucks. I'm not gonna complain--you and pa raised me better than that. But life here is hard. We work in cramped quarters next to hipster music social media experts and squat students from Mt. SAC. They let us work, but we end up spending most of our money at the company store, which is very dear. Star-Many-Bucks, some of the guys call it. I know you don't like me spending money, but I was very weak, and bought the venti iced green tea lemonade, half sweetner. Please don't tell pa, as in his state the news might break him for good.

The promised wifi is quarter-rations. They appear to throttle access to Facebook, and I dare not risk the wrath of the foreman by attempting a Youtube playthrough. But I will prevail. My LaTeX documents compile, slowly, and I hope to return to-night with some remaining money and the latest projections from FiveThirtyEight.

Be strong, momma. I hope you and pa can trust in the Divine Providence of the Great Internet Provider. Say your prayers to Sts. Mike and Molly, the patron saints of near-midnight comedic relief. Trust that we are on the side of right, and we shall prevail over the darkness of local monopoly.

My love to pa.

Pvt. Ryan Yamada
(published in Letters Home from Internet Migrants)

W. B. Yeats Goes to Carl's Jr.

The Second Lunching

Burning and churning in the guzzling fryer
The customer can't hear the cashier
Speakers fall apart; the stomach cannot hold;
Two western cheeseburgers; loosed up and hurled
The pink puke tide is loosed, and everywhere
The scent of mayonnaise and hash browns
The best order unconvincing salad, while the worst
Are full of American cheese.


He Wishes For the Sauce of Burgers

Had I the double moonshine burger meal 

Enwrought with golden straw onion fries
The sweet and smoky moonshine sauce
Of midnight, a delight, at least half pound cooked right
I would spread my self into that seat
But I, being poor, have only the hard taco ground beef
I spread myself into that seat
Tread softly, you tread on my ground beef.


When It's Three Days Old
When it's three days old and grey and starting to seep
And microwaved and on fire, curse at the cook
And slowly breathe, and dream of the look
The fries had once, and of the salt layers deep

How many loved your garnish of baconnaise
And loved your juicy patties too
But one man loved the pickles in you
And loved the buns coated with sweaty glaze

And bending down, the rotting food devour
Murmur, a little sadly, how the lettuce is dead
And how the undercooked burger bled
And how you hid in the stall for hours.

Gratitude to the Unknown Ingredients
What sort of unknown glue
They bound in mass
All thing hangs like a piece of poo
Upon a jet of gas.

Yoshimo Money, Yoshimo Problems: The Unuthorized Autobiography

What happens when a lovable bounty hunter can't escape from a trap he helped set? What happened during those fades to black? Why was Anomen trying to wield Keldorn's two-handed sword?

For the first time on audiobook, hear the "traitor" of Baldur's Gate 2 in his own words!

"Was it the geas or gas? After three cheesecakes, it was hard to tell the difference."

"She never knew how much I loved her. To be verbally berated by her was like the gentlest caresses of silken ropes, at once enchanting and ensnaring. Her necklace bespoke power and invitation. Oh Edwina, I offered you my love, but you kept Minor Spell Turning it away!"

"It was all an act, at least at first. Minsc was a fucking genius. Easily INT 22. But that WIS score... poor bastard. Had a problem with potions of strength. Roided out. Then turned to potions of defense. By the end, he was drinking cursed potions of anything. Boo was a bad influence."


Reviews:

You must pick up this book before venturing forth! - Elminster, author of Meddling and Muttering Magic 

For a guy who swore a geas to unspeakable evil without giving it much thought, his prose is pretty smart. - Irenicus, New York Times Book Review

Let's be honest. I sucked as a replacement. I just got the job because I was the PC's sister. Yay nepotism! - Imoen, The Heritage Foundation