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.

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.

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?

Failures in Secular Humanist Duty

There are times I can't help but wonder if I have failed in my Christian secular humanist duty.

I'm at Panera. There was a hunched, old white man sitting in a booth. He was bent; even walking, he bends over at almost a 90 degree angle. He reminded me of Edourad Manet's The Ragpicker. Like the subject of that painting, he was hunched over enough to obscure the face. Anonymous, old, solitary. He had a combover, oily but not filthy.

Initially, I couldn't tell if he was muttering, or praying, or having a medical episode. His mouth was moving, but I know that the occasional motion of the lips and mouth is a property of older people, especially those with dentures. He looked disheveled, but not quite homeless.

Perhaps I would've thought nothing of it, except for the possible medical angle. But I noticed he has a small suitcase with him. He also had a small backpack. If he wasn't homeless, he was some distance from home, in a restaurant, alone.

I would like to say that I approached him immediately. But I didn't. I hesitated. And then I distracted myself by working on a lesson summary.

Next to us were two middle-aged, middle-class women discussing a Christian book. They were discussing, if I recall, a story about hiring 100,000 Israelites to fight a battle. A subsequent search reveals that it's 2 Chronicles 25. And I couldn't help thinking "Pharisees!" in my head. "Here is a child of the God you believe, and you are too trapped in your false faith of personal salvation for you to live the life of service that is true faith!"

But was I any better? Why should I hold Christians to a higher standard than myself?

Eventually, I did approach him. I apologized for disturbing him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you sir. I don't know if you were praying or napping... but... is everythign alright?"

"We..."

"We... we can exchange..."

I thought he was going to say stories.

"We can switch seats in a second. I know you want to plug in your computer."

My first reaction, sadly, was to explain that there were no power outlets there. Fortunately, I caught myself and said,

"No no. I'm fine. I just... I just wanted to see if you were okay."

He replied, "I'm fine."

"Sorry for disturbing you."

I went back to my computer, a bit ashamed and embarassed. Maybe he thought I judged him just because he was old and bent. I confess that I was shocked that his words were clear and articulate. No slur, no quavering of the voice, other than initially. Maybe I had injured his pride.

He sat there for another ten minutes, hands clasped in a sort of prayer or murmur, occasionally moving his mouth. Then he bussed his plates, then left. I bid him farewell, and he responded with a short goodbye.

I watched him go. I thought about getting up and opening the door for him. But what if that was more patronization? He managed fine.

After I saw him disappear, slowly, around a corner, I looked back at his seat. There was a dark stain on the part of the cloth backing where he had been sitting. It wasn't just  Maybe he had been there a while. Maybe he had been sweating a great deal. Maybe his clothes were filthy. I thought about touching it to determine which it would be. But then I realized how ridiculous, and possibly weird, that might be.

But I did take a picture. It wasn't just an impression on the seat.

Sometimes, we try to do the right thing. But it almost never turns out the way we think it should. Maybe if I had phrased it as a request for company, instead of an inquiry into his status. I think Mr. Rogers would've done that; he had a way of making people feel that he needed something from them. Pope Francis appears to do that as well.

And now, I realize something.

Acts of kindness are often characterized as acts from a superior to an inferior. 

Maybe we couch it in different, kinder words, but it often presumes a difference in power, ability, or resources. Even as we celebrate them, we implicitly define things like generosity and grace in a way that diminishes the recipient. That's not the intention, of course, but it's deeply entwined in our appreciation of kind acts.

Here was someone who maybe resisted that, who didn't want pity or help, and didn't need it. Even if he did, maybe the way I communicated my offer was a bit too paternalistic, and while kind and open, with a touch of sanctimony.

It's like when I was feeding the homeless. I thought I would go out and help them. But as it turns out, I didn't save them. I couldn't. I had a lot of conversations. I saw some drunken ugliness. I heard these young kids talk politics, and silently judged the guys who had boom boxes but no food. I overheard them talking about their social security checks, and spending it on either necessities or booze. I heard about how things got rougher after the shooting of a police officer at the nearby courthouse, how the police, who had been more relaxed, were now drawing their guns on the homeless.

Through it all, I don't know if I made a damn of difference in their lives. The narrative is supposed to go that they made a difference in mine. But to be honest, the only thing I learned is that it's damn hard to make a difference in anyone's life. I'm more selfish than I was before I volunteered, but that could be to age, or other things in the last ten years.

Whatever good it did me, the experience has competed with, and lost to, a host of other influences that shaped my present character.

So today, I find that I am more inarticulate than I had realized.

And judgmental. I judged those poor women sitting a couple feet away. Maybe they had already asked. Maybe they just have different personal that I, a single, young male, don't appreciate. They were simply working together on their own spiritual betterment; perhaps they didn't notice him. They weren't Pharisees. I was the Pharisee.

Who have I helped lately? At least one woman was helping the other develop as a Christian. Who had I helped lately, except for pay, or because I was asked to?

I'm still judging. The couple sitting there after he left didn't bus their plates. And I have to stop myself into weaving it into some romantic narrative about the dignity of age and/or poverty and the lack of respect of the decently off Boomers. It's not data, and it's not the point. Leave it, Ryan.

And he did that which was right in the sight of the Lord, but not with a perfect heart. -2 Chron 25:2

I'm glad I spoke with him, however briefly. I gained no great insight into him. I didn't help him. And I learned that I'm a pretty flawed person.

And I did end up thinking a bit more about acts of kindness than I had expected. And maybe, next time, I'll both communicate it better, and be more mindful about what I offer, and what I ask. Even when I offer help, tangible or not, I am implicitly asking for a person's trust, a person's time, a person's courtesy.

That's a lot.

O Magnum Mysterium

This is beautiful, in part, because I don't understand the words.


When I first fell in love with astronomy, it was in this way. It was the stately beauty of Neptune, taken with precious little energy at the far reaches of the solar system. It was the eerie beauty of a sequence of Messier objects, representing a bizarre diversity, even by the standards of a child growing up in the modern world.

I fell in love before i knew what I was falling in love with.

With time, I began to tease apart those amazing structures. I learned the calculus that allowed me to express, in partial elegance, with partial clarity, the nature of stars. I learned the physics that gave me the beginnings of the understandings of the depth behind these things. I even learned a bit of computer programming, that I might better participate in peeling back the curtain of the unknown.

And somewhere along the way, I lost that wonder. I lost the ability to look, and just see what my eyes see, and not the questions, and work, and challenges behind those high resolution images.

Some can do so. For some, the odd combination of challenge and complexity, wedded with a firm belief that understanding is possible, gives a richer sense of beauty. These people enjoy a long, happy marriage to space -- not without its challenges. But they still feel enough to work at the relationship and find new, mature beauty as the relationship continues.

I was not. I found its very comprehensibility, and my limits at comprehension, too harsh. It was that, or it was other things -- opportunity cost, more terrestrial thoughts, hopes, and fears. So we ended our relationship, and unlike some, I never looked back and missed it. Those feelings were just gone.

And so I enjoy this song, and do not seek to look up its lyrics. For the unknown itself is what I find alluring, as long as it remains, unknown.

Maybe this is why, despite the best efforts of relatives and my therapist, I don't seek a greater connection to God. For when I do, I find my interest torn asunder by questions of doctrine, historical origins, temporal contamination of divine intent, Biblical literalism, and the like. I can only appreciate faith from a distance, and so there is where I remain, and where I am happiest.

Why I wanted to become an astronomer

I can't believe I haven't told this story yet.

This is the story of how I got interested in astronomy and managed to will myself somewhat far down the professional path.

There were three primary influences: a man, books, and television.

The man:

I think I was about six when I met Uncle Kimo, a cousin-in-law-in-law. (My aunt married a man who had a sister who married Uncle Kimo.)  At the time, Uncle Kimo worked at JPL as an instrumentation engineer. I really liked "Uncle Kimo". He seemed to know a lot of things! We spent time drawing maps of continents and he would tell me about space. Over the years, he sent me some of those nice high-gloss photos from Voyager and other space missions. Some of my personal favorites were a radio reconstruction of Venus' surface, Jupiter's volcanic moon Io, black and white images of Uranus' satellites, and that stunning deep blue shot of Neptune and the Great Dark Spot, accented by some bright white storms (the largest called "Scooter", if memory serves).





I think I loved Uncle Kimo not just because of the cool space stuff. He was maybe the first male family member I really felt comfortable around. My dad was crazy and unstable; my uncles either scared me because of their anger or were just not that interesting/good with kids. I loved my grandpa, but he was intimidating (especially to everyone older than me), and the language barrier made us not quite as close as we might have been.

Also worth emphasizing: Uncle Kimo was the first adult who really tried to teach me about the world around me, and do it in a way that didn't assume I was just a dumb kid.

I only saw Uncle Kimo a few times growing up, but I'd still place him as a tremendous influence on my life in general, and my interest in astronomy in particular.

Books:

I spent a lot of time alone growing up. My parents divorced when I was three. My mother worked, and so my grandparents played a large role in raising me. They were kind and loving, but didn't speak much English, so I ended up turning to books. My mom says I initially hated to read, and would slam my little hand down on any book she tried to open and read to me. Maybe I was creeped out by Shel Silverstein's artwork in Where the Sidewalk Ends. But, eventually, I did start reading on my own.


As a society, are we still ok with this?


One of the first books I got was The Golden Book of Stars and Planets.

I read it probably a couple hundred times. I loved the artist's depictions (all images of the planets were hand-drawn).

I still remember it mentioning NGC 5128 (depicted on the cover, right side), thinking "That's a weird name for a galaxy. Why wasn't it called something like the Milky Way? Or Snickers?" (It's a radio source, and got special mention, though I thought it made weird sounds because the artist's depiction made it look like it was surrounded by hair.)

I also went through a weird phase as a kid in which questions in a book would freak me out. They scared me! Because of that, I'd have to skip over the last part of the Mars section? "Was there ever water on Mars? Could there have been life?" It was that and an earthquake preparedness pamphlet that creeped me out with those "?", which I must have mentally read in some sort of spooky voice. (Did anyone else have this, or was this a leading indicator for profound mental unsoundness? -- again, with scary questions!)

I loved that book so much.

More books. Remember Scholastic catalogs? Or Arrow? Or the other one? Classroom teachers would give us these catalogs filled with books that we could buy at (what I thought were) reasonable prices. Now, I didn't know how money worked, even though I loved Scrooge McDuck in Ducktales and tried to swim in a pile of dimes in my grandparent's living room. (Maybe another flag that this boy ain't right.) I remember that in first grade everyone wrote a letter to President George H. W. Bush. I wrote that the process of making change (money, not policy) seemed unfair -- why does someone get to keep more of the money? My teacher helped me write it, but I'm a bit annoyed she didn't try to sit down and explain it to me at the time. I got a photo back, but I don't think the letter had an answer.

Also, in retrospect, this was one place where economic differences started to show. A lot of my classmates probably couldn't afford any books. I always got to pick a few, as well as get a subscription to Highlights! magazine.



Goofus generally gets what he wants, even if he is an asshole. Gallant is a spineless appeaser and a fake, pretentious prick. Guess who I grew up to be?

One of the books I got this way was Planets: A Golden Guide to the Solar System.

This was not my favorite book. I don't know why -- I carried it around everywhere. It just seemed not as exciting, or less accessible because of more data. There were tables of numbers, I think, and maybe fewer dramatic, page-filling images.

I got a more important book that had both dramatic pictures and tons of numbers (though not derivations) around first or second grade. My Sunday School teacher gave me his old college astronomy textbook, a paperback that cost $34.75 at the Aschula's student store. (I still remember the sticker on the cover.) The book was Essentials of the Dynamic Universe: An Introduction to Astronomy, Second Edition by Theodore P. Snow. Sadly, I can't track down the cover image, but it must have been a saturated image of a star, or an AGN, or something like that, with some rainbow accents suggesting spectra.

I think I read that book cover to cover several times. This was the source of nearly all of my knowledge of  introductory astronomy. Memory being what it is, those early memories were retained much more easily than ones in college, making it sometimes challenging to rewrite my knowledge of certain important constants. (The distance light traveled in a second was, in my mind, 186,282 miles, and not 299,792 kilometers. Mercury orbited the Sun at a distance of 38 million miles -- and unfortunately all my distance scales inside the Solar System remain imperial.)

Same church: our rather conservative junior minister occasionally called on me, possibly for comedic effect, to quote some astronomical fact -- closest star, distance to the Sun, etc. -- that had some tie-in to his sermon.

Years later, after being accepted at CU Boulder's astronomy grad program, I happened to meet with Theodore P. Snow. (I think he went by Ted at the time.) Usually, meetings were about prospective research, but I spent the entire time as a fanboy gushing about how incredibly important his textbook was to my life. I have no idea whether it was flattering or scary for him, but I was thrilled to put a name to a face. (It also helped that he seemed nice -- read: Not A Professor Asshole.)

This book and interactions with that pastor explain why I never, ever thought of a conflict between science and religion until I started paying attention to politics/went to college. I still think it's misguided/overrated.

Books were a good substitute for technology. I was lucky enough to get a small telescope for Christmas, but quite frankly, it was a piece of crap Celestron. I probably should have read the manual more carefully, but none of us really took the time to figure out how to use the RA and DEC wheels, or how to use coordinates to find things in the sky. Oh, and perhaps most importantly, I couldn't see jack shit because I was too close to Los Angeles. Saturn's rings and the Galilean satellites were nice to see, but a bit anticlimactic after spending years staring at NASA images.

Television

As a kid, I watched a ton of TV, unsupervised. I remember being confused as to why "Orchie Bunkur" was so angry all the time. (This is a reference to All in the Family.) I even wrote a letter to that effect, to no one in particular. (I liked writing letters as a kid.) This letter was proudly placed in my grandpa's scrapbook without further comment, a testament to both his love and the complete absence of analytic evaluation of child behavior in my family.

I watched a lot of Star Trek: TNG. Remember that it ran from 1987-1994. From the age of four to eleven, I saw brand-new TNG episodes. I saw the very first airing of "The Best of Both Worlds". Eat your hearts out, young nerds.

I would record a lot of these episodes and re-watch them endlessly (VHS, in case the young people are curious). I didn't have particularly good taste -- I recorded as much as I could, and ended up with a skewed impression of the overall series, with Data being held up by Samuel Clemens with a .45 revolver playing a more important role than, say, "The Inner Light" or "Darmok". More fortunately, I also recorded and watched "Chain of Command", though maybe even scrubbed and tidied torture scenes weren't the best thing for a young child to process.

I also watched Babylon 5 and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Again, I had no taste -- I thought Babylon 5 was an incredibly well-acted show and ST: DS9 weak by comparison (I would reverse those judgments years later.)

But in addition to sci-fi, I watched some sci-fact. NOVA specials were great, and what I know of cosmology comes from them.

The most personally important program, however, was a National Geographic documentary titled Asteroids: Deadly Impact. It primarily focused on Gene Shoemaker and his study of asteroid and comet impacts. Of course, no one man or team can claim sole ownership of such a broad field, but it made for great watching.

Only the intro is available for free online: Asteroids Deadly Impact

Again, I recorded this, and watched in at least 50 times. I returned to it a few times in high school, especially when I had an abysmally poor physics teacher, to sort of remind me why I thought astronomy was worth studying.

Epilogue:

These influences were critical. I enjoyed reading books. I had a person who cared about me, and encouraged my interest. Even my religious authority figures fed this interest in astronomy.

I didn't really know what astronomers do until later, and in retrospect, I probably should have looked into it a bit more before embarking on a professional path.

But in some ways I was more successful than I should have been. How many of us dreamed of being a paleontologist as a kid? Or a marine biologist? At some point, most of us revise those dreams -- ideally because we discover other interests, but often because the impracticality of our dreams are beat out of us by parents, teachers, or others.

When I was about four, I said I wanted to be a pediatrician, probably because my pediatrician, Dr. Nakashima, was a hilarious and awesome guy who claimed to be a ninja turtle, and maintained that despite my challenges. But my mom's asshole friend said that that wasn't a good idea, and I never, ever considered being a medical doctor, even though, in retrospect, I probably would have been a good one.

I was lucky, in some sense. I was lucky to have enough resources and opportunities to follow my dreams without reality intruding. Sure, it was unfocused and overly idealistic. Sure, I hit points when the contradiction between what I felt were my skills and interests diverged from what I appeared to be doing. And yes, it ended pretty badly, and I'm still recovering from poor choices I made.

But I got away with it for a hell of a long time, partly because I was good enough at math and science to do it, but partly because I had just wanted it so badly and didn't know "better" not to irrationally pursue what should have been a more deliberate, cautious, and considered course of action.

Maybe I shouldn't think that I failed spectacularly. Maybe I should instead be grateful that I got away with it for so long.

Why I am proud to be a Democrat

Thank you, Demosthenes, for a spirited speech, and an articulation of so much that we admire in both Republicans, and in Americans in general.

Demosthenes and I agree on a number of things. We agree on the innate goodness of the American people. We agree upon our proud traditions and values, and our quest to form a more perfect union.

I am glad he extends such courtesy to our party, and I shall do him like service. The Republican party, in its history, has been the lead for some of the most wonderful movements in our history. It was a Republican President that freed the slaves. It was a Republican President that created the national park system. It was a Republican President who created the Interstate highway system, a national science policy in the face of Sputnik, and ultimately proved the strongest voice against American imperialism. The Republican party has been a party of progress during much of its time, and has many accomplishments. Many of our great leaders come from those ranks.  As I extol my party, I take nothing away from the Republicans. It is good and right that we each take pride at our history, at the calls we got right, and the role each of us has played in this American pageant.

The gentleman is right that the forces of obstructionism and division are the real enemy. But here is where I must begin the long, disagreeable, but necessary process of disagreement with him. The Republican party is a shadow of what it once was, hostage to forces it long ago rejected and fought, and threatens to take the nation down with it as it stumbles toward implosion. For love of country and your honor, sir, I pray you tend to your house, for it is in considerable disorder, and your less distinguished colleagues do great disservice to the memory of your former greatness.

One of the gravest false choices that has been shouted at us is that the state can be strong only at the cost of the individual. No, no, no! I cannot stand by and allow these fearmongers malign our Republic, and in so doing, diminish the individual.

Our nation is a group of individuals, bound together by our love of freedom, our duty toward its protection, and our commitment to each other. We know our history -- that too frequently the liberty of some have come at the expense of others, those too weak, without an advocate, without economic independence, without the legal right to own property, or vote, or decide matters concerning their own body. We know that without a society of laws and common principle, the lesser elements will set us against each other, to their own gain.

We have seen it again, and again, and again, and we must oppose it, for this is the snake in the Garden.

Your party has celebrated the individual, and yet will not safeguard her when she needs food for her children, clean water to drink, affordable healthcare that she might be a mother, a wife, a grandmother to other great Americans. What you offer is not the emancipation of the individual -- you offer the freedom of the wilderness, the freedom of the lion's den.

That is not liberty -- that is callousness, a dereliction of our sworn duty as citizens and leaders. I reject the notion that we seek a state that dominates the life of the citizen. I also reject the notion that we owe our fellow citizens no protection against raw nature. It is a false choice between the two, and I reject both utterly.

This nation has, when it is at its best, stood for freedom from hunger, from oppression by interests both public and private, freedom from fear, freedom of choice, freedom to walk clear beaches and choose who you want to work for and who you want to marry. This nation is about freedom -- a freedom that often must be defended by the state against private interests that seek, for one reason or another, to curtail it.

We have shown that good people working in government are no different from good people anywhere else -- they have a job to do, they have rules they must follow, and they want more or less the same things those who work for companies do. Enough! Enough with the artificial divisions!

Now let me focus on what the Democratic party stands for, and not what it is against. For to be against principles and policies without offering better alternatives is not American at all.

I am a Democrat because I believe that no one should be forced to apologize for their love for another person -- not the love of a husband and wife, not the love of same-sex partners, not the love good men and women have for the poor, not the love a father has for his son, nor the love of the Son for all of us. It's not only the greatest commandment -- it is the greatest joy, the source of inspiration and meaning and human progress.

I believe passionately that we can judge a people by how they treat its most vulnerable - whether it be children, or women, or minorities, or the disabled, or the poor, or its non-citizens.

I am proud to be a Democrat because I believe in the wedding of principles and pragmatism. No generation has been free from difficult choice, from the crucible of old and new challenges. And ours is no exception.

I believe, as Viktor Frankl did, that liberty without responsibility is not freedom. It is the beginning of the end of freedom, for it is passion and defiance without wisdom and vision. It is not responsibility imposed by the state, nor the sacred text -- it is the responsibility that thoughtful souls realize in the dark of night, in their own struggles and their own blessings. It is the responsibility that is such a part of our identity that it transcends the identity divisions of faith, race, and nation.

I am a Democrat because, while I accept the imperfect nature of human beings, I believe that humans can be better than they are. I believe that men and women of sufficient courage can rise above the circumstances of birth to become more productive, more ethical, and more free. I am, despite everything, an optimist.

I am a Democrat because I believe in a nuanced partnership between expertise and democracy -- that a confident, open society can generate the best solutions if it both trusts its experts and guides the policy agenda in a manner consistent with our uniting principles. We do our people the greatest service when we trust them to face real facts honestly and in an adult manner, and do them great disservice if we seek to obscure what science tells us in more comforting, and more fatal, lies.


We must base our legislation on facts, not fears.


I am a Democrat because I want to be on the right side of history, to stand in support of, instead of opposed to, the arc of human history in which individuals become more free, and our identities become more rich and complex.

And yet, as much as I care about legacy, I am also a Democrat because I believe our duty is, first and foremost, to the present. It is to people I know and love who enjoy less than full citizenship, for whom daily life is filled with a hundred insults and obstacles that serve no purpose whatsoever. Whether inspired by differences in  race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, or economic status, these acts hurt not only the target, but also diminishes the attacker. In my humble service, I do as well as I can to wed these high principles with a more primal desire to see justice, to preserve and protect those I know and love, even those who do not love me back, because of values that are bigger than any of us.

It may never be enough -- the path of principles demanded may never be fully lived up to. But I want to live in a way I can continue to look myself in the mirror, and look my mother and father in the eye, and say, "I don't know if I did enough. But I did something. And I will do more tomorrow."

I am proud to be a Democrat because it is a big tent, as America should be. I have known too many gifted individuals, of the highest qualities of character, intellect, and heart, to shut the door to any group, any creed, any people who have the desire and the fortitude to play their part in our unfolding greatness. No matter where they were born, or what they were born, or to whom, these men and women of talent and tenacity ought always have a place in America.

Those under this broad tent argue and bicker, often like family at Thanksgiving. But it is with thanksgiving I appreciate the strength of our Republic, that it can stand the confluence of disparate ideas united by our essential American spirit. It is through the dual traits of our diversity and our faith in our common dreams that makes our diversity our strength.

I am every bit as patriotic as my Republican colleagues, but find no reason to be as loud about it. I am proud to be a Democrat because I believe, firmly, that government is often a matter of the small and uncelebrated. It is a matter of tax incentives, a fair and transparent tax code, clear, effective regulation, protections such that we have healthy food to eat, clean air to breathe, safe cars to drive, and care for our elderly and disabled. It's about boring things, like highway bills, and electricity infrastructure. It is about policies that demand data, and expertise, and thoughtful consideration, but which will not have us lauded by generations hence. Sometimes, governance is mundane, and this is a virtue, our rhetoric notwithstanding. I am content to leave greatness to those who would seek it in the boardroom, the classroom, or the emergency room, or wherever outside this chamber that true heroes live and fight.

I am proud to be a Democrat because it is the party that best represents the spirit with which my ancestors came to these shores, and found opportunity even as they found challenges. I am here, in this great party, because I look around and see the future, a future of youth and ideas, guided by experience and wisdom.

I am proud to be a Democrat because I know that the best way to celebrate our military is to ensure they are not sent into harm's way unless absolutely necessary, until all other options have been exhausted, and then, only then, to do so with the reluctance, seriousness, and the weight of responsibility that belongs to those who would send them into danger.

I am proud of what the President has done, and how he has done it. I sometimes disagree with him on matters of policy, sometimes intensely. But I also stand in some awe at the great deal he has accomplished in four years, in the face of economic hardship, international hatred, fervent political opposition, and even his own coalition of disparate, centrifugal forces. He is a good man. Let me repeat, for it bears remembering: he is a good man. He is one of many good men and good women, including a Secretary of State that has played an indispensable role in guiding American foreign policy back on the right track. To both, we owe a debt of gratitude; to the nation, they express their gratitude for the trust placed in them.

***

The election draws nigh, and we can look forward to a mix of relief, celebration, disappointment, and uncertainty. But one thing is clear: we go into November 6 as Americans, and on November 7, we will still be Americans. We must not forget what that means, nor what was paid to achieve it, nor what we must yet do to maintain and grow our nation in peace and prosperity.

I am but a lowly man. But through service in this chamber, for this party, for this President, and, most of all, for this great nation, I have become more -- I have become a citizen of a Republic that is unparalleled in all history, a Republic that has achieved, yet continues to strive toward greater and more perfect expression of the goals of civilization. Together, through common citizenship, and all it means, I have found purpose and hope, laughter and love. I express my undying gratitude to this country of mine.

Whatever your party, whatever you belief, I hope you exercise your sacred duty November 6, and vote. Know that voting is not the end of your service, but the beginning, one of many, many things that define our efforts to keep freedom free.

God bless you, and God bless America.

- Locke

Throwing in the towel and trying to believe in God

Couldn't sleep. Tried being angry at certain friends for trying to check me into a mental hospital three months ago (a long story, perhaps worth writing at some point), then tried forgiving. Tried reading and watching comedy. Tried paranoia, and video games, and eating ice cream. The long and short of it is that, at this point, I've decided to throw in the towel. Against the vestiges of what remains of my judgment, and even against part of what remains of my principles, I'm going to try to believe in God. Sorta.

I wish I could say it's because I have faith. I have none. I know enough religious history to see the flaws in basing one's beliefs on a text written two thousand years ago that was definitely a product of its time and place. Probably will have to throw out Leviticus completely, and possibly most of the Old Testament. I'd probably be a Unitarian if I hadn't found the service structure in Ithaca so bizarre.

But I know I've got to believe in something beyond myself. 

No, it's because of exhaustion. Sheer, utter exhaustion about my current life. Mom has worn me down with her mysticism/spiritualism. Besides, too many atheists I know are a bit too self-righteous about their lack of faith.

I think a key difference is that they have a greater sense of control over their own destiny and future than I do. I'm pretty helpless right now; I don't have confidence in my sanity or my ability to do anything non-destructive. Consequently, it doesn't really make a difference to me whether an all-powerful entity is making me experience what in my mind is Job-lite suffering, or if it's a matter of brain chemistry, collapsing wavefunctions, and psychohistory.

Part of it is that I hate the part of myself that placed a barrier between me and a couple of my cousins. Though we have very different views on homosexuality, Biblical literalism, and politics, they've always been there for me in ways others haven't been. They've demonstrated courage and character in their own lives, and been excellent fathers. In case you haven't noticed, father issues are kind of a big deal for me.

I sometimes misinterpreted their kindness as a desire to convert, and not genuine love and affection for their youngest cousin. It's more telling of my own problems trusting people that I took it that way, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Lance and Warren, for judging you less on your relationships with me and more by what you called yourselves.

I don't plan on adpoting that anti-gay nonsense. Believe me, I seriously considered "coming out" to my family just to try and trigger some thought. But it's just not in me (pun intended). Besides, I know some great gay guys who have been tremendous emotional supports. One guy lives in Germany, and yet took the time - on his birthday - to write a lengthy, heartfelt note to me, expressing concern about what I've gone through with my dad and my recent life struggles.

And no bullshit socioeconomics couched in religious determinism. Really, from what little I know of Satanism, it is philosophically similar to Objectivism.

But I am cutting back on the politics. Honestly, I'm no good to anyone while I'm struggling with depression, joblessness, and generalized despair.

I've felt that it's a bit selfish and weak to try belief simply because life is going poorly. But I suppose that's me being judgmental. Things are going poorly enough that maybe I don't have the luxury of waiting for genuine faith.

I also wonder whether I would have reached this point had I a better natural support network - more accurately, if I were better able to reach out and make and keep friends I trusted. Church can seen to be a bit lazier in that regard. But so are filters on OkCupid, or anything other than completely random encounters. I'm presently isolated from all pre-fab communities, and the church is one I'm most familiar with. I don't know if, or when, it will translate into attendance - my own shame is a barrier.

Finally, I know that faith isn't at its best when taken a la carte. Will I be forced to swallow Leviticus as the price for embracing the Parable of the Sower? Can I reconcile the sometimes atheistic existentialist nature of Ecclesiastes with the rest of the Bible? These lack of consistencies, either within the Bible or with my own sense of morality, once led me away from belief, and it may do so again.

But I know, as do most of you, that one of my weaknesses is thinking too much about the wrong things, or without resolution. Analysis without action.

I don't know if this very reluctant plod toward belief will stick, or make a difference. But what the hell. It's possibly this or shoot myself, and while some might prefer the latter, I'm a bit too cowardly to attempt that yet.

Why I am Proud to be a Republican

http://www.cityofart.net/bship/liberty_spirit.jpg 

Ladies and gentlemen, this address is titled, “Why I am Proud to be a Republican”. But I feel the more appropriate title would be, “Why I am Proud to be an American.”

I believe I should have titled this speech “Why I am Proud to be an American” because I believe deeply that our values and principles do transcend party and politics. They speak to the essence of what it is to be an American.

It is not because I fear to be associated with the Republican Party, or Republican values. I embrace both wholeheartedly. I have tried, however imperfectly, to live them as best as I can. In my life, I have worked to uphold them, and will work to my dying day, as long as the American people will have me, to improve the Republican Party, and ensure that it always, first and foremost, answers to the will of the people and the values of our Founding Fathers – nothing more, and nothing less.

If we ignore the histrionics of the media and the pundits, we will see that the present, brutal economic crisis has, in important ways, brought our national parties together. Both parties seek the restoration of our economy and way of life; both of us seek to restore American greatness. It is a greatness that stems not from the strength of arms, or of our economy – but from the moral fiber of a people unafraid to realize their greatness, and the responsibility it entails.

Make no mistake: our party and theirs offer a clear choice on critical questions of policy. Just how will we restore prosperity? To what degree can the people of this nation be trusted to make their own decisions? What role should the Federal government play in the lives of American citizens? These policy distinctions have been made abundantly clear, and the voters will give their verdict in November.

But Republicans and Democrats do not disagree about the greatness of America, or the importance of being true to its core values. It is important, even in this season of politics and campaigns, to remember how far we have come together.

Time and again, American servicemen and civilians have stepped forward to render assistance across the world: to feed the hungry, to defend the helpless, to oppose tyranny. Why? Why do this? Why sacrifice the flower of our youth, the riches of our industry, the energy of our people in this way? Not because it was in our national interest—for often, it was not. Not out of imperial ambition—our nation was born in defiance of empire, and will oppose it for all times, and have fought and will forever fight the forces of empire, to our dying breath. No. We did this because it was the right thing to do, because to do otherwise would be to reject values so close, so essential to the American spirit that it would be an act of national suicide.

We disagree, sometimes vehemently, with our opponents. But fundamentally, we do not question their patriotism. We question their judgment, their reasoning, and their arguments. That is how it should be. I hope they will extend us the same courtesy.

But I pray, plead, and beg our distinguished opposition to remember that our hard-won values and traditions are not yet universal. As Americans, we have done our best – and will continue to do better – to stay true to our better angels, and to promote democracy around the world. For it is human nature to seek liberty, however difficult the road, over the safety and comfort of the most gilded cage.

But not all have embraced this path, and some are threatened by our democratic principles. There are those that would do us as much harm as they could, who would slay innocents, even our children, in cowardly, dishonorable attacks, who would spread lies to divide us—anything, in their desperation, to destroy America. We must never forget that America’s enemies are real, and they are dangerous.

We are a nation of laws. But the international environment is a wilderness, with potential friends, but also proven enemies. It is our sacred duty, as representatives of the people, and citizens of America, to oppose evil, ancient and modern, wherever we must. We are not warmongers. We oppose them because it is right, because that is the role demanded of us by our history and our honor— just as it has been demanded of all previous generations of Americans. We pray that we will have the courage and wisdom we will need, borrowed from our common history and shared with each other, to defend American values from all enemies.

I respect the contributions of the Democratic Party, and of its membership. My ire is not directed toward them, for they, like ourselves, are at our best when we serve the people. Though we may disagree on policy and method, I believe that we share fundamental principles that speak well of both our parties, and of this nation. They are sometimes misguided, but they are our brothers and sisters. We both believe the words of our great, first Republican president: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” And the array of present challenges facing our nation will require the full resources of all individuals of courage and ability.

No, I save my disdain and harsh words for the forces of division and disloyalty that seek to rend our united will with voices reduced to noise, to cloud our minds and dilute our will with falsehoods. Of them I have this to say: They are opportunists; they are demagogues; they are duplicitous and unscrupulous charlatans. They would be laughable in their desperation, were it not for the fact that they seek to strike a mortal blow to our Republic. Knowingly or unknowingly, they are helping our enemies abroad when they seek to turn us against ourselves. They dishonor themselves, and cower behind the protection offered by the very American principles they demean.

Their strategy is simple: they seek to shame the American citizen. They act to drag our flag, our history, our very self-respect through the mud. They would have us disown and dishonor our heritage and the sacrifices of those who came before under the golden calf idol of progress. They would have us turn against ourselves and destroy the best of America for any of their false gods. They would turn the words “American” and “patriot” into epithets.

I have no doubt that they will fail, and that American principle and honor will prevail over the forces arrayed against us. For I have placed my faith in the American citizen. That faith has been justified, countless times, even when I, personally, was unworthy of the blessings and second chances given to me by that most noble and most humble of men.

American citizens deserve that faith. For it is the blessing, and burden, of the Republic that the citizen knows he will have to live with the consequences of his actions. The burdens of high taxes, of uncontrolled government spending, of social policies, of restricted liberties, of the disgrace of failing to leave a better nation and stronger economy for those who are to come – these he is asked to bear. And so, burdened by conscience, but strengthened by native courage, the American citizen votes; he speaks, he fights, and, across all professions and all walks of life, he serves his country. He serves no party, not even our Grand Old Party; he serves the nation, however he can, however he must.

The day we stop trusting the American citizen to do what is right is the day the Republic ends. Those of us who love this country, who owe everything to this country, will fight to the very end to ensure that day never arrives.

It is that faith in the American citizen that the technocrats of this administration and some members the elite media underestimate. It is ridiculed as outmoded thinking, inappropriate for a modern, complicated world. They call it quaint, naïve and simplistic.

But the truth is, sometimes, very simple. We make no pretensions to being a complicated people. But we are a brave one. We greet the dawn as Americans of ten generations have; with both sword and outstretched hand. It is how our diverse and variegated society finds, in spite of differences and disagreements, the spirit to grow and thrive.

We place our faith in our God. We place it in the American soldier, the American engineer, the American teacher, the American doctor, the American protestor, the American factory machinist, the American construction worker and the American entrepreneur. We place it, even, yes, in the Democrats. Whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not, our lives, and our souls, are daily placed in the common peril of a world seeking to tear itself apart, and daily saved by the courage, industry, and dignity of an army of familial strangers. This is not an exaggeration—this is simply the way we live, the way our society functions. This simple faith is what keeps us safe and gives us the courage to meet the modern, complicated world head-on. Our faith in the character of the American citizen, of the free individual, makes us the envy of the world, and on the right side of history.

We cannot continue to trust this young, inexperienced man, however bright and well-spoken, however well-intentioned, with the future of our three hundred million citizens--with the future of the entire world. Our country chose the allure of youth over the experience of age four years ago, and even those who made that choice have come to regret it. Yet through it all, we have served, for our duty requires that we serve always, and not only when it is convenient, and that we protest when it is right, and not only when it is popular. We respect his heart, his demonstrated intellect, and his gifted oratory. We respect his love of this country. But our commitment to the American people demands our dissent and opposition, and demands a new President..

The will of the people must be served, and it will be, in November. And the message will be clear to both victor and vanquished: work together to restore American greatness.

Let America’s natural drive for industriousness and justice be fully unleashed. Give business the tools it needs to race forward. Give the individual citizen the dignity of independence, the respect and deference earned by his actions and the sacrifices of ten generations of fallen heroes. Give our soldiers our confidence, our material support, and our prayers. Reaffirm our solemn vow to use them only when we must, and to honor their sacrifice by remembering them in war and in peace.

Do not be afraid to be noble, to be proud to say “I am American” with stentorian confidence. For, in all of human history, there has never been a title as great as that of “American citizen”. It is the most unforgiving in its demands of responsibility. But with it comes the most generous of rewards realized by mortal man – dignity, honor, and liberty.

Let us remember and live the words of the great American clergyman, Phillips Brooks: 

“Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men! Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. Pray for powers equal to your tasks! Then the doing of your work shall be no miracle. But you shall be a miracle. Every day you shall wonder at yourself, at the richness of life which has come to you by the grace of God.”

March forward, Americans. Take back your country from the forces of division that seek to shame us, to manipulate our natural honor and integrity for their own gain. 

March with eagles in your eyes, charity and humility in your heart, and the wisdom of the ages in your mind. 

March with the confidence of righteousness and experience. 

March with the confidence that you carry the flame of ages to a darkened world. 

We carry each other to the Promised Land, to the Shining City upon a Hill. 

We carry on, to tomorrow, to eternal glory. 

We do this because it is right and it is honorable. 

We do this because we are Americans, and refuse to live any other way. 

May it be said, a thousand years from now, of our dark time, that men and women of integrity, of vision, of compassion, and especially of courage, made their voices heard, stood against the forces of evil, and prevailed. And may it be said we did so united, one nation under God, indivisible, with justice for all.

Thank you, and God bless America.


-Demosthenes

Day of Remembrance

Yesterday was the 70^th anniversary of Executive Order 9066, which authorized the mandatory relocation of mainland Japanese-Americans to camps sprinkled across the United States. It is called a day of remembrance. The optimistic slogan, used prior and since, is “Never forget”. But I can say, without sarcasm or humor, I have forgotten why I remember.

The Japanese Relocation Camps were not special. They were neither the most brutal, or the first, or the largest. They are not worthy of remembrance solely because I am Japanese, or because they directly affected my family. (Indeed, my family history of relocation predates February 19, 1942.) We cast off all manner of personal and familial history, either willingly or because the years put enough distance between us and the experience. One day, we look at it as one looks at a painting in a museum. We can still appreciate it, even be moved and shaped by it. But it is coded as non-life and external.

So it is not important to remember for those reasons that I believe I remember, or ought to remember.

So why do I remember?

I remember, and they are worthy of remembrance, because the camps were American.

For that reason alone I measure its tragedy and its place in history. For that reason alone I believe it is worthy of remembrance, a place in the heart, even as other, more violent, more brutal, more destructive, more identity-altering events from those crowded years clamor for the right to be remembered first, remembered best, even to escape non-life and be the cause, justification, and scapegoat for foreseeable tomorrows.

For the one article of faith – or the shadow of a piece of the faith – that I retain and cling to in my desperate casting about, is this: that we must not only judge ourselves against the standards of others, or, worse yet, their actions. We have our own standards, higher standards, and it is against those that our actions and inactions are to be measured.

The mass, forced relocation of Japanese-Americans isn’t comparable to the Nazi concentration camps. It doesn’t have to be. The American camps were wrong according to the standards we have, or ought to have, for ourselves.

Other nations do not engage in our occasionally self-consuming, debilitating, and masochistic self-analysis. And we skip it when exploring our past and present when it is expedient. But, in the end, it is a vital, even essential, part of the American identity. We must know. Failure is punishing. But willful ignorance of our principles and where we fall short is unforgivable and irredeemable.

This piece of history is perfectly placed for me, because those who were children there now walk slowly, burdened not by the legacy of a miscarriage of justice, but rather arthritis and cancer. Their eyes are not haunted by their experiences. They, too, have forgotten and moved on. I am not reminded of that past when I see them. It is distant enough that they, and I, are free of its shadow. 

And yet it is close enough to be unfree of its lessons.

Instead, I remember when I see, or hear, or feel, the shifting of the tide of expeditious and opportunistic prejudice against another. I remembered when, after 9/11, some called for the incarceration of Arab Americans. I remembered when, naïve but passionate, I marched in protest of the invasion of Iraq at a point when invasion was inevitable. I remembered when I saw Hurricane Katrina bring images of the Third World in America, to America. And I remembered when I argued with a relative, a child in Rohwer, in defense of gay marriage and civil rights.

I forgot at points in my life. When I did, and I failed to be my best, failed to live up to my responsibilities as caretaker of a small, but real, part of the dream.

So I remember, because it is a part of America, and I am American. 

The relocation of Japanese-Americans is a failure that has, and will continue, to pave the way toward greater successes, greater triumphs, that will vindicate the delicate blend of caution, wisdom, optimism, and patriotism that I believe is my duty and my true and better nature. I remember not to shame, or out of shame, but as a necessary part of embracing the identity, legacy, and responsibility of being an American, to take ownership of disappointments as well as progress.

I remember because I am a proud American, and remembering will make me a better one.

Shirley Sherrod Part 2: Telling the Story

This was going to be an analysis of the politics, the decision trees, the steps that led to the present debacle, and the possible options going forward for the players in the Shirley Sherrod saga. Then, I realized that the internet will be filled with that tomorrow. How will it play in November? Can Obama afford to hire her back? Can he afford not to? The talking heads that charged headlong into a wrongheaded conclusion will continue to charge, unabated, without my help, and in spite of my protest. I may return to these thoughts, but not now.

There’s a story here that has to be told, and, I fear, won’t be, at least not broadly. I’ll do my best here, and hope that others notice it, too.

Working through some thoughts on faith and purpose

"Character may be manifested in the great moments, but it is made in the small ones." - Phillips Brooks

I’ve been thinking about the words of Phillips Brooks for some time. It’s amazing how an Episcopalian minister from 19th century Massachusetts can still touch lost seekers.

There is nothing I have found from science that compares. Science can provide drama, mystery, and grandeur, but it, and its practitioners, neither acknowledge nor touch the soul.

I love my former colleagues, more than they will ever know. That is why it breaks my heart when I consider the cynicism, the hate, and the fundamental fear that stems from the denigration of faith in general, and Christianity in particular, that I witnessed. And that is why I found comfort on Sundays at church.

The virtues of church

I recently wrote three long-ish letters (not e-mails) to three old men at my church in Southern California. All of them are suffering from health problems of varying degrees. If you are so inclined, I'm sure that Jack, Kenji, and Jim would appreciate your prayers. This post is a product of the fond memories and thinking those notes catalyzed.

Sometimes I wish I could say that I'm a Christian because I felt that the Bible was the revealed word of God, or because, after a careful study of all religions and philosophies of life, that I found that this religion most closely aligned to my understanding of morality and justice. In all honesty, I was a Christian because I was born into a family that attended a Christian church - specifically, a United Church of Christ congregation.

Thoughts on Inauguration, Part 1

This is Part One of a three-part series on Barack Obama's Inaugural Address.
In Part Two, I will examine Obama's Inaugural Address as a piece of rhetoric. And finally, in Part Three, I'll actually share what it means to me, and where I think we go from here.

In an attempt to formulate my thoughts about Barack Obama's Inaugural Address, I started looking at other significant speeches made by Americans. I was curious what words he used the most, and how that compared with these other speeches. Fortunately, I rediscovered wordle, a wonderful little Java applet that converts blocks of text into beautiful images, where the size of the word corresponds to its frequency. It also edits out very common words, which helps avoid a dramatic and useless "the" surrounded by other, lesser words.