May 30, 2020

Culture is more important than politics. (David Brooks, New York Times)

It’s tough being black. So I’m glad that I’m not speaking from personal experience. But I’ve heard enough and seen enough to know that, generally speaking, black people in the U.S. have a harder time than most white, Asian, or Latino people in this country.

African Americans are dying from the Covid 19 pandemic at much higher rates than people of other ethnicities. African Americans suffer from more poverty, violence, discrimination, and despair than other groups. And as we’ve been reminded this week in Minneapolis, African American men are often on the receiving end of police brutality. Black people’s grief, frustration, and outrage are heartbreaking.

But it is also true that the African American community is the most dysfunctional of any of the major racial groups. Other Americans fear the high crime rate and violence for which some African Americans are infamous, and this week’s rioting, arson, vandalism, and looting in Minneapolis and elsewhere only confirm the antipathy that large portions of the public and the police feel toward their fellow citizens who are of African descent. Broken families, drug abuse, and poor educational performance are often blamed on the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow segregation, and white supremacy, with some justification. But whether African American suffering is the result of outside abuse, or is self-inflicted, or both, it is evident that something is terribly amiss in that culture. Yes, American society overall is deeply flawed, but for whatever reasons, African Americans have it worse than everyone else.

And yet…

African American contributions to American culture have been enormous, especially in the fields of music, entertainment, and sports, but also increasingly in literature, politics, business, and the military. The resilience of this formerly enslaved population over time has been extraordinary. A few years ago a longtime black friend in Oakland informed me that, whatever their challenges, “black don’t crack” – in other words, black people will endure whatever hardships they meet, and they will ultimately survive and succeed.

I don’t believe that the solution to African American problems is primarily political or economic. True, a better economy and less income inequality would decrease the financial suffering in that community and in all communities. And political pressure to improve police training and professionalism will gradually yield some improvements in law enforcement’s interactions with black Americans. But such changes will not be enough to reduce the negative encounters with police. Rather, all of us, and especially African Americans, would benefit from building stronger families with two parent households to provide the love, financial support, and educational encouragement needed to give children a head start in life. Such a cultural shift among African Americans would be the most effective anti poverty program ever. I don’t know how to bring about such behavioral and attitudinal changes, but much could be learned from successful, self reliant, and entrepreneurial groups such as Mormons, Jews, Chinese, and Koreans. Poor and working class white people would also benefit from the same cultural lessons.

For now we have to hope that something good will come out of our current racial tensions, pandemic catastrophe, and economic disaster. These are tough times for almost all of us. I like to think that the planet is evolving, the human race is evolving, and each one of us is enduring and growing through hardship. I’m a short term pessimist and a long term optimist.

Ultimately, black creativity and American resourcefulness will prevail. And that’s a fact, Jack.

May 21, 2020

Death is headed our way, and that is fine with me.

This morning, as the sun rose through the redwoods and oaks and over the distant ridge of the Mayacamas mountains, I was spinning, turning, whirling, as I looked past my family photos at the light streaming through the trees and into my windows. It was a beautiful scene, yet one tinged with sadness.

The sorrow arose from gazing at the pictures of my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, siblings, niece and nephew, and realizing that before too long, all of them would be gone with the wind. Some of us are still alive, but we too shall pass.

Yet while I was spinning in this, the first of my morning yoga poses, a dawning sensation of joy penetrated my family wistfulness as I circled in place. For a few moments I noticed a strong sense of well being, of oneness, a feeling of eternity that transcended my regrets and fears, as I let go of clinging to my body, family, and fate. I got a glimpse of forever, and it was illuminating.

This sunrise epiphany was especially welcome in the current climate of anxiety that has been triggered by the coronavirus and its health and economic repercussions. Several friends and relatives have been frightened, angered, or depressed by what some people have viewed as an impending apocalypse. One friend told me last night that she dreads what could be a series of disasters: pandemic, economic depression, California wildfires, and an ugly presidential election in November, not to mention the ever present threat of earthquakes.

Whew!

But if you stop to think about it, none of these catastrophes are new. Well, maybe climate change. But war, disease, and death are inevitable, as are sufferings of all kinds. This point was underscored to me two days ago when friends Simon, Anne, Jim, and I visited the Holocaust and Genocide Memorial Grove at Sonoma State University. The memorial commemorates the mass murders of American Indians, Armenians, Jews, Cambodians, Rwandans, Chinese, and people of Darfur. Apparently the human capacity for depravity is endless. But suffering is not endless, and neither is happiness. Everything is impermanent.

The temporary nature of phenomena is illustrated by the Buddhist concept of the Eight Winds, or eight fluctuations in life’s fortunes. Those eight changes are success and failure (gain and loss), pleasure and suffering, praise and scorn, honor and disgrace. Such ups and downs can be exciting and stressful, a roller coaster of emotions and confusion.

Holy crap. How are we supposed to ride that bucking bronco?

One way might be to get off the damn horse.

In my daily meditation practice I’m learning to notice how thoughts and emotions come and go, and I’m learning to release my desire to control the people and events in my life and in the wider world. I observe the Eight Winds and my attachment to the positive ones and my aversion to the negative ones. And then, I let ’em all go. And instead, through prayer and intention, I align myself with the flow of the river of life, the Buddha nature, the Christ consciousness, the love force that animates my life and all life.

I know, I know – easier said than done. But that’s why it’s called practice. And hey – today that practice paid off, if only for a brief, shining moment. This morning I saw the light, and no, it wasn’t Jesus or Buddha. Or maybe it was both of ’em. Whatever it was, it was enlightening. I momentarily lost my ego, and gained God.

I don’t care about death, because forever feels wonderful.

May 6, 2020

It’s not often that I donate to a charity. But yesterday I was reminded of an act of goodwill and generosity in 1847 that is still reverberating down through the years to the present moment, a gesture that inspired me yesterday to give a small amount of money to the Navajo and Hopi people for their struggle against the coronavirus.

So what happened in 1847 that moves me to tears in 2020?

In 1847 the Irish were in the midst of The Great Hunger, a potato famine that caused a million Irish to starve to death or die of disease. Here in the U.S., word of the mass suffering reached the Choctaw people who themselves had recently endured the Trail of Tears forced migration from Mississippi and nearby lands to Oklahoma. A quarter of the Choctaws died on that terrible relocation journey, so they knew from personal experience how starvation felt.

When the Choctaws heard about the massive hunger and death of the Irish, that news touched them deeply. And so the Choctaws, themselves living in abject poverty, managed to scrape together $170 and sent it across the ocean to a people they had never met. That $170 (about $5,000 in today’s money) was distributed in Ireland by Quakers as part of their famine relief efforts.

The Irish never forgot the magnanimous spirit of the Choctaws.

In 1995 Irish President Mary Robinson visited the Choctaw Nation in Oklahoma to thank them for their altruism. In 2017 a large outdoor sculpture commemorating the Choctaw benevolence was dedicated in County Cork, Ireland. The “Kindred Spirits” sculpture consists of nine stainless steel eagle feathers that reach 20 feet toward the sky. The giant feathers form a circle representing the gift of a bowl of food for the hungry.

Two years ago Irish Taoiseach (Prime Minister) Leo Varadkar also thanked the Choctaws in person in Oklahoma. He announced a scholarship program for Choctaw youth to study in Ireland, and called the relationship between the two communities “A sacred bond…which has joined our peoples together for all time. Your act of kindness has never been, and will never be, forgotten in Ireland.”

And now, in the last few days, word has reached Ireland that the Hopi and Navajo people have been especially hard hit by the coronavirus. So hundreds of Irish citizens have contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Navajo and Hopi Families Covid 19 Relief Fund, a GoFundMe fundraiser for food and medical supplies. One donor, Richard Keogh, wrote, “Native Americans were there for Ireland in our time of need.” Another donor, Pat Hayes, said “From Ireland, 170 years later, the favour is returned! To our Native American brothers and sisters in your moment of hardship.”

The coronavirus may be exceptionally contagious. But so are love and gratitude.

April 29, 2020

Yesterday I had a close encounter with a crackpot. He wasn’t the problem – I was.

I was at the halfway point on my daily walk, in this case on the West County Trail here in Sonoma County. I had just turned around at the end of one section of the trail when I heard someone comment that I wasn’t wearing a mask. I looked over to see a man standing in the tall grass next to the trail. He wasn’t wearing a mask either.

Not sure whether he was being critical or friendly, I commented that I only wear a mask when going into a grocery store, and that I didn’t feel a need to wear a mask outdoors. He responded saying that wearing masks is bullshit and that the whole coronavirus pandemic is a plot created by rich power brokers to take over the world.

Uhhh…….Okay……

It sounded like I was in for a political rant. I was right. But I didn’t know whether I should wish him good day and continue on my walk, or whether I should stick around for a bit and find out if he was a Trump supporter or just a generic nut case. Having nothing better to do and momentarily grateful for the entertainment, I decided to cautiously engage him and see where it would lead.

As we spoke – or rather, as he spoke and I politely listened – I looked him up and down for clues to his degree of sanity. He appeared to be about my age, maybe a few years younger, clean-shaven, short blond/gray hair, stocky but fit, wearing a red baseball cap, lime green jersey, black bicycle shorts, black bicycle gloves, and sunglasses. His bike was propped up against a nearby pole.

I asked him who he believed was behind this mysterious virus scheme, and he warned darkly that I would soon find out. I pressed him for details, and he said that the panic was being caused by big corporations, Republican and Democratic politicians such as Mitch McConnell and Nancy Pelosi, and the Chinese. Well, that pretty much covered the bases. I could have suggested that he forgot to mention the Jews, but that would have been unkind.

When I inquired about his possible solutions to the pandemic hysteria, he was briefly flummoxed. Then, noticing the grass all around him, he said that grass is a healthy food, and that if people harvested wheat grass and juiced it like he does, they would be better off mentally and physically and would therefore be less likely to be deceived by conspiracies.

To my surprise, he began to ask me personal questions, and having nothing to lose, I answered them. We discovered that we have several things in common: we live alone, have never married, have no kids or grandkids, have both given up on the dating scene, and both have lived nearby for decades. He owns his home and a small business, and once we got off the subject of his kooky conspiracy theories, he came across as rational if desperately lonely. With his poor social skills, he probably has few if any friends. I felt sorry for him. He told me that his name is Jeff.

I realized that Jeff had accosted me about not wearing a mask because that was a choice that we both had made, a choice that united us, however superficially. Jeff wanted someone to talk to. Jeff needed a friend.

I understand loneliness. It has been a lifelong affliction of mine. And especially in these times of social isolation, I understand the human desire to connect with other people. Wasn’t that what I was doing myself by sticking around to humor a stranger spouting wacky beliefs? I also felt that it was my civic duty to listen to a troubled soul, and to help him feel, however briefly, like he is part of a community.

But how much of an obligation do I have? How much time do I need to spend with this guy? Unlike my old friend Alfonso (see my April 18 essay), I don’t have infinite patience to spend hours listening to a bore rave about his fears and insecurities. I’m not a therapist, and don’t get paid to hold Jeff’s hand. Yes, I want to be compassionate and helpful, but not at the cost of my own mental health. Even if I were to meet him again and continue to listen to his rants, how could I gracefully extricate myself from the situation without rejecting him or otherwise inflicting pain upon him? Maybe it would be better not to engage with him in the first place.

When Jeff informed me that he bikes this trail regularly, and that perhaps we would meet again, I heard his unspoken plea for friendship. I tactfully noted that maybe we would meet again, but that I only walk that trail a couple times a month, so it was unlikely that we would cross paths anytime soon. We wished each other well, and went our separate ways.

I felt guilty, and relieved. I had escaped from the probability of a doomed relationship, but had not offered him a lifeline of hope or connection. I was being wise, but selfish.

I think I need a shot of wheat grass.

April 18, 2020

Sometimes I have regretted spending my youth in a crazy Japanese religion. But when I remember comrades like Alfonso, I have to admit that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

When I first met Alfonso Generalao in the Soka Gakkai in 1969, that organization’s U.S. branch was comprised mostly of Japanese immigrant women, American ex-military service members (mainly sailors), and young hippies and students. We were joined in the 1970’s by large numbers of African Americans, which was and is a unique demographic among Buddhist sects.

We were “America’s Proud Gakkai,” as one of our songs boasted, out to save the world by remaking it in our Japanese image. As a white 17 year old high school student in suburban Lafayette CA, I met Alfonso, a Mexican/Filipino American and an Oakland warehouseman who was several years older than me and who I learned was now to be my leader in the Young Men’s Division. We could hardly have been more different, but we quickly bonded in our quest to become the equivalent of good Buddhist boy scouts.

As a child, Alfonso worked with his Mexican bracero father in the fields as a farmworker, and later served (I think) in the U.S. Air Force. Strong and muscular, he became a skilled martial artist, and then married his German wife Doris and joined the Soka Gakkai in the 1960’s. He later told our mutual friend Montgomery that he never felt accepted by either the Mexicans or Filipinos, but he did find a home in the multicultural Soka Gakkai.

Alfonso was a humble soul – humble, yet bright. Not intellectually bright, but heart bright. What I remember most about him was his incredible warmth and ready laugh. And his patience. He would spend hours and hours listening to his religious subordinates pour out their troubles to him, then offering them his words of encouragement. He once told me that we might be poor now, eating peanut butter sandwiches and driving junk cars, but in 20 years our Buddhist practice would create such good fortune that we would be eating steak and riding around in limousines. I had no desire to be driven in a limo, though that did come true years later (see my personal essay Limousine Love elsewhere on this website).

Peanut butter sandwiches and steaks remind me of a small gesture by Alfonso that meant the world to me. Due to my own foolish choices and poor judgement, I was hungry for most of 1974. I had a little food to eat every day, but it was never enough, and, skinny to begin with, I gradually lost weight and became weak, sickly, and depressed. But I told no one, and kept up a good front, because I had to set a good example of confidence and success for my fellow Gakkai members. One evening after a senior leader meeting Alfonso told me to meet him at the Denny’s restaurant in Emeryville. I had no money, and didn’t want to go, but he insisted. When it came time to order, I said I wasn’t hungry – water would be fine. Surprised, he looked at me, and then encouraged me to eat something. I politely declined. I don’t remember whether I failed to make eye contact with him, or what gave me away, but somehow it dawned on him that I was lying about not being hungry. He ordered a hamburger for each of us, and told me that it was his treat. That was one of the best hamburgers I’ve ever had.

Sometime after that, he invited me to dinner with him and Doris at their house in Oakland.

I eventually outgrew Soka Gakkai. Alfonso never did. But I did not outgrow Alfonso, and I never forgot his multiple kindnesses to me.

I didn’t see him for over 30 years. And then, about five years ago, I ran into him at a memorial service for one of our old comrades. After catching up, I told him how much I appreciated his treating me to dinner at Denny’s and at his home. He didn’t remember either event, but smiled warmly as always.

Yesterday I learned that Alfonso died this week of Alzheimer’s disease.

I am so glad that I got to thank him for his friendship and his generosity. I may have been better educated than him, but Alfonso was wiser and kinder than I am. And he taught me, through his example, what it means to be a true human being.

April 8, 2020

If you find a word in a book offensive, should that word prevent you, or me, from reading that book?

The answer to that question is yes, according to my former high school district. Starting in September of this year, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn will no longer be on the approved reading list for the four high schools in the Acalanes Union High School District in Contra Costa County.

That means that the great classic by Mark Twain will no longer be taught in the English literature classes at my alma mater, Acalanes High School. And why not? Because it contains the word nigger, which is offensive to African American students. Never mind that there are very few black students in those four high schools. The book will now be censored to prevent all students from being exposed to this one word.

Granted, the word is used over 200 times in Huckleberry Finn. And the book won’t be completely banned, as it will still be available in the school libraries. But Twain’s masterpiece, arguably the greatest American novel of all time, will no longer be part of the curriculum. It has a bad word.

Some schools elsewhere in the U.S. have also taken the same approach. One publishing company has tried to get around the controversy by replacing “nigger” with “slave.” But besides the fact that they are changing the text without the author’s permission, they are also rewriting history, watering down the language, and lessening the impact of the novel.

When Twain grew up in Hannibal, Missouri in the 1840’s, the same location and time period as Huckleberry Finn, Missouri was a slave state, and the word nigger was a common and sometimes derogatory term for slaves. Twain hated slavery, and later wrote an anti-lynching editorial entitled “Only a Nigger” for a New York newspaper, as well as writing sympathetic portrayals of African Americans such as in his short tale “A True Story.” Huckleberry Finn is one of the most anti-racial bias books ever written in America, so it is especially ironic that a novel about racial compassion and tolerance is targeted by people advocating racial sensitivity.

Huckleberry Finn is about a beautiful friendship between a 14 year old white boy and a middle aged black man. Huck and Jim are both outsiders; Huck is poor, usually homeless, often beaten by his drunken father, and is described as white trash. Jim is a kindly runaway slave who, in the course of their raft journey down the Mississippi, becomes like an older brother to Huck. Huck doesn’t question the institution of slavery, as he has grown up in a society where it was the norm. In fact, much as he comes to love Jim, Huck feels guilty for helping a slave to escape his owner. But in the moral climax to the story, Huck, believing that he will be eternally damned if he violates society’s laws and morality regarding the institution of slavery, nevertheless decides that he cannot betray his friend Jim to slave hunters, and says, “All right, then, I’ll go to Hell.”

When I was younger, I thought that I might someday run for public office. If I did and was elected, I decided that rather than swearing an oath of office on a Bible, I would swear my allegiance on a copy of Huckleberry Finn. What better book could one find to represent the love of friendship and freedom and the appreciation of humor and racial understanding? Plus, it would be fun to make a statement about values that is both reverent and irreverent at the same time. So to learn that my high school is part of a plan to sacrifice this wonderful and at times hilarious story on the altar of political correctness saddens me.

According to the Acalanes Blueprint student newspaper (for which I was once a reporter and editor), “Although removing Huckleberry Finn was a controversial and small step, the district hopes that further measures will be taken to diversify the English curriculum.” Translation: diversity trumps quality. I wonder if they’ll eventually have race quotas for the authors they study. But if they do, they’ll have to leave out The Autobiography of Malcom X by Alex Haley, along with To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, because those three books (and many others) contain the word nigger. And while they’re at it, they’ll need to censor all books that contain the word racist, since racist and nigger mean the same thing: I’m superior to you.

I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to read Huckleberry Finn uncensored in high school and study it as an English major at Berkeley. And while I may not be as happy go lucky as Hucky (as Tom Sawyer sometimes called him), I do fancy myself to be a bit of a kindred free spirit. So as racial politics and dogmas increase social pressures to conform, I may just follow Huck’s lead at the end of the novel and, in my own way, “light out for the Territory.”

April 1, 2020

I’m down to 14 and a half rolls of toilet paper. Should I panic yet?

The other day I was in Costco, and for the first time in weeks I actually saw packages of TP on the shelves. But I resisted the temptation to participate in apocalypse shopping, because I enjoy feeling morally superior to the rabble who are hoarding TP and guns. Maybe I should consider buying my first gun, so that when I run out of TP I can put myself out of my toileting misery.

To escape the coronavirus twilight zone, I go out almost every day for a long walk on nearby jogging/biking trails. With all city, county, state, and national parks closed, the trails are a welcome respite from cabin fever. Everyone else seems to have the same idea, though, so the paths are relatively crowded even on weekdays. I’m glad to see people out in nature, but my smiles and greetings are not always returned as we all try to avoid each other by engaging in the new dance craze called the Six Feet Shuffle.

With my job on hold and my travel plans on ice, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. I’m looking for ways to stay connected to family and friends, so last week I discovered Zoom, the San Jose videoconferencing company. So far I’ve Zoomed my high school reunion committee and my meditation group, and in a couple days I’ll be sheltering in place online with my book club and with a dance party for hiking friends. Yes, that’s right – I’ll be capering alone with 35 other people (so far) in a social distancing sock hop, hiking prom, rump shaking, booty twisting, boogie fest, romp-a-thon.

Which brings me to Aretha Franklin.

My recent Zoom encounters reminded me of Aretha’s 1985 hit, Who’s Zoomin’ Who?, which is a song about flirtation: who’s checking out whom? I enjoyed that song in 1985, though at the time I didn’t know what it meant, so I googled the lyrics just now and was pleased to rediscover the opening lines of the song: “Ooh, boy, uh-huh, ah, yeah, oh, oh, oh, oh, ah, yeah.” I’ll leave it to musical historians to parse the meaning of those profound lyrics. Suffice it to say that the Queen of Soul managed to translate those insightful words into a ton of money. Why can’t I write like that?

I was glad to learn via my guru Google that, in the African American vernacular, zoom also means sexual intercourse. I haven’t tried sexual intercourse on Zoom yet, but if I manage to pull it off, at least it’ll be safe sex. Unless you can get HIV or coronavirus through Zoom. But if I score with a hot babe at my Zoom dance party, I just hope her hotness doesn’t come with a fever.

March 16, 2020

My, my, my. Aren’t these interesting times we live in?

The president of the United States refers to the current worldwide coronavirus pandemic as a hoax, then changes his mind, even as some of his supporters continue to insist that it’s fake news. There’s panic buying of toilet paper, of all things, and store shelves are empty of those products, even though there’s no shortage of toilet paper in the manufacturing and distribution systems. Some Americans are buying even more guns out of fear that civilization as we know it will collapse, leading to a kind of Blade Runner dystopia of every man for himself.

I can’t say that I’m surprised by these developments. In fact, I’ve been expecting some form of mass chaos and disruption for a long time now. We humans have been overpopulating and trashing this planet as if there would be no price to pay for our reckless actions. And now a day of reckoning has arrived.

I didn’t know whether the upheavals I’ve anticipated would come in the form of climate change, plagues, world war, or all three. I didn’t know how, when, or where these game changers would manifest, but I knew that something had to give. We as a species cannot continue to abuse our shared planetary home and abuse each other without some kind of consequences arising from the inevitability of the law of cause and effect.

When I was in high school I learned a lesson that has stayed with me ever since. I used to mow lawns and do yardwork on weekends, and with my earnings I bought three freshwater aquariums and populated them with tropical fish from our local pet store. The tranquility of these little watery worlds was a welcome respite from family turmoil and teenage angst. But the more neon tetras, angelfish, red swordtails, gouramis, eels, guppies, and other aquatic creatures I purchased, the more varieties of them I wanted to have to enliven my tanks. I just loved the bright colors and exotic shapes of my little critters. The pet store had warned me, however, that there was a formula for how many healthy fish you could have per gallon of water, and that to exceed that formula would increase the risk of the fish disease ich (pronounced ick) in the aquarium. Undaunted, I filled my tanks with the maximum number of fish allowable, and enjoyed the serenity and beauty of the animated environments that I had created.

Until disaster struck. First one, then another, then another of my little friends got the telltale white spots of ich on their bodies. The pet store sold me liquid blue ich medicine to treat the tanks, but it was too late: eventually all of my prized fish succumbed to the contagious disease. Devastated at the loss of my tiny charges, I cleaned out the aquariums.

And then, motivated by greed to have even more diversity in my tanks, I started all over. I mowed more lawns, raked more leaves, and pulled more weeds for twenty five cents an hour. Then I bought more fish and once again filled my aquariums with the maximum number of fish. And then one of them got ich and…well, you know what happened next.

I still love variety in fish, and people, but now I know that it is not wise to have too much of anything. Balance and harmony are preferable to an excess of abundance. And we have an excess of people on our Earth.

I’m curious to see where we humans will go from here. I expect more pandemics in the coming years, more wars, more climate change, and more political and economic turmoil, until such time as we bring our population down to more sustainable numbers. In the meantime, I wonder what it will take for us to evolve to the point where we learn to treat each other and different life forms with respect. What is the next step in our evolution as a species?

Whatever else this coronavirus may be, I hope it serves as a wakeup call for a re-imagination of our relationship with our planet.

We may lose many lives in this pandemic. A reduction in the human population would be a welcome development in my view, though paradoxically I don’t want anyone to suffer or die. And though I’m fit and healthy, there’s always the possibility that I’ll be one of those who gets corona ich and transitions up to the great fish tank in the sky. But if so, that’s OK. At least I won’t need toilet paper in the celestial aquarium.

March 12, 2020

I know a lot of Christians, but I don’t know many followers of Jesus. Rick Steves is a follower of Jesus. I’d like to meet him someday. Rick Steves, that is. And I’d be open to meeting Jesus as well.

While I’ve long been a fan of Rick’s European travel books and TV shows, and have traveled with his tour company in England and Ireland, it’s only recently that I’ve become aware of his social activism and philanthropy. In addition to donating a $4 million apartment complex for homeless women and children to the YWCA, and giving generously to a movement to end hunger as well as to many other good causes, Rick is a messenger of hope and optimism during this era of wrenching social, political, and climate challenges.

Last night I had the opportunity to watch Rick’s latest TV special on PBS, “Hunger and Hope: Lessons from Ethiopia and Guatemala” (also available online at http://www.ricksteves.com/hungerandhope). I wouldn’t normally use the words hunger and hope in the same sentence, but Rick does. I don’t know whether Rick’s sunny disposition is rooted in his Lutheran faith or his can-do American spirit, but I appreciate his upbeat reporting on progress being made in the areas of clean water, nutrition, health, and education in Ethiopia, Guatemala, and beyond:

While Ethiopia has long struggled with poverty and famine, it’s making great strides. Ethiopia is becoming a model of development thanks to governmental leadership and NGO’s (non governmental organizations). In the last generation, the world has made dramatic progress against hunger. Since 1990, the number of people living in extreme poverty has dropped by about half, from two billion to less than one billion. We’re on a trajectory to end extreme poverty in our lifetime.

It is encouraging and heart-warming to see so many images of hungry Guatemalan and Ethiopian children being fed, or of eager youth in classrooms and women pumping water at new wells rather than having to carry water long distances. And it is gratifying to see poor people prospering in their home countries instead of migrating to the United States and elsewhere.

To his credit, Rick acknowledges serious obstacles to ending hunger, such as war, bad governance and corruption, and climate change. And he admits that Americans can be cynical about our government’s previous development aid to Third World countries, aid that was not invested wisely. But he claims that “smart development aid” from American and other NGO’s is making a big difference in Guatemala and other locations.

I want to believe him. And after watching his special, I do believe him for the most part. But I must confess that I’m one of the American cynics whose disappointment in past aid efforts has led me to be skeptical not of our good intentions, but of the efficacy of those efforts. If, however, Rick is right that smart development aid from NGO’s is different from and more effective than bureaucratic and wasteful government-to-government assistance, then I’m all for such smart investments.

I don’t trust incompetent, corrupt, and power-hungry dictators in Latin America, Africa, the Middle East, Asia, or Russia. And I don’t trust big corporations or big religion. But I do trust Rick Steves and NGO’s such as the World Food Program, Bread for the World, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and Catholic Charities.

I’m saddened and disappointed by my occasional bouts of despair and judgementalism at the state of the world and of the human race. But I’m animated by the hope and idealism of people like Rick who believe in what Abraham Lincoln once described as the “better angels of our nature.”

And if Jesus can inspire people like Rick Steves and Abraham Lincoln, then he’s OK with me.

February 29, 2020

A few days ago I was visiting the art department at Sonoma State University when I happened to pass by a small room with four white walls, a white ceiling, and a concrete floor. It was empty, and had a sterile, prison-like appearance, as though it were a space set aside for solitary confinement. On the locked glass door were block letters spelling the words Rage Gallery.

Curious, I asked a couple of nearby art students if they knew why the gallery was named Rage. They didn’t know the origin of the name, but one said that she had seen art in that gallery that had depicted chaotic and violent themes. The other student said that it had recently held feminist artwork featuring vaginas, suggesting to her that perhaps the gallery specializes in art installations with angry subject matter. I didn’t know that vaginas are angry. I suppose that my ignorance is just another example of white male privilege.

So I went to the art department office and asked Cindy the office manager if she knew the reason for the name of the gallery. She did, and I’ll share it with you shortly.

Later that night I watched the most recent Democratic presidential debate, broadcast from South Carolina. Talk about rage! Bernie Sanders was furious as always, waving his arms and turning red as he denounced the rich and “racists” and whatever other individuals or groups he considers to be his enemies. Elizabeth Warren and billionaire Tom Steyer joined in the shouting, and even the usually good-natured Joe Biden and Amy Klobuchar contributed some yelling to the Rage Gallery festivities. Only Mike Bloomberg and Pete Buttigieg seemed to keep their cool in the political free-for-all of giant egos.

In fairness to the seven would-be presidents, they obviously felt pressure to show their toughness in order to convince voters that they can defeat the Ranter-in-Chief, Donald Trump. But in lowering themselves to his level, several of them allowed their ambition and competitive juices to overwhelm whatever wisdom and sense of decency they might otherwise possess.

And arrogance, self righteousness, and fanaticism are contagious. Some of Trump’s and Sanders’ rageaholic followers are verbal thugs, inspired by Bernie (perhaps unconsciously) and Donald (probably intentionally) to hate and threaten anyone who disagrees with them. These left wing and right wing purists are united by at least one quality: feverish intolerance of anyone who is not part of their lunatic fringe.

With the planet inflamed internationally by extremist politicians and their true believers, global warming, and the coronavirus panic, now would probably be a good time for all of us to lighten up and laugh at ourselves and the insane asylum that we are creating on Earth. Better to laugh than to despair.

Which brings me back to Cindy. When I asked her about the reason for the name Rage Gallery, she laughed, then explained that some prankster had peeled off the first three letters of the word “Storage” Gallery.

Sometimes things are not as serious as they seem to be.